David Ellis - The Wrong Man

“Counsel,” he said, wagging a finger, “I told you-”

“This is a total ambush, Your Honor. A total am-”

“Counsel, you do not interrupt the court. You do not.”

I had violated the first rule of Judge Nash’s courtroom. And everyone knows that once you get on his bad side, if you don’t make amends, it only gets worse.

“Your motion is denied. We start the trial December first, as planned. The clerk will call the next-”

“Judge, you can’t do this. If you’ll-”

“Mr. Kolarich, that’s twice you’ve interrupted me. Another word and you’ll join your client in lockup.” The judge paused, as if to dare me to do it. I held my stare on him but didn’t say a word. He couldn’t hold me in contempt for staring.

“The clerk… will call… the next case,” he said.

Deep down in the soul of a defense attorney, the thought that visits him in the dead of night is not that he’ll lose a case, or even that an innocent person will go to prison on his watch. What haunts him more than anything is the fear that he’ll make a mistake, a gross miscalculation that will single-handedly be responsible for the loss of his client’s freedom.

That it will be his fault.

I didn’t care much for the insanity defense in this case. In all likelihood, I wasn’t even going to use it. But at this moment I realized, more than ever, that I was counting on it to give me either a win on Tom’s fitness to stand trial or a continuance, either of which would buy me more time, that Judge Nash would give that to me as a consolation prize after striking the defense. And I’d been wrong. The judge had made a mistake here, in my opinion, but when could you ever be sure a judge would rule correctly?

I looked over at my client. Tom was still staring at the floor, seemingly oblivious to what was taking place, his nervous tics in full swing. He caught my eye for one moment before the guard led him out of the courtroom.

“What does this mean?” Aunt Deidre grabbed me by the arms as the court took up the next case.

“We’ll figure this out,” I assured her, moving her toward the exit. “We’ll figure something out.”

Never had I delivered words with such certainty that I didn’t feel. I had outsmarted myself, failing to account for the unpredictability of a judge, and it wouldn’t be me who would feel the weight of that miscalculation.

Peter Ramini kept his head down as he navigated the restaurant on the west side. Could be that he’d know some of the regulars, and he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He stayed along the bar, avoiding the diners. The smell of espresso hit his nose and caused him physical pain. It had been more than four years now since his diagnosis, and caffeine was absolutely forbidden. He’d tried the decaf espressos and it was like muddy water. It was worse than forbearance.

He managed to avoid any hellos and made his way back to the kitchen. Inside, Donnie was stirring a pot of tomato sauce and chatting up the staff. Jesus, if this guy wasn’t eating, he was cooking.

Donnie caught Ramini’s eye and met him in the corner. It was private enough, and this conversation wasn’t going to take long.

“Always with your hands in your pockets,” said Donnie, sizing Ramini up. “You’re among friends, Petey.”

Ramini frowned. “Anyway,” he said.

“Anyway, I talked to Paulie, like we said.” Notwithstanding the clanking of pots and pans and the shouts among the chefs, Donnie knew the rule. You could never be too careful. He leaned into Ramini as best he could with his girth.

“Take out the lawyer,” he whispered. “And his lady friend. And don’t come back with more problems.” Donnie cupped his hands over Ramini’s cheeks. “His words, not mine, Petey.”

Ramini nodded. His stomach did a flip. But it was the right call. There was nothing more to discuss. He left the restaurant the same way he came.

Randall Manning was seated in the same conference room where his lawyer Bruce McCabe met with Jason Kolarich last week. Manning was dressed in a charcoal suit and a bright yellow tie. He checked his watch. It was almost nine in the morning. He had many things to do in the city today.

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. He used to love that weekend, the food, the football, most of all the family time. But that was over now. Things were different. Now he dreaded the day.

Jason Kolarich walked into the office a few minutes after nine. He was big. Well over six feet and stocky. An athlete, presumably. And more than that. Edgy. Like he almost didn’t belong in a suit. Like you wouldn’t want to face him in a dark alley, much less a courtroom.

They shook hands. A good, strong grip. Solid on eye contact. But he revealed very little in his face. Certainly no hint of warmth. He probably intimidated a lot of people. But not Manning. That switch had already been flipped. Nothing, at this point, could scare him.

As Kolarich took his seat, he pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket. “This is a subpoena for you to testify in court,” he said. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to serve it yet.”

Manning didn’t respond. But it was a nice opening move by Kolarich. Reminding everyone of his leverage. Play nice, or I haul you into court. This Kolarich could be a problem.

“It’s your dime,” said Manning. He looked over at Bruce McCabe, who had a pen poised over a lined yellow notepad.

“You married, Mr. Manning?”

“I’m a widower, Mr. Kolarich. As are you.”

In his peripheral vision, Manning detected a frown from Bruce McCabe. Manning knew better. It was pure ego, a power game, letting Kolarich know that they were looking at him, just as he was at them. Manning knew better. But he couldn’t help himself.

Kolarich, however, revealed nothing. “Glo-Max fertilizer,” he said. “Did Global Harvest sell Glo-Max 2. 0 fertilizer to a company called Summerset Farms?”

“We did, I believe.”

“Summerset Farms is wholly owned by Global Harvest, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, we purchased the controlling stock.”

“You purchased all the stock,” said Kolarich.

Manning paused for a moment, as if in thought. “That could be true.”

Kolarich didn’t quibble with the equivocation. Probably because he already knew the answer. And they weren’t in court. Not yet.

“You recall being sued by a company called LabelTek Industries?”

“Yes, I do,” said Manning.

“Do you recall that you were served with written interrogatories by LabelTek’s lawyers?”

Manning opened a hand.

“Written questions,” said Kolarich. “You signed the affidavit answering them.”

“If you say so.”

“One of the questions LabelTek asked was who bought Glo-Max 2. 0 from you. And your answer didn’t include Summerset Farms. I’m wondering why.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Bruce McCabe. “You can’t expect Mr. Manning to remember that kind of detail.”

A brief smile came to Manning. “I don’t remember that.”

“Well coached,” said Kolarich to McCabe. Then, to Manning, he said, “Did you know that Mr. McCabe here is outside counsel to Summerset Farms?”

Manning looked at McCabe. “I may have known that.”

Kolarich sat back in his chair. “Your company owns over twenty-five companies in this state and around the country. Do I have that about right?”

“You do.”

“And of all those companies, Bruce McCabe has been outside counsel only to Global Harvest and Summerset Farms. Is that your understanding?”

So Kolarich had been doing his homework on GHI and its subsidiaries. “Yes,” he said.

“No,” said Kolarich. “There’s one other company. SK Tool and Supply.”