The Mayor of Lexington Avenue (37 page)

Jack had a master plan to help ensure a successful outcome. He knew the grand jurors would want to give both Clay Evans and Wesley Brume the opportunity to appear before them and tell their story. He also knew that once they were subpoenaed, Evans would call the governor, and there was always the chance that Bob Richards would fire Jack on the spot. Although he had some evidence to persuade the governor not to take such a drastic course of action, he had to allow for that possibility. Part of his plan was simply to finish his case before either Evans or Brume received their subpoena. Then, even if he was fired, the grand jury would already have the evidence they needed to issue an indictment.

The other part of his plan was to deal with the governor directly. He had Maria call and make an appointment for him to see Bob Richards on Wednesday morning at ten o’clock. He then made arrangements with the sheriff’s office to have Clay Evans served with his subpoena before Wesley Brume, on Wednesday morning at 9:30.

Clay Evans called the best criminal lawyer he knew when he received his subpoena. Then he picked up the phone and called Bob Richards. He knew the governor a little from social functions and such, but the two men were not close and Evans wasted no time letting Bob Richards know this was not a social call.

“Do you know what that crazy son-of-a-bitch you appointed state attorney is trying to do?”

“You mean Jack Tobin?”

“Who else? He’s convened a grand jury down there in Cobb County and he’s trying to indict me for the murder of that Kelly kid who was executed.”

Bob Richards couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re kidding me.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding? This guy has gone off the reservation, Bob, and he’s your problem.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Well, you better believe it. And you better do something fast. You know that grand juries are putty in the hands of prosecutors. You’d better fire that son-of-a-bitch before they bring back an indictment or all hell’s gonna break loose.”

“Calm down, Clay. I’ll take care of this. As we speak, he’s sitting in my waiting room. I’ll fire him right now and call you back. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“You better.”

Bob Richards was in a rage when he hung up the phone. He didn’t need a federal judge breathing down his neck. He also knew something like this was going to be a major, major news event. He had to try to squelch it before it took on a life of its own. He picked up the phone and yelled at his secretary to bring Jack Tobin into his office immediately.

Jack walked into Bob Richards’s office with a smile on his face. He could tell by the governor’s expression that he had received the bad news. His casual smile caused the usually well-controlled politician to explode.

“You son-of-a-bitch! You set me up! You’ve been planning this thing all along, haven’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And now you stroll in here with that shit-eating grin on your face. What the fuck are you here for? You know I’m going to fire you, don’t you? Did you really believe in your wildest dreams that I would let you prosecute this case? You’re fucking crazy.”

Jack just stood there listening. He’d expected this—the outrage, the indignation. It was going to make what he was about to do that much sweeter.

“Let’s take a walk, Bob.”

“What for?”

“It’s a little stuffy in here.”

“I don’t want to walk anywhere with you.”

“I think you do. I think you want to hear what I have to say before you do anything rash.”

Jack’s statement made Bob Richards pause. He was angry,
almost
out of control, but Jack was right. He
never
wanted to do anything to hurt his political career. He didn’t know what Jack was up to, but he had to listen.

“Let’s go to the garden,” he snapped, walking past Jack and out of the office at a clip.

When they were safely in the garden, Richards turned to Jack. “So what do you have to say for yourself before I fire you?” Again, he didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done? You’re trying to indict a sitting federal judge for murder. Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe, but you’re not going to do anything about it.”

“Is that some kind of a threat, Jack?”

“That’s exactly what it is, Governor. I’m glad you can see that.”

“And what do you have to threaten me with?” Richards had obviously played this game before. He wanted to see Jack’s cards.

Jack took a small tape recorder out of his pocket and turned it on. Bob Richards heard his own voice on a telephone tape recorder telling Jack at one point that he thought Rudy was innocent and, in the next moment, that he couldn’t do anything about it for political reasons. Richards already knew about Geronimo Cruz’s confession because Jack had sent him and every judge on the Florida Supreme Court a videotape of it, along with the DNA test results. He immediately put two and two together. If the public found out that the State of Florida had killed an innocent man and that he, the governor, had believed that man to be innocent but had refused to act for political reasons, he was finished.

Richards came out swinging.

“That’s an illegal tape recording of a telephone conversation and you’re trying to blackmail me.”

Jack just smiled. “Well, you’re wrong and you’re right, Bob. You’re wrong about our telephone conversation being illegal. My tape machine came on before I picked the telephone up. As a matter of fact, you were speaking to the recorder when I cut in. You’re not going to be able to claim that the telephone conversation was surreptitiously recorded. You’re right, however, that this is blackmail, because if you attempt to fire me, I’m going to send copies of this tape to every news station in America. This will be national news, Bob. Everyone will be shocked that a governor used a death sentence for political purposes, and you will be a pariah.”

The governor’s demeanor turned on a dime. His anger faded like a light on a dimmer switch.

“Why are you doing this, Jack? I thought we were friends. I went out of my way to put you in this job.”

“You went out of shit, Bob. You gave me this job because I know some people who can help you get to the next level. This job was all about politics and we both know it, so spare me the bullshit. And don’t you dare call me your friend. Rudy Kelly was my friend. His father, Mike, was the best friend I ever had. I pleaded with you. I begged you to spare this young man’s life and you blew me off. Don’t you ever call me your friend.”

“I don’t know what to do. I just got off the phone with Clay Evans. He wants me to fire you and I told him I would.”

“Well, call him back and tell him you’re going to let the judicial process work. Tell him you’re sure he will be vindicated. Then do what you did to me—hang up.”

“What about the press? This is going to be a huge story.”

“It certainly is. You tell the press the same thing. Stick that strong jaw of yours out and tell them that you’re not going to interfere with the judicial process. Tell them that this nation is based on laws, not men—that it’s a matter of principle. Personally you might be appalled at what has transpired, but you cannot interfere. You’re good at that bullshit, Bob.”

Richards missed the sarcasm in Jack’s voice. “You think it will work?”

“Absolutely. Look, if they get off, you can say the system worked. And if they get convicted, you can say the same thing. This is a win-win situation for you, Bob.”

Richards walked along the garden path for a moment with his right hand rubbing at his chin. He suddenly stopped and turned to Jack. “What about the tape?”

“I’ll give it to you when the case is over—completely, appeals and everything.”

“Even if you lose?”

“Even if I lose.”

“What assurances do I have?”

“That’s the rub, Bob. You have to trust me and I know it’s hard for people like you to trust anybody.”

“What choice do I have?”

“None if you want to stay in politics.”

The governor’s shoulders slumped as he turned and walked away from Jack. He was beaten and they both knew it. “All right, Jack, it’s a deal. But don’t fuck me.”

“Don’t worry, Bob. It’s not you I’m after.”

Forty–two

The rumor in Miami was that Jimmy DiCarlo was a made man, and Jimmy did nothing to dispel that rumor. He was a criminal defense lawyer who specialized in drug trafficking cases, and his clientele included a number of big-name mobsters. Truth be told, Jimmy was Irish. His mother divorced his father, Joseph Hannigan, when Jimmy was four. Two years later, she married Giovanni DiCarlo, or Joe as everybody called him, a Brooklyn carpenter, who adopted Jimmy when the boy was ten.

In Jimmy’s world, truth was a combination of perception, manipulation, intimidation and whatever else was needed to get the story told the right way. If people wanted to think he was a made man, that was fine. It helped in his work. Prosecutors who weren’t crusaders, who just wanted to put in their time until private practice beckoned, did not want to play games with a man as connected as Jimmy. They accepted his version of the truth whenever possible, and consequently Jimmy’s clients spent very little time in jail. If necessary, Jimmy wasn’t above delivering a satchel full of cash to an undisclosed location to get the deal done. After all, there was truth, and then there was truth with money sprinkled on top.

Jimmy came to Miami on a football scholarship, although he never played a minute in an actual game. He was a big man, standing six foot four in his bare feet. In his “playing” days, he weighed in at two fifty-five, a defensive tackle who didn’t have the speed—or the heart, for that matter—to break into the starting lineup. Still, his office was littered with football paraphernalia from his “playing” days. Anyone walking in off the street would have thought Jimmy had been the star of the team. It was all a matter of perception.

These days, Jimmy was a high-rolling bachelor who hit the clubs a few nights a week and feasted regularly on filet mignon and other assorted delicacies. Although he still appeared muscular, Jimmy’s weight had ballooned well past the three hundred mark. In order to maintain a youthful, virile appearance, he wore a corset to shift his belly more towards his chest, dyed his thick hair jet-black and kept it gelled and combed straight back. When he was decked out in one of his many black Armani suits, adorned with gold tie clip, gold cuff links and gold Rolex, his head protruding from a stiff white collar, Jimmy commanded attention. He looked tough; he looked successful. He also looked like he was about to explode at any minute.

Jimmy had appeared in Clay Evans’s courtroom many times, and Judge Evans had been impressed at how he handled himself. Jimmy had a thick, strong voice—one you could not turn away from. When he was standing in front of a jury, or over a witness,
he
was always the center of attention. It was hard not to believe him because he was so forceful in his delivery.

There were whispers around the federal courthouse in Miami that some of Jimmy DiCarlo’s satchels of cash eventually made their way into Clay Evans’s pockets. But those whispers were usually made at a late hour after many drinks, when false courage helped a man say what he wouldn’t otherwise. Nobody in his right mind would utter those words in the light of day for fear that Jimmy might find out.

Although he’d handled a few murder trials, they weren’t Jimmy’s strong suit. That didn’t matter to Clay Evans. Jimmy was strong, smart, and sharp on his feet, and he would do anything necessary to win a case. He was the man Clay Evans wanted to represent him
and
Wesley Brume.

Late Wednesday night after he returned from his visit to Tallahassee, Jack received a phone call.

“Hello?”

“You’re about to make me a rich man and I just wanted to call and thank you.”

Jack had an unlisted phone number and he knew just about everybody who called him at home. But he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end.

“Who is this?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the voice oozed, sarcastically. “I forgot to identify myself. This is Jimmy DiCarlo.”

Jack knew who he was but decided to play along.

“Jimmy DiCarlo, Jimmy DiCarlo. . . . I knew a lawyer in Miami by that name.”

“One and the same.”

“And what can I do for you this evening, Jimmy?”

“Like I said, I’m just calling to thank you because you’re about to make me a rich man.”

“I am?”

“You most certainly are. Once you indict my clients for murder and we get the case dismissed, I’m going to own you. Is it true you’re worth upwards of twenty million dollars?”

Jack ignored the question. “A grand jury is about to indict your clients, Jimmy, not me. Congrats on getting the job, though. It’s certainly a step up from those drug dealers.”

Jack could tell he’d hit a nerve. “Whatever,” Jimmy said dismissively before continuing his taunting. “Indicting a sitting federal judge for murder—this is my wet dream. I’m going to sue your ass for millions.”

“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself, Jimmy? There’s the little matter of a criminal trial in the way of your quest for gold. It’s a good move, though, trying to instill some doubt and fear here at the outset. But you can save your breath. I didn’t earn my money picking daisies. Now, is there another reason you called?” Jack already knew the answer to his question.

“Actually, there is. My clients are not interested in attending that charade you’re putting on before the grand jury. Is there any way we could bypass the formalities of showing up just to take the Fifth?”

Jack knew he could make them show up—just to piss them off—but he wanted to get his indictment as quickly as possible now that everybody knew what he was doing. Jimmy DiCarlo certainly didn’t deserve any favors, calling him late in the evening and threatening him, but this wasn’t about Jimmy. He still wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy, though.

“
How to Win Friends and Influence People
—did you write that book, Jimmy? You call me up at home in the middle of the night, insult me, and then ask for a favor. That’s real smooth. I hope you bring this routine to the courtroom.”