Fiction

When The Program Fails People Die Part VII

A Sunny Alexander-Johnson And Henry James Series

My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson, and I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI

Our trip to New York that should have taken us a little over three hours by air ended up taking us the better part of thirty by car. Driving in four-hour shifts while others tried to get a smattering of sleep, Thursday morning, we were making our way through New York city streets toward Riker’s.

Robert and Manny had the foresight to set up an appointment for us to visit Marco Bianchi. Something we should have planned a little better in hindsight. Shooting from the hip has just as many disadvantages as benefits.

We were all captive audiences and had nothing better to do, so as soon as Robert and Manny finished their respective driving shifts, they alternatively placed several phone calls.

Between the two of them, they managed to iron out the details.

“Damn, I thought for a minute there we weren’t going to swing this.”

“Okay, so what’s the deal, Robert?”

“Henry, you and Roberto have thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes? That’s it? We drove all this way to have a thirty-minute face to face with this guy?”

“Be glad you got that big brother. Marco has agreed to talk to you and Roberto, so I’m guessing you were right about the stroking his ego thing.”

“So while Robert and I are behind the two-way, you and Roberto need to get something, Henry. We’ll be listening to everything he says. We need to know how he’s involved and why he’s doing this.”

“Uh, Manny, if a sixteen-year-old girl testifies in court and sends a mob boss to prison for life, wouldn’t everybody already know why he wants her snuffed?”

“You know what I mean, James.”

“Uh, I may be new to this, but I don’t think we’re going to get much from this dude.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Mr. Hermanos, I mean, if it was me and I wanted your wife killed, I don’t think I’d be admitting that to a couple of magazine reporters.”

“Out of the mouths of babes. Just remember James, coming face-to-face was your idea, not ours.”

“I still think we need to do this, Manny. Like I said before, you got a better idea?”

“If I did James, you would have already heard it. Listen, we plan our work, and we work the plan. Everybody got it?”

It was clearly understood our silence was consent, and each of us turned inward thinking about getting in front of Marco Bianchi and what to say to the man that would possibly bring about a response that would give us something we could use. We took the single road which accessed the prison, the Frances Buono Bridge, and when it emptied into the prison’s parking lot found the administration building and went inside.

It was a lot easier for us to get checked in than Manny and Robert as neither of us was carrying arms, but after they shared their credentials, turned in their service revolvers and we all emptied our pockets we were escorted down a hallway to a pair of side-by-side doors on against one side of the hall.

One guard opened the first door and ushered Robert and Manny into the room while the other opened the second, guided us to a desk with four chairs in the middle of the room.

“Sit and wait.”

The guard adjusted his belt carrying a taser and baton, stepped to one side of the door, assumed a parade rest position, and laced his hands together in front of him.

Shortly afterward, a single rap on the outside of the door announced the arrival of someone, and the door swung inward. Dressed in prison garb, an elderly looking gentleman shuffled in, chains at his ankles making a full gait impossible. Behind him, another guard paced his movement, his baton drawn, tapping it against the side of his leg as he followed the old man into the room.

Without a word, the old man sat down and extended his cuffed hands, curiously eyeing us as the guard manacled the man’s cuffs to a ring welded to the edge of the steel table.

The guard straightened, turned to us and said, “thirty minutes. Not a second more. You two understand?”

“Yeah, officer, we got it. So what about that one? He stays inside with us?”

“Yes. You have a problem with that, sir?”

“Uh, no. Just trying to understand the rules.”

“The rules are, you three talk, we listen. When time’s up, you leave, and Bianchi goes back to his cell. That clear everything up?”

“Yessir.”

“Thirty minutes.”

As the guard walked out, Marco Bianchi grinned and stretched the length of manacle chain up as he pushed back a pair of oval, gold-rimmed glasses. Then he squinted at Roberto.

“I know you from somewhere giovanotto?”

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Sure, I do. You’re Roberto Emelio De La Cruz. Ain’t ya? You won that title match against Gerald “Hit Man” Tyler a couple of years ago. I made some money on you that day, boy. I’m right, huh?”

“Yes, sir, you are.”

“So why’d you stop fighting, boy? You could have made millions with those fists of yours.”

“I did okay, Mr. Bianchi…”

“Marco, please.”

“I did okay, Marco, but I wanted to be a journalist like Mr. James here. We write for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine. This is going to be my first piece, so I got to digging around, and it seemed like your story was sitting there waiting for me to write it.”

“Well, I’m honored. So shoot Roberto. What do you want to know?”

“For starters Marco, did you really shoot David Carmello in the head twice at close range?”

The old man stopped smiling. What was interesting is his expression didn’t appear to exhibit the shock or anger we would have expected when someone gets called out like that. The old man’s facial expression looked more winsome as if recalling a moment in time he regretted, actually felt remorse for.

“Yes, I did. And I’ve had all these years to think about what I did, and to beg God for forgiveness. I’m a different man now than I was back then. With God’s help, I’ve turned things around. Maybe I’m gonna die in this cage, and when I stop to think about it, I deserve to die in this cage, but I’m doing everything I can to show God how much I’ve changed.”

“So you’re not trying to have Victoria Carmello snuffed?”

The old man chuckled.

“Snuffed? Mr. James, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Nobody says snuffed anymore. Even my people never used the word snuffed. You must watch far too much television. But before you restate your question, no, I didn’t want any harm to come to Victoria. I loved that little girl like she was my own family. I forgive her for testifying against me. She did what she had to do, and I deserve everything I got.”

“So you’re not having anybody look her up in public records or doing stakeouts in front of her house, tailing every move she makes?”

“Listen, you two, non è il Nostro modo, that’s not how I rolled back then. If I’d wanted Victoria dead, she’d be dead already. It would have been quick, and it would have been professional. This staking out in front of her house and tailing her? That’s amateur. None of my people would have done that.”

“So, you’re not trying to kill her?”

“What did I just say, Mr. James? No, a thousand times, no. That is not God’s way.”

The door swung in, and the guard who’d locked Marco Bianchi at the table stepped over, unlocked his cuffs, pulled him up, then shackled the old man again and led him out.

We were escorted to the administration area where we picked up our personal items, and Robert and Manny were given their service pistols, and then we trailed back to the car in silence, got in, and just sat there trying to figure out what the hell to do now.

“Do you guys believe him?”

“Yeah, Manny. I think I do.”

“Me too, Mr. Hermanos. You both saw his face. I don’t think he’s trying to kill your wife, Manny, and I don’t think he knows who is.”

“Ah, damn. Now what?”

Read On — When The Program Fails People Die Part VIII

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