Blood Money
BLOOD MONEY
LAURA M. RIZIO
Copyright © 2011 Laura M. Rizio
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1453618708
ISBN-13: 9781453618707
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61397-052-2
D E D I C A T I O N:
To James Hamilton, my husband and
partner in all things.
Thank you
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
CHAPTER LIII
CHAPTER I
He had heard the litany before. It was not new. It was the plaintiff attorneys’ lament. All around Philadelphia, small plaintiff’s firms were biting the dust or taking the gas pipe. Carbon monoxide poisoning was not an unpopular way of ending it all for some solo practitioners who couldn’t take it anymore.
He listened politely, but it was clear from his face that he wasn’t truly interested. He shifted from foot to foot. The pavement was cold. It was Christmas week and he hadn’t done any Christmas shopping. And he didn’t have time to listen or empathize with the man facing him on the sidewalk. He was anxious to get back to the office to report that he had won an important motion on a huge products liability case—a tire blow-out that had killed three kids and left their mother paralyzed for life.
But Bobby Falcone just went on and on.
“Law schools are spitting them out by the thousands. There aren’t enough cases to go around. Tort reform, auto insurance reforms, caps on jury awards; they put mountains in the way of getting decent money on a case. The fucking insurance companies pour salt on your wounds, too—like the appeal from the lousy five grand arbitration award I just won. Now I’m in the bucket for five grand, the money I have to pay the expert, the whore doctor who will testify for twenty minutes on video that my client has a bulging disc caused by the accident. The damn doctors are eating up what’s left of any money we make, and they want it thirty days before the fucking video deposition. What kind of justice is this? The system is stacked against us, Nicky, and it ain’t gettin’ any better,” he said, veins bulging in his neck and spittle flying everywhere as he failed to swallow between expletives.
Nick Ceratto nodded in agreement and stepped back, wanting to escape, embarrassed that they had become the object of attention of passing pedestrians. He hoped that Falcone would take the hint, but he didn’t. He had an audience right there on the corner of Fifteenth and Market, in front of the towering, oversized sculpture of a clothespin. Not only did he have Nick’s attention, but he had the attention of at least twenty-five pedestrians patiently waiting for a Septa bus in the biting December air.
“I’m not going to let them do this to me, Nicky,” he said, waving his arms. “They’re robbin’ me of my livelihood. I’ve got three kids, a mortgage, a second mortgage, and tuition bills up the ass—not to mention my wife’s fucking credit cards. The bitch won’t get off her lazy ass, either.”
“We gotta fight the good fight, my man,” was all the politeness Nick had left. He gave Falcone a mock jab to the shoulder and turned to walk away.
But Falcone wasn’t finished. He grabbed Nick by the shoulder.
“Look, you young, arrogant, little shit. You and your firm never fought the good fight. You got away with murder.” His raised his voice, encouraging people to stop and look.
Nick dropped his briefcase and made a fist to deck Falcone, but his fist stopped before making contact. He wasn’t about to make another mistake, a mistake that could cost him his career, the fruits of his hard work, and the friendship of his colleagues.
“Bobby, you’re tired and angry. I don’t blame you. Go home and take a rest. Everything will be OK in the morning.”
Falcone sneered. “You shoulda hit me. Maybe I coulda made some fucking money from your hide instead,” he laughed. “You think I’m nuts, don’t you? But let me tell you something.” He leaned toward Nick and in a low tone, almost a whisper, told him how the last five major cases had come into Nick’s firm, and how they came to be: the malfunctioning heart monitor, the mis-filled prescription, the switched hospital cart, the exploding gas tank, and yes, Nick’s own tire blowout case.
Nick shook loose from Falcone’s grip. He had heard enough.
“You are nuts. I’m convinced you need a good shrink, Bobby. But first, you’re gonna need a good lawyer.”
“You’ll see, Nicky,” Bobby shouted. “You’ll pay the price, too, unless you wise up. Get out while you can.”
Nick crossed over Market Street and headed west. He could still hear Falcone ranting and raving as he crossed Sixteenth Street making his way toward his office building. It was clear to him that Falcone was crazy. Anyone could see it. But he was also dangerous. If he got to the right people with his lunatic theory, it would make things very uncomfortable for Nick and his firm. The last thing Maglio, Silvio and Levin needed was an investigation when these cases were due to go on the trial list. The cases that Bobby thought he knew about. These were major jury trials that would bring the firm millions. The distraction of an investigation would bring trial preparation to a standstill and give the defense, the insurance company attorneys, a bonanza. Plus the bad press would taint the minds of any jury. Even the most impartial minds would remember what they heard and saw on the news.
Nick knew there was nothing but insanity behind the diatribe. An investigation would prove nothing and lead nowhere, nowhere but to the ruination of his firm’s reputation and the end of his job, the job he had fought so hard to get, the job any young associate would kill for.
His firm, Maglio, Silvio and Levin, litigated the largest cases in the city. More of them than any other firm in the city, or the surrounding counties for that matter. The cases were “bell ringers,” as his mentor and boss, Joe Maglio, would say. They came to the firm because of the firm’s reputation for winning the most cases and winning the most money. It was simple. When you’re good, you don’t have to advertise, especially when publicity is for free, thanks to the local newspapers and TV stations. People just know. After the funerals, when heads begin to clear, they think of vengeance and paybacks, big paybacks. And they think of Maglio, Silvio and Levin. When judges rule on motions and evidence presented at trial, and post-trial motions for a new trial or to throw out a jury verdict, they remember whose large contributions helped put them on the bench. And whose large contributions will
keep them there at reelection time.
Maglio, Silvio and Levin did everything right. They shelled out at election time for favorite judges. They supported good causes: the homeless, victims of AIDS, cancer, or sexual abuse, and children’s hospitals. And they made sure one of the partners was always shown in the papers handing his check to a grateful recipient.
You had to spend money to make money. The firm paid sizable amounts to political action committees to grease the right people in Harrisburg to stave off the insurance lobby that wanted to put an end to large jury awards. And if they had their way, there would be no awards to injured plaintiffs. The insurance industry wanted premiums, not payouts.
Marty Silvio and Harry Levin were masters at rainmaking. They worked at it night and day. And it was rumored that they would push their own mothers down an elevator shaft to sign up a premier case, preferably a class action where there were lots of plaintiffs suing the same defendant.
And then there was Joe Maglio who turned rain into blizzards— blizzards of dollars. The chief litigator could charm the pants off the most hostile juror and wrap all twelve around his little finger. And if the devil were on the stand, it was said that Joe could get him to make the sign of the cross. Joe was a natural and had honed his God-given talent to a fine edge, an edge Nick wanted for himself one day. And that’s why he had to stop Falcone.
He pulled the heavy, glass door open and charged into the gray granite lobby of the Mark, a needle-shaped tower on the corner of Seventeenth and Market Streets. He didn’t bother giving his usual wave to Gilbert, the security guard at the desk who knew every tenant by name. It was helpful, especially at Christmas. But Nick didn’t acknowledge the “Good morning, Mr. Ceratto.” He blew past Gilbert into an open elevator that took him to the thirty-seventh floor, the top of the building. He flew past Celia Lopez, the receptionist, not even bothering to check his messages, heading straight for Joe Maglio’s office. But it was empty. He hit zero on the phone.
“Yes, Nick,” Celia answered, indicating that she knew where he had been headed.
“Where’s Joe?”
“How should I know? He never tells me, you know that.”
“Did he come in today?”
“Nope. Unless he snuck in the back door,” she chuckled. “Is something wrong?” Her tone had changed to one of concern.
“No, Celia, I just need to talk to him, that’s all.”
“Sounds like an emergency to me,” she prodded, as usual, trying to squeeze as much information as possible out of him. Celia couldn’t stand being outside the loop. “Catch your breath or something. Want me to dial his cell?”
“Sure.” Nick tapped Joe’s gold pen impatiently on the clean desktop. There was no point in his asking Shirley, Joe’s secretary. Joe kept his own calendar and Shirley was useless—a gray-haired lady who smiled and brought Joe his coffee. She was nice enough, but still useless, one of Joe’s charity cases, a fixture and nothing more. When Joe really needed something, he always relied on Grace Monahan, the firm’s crackerjack paralegal, the one with a temper to match her flaming red hair. Nick continued to tap away. The phone clicked.
“Nope,” she announced on the speaker, “Sorry, Nick. But can I help…?”
“No thanks.” He hung up before she could cross question him.
Although he didn’t relish it, he went straight to Marty Silvio’s office. Nick had never had a great relationship with Silvio, or with Levin for that matter. Silvio’s door was closed as usual Nick knocked lightly, feeling uneasy. There was no response. He knocked again, thinking maybe he should wait for Joe or talk to Silvio by phone. But no, the matter couldn’t wait, and no, it wasn’t something to discuss on the telephone. Seconds later he was standing face-toface with the portly, slightly disheveled partner, the ever-present unlit cigar clenched in his teeth like a bulldog with a prized bone. Silvio pulled at his loosened tie and smoothed a stray strand of hair on his balding head. He ignored his un-tucked shirttail.
“Yes?” he asked sarcastically. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?”
Nick flushed as he caught a glimpse of Margo Griffin, the youngest associate, smoothing her skirt on the other side of the infamous brown leather sofa.
“Sorry, Marty, this is important. It can’t wait.”
Marty moved his large frame from the doorway and gave a nod to Margo. She passed Nick and disappeared down the hall.
Silvio took his seat behind a gargantuan desk that matched his frame, not to mention his belly. He struggled to prop his swollen feet on the desk and removed the wet cigar, fondling it tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, leaning back into his huge leather chair.
“Now let’s hear what’s so goddamned important.”
It was nine p.m. and Bobby Falcone was still at his desk. He had gotten over his fury of the morning. He had taken two aspirin washed down with a large scotch, and had begun working on an appeal to the Superior Court on one of his many losses. He was tired. His anger and the scotch had taken their toll. His vision was becoming blurry, and he decided it was time to go home—home to nothing. His wife would be asleep and his kids on the phone. He heard a gentle tap on the door. He got up slowly and opened it.
“What are you doing here?” he said to the elderly gentleman outside the door. “It’s late for cleaning, isn’t it?”
The man smiled. His blue eyes matched his blue jumpsuit, which bore the name of the building, Four Adam Place.
“Need to empty your wastebasket, sir. I did all the others and dusted up. I’m just waiting on yours.” He grinned apologetically. “Can’t afford to miss an office. I’m new here and I need the job.”
“Yeah. I don’t know you. Where’s Charlie?” Falcone turned away toward his papers and briefcase on the desk.
“Charlie’s sick today. I’m just filling in. Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” The elderly janitor began to slowly retrieve Falcon’s oversized brass wastebasket.
“Hey, don’t bother with that. You look like you’re in worse shape than I am. I’ll get it tomorrow,” Falcone said, continuing to pack his papers.
The man smiled gratefully as Falcone bent to pick up a document which had fallen to the floor. He ignored Falcone’s offer and picked up the brass can. In less than a second the plate glass window in Falcone’s twentieth floor office shattered, and out went the trash, along with Bobby Falcone.
CHAPTER II
Nick read the headline in the Inquirer the next morning: “Lawyer Jumps Twenty Stories to Death.” It was definitely a shocker. He had been ordered to file suit against Falcone for slander ASAP and to personally serve him with a copy of the complaint. It was Silvio’s way of putting an end to the matter. But Falcone had put an end to it himself. It was better this way, Nick thought. He felt sorry for Bobby, but it was better for the firm. Who needed to spend two years litigating a defamation claim against a deadbeat? It was clear Falcone had nothing to back up what he had said. Nick felt sorry for Bobby’s kids. Kids always suffered the most when their parents were nuts. He knew from personal experience.
He looked up from the paper and, from his penthouse condo in the Society Hill Towers, watched the sleet as it fell and coated the pavement below. He took a long, cautious sip of hot, cream-laced English Breakfast tea. He found the brew extremely comforting on cold winter mornings, especially when he had to work. He closed the paper and padded barefoot into his walk-in closet to face the first dilemma of the day: which suit to wear. The navy Armani, the black Versace, the chalk-stripe Polo? He chose the Armani. It fit him better. It hugged his tall, lean body like no other. The trousers fell just to the top of his black, mirror finished Italian shoes.
He wanted to make sure that he looked good—really good. Today was the firm’s annual Christmas bash where he would be glad-handing Philadelphia’s best, and worst, public figures. The firm didn’t discriminate. As long as they made headlines, they were invited. The food and alcohol would flow nonstop from noon until seven p.m. And they would a
ll come with appetites like gorillas: lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, insurance claims managers. They came not just for the delectable tidbits, but also for deals, pledges, contributions, client referrals, and settlement offers. Inevitably several seven-figure cases were negotiated at the Christmas party. Joe would always manage to corner a battlefatigued defense lawyer and badger him into making an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Nick had learned how to shmooze the enemy and charm the pants off the ladies— lawyers, judges, it didn’t matter. They had a weakness for his Mediterranean good looks. And he had a weakness for women in general. But he never took unfair advantage, and he never discussed the women he had been with. He didn’t have to lie or promise, or “wine and dine” them. Women wanted him more than he wanted them and, cheap talk was for losers. Besides, his reputation for discretion only got him more women and the admiration of men unlike him. It was a matter of respect for the women he was with. He may not have loved them but he respected them and they knew it.
In forty minutes he was driving his red Boxster west on Spruce Street toward Broad. He checked his shave in the rearview mirror. It was clean. He looked good. He smoothed back his dark hair and guided the car into his reserved parking space in the garage under the Mark. Within a few minutes, he was on the thirty-seventh floor at his firm’s double mahogany doors. He passed the glittering, twelve-foot Christmas tree in the marble floored foyer. The smell of the fresh pine garland wrapped with twinkling bee lights were all reminders of the season-to-be-merry—and not to worry about Falcone, or trials, or anything for that matter. The clatter of caterers echoed throughout the suite as they busily set out the firm’s monogrammed china and glassware. Giorgio, the firm’s head chef, checked the lobster remoulade and the platters of thinly sliced rare beef. The smells were delectable. Everything looked fine, except for Celia Lopez.