mind’s eye. He needed to stay the course and remember his oath of zealous advocacy. If he got too bogged down with the ordinance’s constitutionality, he’d play right into the defense’s strategy. He had to trust his instincts, typically one of his strengths. Yet this case was toying with him, progressively making him feel more and more out of control. Was it his own sense of dread? Or was the distinct possibility that fucking up this case would guarantee he never made partner messing with his head?
Digging up dirt on Vito was the only chance he had of winning this thing. A law school buddy over at the district attorney’s office didn’t seem to know jack shit. Plus, his contact acted clueless about what the feds might’ve had. But the feds always played it close to the vest. Glory hounds. Another friend, a solo practitioner who used to do some criminal defense for a couple of the local wise guys, hadn’t heard anything, either. Confronting the inevitable, Hunter knew his best bet was tracking down the thug from Chinatown.
S IXTEEN
G roggy, Hunter awoke to the jarring ring of his firm-issued BlackBerry. Sheila, who appeared blissful in her post-coital slumber, stirred lazily. Rewarding himself with her company after progressing as far as he could go on the Vito’s case was his first big mistake from last night. The arid, cottony sensation in his mouth, a symptom of a few too many, was his second. He rubbed his eyes, the circles darker than usual, as he focused on the bedside clock until it came into clear focus: 2:23 shone in oversized red digital numbers. Who the hell? Anyone but Rachel.
Rachel was his older sister, a self-loathing failed actress and drug aficionado. She was fresh off her most recent stint in rehab after being seduced by crystal meth. Again. She would assuredly decimate the smidgen of heart his widowed mother back in Chicago had left after losing the love of her life, his father. Cancer had proved a far too formidable foe even for him, a blue-collar factory worker who hadn’t missed a day of work in thirty years.
Hunter fumbled for the phone and then raised it to his ear, answering softly and with as much alertness as he could manage. As he concentrated on the voice on the other end of the line, he couldn’t help but notice the dreamy, almost-ethereal glow in the room. One of his vigilant neighbors had a habit of leaving on the floodlights in the rear of his single-family residence. Tonight, though, the light refracting in the back alley, right off his bedroom, moved differently. It was surreal. And although he couldn’t visualize the dream sequence, the angst that went along with it was still prominent. He had the rusted-out flood valve in his mind to thank for the restlessness.
The voice, colored by terror and panic, belonged to Andy’s famously uptight wife, Pam. All the usual suspects raced through his mind as he speculated about the reason for her middle-of-the-night call. Car crash. Hopefully it isn’t Mike. Their oldest child, Mike, had been born with a complicated and debilitating seizure disorder.
Pam managed the strength to utter a full sentence after about a minute of quivering. Gradually, she explained that Andy was hurt. He’d been admitted earlier that night in critical condition. He was in ICU at University of Pennsylvania’s hospital, seriously injured, the victim of a purportedly random gang attack.
Hunter hailed a cab, one of the only cars heading down Spruce Street, his block, at this relatively desolate hour. Within a few minutes of determined, almost suicidally reckless driving, he stood outside Andy’s room. Visiting hours were long since over, yet he managed to charm his way past a punky goth chick with pink highlights and a lip ring. The standards were clearly more relaxed for the graveyard shift.
He knocked gently, and the heavy oak door yawned open. Hunter quietly made his way into the room, the morbid, sterile smell wafting into his nostrils. Opaque
Digging up dirt on Vito was the only chance he had of winning this thing. A law school buddy over at the district attorney’s office didn’t seem to know jack shit. Plus, his contact acted clueless about what the feds might’ve had. But the feds always played it close to the vest. Glory hounds. Another friend, a solo practitioner who used to do some criminal defense for a couple of the local wise guys, hadn’t heard anything, either. Confronting the inevitable, Hunter knew his best bet was tracking down the thug from Chinatown.
S IXTEEN
G roggy, Hunter awoke to the jarring ring of his firm-issued BlackBerry. Sheila, who appeared blissful in her post-coital slumber, stirred lazily. Rewarding himself with her company after progressing as far as he could go on the Vito’s case was his first big mistake from last night. The arid, cottony sensation in his mouth, a symptom of a few too many, was his second. He rubbed his eyes, the circles darker than usual, as he focused on the bedside clock until it came into clear focus: 2:23 shone in oversized red digital numbers. Who the hell? Anyone but Rachel.
Rachel was his older sister, a self-loathing failed actress and drug aficionado. She was fresh off her most recent stint in rehab after being seduced by crystal meth. Again. She would assuredly decimate the smidgen of heart his widowed mother back in Chicago had left after losing the love of her life, his father. Cancer had proved a far too formidable foe even for him, a blue-collar factory worker who hadn’t missed a day of work in thirty years.
Hunter fumbled for the phone and then raised it to his ear, answering softly and with as much alertness as he could manage. As he concentrated on the voice on the other end of the line, he couldn’t help but notice the dreamy, almost-ethereal glow in the room. One of his vigilant neighbors had a habit of leaving on the floodlights in the rear of his single-family residence. Tonight, though, the light refracting in the back alley, right off his bedroom, moved differently. It was surreal. And although he couldn’t visualize the dream sequence, the angst that went along with it was still prominent. He had the rusted-out flood valve in his mind to thank for the restlessness.
The voice, colored by terror and panic, belonged to Andy’s famously uptight wife, Pam. All the usual suspects raced through his mind as he speculated about the reason for her middle-of-the-night call. Car crash. Hopefully it isn’t Mike. Their oldest child, Mike, had been born with a complicated and debilitating seizure disorder.
Pam managed the strength to utter a full sentence after about a minute of quivering. Gradually, she explained that Andy was hurt. He’d been admitted earlier that night in critical condition. He was in ICU at University of Pennsylvania’s hospital, seriously injured, the victim of a purportedly random gang attack.
Hunter hailed a cab, one of the only cars heading down Spruce Street, his block, at this relatively desolate hour. Within a few minutes of determined, almost suicidally reckless driving, he stood outside Andy’s room. Visiting hours were long since over, yet he managed to charm his way past a punky goth chick with pink highlights and a lip ring. The standards were clearly more relaxed for the graveyard shift.
He knocked gently, and the heavy oak door yawned open. Hunter quietly made his way into the room, the morbid, sterile smell wafting into his nostrils. Opaque
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