Before his demotion, Joe McKeefe was a celebrated and highly decorated detective who had been recognized as a rising star in the police department. Now he was finishing his career as a uniformed patrol officer in the precinct with city's highest crime rate, a place where the murder of a low-life junkie was so common as to be almost trivial. This victim, however, was different: he had once been McKeefe's informant. McKeefe is disgusted by the superficial manner in which the official murder investigation is handled, so he begins to poke around. But this murder isn't as insignificant as it appeared-in fact, it's collateral damage from an elaborate scheme, the players of which are a crooked narcotics sergeant and the city's major drug dealers. They have different motivations: the sergeant's all-consuming and obsessive lust for money is only matched by the drug dealers' fixation with staying out of prison. But neither side has even the slightest concern for human life. As McKeefe's probe continues, he discovers that a pawn in the plan is his only brother, a criminal defense lawyer who, in McKeefe's words, "lives off crime and defends slime." Unwittingly, McKeefe's good intentions slowly but irreversibly drag him deeper and deeper into the quagmire. Before long, he finds he has jeopardized himself, his brother, his partner, and possibly the entire police department.

The Dark Shield

A NovelBy Ralph T. Gazzillo

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Ralph T. Gazzillo
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7283-4

Chapter One

"All rise!" the clerk commanded. "Supreme Court, Part Thirteen, is now in session. The Honorable Judge Manuel Lopez Ramos presiding."

Ramos entered quietly, ignoring the spectators and armada of reporters who filled his large courtroom. He ambled to the bench and up its three steps, slipping his tall frame into his leather chair and casually opening a black loose-leaf book. Flipping a few pages, he finally announced, "You may be seated." Turning toward the clerk, he said, "Okay, Eddie, let's go."

"On the sentencing calendar," the clerk announced, "People versus Antonio Del Pedro."

"Both sides ready to proceed?" Ramos asked impatiently. The question was required at all sentencings; in this case, the answer was obvious. Since the day the jury had delivered its verdict, each side had anxiously awaited this moment—the prosecution, gleefully; the defense, fearfully.

"Ready, Your Honor," both sides answered simultaneously.

"People," Ramos growled, taking his first glance at the prosecution's table, "anything to say before I pronounce sentence?" Until now, Ramos hadn't noticed Thomas Heany, the district attorney, seated next to the assistant district attorney who had successfully tried the case. Tommy's grandstanding for the press, Ramos thought. He hasn't tried a case—much less been in a courtroom—for over a decade. Now he's here taking all the bows, as if he was the only prosecutor to ever convict Tony Del Pedro. At least that's what he'd like the public to believe!

"Yes, Your Honor," the DA exclaimed as he jumped from his seat. Leaving the trial prosecutor behind, he gave the reporters a friendly wink as he proudly strutted to the podium.

"May it please the court," he announced as he smiled garishly at the press. "As Your Honor is aware, after a trial by a jury of his peers, I have convicted the defendant of each and every count of the indictment. All felonies! All involving extremely large amounts of cocaine! Cocaine! The curse that's plagued our society, our youth, our safety, our very American way of life! Your Honor, as you know, I have dedicated my career to defending justice and ..."

Oh, God, Ramos thought, he's on his soapbox. Anytime he smells a headline, he's as shameless as a dog in heat. Three terms as district attorney, and still a political prostitute. If he wasn't from my party, I'd shut him up. Instead, I have to look as if I'm interested.

The DA rambled on for a full forty minutes. Little of what he said was relevant, and most was redundant. Finally, satisfied that he had exhausted every opportunity to utter self-serving sound bites, he gathered his notes and pranced proudly back to his seat.

Ramos turned to the defense table and barked, "Does counsel for the defendant wish to be heard? If you're so inclined," he added, "you may address any relevant issue raised by the prosecution. But," he warned, "it's not necessary."

"Yes, Your Honor," Frank McKeefe, the defense attorney, uttered softly. Unlike the DA, McKeefe had no other lawyers at his side—only his client, Tony Del Pedro, dispassionately sitting handcuffed in his bright orange jail garb. Behind Del Pedro stood two burly court officers, and a half-dozen more were within striking distance.

As McKeefe pushed back his chair, it dragged on the tile floor with a loud, shrill screech. Visibly nervous, and now embarrassed by his awkwardness, he sheepishly approached the podium, then held it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"May it please the court," he began, his voice subdued. Unlike the prosecution, he had no notes. This was neither the time nor place to be verbose—in Ramos's courtroom, no matter what a defense attorney said, he'd be finished before he started. After a nervous cough, McKeefe delivered a brief yet passionate statement. In response, all Ramos gave was silence and an emotionless, blank stare. Not until the remarks seemed near conclusion did Ramos move ever so slightly.

"Your Honor, in closing, I believe that mercy, fundamental fairness, and our rule of justice under the law—the foundation of all that we do in these sacred halls—cry out to you on my client's behalf, beseeching you to sentence him on each count to periods of incarceration that are reasonable, concurrent, and not consecutive ... I thank you for your time and patience. Your Honor, I apologize if I was perhaps a little emotional. But, please, judge, take that as a demonstration of how sincerely and strongly I believe in everything I have said. Thank you, Your Honor."

A long, pregnant pause followed. All eyes turned toward Ramos. It was his turn to speak, yet he was totally silent. He just sat there, completely motionless, his face stoic and indifferent. He had his game face on, and he would not reveal whether he had been entranced by McKeefe's remarks, or totally bored. Within the next few minutes, he would supply the answer. Meanwhile, the next few decades of Tony Del Pedro's life would hang in the balance. Anxious to hear every word, the hushed crowd leaned forward.

Suddenly, the silence was broken as Ramos came alive, lashing at his microphone and pulling it closer. Feedback squealed throughout the courtroom, its loud shrill visibly jolting most of the apprehensive audience.

His voice just above a whisper, Ramos said crisply, "The defendant will rise." It wasn't a request, it was an order, its ominous tone an unmistakable foreboding of what would follow. Without a doubt, by tomorrow Del Pedro would be headed for some upstate maximum security prison so far north there were only two seasons: July and winter. He was about to find out how long he'd be there, but more than likely his parole officer was yet to be born. Ramos's sentences were so severe it was said he made criminals disappear, earning him the nickname Manuel the Magician. This morning, Ramos's reputation, coupled with his tone of voice, told everyone that another trick was coming.

Slowly standing, Del Pedro defiantly riveted his eyes on Ramos, their message clear: You can take away my freedom, but not my pride. Smirking slightly, he was clearly daring Ramos to try.

Returning the challenge, Ramos looked Del Pedro straight in the eyes. The two stared at each other silently, patiently, and most of all, contemptuously. For what seemed like a full minute but was less than half, neither so much as blinked. Finally, a strange look came across Ramos's face. Not a smile nor a sneer, it was somewhere in the middle: cheerful, yet simultaneously sinister, eerie, and evil. No one in the courtroom dared utter a word.

Ramos's voice hissed across the courtroom: "Does the defendant have anything to say before the court pronounces sentence?"

This was neither a trick nor a surprise question; it was also required. The law's self-righteous quest to at least appear fair and, perhaps, even merciful, demanded that, in the statute's words, the sentencing judge "afford the defendant an opportunity to be heard and to make a statement."

The question had rolled off Ramos's lips easily and unemotionally, as if it were rote, nothing more than an inconsequential line in a script, a question he might have asked countless times before. And he had. Each time he had asked it, he allowed his to voice project what everyone knew: I'm only asking because I have to. In fact, whenever Ramos...