Some of the Donahues were Saints. Patrick didn’t like talking about what they did for a living and gave the same advice as he did for the Badinellis: don’t get involved with them, period.
Santino’s heart skipped, then restarted. “You sure about that?”
“Yup,” Dom affirmed, then took another pull of his coffee. “See that cloud? That cloud hasn’t moved for twenty minutes, man. Maybe it’s like that thing from that movie,Nope. Like a monster or some shit.”
Santino found it hard to believe Vanessa would date a Saint, unless he was lying to her about it or had retired. But once you were a Saint with that giant Celtic cross tattooed onto your back, it was hard to “retire.”
“Okay. What about the other thing?”
Dom knew what he was referring to without him having to spell it out. “All quiet. No news is good news.”
Nodding, Santino finally said, “Thanks, man. I need to get to work.”
“Alright. Hey, let’s hang out next week if you’re not busy.”
Santino twisted his lips at him in a sarcastic grin. “Yeah, sure, can’t wait to hear more good news. Later.”
“Later.”
This time, Dom seemed done. He gave Santino the pound absentmindedly, looking back up at the sky as Santino got behind the wheel of his own car. His stomach was now churning, the sandwich he’d eaten a ball of grease sloshing in the acid. Still agitated at the thought of Vanessa getting serious with not just a regular asshole but a Saint, he went to check the trunk of his car. All was secure. He got behind the wheel, put the car in drive, and took off.
2
IT IS WHAT IT IS
VANESSA
“May I approach the bench, your Honor?”
“Come.” The judge beckoned the man who stood next to Vanessa while she remained seated.
Jason Stone was the lead attorney for this trial which was already in its fourth month. It was a pretty big case for Mancini, Drexler, & Associates, but keeping their ninety-eight percent success rate was looking dire. Jace walked over to Judge Bennett along with Alex Patel, the newly-minted hotshot District Attorney for the Bronx, where the case originated. Patel was all smiles, a shark swimming in the murk of the courtroom who grinned like he was smelling blood.
They conferred in low voices, Judge Bennett’s golden-brown eyes resting on Jace’s handsome face with a slight frown. She’d inherited the case after they’d motioned for a change in venue to try it up here in Westchester versus down in the city. She’d worn the same expression since the first day of trial—unpleasant, like there was a bad odor in her courtroom.
Vanessa knew it wasn’t because of Jace. She knew Judge Bennett and found her typically fair and impartial. It wasn’t even the accusations against their client, which were bad enough. It was the fact that he had been an insufferable dick who seemed to believe rather openly that the law simply didn’t apply to him and had made it clear he didn’t respect her or anyone else.
Beside her, the client sighed heavily and loudly, no doubt bothered by the inconvenience of having to wait while the attorneys and the judge had their discussion, which was turning heated. Vanessa glared at him, then fixed her face. He was an older man, paunchy, with, dry patchy skin and an obvious combover, yet he had the air of someone who believed he was twenty-five and hot.
He rolled his eyes at her and leaned back in his seat, turning to run a lascivious gaze up and down Sandra Park, their clerk, who sat behind them. Sandy’s face reddened even under her pretty bronze complexion, but she kept her features expressionless. Claremore had hit on both of them, repeatedly, but they’d both handled it as well as they could.
While this was going on, Vanessa glanced at the jury. Mostly male, mostly white. Their dream jury for Chuck Claremore, the reason Jace had requested a change of venue from the Bronx to this court, up here in the second-wealthiest county in New York state.
The accused was a real estate developer who’d been steamrolling people in an old South Bronx neighborhood near the Bronx River into selling their homes so he could tear down the houses and build luxury waterfront high-rises in their place. To accomplish this, he’d (allegedly) used every scumbag tactic in the scumbag playbook: bribery, coercion, harassment, solicitation of assault, and finally, arson.
He'd gotten away with it for five years until there was a new sheriff in town, Alex Patel, who was Bronx-born and didn’t play.Claremore couldn’t charm him, bully him, or pay him off, and had finally been charged with felony murder after the death of a squatter in a building that had been set on fire.
One of the residents whose house had been burned down was staring at her fixedly. He was an older man, in his early seventies, who looked like her late father, Robert Sr., might have now with his mahogany complexion and pecan-brown eyes. The look wasn’t hostile, just sad. She averted her gaze.
Looking at those people’s faces who’d been assaulted or lost their homes entirely made her wither inside each day the trial went on.
But this was the job she’d wanted, right?
Jace and Patel went back to their respective seats. Judge Bennett addressed the room.
“As Mr. Patel failed to inform defense counsel of the introduction of a rather important witness in time for them to prepare for cross examination, I’m going to grant Mr. Stone’s motion for a continuance. Mr. Patel, you knew better than to try to slip someone in last minute.”
“Next time, your Honor, I promise,” Patel said, with a curt nod. Despite this technical loss, his smile was still broad, signaling he knew he had them on the ropes.
