Bruce McCabe lined his desk with photographs of his family, in particular his oldest son, James.
Invariably, Manning’s attention turned to his only son, Quinn. Manning had always known that his son was smarter than he. He remembered the summers when Quinn would intern at the company that he was destined to take over one day, the fresh perspective he brought even as a high school kid, the insightful comments. It had been Quinn’s idea, not so long ago, to expand aggressively overseas. He’d done an entire workup without solicitation, projections and figures and strategies. “It says Global Harvest on the door, right, Dad?” he’d said. “And what does ‘International’ mean to you?”
And Randall Manning had made the biggest mistake of his life. He’d agreed to let Quinn explore the opportunities.
“Okay, here we go,” said Stanley Keane.
Bruce McCabe had a yellow highlighter, which he poised over the map of the city’s commercial district and near-north side. He drew on the map as he spoke. “The procession starts at noon on South Walter Drive next to the Hartz Building,” he said. “It will move north up Walter and wind around with the river. It will cross the Lerner Street Bridge. And once over the river, it’s only three blocks to the federal building.”
Manning nodded. That’s where the procession would end, at the north end of the federal building, known derisively as the “brown building” for its drab color and unexceptional architecture. It was home to the federal courts, the U. S. attorney’s office, and more than thirty agencies of the federal government. It was in the federal plaza that, immediately following the march, a brief outdoor commemoration would take place.
“Last year,” said Stanley Keane, “it took thirty-eight minutes to reach the federal plaza for the commemoration.”
“And the commemoration lasted how long?”
“Thirty-six minutes.”
“So one P.M. would be a safe target time.” Manning looked at Stanley.
“Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”
Manning nodded. “What about security?”
“Security.” Stanley Keane groaned. “You know how it is these days, Randy. They keep that stuff pretty close to the vest. All we can say is what happened last year.”
“Refresh me,” said Manning, though he didn’t require a refresher. He knew every aspect of the security from last year’s event. He just wanted to gauge Stanley Keane’s preparation.
Stanley used a pencil and marked up the map. “It was primarily a perimeter formation,” he said. “City police on foot, about six for every city block, lining the curb on each side. Vehicle blocks on each end, but only sporadically blocking the cross streets. Mostly the east-west streets were simply barricaded with traffic horses. It’s kind of a scaled-down version of what they’d do in a full-blown parade. I mean, it’s the middle of winter and all. Most people don’t care all that much about Pearl Harbor Day.”
They will now, thought Manning. He asked, “And what about the state police?”
Stanley shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I’d imagine they’d stay very close to the governor as he walks at the head of the pack. But I don’t know. The governor didn’t participate last year.”
But he would this year. Governor Trotter, plus one of the state’s U. S. senators and the city’s mayor, would be walking in the front row of the procession. They would be joined by a former brigadier general who lived in the city and who served in World War II. He was, in fact, serving in Pearl Harbor on the day it was attacked.
Manning looked out the window, through the drawn translucent shade, colored by the rays of the afternoon sun. He thought about what was going to happen nineteen days from now.
What had President Roosevelt said about December 7, 1941? A date which will live in infamy.
And what would be said about December 7 of this year? A different time, a different event, but no doubt similar proclamations, teeth-gnashing denunciations, self-righteous indignation.
But one day, Manning was sure, history would thank him.
“All right. Bruce, your turn,” said Manning. “Tell me about this visit you had this morning. Tell me about Jason Kolarich.”
35
“The trial begins on December first,” I said to Joel Lightner. “That’s eleven days from now. Anyone mention that to you yet?”
“Did anyone mention to you that the FBI has tried to come up with the identity of Gin Rummy for the last three years and drawn a blank?”
We were walking down Gehringer Street. It was Saturday, early evening, and the Franzen Park neighborhood was alive. The taverns and restaurants we passed were full. The sidewalks were crowded with people. Everyone was having a good time. Everyone but me.
To everyone else, Saturday meant the weekend, time with family, drinking and socializing and relaxing. To me, it meant people were harder to find, government offices and professional workplaces were closed. And after the weekend, it would be a short week for Thanksgiving. People would be halfway out the door by noon on Wednesday. And then forget it, there’s no chance of finding anybody until the following Monday.
And the Monday after Thanksgiving was November 29-two days before we started selecting a jury.
Joel Lightner had spent the last week trying to nail down the Gin Rummy question. He’d tapped all his connections at the local, state, and federal levels and come up empty.
“Just the last three years?” Tori asked. Yes, I’d brought her along. She’d visited the other crime scene with us, why not this one, too? Besides, she’d shown a real interest in this case and her non-lawyer, lay perspective had proven helpful on more than one occasion thus far.
Clearly, then, I had several reasons for bringing her along. It wasn’t like I was trying to impress her or win her over. Good. Glad that was settled.
“The name Gin Rummy first came over a wiretap about four years ago,” said Joel. “Second-rate sources. Not Paulie Capparelli or anybody at the top. So the FBI, they jot the name down, but they don’t think much of it. Right? I mean, these guys, they all have about five nicknames, anyway.”
“Okay,” said Tori, though she probably had no idea.
“But then there’s a prison tap. Rico Capparelli, the top guy, who’s inside for life now, he mentions the name. So now the FBI is paying attention. As best they can tell, Gin Rummy has about ten hits to his name over the last couple of years. Remember Anthony Moretti?”
I did, in passing, at least. The Moretti family, which had connections out east in New Jersey, was the principal rival of the Capparellis. About a year ago, Anthony Moretti, the capo, was shot in his bed. Two bodyguards in the apartment were found dead, too.
“That was Gin Rummy?” I asked.
“That’s what everyone thinks.”
Tori looked at me. “So you’re messing with a pretty big guy.”
“I like to keep things interesting. But I have to find this guy first.”
We crossed Mulligan at the crosswalk and passed a shoe store that Talia used to love.
“I love this store,” Tori said. It stood to reason, fashionista that she was. I can’t believe the word “fashionista” was even in my vocabulary. The boys back home would be ashamed. Maybe I was getting soft.
We got halfway down the block on the west side of the street and stopped. Lightner fished out copies of the photographs from a manila envelope.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a tree that had been planted in the middle of the sidewalk. I didn’t understand why the city bothered. Regardless, this time of year, the branches were naked, leaving it looking more like a gigantic, ugly weed.
“The shell casing was found in the dirt at the base of the tree,” said Joel. He took a couple of steps to his left, which put him almost up against a tall privacy fence that served an apartment building. Behind that five-foot privacy fence was a condo building where a witness, Sheldon Pierson, was prepared to testify that he was outside, untangling Christmas decorations, during the interval of time in which the medical examiner estimated the murder occurred, but unfortunately he didn’t hear a thing or obviously see anything.
