The Bully

THE BULLY

Copyright © 2014 Gerald D. McLellan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-3976-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3977-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-3975-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014912008

iUniverse rev. date: 7/15/2014

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

To

Jean

Author’s Note

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

Chapter One

I was sitting on the edge of my seat at counsel table inside the bar waiting for my case to be called. My name is Ted Eldridge and I am now a divorce lawyer in Boston. My client, Maria DellaRosa, was sitting next t o me.

We were in Boston’s Suffolk County Probate and Family Court where Judge Herbert Toomey was presiding. I’d had trouble with this Judge before. I knew the reason, of course. You see, I had been a Probate and Family Court Judge, recently resigned, and Toomey was only too happy to let me know who was in charge these days. He was a relatively young judge in his mid-forties, Yankee stock, quick tempered, with short—cropped blond hair, and cold, steel blue eyes.

I first met Maria when she came to see me in my office at Old City Hall in the heart of Boston. After I left the bench, I made sure my office was in a building I could be proud of, one that was imposing, even elegant; one that would allow my clients to pay my outrageously high legal fees without batting an eye. The building was French Second Empire, built between 1862 and 1865 and located on the Freedom Trail between the Old South Meeting House and King’s Chapel. It was the home of the Boston City Counsel and thirty-eight Boston Mayors including John F. Fitzgerald (Honey Fitz), Maurice Tobin, and James Michael Curly. When the new city hall was built in 1969, the building was converted, after a two year renovation, into its present form.

As far as Maria was concerned, however, she admitted to me that the building had an overwhelming effect on her as she climbed the front steps of the entry facade to the right of the large statue of Benjamin Franklin in the middle of the courtyard.

She was shown into my office by Barbara, my secretary, and the first thing she said before taking her seat in front of my desk was, I don’t know if I can afford you, Attorney Eldridge, this building, this office is so grand. When I entered…

Don’t worry about that now, Ms. DellaRosa. Would you like some coffee? Tea? I immediately felt sorry for her and wanted to put her at ease as I could see she was nervous.

No, thank you, she timidly replied.

She looked tired and bedraggled. It wasn’t that her clothes were dirty; it was just that they looked like she did—worn out. She was twenty-eight years old and looked forty, although I could see her features were fine with dark brown eyes, an olive complexion and high cheek-bones over a slightly turned-up nose. She told me that in the past eight years she and her husband, Jaccomo, produced four kids; that they lived in an apartment on Salem Street in the North End and that lately, he was seldom around… booze, gambling and women, she said. She couldn’t take it anymore. Her brother had given her two thousand dollars to hire a lawyer, get custody of the children and get a divorce.

After some prodding and being carefully attentive to what she was trying to tell me in her nervous state, I learned that Maria was married to this Italian guy who was from Taormina, Sicily, a small town on the island’s east coast overlooking the Ionian Sea. Recently, Taormina had become a polite synonym for Sodom, wrote the British writer, Sir Harold Acton, (I later looked it up), and my client’s husband, Jaccomo DellaRosa, was involved in every kind of pleasurable activity that the ancient town provided, according to what Maria was telling me. Jaccomo owned a popular bar on the island until he sold it eight years ago just before he came to Boston’s North End where he met and married Maria.

So, I took the case despite the fact that her two thousand dollars wouldn’t last any longer than the time it took for our initial conference. I knew that she couldn’t afford my fees; that I’d have to carry her but, what the hell, she sounded a sympathetic note in my memory bank. My background, my early childhood, had left an indelible mark on my psyche which stirred latent feelings of the Italian North End and the people who lived there.

I filed the complaint alleging cruel and abusive treatment and filed a financial statement on behalf of Maria. Soon, an answer was filed by Jaccomo’s lawyer also alleging cruel and abusive treatment, followed not long after by a financial statement and, to my surprise, a motion for a pre-trial conference.

That’s the biggest lie I ever heard of in my life, Maria said to me, looking at her husband’s financial statement as we sat together in court. He has hardly ever worked in the past eight years and receives money every month from his friend in Taormina…all from the sale of his bar eight years ago. Yet, he doesn’t mention the sale, she continued.

That must’ve been quite a sale, Maria, I said not quite believing her.

He sold it for over one million American dollars, she replied forcefully. I know because he bragged about it on many occasions.

The problems started about two weeks ago when the opposing lawyer in my case began playing games; the kind of games that lawyers play, the kind of games that are legal but border on being sleazy. He filed his motion for a pre-trial conference, checked the box on the motion form stating that all discovery is complete and marked the motion for hearing fourteen days later. Now understand, on the surface there is nothing wrong with that motion except that it’s normally used at the end of a long drawn-out discovery proceeding, where all kinds of documents have been produced and depositions have been taken…a time for the judge to reflect on just where the case was headed. But it was a goddam lie that all discovery was completed. It hadn’t even begun! But here’s the important part: the statute says that the judge, on hearing a motion like this, can order a trial, even a trial instantly at the conclusion of the hearing on the motion… but that seldom happens.

I filed a motion for a more accurate financial statement from Jaccomo together with an affidavit from Maria stating that Jaccomo had a stash of cash in Taormina none of which appeared on his financial statement. I marked the motion for hearing on the same day the court scheduled a hearing for a pre-trial conference that my opponent had previously requested.

So here we were in court, waiting for Judge Herbert Toomey to allow us to begin.

The opposing lawyer, Harold O’Connor, had filed his motion first and accordingly, he began his argument when our case was called. The motions were contested so they were called at the end of the list…when no one was in the courtroom but us.

Judge, he began, I know Attorney Eldridge’s reputation for dragging out his cases…

Judge, please, I object, I said standing up in place. There is no need to personalize this hearing, That son of a bitch, I thought to myself.

Proceed, Attorney O’Connor, the Judge said.

As I was saying, Your Honor, I know this case will be dragged on and on by my opponent and there must be closure for both of these litigants. I have filed my motion for a pre-trial conference to prevent such a tragic waste of this court’s time, not to mention the costs that will be incurred by this poor woman who has engaged such an expensive lawyer.

You bastard, I thought.

Judge, I said rising, I don’t expect the usual courtesy from my opponent but I do expect a modicum of truth in his argument. There is on file my client’s sworn financial statement, I stated vigorously. If you will look at it you will see that she alleges substantial assets which were omitted from Mr. DellaRosa’s financial statement, I said holding up Jaccomo’s financial statement for emphasis.

Excuse me, Judge, O’Connor said. I wasn’t finished before Attorney Eldridge interrupted me. May I proceed?

Certainly, the Judge replied.

I sat down and cursed again under my breath.

Well, I must say that this is a simple case, he began again. There are four children here and Mr. DellaRosa has been out of work for the past several months. But the good news is he recently got a job with the City. His pay, unfortunately, is only $500 a week or $12.50 per hour unloading trucks at the waste disposal plant, O’Connor said shaking his head. You see, Judge, he is hampered by the fact that his English is not that good.

That’s bullshit, Maria whispered to me.

He has only about $450 per week after taxes, O’Connor continued. What else can he do? He has to live too. He pays half to the Department of Revenue and is barely able to live on the rest, O’Connor whined. Ms. DellaRosa is a stay-at-home mom and, of course, there’s no money coming in there, O’Connor said with a smirk.

But he wasn’t finished.

So there’s no reason to make this one of Attorney Eldridge’s landmark cases, dragging it out to a fare-thee-well. So, I ask Judge, that you order an immediate trial as provided in the notice and the motion that Attorney Eldridge received for this pre-trial conference. Thank you.

I could hear Maria crying sitting next to me. I got up slowly and took a breath before I began.

Your Honor, I haven’t even filed a Request for Production of Documents, I said sotto voce (I learned that if one speaks quietly, most people listen more attentively). I don’t have Mr. DellaRosa’s bank statements, his tax returns, his credit card information or any other documents which he’d be required to produce, I added. I haven’t taken his deposition. I haven’t had a chance to file a notice to admit facts or any other pleading for that matter, I said.

You see, Judge! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! O’Connor exclaimed standing up and pointing a finger at me. There’s no need for all of that in this case.

I just stood there, not saying a word, not engaging in this pissing contest with this Neanderthal. The law allowed me all those documents I mentioned in what was called the discovery process so I waited for the Judge to tell O’Connor to sit down.

My mistake.

Attorney Eldridge, you don’t need all that production in a case like this, the Judge said to me leaning back in his chair, brushing his blond hair away from his eyes.

There’s nothing here for you to ruminate over, the Judge added derisively.

Ruminate, that bastard, I thought. I knew that Toomey was angry with me when I resigned my judgeship two years ago. He and other judges thought that once one was appointed a judge for life, a resignation somehow besmirched the reputation of the entire judiciary. Well, to hell with them, I thought then, and I think even now. The year I handed my resignation to the Governor, my wife and I had four kids and three of them were in college and one in boarding school…all at the same time. I opened my own law office and hired one, then two, then three associates, earning three times what I earned as a judge.

Your Honor, I need time to complete my discovery in order to prove to you that my client’s affidavit is truthful, I said in the same quiet voice. This man’s financial statement is fraudulent! (OK, I raised my voice then but I modulated my tone when I proceeded.) "It hasn’t been months since he’s had a job, its been years and he’s been receiving income that the family has been living on for all that time from the sale of a successful bar in Taormina, Italy…and that money still exists…"

No, no Attorney Eldridge, the Judge said. He was nervous; I could tell by the way his hands were fidgeting around his face.

Trial, Attorney Eldridge. Trial today, right now. Put your case in! he ordered in a shaky voice as though he was totally unsure of himself.

What? My client wasn’t prepared, I had no documents, and the financial statement of the defendant was bogus. It’d be mal-practice if I even attempted to try this case, I thought. The Judge’s desideratum was simply to make me understand that he was in charge and, what was worse, to let me know he didn’t like me in the least.

I had filed my divorce complaint first so I was to begin the trial with an opening, followed in the usual case, by putting my first witness on the stand.

Now, as you can tell, I have been around the court system as a lawyer, then as a judge and now as a lawyer again for a long time. Yet at this point, after hearing Toomey’s order, my stomach clutched, my hands shook and I broke out in a sweat.

Judge, I refuse to go forward, I said softly, looking Toomey straight in the eye. It would be malpractice for me to try this case without any proper discovery. I sat down and whispered to my client, I’m sorry Maria, I just can’t go forward. She looked at me somewhat bewildered, tears in her eyes and said, I have to trust your judgment.

Well, that didn’t make me feel any better but I was faced with a Hobson’s choice: I could try the case and expect a judgment with no asset distribution, no adequate alimony or child support and a possible mal-practice case against me or I could sit down and rely on an appellate court to remedy the situation (and, in the meantime, publicly criticize Toomey for his bullying tactics, I hoped).

Call your first witness, Toomey bellowed to O’Connor.

O’Connor called Jaccomo DellaRosa to the stand and began his direct testimony. In halting English, made purposely worse under instruction from his lawyer I was sure, DellaRosa said he’d tried hard to find a job but—was not, you know no job for me. Finally, seniore Judice, I found this job you see on my… er, a dichiarazione (it means a statement I found out later), just last week.

He went on like that saying how much he loved his kids, how sad he was that he couldn’t afford to give them what they needed, but what am I gonna do, Judge?

He testified that Maria was guilty of slapping him in the face when last they argued after which she ordered him out of the house. He hadn’t been back since, he said.

At that point Maria let out an audible gasp and started to get up from her chair.

Please sit down, Maria, I said. Don’t let him upset you with his lies.

Jaccomo continued, But I wanna see my kids Judge. She won’t let me back inna house.

When he was finished with his questions, O’Connor sat down.

Cross examine Mr. Eldridge? the Judge said to me.

I didn’t move. I said not a word.

Mr. Eldridge you have the right to cross examine, the Judge said to me.

I looked at Toomey, my expression made inscrutable with difficulty.

Your honor, I’m formally asking you to recuse yourself in this case, I said softly, only loud enough for the Judge and the court reporter to hear.

On what grounds? Toomey sputtered.

On the grounds of prejudice by you, your honor.

Because you have refused to participate in this trial? Because you don’t know what you are doing in my court?

Judge, this is not your court. This is the people’s court and you have not allowed me to represent my client.

Quietly and coldly Judge Toomey said, Call your next witness Attorney O’Connor. Your motion to recuse is denied, Mr. Eldridge. The Judge leaned over the top of the bench and pointed at my opponent as if he was conducting an orchestra. He waved his hand with his index finger extended towards O’Connor then towards the witness stand several times, back and forth, as if to say get on with it.

I rest my case, Judge, O’Connor said smiling as if he’d just slain a dragon and emerged from the fight victoriously.

Closing argument, Attorney O’Connor?

Not really, Your Honor, O’Connor said rising from the defendant’s table. My client testified to the grounds for divorce, his financial statement is on file, he seeks only reasonable visitation with his children…after all, he works and Ms. DellaRosa stays at home, he said nodding toward Maria in a parting shot.

Closing, Mr. Eldridge? Toomey asked even though he should’ve asked me first…but it didn’t matter.

Judge, as I’ve said, I refuse to participate in this sham.

Well, you leave me no choice, Attorney Eldridge, the Judge said with a nervous laugh, attempting to appear as if this proceeding was pro forma, when in fact it was anything but. I will enter an order and you’ll be notified of my decision.

Toomey got up from the bench, stood for a second, straightening to his full height and waited for the court officer to say, Court, all rise! before he turned and made his way to his lobby.

I saw O’Connor with his arm around Jaccomo DellaRosa walking out of the courtroom as I sat in my chair, not able to move, not able to fully grasp the events that had just transpired and not knowing quite what to say to my client.

Maria was silently crying sitting next to me. What have I done to this poor woman? I thought as I put my arm around her slumping shoulder. I took this case knowing that her two thousand dollar retainer would be gone after only four hours of my time had been expended, which happened not long after her initial conference with me, but she moved me with her innocent simplicity, her lack of guile and the trust she had in me. You come highly recommended, she had said to me that day in my office, looking at me and measuring my competence with her eyes before engaging me as her paladin.

Maria, don’t worry about fees, I said to her as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. I will take this appeal on my own time.

Chapter Two

O ne week later, I received Toomey’s decision. He found that DellaRosa earned $500 a week gross, and of that he was ordered to pay $250 to the Massachusetts Department of Transitional Aid to Families with Dependent Children (TAFDC) as reimbursement, given reasonable rights of visitation and awarded a divorce on grounds of cruel and abusive treat ment.

Not five minutes after reading the judgment, I dictated a notice of appeal and simultaneously filed a motion for reconsideration (which is seldom, if ever granted). I also had to order the transcript of the proceedings at trial and compile the pleadings to create the record. In the meantime, the judgment was stayed.

Maria was a basket case. She couldn’t get over the fact that Jaccomo was not forced to disclose his assets in Italy. She was now on welfare receiving $509.75 per week and was not able to meet all the payments on the bills that accumulated so rapidly after her husband left, could not pay the rent on the apartment nor could she buy food for the four kids. If it wasn’t for her brother, Lorenzo Berrena, she would not have been able to survive.

After Maria was told of the decision by the judge, she wept. The kids, their needs, their demands, and the lack of money, all played a part in her depression, her confusion. She was weeping again when her brother stopped by to see how she was doing late one evening after she had put the children to bed.

Maria, don’t worry, I’ll give you whatever you need, he said reassuringly, putting his arm around her shoulders, just as he often did when they were kids. She smiled at him, relaxed somewhat and stopped crying. She put her head on his chest and knew somehow, deep inside her, that he would take care of her and her kids.

And then, almost instantly, his demeanor changed, his body tightened, and she could feel his tension mount. She raised her head and saw that his lips turned into a menacing sneer.

Where is Jaccomo living these days? he demanded, not attempting to disguise his feeling of hatred for his brother-in-law.

Larry, don’t! I thank you for the money but leave him alone, Maria blurted out, her eyes wide and her voice quivering. My lawyer is taking an appeal and it’ll work out all proper and legal.

Ah, Maria, you don’t have a clue do you? Larry said with an audible sigh. I sent Rico to the apartment Jaccomo rented after he left you a month ago…that was, let’s see, two weeks ago, about a week before your trial and he wasn’t there. Rico then went to the city yard the next morning where Jaccomo was supposed to be working ...supposed to have a job unloading the city’s trash trucks and dumping the refuse into the giant pits before it’s moved into the furnaces, I guess. He wasn’t there either, Larry said, both hands extended with palms up as if to say, What am I going to do with this sciocco?

Word on the street is that he’d been living with some broad until the trial was finished, Larry continued. My people have been looking for him this past week and I thought you might know where he is.

He hasn’t been around to see the kids. I don’t know what I’d do if he does show his face around here, Maria said shaking her head.

Do you think he’d ever go back to Sicily? Larry asked.

Well, that’s where the money is, Maria responded.

Lorenzo Berenna, six feet two and darkly complected, with jet black hair and as handsome as a movie star, was the oldest of five children growing up in Boston’s North End. The father, Emilio, worked as a long-distance truck driver and was seldom home. Theresa, his wife, didn’t need any help with the kids ever since Larry turned twelve and was in the seventh grade. Larry was big for his age even then, played football and basketball in junior high and yet found time to watch over his four siblings, ages four, six, eight and ten…two boys and two girls, Maria being the oldest of them.

By the time Lorenzo was in high school, he was a habitué at the Italian Men’s Club on Salem Street where the older crowd hung out. The club was a typical storefront where, in the summer, the men would sit on the sidewalk in their fold-up chairs, donning white sleeveless undershirts, smoke their stogies or, if they were winners, Romeo y Julietta cigars and play chess. At first he swept the floors but it wasn’t long until he became a runner, taking cash and slips of paper on which were written the bets and delivering them to Bootsie in the back of the club, an area reserved for just such a purpose.

It wasn’t long before Larry took over for Bootsie and ran the book with an iron fist before he was thirty years old. He had a cadre of seven people doing his bidding, following his orders, collecting money from the losers and paying the winners. If anyone became delinquent, there were a couple of people in the group whose job it was to make sure the payment was made and to make the point that it better not happen again. But the enforcers were not used very often. The bettors were all North End residents who knew the score, placed their bets and took their losses and winnings with alacrity.

When Maria married Jaccomo she was only nineteen years old and Larry didn’t like the guy from the beginning. Jaccomo was thirty-two years old, just off the boat, could hardly speak any English, had a chip on his shoulder and was evasive about his Sicilian background. He told everybody that his family was rich and that he attended Palermo University, but when Larry contacted the school at Piazza Marina, 61 in Palermo, he could find no record of his attendance. Maria would have none of it however; she was in love with this suave Sicilian bastardo and there was nothing Larry could do about it.

But that was then and this is now, and despite his sister’s plea to leave Jaccomo alone and allow the legal system to run its course, Larry was determined to get to his brother-in-law’s stash ...wherever it was.

One of Larry’s compagnos at the club was Salvatore, Toto Carando, a Siciliano who was built like a tank, with hands as big as those on the statue of David and shoulders like an NFL line backer. He was easily the smartest of the bunch who worked for Berrena.

Toto, Larry said late one afternoon when all the chits were accounted for and the club was almost deserted the dominoes and card players having left to go home for supper, I have a job for you. You know my sister?

"Sure I do. Maria, I seen her in here a lotta times. I