In The Plan - 20. Chapter 20

20

About all Carleson knew about Staten Island was where it was. That wasn't snobbery. There were lots of places in the large metropolitan area he'd just never made it to. So once back in his office, he asked one of his assistants for Cowboy's address and did what anyone else might - he Googled it.

He loved Google Earth. The program fascinated him. Enter any address in the world, and up came arial and street views. Though when he entered Cowboy's address, the arial view looked different from most. Instead of a house centered on a lot of some size, there were two long rectangles, one on top of the property, and the other on the right. When he switched to the street view, it didn't help. He still couldn't see a house or apartment building. There were only two, large, unclear, rectangular images. Great. He was about to drive to an area he knew nothing about so had no comfort level, and he didn't even know what was on the property.

He decided not to go alone. He had several types of assistants- paralegals, secretaries, an IT tech - but one was special. Bill had been with him for twenty-five years. He was Carleson's first hire and more like family than an employee. He answered phones. He Xeroxed. He drove. He shuttled cars. He shuttled kids, and picked up things, and dropped off things, and did virtually anything else that temporarily or permanently fell outside someone else's work. So if Carleson needed a partner - and maybe a buffer between himself and Mr. Hells Angel - Bill was the man.

Just after 5:00, Carleson and Bill headed from Long Island to Staten Island. The stereotypical description of each was very different. Long Island was known for its upper crust North Shore, and the rich and famous spending summers in the distant Hamptons. Typically, the further out on the beach, the more costly the sand. In truth, there was a vast, comfortable middle class in between, about 3 million people. In contrast, Staten Island was smaller - about a half million people - and it was known for its working class, blue collar, salt of the earth, somewhat more conservative residents. Families of politicians had ruled over Staten Island for decades. People who were raised there tended to stay put, generations living close to each other, working with each other, and every Sunday eating dinner together. People also watched out for each other, so Carleson didn't want to start asking around about Joseph Muraro, also known as Cowboy.

The drive was pretty simple: thirty miles west on the Belt Parkway then across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. And no one remembered the "Narrows" or "Bridge" parts. They called it the Verrazano and couldn't remember the explorer it was named for, either. Just as the parkway was commonly called "the Belt," presumably because it made a partial loop. There was no forgotten explorer called "Belt."

After they crossed the bridge, it was just a couple of miles - the whole island was only seven by fourteen. Again, in contrast, Long Island was twenty-five by a hundred-and-twenty. Immediately after the bridge, they were surrounded by industry. But as they quickly eased into suburbs, Carleson noticed very nicely kept homes with small, manicured lawns. Properties may not have been huge on Staten Island, but they were well maintained, and Carleson sensed a feeling of pride as Bill drove through the neighborhoods.

As they turned onto Cowboy's block, Carleson noticed the houses were a little more run down, with more dirt than lawns, and when they found the number they wanted, there was a lot full of dirt. Set at the back, on the maybe fifty by fifty property, was a trailer. That was the first Googled rectangle. But the second - the main attraction - wasn't a second trailer, but a full-sized bus, parked to the right and perpendicular to the street.

It looked like a tour bus - the kind that takes the seniors and visitors from New York to Atlantic City every day, and Carleson couldn't tell if it was in service. It was almost 7:00, there'd been rush hour traffic, and it was starting to get dark. Carleson focused on the trailer because that's where he supposed Cowboy would be living. Bill parked on the curb and then asked, "Do you want me to knock on the door?"

"Hell, yes," Carleson thought. But he knew he'd have to do the talking - and some fast talking - if Cowboy answered and Carleson wanted him to come out.

"Nah. That's okay, Bill. Just come with me. You're packing right?"

Bill looked at him and chuckled. Neither of them owned a gun, and Carleson never would have asked Bill to buy one for work. But Carleson sure wouldn't have minded having some protection just then. The second amendment, gun control, and the NRA didn't mean jack shit when you could be walking into a whole lot of trouble.

As they approached the trailer, there were no outside lights and seemingly only one on inside. Carleson knocked a few times. There was no doorbell and, for sure, no welcome mat. He knocked again, this time calling, "Cowboy," hoping that using the man's nickname might build a feeling of familiarity. No luck. Either Cowboy wasn't home, or he was ignoring them. But it was still early in the evening, so Carleson wasn't giving up. Instead, he suggested to Bill that they grab dinner.

They drove the neighborhood and found Chinese and Mexican restaurants, plus a deli and a few standby fast food franchises. Bill wanted fast fried stuff but Carleson generally tried to stay away from that, so they compromised on Chinese.

Waiting for their food, Carleson scrolled his e-mail and text messages. "How you liking Staten Island?" his husband had written. "As nice as Maui?"

Funny guy - and always wanting to travel to the Islands. Maybe they'd go there next vacation. There was also a text from Doug, practically the same one he'd sent every night since the trial began.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you're doing for me. God Bless You."

Looking at that text, Carleson had smiled. It was gratifying to have such an appreciative client. Most of the time, his clients didn't realize what it took to recover insurance money, mainly because the majority of cases were settled out of court. Carleson would argue motions in court, but his clients weren't there to hear that. Carleson would also negotiate with insurance company adjusters or defense attorneys, but clients weren't privy to that, either. But when he had a rare trial, and his clients were sitting there next to him every day, they'd get a good sense of what it took to succeed in a personal injury case - especially one as one as complex as this.

Although at the start of the trial, he'd told the jury this was a very simple case, and they should use their common sense to determine the obvious person who was driving the car, that wasn't entirely true. Doug was very bright so was aware of the nuances. He'd seen the judge constantly deny Carleson's motions and overrule his objections while doing the opposite for Lee. It was so obvious that Doug would ask repeatedly why the judge was siding with the defense. The only explanation Carleson could give was the judge's history with Stu Lee.

They'd started together in the DA's office, working side-by-side for the first five years-or-so of their careers. The DA's office was a common launch pad for people wanting to become trial attorneys, and young lawyers would typically spend two-to-five years there before moving onto private practice. Both Lee and the judge had done that, and then Lee stayed in private practice and the judge had moved onto the bench. There weren't enough qualified women attorneys who wanted to become judges, so when one became available, the local politicians would let the ones higher up know she was interested, and the people in power would usually take notice. New York state elected its judges, as opposed to other states where they were appointed by state senators and approved by the governors. But the word "election" had a loose definition, and people needed to cooperate.

Still, though the judge and Lee had a history, there was no reason she'd jeopardize her reputation by constantly ruling against Carleson. Or so he tried to persuade Doug. But it was getting to be a pattern. Maybe she didn't think the trial was very important, or maybe she was reflexively protecting a local cop. Either way, Carleson was definitely getting the hard edge of her rulings.

Carleson grinned after reading Doug's text again. He was a lawyer's dream client. Not only did he testify well and come across with absolute credibility, he was a genuinely great guy. They couldn't have lunch during the trial without Doug insisting on paying. Carleson was used to his clients hitting him up for money, not the other way around. Doug also brought cookies to court every morning, freshly baked by him and his wife. And Doug insisted on meeting Carleson in the parking lot each day, to help carry his bags. Then he'd help carry them back at the end of each day. The guy was genuine, and Carleson was banking that this jury would see that.

After he and Bill finished eating, they drove back to the trailer. As they approached the lot, Carleson immediately noticed a small front porch light was on. Also, there was a Harley parked where one hadn't been.

Bill parked one house away. Carleson didn't want any sudden moves setting off Cowboy. As a lawyer, he prided himself on being carefully prepared for a trial. But there were some things he couldn't prepare for.

Carleson hoped for the best, but was ready for much worse. He'd seen too many horror movies with his kids, when even at five-years old, one of them would ask him or Edward, "Why is that guy going into that scary house? Doesn't he know that monsters live there?"

Still, he and Bill walked up the three steps leading to the front door. Carleson knocked and, thinking he'd be knocking again, held his hand in place, Suddenly, he heard a loud, husky voice.

"Whoze there?"

"Ben Carleson, Mr. Muraro." He tried not to stutter.

"Who the hell are you, and what do you want!"

"I'm the lawyer who's been calling you about my client, Doug Hodges. You testified in his criminal trial, and I - and my office staff - have been calling you for the last month because we need your help."

Silence. No answer. Carleson wondered if he'd been heard or was being ignored.

"Cowboy," he tried. "I know you don't want to see me..."

At that moment, the door flew open, and Carleson was eye-to-chest with one huge man. Now Carleson wasn't short. He was just under six foot. But this guy was at least six-six.

Carleson didn't see any junk yard dogs, but this guy looked meaner than them, too. He was burnt from laying asphalt outdoors year-round, had tats running up each arm, and they were easily visible under his thin wife-beater. Carleson hoped it wasn't going to be renamed "a Ben beater." Cowboy was also wearing a leather do-rag, ripped, dirty jeans, and a large silver belt buckle with a skull and cross bones. His arms were the size of Carleson's well-toned legs, and it looked like he'd been born in a gym. He stared down at Carleson then started to talk, loud and fast.

"You're the motherfucker who's been jamming up my answering machine for the last month. I couldn't get any fucking messages or new clients. Who do you think you are, and what the fuck are you doing here?"

Carleson knew he had seconds to talk. "Look, I'm sorry about your answering machine. It was just really important that I get through to you. If you called back the first time, we wouldn't have kept calling. I'm trying to do my job and represent my client, Doug Hodges, in his civil trial. We really need you to testify."

"I did that testifying shit already, and that motherfucker lawyer took my balls off. He made me look like a thief, and a criminal, and a liar, and nobody believed a word I said."

"I know. I read the transcript. And I promise it will be different this time."

"Who'd be dumb enough to believe that?"

"The prosecutor didn't have your back last time. I will."

"That's bullshit. The judge hated me. The fucking attorney was saying shit about how I was in the Angels and how I hated cops. And how fuckin' prejudiced I am. That's nothing but bullshit."

Cowboy was outside by then and had backed Carleson down the three steps. He was on a roll and unloading everything he'd probably kept packed inside since the criminal trial. And he wasn't done.

"That mother fucker called me prejudiced. Prejudiced! I've been called a lot of shit in my life but prejudiced ain't one of them! I treat everybody the same. I was born around here and everyone knows that. Everyone knows me. They all know Cowboy is a stand up guy! You go ask my waitress Brittany down at the diner where I ate dinner tonight - where I eat dinner almost every night. She's from a different country - her parents were. We have different religions, and I don't give a fuck. I've known her for years - and her family. Her little girl was born with a bad lip and all, and I had the Angels raise money for her surgery. I may not be the best guy on the planet, and maybe I've loved women and left them all over the place. But I do quality work, and I'm not that fuckin' monster that fuckin' attorney made me out to be. And if you think that I'm going back in that fuckin' courtroom and laying myself bare for another asshole to slice and dice me then you're as fucked in the head as that shithead was."

Carleson took a chance there and just laughed. The guy was naturally funny. "Cowboy... Cowboy... Cowboy..." he started. "It's okay. It's all right." What more could he do? Hug the giant? Instead, he stood his ground, with his hands and arms spread wide, the universal guy sign for "Go on. Take your shot at me. A good, clear one. You deserve it."

Meanwhile, Carleson's memory was racing. Brittany. Waitress. Diner. Staten Island. Baby. Cleft lip. This was all going together if he could just figure out how. Something wasn't right. Or something was, but he couldn't pin it.

Suddenly - "Brittany Savo?" he asked Cowboy.

A very puzzled look came over Cowboy's face. "What!" he shouted.

"You said Brittany was your waitress. Tonight. Every night. At the diner. Is her full name Brittany Savo?"

Cowboy seemed to think for a moment and then said, "Yeah. Yeah, I think it is." He suddenly frowned. "Have you been talking to my fuckin' friends behind my back?"

"No. No. Nothing like that, I promise. Brittany Savo used to work for me - in my law firm - as a paralegal. She left a few years ago, so she could be closer to home - to take care of her daughter. She told me she was taking a job in a diner because she used to work there when she was in school, studying to be a paralegal. She knew it was dumb work and knew she could do better. But it paid pretty well, and there was no commute."

Carleson could barely believe what he was saying. It was surreal. Cowboy was still standing above him, on the second step, which probably put him over seven feet tall. But his face was changing. A calm was coming over him. It was a slow-building calm, but it came all the same.

"You're the lawyer Britt used to work for?" he finally asked. "She told me that - told me she used to work for a personal injury guy on Long Island - 'cause that's what she wanted to do - help people. She said it was a good job, and you were a good guy, but the drive was too far."

Carleson was nodding steadily. Smiling. Trying to seem encouraging. Still, his hands were spread wide.

"Unfuckin' believable. Unreal," Cowboy decided. "Fuckin' unreal. What are the odds? Why didn't you tell me? I was about to kick your ass."