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The JOCKEY’S JUSTICE

Michael Phelps

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Although based on a true story, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites over their content.

ISBN NUMBER: 9781620952719

Cover Design by Miguel A. Rodez, Miami, FL

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY SEVEN

TWENTY EIGHT

TWENTY NINE

ONE

Frank’s cell phone rang once.

“Okay, we’re on our way.” He said into his phone, looked at us and said “We have a verdict, let’s go.”

Mr. and Mrs. Mark E. Johnson, III, Frank and I left the Capitol Club and walked the two blocks to the Richard E. Gerstein Justice Building. Passing through the Security Checkpoint, we took the escalators to the fifth floor and entered Courtroom 5-2.

The courtroom filled quickly, the Bailiff closed the doors and stood in a military ‘at ease’ position.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Court has received word the Jury has reached a verdict. When the verdict is published, the Court instructs all present to remain silent, I do not want outbursts of any kind.” Judge Edward Lehr said.

Judge Lehr instructed the Bailiff on his left to bring in the jury.

Everyone in the courtroom remained standing as the jury filed in and took their seats. Our client, Mark Edward Johnson, IV stood rigid between my boss, Attorney Frank Pizzo and me. His parents sat immediately behind us in the gallery.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, you may be seated.” Judge Lehr said, and turning to the Jury; “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, have you reached a verdict?”

The Jury Foreman, a tall, thin man with dark gray hair, dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt and black tie, stood and put on his glasses. “We have, Your Honor.”

The Bailiff approached and took vertically folded eight and a half by eleven inch piece of paper from him, walked slowly to the Bench and handed it to the Judge. He opened the paper, gave it a quick read and handed it to his clerk.

“The Defendant will please rise. The Clerk will publish the verdict.” He said.

Frank, Mark IV and I stood, turned and faced the Jury, our eyes fixed on theirs.

“In the cause of the State of Florida versus Mark Edward Johnson, the fourth; Case number 83-003177 CF on the single count of murder in the first degree, we the jury finds the Defendant NOT GUILTY.” She read in a loud monotone voice.

Mark Edward Johnson, the Fourth turned to his parents with tears welling in his eyes, his low voice trembling; whispered, “I told you . . . I didn’t do it.” He then turned, sank back into his chair and let his head drop into his hands and onto the Defense table. His mother half stood and reached over and massaged his back in a motherly, reassuring rub. A look of total relief spread across his father’s tanned face.

“Counsel, do you wish to poll the jury?” Judge Lehr asked, looking at the State’s Attorneys.

“Not necessary, Your Honor, we accept the verdict.” Phil Marietta responded in a clear voice. Assistant State’s Attorneys Phillip Marietta and Marci Wharfing stood at the Prosecutors’ table, both looking down at the bare table. Their faces were void of expression. I knew they were prepared for the only possible verdict.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, the Court thanks you, on behalf of the people of Miami-Dade County and the State of Florida, for your service . . . you are dismissed. The Defendant, Mark Edward Johnson, the Fourth is free to go.” The Judge said. I detected a sly smile on his face as he rapped his gavel once.

“ALL RISE!” The Bailiff bellowed as the Judge stood and left the bench. The spectators began their exit from the courtroom.

He then turned and shook my hand and squeezed me in a bear hug. His parents came through the gate and they engaged in a group hug, Mark turned and grabbed Frank’s hand and shook it vigorously, hugging him and uttering his heartfelt thanks, tears flowing from all three.Frank had arranged with the Chief Administrative Judge and Judge Lehr for us to escort the Johnsons down the judges’ private elevator to the underground garage where their limousine had special permission to await the verdict.

“The Surf Club, tomorrow at seven.” Mark Johnson, III said to us as they entered their chauffeured Lincoln limousine.

“We’ll be there.” Frank said.

I followed Frank up the two flights of stairs to the courthouse lobby.

This had been a hard case. We had worked for almost two years, and the trial itself lasted six weeks. We were all grateful the jury handed down its’ verdict today, Friday the Thirteenth of June. The odds of our getting a verdict after three days of deliberation had been against us in a ‘betting pool’ among other lawyers and courthouse personnel, including the media.

The Johnson trial had been the most high profile case in recent Miami-Dade County history. Mark Edward Johnson, the Fourth had been arrested and charged with the first-degree murder of his and his father’s mistress twenty-five months ago.

The victim Carrie Symms; a vivacious former beauty queen, professional model and aspiring actress had been found in her penthouse condominium on South Beach by her house cleaner a little past eight o’clock on the morning of May Ninth. The blonde, blue-eyed striking beauty had been shot five times. She was discovered lying on her back, nude across her blood-soaked bed.

The Miami Beach Police detectives had no problem discovering the sumptuous eight room, thirtieth-floor penthouse, with a wrap-around terrace and panoramic views of the Atlantic Ocean and breathtaking views of Miami Beach and Miami had been purchased eighteen months before by Mark Edward Johnson the Third. He is the fifty-nine years old, founder, Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of an international high-tech business conglomerate. His net worth placed him fifteenth on the Forbes list of the 400 richest people in the world. His two-year illicit affair with the twenty-seven years old victim was exposed, and made headlines for weeks. He was the obvious prime suspect. The police learned he had been in Tokyo for the ten days prior to and including the day the victim was killed, buying another company. They needed another suspect.

The police learned within hours that Mark the Fourth was also having an intimate affair with the victim. They then focused their attention on him after reviewing security tapes of the condominium lobby. Although the tapes were dark and grainy, the figure of a male entering the building at five minutes past two o’clock the morning of the murder looked enough like him for the police to get a warrant for his arrest.

The outside cameras showed a late model BMW convertible park in the covered driveway at the same time, and the male figure exit the car and enter the building. The doorman had been on a restroom break, and did not see the man enter or leave. Mark Johnson IV owned a new BMW 325ic.

The fact that Mark Edward Johnson, IV had been dating the victim made him the next logical, prime suspect in her murder. What Mark the father and Mark the son did not know, was the beauty queen was double dipping, keeping it in the family so to speak.

The trial was front-page news in The Miami Herald every single day. The citizens of Miami-Dade County were given every salacious detail of the kinky sex, huge sums of money, jewelry, cars and property lavished upon the victim by both, the super-rich and powerful father and his playboy son living on Daddy’s money. It was difficult for me to watch the wife and mother sitting in the courtroom each day listening to the testimony of all the witnesses, seeing a video of her husband engaged in passionate sex, in living color and which the State’s Attorney speculated the victim was holding for a possible blackmail of the elder Johnson.

The jury and courtroom spectators were shown blown-up color photographs of the crime scene; the brain matter and blood splatter on the wall beside the master bed. Disgusting, graphic photos, including autopsy photos of the once beautiful swimsuit and lingerie model.

The Johnsons had been high school sweethearts and married when he graduated from Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She was by his side as he formed his own company after working six years as a software engineer with Microsoft. Ten years later, he took his company public and became a Billionaire. Soon he was globe-trotting and buying up other companies, building his conglomerate. Mark the IV was an only child. It was apparent to me that sitting through the trial; Mrs. Johnson had nerves of steel and the patience of Job.

My name is Mike Walsh. I am the Chief Investigator for the Law Offices of Francis Xavier Pizzo. I am a former Homicide Detective of the Indianapolis Police Department. I had resigned from the police department and relocated to Miami, Florida three and a half years ago. I was involved in a shooting incident, where my close friend and mentor, Detective Sergeant Jack Lovell had been killed, two weeks before Christmas. In the ensuing three months; my marriage ended. My wife moved back to Connecticut with her parents and I decided immediately, I needed a new start in life.

Frank Pizzo graduated from the University Of Miami School Of Law, summa cum laude, class of 1962. Originally from Brooklyn, New York, he had fallen in love with Miami and decided to stay after graduation. He spent his first three years as an Assistant State Attorney, and made a big name for himself prosecuting major felony cases. In 1966 he opened his own office as a defense attorney, specializing in criminal defense. Over the years he has become one of the most prominent criminal defense attorneys in Miami.

I joined his office as Chief Investigator in June of 1981. It is a small practice; Frank, his two secretaries, Alicia Gonzalez and Stephanie Satterfield (his Goddaughter), Attorney Lisa McCall, her secretary Janice Martin, my assistant Rosa Cabio and me. I can best describe Frank as being the model for Joe Pesci’s character in the hit movie “My Cousin Vinnie”, and his Goddaughter Stephanie being the model for Marisa Tomei’s character, for which she would win the Oscar as Best Supporting Actress in the movie. Frank looks a lot like Joe Pesci in the face and his voice is a dead-ringer for the actor. He wears his curly brown hair long, down to his shoulders. He wears old, polyester suits, colorful ties, and well-worn shoes, all right out of the late sixties. One seeing him on the street would never guess he is a brilliant lawyer, and a multi-millionaire.

The Johnson case had been very hard, from an investigative point. Our client had no alibi. He had a previous relationship with the victim. He had been seen engaged with the victim in a loud argument at a local upscale restaurant the night before her murder. He owned a handgun of the same caliber as was used in the murder. He claimed his gun had been lost or stolen from the glove box of his BMW convertible. He had not gotten around to reporting the missing gun to police. His physique matched the grainy security camera video recorded on the early morning of the murder. He and his father did not know of each other’s relationship with the victim.

By all accounts and appearances, the elder Johnson’s marriage had survived the exposure and notoriety of his infidelities, spread across the Miami Herald, national and international newspapers, and splashed across the national network and cable television news for months.

It had brought father and son closer together. Our twenty-two months investigation had produced irrefutable evidence of our client’s innocence, supported by the police lab’s own forensic evidence, and more importantly our evidence pointed police towards a more viable suspect, who had left town soon after the murder. However, all the way up to and throughout the trial, the police and State’s Attorneys were adamant they had their man, and stubbornly ignored the new evidence my assistant and I had unearthed.

Frank and I walked from the basement garage up to the first floor and exited the building.

Phil Marietta and Marci Wharfing were giving a post-verdict statement to hordes of local and international television, radio and print media surrounding them. They spotted Frank and I leaving the courthouse and several rushed over to us, shouting at Frank, pleading for a statement.

“We are pleased with the jury’s findings, the evidence supporting our client’s innocence was overwhelming, the good and intelligent people of this jury saw through the lack of evidence presented by the State.” Frank said with a smile, ignoring the shouting reporters’ questions, he waved them off, and we walked down the steps crossed the street to the parking lot, and got into Frank’s Cadillac.

We arrived back at our offices in Coral Gables at five minutes of two. Everyone was gathered around the television in the conference room, watching the replay of Marietta’s statement, followed by Frank’s very brief statement. Court TV had broadcast the entire trial live, and Stephanie had videotaped every scene.

We were greeted with a big round of applause and smiles. We watched the television as Phil was telling the crowd of reporters,

“We did not question the verdict . . . we have obtained new evidence leading us to believe the defendant is innocent, and we have a suspect who is not in our jurisdiction at this time, but we have information an arrest is imminent, we will then commence with extradition of the subject back to Florida.”

“Yeah, they have new evidence . . . that you and Rosa gave them on the proverbial silver platter.” Frank said, patting my shoulder.

“Well, it was your masterful presentation that tore the State’s case to shreds, and proved to the jury Johnson didn’t do it.” I replied.

We watched the television a few more minutes, and then I bid everyone a nice weekend and left the office. I drove to the Fireside Restaurant and Lounge, four blocks from our offices.

TWO

The elder Johnson had paid Frank a fee of five million dollars. I had been paid a quarter of a million dollars and Rosa earned one hundred and five thousand dollars. It sure was an improvement over a city detective’s salary, even with overtime. I must admit I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. I felt we had earned every penny of our fees. I had lived this case for two years; eating little, sleeping less, and thinking of nothing but this case. I planned to take a few days off to relax and take my dogs to the doggie beach between Miami and Key Biscayne.

The Johnsons were hosting a victory party for about three hundred of their “closest friends” and family at the posh Surf Club on Miami Beach the next evening. Our entire staff’s presence was mandatory.

It was to be a ‘black-tie’ affair. Only Mrs. Johnson, their son, Frank and I knew that the elder Johnson would be announcing he was donating one million dollars to “The Innocence Project”.

I entered the Fireside just after three o’clock, the large Oak door opened for me by Reynaldo, the ever-present doorman. As you enter the Fireside, you are in the main bar. A large rectangle bar of solid Oak, with genuine brass foot rails, plush burgundy leather bar chairs, small brass lamps spaced around the bar. The bottom half of the walls are solid oak panels, with a forest green top half, large prints of Florida scenes adorn the wall, separated by brass sconces. The plush carpet is a deeper green. The Fireside reminded me of Churchill’s Restaurant and Lounge in Indianapolis.

Julio, the Head Bartender and his two assistants greet every customer with a genuine smile. If they know you, your drink will be in place by the time you take your seat. I always sat in the far northeast corner of the bar, where I could see the main entrance, and the archway leading into the plush formal dining room. I had learned long ago, a cop never sits with his back to the door. Upstairs are four private dining rooms and a smaller bar. The Fireside is world renowned for its food and service. It is a favored place for the ‘rich and famous’. I am certainly neither rich nor famous, but Frank having introduced me, I am a ‘regular’. It is the kind of place where everyone knows your name.

The Fireside is the first, very up-scale restaurant I had visited when I relocated to Florida. It was where Frank had taken me for lunch and extended his job offer. It became my favorite spot to unwind at the end of the day. I would usually have two, maybe three scotch and waters, sometimes I would treat myself to a nice steak dinner, and then head to my home in Miami Shores, with a nice steak or prime rib I would mix in with the Eukanuba dry food for my German Shepherds.

I had already decided to have dinner here, and be home with a nice prime rib for Baron and Sherry by seven o’clock. They deserved it after being largely ignored as I worked sixteen-hour days for the past several months.

Julio sat my drink down as I slid onto the bar chair.

“I heard you guys won . . . it is all over TV, great job.” He said.

“Thanks, Julio . . . I’m just glad it is over . . . it has been a rough, long road.” I replied with a smile.

“This one is on me.” He said.

I raised my glass and nodded, “Thanks.” I said.

I loosened my necktie and removed my cigarettes and lighter from my pocket. I fought the urge to light up, as I am determined to quit smoking. There were only three other people at the bar, all on the south end. The bar would begin filling up around four o’clock, and be standing room only by five thirty. The clientele is mostly bankers, lawyers, judges, insurance executives. There are plenty of attractive women among the crowd, some attached, and some on the prowl.

Maureen Sullivan, the sultry voiced pianist, an attractive Irish gal with flaming red hair and sapphire blue eyes would begin her nightly entertaining at six o’clock. She performed great renditions of Broadway show tunes and love songs from the forties right up to the present. The eight stools around the baby grand were filled the moment she sat down on her bench. As the drinks flowed many; usually older men, would try singing along with her, which I am sure she really did not appreciate, but it was all in fun.

As long as they kept putting large numbered dead presidents in her giant fish bowl, she kept smiling, singing and playing the piano. I enjoyed the scene; it always relaxed me after a rough day.

By four o’clock, the bar was beginning to get busy. I was on my second double J & B Scotch, a splash of water and a large lemon wedge. There were several empty bar chairs, so I was a little perplexed when a young woman of striking beauty; long auburn hair, deep brown eyes slid into the chair next to me. She was dressed in a deep blue business jacket and skirt, black leather one-inch heels, a white blouse, open at the neck. She had a gold necklace, with a small cross, and gold earrings. I noted her manicured hands, a small diamond encrusted Rolex on her right wrist, a slim gold bracelet on her left.

Julio’s eyes followed her as she entered the bar and he wasted no time coming over to us.

“Good afternoon, Madam . . . what can I get for you?” He asked in his heavy Cuban accent.

“Martini . . . straight up, two olives, please.” She replied, flashing a demur smile.

“Right away.” He responded, flashing his perfect teeth and deep dimples.

“Mr. Walsh . . . my congratulations . . . I watched the entire trial; you are obviously a good investigator, and Mr. Pizzo is an extraordinary lawyer.” She said, facing me.

“Thank you, I’ll pass that on to him.” I said. “You know my name, and you are?”

“Elizabeth Genovese, please call me Liz.” She said, with an alluring smile.

I must admit, I was already interested. Julio placed her martini gently on a napkin, smiled and left us alone, with a sly wink in my direction.

“I have a case for you and Mr. Pizzo.” She said.

“Oh . . . what kind of case?”

“Murder.” She said in a hushed voice.

“Who was murdered?” I asked.

“My sister’s husband. The police have arrested my sister . . . her son-in-law and our nephew.”

Having just finished a long and difficult case, I was not really anxious to take on another, but I wanted to hear more, if for no other reason but to have the opportunity to get to know this woman.

“Tell me more.”

“My brother-in-law was a horse jockey, he was murdered . . . beaten and shot, at their home on the last day of the racing season . . . August 31. It happened in our hometown, Hendersonville, Kentucky . . . it has been unsolved, until they finally moved in and arrested my sister and the others.”

“Wait a minute, when exactly was he murdered?” I queried. I remembered reading a small article in the Local News section of The Miami Herald a few days ago, but paid no attention to it.

“It will be eight years ago, he was killed on August 31, 1975.” She said.

“That’s a really cold case. What gave the police cause to make the arrests?” I asked.

“We really don’t know. They have not told my sister; Bert; her son-in-law or James, our nephew . . . the police have not told them anything. I am an attorney . . . marital law, but I do not practice anymore, I tried to find out from the police, they would not tell me a thing. They arrested her on a warrant from Kentucky, she’s being held here with no bond, pending extradition.”

“You’re an attorney?” I asked, trying to recall if we had ever crossed paths in the courthouses.

“I practiced a few years in New York, I’m a member of the Florida Bar, but I retired after I got married.”

“Oh, and what does your husband do?” I asked.

“My late husband . . . he passed away two years ago, lung cancer.” She said. “He was a real estate developer, in New York City. He left me quite well off.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t concerned about the money. First, you will have to speak with Mr. Pizzo, he will then speak with your sister, and if he and your sister have a meeting of the minds, and he accepts her case, we’ll go from there.” I said. “I’m curious, why didn’t you just call our office and set an appointment?”

“As I said, I watched the Johnson trial, I liked the way you handled yourself, the way Mr. Pizzo presented the case, and I knew it was all built on your investigation. I wanted to meet you first.”

“Okay. How would you know to find me here? I’m just curious.”

“I asked around, at the courthouse . . . seems you and Mr. Pizzo are well known, and this is reportedly your favorite place. I followed my instinct that you would be here today, I thought Mr. Pizzo would be here as well, perhaps you would both be celebrating your victory.”

“Mr. Pizzo doesn’t drink alcohol, but we’ll be celebrating with the Johnson’s tomorrow evening.” I smiled.

“Will you arrange a meeting with him for me?”

“Let me call him, it’s getting a little loud in here.” I said. I excused myself and went to the men’s room for a little privacy. I called Frank and related my conversation with Mrs. Elizabeth Genovese. He advised me to have her come into the office on Monday morning at eleven o’clock. He then instructed me to get the information on her sister and for me to visit her in the Women’s Jail. I reminded him that I was supposed to have a long weekend, at least a week. He laughed and hung up the phone. He knew I was a confirmed ‘work-a-holic’.

I returned to the bar and took my seat. I signaled Julio we needed another round of drinks.

“Frank can see you Monday at eleven o’clock, is that convenient?” I said.

“Yes, that will be fine.” She said, flashing her sexy smile.

“Frank has instructed me to visit your sister tomorrow; I’ll need to know her name, home address, date of birth . . . anything else you can tell me.”

“Her name is Barbara Cordero. She was born October 27, 1947. She has a home here in Indian Creek, 2121 Buena Vista Drive.”

I jotted down the information.

“Okay, I’ll visit her in the morning, say around nine o’clock. Are you able to communicate with her, does she call you?”

“Yes, she calls me several times a day; she has to call me collect from the jail. I told her I was going to try and see you and Mr. Pizzo. She will be relieved to know you will be there.”

“Don’t give her any false hope, I have to speak with her, and report to Frank . . . he will probably see her sometime Monday, and then he will decide whether or not he will take her case.” I said.

“Will he consider representing Barbara and Bert? Our nephew James relocated to Houston several years ago, he’s in custody there, and he has hired his own attorney there.” She said.

“That will be up to Frank, you can discuss that with him on Monday.” I replied.

“Have you plans for dinner?” I asked.

“No, as long as I’m home by nine o’clock, Barbara will be calling; I don’t want to miss her call.” She said.

My mind was racing with conflicting thoughts. I had a hard and fast rule; I never mixed business with pleasure. Yet in this case, her beauty was overwhelming me, and she would not be the client. I saw no harm in having dinner with her; after all, I would be able to glean a little more insight into the case.

I excused myself and walked into the dining room to tell Andre, the Maître ‘D I would need my favorite booth for two tonight. It would be ready for us at six. I returned to the bar, and noted Julio had set two fresh drinks for us.

We enjoyed a grand meal of lamb chops with mint jelly, cottage potatoes and spinach. I discovered she shared my affinity for an after-dinner Brandy Alexander. In some manner, she reminded me of my former wife. She had a sparkling personality, a genuine laugh, keen sense of humor, and a brilliant mind.

I learned she and her sister’s parents were both deceased, she was two years older than Barbara and they had a sister, James’ mother, who had died in childbirth. His father and a stepmother had raised James Addison. Elizabeth had no children, while Barbara had two daughters, on which Elizabeth showered her affections.

She assured me Barbara and her late husband, married for eighteen years at the time of his murder, had a ‘picture-perfect’ marriage. They were moderately wealthy. He rode the racing circuit six months out of the year, and spent winters at their home in Miami.

Barbara and her eldest daughter, Marilyn, now twenty-three years old, owned a Hallmark Crown Card and Gift store in the Bal Harbor Shoppes. There were no indications of infidelity by either one; there was no real significant financial gain for her sister because of his death. Barbara’s other daughter, Laurie, now twenty-one years old, was born Autistic, and lived at home with her mother.

I promised to call her Saturday morning after I interviewed her sister.

During dinner we talked a lot, I gained insight into her personality, and I let her know just a little about me. I learned she lived in Bay Point, an exclusive gated community just a few blocks south on Biscayne Boulevard from Miami Shores. I had good feelings about her. She was fun to be with and I looked forward to getting to know her.

We left the Fireside at seven-twenty-five. I waited with her while the parking valet retrieved her Jaguar. I watched her exit the parking lot.

I made the twenty minute drive to my home, a nice New York Strip in a Styrofoam container sitting on the back seat. Baron and Sherry deserved a nice dinner.

My German Shepherds met me as I came through the garage entrance, the laundry room and into the kitchen. They were happy smelling their steak dinner. I fixed their dinner, gave them fresh water, and went to my bedroom to get out of my clothes.

I had purchased my home when I first relocated to Miami Shores. It is a little large for a newly-minted bachelor; three bedrooms, three and a half baths, large living room, even larger family room with sliding glass doors leading to a screen covered lanai with Olympic sized pool and large back yard for my dogs, and a two car garage. The landscaping is beautiful, and the landscaper’s monthly services are very reasonably priced. I paid off the VA Mortgage my second year of working with Frank. My only home expenses are property taxes and insurance, utilities, cleaning lady, landscaping and pool maintenance. I figured it would be comfortable when my family visited from Indiana.

I came back to the family room, made myself another J & B, put on a Jim Brickman disc in the player and slumped into the sofa. It was only eight-forty-five, but I was exhausted. Baron and Sherry jumped up on either end of the sofa to relax with me.

I struggled to stay awake for the ten o’clock news on the Fox affiliate, channel 7. As I expected, the Johnson verdict was the Top Story. Fifteen minutes into the news, I clicked off the television and the dogs followed me into my bedroom.

THREE

I was fully refreshed when I finally climbed out of bed at six o’clock, at the persistent nudging and licking of my face by Baron. I let the dogs out and made my way to the kitchen. I flipped on the coffee maker, poured a glass of Tropicana Orange juice and clicked on the kitchen TV. A Miami Springs cop had been shot while making a routine traffic stop, his killer still at large, an ongoing manhunt was the lead story.

I let the dogs in, and moved over to the family room to watch the rest of the news, enjoy my coffee before taking my shower and getting ready to go to the Women’s Jail to meet our prospective client.

I arrived at the jail at nine o’clock sharp. It was a nice, sunny day, the sky void of clouds, temperature already at seventy-seven degrees, with a high expected to be in the mid-eighties. I walked the block to the entrance of the jail.

Sergeant Cheri Fogelman greeted me with a smile. Cheri is about five feet-five inches, a svelte body showing she takes good care of with diet and exercise. She has natural blonde hair and emerald green eyes. She was divorced and had three children. We had known each other almost three years, right after I began working for Frank. We dated for a little over a year, but when things started getting too hot for me, I ran the other way. It was just too soon after Joanne leaving me; I just was not ready. It was not the fact she had children that scared me, it was the thought of a marriage commitment that bothered me. We managed to remain friends, but I was still a little cautious around her and maybe a little guilt-ridden as well.

“Good Morning Princess.” I smiled.

“What brings you here . . . on a Saturday . . . thought you didn’t work weekends anymore.” She said.

“Well, you know me . . . IF I weren’t working; I’d be a couch potato, getting old and fat, besides, now I have a reason to see your beautiful smile. Come to think of it, what are you doing here, I thought your seniority guaranteed weekends off.” I said jokingly.

“One of my girls called in sick, the commander called me at four this morning, gives me something to do, and I knew you’d be coming.” She laughed. “Who’s the lucky lady you’re visiting this fine day?”

“Barbara Cordero.” I responded.

“See, I knew you’d be coming. I booked her in the other day. If my opinion is worth anything to you, she’s innocent.”

“That clinches it for me . . . now I know it will be an easy case to work, that is IF Frank takes it.” I said with a smile.

I signed in and she buzzed the electronic door, where I had to pass through a magnetometer and have my brief case examined. She then let me through the second electronic door and escorted me to the attorney-client interview room.

“She’ll be brought down in a couple of minutes.” She said.

“So, what can you tell me about her . . . off the record?” I asked.

“She’s a mental wreck, which is normal for anyone, first time arrested, but she doesn’t seem like the type to have her husband killed. What I hear, she keeps to herself and does nothing but cry . . . calls her sister and daughter every chance she gets . . . I’d hate to have their phone bills, at two dollars and fifty cents a pop, it adds up pretty quick.”

“Well, the phone bills are the least of their problems, and from what I know, they can afford it. Did you know her sister is an attorney?” I said.

“No . . . criminal lawyer?” Cheri said.

“All lawyers are criminals, you know that”. I said with a laugh. “No, she did marital law, but doesn’t practice anymore . . . her husband died a couple of years ago, she’s pretty well off, lives in Bay Point.”

“Then she’s single? Is she pretty?” Cheri asked, a slight twinge of a frown crossing her face.

“Yeah, she’s single, and yes she is pretty attractive . . . but, not as beautiful as you.” I said with a tone of sincerity in my voice. I did not dare tell her we had dinner the night before.

“Okay, I’ll see you on your way out.” She said as she closed the door.

Barbara Cordero was brought into the room, wearing a beige county jail jump suit, handcuffs on her wrists, and shackles on her ankles. She looked at me, her eyes twittering. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying. I could see the resemblance between her and Elizabeth. She had short brown hair and deep brown eyes. She stood about five feet-four inches. She still had a nice figure, and her hands were well manicured.

I asked the guard to remove her handcuffs, and she complied, knowing that I wanted our clients to feel somewhat relaxed, and to show my trust in them.

“My name is Mike Walsh; I’m the Chief Investigator for Attorney Frank Pizzo. Elizabeth asked me to speak with you.” I said.

“Thank you, I know. I spoke with Liz last night; she said you would be coming this morning.” She said with a slight tremble in her voice.

“I need to ask you some very important questions. I want you to know that anything you tell me is protected by the Attorney-Client privilege. I cannot and will not repeat anything you tell me to anyone but Mr. Pizzo, not even to your sister. I want you to be completely truthful, don’t hold anything back . . . we can’t help you if you lie, even a little white lie, understand?” I said.

“Yes sir.” She said, nodding her head.

“Please call me Mike, may I call you Barbara?”

She nodded.

“First, I want you to tell me about your husband . . . from the time you met, how long after you met you got married, how was your marriage, all the bumps along the way, the good times and the bad . . . your sex life, your marital sex life . . . your children, what kind of father he was . . . and anything you know about his death.” I said, giving her a short list of what I needed to know. I sat back in the chair, legal pad on the table, pen in hand, tape recorder set and turned on.

Barbara Cordero took a deep breath, and began speaking in a soft, almost inaudible voice.

“We met in high school, he was a sophomore, and I was a freshman. His family was from Argentina, his father owned several racehorses, he was a retired jockey, and he began breeding and training racehorses. It was love-at-first-sight.” She managed a weak smile.

“Okay, please continue.” I said.

“By the time he was graduating, he knew he was going to be a jockey, his father groomed him for that, and he loved it. We knew we were meant for each other, and we began planning our wedding, for after I graduated. Our families became close friends and supported us, our relationship. Joey respected me, we had no sex until our wedding night, and I was a virgin.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She fumbled in a pocket, pulled out a well-worn tissue, and dabbed her eyes.

“Our wedding was perfect; I felt like a princess, he was my prince.” She said. She dabbed her eyes, trying hard to maintain her composure.

“Go on.” I said.

“My parents had built a house for us, on five acres of their property, which was their wedding gift. We lived there for seventeen years. Marilyn was born on our first wedding anniversary. Joey and his father traveled a lot; the racing circuit from California to New York, and everywhere in between. They would be gone from March through September; Hendersonville was their last stop on the circuit. Joey and I would speak on the phone every morning and every evening. He would always tell me how much he loved me, and missed me. I would tell him the same. He would tell me how he had finished his races. He was always excited when he won, or even if he came in third. He loved the horses and he loved winning.” She said.

She was fighting back tears, and I felt bad for her, forcing her down memory lane was obviously

not an easy trip. She took another deep breath, rubbed her eyes, and stared at the gray steel table.

“Joey was an only child, and he was his father’s pride and joy. His mother doted on him constantly.”

“Did that cause any problems for you, in your marriage?” I asked.

“Oh no, not at all, we joked about it, privately. We, both our families, were all close. We always had gatherings for holidays, his parents, my parents, my sister, all my uncles and aunts, my cousins . . . Joey and his parents had no other family here in the United States so it was natural that we, my family, sort of became their family here.”

She asked for water. I went to the door and signaled the officer. The door opened and I asked for water for both of us.

“Joey’s parents were very wealthy. His father’s stable grew to ten horses, champions, and he sold and traded horses all the time. My parents were wealthy too, land speculation, my grandfather had been the owner of one of the largest farms in the state, he founded the Hendersonville National Bank. We, Joey and I, never really compared our families’ wealth; we did not really know or care. However, then his parents were killed in a plane crash, returning from a vacation to Europe. Joey inherited everything, around eleven million.”

“When was this . . . his parent’s death?” I asked.

“We had been married eleven years, so it was 1967.”

“How did his parent’s death affect him?” I asked.

“He was devastated; he was depressed for over a year. Then, he sort of snapped out of it, he began concentrating on his horses, and work.”

“Did his depression . . . did it have any effect on your marriage?”

“No, actually it brought us closer. I wanted him to go to a doctor, get something . . . some medication, but he would never take drugs, not even aspirin.”

“Elizabeth tells me there was no notable financial gain for you, in your husband’s death; can you tell me exactly what you inherited from him?”

“Our homes, which were always in our names, jointly; his life insurance, one million dollars, but that was double indemnity, so I actually received two million dollars . . . about nine million in stocks and bonds, but our market accounts were always in both our names . . .”

“What about his inheritance from his parents?”

“He had placed ninety percent of that in trusts for our daughters and granddaughters, we had done that soon after their estate was settled. Believe me, money was never a concern for us, and I would certainly never even think of killing Joey . . . not for money . . . not for any reason. My sister and I inherited from our parents when they passed away; we have a lot of land in Hendersonville, very valuable land . . . Liz inherited over two hundred million from her husband . . . Mr. Walsh, I . . . I . . . we, my nephew, my son-in-law . . . we did not kill my Joey . . . there is no reason on this earth for us to do that. You have to believe me.”

“There is nothing in your past, in your marriage . . . no skeletons in your closet at all; I’m not going to find anything that you or others may consider insignificant . . . that would place suspicion on you, your nephew and your son-in-law?” I pressed.

“Absolutely nothing . . . I swear on a stack of bibles . . . we did not do this . . . we had nothing to do with this.”

“How was your husband as a father?” I asked.

“He was the greatest father any child could ever hope for, and more. He was devoted to our daughters, when Laurie was born, she was born with Autism, he sought out the best doctors . . . specialists, and he . . . we would spend our last dime for her.”

“How did he and your nephew and son-in-law get along?”

“”