Ted would have instant status, money, and work he had once loved. There was the promise of power. And he would once again be a member of the legal fraternity, with recognition and respect.
Silence was a small price to pay for all that. Too small, he thought. What was he missing? He watched as the Judge again checked the time. That was a legitimate tell. He was worried.
“Who are we waiting for?” Ted asked, though he was sure he knew.
The Judge rearranged his face into a simulacrum of ecstatic expectancy before answering. “The first of your new clients.” The facade dropped. “I can’t think what’s keeping him.”
“What happens if I don’t take your offer? Do I get to gracefully bow out? Or do the thugs bury me in the first concrete pilings that get poured?”
“I don’t understand. I’m saving you from prosecution and offering you the opportunity for a meaningful career.”
“No you’re not. This client. It’s Reisner. You want me to handle the LBC account. To keep both father and son happy and out of jail. And to do that, you’ll expect me to be their bagman. I’ll be the one carrying the envelopes full of cash, my stomach too tied in knots to even think about eating the fancy dinners all those bastards are wolfing down around me.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.”
Ted laughed in his face. The Judge was good, but he had not expected Ted to see through the offer so completely—or so quickly. For a brief moment, Ted was able to see the frightened man beneath the mask.
“Fuck you all,” Ted said. They would let him come back to the firm, but there would be no recognition, no respect. He would be nothing more than a gofer, highly paid to leave his conscience at the door. They wanted him because they truly believed that his morality could be bought and that he would be willing to do any unspeakable—and illegal—act for a price. They—the family and the whole damn governing board—would be glad to have a gonif on board. Someone they could order to do the things they considered beneath them.
If he was successful, they’d keep him around as long as he was able to dance fast enough to stay out of jail. And if he failed? If he self-medicated with booze or drugs to assuage his guilt and inadequacy, if he developed ulcers and heart problems, if he screwed up and even once disappointed the client? Then he’d be out. Essentially where he was now, only older and terminally broken. Used up. Without even a shred of self-respect to keep him from stepping off the Jamaica Station platform into the path of the express train to Babylon.
In a brief flash, he saw what Jackie had been offered and felt, for an instant, a touch of empathy. She hadn’t seen it coming. They’d offered a plum assignment, and she had assumed that she’d been chosen for her skills or because she had earned a place at the table—or because of her relation to Jill. They had only wanted her because she was expendable.
And so was Ted.
The Judge was having a hard time staying on point. His eyes kept flashing down to the watch he now held in his lap. “I can’t make you work for Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson, though I cannot imagine why you would turn down such an opportunity. But I cannot protect you if you don’t. Do you understand me, Ted?”
“I do.”
The Judge’s words came faster, spilling over one another. Ted had never seen him like this, and it took him a moment to realize the Judge was afraid. “Other parties argued against offering this proposal. They preferred seeing you in prison or silenced.”
“I said I understand,” Ted spoke ponderously, trying to wring some of the frenzy out of the air.
It wasn’t working. “They will feel threatened if you are in a position that cannot be closely monitored.”
“Well, I think I have a way around that, Your Honor. I could turn myself in.”
“What are you saying?”
“I could claim to be Cheryl’s partner. The feds would believe it. Assistant DA Petronelli already believes it. And I could give them all the names. I’d get less time than Cheryl—maybe none. At the first threat, they’d put me in WITSEC and I’d be untouchable.” It was a wrestler’s trick. When desperate, go limp. They never expect it.
“That would be madness.” The old man’s eyes were suddenly bloodshot. He was giving himself a stroke.
“Maybe so, but it would be ruthlessly efficient. You would all be so busy covering your own asses that no one would even think to come after me. You’d all be pointing the finger at each other. Reisner would fight it on television because that’s what he’s good at, and he might win that way. The lawyers and politicians would be stuck between the police and the Russian mob. It would be fun to watch.”
“What is it you want? Name it.” He was sweating. Beads were sprouting across his forehead. Ted had never imagined he would ever see Judge Cornelius Fitzmaurice break a sweat.
“Mostly to be left in peace.”
“That’s all?”
“No.” Ted almost laughed at the eagerness of the Judge. “I want Lester to get his money.”
“Done.”
“I want to know that Barbara Miller is all right.”
“You will see her.”
“I think I’ll let Lester make that trip.”
“As you wish.”
“I want a green card.”
“Certainly not for yourself.”
The Judge patted his brow with his napkin. He was becoming comfortable again, no longer negotiating with a madman. Ted prepared himself for pushback.
“I’ll get you the name,” Ted said.
“As long as this person is not on a terror watch list, I don’t see any reason why we can’t make this happen.”
“I want your guarantee that McKenzie Zielinski is safe and will remain that way.”
“Her position seems to put her at odds with powerful people,” the Judge said, relaxing back into his seat. He was smiling again, believing that with these small concessions, he had retaken the high ground. “I can’t control them all.”
“I think you may need to be more proactive. If anything happens to her—ever—then there is no deal.”
“That may take some arranging.”
“You’re good at making arrangements.”
He looked away. Processing. Ted could now read him so easily. Finally, he nodded. “What else? What do you want?”
“I want Richie Rubiano’s killer.”