Justice Hunter (13 page)
H
unter watched Stephanie get as far as Washington Avenue, a busy thoroughfare that ran perpendicular to the world-famous Italian Market. On her retro bike, she adeptly merged into traffic. And just as he was turning away, he heard a menacing shriek. A fishtailing sedan rocketed into the intersection, gunning right for her. Initially, Hunter’s brain didn’t process what was happening. Then he realized that it was the same Caddy, the getaway car, from Chinatown the other night. Stephanie had gone from associate anonymity to the Mafia’s hit list within the span of a day. Hunter yelled helplessly to warn her, but it was too late. The car was already on her. At the last possible second, sensing something was wrong, she cut it hard toward the steep curb, managing to avert disaster by a matter of inches. The impact sent her rear wheel airborne, throwing her headfirst over the handlebars. She bit it hard but somehow managed to get her hands down first.
“Are you all right?” asked Hunter, standing over Stephanie, who was disheveled and scraped up.
She stubbornly got to her feet, refusing to play victim. All spinal column and neck injury protocol was officially out the window. “I’m fine. No big deal,” she assured him as she looked around for her bike, obviously in a bit of shock. She panicked. “My bike!”
A cheesy, muscle-bound construction worker with a fake-and-bake tan lifted the bike out of the street like a virgin on wedding night. All the while, he licked his lips and undressed Stephanie with his eyes, which were a freakishly unnatural shade of blue courtesy of Bausch & Lomb. A crowd consisting of elderly Italian women, raucous teens, and giddy tourists gathered at the accident site, relishing the mid-afternoon near fatality.
“Shit!” exclaimed Stephanie when she got a closer look at the badly bent forks. They were mangled from the impact of hitting the steep curb at top speed. “Shit! Shit! I suppose I can’t expense that to Whitman, can I?” she asked, adding levity to the situation.
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
Just add it to the sanctions tab.
“You can buy me a drink when this crazy case is over. A prohibitively expensive drink. How about that?”
“Sounds good.”
I hope Sheila doesn’t mind. Can she join us?
Dusting herself off and surveying the damage to her hands and jeans, she asked, “Did you manage to get a look at the driver of the car?”
“No,” replied Hunter. “I got a look at the car, though. No plates. And unfortunately, I’ve seen it before.”
“What do you mean? You
know
who just tried to kill me?” Stephanie tried to play it cool, but there was no masking her terror.
“Why don’t we cab it back to my place? I think I owe you an explanation.” Keeping his colleague in the dark officially was no longer an option.
“I’d say.”
The rickety cab driven by an African guy gabbing away on a blue-tooth earpiece came to an abrupt stop in front of Hunter’s building. Fortunately, their entrance was uneventful. Hunter scanned the street for anything suspicious as he keyed the main door lock. Stephanie was professionally greeted. A few dozen drool-laden smooches from Sam awaited her. Hunter apologized for his dog’s whorish ways as Stephanie gingerly set down what was still left of her bike.
They entered the steamy apartment sans surprise—no death threats or lurking hit men.
What a relief!
Hunter wasn’t mentally prepared for the very real possibility that his apartment was no longer safe. If there was a next incident, he’d already arranged for himself and Sam to stay with an old college buddy out in the suburbs, somewhere he was sure the Mafia would never think to look.
After surveying the apartment and commenting on the dearth of paintings or any wall coverings—“not even college-days tapestries as a last resort”—Stephanie retreated to the bathroom with a white tee and pair of Hunter’s soccer shorts. She wanted to “survey the battle wounds and slip into something less tattered.” Hunter took a moment to get a closer look at the apartment, searching for typical signs of a forced entry like rummaged drawers or missing mail or other personal effects. The computer was still there, flash drive and all. Satisfied and dehydrated, Hunter made his way into the kitchen. Feeling like a lottery winner, he discovered two forsaken bottles of Yuengling Lager, aged and chilled.
Less than five minutes later, he was standing in the living room, holding an empty bottle in one hand and a television remote in the other. The edge was slightly off but not enough to distract him from the drama unfolding around him.
Isn’t there a law against drinking this early on a Sunday?
He channel-surfed through the dozens of Mediacast news offerings, hoping to find any coverage of the Vito’s case or Andy’s attack. No such luck, though. Instead, all roads led to the infamous scene in the mob classic
The Untouchables,
where Al Capone, played by De Niro, bludgeons a fellow associate’s noggin with a Louisville Slugger during a testimonial dinner. The Mafia was omnipresent. Hunter couldn’t elude them, even in the moderate comfort of his own Center City apartment.
“Getting drunk without your partner in crime?” asked Stephanie accusatorily, who had snuck up behind him.
“Sorry. I meant no disrespect.”
“Save it, buddy. And I see you’ve started the movie without me too? What kind of first chair are you?” The banter was her way of letting Hunter know she was back to herself. “So, what are we watching?”
“
We
are enjoying
The Untouchables,”
he replied nonchalantly, without turning. If he was caught up in a melodramatic moment of suspending his disbelief, which he was pretty sure he was, he didn’t want her to read his expression. “How many times have you seen it? I prefer
Once Upon a Time in America
. James Woods was phenomenal. And
The Public Enemy.
James Cagney. As far as mob flicks go.”
“James Woods. I love him.”
“Entirely underrated. Superb as Richard Boyle in Oliver Stone’s
Salvador
. Tremendous in
Videodrome
. Cronenberg.
The Onion Field
,
True Believer
.”
“He was in
Ghosts of Mississippi
too, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was. He played Byron De La Beckwith. It was actually his second Oscar nomination.”
Impressed, she commented, “Yeah. I heard that about you.”
“What’s that?”
“That you’re sort of a movie buff.”
Recalling his first meeting with Al Mancini, he asked, “Where did you hear that?”
“I forget, actually. One of the other associates, I think.”
Stephanie stepped forward, coming into plain sight. Hunter sensed she wanted to peer into his eyes. “Never heard of the others, though, I must confess. Exactly how old do you think I am?”
“Based on maturity or looks?”
“Watch it.”
“Duly noted.”
“So who’s your favorite character here? De Niro’s? All guys I know worship him. Doesn’t matter who he plays. Him and Pacino. I think it’s a secret male attraction thing.”
“Actually, I do.”
Or at least I used to until he became a potential nemesis.
“See! I knew it. And I won’t even tell you my theory about the bat.”
“Let me guess. A phallus.”
“How’d you know?”
“I may be a senior associate who has spent the better part of the last decade cloistered in a state of billing hell, but I’m not
that
out of it.”
“I knew that. Anyway, my favorite is Kevin Costner.”
“Of course. All women I’ve ever known yearn for a fling with Kevin.”
“First name basis? Impressive. Introduction?”
“Possibly.”
“Anyway, I love how he takes them all on as that federal agent. Takes on the whole lot of them. Fearless. Big-time
cojones.
What was his name again?”
“Eliot Ness.”
“That’s right.” She smiled in homage to Ness’s heroism. “A man after my own heart. Hot and fearless.”
“And I pegged you for the more artistic type.”
“Depends on the celebrity. For Kevin, I’ll make an exception. So, ever consider going into criminal law, becoming an Elliot Ness with a law degree instead of just a badge?”
He easily popped off the top of her beer. “I thought about going into the DA’s office out of school,” he said as he handed it over.
“Trying to get me drunk? Is this what you do with all your damsels in distress?”
“Depends on how vulnerable they are. Hard liquor for the
really
defenseless ones.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess.” She held out the bottle. “A toast?” Hunter did the same with his, which was virtually empty. He craved a second, the first just leaving him wanting more.
Is that a sign of alcoholism?
The addiction gene did run in the family.
“To?”
“To survival.”
Clank.
“Anyway, I could see you doing the whole prosecutor thing. All-American boy, right out of the J. Crew catalogue, intoxicating the female jurors with his charm. Making believers out of the male jurors, the haters. Pouring it on. And thick. You’d have the juries hanging on your every syllable. Infallible. Rock star status. Fifty and O or something unheard of like that.”
“Right,” he replied, incredulously.
“Don’t underestimate yourself.”
“If you say so.”
“But then again, how could you pass up the opportunity of a lifetime, recruited by a firm like Whitman? Making the big bucks. Living large,” she said, doing a once-over of the very understated apartment. “Work with the likes of Mancini.”
“Or the lovely Stephanie Diaz.”
“And look at her now,” she replied, pointing to a Neosporin-shiny patch of road rash on her cheek.
“Just a few bumps and bruises along the way. They build character.”
“I’m flattered.”
“I admit the thought of going criminal crossed my mind. I think every idealistic lawyer secretly fantasizes about putting away the bad guys, saving the world. Idealism’s awfully expensive these days, though. Couldn’t have afforded it even if I wanted to. School loans kicked my ass. Still kicking my ass, in fact.” Plus, it didn’t help that Hunter has been helping out his mom and sister for as long as he could remember.
“Tell me about it.” Hunter suspected she had a much more privileged childhood than she was letting on.
“So how about you?”
“How ’bout me?”
“Well. You go to Vassar in the hopes of becoming a world-famous
artiste
, jet-setting to Paris, Florence, New York. On a bicycle, of course. And instead you wind up a defense litigator, working on discrimination cases with the likes of me. Explain that one.”
“First amendment, civil rights is actually how I refer to it when my dad asks me what I’m working on.”
“Is he impressed?”
“Not really,” she conceded.
“Say
pizza
. Now that will impress him.”
“Sure,” she said, smiling. “Why? Is that what you tell your family?”
“My mom. Yes. Dad passed away a few years back,” he said, matter-of-factly. It was actually the first time he’d said that without getting choked up. He felt guilty for it, yet a part of him was relieved he’d finally started to move beyond the pain.
