Rough Justice

LeFort squared his padded shoulders. 'The properties will sell for a fair price when we see fit.'

A heavy sigh, then silence. 'This is killing me, John.'

'We've done business together for years. The bank stands to profit handsomely from these loans. It has in the past, it will in the future.'

'But this news with the lawyers, it's shocking.'

'Eye on the ball, Mo. The jury doesn't know about that. Let's keep our wits, shall we?'

'Okay, John. Eye on the ball.' The banker heaved a final, liquored sigh and hung up.

* * *

Elliot Steere sat in his cell with his eyes lightly closed, resting his head against the cinderblock wall. The pockmarked guard had told him about the dead security guards and about the associate, DiNunzio. The battle had been joined. His forces were prevailing, but there had been a problem. Steere had to assess the latest situation, then take action. He had many options. Room to move. He only looked like a man in prison.

Steere rested his hands beside him, relaxed his body, and let his thoughts run free. The first thing he did was consider his forces: a woman and a man. The woman had been instructed to destroy the file. She would do it because Steere had ordered her to and because it incriminated her. Steere assumed she was retrieving the file and destroying it, unless he heard to the contrary. So far he hadn't, so all was well.

Steere considered the man, Bogosian. He had been instructed to stay with Marta, but something had evidently gone wrong. But Bogosian would still have her in his control. He wouldn't let her go. He would stay with it until he finished the job or finished Marta.

Steere's face remained a mask. His eyes moved under his closed lids. There was no alternative now but for Marta to die. She had outlived her usefulness. The case was already at the jury. If she vanished and turned up dead later, Bogosian could make it look like a suicide or robbery-murder. Bogosian would get the details right. He had done it before.

Steere breathed deeply, into a greater state of meditation. Bogosian had evidently gotten to DiNumzio at the railroad bridge. It was unexpected, but he had done it to salvage the operation. It was a smart tactic and it had shown initiative. Steere would reward Bogosian for it. It was as Sun-Tzu had said: Never overindulge subordinates, because they will be like spoiled children; view them as infants and be able to lead them into battle. Steere was feeling that way about Bobby now. Almost fatherly. Then it passed.

What action could Steere take now to achieve victory? He had to be flexible, stay relaxed. His enemies were in disarray. Scattered, wounded. Steere had the superior position and he had to stay fluid to capitalize on the circumstances. Be like water in battle; water conforms to the terrain in determining its movement, and forces conform to the enemy to determine victory.

Steere's thoughts became clear as spring water and flowed like a stream. The damage he had done to his lawyers could provoke a mistrial. That was the last thing he wanted. He had ensured the jury's verdict and he knew his juror would be successful. A mistrial would cost Steere his juror, keep him in jail, and disquiet his lenders. No. He wanted his case moving ahead, his verdict inevitable as the tides. Steere must be found not guilty, and soon. Nothing less would do.

Steere considered his business position. His lenders would need the verdict, too, as soon as possible. They'd be threatening to call the notes. He had instructed LeFort to play hardball and he knew they'd toe the line. The banks didn't want to call on him. They loathed confrontation and conflict, even conflict as contained as litigation. Steere smiled inside. The bankers knew nothing of war, either. Once everybody had the bomb, nobody had the balls to use it.

Steere breathed deeply. Be like water in battle. Consider if one of the lenders called a note. An electrical fire in one of the buildings would raise the capital. Steere would assign the bank the right to collect the insurance, and it would allow him time on the other notes. In no event would Steere permit the mayor to get the properties. Steere had a strategy to ensure the mayor's defeat, and the properties were integral to it. Both sides stalk each other over several years to contend for victory in a single day.

Suddenly there was a knock at the window of his cell, jarring Steere from his meditation. It was the guard, leaning near the thick plastic window. 'Mr. Steere,' he said, 'your lawyer is here to see you.'

33

Bennie sat in front of her computer in the spare bedroom she only euphemistically called a home office. Books and papers stuck out of the bookshelves over her computer monitor. Old coffee cups and dirty spoons threatened to engulf the ergonomic keyboard. A reddish golden retriever named Bear rested at Bennie's feet among wet Sorel boots, old faxes, and dog hair tumbleweeds. To Bennie, you could clean or you could enjoy life, and these things were mutually exclusive. Wasn't it Justice Brandeis who said sunshine was the best disinfectant? Bennie took it as a housekeeping philosophy.

She clicked the computer mouse and stared at the enlarged picture of the black man on the screen. Eb Darning, a bank employee; clean-shaven and well-groomed. Bennie clicked again and displayed a photo of Heb Darnton she'd clipped from the online newspaper. It must have been a file photo. Heb had a thick beard, wild hair, and a deranged expression.

Bennie tilted the photos so they were side by side on the screen. Eb Daming/Heb Darnton. She had plugged in both names in every website about Philadelphia she could find, including the local newspapers' sites. Bennie sat back in her chair and compared the two photos. It could have been before and after pictures of the same man.

Bennie was shocked. What had the associates stumbled onto? What was going on in her law firm? Was this what had gotten Mary shot? And how was Marta involved? There were too many questions, all of them threatening the existence of Rosato & Associates. Bennie couldn't lose everything she had worked for, not again, and not without a fight.

She stared at the man's picture. Eb Darning. He had the answers. The online article said he had lived on Green Street in the sixties. Bennie knew Green Street well, it was in the city's Fairmount section. Bennie had a client on Spring Garden Street, a barber who cut everybody's hair in the neighborhood. He would know Darning or he would know somebody who did.

Bennie reached for the phone.

* * *