Blood Money Page 9

  Pretty as a cameo, Nick thought admiring her refined WASP features.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said. Smile, smile—an obvious part of her job.

  “Nick Ceratto.” He handed her his card. “I’m here for a deposition.”

  “Yes, I know.” Smile, smile. “I have your name here, sir. Just leave your coat with me and go straight down the short hall to conference room three. The court reporter is already setting up. I’ll tell Mr. Asher that you’re here.” Smile, smile.

  John Asher? he thought as he made his way to room three. It was supposed to be Mark Finley. Asher was much tougher. Nick remembered Joe and Asher going head to head in a cancer misdiagnosis case. Joe had actually been worried. Asher’s socalled expert, Professor James Connelly, M.D. (a paid defense whore as Joe had called him), had sandbagged Joe by testifying that the plaintiff’s form of cancer was so deadly and fast spreading that it didn’t matter that the defendant had missed it. Even if the defendant doctor had diagnosed it six months earlier, when he should have, it wouldn’t have made any difference in the outcome. The cancer had already metastasized. The plaintiff had suffered with malignant melanoma for two years and had to watch his body slowly rot away.

  It had been the classic So What? defense. So what if the doctor didn’t order a biopsy? The plaintiff was a dead man anyhow. So no harm done. Joe had objected and argued against admitting Asher’s expert’s damaging testimony since it hadn’t been disclosed before the trial as the rules required.

  After two days of briefing and oral argument in the judge’s chambers—outside the hearing of the jury—Judge Josephine Hanks ruled in Joe’s favor and sustained his objection. The damaging evidence was stricken, and the jury was instructed to ignore the professor’s testimony. It could have killed the case. But the jury found in favor of Joe’s client, the plaintiff’s widow, in the amount of ten million dollars.

  Watch your back. Those had been Joe’s famous words about Asher. And no doubt the feeling was mutual as far as Asher was concerned. Now Nick wondered what Asher had in store for him. Whatever it was, he would be prepared to deal with it.

  Asher stood just inside the conference room with his back to the glass door. Nick watched from the hall as the defense attorney rhythmically moved his hands giving last-minute instructions to his client, who stood facing him. Asher’s words were inaudible but Nick knew the drill: “Don’t volunteer any information. Don’t answer a question you don’t fully understand. Don’t be afraid to say, ‘I don’t understand your question, Counselor.’ And if you do understand but think the answer you’ll have to give might be damaging, hesitate, so I can object and throw him off. You can weasel, you can waffle, but for Christ’s sake, don’t lie. Unless I tell you to. You’ll know when.”

  Asher turned, opened the door, and let Nick into the brightly lit room—fully equipped with audio and video equipment. Pots of freshly brewed coffee and bottles of mineral water, cups monogrammed with the firm’s logo, cream, and sugar were already laid out on the federal style sideboard at the far end of the room. Every professional courtesy and accommodation appeared to be available—except the truth.

  Asher was tall and thin. His face was sharp featured and heavily lined from years on the tennis courts. He was dressed in a charcoal three-button suit, spread-collar shirt with a red and blue rep, silk tie, and black wing-tip shoes. He could have been a middle-aged model for Brooks Brothers. Instead he was a prick for the insurance companies, especially Pro-Med.His crystal blue eyes gleamed against his even tan —not too dark a tan, and definitely not peeling.His teeth were whiter than white as he smiled, stretching over the conference table to shake hands. Nick shook Asher’s hand but didn’t smile.

  Asher always looked as though he had just returned from vacation, always poised, charming and relaxed, confident as ever. At least he appeared that way. His client, in contrast, looked tense and tired. Manin had bags and circles under his eyes. He apparently had not had much sleep in the past week. His dark brown eyes were dull, his brow was furrowed, and his skin looked pale. His handshake was clammy, Nick noted. The doctor’s navy blue suit hung on his slightly stooped shoulders. He looked as though he had lost fifteen pounds and hadn’t had the suit altered. Why bother? He would probably lose another fifteen before the trial was over. This was not the Doctor Victor Manin that Nick remembered. It was all too clear that he needed a haircut, a week’s sleep, and a good meal. Although he looked bad, Nick knew that the doctor would evoke the jury’s sympathy, and that was not good. That was Asher’s only card, and so far he was playing it perfectly. He obviously had not told his client to clean up and dress up.

  Nick would have to play his hand just as perfectly and plan his strategy accordingly. What strategy would he use, what script? What would erase the powerful emotion of sympathy that Manin would evoke? What would cancel out Asher’s skillful portrayal of his client as the victim? The poor, bankrupt, downtrodden, unjustly accused doctor. Instead Nick had a dead cop—who couldn’t be put on the stand, who couldn’t testify.

  The doctor would be primed. He would tell the jury, “I’m sorry. I did the best I could. But, I’m not God.” It would be a perfect script.

  In his mind, Nick heard Asher arguing that medicine is not an exact science, and that the good doctor did everything he possibly could to save Sean Riley’s life. He even stayed at the hospital to perform the surgery when he could have as easily left for his social engagement. He cared for his patients as he would members of his own family. And he took a special interest in cops because they risked their lives every day for us. Because cops were heroes, and Doctor Manin respected them and appreciated their sacrifices—especially since Manin’s father had been a cop. Sean Riley’s death was an act of God. God wanted Sean, and God took him. Doctor Manin was not more powerful than God that night, and no mortal should expect him to be…

  “Mr. Ceratto,” the court reporter said, breaking Nick’s reverie. “Shall I swear the witness in?”

  “Yes, go ahead.” Nick opened his notebook to his carefully prepared hit list: not a list of questions as one might suppose, but a carefully prepared list of facts—dates, times, actions, and reasons that he had to get the doctor to unequivocally admit to. Otherwise the doctor could give vague and ambiguous answers to openended questions. This was the only way that Nick could get the ammunition to effectively cross-examine the doctor at trial, and if possible destroy him on the stand.

  “Doctor Manin, my name is Nick Ceratto, and I represent the Estate of Sean Riley. I’m going to ask you a series of questions about your involvement with Sean Riley on the night he died. Doctor, have you ever been deposed before? You’re shaking your head, no. Then let me give you some instructions. If I ask you a question and you don’t understand it, please tell me so I can rephrase in such a way that you will understand it. Is that clear? Second, if you answer my question, I will assume that you understood it and that your answer is full and complete. Finally…”

  The phone rang. The ringer had been set on low so that it wouldn’t startle anyone. It was only to be used to enlist the aid of a judge in settling a dispute between lawyers about the propriety of a question during a deposition or some other matter of great importance. Otherwise the staff had strict instructions to never interrupt a deposition.

  Asher moved to the credenza and picked up the receiver after the first ring, holding up a hand to stop the proceeding. The court reporter instantly removed her hands from the small keyboard of her machine. Nick stopped mid-sentence and turned to hear what could be so important.

  “Yes? Fine. I’ll tell Mr. Ceratto. No, I have no objection. Just tell her to have a seat. There’s a woman, a clerk of yours, who’s here to sit in on the deposition.”

  Nick looked curiously at Asher but said nothing. Clerk? What clerk, he thought.

  “She said her name is Maria Elena. She apologizes for being late. I certainly don’t have an objection to her sitting in. I’m sure you’d accommodate one of our clerks in a similar situation
,” Asher smiled.

  “Thank you,” Nick responded, thinking, What the fuck is she doing here?

  Maria Elena entered room three, accompanied by the receptionist. The difference between the two was glaring. Maria wore a navy pinstripe suit. The double-breasted jacket was cut low enough to reveal just the right amount of skin with a tad of cleavage. The hem of her skirt was just above the knee. She wore nude colored stockings and black leather pumps with a three-inch spike heel. She carried a black leather Prada briefcase. Her golden brown hair fell softly about her shoulders and slightly over her left eye. She wore thin, wire-rim glasses.

  The receptionist wore a long, gray wool skirt, a white cotton blouse buttoned high at the neck, and flat shoes—black skimmers with grosgrain bows. She was pretty as a cameo alright– seated at her desk, but in full view, it was clear that she was stuck in the nineteen fifties, an image that fit perfectly with this firm. She smiled innocently, blushing slightly as she motioned Maria toward an empty seat next to Nick.

  Asher rose to his feet, took Maria’s hand, and smiled deeply, introducing himself before Nick had the opportunity. He held her hand a little longer than usual, the handshake continuing a few seconds after the introduction. Maria returned the smile and did not withdraw her hand. She liked his firm, warm grip; his smile; his tan.

  “A pleasure,” she said. “My name is Maria Elena.” She purposely omitted her last name. “Thank you for allowing me to stay.”

  “What law school are you going to, Ms…?” He hesitated, wondering why his firm never received applicants such as this.

  “Nardo. I went to the University of Rome,” she answered without missing a beat. She lied well and was relaxed while doing it.

  “Ah, that explains your charming accent. Well, if you need anything, please let me or a member of my staff know.”

  “Thank you, I will.” She sat down in the tufted armchair and poured herself a glass of water from a carafe on the table. She crossed her legs and opened her briefcase, taking out a yellow legal pad and a Tiffany T-ball pen.

  Nick watched her, trying to regain his train of thought, recall what his first question was to be, thinking that he just might put her on a plane and send her back to Italy the very first chance he got. She was a distraction, and that could be bad for him—as a matter of fact, deadly. “Where were we?” he asked the court reporter.

  She pulled the folded tape from the box at the front of the stenotype machine and read from the strange mechanical shorthand symbols. “Second, if you answer my question, I will assume that you understood it and that your answer is full and complete.”

  Dr. Manin nodded in agreement and for the next seven hours maintained his innocence.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Mike Rosa felt like a new man. It was Saturday morning. The late January air, warmed by the sun, was cold but forgiving; and the scent of a beautiful day filled his nostrils as he was hurled rhythmically forward on the wintery trail on Khalil, his Arabian horse. His breath commingled and condensed in a haze with Khalil’s. The powerful hooves pounded on the hard packed earth, echoing the staccato of another set of hooves close behind. A neigh of protest shrilled across the quiet, frozen woods as Maria Elena pulled back on the reins of Jamilia, Rosa’s other white Arabian, slowing the horse to a trot. Mike was amazed at Maria’s riding skills. She was strong, graceful, and fearless, just like her mount.

  Both horses snorted loudly as they kept pace with each other, challenging their riders to keep them in check.

  What could be more perfect, he thought, than to be away from the office, the telephone, the papers on his desk, the coroner’s reports, and all the crap that went with his job. Instead he was riding next to this beautiful young woman. His wife and sons had gone to visit his in-laws in Naples, Florida, and he was left to fend for himself. Too bad, he thought, reveling in the moment of the day. Although he felt twinges of guilt remembering last night, it didn’t spoil the joy he now felt. He hadn’t made love like that in thirty years. And the thrill of knowing that he still had the stamina overwhelmed his sense of guilt—at least for the present. He knew himself too well, though. He knew that he’d suffer later for his pleasure. But later was later, and the present was too perfect to think about later.

  It was ten a.m. They had been riding since eight. His ribs and his butt ached. He wasn’t sure if it was from the horse or Maria.

  “I’m hungry. How about we turn back?” he asked.

  “I could go on forever,” she said. Her thick brown hair billowed behind her in the wind.

  “I’ll bet you could,” he laughed. His voice wavered with the movement of the horse as he stood in the stirrups to give his rear a rest.

  “OK, but let’s gallop back!” She pulled Jamilia’s head around and quickly executed a turn in the opposite direction.

  Rosa’s turn was not as smooth, but he was glad to be going home to a warm shower. Both horses bolted forward and streaked toward the stables—white manes flying and hooves pounding like kettledrums.

  Maria reached the barn first. She quickly whipped her right leg over the saddle and slid down the left side of the horse, laughing wildly at her victory and trying to catch her breath. She started to cough and choke. Rosa quickly dismounted and ran up to her, grabbing her from behind to attempt a Heimlich maneuver. But before he could apply any pressure, she turned in his arms and kissed him warmly on the lips.

  “I’m all right,” she said, impressed by his quick response and protectiveness.

  “You scared me. I thought you were in trouble.” He kissed her paternally on the head, holding her close. He was old enough to be her father, but he quickly dismissed the thought. “We smell of horse.” He nuzzled her ear.

  “You’re right.” She sniffed at her arm. “Putzamo! We stink. Let’s wash, take showers.”

  “Together?” he asked. “I haven’t taken a shower with a woman in over thirty years.”

  “Cherto. Como no? Certainly,why not? But first we have to take care of the horses.” She tried to wriggle from his arms, but his grip was too strong. He led her into the barn and coaxed her onto the fresh stack of hay. He couldn’t wait for a shower, and neither could she.

  The warm water, the lather, and her hands had felt wonderful. Rosa lay across the canopied bed and was about to fall asleep when Maria shook him lightly.

  “I have something I want you to see,” she said authoritatively.

  “What is it?” He was surprised at her tone.

  “I have a film you have to see.” She slid off the bed and walked over to the dresser, opened her purse, and took out the cassette.

  “What film is it?” He sat up, holding out his hand. “Here, let me see it.”

  She dropped the cassette on the bed.

  “Raiders of the Lost Ark?” he laughed. “I haven’t seen this in at least…God knows how long.”

  “Probably twenty years ago. It was made in 1981.” She took a cigarette from her bag and lit it.

  “But why this film? Couldn’t you have gotten us something a little more current?”

  “This is current,” she retorted, taking a long drag. She removed the cassette from the sleeve and put it in the VCR sitting in an armoire across from the bed. She carefully laid her cigarette on a saucer which had coffee rings from the night before. She pressed PLAY and then FAST FORWARD.

  “What are you doing?” He laughed, amazed at her unpredictable behavior. He got up, the top sheet wrapped around his waist.

  “You’ll see.” She stopped the film, reached for her cigarette, and hit PLAY.

  A few seconds of Indiana Jones being tied to a stake…then a blank screen and silence for two seconds. The screen lit again, and there was Joe Maglio sitting at his desk in the study at his home. He was wearing casual clothes, a black turtleneck. He smiled into the camera, saying nothing. His hands were folded on the desktop. He cleared his throat.

  Rosa walked toward the screen, mouth open.

  “Nick, I asked Celia Lopez to give you this film if
something happened to me. It’s late, a little after midnight. Christy and the kids are asleep.” He paused. “This is difficult for me.” He laughed. “For the first time in my life, I’m at a loss for words. It’s eerie, you know, talking from the grave. As I’m speaking I know that if you ever see this, I’ll be a dead man…dead man talking.” He shook his head and chuckled. Then his eyes became watery. “And I know it’s got to be weird for you to be watching this, too. But it’s very important that you listen to everything I have to say very carefully, and do what I tell you. I chose Celia because she’s the only one in the firm that I trust with this tape. She’s loyal, and you can count on her if you need her. She’s never let me down, and she’ll never betray you.” He paused and cleared his throat.

  “I never told you anything about the firm or myself that I was ashamed of—but I’m going to, now. I’m not good at confessions, so bear with me.” He took a deep breath.

  “Twenty years ago, I started this firm.” He picked up a pen and started toying with it. “I knew I was a good trial lawyer but a terrible money manger. I didn’t have the time to worry about money- or rainmaking. But I knew we needed both. Then Levin came along, and he could manage money. Boy, he could work miracles. He kept costs down, staved off creditors, and let the firm’s coffers fill. And then came Silvio, always the supreme rainmaker, in with the unions. God knows what he gave them, but they always sent their business our way. Neither one of those fucks could try a case if their life depended on it. But back then we were a great team. We got along. We hired talent. Each one did what he did best. We started getting bigger verdicts, more cases, more important cases. The money started pouring in. We started taking bigger salaries—partnership draws—bigger houses, cars, you know. And I admit, I was the worst. The more I made, the more I spent. And Christy is no miser, as you know. My family started to demand more and more. The more they got, the more they wanted; and you know me—it was hard to say no. The bigger cases demanded heavy up-front costs to pay the experts witnesses. The explosion cases, the collapse cases, the defective tire cases—all those huge, open mouths to feed. And the politicians, judges. You know, Nick, if you don’t want them against you, you got to feed them, too. It became a runaway train.