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* * *
The club on Ninth Street was packed, the sound of an old Frank Sinatra song booming from the massive speakers situated in the corners. Cigar smoke permeated the air, making Carmine’s eyes water the moment he stepped inside.
Corrado had called him and told him to come down right away. He wouldn’t elaborate as to why on the phone and that put Carmine on edge. Was it his father? Haven? Had something happened to her?
o;She won’t,” he replied, putting his gun away before motioning for the other two men to dispose of Remy’s body. They quickly wrapped it up in a blanket and carried the bundle up the stairs. Corrado supervised it, turning back to Carmine once the body was gone. “Clean up this mess.”
Carmine ran his hand through his hair in a panic. “Me?”
“Yes, and make it fast,” Corrado said, starting up the stairs. “You know, in case I’m wrong and she opens her mouth.”
28
The long mahogany table filled the conference room, leaving hardly enough space for people to push out their chairs. It was cramped, the atmosphere stifling as Corrado breathed the same stale air as half a dozen other men.
He sat at the far end of the table with Mr. Borza to his right, the lone court reporter seated beside the lawyer. The federal prosecutor by the name of Markson sat on the left side with his two assistants, while a U.S. Marshal slumped half-asleep in a chair by the exit. Corrado wasn’t surprised they had enlisted security, given the nature of the case, but he was a bit offended they thought one pesky man would be enough to keep everyone safe.
The clock on the wall read 8:23 in the morning, nearly half an hour past the time the proceedings were scheduled to start. Tension choked the silent room as everyone stared at the closed door, waiting for it to open, for something to finally happen. No one seemed to know what to say, neither side wanting to be the first to verbalize what was becoming evident:
Vincent DeMarco was a no-show for his deposition.
The clock steadily ticked away, another ten minutes passing before Mr. Borza cleared his throat. “I think we can all agree this isn’t happening today.”
“Just give it a little longer,” the prosecutor said. “He’ll be here.”
“We’ve already given him thirty minutes,” Mr. Borza argued. “He’s clearly decided not to testify, after all.”
The prosecutor scoffed. “If he doesn’t show, it’s because something’s keeping him from being here.”
“Like what?” Mr. Borza asked. “Traffic? A flat tire? Those are hardly good excuses.”
“No, I mean something like your client.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Mr. Borza said, waving him off. “Mr. Moretti has been here with us all morning. You know that. He was here before even you.”
“Maybe so, but what about last night or the day before? What about last week?” The prosecutor turned his attention to Corrado, his eyes ablaze with anger and suspicion. “When was the last time you saw Vincent DeMarco?”
Corrado didn’t have a chance to consider responding. Mr. Borza shoved his chair back, slamming it against the wall as he stood. “You know very well my client is under no obligation to be here for this nonsense, much less entertain your absurd, paranoia-fueled questions! Contact me if your witness surfaces and we’ll reschedule this sideshow. Otherwise, we’re done.”
The lawyer stormed out of the room, all spitfire and rage, while Corrado stood, as calm as could be. “Gentlemen.”
“This has your name written all over it, Moretti,” the prosecutor muttered, slamming a notebook closed as he gathered his things. “You won’t get away with this. Mark my words. I’ll have you off the streets by the end of the day.”
* * *
Corrado wasn’t home for more than two hours before his phone started incessantly ringing. He ignored it, not in the mood to humor anyone with conversation, but realized they weren’t going to give up after the third consecutive call.
He answered with a sigh, hitting the speakerphone button. “Moretti speaking.”
“We have a problem.”
Corrado closed his eyes at the sound of his lawyer’s voice. He was tired of hearing Mr. Borza say those words. “What now?”
“The prosecution filed for an emergency hearing on a motion to revoke bond based on evidence that you’re a flight risk and a danger to society.”
Leaning back in his office chair, Corrado ran his hands down his face with frustration. “What evidence?”
“Well, they’re citing the fact that Vincent’s missing. They’ve issued a warrant for failing to appear, but so far there’s no sign of him here or at his home.”
