Klinger's face flushed. "How dare you? Are you implying that I would withhold evidence? I have no idea what you are talking about. Your question does not really even deserve an answer…but for the record, I have not received any such letter from District Attorney Breman. Now, Ms. Ciampi, if you are quite through with your fishing expedition, then I would suggest that you remove yourself from the premises before I call security and have you escorted out of the building."
Marlene hesitated. She considered egging the judge on to see if she could make her go ballistic. But she decided on prudence and turned to leave, only to stop when she saw the look on Verene's face. "Are you okay?" she asked the young woman, who looked as though she'd developed a sudden case of nausea.
Verene nodded her head. "Yes, sorry, I haven't been feeling well today. I think I ate something funky for breakfast."
"Verene," the judge interrupted, "if your illness allows, would you come into my office please. Good-bye, Ms. Ciampi. I'm sure you'll understand if I don't wish you a Merry Christmas."
Marlene was steaming when she walked out of the judge's office. But she felt better once she hit the cold but fresh air outside the building and trotted down the granite steps. She didn't get what she'd come for, but in that regard, the judge was right-she had been on a fishing expedition. She'd landed something she hadn't expected either. She was absolutely sure that the law clerk, Verene Fisher, wasn't ill until the little exchange between herself and Klinger. She knows something.
Unknown to her, Marlene just missed running into Hugh Louis, who walked into Klinger's office and demanded to see the judge. But Verene immediately pressed the intercom and announced, as she'd been told in this case, "Mr. Louis is here and would like to speak to you."
"Show him in, please."
Verene stood and opened the door to the judge's chamber and stepped quickly aside. She didn't like Hugh Louis or the way he was always mopping at the sweat on his face with his big white handkerchiefs. Nor did she like the way he undressed her with his eyes and suggested that they have dinner and talk about the possibility of her working for him after she passed the bar exam. "I'm always lookin' for good, young talent to nurture," he said to her once, in a way that left no doubt what he meant by nurture.
"Thank you, Mr. Louis," she'd replied. "But I want to be a prosecutor and work for the New York District Attorney's Office."
"Be my guest," he said. "Work in a thankless, dead-end job with no money…the hardworking little black girl who thinks she's going to get somewhere in the white man's world. What are you going to do when they tell you to look the other way when injustices are done to your black brothers and sisters?" In that moment, her distaste for Hugh Louis turned to hatred.
Louis took one last leering look at the law clerk as he moved past. But when the door was closed behind him he wasted no more time getting to the point of his visit. That morning he'd received a call from Enrique Villalobos and wasn't happy about what he heard.
"Some bitch named Maria Champi was up here asking questions," Villalobos told him. "She wanted to know where to find that fucker Kaminsky. When I wouldn't tell her, she sucker-punched me when I wasn't looking and broke two of my ribs. I plan to file a lawsuit, but that lying piece-of-shit guard, Richardson, is backing up her story that I fell against a chair. You need to do something about her and Kaminsky, or this whole thing could get fucked up."
Louis had weighed his words carefully. He knew that the prison sometimes monitored the calls of inmates. "I believe the woman you talked to was Marlene Ciampi, and once again, you are talking when I have advised you as your legal representative to remain silent. You understand?"
"Yeah, that was the bitch's name," said Villalobos. "I didn't say nothin' to her 'cept maybe someday I might get out and do to her what I did to that other bitch at Coney Island."
"That's good," Louis said. "But from now on, and this is only a suggestion, but I'm sure my clients-especially Mr. Jayshon Sykes-would appreciate it if you did not speak with representatives of the racist regime that has persecuted them."
Villalobos was quiet. He understood the threat. "Ain't nobody got to worry about Enrique Villalobos. I told the truth," he said just in case the conversation was being recorded. "I was the only one that raped sweet Lizzie."
"Good, good," Louis said, "and I appreciate that you called and let me know that the Ciampi woman was up there trying to find a smokescreen to spread over the truth. Let me know if you hear from her again, but remember, silence is golden."
Louis had hung up the phone, mopping at the sweat that had popped out. He'd worried when he learned from Lindahl that Ciampi had signed on to help the ADAs. She had a reputation for tenacity that could prove troublesome, especially if she located Kaminsky or that damn note he wrote to Breman.
Having Ciampi nosing around asking questions about Kaminsky was alarming. Damn that moron Sykes. Too stupid to notice that his victim had both arms. Well, now Sykes and his gang were going to have to find Kaminsky and take care of the problem before Ciampi did. And that could be tough. The gang had been trying to keep an eye on the streets in Brighton Beach, but black gangsters in the Russian sector stuck out like sore thumbs, and the Russian mob wasn't going to tolerate their presence for long. He'd have to get on Olav Radinskaya to pull some strings, flush Kaminsky out.
In the meantime, Louis had decided that there were too many loose ends. He wanted the letter that Kaminsky had written to Breman in his possession. He and the judge had an "understanding," but he had to tread lightly. No one pushed a federal judge around.
"Marci," he beamed as he waddled toward her, his hand extended. "Damn, you lookin' good, girl. You been working out?"
Klinger returned the smile and shook his hand though in truth it made her cringe to touch that sweaty palm, and it was all she could do not to wipe hers off on her robe. The man sweats like a whole herd of pigs, she thought.
The two exchanged pleasantries and wished each other a Merry Christmas and noted that they ought to get their families together for dinner "one of these days, real soon."
"So, Hugh," Klinger said, "what brings you here today? I'm sure it wasn't to pass on a Yuletide greeting."
"Well, heh-heh," he chortled, "I did want to pass that on, but you're right, this is a business call. I've been thinkin' that maybe I should have that letter that lying piece of crap Kaminsky sent to Krissy. Heh-heh. I think we all agree it's just another inmate trying to get a deal. But if it was to fall into the wrong hands, someone might use it to confuse the issue and upset the applecart, so to speak."
So that's what the fat tub of goo wants, Klinger thought. He doesn't trust me. She decided to let him sweat it out, literally. "That letter has certainly become a popular item for being a collection of lies," she said.
"How do you mean?" Louis asked, pausing in mid-mop.
"Well, just a few minutes before you arrived, Marlene Ciampi was here with the same request," she replied, satisfied to see that the news shook Louis. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't run into her in the hall."
Louis felt his overworked heart skip a beat. "All the more reason for me to have the letter," he said. "It needs to be destroyed before it causes problems for all of us."
Klinger could have clapped her hands in glee; the letter was her insurance policy in case he ever turned on her. "Well, I don't know that I'm prepared to do that, Hugh," Klinger said. "It was given to me in confidence by my dear friend Miss Breman."
Louis stopped mopping his brow; all pretense of friendliness disappeared from his face. "Okay, let's cut out the crap," he said. "We both know that letter is dangerous. What if Ciampi can convince another judge to issue a search warrant for your office?"