Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (37 page)

“Carlos Gonzales,” I volunteered, “is a monster. I’m sure the residents in Westchester County—especially women voters—will be grateful when he is charged.”

“And what about the FBI and Agent Longhorn?” Whitaker asked.

“Sir, the last time I checked, he wasn’t a registered voter here.”

45

Two days after our meeting, Whitaker announced during a press conference that a grand jury had indicted Carlos Gonzales.

Whitaker said a few words at the beginning of the press conference and then let me take over and answer questions. I’d never seen him share the spotlight. I assumed he was keeping a low profile because he didn’t want reporters peppering him with questions about Pisani’s sudden resignation. By now, everyone in the courthouse and Westchester political circles had heard about his womanizing.

Later that afternoon after I got off work, I drove to Mom’s so we could watch the local news together.

“Look! Look!” Mom said when my face appeared on the newscast. “There you are and you look so beautiful!”

I must admit that I did look good. My Janis Joplin days were over. I’d dropped by Bergdorf Goodman and Jane Criswell had helped me pick out a new dress. It was a long-sleeved, knee-length Halston with shoulder pads that was identical to one that a model had worn in a
New York Times
full-page advertisement. The Halston was a rich royal blue with a jagged, pencil-thin black line that curled around the arms and ran up the dress’s high-necked collar. Across my waist was an ink-colored belt. The accessories Jane selected for the Halston were button earrings in the same color blue as my dress. As always, I wore a thin gold ankle bracelet. The shoes were Charles Jourdan with spiked heels.

The clip lasted only a few minutes.

“I’m going to call O’Brien,” I said.

“Did you see me?” I asked when he answered.

“Yeah, you done good.”

“If I done so good, why do you sound like you’re going to a funeral?”

“Dani, you just spit in the face of Special Agent Jack Longhorn and the FBI. He’s not going to take this lying down. You’d better prepare yourself for a few surprises.”

46

A few days after our news conference, an extremely hostile Carlos Gonzales was brought into the Westchester County Courthouse before a scowling Judge Morano for arraignment. The confident smirk Gonzales had exhibited during his first trial was gone. He glared at me, and for the first time I felt as if I was seeing the hate that Carmen and Benita had witnessed when he was wielding his leather belt.

A young attorney, whom I’d never met, stepped forward to stand next to Gonzales at the defense table. He looked barely out of law school. Not recognizing him, Judge Morano said, “Introduce yourself and please tell me you’re licensed to practice in the State of New York. I hate wasting time.”

“Your Honor,” the young man said.

As if on cue, the doors to the courtroom opened and Paul Pisani waltzed through the spectators’ gallery.

“I apologize, Judge Morano, for being a few minutes late,” Pisani said. “I’ll be representing Carlos Gonzales in this matter. This young man is an associate of mine.”

I noticed the courtroom door open again. This time, it was Special Agent Longhorn who slipped inside, taking a seat on a back row. Longhorn was too slick to leave a trail but I could feel his cold fingers pulling strings. In my gut, I knew he’d arranged for Pisani to defend Gonzales. The significance of this moment was not lost on me. Longhorn was hoping “Mr. Invincible” would be able to stop me from convicting Gonzales of murder so that the FBI could continue using him as a snitch, rewarding him with a new identity and a clean start. The FBI was protecting a murderer for what Longhorn called “a greater good”—but in reality it was to gain a position he coveted.

So much for all of us being on the same side, I thought.

From the bench, Judge Morano said, “Welcome back, Mr. Pisani, although it’s a bit odd to see you on the defense side of the courtroom.”

“Judge,” Pisani said with a big smile, “I go where the innocent are, whether they’re victims of a crime or have been falsely accused of committing one. All I care about is justice.”

Judge Morano smirked and I felt my stomach churn.

The routine hearing took less than five minutes. As he was being taken away in handcuffs, Gonzales shot me another menacing look. But Pisani was all chuckles and grins as he made his way toward me, pausing to speak to the court clerk and bailiff.

“I seem to remember,” Pisani said, “that you learned how to prosecute a case by studying my old trials. Now you’ll get to see me in action firsthand. There’s a reason for that ‘Mr. Invincible’ moniker.”

What a pompous ass, I thought. I retorted, “Right, and if Jesus Christ had five thousand dollars and you were practicing law, things would be a lot different today.”

He laughed.

“What strings did Agent Longhorn pull to get you involved in this case? Did he promise you a new identity, too, or maybe a box of condoms?”

Pisani’s demeanor and voice changed. I’d hit him hard and he didn’t appreciate it. “I’m looking forward to trying this case against you, Ms. Fox. What did you call the courtroom when we first met—a ‘moral battleground’—yes, those were your words, ‘where a war was being waged between good and evil every day.’ Are you ready for some moral combat, my dear?”

“Do you also remember,” I replied, “that you called me naive when I said that good lawyers don’t leave their conscience outside the courtroom door?”

I glanced over my shoulder at Agent Longhorn, who was still in the courtroom talking to some spectators whom I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t going to let the FBI’s backdoor involvement in this case drop.

“Tell me, what’s it like being in bed with Longhorn?” I immediately regretted my poor choice of words.

Leaning close, Pisani whispered, “I can’t imagine it’s nearly as much fun as being in bed with you, Ms. Fox. But I guess I’ll have to settle for only fucking you in court.”

He walked away.

The
Daily
published a page-one story the next morning written by Will Harris under the headline:

This time, Will Harris had not described me as having
bee-stung lips
.

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