Stephen Cannell - King Con

"Joe Rina's been arrested ten times," Victoria shot back.

"Sloppy police work and lies by crooked, police-bought informants are not proof of crimes, Miss Hart… Show me your convictions."

Judge Goldstone turned to Gino Delafore and threw a judicial slow pitch. "Do you think you can decide this case on the merits, Mr. Delafore?" he asked.

"Of course, Your Honor."

The Judge looked at Victoria. "Unless you have something with teeth, I'm going to seat this juror."

"Could I sidebar, Your Honor?" Victoria asked.

Judge Goldstone motioned Gerry and Victoria forward. They clustered around his desk and talked softly, the Prosecution going first:

"I think it's very relevant that this man ran a flower shop in front of which was a notorious bookmaker, who police believe was involved with Joseph Rina. Gino Delafore had to know that was a betting stand and he allowed it to happen right in front of his business because he also had connections with Joseph Rina. If that's not relevant, then I'm reading the wrong law books."

"You can't inject unsubstantiated allegations into voir dire," Gerry said. "It's all innuendo, Vicky. This man ran a florist shop. He has no criminal record. Period… Can we move on, Your Honor?"

"Victoria, I'm going to seat this juror as your second alternate and attach jeopardy. You have seventy-two hours to prepare your case-in-chief. Day after tomorrow, you will either begin opening arguments or I will have to dismiss. Sleep well, touch gloves, and may the best lawyer win," Judge Goldstone grinned.

Yuck yuck, yuck, thought Victoria Hart as Murray Goldstone got up from his leather-backed chair and moved out of the ornate courtroom, black robes billowing. It was only ten A.M. The day was starting off disastrously, but before noon, it got much worse.

The Trenton Haz-Mat team had been called in to probe the elevator shaft. They finally dredged up three sludge-covered bodies, which were rushed to the Coroner's office.

Victoria Hart got the call just before lunch and, fearing the worst, trudged across the mini-mall to the Coroner's office, which was in the basement of the Police Lab. She walked down the concrete stairs, her footsteps unsteady, her hand on the metal banister. Her high heels echoed in a tiled corridor crammed with last night's drug and traffic mistakes. It was a depressing parking lot full of metal gurneys and stalled karmas. She went past the reefer room where the bodies were frozen after the M.E. had opened them up and emptied them of their insides, turning them into cadaverous kayaks. She gagged as she passed the decomp room, where decomposing bodies lay under plastic sheets, waiting for autopsies. She found the Coroner's Assistant, Herman Myer. Herman "the German" was six-five and weighed over three hundred pounds.

"I'm here to make a preliminary I.D. on the three bodies you just pulled out of the shaft at Trenton Towers," she said dully.

"Took us a while to get 'em cleaned up. They're a little graphic…"

"I promise, Herman, I'll try not to vomit on your nice, clean autopsy room," she said morosely.

He nodded and took her into a large forensic operating theater where all three bodies were on separate steel-tray autopsy tables. She reluctantly looked down… Bobby Manning's chest cavity had a hole in it the size of a cantaloupe. Pieces of his rib cage poked through, still glistening black from the oily goop that had filled the bottom of the shaft and hidden the bodies for three days.

"That's Bobby Manning," she said sadly. "He liked Nestle's Crunch. I couldn't find the fucking Nestle's Crunch at the mini-market. They were out." Her voice was shaking.

Herman reached out and put a hand on her arm. She pulled free and went to Tony Corollo. Tony's body was almost unrecognizable. She knew it was him but she couldn't make a positive, legal I.D. There wasn't enough left. His face was gone. She put a hand up to her mouth and fought back a sob. "It's… he's the right size, but I can't tell for sure. You'll have to print him," she said, taking her eyes off the gruesome, faceless mess.

"Already did. Weil get all the prints back in an hour or two. You don't have to do this, Victoria."

She nodded and moved to the table and saw her friend Carol Sesnick. She looked smaller here on the metal table than she had in life. It was as if the wonderful spirit that filled her had somehow made her bigger. She had been shot in the head and the left side of her face was missing. She had bloated badly… but it was her. Victoria reached out and touched the poodle curls, still wet and slimy from the oil. "I'm sorry, girlfriend," she finally managed.

Her phone rang at ten o'clock the following night. The voice on the other end of the line was educated, Eastern, and very precise.

"This is Miss Victoria Hart, yes?" he said slowly. "Your secretary gave me this number."

She had been gathering up the remnants of her case to file in her office. She had armloads of depositions from nurses and doctors, all of whom had witnessed Frank Lemay's injuries, but would never be called upon to testify. The case was over. Jeopardy had attached. After tomorrow, Joe Rina could never be tried on this charge again.

"Who's calling?" she said without interest.

"This is Cedric O'Neal."

"Who?" she asked impatiently.

"I'm Anthony Heywood's criminal attorney."

"Whose criminal attorney?"

"Anthony Heywood's. I believe his street nickname is 'Amp' Heywood, or some such silliness…"

Victoria thought Cedric O'Neal sounded wimpy.

"He told me he called you last night and gave you information about where the bodies of the two police officers and your witness could be found. It's on the evening news that you subsequently found them, yes?" he continued.

Victoria set the folders down, grabbed a yellow legal pad, and wrote down, "Cedric O'Neal." Under that she wrote, "Anthony 'Amp' Heywood."

"Okay, how can I help you, Mr. O'Neal?" she said with interest, and grabbed for her leather-bound copy of the Martindale-Hubbell Law Directory, which listed all the attorneys in the United States… where they went to school, what year they graduated, along with other pertinent facts including any landmark cases they had worked on. It also had employment histories.

In his cheap motel apartment in Coral Gables, Beano Bates paced, carrying the phone. A con man working a phone hustle was known in the trade as a yak. Most yaks paced to keep their energy level up when doing phone freaks. He performed Cedric O'Neal with a perfect clenched-jaw, Eastern-old-school accent. "How can you help me?" he repeated her question. "Well, Miss Hart, I was thinking maybe we could help each other, yes? You see, Mr. Heywood has come to me with some legal problems which, frankly, are a mite troublesome. Mr. Heywood is of the opinion that a former accomplice of his is negotiating with the government to get a reduced sentence on a felony charge of grand larceny."

"What accomplice are we talking about? What case? And what does all this have to do with me?"

"I'm not quite ready to tell you that yet… If you don't mind, I'd like to make my presentation, then you can do all of your spiffies once I'm done."

"My what?" she said, confused.

"Give it your own shine, yes?" he clarified.

What a jerk, she thought.

"Mr. Heywood may have some information that would be useful to you in your prosecution of the Rina case… but Mr. Heywood, instead of giving it away free, is finally being pragmatic and is looking to see what kind of assistance you might be prepared to give to him."

"So this case his accomplice is about to pin on him is in my jurisdiction?"

"Conceivably."

"You're very cagey."

"Well, you know how this stage of a plea bargain can be. We're tiptoeing around issues of prior knowledge, yes? If I might continue…? Mr. Heywood might be willing to give you information about the death of the man this morning's paper is identifying as Demo Williams. In return, he'd like your advocacy in any forth-coming criminal action that your office may be contemplating against him."