Wiseguys in the Woods Read online

  Wiseguys In The Woods

  A Mafia Crime Novel

  By

  John P.M. Wappett

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author/publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © John P.M. Wappett

  To my family, who have put up with

  Living with a prosecutor and then a public defender

  Rather than a “real” lawyer.

  And to the wonderful men and women in law enforcement

  and the criminal justice system whom it has been my

  privilege and honor to know and to serve with since 1980.

  Especially, the

  Hon. Sol Greenberg,

  Albany County District Attorney, Retired and

  The late Hon. Daniel S. Dwyer,

  Albany County Chief Assistant District Attorney

  My special thanks to those professionals who assisted me with this book.

  SSA David. J. Grose, Immigration and Naturalization Service

  and U.S. Border Patrol, Ret.

  Jeffrey D. Hubbard, M.D., forensic pathologist

  Undersheriff Shane Ross, Warren County Sheriff’s Department, Ret.

  My Book Review Team

  And “Susie”, “Gary” and “Terri”

  ***

  Cover Art Designed and Illustrated by Amanda Hathaway

  Table of Contents

  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 1

  Sunday August 31, 1958

  The firm grasp of two pairs of hands on Vittorio’s upper arms tightened further as the large unnamed shapes on either side of him stopped steering him and then released him altogether, allowing him to stumble forward. “Untie him!” A deep rasping voice coming from somewhere off to his left commands. Vittorio felt the tugging as the knot was undone and the rope removed. He did not know if he should feel relieved or doomed. His confusion was aggravated by what he imagined was the incongruous aroma of simmering ragout.

  “You may take it off.”

  Not realizing that the command was directed at him, he was startled as the black hood that had covered his head was snatched off and he swayed, blinking as he tried to regain his balance and adjust his eyes to the bright light aimed straight at him. He could make out the outlines of several standing figures in front of him, but the only details that he perceived were the highly polished and expensive wing-tipped shoes when he looked down at the floor.

  Vittorio’s disorientation had begun the previous afternoon after he completed the repair of a stone fireplace in a Plattsburgh tavern named the Italian Village Inn. It had seemed peculiar that he, a highly skilled stonemason in a town to the north of Montreal, had been hired to do this simple job that any handyman could have handled. Still, they offered him triple his normal rate plus transportation, on a Saturday, and he had experienced the eccentricity of the wealthy before. All had gone as expected until he got back into the back seat of the large sedan that had brought him to the inn a few hours earlier.

  Someone clapped a cloth over his mouth and everything went dark.

  He awoke to more darkness, due to a hood over his head, the rough cloth scratchy against his face and neck. Stifling heat embraced Vittorio and a steady dripping of sweat down his face and neck that caused him to frantically crave the ability to wipe his skin, but he could not do so. He felt the growing, painful cramps in his arms and wrists, which were tightly bound behind him. An unfamiliar and unfriendly voice next to him told him these “precautions” were for his safety and that he should not try to remove them. Nothing further was said to him, despite his attempts to question the man and the highway driving he had first sensed when he came to, continued for hours.

  The car in which they were riding seemed to be travelling through mountains, judging from its movement and the occasional straining sounds of the engine and down-shifting by the driver. After what seemed like days, he felt the car stop and he was pulled roughly from the rear seat of the car and led into a building of some sort. Once inside, that voice had ordered his bindings undone and the hood removed.

  “You are a stonemason.” The voice on his left accused rather than inquired. “And so too, was your father, in Avellino.”

  “Si, signore!” “Yes, sir.”

  The mother tongue was the first thing that sprung to his lips at the mention of his family’s village in the south of Italy. He was not even certain how to address this man, but figured he might be the owner of the inn that he had been working on. Whoever he was, the tone of his voice conveyed that he did not consider Vittorio his equal.

  “You are to do some brick work to earn the extra pay you have already received. When you are done, you will put the hood back on and you will be returned to your home in Laval. You will never speak of this day to anyone. Ever! Capisci?”

  “Capisco. Si, signore!”

  While speaking, the man whose voice had been on his left moved to the lamp pointed at Vittorio. As he emphasized the word “ever”, the man stepped in front of the lamp and Vittorio gasped as he saw who was standing before him. Though he had never before met or seen him in person, Vittorio was struck dumb with fear by the face that had been featured in Canadian and American newspapers for years.

  Vittorio was led to the back of the kitchen area (this explained the aroma he thought he had imagined) and through a door out the back of the building. Not three meters from the door, the ground ended at the top of a retaining wall and Vittorio gazed out onto a large, brilliantly blue lake that stretched away to the left, bordered by lush green mountains. He was told to remove the wooden door and to brick in the opening. Tools and supplies were already laid out and a man silently acted as helper. Behind him, on the lake, he could hear, and occasionally steal a glance of various motorboats and water skiers speeding around the end of the lake. In the distance, he saw a pier with large cruise boats, including one named Ticonderoga and one with an Indian’s head painted on the side. While tiny when compared to even the most modest ocean liner, these boats were far and away the largest craft on the lake, as far as he could see.

  As soon as he had finished, the sullen thugs who had been glaring at him and chain-smoking while he worked, roughly brought around the building and in the side entrance of what was a restaurant, and back into the same kitchen area. He had seen enough before entering the building to know that he was in a downtown area of a tourist village, but was trying his best not to wonder where this place was.

  Approaching the opening leading to the back door he had just bricked in, he noticed something covered by a table cloth, in the entrance way itself. Vittorio was directed to brick up the entrance way, effectively entombing the checkered cloth and whatever it covered. As he began the job, he was told to leave out several bricks in the middle, just above the highest point of the tarp. When he had finished
all but those omitted bricks one of his guards reached through the hole and pulled out the table cloth.

  Vittorio leaned forward with a brick, buttered with mortar, to close the wall. He froze with a gasp, as the light from the work lamp behind him shone through the small opening in his new wall, reflecting eerily off of a glazed, unmoving eye.

  Chapter 2

  Summer of 1989

  The gallery and staff in the county courtroom were just settling back into their seats following the bailiff’s announcement of the arrival of the judge, and the First Assistant District Attorney (ADA) had a moment to glance up at the bench and contemplate the rest of his afternoon in front of the diminutive figure of Honorable David Ginola. It had brought on a mild twinge of discomfort. The County Courtroom was compact, almost cozy in the First Assistant’s opinion, and was nearly half-filled with inmates, guards, defendants out on bail and family members. Still visible was the long curved scratch on the wood panel in front of the witness stand, which Peter habitually stared at when awaiting the announcement of a jury’s verdict, so that he would not convey any emotion in anticipation. Along one wall of the courtroom, a stretch of windows allowed the taller participants in the court proceedings to look out to the west onto State Route 9 and beyond that, to rounded, tree-covered mountains. The summer traffic was heavy and moving steadily in both directions with vehicles of every possible type and size, largely from out of the area and filled with tourists, as evidenced by the high percentage of roof top luggage carriers. Even though most locals complained about them, there was no getting around it – tourism was the life blood of the Lake George region.

  Many of the others in the room would have been surprised at just how depressing the prospect of the afternoon ahead was, to the lone figure standing at the front of the courtroom to the judge’s left, but to 1st ADA Peter Drake, the necessity of handling felony cases before a judge who would agree to anything the prosecution said or requested, was painful beyond words.

  It wasn’t, of course, that Peter wished to have the court constantly oppose him, rather, it was knowing that the judge’s predisposition in favor of the People was nearly absolute and was without anything resembling thought or reason. His unfailing concurrence, along with most everything else about the judge was shallow and insincere. It seemed to be the judge’s philosophy of life that going along with the District Attorney’s position on all matters was the easiest way to complete his term of office, with neither effort nor controversy. Given his advanced age and the mandatory retirement age of 70, his was almost certainly a single ten-year term reign. It was a reign that Judge Ginola intended to keep as agreeable and comfortable as possible.

  On more than one occasion, it had occurred to Peter to say something utterly outlandish and inane, just to see if the good judge would agree with it out of habit. Just thinking about it caused the side of Peter’s mouth to curl upward in a droll smirk and brought a twinkle to his eye. It was as though he had just been privy to a delightfully clever joke the he was mischievously keeping to himself - because he was.

  Peter’s unflattering opinion was not universally shared, he knew. Judge Ginola was an ancient-looking but gregarious local attorney in Warren County, who had, over the years, done little to offend the powers that be. Ginola’s family had likewise been popular and active in the local social and political circles of the county. Even though the younger Ginola had rarely ever wandered into a criminal courtroom and more significantly had never been a participant in a felony trial, he was considered to be a suitable candidate to be put up for a nearly unopposed election to the County bench, following the retirement of Judge Manningham. Judge Manningham had been the County Court judge when Peter arrived from Albany two years ago, to take on the First Assistant DA position in his home county, some 50 miles north of Albany, NY.

  While retired Judge Manningham may have lacked the breadth of experience that the Albany County Court judges quickly attained due to the high volume of major felony cases, he had been hardworking, conscientious and fundamentally fair in his handling of the criminal cases before him. Like most judges, he tended to side with the prosecution more often than not, but Judge Manningham was not shy about dropping, like the wrath of God, on any lawyer who exhibited laziness in researching the law, or who suggested anything unfair, overreaching or contrary to the Constitution. He was a studious judge who kept up on the never-ending changes in the law, and he had little patience and less sympathy for any attorney whose work was not up to snuff. This went double for ADA’s.

  Judge Manningham had quickly taken a liking to Peter, appreciating the breadth and depth of his legal knowledge and ability to effectively use that knowledge in court. As Peter would be quick to point out, this was not because he was any better than other prosecutors. It was just that he was now, due to his move north, a big fish in a small, rural pond. Back in Albany, he was just another fish; in New York City or Washington, he would be a minnow, at most. More likely a krill.

  This big fish/small pond analogy came to Peter during one of his first trials following his move north. The defendant’s attorney, Kurt Mosner, had called a witness, who claimed during direct examination that the defendant had badly injured his leg hours before the burglary and could not have climbed over a wall that surrounded the residence. Peter stood to commence his cross-examination and addressed Judge Manningham.

  “Your Honor. Pursuant to People versus Dawson, at 50 New York Second, page 311, I request inquiry outside the presence of the jury.” Peter was telling the judge the location of the case law in the second series of official collections of decisions of the State’s highest court, and was requesting a hearing that the jury would not hear..

  “And what does Dawson hold, Mr. Drake?”

  Kurt Mosner jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, I object. You shouldn’t be basing your decision on Mr. Drake’s representations. We should take a recess and look up the law.” Peter kept his face impassive, even though he knew that what Kurt was really saying was that he did not have the slightest idea what Peter was talking about.

  “Overruled. Mr. Mosner, in the short time the First Assistant has been with us in this County it has been my experience that if he knows the law, he knows it correctly. More importantly, if he does not know the law, he will tell us so.” Turning to face Peter, Judge Manningham smiled slightly, seeing Peter appear to blush. “So what does Dawson say, Mr. Drake?”

  Giving a slight bow of his head, Peter recited, “Under Dawson, before a witness can be cross-examined about a possible recent fabrication, there must be an inquiry on whether the witness was aware of the defendant’s troubles with the law, whether he was aware that the information he possessed would be helpful to the defendant, whether the witness had reason to want to help the defendant, whether the witness had told the defendant’s attorney the information he possessed and whether he had been advised by the defendant’s attorney to not go to the police. The answers to these questions will determine the boundaries of the cross-examination.”

  “Very well, Mr. Drake. Proceed!”

  The inquiry was held, the witness was examined by Peter, and then, at a recess, Peter saw Kurt Mosner storm out of the courtroom and turn right instead of left toward the attorneys’ room. Peter guessed that Kurt was heading for the law library. As Peter walked toward his office, he peeked into the library and saw Kurt reaching for a volume from the group of Court of Appeals decisions. Peter could tell, even from a distance, that the volume was probably 50 New York Second. After a long minute of silence, Peter clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, as he clearly heard Kurt mutter, “Son-of-a-bitch! He’s right!”

  Standing just behind his large, oak veneer table as he awaited Judge Ginola’s first comments, Peter found the contrast between these two judges, past and present, to be both sad and potentially dangerous. In Peter’s view, a judge was something of a parent figure for young ADA’s, especially those straight out of law school. It had been Peter’s experience, law school graduates were
not competent to tie their own shoes given two-out-of-three tries. If not told when they were out of line or ignorant of the law, they would naturally assume that they were doing their job correctly, and they would never learn.

  This is not to say that Peter Drake was anything more than an ordinary ADA. In truth, Peter would freely admit that he utterly ordinary in most every way. In looks, build and personality, Peter figured ordinary was a step above nondescript, and therefore, acceptable. He certainly had not set the academic world on fire while in school and his athletic career…well, some things were best left unmentioned.

  There were, however, two areas where he had avoided the ho-hum of the unremarkable. The first part of his life where he had lucked out was his marriage and family. Eileen was a five foot two, kind of curvy, brunette, with a spray of freckles across her cheeks and a perpetual sparkle in her eye. She had a mind of her own, cared little for what the world might think of her and was, hands-down, the best judge of a person’s character that Peter had ever met or heard of. She was thoroughly devoted to the notion that the best way to raise children was to be a stay-at-home mom and they both agreed to this formula despite the limitations of raising a family on a single prosecutor’s salary. Even after eight years of marriage and the arrival of their two young children, any mention of her caused him to smile. When someone once noticed the smile and asked him about it, he sort of sidestepped the question, rather than admit his perpetual astonishment that someone like her could love him. Now how corny is that?