Flight for Justice: A Legal Thriller

By Nino Lama

FLIGHT FOR JUSTICE is a one-of-a-kind legal thriller. Vince DiMarco, a middle-aged divorced criminal defense attorney, practices in partnership with his son, Mike. They turn to Vinces father, eighty-two-year-old Santinothe family patriarch, a retired defense lawyerfor wisdom and advice. While Santino and Mike are living in peace, Vince is in turmoil, living at a lower standard than ever before because of his recent divorce. His long-lost first love, Renee, reappears after twenty-seven years, only to be involved in murder, arson, and drug conspiracy. Its up to Vince, Mike, and Santino to save her, and just as importantlyas it turns outto save their own lives as they unravel a multistate drug cartel.

While the villain flies about the country in a gleaming white jet, Vince and Mike use their vintage Beechcraft to cover the thousands of miles to which the case takes themnot without near disaster. Vinces love for Renee is rekindled during the defense, despite her involvement with the antagonist Carl, head of the cartel. Conflicts arise throughout the novel between Vince, Mike, and Santino as they try, but fail, to maintain the boundaries between business and family, love and the law.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 20, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469113302

Nino Lama

Nino Lama is a trial attorney practicing in partnership with his son, Ciano, in Ithaca, New York.

Book preview

FLIGHT FOR JUSTICE

A Legal Thriller

NINO LAMA

Copyright © 2005, 2007 by Nino Lama.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

27303

Contents

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty-one

chapter twenty-two

chapter twenty-three

chapter twenty-four

chapter twenty-five

chapter twenty-six

chapter twenty-seven

chapter twenty-eight

chapter twenty-nine

chapter thirty

chapter thirty-one

chapter thirty-two

chapter thirty-three

chapter thirty-four

chapter thirty-five

chapter thirty-six

chapter thirty-seven

chapter thirty-eight

chapter thirty-nine

chapter forty

chapter forty-one

chapter forty-two

chapter forty-three

chapter forty-four

chapter forty-five

chapter forty-six

chapter forty-seven

chapter forty-eight

chapter forty-nine

chapter fifty

chapter fifty-one

chapter fifty-two

chapter fifty-three

This book is lovingly dedicated to my father and mother, who instilled in me the need to stand strong in the face of all adversity with dignity, honor, and forthrightness, and to never stop fighting for what is right.

It is also dedicated to the thousands of lawyers, both defense and prosecution, who struggle daily to the extent of their abilities to uphold our way of freedom and justice, often at great personal sacrifice to themselves and their own families.

This book is dedicated to the great judges of our system, from town and village to the Supreme Court of the United States, who are the guardian angels of our safety and our rights as set forth in the Constitution of the United States of America and our fifty great states.

Finally, this book is dedicated to my sons, Ciano, Mike, Jadon and Bobby, the real reasons I do anything.

chapter one

I don’t like waking up to this; I’m not used to it—the loneliness, the cheap bed, or the laminated particleboard furniture that I bought just to have something in this vanilla-box apartment. I’ve never lived like this before. I’ve never felt this alone.

Santino was already a big-shot lawyer when I was born, and he and Angie raised me with the rich, golden, sweet smell of olive oil, garlic, tomatoes, and basil in the old Victorian homestead with its opulent dark woods, stained-glass windows, vaulted ceilings, and spiral staircase. It’s all I ever knew besides my dorm room in college, which was just a place to crash at two or three in the morning. Even the townhouse I shared with two other guys in law school had more dignity than this.

But I’m looking at fifty now—the last third of my life, as far as I know—and I can’t get used to living like this.

Santino’s told me a hundred times that life has no plateaus. OK, I can understand my father saying that. He was a climber. Came over from Italy with Mom just after the war, a starving young attorney with a heavy accent that nobody would hire, put himself through Cornell law school, but still nobody would hire a Wop, even one with an LLM from an Ivy League. So he hung a shingle and made it on his own—accent and all.

I thought I’d reached a plateau before everything came crashing down, but if there aren’t any plateaus in life, then what? To even talk about life and plateaus means life must be some kind of climb, and a plateau would be a place to stop, rest, enjoy the view once in a while. But if there aren’t any places to stop and take a breather, then life has to be an incessant climb. And if that’s what it is, then there must at least be a pinnacle, a peak. And then there’d have to be a downside after that, a long, or maybe a short, slide to the end. I figure that’s where I am.

I followed in my father’s footsteps, like any good Italian son is supposed to do, married an Italian-American girl, and had a son who’s following in my footsteps. He married an Armenian-American, but Santino and Angie figured that was close enough. Just as my boy, Mike, and his little bride, Cindy, moved into their new two-story colonial, my life exploded, and here I am in this place alone—the vanilla box.

I never saw it coming—never. You’d think being a lawyer, I would’ve known better… realized the danger… maybe done something to avert it to mitigate the damage. But no, I never saw it coming, and when I did, it was too late, too late to do anything but lie down and let it roll over me like a crashing ocean wave.

Now that Mike’s married and settled, we need to talk, Vince.

My mouth went dry the minute she said it, and I’ll never forget the very time and place she told me she’d had it with me—the kitchen, eleven-thirty at night, after the Allista trial. She said she’d hung on for Mike’s sake. Hung on for Mike’s sake? I asked her how long she’d been holding on, and she said, I don’t know, Vince. I just don’t know. You’re never around. You’ve never been there for me. I don’t know you anymore, and you don’t know who I am. It’s time for me to move on, Vince.

Imagine that. But she sure liked the big house, the cars, the vacations, and the jewelry. And unfortunately, she’s still enjoying all of it. I was the one who had to move on. That’s what I got for representing myself in a divorce, a goddamn criminal defense lawyer who couldn’t defend himself. So that was the end, just like that, after all those years.

I’m awake, but I’m tired and achy from not sleeping again last night, and I’ve been ignoring the alarm clock for so long the buzzer’s getting as hoarse as an old family court judge. I’d worry about being late for work if I weren’t the senior partner of the firm. Still, it bothers Mike.

I kick off the navy blue comforter (I gave up using a top sheet months ago—too complicated) and take in the rich, strong, inviting aroma of the coffee brewing in the kitchenette. I set it last night, so it’s ready and waiting for me. Comforting.

The Captain Dad mug from Annapolis works—go figure. And I’ve got to do something about the stack in the sink; it’s starting to smell like rotten fruit. Maybe I’ll do dishes tonight.

I take my shower, setting it as hot as I can take it—an early-morning massage—get dressed, and get in the car, my 1990 Mercedes, one of the two assets I’d salvaged from the divorce, the other being my 1961 Beechcraft Baron. She didn’t want anything to do with either of them. You can keep your money pits, for all I care, she had said.

The car runs well, but Mike tells me that I smell like stale coffee, oil, and exhaust fumes when I get into the office. He complains about the law books, papers, empty coffee cups, and Hershey’s wrappers littering the backseat and floor. Well, at least the car’s paid for. The plane too.

Twenty minutes later, I walk into the law firm, whisking without a pause the stack of phone messages from the gray plastic holder on Sandy’s desk behind the tall front counter, and continue to my office. Conversation with Sandy usually isn’t a pleasant thing in the morning.

Morning, Sandy, I toss over my shoulder.

Uh-huh, she says, without missing a beat on her computer keyboard.

I close myself in my office, formerly Santino’s, bigger than my living room. No sooner have I sat at my organized chaos desk than the doors burst open, and Mike comes in. The kid looks like a million bucks.

Another new suit? I ask.

Yup. You might wanna consider one yourself. Here’s the witness list for tomorrow, he says, plopping himself in one of the maroon leather wingback chairs facing my desk. I lean back and let out a long sigh that blends with the creaking of my chair as it tilts back to the stop. I pull off my glasses and toss them on the pile of files in front of me and rub my eyes with both hands.

Jesus. Dad, aren’t you getting any sleep?

It shows, huh?

You look like hell.

The kid’s always direct to the point. You got the witness file? I ask.

Yea, right here, he says, pointing to his lap. Only have one left.

That’d be Stacey.

Yup.

I sit up straight and put on my glasses. Stacey… shit. You got the decision on our motions on her?

Mike nods, pulling the judge’s order from the file.

OK, let’s get down there,

I look the kid up and down as we walk toward the cars.

Let’s take your Jeep, Mike. I don’t wanna hear you crying about your new suit getting messed up in my old car.

"It’s not that it’s old, Dad. It’s just such a disaster."

We take the Jeep.

Stacey is the prosecution’s last witness in the case People of the State of New York v. Bradford Townsend, for the murder of Jesse Streeter.

Our client, the defendant Brad, is a third-year SUNY student who got caught up in the middle of a gang hit in a trailer in Owego where he’d gone to sell pot. Otherwise, not a bad kid. The cops nabbed him because the others at the trailer had all IDd him as the killer. The murder weapon, a four-inch stiletto—according to the coroner who’d testified the day before—had never been found, so the only evidence put on by the prosecution had been the testimony of other stragglers who hadn’t escaped the scene before the sheriff’s deputies got there and the cop’s testimony that Brad refused to give any explanation why he was there that night.

Stacey’s testimony is devastating to the defense. She’s delicate, attractive, and emotional—Jesse’s girlfriend—and she’d been there by Jesse’s side as he was stabbed to death. She was the big bang at the end that the DA had counted on for effect, as far as I can tell. But the trial hadn’t gone as smoothly for the prosecution as I’d expected. The testimony of the witnesses had been too easy to impeach; they all admitted being drunk or stoned or both. A lot of them had criminal records themselves. The cops couldn’t come up with a weapon, and there was no fingerprint evidence.

Deliberations last two hours; the bailiff ushers the jurors back to their seats, and the judge asks the foreman, a fifty-year-old plumber, to stand. The foreman hands the bailiff a folded verdict sheet, and the old bailiff walks it to the judge, who reads it and hands it to the court clerk, who stands and faces the jury.

As to the charge of murder in the second degree, how do you find?

Not guilty.

As to the charge of assault with a deadly weapon, how do you find?

Not guilty.

You bastards! a scream comes from the gallery, and I turn, putting myself between Mike and the screamer. Mike gently pushes me back. I’m OK, Dad.

Daddy impulses are hard to fight.

"You motherfucking bastards!" The scream becomes louder, the voice so sharp it echoes around the marble-walled courtroom. I see the deputy sheriff bolting out of the corner of my eye.

Jesse’s father—I figure all of six feet three and 230 pounds—lunges out of his pew and bolts toward the front of the courtroom. His wife grabs his shirt, and he’s dragging her. No, David. Don’t! But he tears away from her.

Two deputies rush to block him, but David swings his right arm, catching the first of them across the neck. The deputy stumbles and falls, hitting his head on the heavy oak rail that separates the gallery from the judge, attorneys, and defendant, with a thud. The second deputy grabs the man’s arm and forces it—twisting it until it snaps—behind his back. The first deputy gets to his feet and launches a punch squarely into the raging father’s face, blood spraying. The man keeps struggling, and I want to yell to him, Stop! Stop! because I know what’s coming next, and it does—a heavy black billy club comes down on his forehead with a crack. I hear gasps in the gallery, and Mike’s got his hand over his mouth. The man falls limply, blood gushing on to the terracotta-tiled floor from his nose and ears.

The bailiff rushes the jury out of the courtroom into the deliberations room behind the judge’s bench, and the judge is pounding his gavel with such force that he splits the mallet from the handle, and it rebounds on to the floor in front of the bench.

Everybody, sit! Quiet! Quiet! Nobody moves, he belts into the microphone.

No matter, the courtroom is in chaos. People are rushing to get a closer look—some gasping, some crying, some just enjoying the show.

*     *     *

While Vince and Mike contended with the scene from the front of the courtroom, Carl, still in his seat in the far left of the room, his legs crossed at the knees, smiling, was amused. He’d watched the trial from the first day of jury selection, being careful not to be noticed, wearing drab tan pants and an off-white long-sleeve shirt—not his usual high-style garb. Brad was one of his—one of his low-level dealers, his first recruit from Binghamton University. Carl hadn’t liked what he’d heard about the DiMarco Law Firm: square shooters, three generations of them, there’d be no dealing with them. He hadn’t had time to put his own lawyer on the case before Brad’s parents retained the DiMarco Firm. No good.

Guilty or not, Brad was dead; getting mixed up in this mess brought things a little too close to Carl, and he didn’t like it. He’d make an example of him.

Vince and Mike gathered up the papers, exhibits, files, and law books on the defense table, filled their trial cases, and sat waiting for the courtroom to calm down. Brad was twisting around in his seat watching, red faced and sweating. He scanned the courtroom looking for his parents but couldn’t spot them. It was the first time he noticed Carl was in the courtroom.

Santino had been there too and was worried about how the outburst and bludgeoning would affect Vince and Mike. Of the two, he worried more about his son, Vince, who was going through a tough time, and Santino knew he was vulnerable. Santino watched Brad and noticed the change in Brad’s face when he saw the man in tan pants in the back of the courtroom; it went from red to white.

The courtroom was filled with cops now. The Binghamton city police had arrived and were quickly ushering everyone out of the courtroom. Paramedics were putting Jesse’s father on a gurney and tending to the deputy’s injuries, putting a brace around his neck. The judge had left the bench, and the jury had already been rushed out of the building through a rear exit.

Carl moved along in line with the others vacating the courtroom, his head down, shaking it like he’d just heard a bad joke.

When Santino made it to the front of the courtroom, he motioned to Vince and Mike, and the officer, recognizing him, let him pass through the gate to his son and grandson. Santino stood between them and put a hand on each of their shoulders. Mike turned. Vince just put his hand atop Santino’s without moving.

A Binghamton cop approached them. Let’s get you guys out of here now. We’ll go out that way, he said, pointing to the door to the left of the judge’s bench.

No. You can take Brad out that way. We’ll leave with the others, Vince said.

Have it your way, Mr. DiMarco, the cop said, as he pointed the way to Brad.

Brad turned to Vince. Thank you, Vince, Mike. You guys did a great job.

It’s OK, Vince said, standing and patting Brad on the back.

Mike shook Brad’s hand; Santino nodded at him, and Brad was escorted out through the back way.

"Allora," Santino said. "Andiamo a mangiare!"

Mike gave Vince a salute good-bye, springing the tips of his fingers off his forehead, I’m goin’ home, Dad. See you guys later.

"Ciao, bello. Santino said, giving Mike a hug. Vincenzo, you come to the house with me. Mama’s made you something special to eat."

*     *     *

Mike takes me back to the office to get my car, and I drive to the old two-story brick-and-stucco family homestead, built in the late 1920s on the side of the hill south of the city, overlooking the wide part of the Susquehanna River.

Now, you see, this is where it really starts to hurt. Mike and I finished the trial that we’ve been getting ready for over the past three weeks, days, nights, and weekends, and I’m cool while that’s going on. So today, we won the trial. Usually there’s a feeling of accomplishment—congratulations! Not today. This time reality hit the courtroom theatre like a bomb. The victim’s father went insane and got himself beaten, to death for all I know. Odd thing is, I could understand him. I didn’t even want to turn around after the verdict. I knew he was there; he’d been at every hearing and throughout the trial, wanting some justice for his son. But the jury bought into my argument: too many drunks and druggies testifying. Who could condemn Brad to prison on that? So here we are: Brad’s off to finish college, maybe get a job on Wall Street, and Jesse’s buried and gone. No conviction, no one to offer up to the gods of justice. And now Santino puts his arm around me and tells me Mama’s made something special for me to eat. What that really means is that he knows I don’t have anything at the apartment, and there’s nobody there for me to go home to. So I’ll go with him to the old family homestead, see my mother, try to eat, and go back to my apartment. But here’s what makes me ache: I’ve got Mom and Dad in the old house, stable as a rock for decades, my son happily married to Cindy, living in their new house, their fresh, new love. And then there’s me, alone, and everybody’s worried about me. It’s just not supposed to be this way—I’m not supposed to be the man down. I’m not feeling sorry for myself, you understand? It’s just that I’m supposed to be the pillar of strength here, not Santino at age eighty-two, and not Mikey at twenty-six.

I’ll have to deal with the courtroom scene alone tonight. Thank God for late-night TV… and cognac.

Hey, Mom. I give Angie a kiss on the cheek as she greets me at the door.

Vincenzo! What a nice surprise!

"A surprise, huh?" I look at the old man; he shrugs.

Well, you look beautiful tonight, Mom, I tell her, taking in her soft Sophia Loren facial features, silver hair, and lilac scent.

Angie, Fix the boy something to eat. He’s starved. Santino says, waving his hand in the air as he heads for the den.

No, Ma. Really, nothing. Maybe a little drink.

Va bene, she says, and I get a kiss on the cheek.

Santino’s pouring a couple of cognacs; Angie disappears into the kitchen, and I join Dad in the small, dark-paneled, dimly lit den—the room we used to call Papa’s cave.

I watched Mike during the trial, Vince.

Yea, I say, sipping the cognac and coughing.

He worships you, you know.

God, I don’t know why. Poor kid.

Per Dio! Why do you have to talk like that?

I set my glass on the coffee table. Come on, Dad. Leave it alone.

Santino finishes off his drink in one slug. You’re a good father, Vince; you always have been. Your son loves you, and the divorce didn’t change that. Nothing ever will.

OK, Dad, OK. I appreciate that, and I love you, but I gotta go.

I think I see his eyes water up.

"OK, son. Ti voglio bene."

I know. I know, Dad, I say, feeling the first pangs of my nightly loneliness creeping in.

Angie comes out of the kitchen with a Tupperware container, and I take it from her.

Something for you to eat, figlio mio, she says, taking my head in both her hands and planting a kiss on my forehead.

In the car on the way home, I think about calling Susan, my on-again-off-again girlfriend. She’s usually good for some chat and sex.

When I get home, I pick up the phone and punch in her number.

Susan answers on the second ring. Hello.

Hey, baby, did I wake you up?

No, that’s OK, Vince. How’d it go?

Acquittal, I tell her, putting Angie’s Tupperware in the refrigerator, giving the expired carton of milk some company.

All the charges?

Yup.

Oh, honey, that’s wonderful. You’re the best. You OK? You don’t sound so good.

Yea, just tired.

You coming over?

Yea, I’d like that.

Vince?

Yea, Susan.

Have you had time to take care of Sean’s thing?

Sean’s thing: her punk kid who likes to steal CDs and DVDs from the mall and trade them for pot. I take a deep breath and blow it out through my nose. I got a call in to the city prosecutor.

"That’s it? You’re kidding, right?"

Susan, I…

Come on, Vince. This’ll hurt his chances for college!

"Well, you know what, Susan? That’s why we don’t steal CDs from the mall, OK? And what am I supposed to do with that fucking Mirandized videotaped confession of his? ‘I sell the CDs to buy pot.’ Your son’s a goddamn genius! I’ll get to it when I get to it."

I hit the off button and slam the phone. Maybe I’ll call Mike to talk about the trial. No, hell. He’s probably all cuddled up with Cindy by now. Besides, I know how much she hates it when I do that.

I pick up the newspaper lying on the coffee table and go into the bedroom. The bed’s unmade, as usual—clothes strewn on the floor. I start picking up, looking for a clean shirt for tomorrow when I hear the answering machine on the phone in the bedroom beep. There’s a single message. It’s Mike.

Hey, Dad. I just saw on TV that Jester’s Bar got blown up and a guy got killed. Wasn’t that one of your college hangouts? Anyway, I thought you’d find it interesting. Night, Dad.

I take off my suit jacket, loosen my tie, go back to the living room, turn on CNN, and pour myself a drink.

I wish Mike had never called. I didn’t hang out at Jester’s; it was O’Meara’s, the pub across the street from Jester’s. And I went there because of Renee O’Meara, the gorgeous little blonde townie I’d met at Harpur College. Petite, delicate, first violinist in the university orchestra, first soprano in the choir. I was in my last year at Harpur; she was just a freshman, but she’d grabbed my heart, and I was obsessed with her. As young as she was, I was ready to pop the question, but she disappeared on me. Just up and gone—no call, no note, not a trace. I couldn’t get a thing out of her parents, who seemed to know what was going on but kicked me out of the pub when I demanded to know where she was. I spent a few months calling around to her friends, going to places we’d shared together. Then I gave up. Now Mike leaves me this message. I don’t feel very well. I hit the sack.

*     *     *

I heard it on the radio, Mike! Congratulations! Cindy said, meeting him at the door and throwing her arms around him. He dropped his briefcase and hugged her. She gave him a lingering kiss on his neck, which chilled him, and the soft rose petal scent of her perfume calmed him.

Something smells good in here, Mike said.

I made pasta, and your grandma’s sauce.

He pulled off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack in the foyer, and she led him to the kitchen by the hand. Mike sat at the table; Cindy stirred the sauce.

Dad says thanks for all the research you did on the case. It was a killer motion.

Uh-huh.

Uh-huh? What’s that mean?

She turned to Mike with one hand on her hip, the other holding the wooden spoon.

Promise me you won’t go to the office tonight, Mike.

I didn’t plan…

And promise me you won’t get on the phone with your dad for hours to talk cases.

Well, if he calls…

"If he calls, I’ll answer the phone. And I’ll tell him you’re out."

Come on, Cindy.

"No, you come on, Mike! I don’t mind doing the research for you and Dad between classes, but, Mike, I don’t see you anymore!"

Look, Cin—

"No, you look, Mike. What good is this big house, all this new furniture, the new cars, if I never see you?"

Mike’s temper rose. Cindy! Listen to me! This is the practice of law. You’ll find out when you pass the bar. This is just the way it is.

"No, it’s not! It’s the way your father wants it. It’s the way he does it."

Leave Dad out of this!

How can I do that? Look at him! He’s lost everything in the divorce, and you know why. He’s got nothing else to lose; you do!

She threw the wooden spoon across the kitchen and ran upstairs.

chapter two

Three months before Vince and Mike’s trial, Frank and Annie Brewster had sold their home of thirty years and everything in it and left Cleveland for the old motel on the gulf side of Narrow Key, Florida. They’d paid cash for the tired little resort, using all of Frank’s pension fund and their life savings. It was their retirement dream. He ran the bar in the back of the motel by the docks and looked after the rental boats and the gas dock, while Ann handled the motel office and cleaned the rooms.

Carl had recently befriended them while on a trip through the Keys looking for real estate for his business. He’d sat at the bar and listened to Frank’s stories.

"The bigger fish are night