Hunter made a mental note that he’d try to track him down first thing the following morning and get an interpreter there if need be. But an allegation in the amended filing caught his eye. According to the commission, Mr. Hayek was adamant about not filing his own complaint. Clearly he feared retaliation, which meant that tracking Mr. Hayek down for an interview, let alone getting him to next Thursday’s trial, would be a minor miracle. Subpoenaing him was always an option if push came to shove, but everyone knew subpoenas weren’t worth the paper they were written on. Witnesses frequently disregarded them. And with the recent wave of crime in the city, even victims of major crimes, like rape or attempted murder, refused to come to court to testify against their own attackers.
Sam’s bark interrupted his concentration. Hunter checked his TAG watch and realized that four hours had just passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, not an unusual occurrence when preparing for trial. He’d barely made any headway, though, and knew the case would be even more difficult to put together than he had originally anticipated. He forced himself to take a much-needed yet undeserved break, hoping to burn off the cloud of disorientation in his mind. So he stood from the ergonomically incorrect chair in his cramped second bedroom turned office and stretched. Sharp pains jolted through his bum right knee. Wonderful, he thought. Not only am I not leading the charmed life of David Beckham, but this is how I’m spending my fucking weekends.
He made his way toward the galley kitchen. He had to pass through part of the living room to get there and couldn’t help but notice the low-slanting late-afternoon light penetrating the front window. Sam was still crumpled up in his favorite chair, already drifting back to sleep. Hunter stood at the water cooler, trying to make sense of Sam’s bark. What caused him to stir? Another dog? That was strange. The apartment was right off the street, and Sam had been desensitized to pedestrian traffic and other loud sounds. He’d even grown immune to animal scents, particularly those emitted by females in heat. Hunter was about to let it go, chalking it up to his own paranoia. Probably a neighbor or a bunch of rowdy college kids boozing nearby. But something compelled him to go to his front door. It was still locked, the chain guard taut. He unlocked it and immediately surveyed the entranceway for any sign of unusual activity. Nothing. As he went to close the door, though, breathing a sigh of relief, he noticed a business-sized envelope leaning against it.
No return address or postmark. Not even his name or address listed. He unsealed it with a kitchen knife as he swigged down a shot of his favorite tequila, Casa Noble Blanco. Anything to take the edge off even more. The letter was folded imprecisely, and there appeared to be a small metal object at the bottom of the envelope. He scanned it quickly. Typed in a generic font, the letter was quick and to the point. He focused on the words as he held the object in his other hand: a lone .22 caliber bullet.
Leave Vito Armani Alone.
That was it. Just four simple, terrifying words, shaving away his resolve, sliver by sliver. He tried to block them out, make light of them. Yet even a few liberal shots in, they continued to fester, taunting his fear with each passing millisecond. He left a message for one of his undergrad buddies—someone living way out in the sticks—giving him a heads up about the possibility that he might need a place to hide out. In the very near future.
Even if his mind flowed freely and he had the stamina to work straight through to trial on Thursday, twenty-four seven, that still would likely not be enough time to adequately prepare. The media was all over this case, which only made the anxiety bubble over. And the fact that Vito assuredly was connected, and all of the gruesome images that conjured up, kept repeating in his
Sam’s bark interrupted his concentration. Hunter checked his TAG watch and realized that four hours had just passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, not an unusual occurrence when preparing for trial. He’d barely made any headway, though, and knew the case would be even more difficult to put together than he had originally anticipated. He forced himself to take a much-needed yet undeserved break, hoping to burn off the cloud of disorientation in his mind. So he stood from the ergonomically incorrect chair in his cramped second bedroom turned office and stretched. Sharp pains jolted through his bum right knee. Wonderful, he thought. Not only am I not leading the charmed life of David Beckham, but this is how I’m spending my fucking weekends.
He made his way toward the galley kitchen. He had to pass through part of the living room to get there and couldn’t help but notice the low-slanting late-afternoon light penetrating the front window. Sam was still crumpled up in his favorite chair, already drifting back to sleep. Hunter stood at the water cooler, trying to make sense of Sam’s bark. What caused him to stir? Another dog? That was strange. The apartment was right off the street, and Sam had been desensitized to pedestrian traffic and other loud sounds. He’d even grown immune to animal scents, particularly those emitted by females in heat. Hunter was about to let it go, chalking it up to his own paranoia. Probably a neighbor or a bunch of rowdy college kids boozing nearby. But something compelled him to go to his front door. It was still locked, the chain guard taut. He unlocked it and immediately surveyed the entranceway for any sign of unusual activity. Nothing. As he went to close the door, though, breathing a sigh of relief, he noticed a business-sized envelope leaning against it.
No return address or postmark. Not even his name or address listed. He unsealed it with a kitchen knife as he swigged down a shot of his favorite tequila, Casa Noble Blanco. Anything to take the edge off even more. The letter was folded imprecisely, and there appeared to be a small metal object at the bottom of the envelope. He scanned it quickly. Typed in a generic font, the letter was quick and to the point. He focused on the words as he held the object in his other hand: a lone .22 caliber bullet.
Leave Vito Armani Alone.
That was it. Just four simple, terrifying words, shaving away his resolve, sliver by sliver. He tried to block them out, make light of them. Yet even a few liberal shots in, they continued to fester, taunting his fear with each passing millisecond. He left a message for one of his undergrad buddies—someone living way out in the sticks—giving him a heads up about the possibility that he might need a place to hide out. In the very near future.
Even if his mind flowed freely and he had the stamina to work straight through to trial on Thursday, twenty-four seven, that still would likely not be enough time to adequately prepare. The media was all over this case, which only made the anxiety bubble over. And the fact that Vito assuredly was connected, and all of the gruesome images that conjured up, kept repeating in his
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