“Okay, so it’s an aggravated battery, maybe an attempted murder,” I said. “And one day soon it could be a murder.”
Fowler shuddered at the thought.
“What do you have to trade?” I asked.
That made him shudder all the more. His shoulders closed in. “Maybe there was another murder. A whole different kinda thing. And maybe I know about it.”
“Maybe you know who did it?”
“Say I do.” His expression didn’t betray his thoughts. It was probably a trait he’d developed over years of slinging bullshit.
“Okay, say you do. You can solve a murder for the police? That would be worth something. Probably not immunity, but something.”
He was listening very closely. “I wouldn’t walk?”
“From beating the strip club owner? I doubt it. An aggravated battery, if this guy lives? And murder if he doesn’t? It would be a stretch. It all depends on the circumstances.”
“Even if the name I’m trading is Gin Rummy?”
I didn’t catch the reference. I could see from the expectant look on his face that he thought I’d recognize the name.
“Who’s Gin Rummy?” I asked.
A brief smile crossed over his mouth. “There’s five people in the world that know that. You wanna be the sixth?”
I shook my head. “That’s up to you. I take it Gin Rummy is somebody significant?”
“To the coppers? Oh, yeah. The federal types, too. And to Paulie, for sure.”
Paul Capparelli, presumably, the top guy in the crime family now.
“Paulie always says, ‘Gin Rummy’s the man.’” Fowler laughed to himself.
“Gin Rummy’s a hit man?” I asked.
Fowler stared at me for a long time. Finally, he said, “Close enough.”
“An assassin,” I said.
“Right.”
“You see a difference between ‘hit man’ and ‘assassin’?” It wasn’t a helpful question I was asking, but this guy was starting to annoy me.
Enough of the cat-and-mouse. “Is that it, Lorenzo? Just Gin Rummy’s real name? Or do you have proof that Gin Rummy committed this other murder?”
He showed those hideous teeth again. “I got proof.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Proof,” he said.
I was a few years out of date in what little knowledge I possessed, while a prosecutor, about the Mob and its assorted characters. But it sounded like this Gin Rummy was significant. And that could mean special consideration.
“You’re wondering about witness protection, that kind of thing?” I asked.
“Right. Problem is, this thing, this other murder I got information on, it’s stateside. Not federal.”
The state doesn’t really do witness protection programs per se, but the feds will cooperate with the locals if the payoff is good enough. I told Lorenzo all that.
“Oh, it’ll be worth it,” he assured me.
I’d have to take his word for it for the time being. “You’re not ready to pull this trigger yet, I take it?”
“Right. But here’s another question. If I wanna do this, can I go through you and keep it quiet and all?”
“I think we could work that out, Lorenzo.”
He leaned forward in his seat. His skin was flush. “And this thing we’re talking about, you won’t repeat it.”
“It’s a privileged conversation, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m not asking nothin’.” His eyes went cold. He had quickly resorted to the bravado of the Mobbed-up thug. “I’m tellin’. You won’t repeat this. We understand each other?”
I have this thing where, whenever I get agitated, I try to count to ten before speaking. On occasion, I’ve been known to say inappropriate things, and it was a New Year’s resolution of mine to get along better with people. But that was two New Years ago, and it didn’t take.
I got all the way to four in my count. “Don’t threaten me, Lorenzo, and don’t ever contact me again,” I said. I got out of my chair. “And now we understand each other.”
Lorenzo Fowler turned right when he left his appointment and stood at the curb to hail a cab. He gave up after a few minutes and decided to walk through the commercial district.
From across the street, Peter Ramini stood with his hands in his coat pockets. Always, these days, with his hands in his pockets. He watched Fowler disappear down the block. No need to follow. It didn’t matter where Lorenzo was going next. All that mattered was where he’d just been. Ramini carefully removed his cell phone and punched a speed-dial button. Within four minutes, a black town car pulled up at the curb.
He got in the backseat, next to another man named Donnie. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. He waited until the Lincoln moved into traffic before he spoke.
“That appointment Zo made with that lawyer,” he said. “Name of Jason Kolarich. Well, he just had the meeting. Ask Paulie what he wants to do about Zo.”
Donnie was a big man with deep-set eyes and a midsection that looked like he was hiding an inner tube under his shirt. “Anything else?” he asked.
Ramini thought for a moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Ask him what he wants to do about Jason Kolarich, too.”
8
Dr. Sofian Baraniq leaned back in his chair in our conference room. He was on the young side for an expert- his CV put him at forty-four-but he looked distinguished, with the gray that peppered his hair and his thick beard. He looked foreign but had not the slightest trace of an accent, which suggested he was American-born. Either way was fine with me. I didn’t know his ethnicity, but the origin of his name suggested India or someplace Middle or Far Eastern, and most juries tended to give weight to experts with such backgrounds. Call it reverse racism or favorable racism or ignorance, but it seemed to matter. Juries were less likely to find bias with, and more likely to respect, experts who were Asian or Indian. Like any lawyer, I would take whatever advantage I could grab.
“It’s a complicated case,” said the doctor. His dress shirt was stained and his tie was drab. “He suffers from PTSD and schizophrenia. The accompanying symptoms of either could have manifested themselves at the time of the shooting.”
I was ready for that. Bryan Childress had discussed it with me. Tom Stoller could have been experiencing a flashback to Iraq from PTSD or a hallucination brought on by his schizophrenia.
“Does that matter, for your purposes?” he asked me.
It was the right question to ask. “I have to prove a mental defect,” I said. “Both are recognized mental defects. In theory, I could say that it was either PTSD or schizophrenia, take your pick. But that doesn’t look good to a jury.”
I really wanted PTSD. Because it gave me license to tell the jury all about Tom’s harrowing experience as a combat veteran in Iraq. But I didn’t want to say that to Dr. Baraniq.
“I’ve far more experience testifying in the field of PTSD,” said the doctor. “But the problem is that I can easily diagnose Tom as a disorganized schizophrenic. It doesn’t matter what he and I talk about. I can observe him and I can read the observation and lab reports. The state is treating him with antipsychotic and mood-stabilizing medications, which is consistent with my diagnosis. So I feel comfortable with my diagnosis. But PTSD? I have to know what was happening to him at the time of the shooting. And I have to know what happened to him in Iraq. And for that, Tom has to talk to me. He has to talk about that night. He has to talk about Iraq. And he won’t.”
