Private Vegas (Private 9)

The judge asked, “Mr. Lewis, do you have any further questions for Mr. Del Rio?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Caine, would you like to reexamine Mr. Del Rio?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I would.”

“Go ahead.”

“Rick. Did you beat up Vicky Carmody?”

“No.”

“Thank you. That’s all I have. The defense rests.”

The judge told Del Rio to stand down, and then she addressed the jury, telling them that she was adjourning court for the weekend, that they were prohibited from discussing the case, and that the attorneys would give their closing arguments on Monday.

The courtroom emptied and people filled in the space between Rick and me. I took an elevator to the ground floor, trusting that Caine was taking Del Rio out the back way.

I cut through the crowds in the lobby and went out the front and around to the parking lot, where a mob stampeded past me, heading to the rear of the lot, over by the ramp.

I went along with the herd and then I heard grunting and a sharp scream of pain, followed by Dexter Lewis shouting: “You puke. You ass-wipe. You think I’m afraid of you, you fucking goon?”

I saw through a break in the crowd. Del Rio had snapped.

Caine and assorted bystanders had pulled him off Dexter Lewis, who was holding his hands to his nose, blood running through his fingers, splashing on his white shirt and pale gray suit.

I read shock on Lewis’s face, the realization that there was another kind of hardball played outside the courtroom and that he’d just taken the brunt of it.

But Lewis wasn’t going to let Del Rio get the last word.

Rick had punched out the ADA, and there would be a price to pay.

Chapter 68

I EDGED INTO the thickest part of the crowd, got within shouting distance of Rick and the howling, bleeding, cursing Dexter Lewis. I called out to Caine and he yelled back, “Can you give me a hand, Jack?”

He and I bundled Rick into the backseat of Caine’s car as cameras in a circle around us fired off shots. The raccoons reveled in the unexpected opportunity to have me and Rick in the same frame, and they peppered me with questions: “Jack, a few words, please, for Fox News?” “Morgan, d’you still believe Rick Del Rio is innocent?”

I leaned into the car, put a hand on Del Rio’s shoulder, made eye contact, and said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Don’t worry, Jack. The jury didn’t see anything.”

“Might have been better if they had, Rick. This whole trial would have been scratched. That would be a good thing.”

“Jack, I like this jury. They like me. I’ll be fine, my friend. Just fine.”

Caine didn’t look fine. He looked like he thought he was about to lose Rick to the penal system. We exchanged a few pat assurances, then I swam against the tide until I reached my loaner car.

I was trying to ease the Mercedes around the mob when there was a sharp rap on my window and I turned to see my mirror image staring at me. Tommy was making the universal gesture to roll down the glass.

I did it.

He said, “Ten million, Jack. I’m slashing my offer for Private from twenty to ten. You’re going to lose your clients, Jacko. They won’t want to be associated with that slime bucket.”

“What do you want, Junior?”

“What’s rightfully mine.”