King Con (5 page)

As a young man, Beano showed promise for much more. He had learned to run big cons from his uncle, “Paper Collar” John Bates. He ran boiler rooms and bucket shops, Blue River real-estate scams and green goods hustles. He played the pigeon drop and did three Big Store cons. He could dress up and be whatever he
needed to be. He had a soft ear and could affect almost any accent or dialect. He was a master of disguises … a scratch golfer, a cardplayer without peer, and he would always find a way to shade the odds in his favor.

Now it seemed, at the age of thirty-four, after rising to the pinnacle of his chosen profession, after having John Walsh dub him “King Con” on national TV, he was about to flounder on the rocks of unreasonable panic. It was unbelievable and it shocked him, but Beano Bates had completely lost his nerve.

“Stop staring at me,” he said sharply to the brown and black terrier, who continued to sit on the front seat of the Escort and look at him with canine concern. “At least if I quit, you won’t ever have to shit on cue again. … You won’t ever have to try and look like a five-thousand-dollar Baunchatrain Terrier,” he said hotly.

Roger looked disappointed. He glanced out the window at the lighted golden arches. He sniffed at his beer without interest. Then he circled a place on the front seat three times before dropping anchor and putting his chin on his paws. He never took his gaze off Beano, watching him like a concerned parent.

“I’
LL WATT FOR A FORENSIC SCAN, BUT
I
THINK WE’RE
royally fucked in here,” the black homicide detective said morosely to the two uniforms by the door. “This bathroom has been scrubbed down. The building cleaning staff uses Lysol, but this smells like some kinda bleach or something. We can probably forget trace evidence too. Somebody went over the carpets with hand vacuums. See them marks on the pile?”

It was Tuesday morning and the detective was Ron Johnson. He’d been “catching” on the homicide table when the call came in, so he was now the Primary on case number H32–35–497. Technically, it was still just a missing persons case, but it had been given a homicide number and referred to that squad. It couldn’t be rated as a multiple homicide yet, but everybody knew that’s what it was. A high-risk witness and two Jersey plain-clothes cops had vanished from the fourteenth floor of the Trenton Towers. The lab techs had been milling around for an hour, checking for blood splatter or cerebrospinal fluid, searching for fingerprints, and vacuuming for trace evidence. The apartment was as clean as the inside of an egg. The crime scene had been carefully sanitized.

Unanswered questions hung in the air and distorted
everybody’s logic like funhouse mirrors. How did the killers get in? How did they get three bodies out without being seen? How did Manning and Corollo get taken without even firing a shot? Nobody wanted to say that the two cops had fucked up and lost the State’s prime witness, along with their own lives, on a high-profile mob prosecution … but that’s what everybody was thinking.

Victoria Hart arrived at 8:40
A.M.
She’d been jogging when a patrol car found her in the Mill Hill district of Trenton, running the brick sidewalks with their decorative gas lights and iron benches. She was between Jackson and Mercer streets when the blue-and-white pulled over and the two uniforms got out. She was told that when the relief guards showed up at eight
A.M.,
the apartment and corridor on the fourteenth floor at Trenton Towers were empty. Carol Sesnick and her two night guards were missing. Victoria stood in her running shorts feeling a brutal chill, not knowing if it was the unseasonably cold weather or a physical reaction to the devastating news. She showed up at the crime scene in her running gear, which she instantly realized was a mistake. News crews, which constantly monitored police frequencies, were already gathering out in front of the building. She heard shutters click as she ran up the steps, her Nikes squeaking on the concrete. She had been so distressed, she could think of nothing but getting there as quickly as possible. Now she would have to face herself on the six o’clock news, showing up at her friend’s murder scene, dressed like a fitness instructor.

Tactical mistake. Fuck it.

She wandered through the small suite of rooms, looking at everything. Her brain had already accepted the worst, but her heart was still trying to deal with the fallout.
Did I get Carol killed?
she asked herself, knowing full well that she had certainly played a key role.
She had been in charge, it was her case, she had supervised the security and approved the location of the safe house. The fact that there were no bodies was meaningless and completely offset by the smell of bleach in the bathroom. She looked, for a moment, at the table in the hall … at the tabloid papers and uneaten candy she had left for Tony and Bobby the night before. Her emotions swelled; she felt tears coming to her eyes.
Stay in control, Victoria,
she told herself sternly. She was here to find truth and to seek justice. She could cry for her friends later.

Victoria knew her prints were on the tabloid papers and the candy, so she told that to one of the forensic techs and promised to send a set of comparison prints down to the lab when she got to her office. She found herself back in the spotless bathroom, the smell of bleach clogging her nostrils. The tan dress with the pinned hem was on the tile floor, next to the tub. Like a child’s doll at the scene of a fatal accident, it beckoned her, as if it somehow knew the answers, because Carol must have been holding it when disaster struck.

Her boss, Gil Green, called at nine-thirty while she was still walking aimlessly in the room, trading hopeful strained smiles with the hushed detectives. Inside her spinning head, she kept repeating,
I’m sorry, Carol, I’m so sorry,
until the phrase had lost its meaning and had become a mantra to calm her conscience and badly frayed nerves.

They were all gathered in Judge Murray Goldstone’s ornate chambers in the huge Colonial courthouse on State Street. The building was in the Victorian section of town, nestled in among residential houses of the maple-tree-lined neighborhood.

Victoria barely had time to run home and change into one of her no-nonsense dark blue suits and a pair of low-heeled
shoes. She knew her case was in shambles. Judge Goldstone had agreed to this emergency meeting at the request of Defense Counsel. Gerald Cohen was, as usual, surrounded by his Yale Law School glee club. They followed him around like rock star groupies. All of them were young Ivy League attorneys who held the lofty title of Co-counsel. They were huddled like cocky athletes on one side of the room. Outnumbered, Victoria was on the other side with young David Frankfurter. Opposing teams waiting for the jump ball.

Judge Murray Goldstone entered from a side door followed by Beth Leeds, the court reporter. He settled behind his desk, looking rested in a pink Polo shirt and tan pants. He had his usual morning Aqua Velva glow. A fringe of gray hair rimmed his bald head like a Greek athlete’s laurel wreath. Beth sat in a chair across the room, her Stenograph machine in front of her.

“Where is your client?” the Judge asked, looking at Gerald Cohen.

“He should be here, Your Honor. We were up all last night, going over pre-trial briefs. We rented a room at the Hilton. I didn’t leave till six
A.M.
Joe was still there. I called him when I heard about this. He was going to take a shower and try to get here by eleven.” He looked at his watch. “We should maybe give him ten more minutes. …”

“You were with him
all night
?” Victoria said, looking at Gerry Cohen, her voice shaking, barely able to contain her anger.

“That’s right, Victoria. All night. All of us were there.” He gestured toward his Ivy League back-up singers, who nodded solemnly.

“So you’re gonna alibi this killer?”

“I understand that you’re upset, Victoria,” Gerry said slowly, “but I would appreciate it if you would not make insinuations. I’m an officer of the court and I don’t
commit crimes in an attempt to win cases. I was with Joseph Rina from six last night until eight this morning … at the Hilton Hotel, room six eighty-seven. There are an ample number of witnesses who can attest to that fact.”

“What about his brother, Tommy? Can you alibi him?”

“Tommy Rina is not my client. I don’t know anything about Tommy. You got a problem there, take it up with him.”

Then the corridor door to the Judge’s old Victorian chambers opened. Joseph Rina walked in, dressed in gray slacks, navy-blue shirt, and matching tie. His tasseled loafers danced happily as he entered on the balls of his feet.

Victoria had to admit Joseph Rina was a beautiful package. He was handsome in a way that made you stare. His olive skin was so smooth it seemed almost translucent; his light blue eyes reflected intelligence and were the color of tropical reef water. She hated his guts.

“Sorry I’m late. What’s up?” he said, innocently smiling at Gerry Cohen, then nodding at Victoria and the Judge.

Judge Goldstone straightened up, leaned forward, and took control of the meeting. “We have a short menu of issues to deal with and then one complex procedural problem. Let’s start with your witness, Miss Hart. I understand from Gil you’ve got a problem producing her.”

“A
problem?
My witness was kidnapped, Your Honor.”

“You can prove that?” Gerry said in his slow nasal whine, looking at her with theatrical shock.

“I lost a witness and two plainclothes cops. They disappeared out of Trenton Towers sometime between ten last night and eight this morning. They have not been
heard from. They didn’t just wander off for ice cream, goddammit.”

“Your Honor,” Gerry cut in, “the Prosecutor is obviously alleging foul play. If that’s the case, then let her say so. Frankly, who the hell knows what happened up there? All I know is, my client was with me all night and I will so testify. He was also with Trevor St. John, Calvin LePont, and Barret Brockingham … all of whom are present and ready to testify.” He motioned toward his chorus of attorneys and, like a Motown singing group, they all shuffled their feet and nodded in perfect tempo. “If the Prosecutor wants to bring a charge of kidnapping against my client, she’s gonna have to do better than unsubstantiated allegations and sarcasm about trips to the ice-cream parlor.”

“Your Honor,” Victoria jumped in, “Joseph Rina is a top-drawer mob kingpin. A Godfather.”

“I suppose you can prove that?” Gerry protested.

“He sits at the head of the table,” she continued. “I had an eyewitness who saw him beat a man almost to death.”

“Too bad you don’t have the victim,” Joe Rina said in his soft, gentle voice. “I always thought that was part of the process. A defendant gets to be confronted by his accuser.”

Victoria scowled. She thought Joe Rina had the polished manners of a crown prince, but the sleazy demeanor of a Telemundo game show host. “We don’t need the victim,” she carried on bravely. “We can certainly substantiate the beating of Frank Lemay, or whoever he was. We have the depositions of the paramedics who picked him up. They will testify to the extent and degree of the injuries. We have the E.R. doctors and trauma nurses at Mercer County Hospital in Trenton. Jesus, the man was in a coma for two days, and we
used to
have an eyewitness who actually saw the beating. She
saw Mr. Rina beat the man unconscious with a golf club. That was going to get Joe Rina convicted. He knew it. Gerry knew it. And you know it, Judge. Now the witness and the two cops are gone, and I’m not supposed to suspect foul play? You bet there was foul play. I’m not alleging it,
I’m promising it.
Who cares if he’s alibied? He wouldn’t do this personally. He can pick up the phone and order a hit-man.”

“I think Miss Hart needs to calm down. She’s beginning to sound irrational,” Joe Rina said, turning his movie-star face toward her, smiling through friendly, aqua-green filters that masked inner ruthlessness.

“Let’s cut to the bottom line,” Judge Goldstone put in. “Do you think you’re going to be able to produce your witness and put on your case, Miss Hart?”

“I don’t know. I need Carol Sesnick. Without her or the victim, I can’t go forward. I need a two-week continuance,” she said.

“Two more weeks?!” Gerry Cohen sighed expansively. “Why not two months, or two years? Hey, Gil Green probably needs more time to milk this thing in the press anyway. Maybe we can string it out all the way to the general election in November. Let’s not worry about Joe Rina and his constitutionally guaranteed right to a speedy trial. To hell with Joe Rina. Since it’s him, let’s just make up new rules as we go along. He doesn’t count. He has no rights. Let’s call him the Godfather, even though he works every day in the food supply business and has never been convicted of anything. Let’s just go ahead and slander him without evidence. We’ve already been dragging along on this thing for almost nine months. What’s another half a month …? It’s absurd.”

“What do you want, Gerry? Get it on the record,” Judge Goldstone said.

“We want to finish jury selection this morning and
get started. We have a constitutional right to a speedy trial.”

“Okay, I agree,” the Judge said. “The court would like to get going too. And that brings us to the procedural question. … Once that second alternate is seated, jeopardy attaches.”

This was the problem that Victoria had been struggling with all morning. The rule in criminal cases is that once the full jury is impaneled, the double-jeopardy rule goes into effect. That meant that if the last juror was selected and the Prosecution didn’t put on its case, Joe Rina would walk and could never be tried again for this crime, even if they later turned up the missing Frank Lemay and Carol Sesnick to testify to the beating. Victoria knew that to gain time, she needed to get Judge Goldstone to grant her a continuance
before
seating the last juror, and not the other way around. She knew it was a long shot, but she had to try.

“Your Honor,” she started slowly, “please give us the continuance first. The jurors we have selected, you can send them home for two weeks and then recall them. Once jeopardy attaches, I’ve got a gun to my head.”