"Could Cullan have gotten Blues's bar shut down?"
Amy shrugged. "Depends on what he could have come up with against your client. Jack had a lot of influence but he wasn't the king."
Mason decided to switch gears again. "Do you know Ed Fiora?" he asked her.
Amy gave him a patiently exasperated grimace. "Yes, Lou. I know Ed Fiora. The mayor knows Ed Fiora."
Mason smiled, enjoying her irritation. "Do you know any of the people who work for him?"
Amy hesitated slightly. "A few," she said.
"How about a big guy, roughly the size of New Jersey, with bream that smells like licorice?"
Amy frowned as she silently reviewed the profiles Mason was certain she kept dutifully organized in her mental Palm Pilot. He assumed that she wasn't trying to decide whether she knew whom Mason was talking about. Rather, he figured she was deciding whether to give him up.
"Tony Manzerio," she said at last. "I met him one time at a meeting at Fiora's office. He sits outside Ed's private office like a guard dog. I think Ed gives him licorice instead of dog treats. Why do you ask?"
"Can't tell the players without a program," Mason told her. Her answer was a good-faith down payment on their deal. "I'll let you know if I find the mayor's file."
"I'm counting on you," Amy said as she got out of the Jeep.
Chapter Twelve
The door to Mason's office had a slot in it for mail delivery. He scooped Friday's delivery off the floor, tossed it on the sofa with his topcoat, and opened up the dry-erase board. Using a green marker, he drew a short line down from Ed Flora's name and added Tony Manzerio's name to the board. He wrote Amy White's name in parentheses next to the mayor's name, and underscored Rachel's reference to Jack Cullan's secret files. His conversation with Amy had convinced him that Cullan's files did exist. He couldn't decide whether the files were the motive for Cullan's murder or the reason for the determined effort to railroad Blues- or both.
The words he'd written on the board didn't suddenly come to life and rearrange themselves into the answers to his questions, even though he gave them a good five minutes to spring into action. It was, he reminded himself, a dry-erase board and not a Ouija board.
Mason picked up the mail from the sofa, sat at his desk, and began sorting through the envelopes. He tossed the junk mail into the trash without a second look. Next he opened the envelopes that looked like they might contain checks from clients. There were a few, but not enough to make him open the envelopes whose return addresses were from companies to whom he owed money. He saved those for the end of the month, hoping by then the checks would catch up with the bills.
Buried in the stack, he found an envelope from the Jackson County Prosecutor's office marked Hand Delivery. It contained a motion filed by Patrick Ortiz asking the court to set a preliminary hearing in Blues's case and an order signed by Judge Pistone setting the hearing on January 2. The judge's order was not a surprise. However, Ortiz's motion made as much sense as folding with a full house when no else had placed a bet.
There were a number of steps in the life of a criminal case once a suspect had been arrested. The first was the arraignment, which was to officially inform the defendant of the charges against him and to set bail.
The next step was for the prosecutor to establish that there was probable cause to believe that a crime had been committed and that the defendant had committed it. The prosecutor could meet that burden by presenting the case to the grand jury and asking for an indictment. In the alternative, the prosecutor could ask the Associate Circuit Court judge to hold a preliminary hearing at which the state would present its evidence and ask the judge to bind the defendant over for trial. If the judge found the state's evidence sufficient, the case would be assigned to a Circuit Court judge for trial.
The grand jury met in secret. Witnesses could be subpoenaed to testify and forced to appear without a lawyer to represent them. Taking the Fifth Amendment was the criminal equivalent of a scarlet letter. Hearing only the state's side of the case virtually assured that the grand jury would issue whatever indictments the prosecutor requested.
A preliminary hearing was public. The defendant had the right to attend and listen to the case against him, and his lawyer had the right to cross-examine the state's witnesses and present evidence of his client's innocence. Prosecutors hated preliminary hearings because they were forced to show too many of their cards to the defendant. Secret justice was more certain.
Now, Patrick Ortiz had surrendered the state's right to a secret grand jury. Mason knew that Ortiz wouldn't have made that decision on his own. Leonard Campbell must have told Ortiz what to do, and Mason was certain that Ortiz didn't like it. Ortiz was a career prosecutor who cherished the state's advantages over the accused. He would rather rip out a chamber of his heart than give up the grand jury. Ortiz didn't care about politics or appearances. He fought the battles and let his boss take the credit.
Leonard Cambell was a politician first and a lawyer last. Mason had only one explanation for Campbell 's decision. Rachel Firestone's article, and the media frenzy it had launched, had forced the prosecuting attorney to choose a preliminary hearing to defuse Rachel's accusation that Blues was a victim of political expediency. This was one time Mason appreciated the power of the press.
The date of the hearing meant that Mason would be working on New Year's Eve instead of celebrating, though he didn't really mind. He didn't have anyone to kiss at midnight, and now he had an excuse to skip the sloppy embraces of people he didn't know at parties that he didn't want to attend alone.
New Year's Eve held mixed memories for Mason. It was one of those take-stock moments, demanding an honest appraisal of where he'd been and where he was going.
The best New Year's he'd ever celebrated had been the first one with Kate. They'd been married a month and were still giddy. She'd surprised him with tickets to Grand Cayman, a second honeymoon before they'd finished paying for the first one. The resort Kate had chosen had thrown a party, where they had danced as if they had been possessed, shouted and laughed with strangers, and marveled at the magic in their lives. Shortly before midnight, Kate had led him away from the crowd onto an empty stretch of beach so white it glowed in the dark with the reflection of the moon and stars. They had made love on the beach as the New Year dawned, kept company by the tide washing gently over them.
Three years later, Kate had left him. She had run out of love, she had told him. It was a concept he couldn't understand. Love wasn't like oil, he had told her. You don't wait for the well to run dry and start digging someplace else. Unless you were Kate.
Since then, Mason had done his share of digging, though the relationships he had explored had proved too shallow or fragile to last. He was glad to use work as an excuse to skip New Year's Eve and the annual audit of his personal account.
It was after nine o'clock that night before Mason had finished rowing another ten thousand meters across his dining room. There was nothing smooth about his workout. His strokes were rough, his timing off. He felt as if he were rowing upstream. He blamed it on Blues's case since it was making him feel the same way. The only thing the rowing machine gave him that the case didn't was the opportunity to sweat a bucket, though he expected the case would eventually pull even on that score.
As he neared the end of his workout, his breathing turned ragged, punctuated by a deep grunt each time he hauled the rowing handle deeply into his belly. Tuffy didn't like what she saw, and let Mason know it as she paced back and forth in front of the rowing machine, ears up and tail down until he finished. Mason wondered if his dog had a date for New Year's. That kind of devotion was hard to come by. He was still heaving when the doorbell rang.