MY BROTHER ARRIVED at the hospital at almost the same time as the police. He showed up without an escort, having been dropped off at the hospital with instructions to head to the sixth floor. His left hand was bandaged where he’d lost the finger and he looked like absolute hell, but he was relatively intact and the sense of relief was all over his face.

My brother and I weren’t much for hugging over the years, but we had a long embrace and then I checked him over, with one arm over his shoulder. “I’m okay,” he insisted. “Other than the finger, they didn’t lay a glove on me. They pretty much ignored me, actually.”

I patted his chest. “A braver man than I.”

Police officers were streaming in now. Carlo had left Audrey’s room and was being questioned by Carruthers and other cops in an empty room down the hall. The whole thing was turning into a madhouse.

“Let’s get lost,” I suggested. Pete needed to have his hand examined—at least we were in the right place for that. But mostly I wanted to usher Pete away from this scene, from the entire affair, as quickly as I could. And once we broke away, there was another stop I wanted to make, too.

61

HIS NAME WASN’T SMITH. It was Raymond Hertzberg, an attorney in private practice who specialized in transactional work, an interesting way to describe what he did. His clients were a who’s who of shady characters—some whose names and photographs would be found on flow charts in the FBI offices, and many who didn’t quite rise to the level of mafia but had some connection or another with organized crime.

He was at his office until well after ten o’clock. He stuffed a number of documents into his old suitcase and carried an additional gym bag for the overload. A long trip was in the making, some place sunny with favorable extradition laws.

He had a firearm, which he typically didn’t carry, stuffed into his suit pocket. Just a few hours now and he’d be on his way, hopefully just to be sure everything had settled in a manner favorable to him. Otherwise, perhaps a permanent stay.

He trusted Carlo as much as anyone that ever lived. He knew Carlo wouldn’t give him up. But that didn’t guarantee Smith wouldn’t be exposed, least of all to Jason Kolarich.

He took one last look around his office space, wondering if he’d ever see it again. Then he awkwardly navigated the front door of the suite, putting down his suitcase, unlocking the door and pushing it open, then picking up the suitcase again and pushing the heavy door with his shoulder.

The door pushed back, crashing him against the door frame, once, twice, a third time, taking the wind from him. His suitcase fell, dumping over, papers scattering everywhere. A final time, the door crashing against his forehead and knocking the back of his head into the frame, a one-two combination that left him seeing stars as he shrunk to the ground.

“Hi, Smith.” Jason Kolarich’s foot connected with Smith’s jaw, knocking Smith sideways to the floor. Smith rolled over and looked up at Kolarich. “I’m not going to kill you,” said Kolarich, “unless you go for that gun.”

“He was an old friend,” Smith managed, fighting the searing pain in his jaw. “He was just trying to help his daughter.”

“I’ve heard the story, thanks.” Kolarich dropped a document onto Smith’s chest. “You’ve been served, Smith,” he said. “Or should I say Raymond?”

Smith tried to sit up, taking the document in both hands. He caught a caption, Peter Kolarich and Samuel Cutler versus Raymond Hertzberg.

“We’re suing you,” Kolarich said.

“Suing—?” Smith managed to get into a seated position and looked at the document. In his confusion and pain, he began to feel a stream of relief, as well.

“My brother is suing you for the tort of unlawful restraint, Smith. Sammy’s suing for intentional infliction of emotional distress. I think that’s an understatement, myself.”

Smith leafed through the five-page document.

“It’s quite vague, I admit,” said Kolarich. “Probably wouldn’t survive a motion to dismiss. I could always amend it and put in all sorts of details. But I’m not going to do that.”

“And—why—why aren’t you going to do that?”

“Because after I file it tomorrow, I’m going to voluntarily dismiss it.”

Smith shook his head in confusion, causing further pain to his jaw.

“You and me, we’re going to settle the lawsuit. Right here, right now. I’m thinking a million dollars for each of them, Smith. Think real hard before you answer.”

Smith touched his jaw. It was broken, he thought. He understood what Kolarich was doing. He was getting a sorry-for-your-troubles payoff from Smith but giving it cover—the settling of a lawsuit. Smith would officially be paying this money not as extortion but to settle a lawsuit out of court. And both Pete Kolarich and Sammy Cutler would collect a million dollars in tax-free compensatory damages.

“A million apiece is reasonable,” Smith said.

“I think so, too. Sign at the dotted line, please.” He threw a second document at Smith, a settlement and release of all claims, in which Smith was agreeing to pay these sums to Peter Kolarich and Samuel Cutler. Smith caught the pen that Kolarich tossed him and signed the document.

“Terrific.” Kolarich folded the document into his jacket pocket. “Looks like you might be planning a trip? Go ahead. Bon voyage. Personally, I hope you leave and never come back. But understand, Smith, I’ll have a judgment that I can enforce against you. I’ll attach every asset you have in this state, thanks to this settlement, whether you live here or in Barbados. Oh, and one last thing.”

Kolarich threw a third document at Smith, who gathered it and read it. It was a sworn affidavit from Jason Kolarich, detailing virtually everything that had happened since Smith first visited his office. “That affidavit,” said Kolarich, “is in my safe-deposit box, in my e-mail, in my lawyer’s e-mail, you name it. Anything happens to me or my brother or Sammy, this affidavit goes to the police. But you stay away from us, Smith, and we stay away from you.” He took another step toward Smith, who winced. “I don’t want my brother to have to think about you ever again.”

“The feeling—the feeling is mutual,” Smith managed.

Kolarich surveyed the scene. “Well, Raymond, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”

“It will be a pleasure—for this to be over,” Smith said. He touched his jaw again, feeling light-headed. He felt himself swooning, losing consciousness, but fought it. He gathered himself together and looked back at the door. Jason Kolarich was gone.

62

SAMMY WALKED THROUGH the corridor tentatively, a coat thrown over his wrists to hide the handcuffs, people watching him carefully as he passed. He was a celebrity. His story had been splashed everywhere. He was unaccustomed to such notoriety and had responded with silence, refusing requests for interviews and making no comment whatsoever. Still, someone had leaked today’s visit and the media had swarmed outside the hospital today. St. Agnes had made special arrangements for his arrival, escorting him from the Department of Corrections van to a private doctor’s elevator bank to the sixth floor.

Sammy, the two armed deputies, and I stopped outside the room. The deputies uncuffed him, per an earlier agreement reached between the Department of Corrections and me. Sammy looked back at me, as if seeking advice.

“She’s your sister, Sammy,” I said.

He nodded and looked at the door. “Come with me, Koke?”

I followed him into the room as he came upon her. He stood, motionless, for what felt like a lifetime. He didn’t speak, either. What he was seeing was a very, very sick woman who didn’t have long to live. Dialysis was keeping her alive but not for long.