Fallen Angel

Prologue

M adam foreperson, has the jury reached a verdict? Standing ramrod straight and looking at no one other than the court clerk, she answered, Yes. At the prosecution table, Michael Gioca, his stomach in a knot, as it has been at this point of every case he ever tried, studied her face for any hint of the verdict. He got nothing. I’d hate to play poker with this one, he thought to himself. Only after she announced guilty did she show the hint of a smile as she looked at Gioca.

Michael let out a sigh of relief. He needed this one badly. The gallery, made up of Lara Winters’ father and friends, had been holding its collective breath waiting for the verdict. When the foreperson said that magic word, one could hear their exhale and feel them relax for the first time since Lara’s murder. Then came the cheer, followed by the tears, as they hugged each other knowing the nightmare was finally over.

Of course, the conviction wouldn’t bring Lara back to them. They would have to be content with holding on to the memories. But knowing that the animal who senselessly took her life for the few dollars in her purse was about to spend the rest of his life in a cage would let them sleep soundly once again. Their angel, as the New York newspapers had called Lara because of her unselfish social work at a battered women’s shelter and a food pantry for the homeless, could also now rest in peace.

As Michael left the courtroom, Lara’s father, Roger, approached him. He said nothing; he simply enveloped Mike, as his friends called him, in a hug. Thank you, he whispered. You have honored Lara’s memory and given me, and her mom back in St. Louis, closure. I’ll never forget you. It was not like Michael to be at a loss for words, but he looked at Lara’s dad, nodded, brushed away a tear, and said goodbye.

On the way back to his office, even though he hadn’t done so for a long while, Michael said a silent prayer for Lara. After all the trials over the years, this win, he thought, was his most important for so many reasons. He hoped it would go a long way toward mending fences with his colleagues as well as with his boss, the district attorney. In addition, he was counting on this win to resurrect his reputation in the law enforcement community. It was a lot to hope for from the win, but Michael would soon learn that he had underestimated its significance.

Michael knew nothing of the group that had been watching him from the day he took the case until its end. They watched him throughout the investigation and throughout his preparation for the trial. They were in the courtroom every day and saw his every move. And, when the verdict came in, he didn’t know that they, too, celebrated because they had finally found the right man for what they needed done. Unbeknownst to Michael, he was about to embark on an epic struggle. A challenge that would change his life forever.

Part One

Chapter

One

Michael Gioca stared out his office window at the Brooklyn Bridge. The 48-year-old chief of the Brooklyn District Attorney’s Rackets Division was in a serious funk. Rackets is the unit that takes on the big cases and those that do not fit into traditional slots like homicide, rape, and larceny. It was one of these cases that had Michael so despondent. He had just secured an unpopular conviction, but one that served the ends of justice.

Ironically, Michael agreed to take the case thinking it was the elixir to bring him out of personal depression. His career was soaring, but missing family dinners, his sons’ school events, and their football and basketball games had taken a toll on his home life.

Although prohibited by his Catholic faith, Michael and his wife, Kathy, had recently divorced. After the divorce, Michael, now alone, had temporarily moved in with his dad, sleeping in his old bedroom. He loved his two sons, but now his time with them would be severely limited. Personally, he didn’t think he could fall any lower. His life was in the crapper.

Michael tried to find solace in his faith but had begun withdrawing from the Church ever since his mom, with whom he had been very close, died several years before and his marriage started to dissolve. So kneeling in a pew on Sunday morning, as he had done since the first grade in St. Teresa’s elementary school, did not help him find what he was looking for, peace.

Then the case against a corrupt federal agent came along.

Michael received information that a now-retired, highly-regarded federal agent had been working with the Mafia during the late 1980s and early ‘90s. The allegation was that he had been on the payroll of a prominent Brooklyn mob family. He had been helping one faction win an internal family war by tipping off the identities of informants to a capo in the faction. The informants were then turning up dead all over Brooklyn. Federal prosecutors, although aware of the agent’s corruption, had passed on prosecuting him several times for a myriad of political reasons.

Now an NYPD detective had gotten new information that several unsolved homicides, suspected of being mob rubouts, were tied to the agent. The detective knew Michael, having successfully worked with him on several cold cases. They had become close friends, and the detective trusted him without question. So he went to Michael with this sensitive and highly-charged information. Michael agreed to look into it.

After a long investigation, it was determined that these murder victims were the informants who the federal agent had fingered for the mob family he was working with.

Michael indicted the agent, charging him with the four murders. The indictment caused an uproar in the law enforcement community in Brooklyn and in Washington, DC.

The case was legally sufficient but not great. Michael had two witnesses with mob connections and long criminal records, as well as a couple of unfriendly colleagues of the agent who were willing to testify against him. It was a risk, but in Michael’s opinion, it was one worth taking. A case like this, with these allegations, had to be brought to trial. The fact that the accused was a federal agent did not give him immunity for murder.

The trial lasted more than a month, with the defendant’s attorney waging a pitched battle with Michael and contesting every piece of evidence against his client. However, once the jury received the case for deliberation, and despite the length of the trial, they quickly reached a verdict. Guilty on all counts.

After the conviction, Michael went back to his office expecting congratulations. He got none. Instead, he heard only grumbling from his fellow executives who were often his detractors because of his past success in big cases.

He only brought the case to selfishly enhance his reputation and further his career, one said.

Another agreed, He only cares about himself and how this win will make his star shine even brighter. He doesn’t care that he just ruined the life of a hero agent who had been risking it for over three decades. If it’s good for Gioca then to hell with everyone else. What an egotist.

Gioca dismissed this talk. They’re just jealous, he thought to himself. They have nowhere near the experience I have. Nor do they have the balls to take on a case like this…. I have to get out of here.

As he was about to leave the office to join his father for dinner, he heard from DA Martin Marty Price’s secretary, Paula. He wants to see you, NOW, she said. This was not a come up for a chat with the boss message. This was an urgent summons to his office, two floors above.

While he was somewhat surprised by the attitude of his fellow executives, he expected something different from the DA. Surely a job-well-done speech was coming. Michael had won a big case and brought justice to the families of the victims. This was surely a feather in the DA’s cap.

Michael was wrong.

He was shocked and rendered speechless at the attitude of his boss. The DA was surprised and angry that Michael had gotten the guilty verdict. According to Price, convicting a well-respected fed was extremely unpopular and politically damaging to him.

You cowboy! he screamed at Michael as he walked into the office. Do you know how much shit I’m going to have to take because of this conviction? If I thought there was even the slightest chance you’d win this dog of a case, I would never have let you run with it.

The DA then took a breath, which Michael hoped would be the end of his tirade. It wasn’t. He was just regrouping. Now, even louder, he continued, The case was shit. But your gamble that the jury would buy those sketchy witnesses and the risk you took that using the defendant’s colleagues against him would turn out okay were all done at the expense of my reputation and possibly my career.

Michael had never seen the DA so unhinged. He wasn’t a healthy guy, so Michael feared he’d have a heart attack right then and there.

My donors love the feds, and now you’ve convicted a federal agent of murder! No, four murders! he screamed. The verdict was less than an hour ago, and I’ve already heard that this is my fault for not controlling you. They’re wondering if it’s in their best interest to continue donating to the campaign of a DA who could be so stupid! How do I run for re-election, and win, without money?

And, if that isn’t bad enough, Price continued, I also got a call from my so-called friend Senator Klein wondering how I’ll explain this fiasco to the Party. That’s another source of campaign financing that could dry up. Gioca, you have fucked me good! Get the fuck out of my office!

Shaken, upset, and very angry, Michael returned to his office. He closed the door and sat at his desk staring out the window and trying to comprehend what had just happened.

The more he thought about the events of the last hour, the angrier and more frustrated he got. The staring and reflecting were not working. He still felt like shit. So Michael simply left the building. He toyed with the idea of driving to Atlantic City, as he often did, and losing himself in a night of poker.

The Italian word gioca translated into English means gamble. The name suited Michael. In his private time, he was a big-time poker player. It seemed like an anomaly, but Michael said he loved the game because it allowed him to think and strategize. Great practice for a trial lawyer. He also believed dealing with and handling the pressure of big poker games prepared him for the highly-charged atmosphere of the courtroom during a trial.

Michael didn’t always win at cards, but as in the courtroom, given the slightest chance that he could, Gioca would gamble. This time the risk of prosecuting the fed worked out in the courtroom only to blow up in his face outside it.

He quickly dismissed the AC idea because he remembered his dad and their dinner plans. Attempting to clear his head, he left his car in the garage and walked home to the Brooklyn apartment he moved into after leaving his father’s house a few months before. With every step he took, the emotions he felt when he left the office began to wane, only to be replaced by overwhelming disappointment and sadness.

He was proud of himself for taking on a guy who betrayed his badge and for making sure justice was done. "How could this be wrong?" he mumbled to himself as he walked. Of course, it wasn’t wrong, he answered. Politics had reared its ugly head and bit Michael on the ass.

As he opened the door to his apartment, his phone rang. Hi, Dad, how are you? Not wanting to talk about what had happened at the office and not wanting to let on how upset and disappointed he was, Michael simply said, I’m sorry, Dad, I’m beat. I need to cancel dinner. I’ll see you on the weekend.

His father had heard about the conviction on the TV news and couldn’t be happier. However, sensing something was off about his son, he said, Michael, I want you to know I’m proud of you. I always tell you, ‘Do the right thing,’ and today you did that. Bravo!

Michael smiled, Thanks, Dad, that means a lot. Filled with emotion, he continued, I wish Mom was here to see how her son did.

Son, said his father, she is.

Michael poured himself a scotch and called his sons, Michael Jr. and Kevin. Since the divorce, his boys lived with their mom.

Hey, guys, how are you doing? Have you seen the news?

Dad, you did good, they said. How much time is he facing?

Michael smiled, thanked them, and replied, Life, he’s facing life in prison.

One of them whistled at the answer, and the other said, Good, he deserves it.

Michael then made a date to take them and his father out to dinner on the weekend. Goodnight, guys, I love you.

When he hung up, the shitty feeling was gone. Thank God for my dad and my kids. I don’t know what I would do without them, Michael said aloud to his empty apartment.

After a fitful sleep, Michael arrived at his office early hoping that the anger expressed by the DA the day before had dissipated. He wasn’t so naïve as to think that Price had totally forgiven him, but he would settle for a phone call or an email, something, anything, that would allow Michael to believe that the worst had passed. Morning turned to afternoon and then to evening with nothing from the DA.

He ran into one of his colleagues in the lobby coffee shop near the end of the day. After Michael greeted him, the executive simply stared at him and shook his head as if to say, How could you do this?

Despite it all, Michael hoped that with the passage of time things would get better. They didn’t.

Not only did the DA and his executive staff remain angry with him, but he also felt the same vibe when he dealt with detectives who were handling investigations within his division.

After more than a month of this treatment, Michael realized that he had become a pariah, both in his office and in the law enforcement community in general. Only in the law school class that he taught in the evening was he looked at as a hero and a defender of justice.

Michael had been teaching trial advocacy to law school students for over a decade. At one point, he was teaching in three different schools. However, as he advanced in the DA’s office and his time became more limited, he had to cut back. When he became Chief of Rackets, he taught one night a week in a school near his office.

Michael was very popular with, and close to, his students. He talked to them whenever they needed him; he listened to them and guided them. Sometimes he would even give them a few bucks to help them over rough times. His loyalty to them was reciprocated. His students couldn’t have been more excited and complimentary after Michael convicted the corrupt, murderous federal agent. The school became his refuge.

Although the DA hadn’t talked to him for months after the conviction, Michael still held the position of Chief of Rackets. He was thankful for that. He loved his job, but to do it effectively, he knew things had to change.

Just like after his divorce, when he took the case against the federal agent to re-charge his battery and get out of his personal depression, he needed something that would restore his reputation and the confidence the DA once had in him.

Then Lara Winters was brutally murdered.

Chapter

Two

It was a long subway ride from the South Bronx to Prospect Heights in Brooklyn.

Every night Lara Winters made the trip after a long day working with battered women as part of her master’s degree in social work program. When she began, Lara had been alerted by her career counselor to the danger of riding the New York City subway. She was told to be wary of those around her. So each night when she entered the subway car for the trip home, she looked around and made sure she either sat or stood near others who looked to be interested only in getting home after a long day.

Lara had come to New York from a small town outside of St. Louis, Missouri, where she lived with her mom. Her parents were divorced. Her dad, a middle school teacher, lived in New Jersey.

Lara graduated from Saint Louis University with a bachelor’s degree in social work and was accepted into New York University’s master’s program. She wanted to spend her life helping people, and social work was her vocation. With the diverse population and their variety of problems, Lara knew that the big city would afford her invaluable experience.

As part of the NYU program, she was assigned to a position in a battered women’s shelter in the Bronx, as well as to a group home where she served meals to the homeless on Saturday. The learning opportunity afforded by the shelter and group home’s residents was invaluable. To make a few extra bucks, Lara posed as a portrait model for art students in a college near her Brooklyn apartment.

On a cold, early spring night, Lara got onto the subway in the Bronx for the one-hour trip to Brooklyn. It was around 10:00 p.m. when she arrived at her stop and made her way to the street.

She hadn’t eaten so she decided to stop on her way home to buy groceries. The deli she frequented was close to her subway stop on Flatbush Avenue and a block away from her apartment. It stayed open until midnight.

When she entered the store, she noticed that Mr. Lee, the owner, was not working. Lara thought it unusual because Lee was always in the store behind the counter.

Instead, the counter was manned by a tall, thin, white guy who looked to be in his forties, with close-cropped black hair and a strange marking high on his left cheek. Lara had never seen him before that night.

Hey there, he said. You’re Lara, right?

Lara, surprised and frightened, answered, How do you know my name? Where’s Mr. Lee?

I’m Tony. I’m covering for him tonight because he’s not feeling well. I was in the Army with his son, Andy. He couldn’t work for his dad tonight so he called and asked for my help. I live close by and me and Andy are tight.

Tony continued, Mr. Lee was worried because I never covered for him before so he called me this afternoon to make sure that I take care of his customers. He told me about the regulars who come in at night. He mentioned you and described you to a tee. You live a block away, right?

Hearing that Tony was a friend of Mr. Lee’s son, Lara relaxed a bit and began to shop. As she did, Tony made small talk.

It’s supposed to be spring, but man is it cold tonight, he said.

Tony, that’s why I have these, Lara responded, holding up her gloved hands and pointing to her scarf. Not exactly spring clothes, but I needed them tonight. It’s a long walk to the subway in the Bronx where I work, and the platform is freezing.

Tony nodded and told Lara to take her time in the store.

Warm up while you’re shopping.

Thanks, Tony. I won’t be long. Mr. Lee probably told you that if it’s quiet you can close early, right? Lara asked. She then gave a little laugh, It’s something he tells me when I’m the only one in here at this hour.

Tony smiled and said, You read my mind.

While they were talking, a guy in his late 20s, skinny, with a pasty complexion and long dirty hair, entered the store and began to aimlessly look around. Lara noticed that he was not dressed for the weather. He was wearing only a short denim jacket over a black hoodie, ragged jeans, and sneakers. She gave it little thought until he began to eye the beer in the refrigerated showcase. She looked at Tony as if to ask, Cold beer on a night like this? Tony shrugged and whispered, Joey Fanta, he’s a junkie. Doesn’t feel the cold.

Tony then began to count the money in the cash register preparing to close once Lara had left. When she was finished shopping, Tony packed up her groceries and said goodnight. He then added, I know you don’t have far to walk, but be careful.

As Lara left the store, something caused her to look back. She noticed Fanta, now at the counter, talking to Tony, who was gesturing while seeming to instruct him about something. Lara thought it was odd and, out of curiosity, watched for a bit. As she did so, the wind picked up and she began to shiver. It’s time to get home, she said to herself and set out for her apartment.

Because of the hour and the cold, Park Place, the street on which Lara lived, was deserted. The street lamps were not all working so there were patches of darkness.

About halfway to her door, Lara heard someone running behind her. When she turned, she recognized the guy from the deli, Joey Fanta, running right at her. Startled, she made sure to have a good grip on her purse, which Fanta was eyeing. He grabbed it as Lara struggled to hold on with one hand. Losing her grip, she then dropped her groceries, freeing her other hand, and fought to hold onto her purse.

Some of the block’s residents, hearing the commotion and Lara’s screams, looked out onto the street, but none went to help her.

Lara put up a ferocious fight until Fanta took a large knife from under his jacket and drove it into her back. Lara collapsed while Fanta ran away with her purse.

When the police and paramedics arrived, Lara was unresponsive. The paramedics furiously worked on her, but it was futile. Lara died alone on that cold, dark, deserted street.

When the medical examiner’s van came to collect the body, the knife that she had been stabbed with was still in her back. The paramedics had tried but could not remove it. It had been driven into her with such force that it literally went through her body, with the tip piercing the skin under her left breast.

Detectives canvassed the area but came up with no witnesses of real value. Most only heard Lara screaming and saw a struggle, although one did see a little more. She saw the attacker drive the knife into Lara’s back.

Because it was dark, no one could give a description of the attacker other than he was a man wearing what looked like a jeans jacket with a black hoodie pulled up over his head. The hoodie made it impossible for any of the witnesses to get a look at his face.

The next morning the tabloid headlines screamed, Death of an Angel.

The newspapers told Lara’s story of coming from the Midwest to New York to become a social worker. They detailed her work in the battered women’s shelter and with the homeless, quoting her co-workers who called her an angel among them. They described her as kind, caring, and totally selfless.

There was little in the stories of what happened on Park Place, other than Lara was murdered while walking alone on the dark street where she lived.

Reporters interviewed young women across the city to get their reactions. They all had expressed fear, and some worried that this was the beginning of a wave of crimes against women like themselves.

The stories ended with a statement from the mayor who expressed his outrage at the crime. He called for calm, assuring everyone that the NYPD was on the case and working diligently to bring this cold-blooded murderer to justice.

Chapter

Three

Early that morning Michael left his apartment in Carroll Gardens on his way to his old neighborhood of Prospect Heights to attend a friend’s funeral. He was in a rush, so he had not seen the newspapers, nor had he turned on the TV or radio.

The funeral mass was being held at the Church of St. Teresa, the parish where Michael had been baptized and where he attended elementary school.

As he drove down Park Place on his way to the church, he noticed the police activity and several television news vans. Curious, he stopped the car and walked to the police tape cordoning off the area where he showed his credentials to the cop at the tape.

Michael spotted a detective that he knew working the scene, so he asked the cop to let him in. He approached Detective Nick Cousakis, who Michael was certain would not treat him like other detectives had been doing since his conviction of the dirty fed.

Michael and Cousakis had worked an old mob case several years earlier. The brother of the chief of security for a prominent Brooklyn corporation had been shot, his body stuffed into a 55-gallon drum and thrown into the East River by the two mobsters who had killed him.

No one ever accused mob guys of being geniuses. These two hadn’t accounted for gases building up in the body, causing the drum to rise to the river’s surface.

One afternoon a tugboat captain noticed the drum floating. He hooked it and dragged it to a pier in Manhattan. Nick Cousakis, then assigned to a Manhattan detective squad, caught the case. He quickly identified the body and determined that the murder had occurred in Brooklyn.

The victim was a degenerate gambler who had been into the mob for big money. When he didn’t pay up after repeated approaches by the guys who ran a bookie operation for the Colombo crime family, they lured him to a fast-food restaurant in Brooklyn and killed him.

With the help of the restaurant’s mob-connected owner, they retrieved an empty 55-gallon drum from the fast-food joint’s storeroom and stuffed the victim into it. The geniuses, however, neglected to look inside before stuffing the body in and, therefore, didn’t notice the work shirt of a cook, with the restaurant’s name embroidered on the chest, at the bottom. The drum was being used by the restaurant’s workers as a dirty clothes hamper.

Cousakis centered his investigation around the restaurant and came up with the names of the two wiseguys who were seen in it around the date the medical examiner estimated the guy in the drum had been killed.

He found a worker at the place who confessed that he had helped them load a body into the drum and then lift it into a van that the two drove off in.

Once Cousakis had gotten that far, he needed the help of the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office to do the legal work necessary to finish off the investigation and present the case to a grand jury. Michael, then in the Homicide Bureau, was assigned the case.

After working closely with Michael for several weeks, Cousakis closed the investigation with two arrests. The shooters were then indicted and tried for murder.

Unfortunately, after a long trial, the jury was unable to reach a verdict. Michael and Cousakis were devastated. Nevertheless, they remained close and had been friends ever since.

Many years later Michael learned that a member of the jury had been reached and compromised by the mob. The attorney for one of the defendants had become a government informant to save himself after being arrested by the feds for a series of drug crimes. As part of his deal, he testified before President Ronald Reagan’s Commission on Organized Crime about corrupt mob lawyers. In his testimony, he admitted that, with his knowledge and consent, members of the Colombo family had approached one of the jurors who lived in Bensonhurst, an area of Brooklyn controlled by the crime family. They then paid her a substantial amount of money to guarantee there would be no conviction.

Nick, what happened? Michael asked as he approached Cousakis.

Nick looked up from what he had been doing and saw Michael. Surprised, Cousakis asked, Mike, what are you doing here? This ain’t a mob hit. Why are you interested?

Michael told him. This is my old neighborhood. I grew up right around the corner. I played stickball on this street, and my first girlfriend lived right over there, he said, pointing to a small apartment building across from the scene of Lara’s murder.

Michael repeated, What happened?

Cousakis told him what they knew, which wasn’t much. He added, This is going to be big. City Hall has already checked in, and the PC (cop jargon for the police commissioner) wants to be personally apprised of all developments.

Michael asked if anyone from the DA’s office had been to the scene. Cousakis didn’t know but said, It must have been called into your homicide bureau desk sometime last night because that’s procedure.

Michael thanked him for the information and asked to be kept apprised of any developments in the investigation.

Cousakis, looking puzzled, said he would but then asked again, Why are you interested?

To Michael’s way of thinking, this was the case to get him back in everyone’s good graces, but he was keeping that to himself. So to answer the question, he simply said, It’s the neighborhood. This is personal. Cousakis had grown up a street kid like Michael, so he understood. He agreed to keep him informed.

After the funeral mass, Michael drove straight to the office, but instead of going to the Rackets floor, he went to see the chief of the DA’s Homicide Bureau, Barry Stein.

He and Michael had known each other for well over twenty-five years. While not friends they were friendly colleagues who had helped each other in investigations and trials over the years.

When Michael walked into his office, Barry was immersed in a file; but you could barely see him because of the books, police files, and papers piled on his desk. He was getting ready for a trial that involved a rabbi who had been killed in a street robbery gone bad.

Barry, Mike said, getting his attention.

Hey, what’s up, Mike? What brings the great Gioca to our humble homicide bureau?

"Cut the crap, Barry. I don’t need you giving me shit, too. I’m getting more than enough from the executive floor and from our exalted leader! I’m here to ask for a favor."

Barry rolled his eyes, let out a sigh, and asked, What do you need?

Michael only told him about his coming upon the scene of Lara’s murder and that he felt connected to the case because of where it happened. He went on to mention that Nick Cousakis was the lead