William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

“Not much. I just met him this morning.”

“And you’ve made no attempt to investigate his … background?”

“I haven’t had much time, and the court-appointed-attorney retainer won’t pay for private investigations. Even if it did, I’d investigate the crime, or perhaps the victim. Not my own client.”

“Then you know little about Mr. Moroconi’s past.”

“Next to nothing.”

Holt, a dark man with a bug-eyed expression, looked harshly at Janicek. “I told you this wouldn’t work. He’s a lawyer; he’s not going to divulge anything voluntarily. We should’ve brought him in. Tried a few procedures.”

Travis had thought Holt looked like a class-A moron the first moment he saw him. It was nice to have his judgment confirmed so soon. “A few procedures? Is that a threat?”

Janicek shook his head. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Mr. Byrne will be happy to help us. Won’t you?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“Of course it does. Let me tell you about Alberto Moroconi. A few years ago he was a bagman for the Outfit.”

“The Outfit?”

“You know. The boys. The mob. La Cosa Nostra.”

“Moroconi was with the mob?”

“Right. The Gattuso mob, to be exact.”

“Gattuso?” Travis’s forehead creased. He might not be on the force anymore, but he still followed cases of that magnitude. “I thought you whiteshirts shut down the Gattusos a few years back.”

“We did,” Janicek said proudly, as if he took personal satisfaction in the Bureau’s success. “For the most part, anyway. It was one of the great success stories of the Joint Task Force, a demonstration of what could be achieved when the feds and the locals work together and centralize our databases. Instead of trying to get criminal convictions, we used the asset-forfeiture provisions in the RICO Act. Civil verdicts are much easier to get than criminal convictions; after a prima facie RICO case is made, the burden of proof shifts to the crooks. We seized all property that might have been used or obtained in connection with a crime. Which with these guys was virtually everything they had. When we took away the toys, we cut the heart out of the mob. Pretty soon we had all the informants we needed to shut them down permanently. There were just a few loose threads, a few fish that slipped through the net. Al Moroconi was one of them.”

Travis still couldn’t believe it. “Moroconi used to be with the mob? The real-life, honest-to-God mob ?”

“There’s no such thing as used to be with the mob,” Holt said. “Once you’re in, you’re in for life.”

“Agent Holt would know,” Janicek said. “He’s our resident guru on mob activities. He’s one of those obnoxious pricks who acts like he knows everything—except that Holt actually does.”

“I have an eidetic memory,” Holt said, displaying a touch of pride himself. “I never forget anything. I could tell you about dozens of illegal deals in which Moroconi is believed to have been involved. He was a made man —a member of one of the highest levels of the organization.”

“Then you’re not interested in the pending trial at all,” Travis said, finally catching the drift.

“Correct. It’s Moroconi we want. We’ve been specially sent on this errand by the head of our department. We’ve been looking for Moroconi for years, ever since an informant clued us in to his importance. But he disappeared when the Gattusos went down, and he’s kept a low profile ever since. Until he was stupid enough to get arrested on this rape charge.”

Stupid enough? Travis wondered. Or, as Moroconi suggested, framed. “So you want to talk with my client in connection with this Gattuso case.”

“The Gattuso case is closed,” Janicek said. “History. But we still need to interview him. Just to clear up a few details. A stolen slush fund, a witness who disappeared. That’s all.”

Sure it is. What aren’t you telling me, Janicek? “Are you offering immunity?”

“Well, let’s just say that if— if —he spills something we like, a deal might develop.”

Travis shook his head. “No dice. If you want to negotiate, we do it up front. Otherwise I’m advising my client to remain silent.”

Holt pursed his lips. “We could agree that nothing Moroconi tells us can be used against him in the current trial.”

Hardly a sacrifice, Travis thought, since the current trial looked like a sure conviction already. “Sorry, boys, but I can’t advise my client to relinquish something that might be of value to you unless you reciprocate.”

Janicek glanced at his associate. An unspoken message seemed to pass between them. “I’m afraid we’re not prepared to offer immunity at this time.”

Travis shrugged. “Then I guess we have nothing to discuss.”

He saw Holt grit his teeth and ball up his fists. Janicek reached inside his coat and withdrew a card. “This is my boss’s card, Mr. Byrne. If you change your mind, just dial that number and ask for Special Agent Henderson. See the password at the bottom of the card? That’ll get you through. Call anytime, night or day. We monitor the phone constantly.”

Travis took the card. “I don’t think I’ll be calling.”

“Keep the card anyway. You never know.” He opened the front door, then paused. “There are any number of reasons why a guy like you might need the FBI.”

12

11:30 P.M.

THE MAN IN THE trench coat lit another cigarette. How long did it take to drag out a prisoner, anyway? Christ—as much money as he’d paid to get in here, you’d think he’d be entitled to better service.

He sucked deeply, then exhaled the smoke in perfectly formed little rings. At last one of the guards shuffled up to the conference cell, Moroconi in tow. The guard unlocked the door and shoved Moroconi into the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Remember,” the man in the trench coat said to the guard, “you didn’t see me, you didn’t hear me, and you don’t know who I am.”

“Right, right,” the guard replied. “Forgot all about it.” He rubbed his hands together. “I bet you could prevent any sudden spurts of recollection, too.”

The man in the trench coat blew a stream of smoke toward the guard. “You’ve already been paid.”

“Paid for arranging the meeting. I ain’t had nothin’ for keepin’ quiet.”

“Don’t get greedy, my friend.”

“Hey, a guy like me’s got to look out for himself. They don’t pay us peanuts here and— awrk! —”

The guard emitted a short gurgling noise as the man in the trench coat grabbed him by the throat. “Don’t play games with me, you pissant. If anyone found out about this meeting, you’d be in as much trouble as me. Probably more. I could talk my way out of it. A dumb shit like you would just sit there and take the punches. You’d be fired—you might even face criminal charges. Then you could spend some quality time with these inmates you’ve been so kind to over the years. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

A look of undisguised terror crossed the guard’s face. It was more than just the realization that the man could do everything he threatened. It was the realization that he would.

The man in the trench coat took another drag from his cigarette. “I haven’t even mentioned what I personally would do to you if you talked. So keep your mouth shut, okay?”

“Yes, sir. I will. I promise.” The guard backed away the instant he was released. “Hell, I was just playin’ with you. You know, shootin’ the bull. I wouldn’t tell anyone. You know I wouldn’t.”

The man didn’t look at him.

“Swear to God. I really really—”