Bobby picks up, and I tell him that he is to testify Wednesday, though I’m not sure at what time. I’ll want him at the courthouse at nine A.M.
“No problem,” he says. “How come the trial was delayed?”
“The judge won’t let us talk about it, but it’s nothing for you to be concerned about,” I lie. “Your testimony will go forward as scheduled.”
“It’s nothing bad for Kenny?” Teri asks.
“Definitely not. It could even turn out to be good.”
“Great,” she says.
I take a deep breath; here comes the hard part. “Teri, with the way the media are all over everything that happens, this trial is as much about public relations as anything else. Maybe more.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she says. “The things they say about Kenny, it makes my blood boil.”
“Me too,” I say. “That’s why I want you in a TV studio on Wednesday doing interviews when Bobby finishes testifying. The other side is going to have people out there saying Bobby is wrong; we need you saying he’s right.”
“Whatever you need, but I was hoping to be there to support Bobby.”
I hate manipulating her, but I have no choice. I can’t have her at the courthouse, able to tell Bobby about the witnesses preceding his own testimony. “I’m sure Bobby wants you where you can most help Kenny. Isn’t that right, Bobby?”
“Absolutely,” he says, and she agrees.
“Bobby, do you need me to send someone to pick you up, or can you make it to court by yourself? I can get you through the back entrance, so you won’t have to go through any of the crowds.”
“I can drive,” he says, and the trap is set.
* * * * *
HINCHLIFFE STADIUM is an impressive relic, a former minor-league football and baseball stadium that sits overlooking the Passaic Falls. If I remember my Paterson history correctly, these falls, third largest in the country, were discovered by either Alexander Hamilton or George Hamilton.
The stadium now goes unused and is often rumored to be coming down. The old boy is about to have some excitement tonight. I’m standing near what used to be home plate, holding a briefcase and waiting. Within twenty minutes the shit might well be hitting the fan.
I thought I had planned for all eventualities, yet I now realize I should have planned for the fact that there would be no lights here. Fortunately, it is a clear night, and there is a substantial amount of moonlight. Visibility will not be a big problem. But what else have I forgotten?
I look at my watch and see that it’s ten P.M. I know what is happening at this moment. Marcus is picking up Quintana at a designated meeting place. He will determine to his satisfaction that Quintana is not armed, and they will start driving here to see me. Quintana does not know where I am, and he has promised to come alone.
Willie Miller is nearby in his own car. He is watching to see if any of Quintana’s men follow Marcus’s car. If they do not, all is fine. If they do, then Quintana is breaking our pact and planning to kill me.
In my briefcase is four hundred thousand dollars in cash. It is much lighter and takes up much less space than I expected. But it is a great deal of money, and it represents an amount I am willing to put at risk to ease my conscience and not feel like a murderer.
The message was sent to Quintana that I wanted to see him personally, and I would be willing to provide the four hundred thousand he lost the night Troy Preston was killed. If he comes alone and promises not to come after me anymore, he can have the money and our relationship comes to a less-than-poignant end. If he tries to take the money and still attempts to kill me, then when I have him killed, I will consider it self-defense.
My cell phone rings, and in the empty stadium it sounds like about two million decibels. I answer with “Yes?” and hear Willie’s voice on the other end. “They’re being followed,” he says.
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“I’m sure,” Willie says.
I hang up the phone and call a number Petrone had given me. His designated person answers it, and I say, “Hinchliffe Stadium.”
His answer is a simple “We’ll be there.”
The next twenty-five minutes are the longest I have ever spent. Finally, I hear Marcus and Quintana coming from under the stands, walking toward me.
Quintana is tall and fairly well built, though standing next to Marcus, he looks like a toothpick seedling. He has a sneer on his face, probably perpetually, and it tells me that he believes he is in control. He’s not.
The first thing Quintana says is, “Show me the money.” Despite the seriousness of the moment, it strikes me as funny, as if Quintana is playing the movie version of the song-talking that Sam Willis does.
I’m tempted to respond, “I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” but instead, I open the briefcase and show it to him.
“Did you come alone?” I ask.
“Yeah.” This guy is not much of a conversationalist.
“So you’ll take this money and we’re even?” I ask. “You won’t come after me anymore?”
“That’s what I said.”
I know he’s lying, but I hand him the briefcase. He puts it under his arm and yells out something in Spanish, to the men he knows are outside the stadium. I am not supposed to know that those men are there and that their function will be to come in and kill Marcus and me. Marcus just watches all this impassively, betraying almost no interest at all.
Suddenly, there is the sound of gunfire, the noise rattling the old stadium. Quintana reacts with surprise and concern, looking around to see what could be happening.
“You lied to me,” I say, my voice cracking slightly with nervousness. “Your men followed you so that you could have me killed. I called for some support, which was purely an act of self-defense. I’m sorry it worked out this way, but you left me no choice.”
Off to our left, Petrone’s men are entering the stadium. Quintana displays amazing quickness for a man his size, and I display amazing stupidity for a man any size. He grabs me before I can get out of the way and holds me in front of him so that my body is between him and the advancing gunmen.
I’m gripped by panic; I can’t imagine Petrone’s men backing off simply because their bullets will have to pass through my body to get to Quintana. I have no doubt that Petrone has warned them that Quintana is not to escape alive, and even less doubt that they would not be willing to go back and say, “Sorry, Godfather, but we didn’t kill him. The lawyer was in the way.”
Suddenly, a sequoia tree in the form of Marcus’s forearm lands on Quintana’s head. He goes down as if shot, and I get a quick and nauseating glimpse of the crushed side of his head and face.
Marcus picks up the briefcase and hands it to me. “Let’s go,” he says, and we walk past Petrone’s men and out of the stadium, leaving them to attend to Quintana. Based on how he looked, and how hard Marcus hit him, they will not need their guns.
All they’ll need is a shovel.
* * * * *
JUDGE HARRISON calls court to order at nine A.M. sharp. He’s usually a few minutes late, but it’s as if this time he’s showing his determination not to allow the continuance to go on one minute longer than he had authorized.
I’m still more than a little shaken by last night. It did not have to result in any killing; Quintana could have walked off with the money. And as it played out, I can justify in my mind that it was self-defense; had I not called Petrone’s people, I would have been killed myself.
But the truth is that I set a process in motion knowing it could result in Quintana’s murder. Had I not done that, he would still be alive, as unpleasant as that might be for me. I’m compounding that by not revealing to the police what I know about the murders that took place at the stadium last night. As an officer of the court this has not been my finest moment.