Chapter 10

While her sister and Joey shopped, Fay, using her alias Faye King, spent her day in the courtroom with her pal Vinny. His client was a young man. Okay, let’s call it what it was; the kid was a punk. Anthony Antonelli was Joey’s cousin. Aren’t these people all cousins? Anthony had been arrested for armed robbery.

Fay reviewed Mr. Antonelli’s deposition. However, this was not her case; she was observing - killing time - bonding with her buddy, Vinny, the thug lawyer, learning the ropes. It was late in the afternoon. She was minding her own business, yawning, filing her nails, and thinking about what shoes would look great with the red silk dress she had received from dear sweet Mrs. Joe. Fay had her eye on sexy red shoes, but she kept recalling her mother’s words: “Only whores and children wear red shoes.” Therefore, she was seriously conflicted about the color of the shoes, for the time being.

The victim, Salvador Verona, was on the stand when Fay picked up on something he said that did not sound right to her.

The prosecuting attorney, a green lawyer, “still wet behind the ears,” as they said, was prosecuting a slam-dunk. They had videotapes showing Anthony’s accomplices robbing the store, with a gun no less. Anthony had been driving the get-away car. But what’s the difference whether you’re holdin’ the firearm or you’re holdin’ the steerin’ wheel? The kid was gonna get time, and the prosecutor was so sure she had a lock on this trial she wouldn’t even plea bargain.

Fay could have cared less whether the kid got one year or life. He had, without a doubt, committed the crime. The only mystery remained was how many minutes it would take the jury to deliberate. This might be the only trial where she had not heard the words “I object” uttered even once.

It was Vinny’s turn to ask his gratuitous question of the star witness so the court could get home in time for their dinners, their kids’ soccer games, mariachi band practices, or whatever it was they needed to do. Fay decided she would do what well could be the dumbest thing she had ever done. Premeditated dumbness was not her style, but she could not let this one go by.

So, Fay asked Vinny, “Mind if I cross-examine?” Besides, this would be a good opportunity for her to practice her thug speech patterns…and her new disguise.

“Essere il Mio ospite,” he whispered in Italian. “Be my guest.”

“Grazie.” Fay smiled at Vinny, stood, straightened her skirt, smiled at the prosecutor, smiled at the jury, smiled at the judge, and approached the witness. “Good afternoon, Mr. Verona. How ya doin’?” she asked.

“I’m fine, and you?” the victim replied.

“Couldn’t be betta, Mr. Verona. I’m Faye King; I’m an associate of Mr. Astoria over there,” Fay said, pointing in Vincent’s direction. “I’d like to ask a few questions. Do ya mind?”

The witness nodded. The judge, who had been nodding off all afternoon, frowned.

“Mr. Verona, would ya consider yourself to be a good businessman?” Fay asked.

“I think so,” came the reply.

Fay followed this up by asking, “How long have ya been a business owner, sir?”

“I’ve been at the same location for twenty-three years,” Verona explained.

“Twenty-three years. Have ya ever been robbed before?” Fay inquired.

And then it came.

“I object, Your Honor,” Miss Wet Behind the Ears barked.

What the heck could she be objecting to?

“Miss King,” the sleepy judge said as he motioned for the prosecutor to sit. “Is there going to be a point to your line of questioning?”

Fay turned her head toward His Honor and smiled. “Yes, Your Honor,” she promised.

“Overruled,” the judge barked and returned to his semi-sleeping state.

Fay turned back to the star witness. “Mr. Verona, have ya ever been robbed before?” she repeated.

“Yes,” the victim acknowledged. “Once before.”

“You had said earlier you’re a good businessman. Correct?”

“That’s correct,” Verona asserted.

“I’m sure ya are,” Fay told him. Her foot was beginning to ache. To take the weight from it, she placed her hand on the front rail of the witness stand for balance and lifted her foot. It felt much better. “Do ya keep your own books, sir?”

The witness sat straight up. There seemed to be a look of pride on his face as he responded, “I’ve kept my own books from the day I opened for business.”

“Do ya file your quarterly business taxes on time?” Fay asked next.

“I do,” he boasted. “Never missed a deadline.”

“Do ya prepare your own taxes at the end of the year?” Fay asked.

“I prepare and file my own taxes,” Verona stated.

Fay remarked, “It’s safe to say you have a good handle on the amount of money flowing in and out of your business.”

“I track it to the penny, Ms. King,” the victim asserted.

“Mr. Verona, do ya ring up every sales transaction on your cash register?”

“All sales are accounted for,” Verona confirmed.

“You keep excellent track of your money, and you pay your taxes on time,” Fay stated.

“I object,” the prosecutor barked. “Your Honor, whether Mr. Verona pays his income taxes on time or not is not an issue here.”

“Sustained.” His Honor frowned at Faye but said, “Continue.”

Not a problem. It was always a plus when your opposition restated your question when asking for an objection. In this instance, Fay had not mentioned income taxes. She had been referring to his business taxes.

“How much money did you say was taken by the robbers, Mr. Verona?” Fay asked him.

“Three-thousand-nine-hundred dollars,” Verona informed her.

That was what she thought he had said earlier. If what Anthony had claimed in his deposition was the truth (yet why would a punk ever tell the truth?), Mr. Verona was wrong about the amount taken from him. If so, she had him.

Fay turned her head toward the jury and asked, “Is that the exact amount that was taken from ya, Mr. Verona?”

“Approximately,” he confirmed.

She turned back to face the witness. “Within a few dollars,” Fay said.

“That’s right.”

Fay turned to the judge and placed her weight back on her sore foot, wincing. “Ouch! Your Honor, with the court’s permission, I’d like to test the accuracy of Mr. Verona’s memory that he was robbed of three-thousand-nine-hundred dollars… and change,” she requested.

“You may proceed, Ms. King,” the judge said, with a quizzical across his face. “How do you propose to test the accuracy of the witness’s memory?”

“Your Honor, if it may please the court, exhibit B,” Fay stated. “The cash register allegedly recovered from the trunk of Mr. Antonelli’s car will have a transaction history for the day’s business. The witness states that all sales are rung up on the register.”

The judge watched Fay with curiosity as she talked and limped toward the cash register.

Fay went on, “The subtotal function exhibit B will record actual dollar totals from when Mr. Verona opened for business until the time the cash register was removed from his store.”

“Go ahead, Ms. King.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Fay had no idea how to operate the mechanical contraption. She needed help. Mr. Verona would know how to run the total, but by now, he was looking a little “hot under the collar.” Fay knew he had figured out what she was up to.

“Mr. Verona,” Fay asked him, “from where ya sit, will ya explain to me how to run a subtotal on the register?”

“It’s electronic,” he pointed out.

“We need to plug it in.” Fay looked back at the judge. “Can we find an extension cord or help me move the register close to a wall outlet?”

While a husky bailiff muscled the cash register near a wall outlet, Fay studied the jury. They did not know what she was up to, but she could tell she had aroused their curiosity.

When the bailiff had finished moving and plugging in the cash register, Fay turned to the witness. “Mr. Verona, please instruct me how to run a subtotal on your machine,” Fay requested. She did not want to ask him if, in his opinion, the machine was in good working order or if he knew if it had been damaged in the robbery. She hoped this thought had not occurred to the prosecutor.

“Turn the key to the right, to the ‘subtotal’ position,” Verona instructed her. “Next, press the key marked ‘total.’”

The prosecutor jumped to her feet and was at Fay’s side quicker than a woman on her way to a Neiman-Marcus sale.

Fay followed Mr. Verona’s instructions, and lo and behold, a number flashed on the cash register’s digital display screen.

Fay feigned poor eyesight by drawing her face closer to the display. Who was she kidding? She did have poor vision.

As she squinted, Fay asked the prosecutor, “What’s that say, Ms. Scanlan?”

“Two-thousand-nine-hundred dollars and thirty-nine cents,” Prosecuting Attorney Scanlan replied.

“Two-thousand-nine-hundred dollars and thirty-nine cents,” Fay repeated to the jury. She turned and limped back toward the now pale witness. “I believe you stated ‘approximately’ three-thousand-nine-hundred, Mr. Verona,” she recalled. “Based on what Ms. Scanlan noted, that’s a stretch, sir.”

Fay turned to the judge. “I’ve no other questions, Your Honor,” she told him, then limped back to her chair next to Vinny and sat. Her foot was about to fall off. She pawed through her purse, searching for a painkiller.

Earlier, Fay had heard Sal Verona state that he had been robbed of almost four thousand dollars. She reasoned he had sensed an opportunity to profit from his misfortune by overstating the loss to his insurance carrier. Not thinking anyone would believe a thug over him regarding his loss, he could make a few extra bucks off his insurance company. The guy was as big a crook as the crooks who had robbed him.

Fay poured water from the decanter provided by the court. Popping a painkiller into her mouth, she washed it down and then said to Vinny, in her best thug lawyer English, “You can close. I gotta get over to that Miracle Mile, or Magnificent Mile, or whatever the hell they call that shoppin’ place, and get me some shoes. Wanna meet later for dinner?”

“Yeah. And you can tell me what happened here,” Vinny replied. “You almost had the star witness impeach himself.”

If Fay’s hunch was correct, the jury would be so irritated with Sal Verona for attempting to cheat the IRS and his insurance company that they would vote to acquit. It could happen. Juries had been known to do strange things.

“No. You tell me,” Fay said as she patted him on the shoulder. “You got a ringside seat for the finale.” She leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Wanna bet Anthony walks?”

“Loser buys dinner,” he whispered back. “Besides, I need to tell you about Roman Justine before you leave town.”

“Okay. Deal. I hope your credit card is paid up, baby-cakes. I eat expensive,” Fay told him. “Oh… and, Vinny,” she whispered, glancing at his grease-ball of a client, Anthony, “tell that little shit to wipe that smirk off his face.”

Fay stood and left the courtroom.

****

Virgil Gus finished packing and closed his backpack. He was about to call it a day when he heard his cell phone chiming. He had placed the phone inside his backpack and cursed under his breath while he fumbled with the pack.

Finally, Virgil found the source of his irritation. He clicked on the phone, stating, “Gus.”

The call was from Lonny Boyd. “The missing skiff has been located and secured in the boathouse at Choctaw Bay Marina,” Lonny informed him.

“We’ll be there in fifteen,” Gus told the detective.

Lonny met Sheriff Gus and Deputy Doug in the parking lot at the marina. Together, the three men proceeded to the boathouse. The manager met them at the entrance.

On spotting the skiff, Virgil said to his deputy, “We’ll want to get a truck over here to haul the boat back to the county evidence storage compound. And get the crime scene investigators here.”

“Right,” he acknowledged and reached for his radiophone.

Doug completed his calls to the county motor pool and the CSI unit, reporting that everyone concerned had been dispatched.

The marina manager stood aside as the three cops scanned both the skiff’s interior and exterior for any visible evidence. Virgil would leave it to the Crime Scene Investigation Unit to conduct the detailed investigation, exploring the boat for microscopic evidence and latent fingerprints.

****

The shopping district in downtown Chicago was called the Magnificent Mile, not the Miracle Mile. Fay found this out when she told her cab driver that she wanted to go to the Miracle Mile.

He asked her if she was kidding. “Do you want me to take you to Hollywood?” he asked skeptically.

Imagine, the Miracle Mile was in Hollywood! What Fay wanted was located on upper Michigan Avenue and was called the Magnificent Mile, even though it was more than one mile long, due to its large concentration of Chicago landmarks and shops. She believed they called a long mile like that “a country mile.”

But Fay did find those shoes she was looking for at Saks “just slap down a week’s pay, and you’re out the door with the shoes of your dreams” Fifth Avenue.

There were far too many interesting-looking restaurants along the country mile for Fay to pass up. Serious shopping could give one an appetite.

So, she called Vinny. “Get your butt down here,” Fay told him. “I’m hungry, and my foot is so sore it feels like it’s gonna fall off. You got one hour.”

Contrary to her mother’s remembered advice, Fay bought the red shoes.

Fay and Vinny ate at a place called, NoMi, located in Park Hyatt, Chicago. NoMi served upscale French cuisine. The seventh-floor restaurant boasted a view of Michigan Avenue and the lake. Because the evening was warm, they opted to dine on the terrace. According to Vincent, Tony Chi, whoever he was, had designed the entire restaurant, including the one hundred twenty-seat main dining room.

Chef Sandro Gamba had put together an original menu, including sushi/sashimi flown in daily and Carnaroli risotto, Gamba’s signature dish, featuring wild mushrooms, prosciutto, and fresh parsley. Fay believed she would do well as a restaurant critic. She loved to dine out, so this was a real treat for her.

Their waitperson told them that for breakfast, Gamba served a monster meal inspired by those prepared by his grandmother in France: authentic hot chocolate, baguette, fruit tart brioche, and apple compote.

Frickin’ French. Why aren’t they fat like us Americans? Fay wondered.

After dinner, the two thug lawyers planned to meet Joey, Pearce, and Mrs. Stumpanato, thank God, in the adjoining lounge. It featured a wenge wood bar, Bolivian rosewood floors, and backless eel skin stools. Fay did not know what wenge wood was, but she suspected it was not a bar made from mispronounced chinaware. Vincent was kind enough to explain wenge wood was used in African ceremonial masks.

The meal was costly. Fortunately for Fay, the jury had let the little greaseball walk – had acquitted him. So, Vinny had to spring for dinner.

Fay had gotten a punk off the hook, yet she reasoned the smart-assed little jerk would be back in court within the month, which meant he would be “in the joint” by year’s end. Anthony’s acquittal had deferred the inevitable, while at the same time, she had ingratiated herself to the mob.

During the dinner, Vinny handed her an envelope. Fay should have been paying attention but was not. She took the envelope from him, opened it, and looked inside. It contained many crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

She glanced at Vinny. She had learned not to ask questions. “Five large,” Fay stated.

Vinny provided the answer to her unasked question by saying, “Mr. Antonelli, Anthony’s father, sends you his gratitude.”

This was not the time or the place for her to argue the point with him. There were laws - laws she had not yet already broken - forbidding her, a government employee, from accepting cash or a gift for services rendered from anyone, much less a mobster like Mr. Antonelli. Fay smiled as she discreetly slipped the envelope into her purse. What’re another ten years in Leavenworth? She would have to figure out what to do about it later.

“Joey asked me to warn you about Roman Justine,” Vinny said next.

Fay sipped at her wine and then placed the glass back on the table. “One of the nation’s ten wealthiest men and one of the top celebrity magazine’s ten sexiest males…years two thousand and seventeen and two thousand and eighteen…Yale Law…Skull and Bones membership, with ties to the Trilateral Commission and the Bilderbergers,” she reported, relaying all the intel she had gotten on the man. “His middle name is Cassius, after his mother’s father. His mother’s maiden name was Creston. He broke his arm while skiing, age twelve. He is six feet three inches tall. He weighs two hundred and three pounds… brown eyes, bald, scar on his left hand…Armani suits, gray tones preferred…Gucci shoes. He prefers not to wear cologne.” She smiled. “What did I leave out?”

The flame from the flickering table candle twinkled in Vincent’s eyes as he quizzically gazed at her but said nothing.

“What?” Fay asked him.

“Oh… nothing. I was waiting for you to yawn after that dissertation,” he teased.

Fay laughed. “Come on. I have to know this stuff, so enlighten me. What did I leave out?”

“You left out what Joey wanted me to warn you about,” Vinny told her.

“Which was?” Fay prompted.

“That Roman Justine’s sexual behavior would make the Marquis de Sade look like a boy scout.”

Fay leveled her gaze at Vincent, leaning forward on the table on her folded arms. In a deep voice, she said, “Marques de Sade? Le dites.”

“You speak French as well?” he asked, surprised.

“Oui. I studied languages when I was younger. I had visions of becoming a diplomat,” she explained. “Now, tell me about Justine.”

“His sexual interest is varied,” Vinny divulged.

“Yeah?” Fay whispered. “How so?”

“Men, women, bondage, porn, kink, sadism, masochism, rape.” Vinny shifted in his chair. “He’s been negotiating to acquire the severed heads of mass murderers Jeffery Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy.”

“What do you mean? Who cut off their heads? And don’t you dare tell me it was the Queen of Hearts,” Fay exclaimed.

Vinny chuckled. “The feds. It was reasoned that science could determine what made them tick if they analyzed their brains.”

“Oh…yuck, Vincent.” Fay glanced at her dinner plate. “I’m still eating. That’s totally sick,” she protested, spearing her filet minion with her fork. “Roman, the puke, is a headhunter?”

Vinny nodded and watched her saw off a bite-size piece of steak with her steak knife. “I know. The fact remains that Roman Justine is not one to turn your back on. He has an extensive collection of shrunken heads, even a piece of Hitler’s skull. He has several slices of Albert Einstein’s brain.”

Diners sitting at the table to the left of Fay and Vincent craned their necks at the sound of the clank when Fay dropped her knife and fork. Her jaw dropped as she sat back with an incredulous look on her face.

“No…frickin …way!” Fay gasped.

Vinny nodded.

“Where’d he get all this stuff?” Fay asked.

“The little heads came from a tribe in the Amazon. The piece of Hitler’s skull came from his Russian oligarch business pals, and the slice of Al’s brain came from a doctor in New Jersey who keeps the whole brain in his basement,” Vinny explained.

“Justine is a sexual predator as well,” Fay concluded.

“Oh, he likes his hos.”

Fay snickered. “According to what you say about Justine’s sexual preferences, the man has a hard time keeping his hose in his pants.”

Vincent smiled. “No. Not his hose. Hos…as in whores and hookers.”

Fay’s face brightened. “Oh…dem kinda hos. He’s got a craving for the ladies of the evening,” she said.

Vinny nodded. “He takes leuprolide to manage his sex drive. But I think he has learned how to monitor his intake, leaving an edge…bringing him to almost normal.”

“I didn’t know that,” Fay said.

“I know you didn’t know. Hence the warning,” Vinny replied.

“Tell Joey thanks…I guess?”

Vinny went on. “Roman Justine hates women, he hates Joey Stumpanato, and he will despise you as well.” He stated the obvious. “You’re a woman, and you work for Joey. Watch out.”

Fay’s gaze drifted from Vincent’s warm gray eyes downward to her dinner. “Looks like I’m going to have to send my dinner back for a reheat,” she said.

I’m a thug lawyer now.

Needless to say, Vincent and Joey had been blown away by Fay. Later that evening, she overheard Joey tell Vincent that she had kept the kid out of the joint. Every goombah west of Philly would want her to defend them in court now. 

Well, I’ve got one word for them, Fay thought. No-friggin’-way.