Thomas benigno the goo.., p.1
Thomas Benigno - The Good Lawyer, page 1
KIRKUS BOOK REVIEW Benigno’s debut legal thriller, a criminal defense lawyer facing his biggest case yet is hardly prepared for the onslaught of treachery and subterfuge.
Nick Mannino’s interest in the case of a school aide, Guevara, accused of kidnapping and molesting three young boys isn’t about seeing his name in the headlines—he genuinely believes in the man’s innocence. The case looks easily winnable for Nick, especially when he learns that two of the boys are miscreants and one’s mother has a criminal record. But his troubles are only beginning when a beautiful blonde stranger asking for Nick takes a swan dive off a high-rise. The young attorney, returning a favor, agrees to defend a man suspected of being the “Spiderman Rapist,” a criminal who earned his nickname by climbing into victims’ windows. The seemingly unrelated events gradually come together, putting the lawyer’s life on the line. Benigno’s first effort is a crafty legal page turner, just as good in the courtroom as it is outside. Many characters are introduced as cryptic figures; even journalist Vinny, who ultimately befriends the protagonist, is first shown as a recurring presence, always noticeable in his red parka. The most engaging parts of the book involve Nick’s professional mishaps, but Benigno fortifies his lead character with problems that his law degree can’t fix: the sickly daughter of his secretary and Nick’s trouble telling his girlfriend, Eleanor, a blue-blooded assistant district attorney, that he has a mobster uncle. A trip with Eleanor to her brother’s wedding feels a little like an interruption, particularly since it happens when the mystery is building at full speed. Regardless, it’s still a crucial sequence, revealing the attorney’s insecurities in marrying a rich woman—feelings he must contend with to win his exacting case.
Readers who like their courtroom thrillers packed with lawyer-speak and zigzagging plot developments should find much to savor.
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
Copyright © 2012 Thomas Benigno
All rights reserved.
Published by Landview Books - Second Edition, January 2013
ISBN: 1463604815
ISBN 13: 9781463604813
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-313-3
For Angie
“long after…”
“If there were no bad people, there would be no good lawyers.”
Charles Dickens
This novel is inspired by a true story.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Epilogue
About the Authors
Acknowledgements
I have much to be grateful for and many to be grateful to. This is a first novel. In many respects it is a product of all who have influenced me, good and bad. It is sometimes autobiographical, but if you ask me in person, I will seldom admit it. I have a beautiful mother, like Nick Mannino. To no one more do I owe the sense of decency that guides me, though precariously at times, and for better or worse through this grand scheme of life. Also, there would be no lawyer in me if not for the encouragement (urging) of my stepfather (father), John Benigno (d.1976). I wish I patiently appreciated him more back when. To my children, who drive me crazy from time to time, and I them for sure (does it surprise anyone that one who works on a book for many years is somewhat out of the norm) – you are my pure prizes: intelligent, tough, and soft of heart. Thanks for putting up with me. I love you madly and deeply.
To James and Kathleen Gurrieri, for a lifetime of friendship, and encouragement and support. To my old friend, Gil Clancy, I will always miss you. To my buddy, Ron and Sue Ross, for their constant encouragement. To the Benigno and Vasquez families, one and all. To my rediscovered Castagna Family in and around Syracuse, New York. How wonderful to have found you. Your kindness and love have been a cleansing. To the true characters that helped mold the pages of this book and enhance the story line with their integrity and high ideals: the Honorable Alice Schlesinger, the Honorable Joel Blumenfeld, Barry Scheck, all the attorneys of Complex C (1979-1984). To my accountant and good buddy, Al Eigen (the first to read and rave); to my editors Mike Shain and Jeff Kellogg. The novel would read nothing like it does if not for your skill and support. For the affection and encouragement of all my family, friends and clients. You know who you are - my heartfelt thanks.
And to my wife, Angie, my partner through every page and the thousands lost in countless drafts. You made this possible through your patience, devotion and love. This novel you well know is from a heart – that was and will be – always yours.
Long Island, New York
January 2, 2013
In the end it was her virginity that would do her in.
Late afternoon, December 24, 1981.
A verdict was reached a mere thirty minutes after deliberations had begun. Were Christmas not less than a day away I would have figured it for a courthouse record.
Just two and a half years out of law school, this was my seventh trial and, I was hoping, my seventh victory. As I waited in the lingering quiet of the courtroom a virulent chill penetrated the bleak walnut paneled walls, and my eyes locked on the man sitting next to me. Like the bust of a philistine, head held high, his smug expression never wavered, even when he refused probation and sixty days in jail to face trial and a mandatory eight and a third years in state prison. His folded hands rested firmly on the defense table not far from mine. Our flesh tones nearly identical, I was reminded, once again, that we were both Italian American.
Angelo Bonagura made a dashing figure in his brown disco suit and white lapel shirt as he picked up Dina Rios outside a party in the Pelham section of the Bronx. A local boy, his Travolta look was hampered only by a thick mustache that made him look older than his twenty-one years. His ride—a shiny new Trans Am. Dina had just turned eighteen. She accepted this stranger’s offer to take her home.
When he started to drink in sloppy gulps from a pint bottle of rye she asked him to pull over. He ignored her and pulled behind a trailer in the deserted parking lot of an A&P. After popping down the front passenger bucket seat, he turned Dina on her stomach, yanked down her jeans, and raped her.
When she took the stand to testify I reassessed the jury I had carefully selected with the limited peremptory challenges at my disposal. Three were Italian-American. One, a heavyset elderly woman with a cheerful smile and thin shadow of a mustache, couldn’t stop smiling at me while she and the other jurors filed in.
As the panel of four women and eight men struggled to get comfortable in their seats, the assistant District Attorney, his head rigid, eyes staring straight ahead, ignored their entrance. This was his third felony trial. The fingers of his right hand unmasked his nervousness as they fiddled with an evidence bag containing the victim’s panties. Let’s Party was emblazoned in silver script across the backside. An adjacent manila folder contained the police reports with the entry: “the complainant suffered no discernible physical injuries.” There were no cuts, no bruises, and no blood, though Dina Rios testified that she was a virgin when she was raped. She failed to add that she had lost her cherry years earlier in a car accident. That she refused to tell her parents or report the rape to the police for over a week did
Her parents, natives of Puerto Rico, sat vigilantly behind the railed balustrade in the second row of the courtroom, clutching their daughter seated between them. Years of working in the hot sun were scalded into every deep line on her father’s chiseled complexion. Her mother’s skin was a creamy white. At forty-five years, she was even more beautiful than her daughter, and the daughter was quite beautiful. When the judge addressed the jury I peeked at the young girl’s anxious eyes one last time.
The foreman, a tall man in his fifties, with cropped gray hair and a forehead gleaming with perspiration, loudly read the verdict: “On all counts…not guilty.”
The defendant lunged out of his chair, hands high in victory. The judge promptly ordered him to be seated. Muffled sobs emanated from the mother and daughter. I dared not look back, and quickly moved to have the record sealed.
The clerk, a Bronx courthouse elder seated at a desk beside a wall of dingy oversized casement windows, stamped the court papers with callous ease. I reflexively stiffened as my guilty client hugged me. When he let go my entire body shuddered as the young girl burst forth with an agonizing wail: “He raped me! Rot in hell! Rot in hell you bastard!” She was writhing on the courtroom floor, punching and kicking the dingy parquet wildly. The jury stood agape as she then jumped up, hurdled the balustrade, and raced past me.
I grabbed my client while his mother hunkered nearby, crying and hiding her face in her hands. I jostled them both toward the courtroom doors until they slammed into me and the mother’s thick heel tore into my shoe. I threw my head back and shut my eyes as a stabbing pain coursed through me. But Dina Rios had already scaled the clerk’s hardwood desk and without so much as a momentary pause, a glimmer of consideration, jerked open the nearest casement window and leapt into a blistering snowfall three stories high.
She landed head first on the hood of a parked New York City police car. When her broken body finally lay still, she was face up on the sidewalk, arms outstretched, legs straight—a perverse crucifix image of suffering and forgiveness in a blanket of white and red.
Outside the courthouse, at the bottom of the sloping stone steps that lead from the Supreme Court doors, my client was full of thanks and praise. I weakly shook his hand. His mother kissed me, said something in Italian I didn’t understand then caressed my face with a small clammy hand. Snowflakes settled on my shoulders and hair. The murmuring of a gathering crowd and the squawking of several police car radios could be heard a half block away as an ambulance screeched past us splattering the slush on 161st Street in all directions.
One hour later, alone in my office, with the wind howling outside and the snow continuing to fall, I could still hear the young girl’s screams.
I wept quietly into my hands.
Chapter 1
Two months after the suicide of Dina Rios, I was on my way to my first night arraignment. I thought I had finally put it all behind me. But I was young, and I was wrong.
The Bronx Criminal Courthouse, a four-story concrete block building, occupied the entire block along 161st Street between Sherman and Sheridan Avenues in the apoplectic heart of the South Bronx. Across Sheridan murky brown two-story mixed-use buildings lined the block. Their burnt red brick belied their busy retail storefronts with overhead apartments converted to office space occupied almost entirely by criminal defense lawyers—private practitioners on court-appointed lists anxiously awaiting the court clerk’s call or a walk – in with a wad of cash and an ATM card with easy access to next month’s rent.
On the other side of the Courthouse, across Sherman, was a parking lot reserved for municipal employees. Judges and assistant District Attorneys parked in a secured lot under the building.
Across 161st Street, a vacant lot leveled by the winter’s dead weeds encompassed an entire city block. On its corner sat the wreckage of an abandoned diner, its metallic shine lost to decades of urban blight and indifference, its interior only partly visible through twisted metal net shutters.
Inside the Courthouse a cold hard floor led to a short set of descending stairs. Straight ahead, were two standard department store escalators—the up and down just a handshake away in the center of a coal-colored marble floor.
I squeezed past 50 or 60 people gathered outside the locked courtroom doors of AR 1 and hurried into the clerk’s office. Mine was a familiar face and no one questioned my passage. After stepping through a maze of desks, filing cabinets and court personnel, I pushed through the back door and entered the rear left corner of the courtroom.
Three Legal Aid attorneys were assigned to each arraignment session. Day sessions ran from 9:30 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. The evening shift began at 6:00 P. M. and usually lasted until one in the morning. All those arrested and charged with crimes committed in Bronx County, including those charged with felonies yet to be indicted by a grand jury, appeared in front of a judge for the first time at their arraignment in the Bronx Criminal Court.
Eddie, the steadfast Legal Aid clerk, was seated up front, facing the judge’s bench, stapling complaints, arrest records and Pre-Trial Services bail evaluations to file folders.
In his early thirties, Eddie Lopez easily wore twenty more pounds than his five foot ten inch build comfortably allowed. With a neatly cropped beard and mustache, his bushy black hair dangled over his forehead, but not low enough to cover his eyes, which were fixed on his hands as they pieced together the court papers.
Eddie looked up from behind a file folder as I approached.
“Eddie, what’s that stink?”
“One of the defendants must have thrown up in detention. The court officer went to get some ammonia.”
“You sure it’s not you? Your mama’s spicy cooking maybe?”
He smirked. “I haven’t been eating my mother’s cooking for years, but you’re gonna want to run home to yours after you see what’s in the basket.”
The arraignment basket held the finished case files ready for attorney review prior to entering detention, where criminal defendants waited in jail cells to meet their lawyers.
“What makes you think I’m going to take it?”
“Don’t you take all the sicko sex cases?”
My voice rose a few octaves. “No, I don’t, but maybe if another Legal Aid lawyer would pick even just one up, I wouldn’t have to. And one of us might actually get a defendant who’s innocent.”
Eddie winced. I picked up the file that he had referred to earlier, looked at the complaint, then the defendant’s arrest record.
“See, here’s a guy twenty-four years old, charged with kidnapping and molesting three boys. Never been arrested before in his life. Doesn’t it make you wonder when suddenly at the age of twenty-four a man decides to molest three boys?” On the middle of Eddie’s desk I spotted the blaring cover of the New York Post…
SCHOOL AIDE FINGERED FOR SEX ATTACK ON 3 KIDS
I tucked the file under my arm, and headed for the holding cells.
Chapter 2
I was accosted with the stench of puke and piss and immediately became nauseous. Even with fifty or so arraignment sessions under my belt, I still hadn’t gotten used to it.
I was standing in a prison vestibule, a locked cell gate before me.
“On the door!” I yelled.
In his mid-fifties, Corrections Officer Hurtado shuffled up to the gate with the placid regularity of a parking attendant, and spoke in kind.
“Hey Nick! What d’ ya say?” Hurtado keyed open the barred door. Corrections usually had the scoop on the numbers being processed through central booking that were “in the system” and likely candidates for an evening’s appearance in AR 1. “Wha’d ya got?”
“Guevara,” I said.
“Yeah, got him in this morning. The D.A. told us to push him through. What’d this guy do that’s so special?”
“I hope it’s what he didn’t do.”
“Whatever,” Hurtado muttered, as he locked the heavy iron gate behind me. “He’s here and he’s been asking for a lawyer for the last hour and a half.”
A female corrections’ officer sat behind a desk hunched over a logbook and a telephone at the end of a narrow cinder block hallway. Off to the left, past two small cells reserved for segregated prisoners, was the interview area. Three tables stood in a row against a concrete wall. Chairs were scattered about. I took a seat at the middle table facing the corridor where Guevara would turn down to meet me.
