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“That’s her personal life. Any clients I should worry about? Any colleagues?”
“No. She’s represented about sixty people accused of murder. She’s gotten half of them dismissed on technicalities.”
“Were they guilty?”
“No. That’s why she found the technicalities. Cops who didn’t look hard enough for someone else, contaminated evidence, coerced statements. She’s convincing as hell in and out of the courtroom. She handles mostly felonies, but she does some misdemeanors. As for the handful of guilty clients she couldn’t get off, she pled them down. They all got reduced charges and reduced sentencing.”
“How has she had that many innocent clients?”
“Because our legal system is shit.”
No greater truth has ever been said. If it worked the way it should, everyone in my family— even some of the women —would be in prison. But greased palms go a long way and making sure the right evidence shows up— or disappears —helps. The only reason we couldn’t make my charges go away is some fucknut with a police scanner heard the radio when the police arrested me. He had a drone, so he saw the five cop cars and them taking me out in handcuffs. Luckily, what he didn’t see were the ten men who slipped into the bakery through the backdoor. Carmine was there first. I can only imagine what traffic laws he broke to get from the Upper Eastside to Harlem. He made the twenty-minute drive in ten. I stalled until I saw his car. He lost his ever-loving mind with the cops for touching even one thing in his wife’s bakery and scaring her. She was more unfazed by it than he was. But then again she grew up with Venetian Mafia on her dad’s side and Sicilian Mafia on her mom’s.
“And her guilty clients that were convicted. Why’d she lose?”
“Because there was no way to win. The evidence was too clear. She even had a couple confess before lawyering up. She’s gotten a few first and second degree murders dropped to manslaughter.”
That’s a pretty big jump from first degree murder to third. They had to have been manslaughter in the first degree convictions in New York. It’s the same as voluntary manslaughter. I’m lucky they didn’t throw those charges at me. ‘Explosive devices with intent which caused bodily harm’ implies malice and aforethought. Premeditation. First degree murder. Second degree is acting without premeditation but with a depraved indifference to human life. That would be pretty damn hard to disprove if I did, in fact, set the bombs that killed those people. Pleading down to manslaughter means there was no premeditation or aforethought. More like a crime of passion. Good thing I paid attention to that first week of law school.
“Gabe?”
“I’m here. Just thinking I’m lucky they didn’t add any counts of murder to the charges.”
“Because they know it’s bullshit. They don’t have solid evidence to convict you of the explosives, let alone evidence to prove murder. They want you to be guilty so they can get the good press for putting away aCosa Nostramember. If Sinead's as good as she looks on paper, you’ll be free by the end of the week.”
“It’s Thursday.”
“I know. She’s gotta be filing motions today and tomorrow.”
“Submitting motions on a Friday doesn’t bring good luck.”
“Eh. The judge wants it done and not looming over them for Monday.”
“Always the optimist.”
Carmine snorts.
“Keep me posted. Fina and I are meeting Matteo and Maria for dinner.”
“Double date. How quaint.”
“Fanculo.” Fuck off.
I wish I was fucking. Good Lord. Fucking one track mind.
“Ciao.”
We hang up, and I look out the window until Pauly drops the privacy glass to tell me Santino is pulling up to take him to Uncle Massimo’s place. He and Auntie Nicoletta are going to Luca and Olivia’s to help set up the nursery. I stay in the back where it’s easier to see until Sinead texts me to say she’s almost done. I move to the driver’s seat and pull into the underground garage. I take the elevator up to her floor. Immediately, flash bulbs go off and mics are stuck in front of me.
“Mr. Scotto, in which prison are you spending life without parole?”
What the fuck?
I don’t look at any of them, instead searching for Sinead. She has a swarm of reporters around her, too. She’s looking toward the elevator, and I see her relief when she spots me. I say nothing, just walking straight off the elevator and making other people move for me. No one wants me bulldozing through them. I don’t have to tell Sinead to say nothing, either. We turn back to the elevator, and now all the reporters hurry to get in front of us. There’s a glass case next to the window, and I can see her expression. She’s as stoic as I am. When three reporters try to step in with us, she stands in front of me.
“Come any closer to my client, and I will file a claim of intrusion. You are physically invading my client’s private affairs. He is not a public figure. Further, I will file claims of menacing in the third degree for myself. I am in reasonable fear of you inflicting bodily harm. Touch me with that mic, and I’ll file a claim for assault. Back up.”
The three reporters step away, but it doesn’t stop them from shoving their mics toward us. Sinead crosses her arms. I wish I could see her face because the three assholes take a few more steps back.
