Mary bit her lip, her mouth gone dry as paper. She wasn’t thinking of herself or even her parents. If Judge Green went against her, they would live with the decision. The only one who couldn’t live with that decision was Patrick.
Judge Green continued, “I am mindful that leaving Patrick in the custody of the foster care system may be as fraught with risk as transferring his custody to Ms. DiNunzio, given his challenges. I also applaud Ms. DiNunzio, who has unselfishly volunteered to help a child in need. Simply put, there is no perfect solution. But in consideration of the relevant facts and governing law, I have decided that Patrick O’Brien should remain in DHS custody at the present time. Therefore, I hereby grant DHS’s Petition to Retain Custody in the Matter of P.O.B., and I hereby deny Ms. DiNunzio’s Petition in Opposition.” Judge Green banged the gavel. “So ordered.”
Mary felt a wave of despair wash over her.
Judge Green banged the gavel, one last time. “Court is adjourned.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Mary gathered her purse and messenger bag and walked down the aisle of the courtroom ahead of Abby and John, letting them stop to shake Chan-Willig’s hand. Mary wasn’t here as a lawyer, but a client, and she would be damned if she’d shake Chan-Willig’s hand. She felt heartbroken for Patrick, for herself, and for her family, and she couldn’t bear to think of him in the foster system, unjustly suspected of murdering a grandfather he loved and sabotaged by the machinations of Machiavelli.
Mary reached the exit door to the courtroom and held her chin up, getting herself ready to see her parents. If she looked upset it would only upset them more and she had to keep it together for everybody’s sake. She opened the door and stepped outside the courtroom, only to see her family clustered together on the seats, a forlorn little group of octogenarians in parade gear, trying to put on a brave face for her.
They rose as one sad little clump when Mary walked over, meeting her mother’s glistening eyes. Her mother had already figured out that the judge had ruled against them, so Mary raised her arms and hugged her, enveloping her short little mother in an embrace fragrant with her familiar smells of Aquanet and mothballs.
“I’m sorry too.” Mary managed not to cry. “I shouldn’t have gotten you all excited.”
“Mi dispiace, Maria,” her mother said, hugging her back.
“IT’S OKAY, HONEY. IT’S GONNA BE ALL RIGHT. EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON.” Her father came around Mary’s other side, patting her back. “COME HOME AND HAVE DINNER WITH US, WILL YA?”
“Good idea,” Mary said, grateful. She felt so touched that they had come all the way into Center City to stand up for her. She realized that it really did take a village, and she was grateful to her very marrow for hers. She felt terrible for letting them down, as well as Patrick.
Feet nodded. “Mare, don’t let the bastards get you down. We’ll give you a ride home with us. Cheer you right up.”
Tony-From-Down-The-Block forced a smile. “Yeah, Mare, come with us. You’ll feel like a million bucks in that car.”
Only Pigeon Tony said nothing, his round dark eyes meeting Mary’s with unusual seriousness, and she couldn’t help but think he was reading her mind. In the next second, he shot her a wink, just like a bird.
John and Abby came out of the courtroom talking, and Abby waved a quick good-bye to Mary, who waved back while John came over, his heavy messenger bag on his shoulder, scrolling through his phone, then he looked up. “Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. DiNunzio. We gave it the old college try.”
“IT ISN’T YOUR FAULT, JOHNNY BOY. YOU’RE A HELLUVA LAWYER. THANKS FOR EVERYTHING.”
“John, you come to dinn’,” Mary’s mother said, taking John’s arm and looking up at him through her thick glasses. “We have gnocchi, you come, eh?”
John smiled down at her, but shook his head. “Mrs. DiNunzio, thank you, and I would love to, but I have a lot to do.”
“D’ove? Where?” Her mother’s expression said that she couldn’t imagine a better place than her kitchen, which was probably true.
“Ma.” Mary put a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. “Not everybody can be bribed with carbohydrates, like me. John has to go.”
John waved his phone. “I have a lot of work to catch up on. Email, you know. I’m sorry.”
“Ma, please. It’s John’s business.” Mary put an arm around her mother. “Let’s go downstairs. Come on.”
“This way, everyone.” John walked ahead, motioning to them as he read his phone on the fly.
“Thanks, John.” Mary got her family on to the escalator, holding her mother’s arm, then her father and The Tonys climbed on, yammering as they descended.
“MARE, YOU BELIEVE THIS BUILDING? IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE A COURTHOUSE BECAUSE IT’S ALL GLASS.”
“Also, no columns,” Feet added, eyes agog.
Tony-From-Down-The-Block tsk-tsked with his dentures. “If it doesn’t have columns, it’s not a legit courthouse.”
They reached the ground floor, where the black-marble lobby was emptying, lawyers, clients, and staff heading for the exits. John got off the escalator first, then looked up from his phone with an alarmed expression, but Mary didn’t know why. She ushered her mother, father, and The Tonys off the escalator and shooed them in the direction of the exit.
“John, what’s the matter?” Mary asked, concerned.
“Look at this.” John showed her his phone and enlarged the image with his fingers. On the screen was a news story from the digital edition of their local tabloid, and the headline read: TEN-YEAR-OLD SUSPECTED OF GRANDPOP’S INSULIN MURDER.
“Oh my God!” Mary looked up at John, aghast. “Machiavelli must’ve leaked it to the newspaper.”
John nodded, gravely. “Either Machiavelli or Harris, one or the other.”
“If Harris leaked it, he did it on Machiavelli’s behalf,” Mary said, then read the article:
Patrick O’Brien, 10, a fifth-grader at Grayson Elementary School in Juniata, is currently in DHS custody, suspected in the insulin murder of his grandfather and sole caretaker, Edward F. O’Brien, 72. Grandfather and grandson resided alone together at 637 Moretone Street in Juniata, and the grandfather was found dead on October 9. Police report that the investigation is in progress and criminal charges have not yet been filed. The Office of the Medical Examiner declined comment.
Our investigation revealed that Patrick O’Brien was also named as a defendant in a Common Pleas Court action filed last week by Steven Robertson, a former teacher’s aide at the elementary school, alleging that O’Brien attacked Robertson with a scissors. Robertson seeks $500,000 in damages against Patrick O’Brien, the deceased Edward O’Brien, and the School District of Philadelphia. The district declined comment except to say that the youngster has been suspended pending investigation …
“John, I cannot believe Machiavelli would do this! He’s chewing this kid up, and for what? For what? I want to kill that guy!” Mary felt her temper rising, and all of the pain, frustration, and disappointment of losing the hearing rolled into a solid ball of fury, rising in her chest.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“He wants me to settle the case with Robertson. This is extortion.”
“Maybe you should think about settlement, purely for Patrick’s sake. I know you hate the idea of settlement, but things are happening fast and you have to be flexible.” John met her gaze directly, his blue eyes full of concern. “Can you imagine putting Patrick through a deposition, while you don’t have him in your custody? How will you mitigate its effects?”
“Oh God.” Mary fumed. “I won’t settle. Edward didn’t want to settle.”
“Edward didn’t foresee any of this. You told me the estate has money. Does it have enough to meet a demand? How much do they want?”
“The estate is $350,000 and Machiavelli wants most of it. It’s supposed to be Patrick’s college fund.”
“Negotiate with Machiavelli. Patrick’s not going to college if we can’t help him now.??
?
“I’m not settling.” Mary noticed her mother and father looking over, worried that something was wrong. “Just tell me what we can do about this news story? Anything?”
“Honestly, nothing.” John pursed his lips.
“There has to be something.” Mary wracked her brain. “We could ask for a retraction, but it’s not false. We could raise hell with the police, but they didn’t comment. Same with the elementary school. Dammit!”
“Mary, they’re waiting.” John gestured at her parents. “Go home. You need to rest and recoup. You’ve been working twenty-four/seven, and the strain is getting to you. It was a bad day, and it needs to end.”
“I can’t let this go.” Mary felt like she was going to explode.
“Please, do. Sleep on it. He just wants to jerk your chain.”
“Then he’s going to find out he’s got a tiger by the tail. John, thanks so much for all of your help, but I have to go.” Mary clapped his shoulder, then headed for her parents.
“Don’t do it!” John called after her, but Mary was already kissing her mother and father good-bye.
“Ma, Pop, I have to go. I’m really sorry, but I can’t come to dinner. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“No, Maria, come ’ome.” Her mother frowned, worried.
“MARY, COME HOME AND HAVE A NICE MEAL.”
“No, thanks, I gotta go, Pop. Thanks for coming! Bye, everybody!” Mary waved good-bye to her parents and The Tonys, hustled across the marble lobby, and through the exit doors. She hurried out of the courthouse, pulling out her phone and pressing in Machiavelli’s number on the fly. She was tired of playing games, of nasty texts and FaceTime calls. It was time for a face-to-face confrontation.
The sidewalk was crowded and traffic was congested on Arch Street but there was a Yellow Cab only a block away. Phone to her ear, she hurried toward it, flagging it down.
“The Machiavelli Organization,” answered the receptionist.
“Is he in?” Mary asked, hustling for the cab.
“Yes. Whom may I say is—”
Mary hung up the phone, reached the cab, and hopped inside, giving the driver the address. “And hurry,” she said, boiling mad.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Mary pulled up in the cab in front of Machiavelli’s office, which was housed in a colonial mansion, with a bronze plaque signifying its listing on the National Register of Historic Places. His was the largest of the massive townhouses interspersed with the apartment buildings lining Rittenhouse Square, relics of a grander time, but it was still the ritziest address possible. Machiavelli owned the whole building, which must have cost millions to restore, since it was four stories of repointed red brick, layers of black-shuttered mullioned windows. Authentic gaslights flickered beside the double doors of black lacquer. But Mary wasn’t interested in real estate porn today.
She glanced up at the mansion from the cab window, noticing that the second floor boasted a five-panel bay window that had a perfect view of the Square, so she knew that was Machiavelli’s office. He would have chosen the God’s eye view, but he was really the devil himself. “Keep the change,” Mary said to the driver, handing him a twenty, climbing out of the cab, hurrying to the entrance, and blowing through the black-lacquered door.
“Hello?” A pretty blonde receptionist looked up, startled from an ornate reception desk. There was no one in the waiting area, and behind her desk was a grand carpeted staircase with a curved banister that wound around to the second floor. The walls were paneled walnut and wafer-thin Oriental rugs covered the floors, and Mary wasn’t about to be delayed, much less denied.
“I’m Mary DiNunzio, here to see Machiavelli,” Mary told the receptionist, but she didn’t break stride, beelining for the staircase.
“Wait, Ms. DiNunzio? Ms. DiNunzio?”
Mary ignored her and hurried up to the second floor, where there were more Oriental rugs and walnut-paneled walls, but at the north side of the mansion, a flood of indirect light shone through a divider made of mullioned glass panels, revealing another reception area and another ornate desk staffed by another pretty brunette, who was just hanging up the phone, undoubtedly having been called by the downstairs blonde.
“I’m Mary DiNunzio, and I’m here to see Machiavelli.”
“Ms. DiNunzio, he’s in a meeting.”
“I know. He’s meeting with me.” Mary headed for the heavy walnut door on the right and burst through to find Machiavelli grinning ear-to-ear, sitting at his ornate desk against the multi-paned window, his dark hair slicked back, his European-fit white shirt impeccable with a print silk tie, gray wool slacks perfectly unwrinkled, and Gucci loafers propped up on the desk, one crossed over the other.
“Mary, do you have any idea how predictable you are?” Machiavelli chuckled. “It’s uncanny. I could have set my watch to you coming here.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Mary stormed to the front of his desk, barely able to suppress her anger. “Do you know that you’re destroying a child? Isn’t there any part of you that understands that you are sacrificing a child for your own interests?”
Machiavelli shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I really don’t. You’re so emotional lately. It must be because of your wedding. Having doubts?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You paid Harris to go to that shelter care hearing and testify against Patrick. You leaked the story to the newspaper. You’re killing this child and you know he’s not dangerous.”
“Again, no clue what you’re talking about.” Machiavelli’s grin never left his face, and he folded his arms. “But rant on, please do. I like that you came over. You’ve never been here before. It’s nice, isn’t it? Would you like a drink? A Scotch? Day is done, is it not?”
Mary ignored him. “You know that Patrick’s not dangerous and you’re willing to chew him up, for what? For money? Look around you!” She threw up her hands, looking around. “You have everything! This building, real Oriental rugs, nice art.” She did a double-take at a watercolor of an austere fieldstone farmhouse, the style of which was unmistakable. “Is that a Wyeth? You even have an original Wyeth? What more can you want? What more can you buy? What’s the difference to you, if you settle this case? If I settle the case, I practically bankrupt the child!”
“Keep talking. Get it out of your system. You’ll feel better, I promise.” Machiavelli cocked his head, plainly amused, and it struck Mary suddenly that he was enjoying every minute of her pain, almost sadistically so, which brought her up short.
“Who did this to you? Who turned you into such a monster?” Mary heard herself saying, her heart speaking for her. “I wish I knew your family, but I never met them. They should be ashamed of themselves, they did such a number on you. If you didn’t cause so much harm, I’d feel sorry for you. You’re killing this kid and you’re enjoying it. Is that what gives you pleasure? Someone else’s pain?”
“Oh come on, Mary.” Machiavelli seemed to falter, his smile fading. “This is over-the-top, don’t you think? You come here full of righteous indignation, blaming me for losing the shelter care hearing. Why don’t you blame that brat? Why don’t you wonder why Dennis the Menace murdered his beloved grandfather?”
“He didn’t murder him! If he injected him, he didn’t know it would kill him! He didn’t do it on purpose and you know it!”
“No, I don’t know it, and neither do you.” Machiavelli’s dark eyes flashed, and he swung his feet off the desk. “Whether I called Harris or not, you’ll never be able to prove it. Whether I paid Harris or not, you’ll never be able to prove it. Whether I messengered Harris a copy of the Complaint, or leaked the story to the newspapers, well, you get the idea. Your loss today makes Robertson’s case stronger, and I love it!” Machiavelli met her eye, dead-on. “But I’ll tell you one thing that I did not do. I did not inject that old man with a fatal dose of insulin. That’s what the Duke of Puke did, and that’s why you lost the hearing today. And that’s why
you’ll never get him out of DHS custody. Because it’s where he belongs. And he can rot there, for all I care.”
“But that’s the thing!” Mary shot back, agonized. “You say you don’t care but you do! You care enough to ruin him! You care enough to make his life miserable! To make my life miserable!”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Machiavelli nodded, smiling tightly. “That’s why I care, that’s exactly why I care.”
“Why?” Mary demanded, nonplussed.
“Because you do. Because you care. Because of you.” Machiavelli’s dark eyes glittered. “You’re absolutely right. You always were a smart girl. Number one in her class at Goretti. I used to see you at the dances. Nobody ever asked you to dance. But you got the last laugh, didn’t you? Neighborhood Girl Who Made Good. The Sweetheart of South Philly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? At least I don’t call myself that. You call yourself the Dark Prince of South Philly, for God’s sake.”
“Oh, lighten up. That’s just for fun. Did you see my Boxster? I got DRKPRNC. How great is that?” Machiavelli stood up, waving his hands with a flourish at his luxurious office. “And you’re absolutely right, I have everything. I own this building, I own a lot of real estate in town and two homes. I make more money than I know what to do with. Every year I’m rated one of the top lawyers in Philadelphia and one of the top trial lawyers in the American Bar Association and the Trial Lawyers Association. Everything I want, I can have. All I have to do is snap my fingers.” Machiavelli snapped his fingers.
“We get it.”
“So it’s in my nature to want what I can’t have. It’s in my blood. I can’t help myself.” Machiavelli walked around the side of the desk, slowly. “You want me to let this kid go, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Mary answered, edging backwards.
“You want me to settle with you? Aren’t you gonna negotiate with me?” Machiavelli took a step toward her, and Mary found herself taking a step backwards. She didn’t like the change that had come over Machiavelli’s expression. His cocky smile had morphed into an ugly twist of his lips, like a wolf baring his teeth.