A flashlight shone on my face. I was holding up my driver’s license. “I’m the owner of the house,” I said. “I called you. My name is Jason Kolarich. These guys are armed,” I added, “but at the moment, not dangerous.”

The cops, guns drawn, were not in the mood for levity, but it didn’t take them long to get matters settled. My mentioning that I used to be an ACA, worked felony review out of Area Four, handled Judge Weiss’s courtroom, all that good stuff, helped them considerably. I was, after all, the owner of the house, and the two guys lying wounded and weary, with guns stuffed in their pants, looked like they’d come off the set of The Sopranos.

I’d figured that Smith’s final play before tomorrow’s court hearing would be to mess me up, or maybe even detain me briefly—anything to keep me from attending that hearing. It’s what I would have done, if I were them. But then, if I were them, I might have considered the possibility that my adversary might anticipate that very move, and might be lying in wait in the corner of his back patio with a baseball bat.

The goons were arrested on attempted aggravated burglary and suspicion of unlawful weapons charges. They were taken to the station house for processing and detention. I sat at the desk of a lieutenant and gave my statement. He gave me the names of my attackers and mentioned that each of them had encountered more than one brush with the law in the past, which suggested that their bond might be set pretty high when their arraignment came.

“These guys had handcuffs and rope,” the lieutenant told me. “Didn’t look like they were looking for a smash-and-grab. It looked more like a kidnapping, in fact.”

I expressed my utter shock at the possibility. “Why me?” I asked.

“I was going to ask you that.”

“Never heard of these guys, Lieutenant. Nino Ramsey and John Tunicci? I don’t have a clue.”

“You said you’re a criminal defense lawyer. You ever represent any organized crime?”

“No.”

“Okay. Okay.” The cop thought about that. “These guys, they’re nothing but a couple of thugs. Enforcer types. They freelance from time to time, but they usually run with the Capparelli family.”

He was talking about old-school mafia, Rico Capparelli’s crew. Rico, last I recalled, was serving out the rest of his life in a maximum-security federal pen. It stood out, more than anything, for the prosecutorial joke. The old man went down for federal racketeering charges—Rico was pinched on RICO.

Was I up against organized crime? It could mean so many different things nowadays, that phrase. As much as the feds had curtailed their influence, they hadn’t so much cured the world of crime as simply forced these scumbags to scatter into subgroups—less “organized,” maybe, but still criminals. It didn’t narrow my focus much at all.

But at least I had two of these guys out of the picture for a short time. I was confident now that I was up against a small band of people working for Smith—four people, to be exact. Two of them, presumably, had been baby-sitting Pete while the other two came for me. Now, for a time, at least, they had lost half their manpower.

When I left the police station, as the sun was rising, I drove to a hotel. I had several changes of clothes in the trunk of my car along with toiletries. I had no intention of going home, or going anywhere that Smith might expect me to go, until that court hearing at one o’clock today. Smith would not have another chance to come at me.

I knew I had to get some sleep. I knew it, but I couldn’t force it. I stretched out on the rickety bed and closed my eyes, trying to focus myself into calm. I woke with a start, the bedside clock telling me it was just past nine o’clock. I took a shower, dressed in my suit, reupped with the hotel for another night, and drove to the criminal courthouse, where I would present my motion in about three hours. I figured that Smith might make one last run at me, but he wouldn’t count on me showing up three hours early to court.

Once inside the courthouse and past the metal detectors, I called Joel Lightner and gave him the names of my would-be attackers, Nino Ramsey and John Tunicci. “Enforcers, I think,” I told him. “Apparently, they run with the Capparellis.”

“The Capparellis? What the hell have you gotten into, Jason?”

“I wish I knew. Anyway—they’re my best lead. My guess is, they’re freelancing for someone, I just don’t know who. Hoping my prized investigator can help me with that?”

“I’ll do my best,” Joel promised. “Hey, did you get in touch with Jimmy Stewart?”

“I think he prefers ‘Jim.’”

“That’s why I call him ‘Jimmy.’”

“Yeah, I met with him. He says you’re a drunk and a womanizer.”

“I’ll sue.”

“Truth is an absolute defense, Joel. Gotta run.”

“Say, Jason. Do you know what the hell you’re doing?”

I didn’t have an answer so I punched out.

I made my way up to the courtroom where my motion would be heard later today. The courtroom was empty. I walked around to the judge’s chambers and found her clerk in the anteroom. “Does the judge have any free time tomorrow?” I asked. “I might need to continue something I have up today.”

The judge had a few openings, though I didn’t take them, not yet. I loitered in the hallway for a few minutes, checking my watch.

At eleven-thirty, my cell phone rang.

47

I STOOD AGAINST the all-glass south wall of the building to maximize the reception on the cell phone. As I looked over the city’s southwest side, the industrial yards and beaten-down residential neighborhoods, I opened the humming phone.

“Kolarich.” Smith didn’t sound so upbeat.

“Having a bad morning, Smith?”

He paused, showing his appropriate disdain. “The affidavit has been prepared.”

“Affidavit? Singular?”

“Marcus Mason is the man who was picked up with your brother.”

Mace. I knew this already, but he didn’t know that I knew.

“The affidavit will meet with your liking.”

“I want an original delivered to my office and a copy to Detective DePrizio.”

“We found this detective and delivered it to his attention. You didn’t say anything about a copy to your office.”

“I’m saying it now. Make it happen. Listen, Smith. You call me in exactly half an hour—high noon—and my assistant better have seen that affidavit by then.”

“Listen—”

“Half an hour,” I said, closing the cell phone.

I returned to the judge’s clerk and canceled today’s 1:00 P.M. hearing. Then I called the prosecutor, Lester Mapp, and broke the news to him. He didn’t seem to care much about the hearing but said he wanted to continue our “previous discussions,” meaning a plea deal, though I put him off.

At ten minutes to noon, I called my assistant, Marie.

“Just got it,” she said. “Let’s see. ‘Affidavit of Marcus Mason.’ ” She read the contents to me. “ ‘My name is Marcus Mason. I have personal knowledge of all matters stated herein. I have a relationship as an undercover informant with Detective Dennis DePrizio. I was working with Detective DePrizio on an operation involving the sale of a substantial quantity of firearms and rock cocaine. The plan had been that a man who called himself “J.D.” and I would meet on Saturday, October 6, 2007, at an abandoned warehouse previously owned by Lanier’s Amusement Supply Company, on the 3300 block of West Summerset. However, on Friday, October 5, 2007, near the hour of midnight, I received a call from “J.D.” in which he insisted that we make the purchase immediately. I had no choice but to agree. I immediately contacted Detective DePrizio at his home. As far as I could tell, Detective DePrizio had been asleep. Then I drove to the old Lanier’s warehouse to meet with “J.D.”

“‘Before Detective DePrizio arrived, “J.D.” arrived at the warehouse and we began to discuss the terms of the purchase. He informed me that he had received a telephone call from someone who would be arriving, not to purchase the rock cocaine or the firearms, but for an unrelated reason that had nothing to do with me or the transaction. He told me this person’s name was “Pete.” He asked that I not mention anything about our transaction.