The Good Boss Page 4

  Chapter Eight

  Terra

  “There’s nothing that we’re going to solve that won’t be easier with a glass of wine,” my mother said. “Sit.”

  It seemed strange talking to my mother about matters while Michael was in the other room, but I had no choice. The trial date had been set, and it was October 4. Going ahead with the trial any sooner, according to the attorney, would sacrifice the preparation of my father’s defense.

  As it was, Michael was working twelve to sixteen hours a day, and sleeping very little. Most of the work he was doing was going through documents on or about my father’s case, hoping to find something that changed everything.

  So far, from what I could tell, he hadn’t found anything useful.

  My mother handed me a glass of wine. “What’s bothering you?”

  The kitchen looked different. Everything around me seemed to have changed since my father had been away. Maybe I was looking at life with different eyes.

  “Did you change anything in here?” I asked.

  She glanced around the room and then sat down across from me. “No. I cleaned. Put things away.”

  Her face was gaunt, and she looked like she hadn’t eaten or slept in quite some time. A woman who could have easily passed for my older sister now looked like she could easily be my grandmother.

  I took a sip of wine. “I’m worried.”

  “We’re all worried,” she said.

  “What if...” I hesitated. It seemed wrong to even consider it. “What if...what if he doesn’t get out? If they keep him?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Your father?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t like thinking like that, so I don’t,” she said.

  “But...what if?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t say such things.”

  “The trial is in October,” I said. “Five months after the wedding is scheduled. Should we—Michael and I are wondering. Should we postpone the wedding?”

  Halfway through a drink of wine, she pulled her mouth from the glass and slopped wine on the table.

  She glared at me. “Terra! The wedding is in June. Everything will work out. Somehow. Have faith.”

  I was afraid she’d be little help. I pushed my glass to the side and sighed. “There’s nothing that’s going to happen in court until October. Nothing. He’s not going to be here for the wedding if we have it. Who will give me away?”

  The fact that my father may never be able to give me away began to sink in. Within seconds, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I lowered my head into my hands and cried.

  Between my sobs, I could hear that my mother had joined in my sadness. I wiped my eyes with the heel of my palm and took her hand.

  “What are we going to do?” I blubbered.

  “I don’t know.” She cried for some time, and then caught her breath. “I’m... I’m afraid he might not...”

  Her voice faded off, and she didn’t finish her sentence. There was no need. She, no differently than me, was afraid of what might happen.

  I felt empty, and abandoned. The blessed union of marriage was an event that every girl looked forward to, and I should have been in the middle of planning mine. Happy and overcome with joyous emotions was how I always figured I’d spend the time that led up to my marriage.

  Yet.

  I sat with tears running down my cheeks. Not because of what I was missing, or what I felt should be happening.

  But because my father wasn’t with me. And he wasn’t going to be with me.

  And I saw no way that it was going to get better.

  Ever.

  Chapter Nine

  Michael

  Digging through the evidence had become an obsession. I was working six hours a day keeping matters in order with the family, and fourteen hours a day on the legal case.

  After deciding what was useless and setting it aside, I had eliminated half of the paperwork as “filler.” Procedural policies of the ATF, transcriptions of video tapes, and the RICO Act printed in full made up forty percent of the evidence. Be it a scare tactic, or simply to consume man hours in filtering through it, their provision of the useless information left me feeling frustrated and angry.

  I had separated the Confidential Informant statements from the filler, and was eager to read them. They would either corroborate what Carter had told us, or shed light on a different truth.

  I began with the most recent report.

  Interview of CI 233A

  Informant given breathalyzer test, and urine test for presence of alcohol and/or drugs. Both tests were negative.

  Informant states that suspect AA has teeth of two deceased federal agents secured in safe at residence 2301 Winding Meadow, Mission Hills, Kansas 66208.

  Safe is located in the in-home office of AA.

  11-10-2016

  C. Black

  I punched the sheet of paper with the three-hole punch, labeled it with a yellow tab, and placed it into the binder. Disappointed that the report included minimal information, and certain that the remaining reports would be just as worthless, I grabbed another and gave it a quick glance.

  Interview of CI 233A

  Informant given breathalyzer test, and urine test for presence of alcohol and/or drugs. Both tests were negative.

  Informant states that suspect AA gave an order to “find the rat and whack him.”

  Informant believes AA’s soldiers are presently under order to locate and execute any informants within family.

  13 October, 2016

  SA Whistler

  I punched the report, affixed a tab, labeled it, and placed it in the binder. One by one, I read them, some of which included a simple sentence, and others that gave a brief broken paragraph. In a short time, I was reading the one that preceded the first raid on Anthony’s residence.

  Interview of CI 233A

  Informant given breathalyzer test, and urine test for presence of alcohol and/or drugs. Both tests were negative.

  Informant states that suspect AA may have teeth of deceased ATF Agent Kevin Gatlin secured in safe at residence 2301 Winding Meadow, Mission Hills, Kansas 66208.

  Safe is located in the in-home office of AA.

  9-17-2016

  C. Black

  Methodically, I labeled the report with the date and placed it in the binder. After a few torturous hours, I had read, labeled, and bound all the informant’s statements.

  My phone’s buzzing tore my mind from my work for an instant. I swept my thumb across the screen. A message from Terra reminded me of my commitment to her father’s case. Sadly, that dedication deprived her of what she expected of me.

  Are you about done?

  I typed a one-word response: Almost.

  My phone buzzed.

  It’s 3:30.

  I glanced at my watch. She was right. It was 3:30 a.m. As much as I wanted my life with Terra to return to normal, I fully realized the presentation of Anthony’s case had a time limit on it, and I was racing against a clock that never stopped spinning.

  I’ll be home soon.

  Her response was immediate. Okay. I love you.

  Although it wasn’t apparent from my recent interaction with her, I loved Terra more than I loved myself. My frantic search for a morsel of information that may free her father from his confines stood as proof of that love, but understanding the differences that came as a result of that desperate effort wasn’t easy.

  I love you, too. I’ll see you soon.

  A heavy sigh escaped me. I looked at the row of three-inch binders that now lined the bookcase. So far, I had assembled eleven, all of which were filled with documents. The collection of information depicted the government’s opinions of Anth
ony over a ten-year period. It seemed eerie that a group of men outside the family had been conducting surveillance on the Agrioli family for a decade. In that length of time, they’d only found one thing that they could prosecute him with, and it was something he wasn’t guilty of.

  Equally as eerie was that someone within the family had broken the oath of Omertà and turned against the family.

  For twenty grand no less.

  Exhausted and frustrated, I gazed at the binders. With each passing minute, I was filled with more guilt.

  In my absence, Anthony wouldn’t be in the position he was in. He’d spent a lifetime under the watchful eye of the government, and they hadn’t been able to charge him with a single crime.

  In my infinite wisdom, I agreed to give him the teeth of two deceased ATF agents. Teeth that would later tie him to a crime that he didn’t commit.

  I should have known better.

  I poured a glass of scotch, took a sip, and glanced at the remaining documents on the desk. In a few more days I’d be done. If something didn’t present itself as being exculpatory, the judge would end up deciding the case on its merits.

  And, Anthony would be fucked.

  Chapter Ten

  Terra

  While Michael worked yet another late night, I cried. I cried for my father, for my mother, for my future, and for my family’s future. I cried at the thought of my children never meeting their grandfather outside the confines of a prison’s walls. I cried for Michael’s return, and along with it, that some resemblance of normalcy would return to our lives.

  Yet, I knew better.

  The severity of the crime, the permanency of the punishment, and the fact that there was little hope of changing the outcome came crashing down on me like it had been dropped from the heavens above.

  For a while, I second-guessed my willingness to support Michael in his day-to-day activities. In the end, I decided supporting him was exactly what I needed to offer, as the man I fell in love with was the one who took risks, walked with his shoulders raised, and had so much confidence that it was absorbed by those around him.

  The man I fell in love with was the man behind the ornate desk.

  The man who never gave up.

  The man who fought fights that so many other men would simply walk away from.

  It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was going to be necessary.

  Hoping I didn’t look like a raccoon by the time Michael was done showering, I alternated a package of frozen peas from one eye to the other as I attempted to cook breakfast. With a spatula in one hand, and the frozen vegetables in the other, I waited for the eggs to solidify.

  When the bedroom door opened, I tossed the peas onto the counter.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I glanced over my shoulder and tried to smile. “Cooking breakfast.”

  “No.” He chuckled. “With that sack against your face.”

  I liked hearing him laugh. It was something that it seemed we had lost when my father was taken from us.

  “Just trying not to look like a raccoon,” I said, my tone slightly apologetic.

  He walked toward the refrigerator. “Why would you look like a raccoon?”

  “I was crying last night.”

  He pulled the foil from a cup of yogurt, tossed it into the trash, then sat at the bar. “About?”

  “About Dad. About everything.” I plated the eggs and slid the plate across the counter. “It’s hard.”

  “I’m sorry, babe. And, you’re right. It is hard. I’m exhausted,” he said. “Can you get me a spoon, please?”

  Over the last few months, we’d become all but immune to each other’s emotions. Michael was upset, fearful, exhausted, and often sat with his head in his hands, staring off at nothing.

  I burst into fits of crying, often for no real reason. Well, other than I was sad about my father.

  Such happenings had become so frequent that it was almost as if they were expected. A part of the grieving that was required to prepare us for what was to come. At least that was what I told myself.

  Our lack of participation in consoling the other was what bothered me the most. But I was as guilty as he was. I had no idea of how to fix myself, therefore I knew I wouldn’t be able to resolve Michael’s concerns.

  The result was slowly crushing me.

  I handed him a spoon, poured two cups of coffee, and then took a seat at his side. While I picked at my eggs, he sipped his coffee.

  “Have you found anything yet?” I asked, hoping he’d at least found something.

  “Nothing earth-shattering, no.”

  I looked at him. “Anything?”

  The look on his face gave all the answer I needed. My heart sank a little deeper into my chest.

  He cleared his throat. “No.”

  I poked a chunk of eggs and debated on whether I should try to eat them or not. While I watched the yellow blob balance on the end of my fork, he lifted his cup of yogurt and studied it.

  “When did you buy this?” he asked. “Is it old?”

  I had no idea. Lately, it was as if I had no sense of the passage of time. I couldn’t even remember when the last time I went to the store was.

  “I don’t know, why?”

  He glared at the container. “It tastes funky.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t eat it.”

  “This shit’s outdated, 11 November,” he said. “The day after—”

  His gaze shot to me midsentence. His eyes widened as if he had a revelation. In a flash, he dropped the yogurt, jumped from his chair, and ran to the bedroom.

  “What?” I shouted. “What happened?”

  He bolted out of the room and rushed toward the front door. Halfway there, he paused, ran back into the kitchen, and gave me a kiss.

  “I may have something,” he said excitedly. “I’ve got to go take another look.”

  “What kind of something? Something good?”

  “I think so,” he said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

  I forced a smile and nodded.

  I knew better than to get my hopes up. I needed to try to maintain a realistic outlook on what the future held.

  But I wasn’t sure on what was realistic, and what was wishful thinking.

  Chapter Eleven

  Michael

  I tossed the binder onto Al’s desk and then pointed at it. “I’ve separated them by who signed them. Take a look at all of the reports signed by Whistledick. The tabs are labeled.”

  He let out a sigh, reached for the binder, and opened it. “What am I looking for?”

  I hesitated to tell him what I’d found. I wanted him to find it for himself. Maybe in the end, it would be nothing. At least for the time being, I felt that it was something significant.

  “Just look at how he signed each of them,” I said. “They’re all the same.”

  He took a few minutes to flip through the reports, and then looked up. “They look consistent.”

  “Now. Look at the reports signed by agent Black.”

  I sat in the chair across from his desk and crossed my legs while he looked at each of the documents.

  “His manner of dating the reports is different. Whistler uses a numerical date, a three-letter abbreviation for the month, and then a numerical year. Black uses a numerical day numerical month, and numerical year.”

  At least he caught it. I arched an eyebrow. “Anything unusual about the dates he used?”

  He tossed the binder onto his desk. “A cryptic phone call and then you drove two hundred miles in what?” He looked at his watch. “An hour and twenty minutes? Why don’t you tell me what you think you’ve found.”

  “Prepare yourself,” I said, my tone half sarcastic
and half hopeful.

  He relaxed into his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “It looks like both agent Whistler and agent Black interviewed confidential informant 233A, who was Justin Carter. One would interview him one week, and maybe the other would the next week. There’s no pattern to who conducted the interviews, and that’s not important. But, on the day Carter revealed that Anthony had the teeth in his possession, Black was the one doing the interview.”

  Both his eyebrows rose.

  “Okay,” he said as if not amused by my statement.

  “The dates. The date they served the search warrant was 15 October, 2016.” I stood, exhaled, and motioned toward the binder. “The date that Black said the informant gave him the information about the teeth was November 10, 2016. It’s not only long after they served the warrant, it’s after Gino was killed, which makes getting information out of him impossible.”

  His eyes shot wide and he reached for the binder. After frantically searching through the pages for a few seconds, he shot up from his seat.

  “Dear God,” he said. “This just might do it.”

  My heart began to race. “Seriously? Is it enough that we can—”

  “It’s enough that I can question the validity of all of agent Black’s reports. As long as Whistler didn’t make specific mention of the teeth in a CI report that has the correct date on it, I’m pretty goddamned sure we can get a hard look taken at the report in question. And, if it’s looked at, I can’t see that anyone would see it as anything other than what it is.”

  I gave him a look of uncertainty. “Which is?”

  He cocked his head. “A lie.”

  “Then what?”

  “If the judge sees it as a lie?”

  “Yes.”

  “If he sees it as such, the report would be tossed out of evidence. Then, the objects obtained in what would be a wrongful search would be tossed along with it. It trickles down. Anything gained as a result of the report would be inadmissible. The indictment, the search warrant, the search, and, my client.”

  The thought excited me. “Whistler never made mention of the teeth,” I said. “During that timeframe, all he did was make mention of the informant giving information. There was nothing specific.”