Before his demotion, Joe McKeefe was acelebrated and highly decorated detective who had been recognized as a rising star in the police department. Now he was finishing his career as a uniformed patrol officer in the precinct with city’s highest crime rate, a place where the murder of a low-life junkie was so common as to be almost trivial.This victim, however, was different: hehad once been McKeefe’s informant.McKeefe is disgusted by the superficial manner in which the official murderinvestigation is handled, so he begins to poke around. But this murder isn’t as insignificant as it appeared-in fact, it’s collateral damage from an elaborate scheme, the players of which are a crooked narcotics sergeant and the city’s major drug dealers. They have different motivations: the sergeant’s all-consuming and obsessive lust for money is only matched by the drug dealers’ fixation withstaying out of prison. But neither side has even the slightest concern for human life.As McKeefe’s probe continues, he discovers that a pawn in the plan is his only brother, a criminal defense lawyer who, in McKeefe’s words, "lives off crime and defends slime."Unwittingly, McKeefe’s good intentions slowly but irreversibly drag him deeper and deeper into the quagmire. Before long, he finds he has jeopardized himself, his brother, his partner, and possibly the entire police department.

The Dark Shield

A NovelBy Ralph T. Gazzillo

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Ralph T. Gazzillo
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7283-4

Chapter One

"All rise!" the clerk commanded. "Supreme Court, Part Thirteen, is now in session. The Honorable Judge Manuel Lopez Ramos presiding."

Ramos entered quietly, ignoring the spectators and armada of reporters who filled his large courtroom. He ambled to the bench and up its three steps, slipping his tall frame into his leather chair and casually opening a black loose-leaf book. Flipping a few pages, he finally announced, "You may be seated." Turning toward the clerk, he said, "Okay, Eddie, let's go."

"On the sentencing calendar," the clerk announced, "People versus Antonio Del Pedro."

"Both sides ready to proceed?" Ramos asked impatiently. The question was required at all sentencings; in this case, the answer was obvious. Since the day the jury had delivered its verdict, each side had anxiously awaited this moment—the prosecution, gleefully; the defense, fearfully.

"Ready, Your Honor," both sides answered simultaneously.

"People," Ramos growled, taking his first glance at the prosecution's table, "anything to say before I pronounce sentence?" Until now, Ramos hadn't noticed Thomas Heany, the district attorney, seated next to the assistant district attorney who had successfully tried the case. Tommy's grandstanding for the press, Ramos thought. He hasn't tried a case—much less been in a courtroom—for over a decade. Now he's here taking all the bows, as if he was the only prosecutor to ever convict Tony Del Pedro. At least that's what he'd like the public to believe!

"Yes, Your Honor," the DA exclaimed as he jumped from his seat. Leaving the trial prosecutor behind, he gave the reporters a friendly wink as he proudly strutted to the podium.

"May it please the court," he announced as he smiled garishly at the press. "As Your Honor is aware, after a trial by a jury of his peers, I have convicted the defendant of each and every count of the indictment. All felonies! All involving extremely large amounts of cocaine! Cocaine! The curse that's plagued our society, our youth, our safety, our very American way of life! Your Honor, as you know, I have dedicated my career to defending justice and ..."

Oh, God, Ramos thought, he's on his soapbox. Anytime he smells a headline, he's as shameless as a dog in heat. Three terms as district attorney, and still a political prostitute. If he wasn't from my party, I'd shut him up. Instead, I have to look as if I'm interested.

The DA rambled on for a full forty minutes. Little of what he said was relevant, and most was redundant. Finally, satisfied that he had exhausted every opportunity to utter self-serving sound bites, he gathered his notes and pranced proudly back to his seat.

Ramos turned to the defense table and barked, "Does counsel for the defendant wish to be heard? If you're so inclined," he added, "you may address any relevant issue raised by the prosecution. But," he warned, "it's not necessary."

"Yes, Your Honor," Frank McKeefe, the defense attorney, uttered softly. Unlike the DA, McKeefe had no other lawyers at his side—only his client, Tony Del Pedro, dispassionately sitting handcuffed in his bright orange jail garb. Behind Del Pedro stood two burly court officers, and a half-dozen more were within striking distance.

As McKeefe pushed back his chair, it dragged on the tile floor with a loud, shrill screech. Visibly nervous, and now embarrassed by his awkwardness, he sheepishly approached the podium, then held it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"May it please the court," he began, his voice subdued. Unlike the prosecution, he had no notes. This was neither the time nor place to be verbose—in Ramos's courtroom, no matter what a defense attorney said, he'd be finished before he started. After a nervous cough, McKeefe delivered a brief yet passionate statement. In response, all Ramos gave was silence and an emotionless, blank stare. Not until the remarks seemed near conclusion did Ramos move ever so slightly.

"Your Honor, in closing, I believe that mercy, fundamental fairness, and our rule of justice under the law—the foundation of all that we do in these sacred halls—cry out to you on my client's behalf, beseeching you to sentence him on each count to periods of incarceration that are reasonable, concurrent, and not consecutive ... I thank you for your time and patience. Your Honor, I apologize if I was perhaps a little emotional. But, please, judge, take that as a demonstration of how sincerely and strongly I believe in everything I have said. Thank you, Your Honor."

A long, pregnant pause followed. All eyes turned toward Ramos. It was his turn to speak, yet he was totally silent. He just sat there, completely motionless, his face stoic and indifferent. He had his game face on, and he would not reveal whether he had been entranced by McKeefe's remarks, or totally bored. Within the next few minutes, he would supply the answer. Meanwhile, the next few decades of Tony Del Pedro's life would hang in the balance. Anxious to hear every word, the hushed crowd leaned forward.

Suddenly, the silence was broken as Ramos came alive, lashing at his microphone and pulling it closer. Feedback squealed throughout the courtroom, its loud shrill visibly jolting most of the apprehensive audience.

His voice just above a whisper, Ramos said crisply, "The defendant will rise." It wasn't a request, it was an order, its ominous tone an unmistakable foreboding of what would follow. Without a doubt, by tomorrow Del Pedro would be headed for some upstate maximum security prison so far north there were only two seasons: July and winter. He was about to find out how long he'd be there, but more than likely his parole officer was yet to be born. Ramos's sentences were so severe it was said he made criminals disappear, earning him the nickname Manuel the Magician. This morning, Ramos's reputation, coupled with his tone of voice, told everyone that another trick was coming.

Slowly standing, Del Pedro defiantly riveted his eyes on Ramos, their message clear: You can take away my freedom, but not my pride. Smirking slightly, he was clearly daring Ramos to try.

Returning the challenge, Ramos looked Del Pedro straight in the eyes. The two stared at each other silently, patiently, and most of all, contemptuously. For what seemed like a full minute but was less than half, neither so much as blinked. Finally, a strange look came across Ramos's face. Not a smile nor a sneer, it was somewhere in the middle: cheerful, yet simultaneously sinister, eerie, and evil. No one in the courtroom dared utter a word.

Ramos's voice hissed across the courtroom: "Does the defendant have anything to say before the court pronounces sentence?"

This was neither a trick nor a surprise question; it was also required. The law's self-righteous quest to at least appear fair and, perhaps, even merciful, demanded that, in the statute's words, the sentencing judge "afford the defendant an opportunity to be heard and to make a statement."

The question had rolled off Ramos's lips easily and unemotionally, as if it were rote, nothing more than an inconsequential line in a script, a question he might have asked countless times before. And he had. Each time he had asked it, he allowed his to voice project what everyone knew: I'm only asking because I have to. In fact, whenever Ramos asked the question, a thought ran through his mind that could have gotten him thrown off the bench if uttered: You may have the right to be heard, but I don't have to listen. It didn't matter whether a defendant spoke or not; no words, tears, or pleas would change the result. Long before the sentencing date, even before the jury delivered its verdict, Ramos had crafted what he considered the appropriate punishment. After his first few sentences, there was no secret to his system: Anyone who refused to cop a plea and went to trial automatically got the full extent of the law—some, as appeals courts would later curtly note, got even more.

Del Pedro stood mute and in contemptuous defiance. It didn't matter to Ramos, he had prepared for Del Pedro's silence. After a quick glance and discreet wink to his stenographer, he turned to Del Pedro and said impatiently, "I'm waiting. Is there anything you want to say, Mr. Del Perro?"

Ramos's remark wasn't a slip of the tongue; it was intentional. When he called Del Pedro "Del Perro," or literally, "son of a dog," Ramos wanted to insult him. But one barb wasn't enough; he added another, "I know why you're called Tony Two-Necks. Two helpless old drunks jokingly called you `Del Perro.' Your pride, your famous Latin temper, wouldn't let you overlook it, so you broke both their necks. Two men dead, just to satisfy your machismo. Well, 'mano, others may fear you, but not me! You're not the first murderer I put in jail, or the last."

The entire audience gasped as a contagious murmur vibrated through the courtroom. Del Pedro's role in those murders was common knowledge. A score of years ago he had been tried for both. A good lawyer—and, purportedly, two bribed jurors—secured his acquittal. In the eyes of the law, that acquittal exonerated Del Pedro; it was as if the murders had never happened. Indeed, Ramos's mere mention of the incident was a legal error of such egregious magnitude as to trigger an almost automatic reversal. Ramos—as every other lawyer in the room and most of the audience—was well aware of the rule.

But Ramos was also aware of something else: the wink he had given his stenographer. It had been a signal: Stop typing! When he saw a discrete but mischievous smirk on her face, he knew she would follow his instructions and not record a word. As a result, he was satisfied that none of his insults would make it into the official stenographic record; as far as the law was concerned, now and forevermore, his words had never been spoken. A smug look on his face, Ramos awaited Del Pedro's response.

Meanwhile, Del Pedro's face was red with anger. Ramos had insulted him, publicly spanking him. Ramos knew humiliation was totally foreign to Del Pedro's lifestyle. I know what's going through your mind, Ramos thought. You're Tony Two-Necks! No one—absolutely no one—ever dared to so much as interrupt or even speak back to you, let alone embarrass you. The penalty was simple and swift: Anybody who dis'd you died. Yet here you are, handcuffed, powerless to do anything—at least for now.

But, as Ramos had hoped, handcuffs wouldn't silence Del Pedro.

"You bastard!" he shouted. As if on cue, the stenographer began typing. "I'll tell you what I'd like to say!" Del Pedro yelled still louder. "I got screwed! You screwed me all through the trial! You, that goddamn cop Martin, my goddamn lawyer! You all screwed me! And now? You son of a bitch, you're gonna screw me again! You and your black robes! I'll get you! I'll get all of you bastard sons of—"

Quick as a serpent's fangs, Ramos bit into Del Pedro. "Mr. Del Pedro!" he shouted, "I remind you that this is a court of law! I will not put up with any antics from you or anyone else!"

Before Del Pedro could respond, Ramos aimed his evil stare toward McKeefe. It was the lawyer's turn to be castigated. "Mr. McKeefe!" Ramos yelled. "I expect you to control your client and instruct him appropriately!"

McKeefe blushed. He was just barely audible as he muttered, "I ... I'm sorry, Your Honor. My client is a ... well, he's ... he's a bit distraught today, Your Honor."

Del Pedro wasn't as reserved. "Distraught? Distraught?" he shouted. "I'm not distraught! I'm goddamn pissed! Judges? You're all whores, money-grubbing whores. You know how many judges I bought and sold since—"

Ramos pushed his microphone away; he no longer needed it. Jumping to his feet, he shouted, "That's enough! One more outburst from you, just one, and you'll be taken back to your cell, and I'll proceed without you. And you know I will!" He had underscored the power behind his words by his body language—acting as if he was a heartbeat away from jumping over the bench and punching Del Pedro.

Dumfounded, Del Pedro backed up ever so slightly. Clearly, he was caught off-guard by the force of Ramos's response and its naked challenge.

Behind that challenge was a secret known only to Ramos: His seemingly furious rage was nothing more than an act. In fact, he was in total control, satisfied with himself, and completely enjoying Del Pedro's antics.

McKeefe, however, was unmistakenly and visibly upset. First turning toward Del Pedro, then Ramos, he grimaced as if he was becoming sick and about to spew his breakfast on the floor.

Ramos knew it was too much to ask McKeefe to control his client; in Del Pedro's agitated state, no one could. Ramos had counted on that.

Instead of his client, McKeefe directed his remarks to Ramos. "Judge ... uh, Your Honor?" he said unassertively. "May it please the court, may I interject to note that my client has never been convicted of any other crime and—"

Interrupting him at precisely the right moment, Ramos commanded, "Counselor, move on! Let's get on with sentencing!"

"Okay ... uh, Your Honor," McKeefe murmured. "I'm, uh, steadfast in my earnest belief in this honorable court, and, uh, its intimate knowledge of the law. May it further please the court, I'm confident that Your Honor is ... uh, aware that the sentences on each count must, by law, merge and be served concurrently ... not, uh, consecutively."

Ramos was sitting now and clearly unimpressed. McKeefe had wasted his words; he might just as well have been talking to a granite statue. Shying away from looking Ramos in the face, he stared at his open attaché case on the table in front of him. Finally, as if reading from a book, he tamely added, "Uh, Your Honor, I know that this honorable court is ... uh ... is totally familiar with the, uh, legions of cases which control sentencing parameters. I guess there is no need for me to further burden the record, nor Your Honor. Therefore, while I'm not sure of your specific intentions, I have no doubt that you'll sentence him accordingly. That's all I have to say. Thank you ... uh, Your Honor, sir."

Ramos couldn't decide if the performance deserved pity or laughter. McKeefe had just followed one of the first rules of courtroom lawyering: When all else fails, grovel shamelessly! Subserviently, he stepped back slightly from the defense table.

"All right," Ramos said impatiently, "the defendant has had an opportunity to make a statement. Now, it's my turn."

As if nothing had happened, he resumed his monotone, giving a rote recital of the required legal mumbo-jumbo. "The court has reviewed the pre-sentence report, copies of which have been made available for counsel, no portion of which has been excerpted ..."

Suddenly, he stopped. A long, pregnant pause followed. As all eyes in the courtroom focused on him, he slowly removed his glasses, folded them, and carefully placed them in their carrying case. Casually closing the case, then his loose-leaf book, he slowly looked up and stared at Del Pedro. Ramos hesitated a moment as that satanic smile came across his face again. His silent, subtle, and insidious message was clear: he was relishing every moment. He wanted to savor this!

Calmly, he finally began to speak again. "Mr. Del Pedro, just so there's no misunderstanding, the sentences I'm about to impose will not be concurrent." Not even attempting to hide either his perverse enjoyment or his vicious contempt, he pronounced each word slowly, sarcastically, and sanctimoniously, squeezing every delicious drop from each syllable. "No, no, sir," Ramos continued, "they will be consecutive. I'm somewhat confident that you know the difference, but—just to be sure—please let me explain. Sir, concurrent means that you serve all your sentences simultaneously, or all at the same time. Consecutive, however, is what we lawyers call 'back-to-back.' By that we mean one after the other. As applied to you, well, sir, you won't begin to serve any time on the second sentence until you serve each and every single day of the first. And then, sir, after you have served every last day of the second sentence, you begin the third. And so on ... and so on ... and so on ..."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Dark Shieldby Ralph T. Gazzillo Copyright © 2010 by Ralph T. Gazzillo. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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