Chapter Eight

Campbell

AT SIX IN the morning, New York’s federal court building is a tomb.

There are more security guards present than lawyers, polished dress shoes clicking against even more polished tile as they escort visitors through the metal detector. Ironed black uniforms match the flowing robes worn by the smattering of judges awake at this hour, turning the entire force into well-armed pallbearers for what passes as justice these days.

I step through the gauntlet to meet Sofia, who has an armful of files and the remnants of a coffee cup on top. The label sticking to it is illuminating.

“Four shots of espresso?” I ask.

“Federal paperwork is designed to be a bureaucratic death knell,” she growls. “You’re welcome. We have ten minutes before our summons, so let’s find a room to talk in before the bailiff calls our number, hm?”

Said room ends up being a boxy cage for jury deliberation, complete with a dozen uncomfortable chairs. Sofia sets her stack down on the empty table; the paper hits like a full-faced slap.

“What exactly do we need to talk about?” I ask.

“I just want to make sure you’re prepared for the worst. And if anything has come to mind about how they manufactured the evidence against you, I’m all ears.”

Only one possibility has come to mind. “After Cesare hit my car outside your house, I was unconscious for at least twenty minutes. They had access to my bare hands, cuffed me to the wheel. Someone could have taken a fingerprint.”

She sighs deep in her chest. “Which brings us back to a mole in the family. Someone stupid enough to sell you out at the price of everyone else.”

“Revenge isn’t logical.” If it were, I would have a lot less business. “You know that.”

“But self-preservation usually wins out in the trade,” Sofia insists. “Why set a fire and kill Giovanna if they already knew you were going to kill Miceli? It splashes blame on the Galici family for no benefit.”

Maybe we’re looking at this backward. “Did someone want Giovanna dead, and Miceli was the collateral damage?”

After a moment of consideration, Sofia shakes her head. “She wasn’t anybody, Campbell. Not even a figurehead. It’s as likely as anything else, but that doesn’t mean much.”

I shrug. “Just trying to keep an open mind.”

“Which I appreciate, but right now I just need you looking clean-cut and polite. Don’t let the prosecutor bait you, don’t glower at the judge. Keita has been on the bench almost twenty years, and she’s a huge stickler for protocol. They like pulling her for RICO cases. You know, the old ‘trapping Capone for tax evasion’ trick.”

“Anything else I should know about her?”

“Letter of the law is what sells arguments in her courtroom. I might have to hang you out to dry emotionally, but in the long term, it’s how we’ll get our way.” Sofia checks the clock above our head, then picks her files back up. “Are you ready? Because if this falls out like how I expect, you won’t be seeing Justine for a while.”

Or anyone, really. “Let’s do this.”

The honorable Nadine Keita is already seated when we enter the courtroom. She gives me a once-over through remarkably thick glasses, but the weight behind dark brown eyes is no less keen for it. I put her at mid-sixties from the deep threads of gray winding through her locs, pulled back in a tight, heavy crown. Whatever Keita observes on our side earns a faint nod before she takes her gavel in hand. “Good morning.”

Sofia echoes the greeting with “Good morning, Your Honor,” formal as a funeral. If my life wasn’t on the line, I would tease her for the theater.

“I see the defense is in order,” Keita says. “Is everyone present for the prosecution?”

A man on the right stands up. He’s an all-American showcase, blond and blue-eyed, a polished flag pin locked to his lapel. His azure tie and linen suit might be deference to the current administration, although there’s no way to be sure. Democrats make their careers by licking the boots of law enforcement nearly as often as Republicans.

“Nicholas Hart, Assistant US Attorney. I’m taking point for the government this morning, Judge.”

Three other lawyers make up Hart’s posse, although he’s the oldest of the group at the far end of forty. The trio sits prepared with notebooks and pens in hand, eager as students, like this is a game instead of the place where people can lose their freedom on a technicality.

Sofia leans over to whisper in my ear, “Nick loves convicting gangsters. We’ve crossed paths a few times.”

“Is that going to be a problem?” I ask.

“He has an actual moral compass, which I do classify as a problem. But he would never falsify evidence on purpose. Which puts the ball back in the FBI’s court.”

Interesting. I wonder who’s been feeding Amato his intel. “Good to know.”

Keita puts her gavel down with one firm snap. “Court is now in session. Would the defendant please stand?”

I do, and she adjusts her glasses before opening the file on top of her desk.

“Your counsel spoke to me earlier to flag an amendment in name. Campbell, correct?”

At least I won’t be spending the entire day tasting blood in the back of my mouth. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“So noted. It can’t be reflected on official documentation, but it will be respected in my courtroom.” Keita flips to the next page. “You are being charged with the first-degree murder of Miceli La Rosa and Giovanna La Rosa. Do you understand the meaning of these charges?”

The mechanism, yes. The meaning—well, Sofia and I need to figure that out fast. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“You are also being charged with aggravated arson in the first degree. Do you understand the meaning of that charge?” When I agree again, her eyes fall on Sofia. “And I assume this is your attorney.”

She stands up beside me, wearing a polite but even smile. “Sofia Cattaneo for the defense, Your Honor.”

“Objection!” Hart calls out. “Ms. Cattaneo can’t represent a client in this case, Judge. She has a conflict of interest.”

Here we go.

A frown pulls deep lines down both sides of Judge Keita’s mouth. “What conflict of interest, Mr. Hart? I need specifics.”

“We believe the defendant was working on behalf of the Galici crime syndicate, and facilitated both murders for their benefit. Ms. Cattaneo has a long-standing association with the Galici family.”

If mutual murder attempts count as associating, I suppose.

“Objection!” Sofia immediately counters. “I do not, Judge. Being Italian does not mean I’m a member of the Mafia.”

Hart sputters, but Keita answers first: “Don’t be cheeky, Ms. Cattaneo. I assume the federal government has evidence of this claim?”

“Her father, Alessandro Cattaneo, was the subject of a ten-year investigation by the Bureau for money laundering, assault, and blackmail. He worked directly with the Five Families, including members from the Galici group.”

“My father was never arrested or charged with a single crime,” Sofia notes. Her voice holds clear and still as glass—you would never know how much she loved him. “He was, however, shot to death by the NYPD in a gross miscarriage of justice. I had to file nine complaints against the department for excessive force.”

Hard to arrest a corpse. Although if any department might try, New York’s would be sure to top the list.

Judge Keita’s frown deepens. “Is that true, Mr. Hart?”

He scoffs. “Yes, but—”

“And has Ms. Cattaneo ever been charged by the government with a felony related to organized crime or associated activities?”

A muscle along Hart’s jaw pops. “No, Your Honor.”

“Then let this be a lesson to you about how my courtroom works. I expect evidence, not assumptions. I won’t deprive someone of their representation because they happen to share a neighborhood or family name with criminals. Most of us do. Either arrest Ms. Cattaneo or drop the subject.” The gavel strikes again. “Motion denied. Let’s move on to bail.”

“We want the defendant remanded,” Hart answers. “With the severity of these crimes, the flight risk is incredible.”

Sofia counters in her next breath. “My client is a veteran of the United States military with a dedicated record of service. We can surrender their passport, Judge, but there’s no justification for putting Campbell in prison.”

One of the back-bench lawyers hands Hart a file. He flips it open and holds it up for Keita to see.

“The FBI did a full forensic investigation on their financials. Millions of dollars, stashed all over the world. They don’t need a passport to flee the US.”

“That money is invested in international charities, Judge,” Sofia argues. “Not stocks to cash out or property to escape to.”

“A lot of suicide prevention, I noticed,” Hart says, then adds under his breath, “Kind of ironic, considering.”

If this man is the government’s idea of a moral compass, it explains a lot.

“Your Honor!” Sofia snaps.

Keita raises a brow. “Yes?”

“Objection,” she grits through her teeth.

“Overruled. Both of you can drop the moral outrage. Although, I will thank you not to joke about such things, prosecutor. If it happens twice, I’ll put you in contempt.” The judge reaches a hand toward Hart. “Let me see the forensics.”

She takes her time reading, drawing a finger over every line before scouring the next page. When Keita finishes with the file, her attention returns to the prosecution’s side.

“What is Siege Holdings and Logistics?” the judge asks.

“It’s a private military contractor,” Hart answers. “The defendant spent years as a mercenary. A trained killer.”

Sofia gets to her feet. “Objection! Expertise isn’t evidence. It’s the government’s own argument that Miceli La Rosa and his wife died in a fire, not from a firearm.”

“Sustained. You’re not testifying, Mr. Hart. Stick to the facts.” Keita closes the manila folder and offers it back; one of Hart’s lackeys nearly lunges from the aisle to grab the evidence before brown eyes seek mine. “Campbell, you’ve done well for yourself. So well that you’re in the realm of private plane money. A passport wouldn’t matter. Do you have relatives in the United States who could vouch for your whereabouts? Parents? Children?”

“No, Judge.”

She nods—short, decisive. “Are you married? Engaged?”

For one selfish instant, I wish I had used our trip as an excuse to propose to Justine. Even if she had refused, she would know I loved her enough to make the claim for life. But I didn’t want to hurt her, even by accident. She’s endured enough.

I shake my head. “No, Your Honor.”

“The prosecution’s case is paper thin,” Sofia chimes in. “A single fingerprint on a can of gasoline says nothing about motive, opportunity, or intent. They haven’t even provided a full arson analysis to the court.”

“The FBI decided to perform a new analysis after evidence connecting the defendant came to light. It isn’t finished yet, but it will be provided once we’re in discovery.” Hart straightens his shoulders. “We believe the NYPD failed to perform due diligence, and the government would be remiss in providing a flawed report to this court.”

Throwing the locals under the bus is a bold play. Whoever fed my name to Amato probably isn’t a cop, then, which keeps the finger pointed at a Galici mole. Problem is, they’re all so untrustworthy, that doesn’t narrow down my options.

Keita is silent with contemplation for a moment, writing a few lines in her own notepad on the bench. When she finishes, the click of the pen on wood registers between my ears even louder than the gavel.

“I want to be clear that I will hold the federal government to the highest evidentiary standards in this case. Presumed allegiance to criminal organizations has been used to enhance sentencing along lines of deep inequity, and attempting to shock and awe this court with images of violence will not be tolerated.” She glowers at Hart, then turns her attention to me. “But I can’t risk you making a fool of the district attorney’s office either. You’re independently wealthy and hold no substantial ties to the United States outside of prior military service. Much as I’d like to believe otherwise, past loyalties are not always indicative of future ones.”

She brings her gavel down.

“The defendant is remanded to the custody of the federal justice system until a trial date is set. Bail is denied.”

I bite my tongue. Sofia is unmoved, but she’s been ready for this since the second we walked into the room.

“Judge, I move for my client to be assigned to protective custody. The government’s assertion that my client is in service to the Galici crime family exposes them to substantial, imminent physical harm.”

Clever wordplay. My violence is what she’s worried about.

Keita frowns. “How so?”

“Because they’re not sworn to the Mafia. You know as well as I do that false claims of membership are punished by death. We’ll have an entirely different murder trial on our hands if Campbell is put into genpop.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?” Hart mutters.

“Where would they be housed?” Sofia presses, “With men or women?”

“The FCI in Albany is mixed.”

Her lips purse, openly dismissive. “Oh, good. Being exposed to both populations is even more of a threat, as far as I see it.”

“Ms. Cattaneo, you’ve made your point,” Keita says. “And I agree. The defendant is assigned to protective custody and will not be removed from a PC unit until trial. Is that understood, Mr. Hart?”

He nods sharply. “Yes, Judge. Absolutely.”

“Then we’re dismissed.” One more snap of the gavel seals my fate. “Bailiff, if you would.”

Sofia raises a hand. “Can I have a minute with my client first, Your Honor?”

“I’ll give you two, but that’s all,” Keita notes, rising from her seat.

Once the room is empty, Sofia puts a hand on my arm. She doesn’t go out of her way to touch me often; I can’t remember the last time it happened that wasn’t inadvertent.

“Are we good?” Sofia asks.

“I’m fine.” We planned for this. Now that the moment is here, it looks like a clear white line cutting through the world in front of me. “I miss Justine.”

Her smile is wry and sad. “I know. But have faith in me, and we’ll make it to the other side together.”

I avoid relying on other people. Designing an out for every situation at hand is my oldest survival mechanism. But now I have to trust in the deepest, most intimate sense, that Sofia and Justine can resolve this without me lifting a finger.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” I joke.

A sharp, empty laugh escapes Sofia’s lips. “Don’t worry, Campbell. I’ll rip their throats out, just for you.”