[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/qDnfp5z.png[/img][/center] [b]Midtown Manhattan 11:10 AM[/b] "'Justice personified is blind, and so is Injustice. More specifically, that personification is a blind lawyer. This blind lwayer sits by the phone day and night, waiting for the call from some of the city's most dangerous and corrupt individuals. This blind lawyer talks about the lofty ideals of justice in the courtroom and in the media, but one look at the names on his client's list -- Campisi, Manfredi, De La Rosa, Blackwood -- and you discover that Matt Murdock's deeds do not match his words...' It goes on and on like that for a while. Bunch of talk about the mistrial with Blackwood, then the stuff about De La Rosa... and then a last bit saying you should be disbarred." "So, usual Daily Bugle boilerplate," I said to Karen. "Remind me to sue them for libel when I get the chance." "Yes, sir." That paper has attacked me so much over the past year that I barely noticed Karen's pulse rise anymore when she reads their editorials. They're not the only place that likes to attack me. Papers, websites, TV stations, even other lawyers and politicians all have an anti-Murdock stance of some sort... at least, the politicians and media organizations not in the pockets of my clients. "That's all, Karen, you can go." Karen Page, a paralegal and my only staff member quickly and quietly left the room while I leaned back in my chair. Karen was the gatekeeper when it came to any time with me. I only worked by referral, my card nothing but a phone number. That phone number rang here to Karen's desk. From there she would do the Murdock Test. Either you had enough cash to cover my fees, or your case was unique enough to grant me exposure. If you didn't have one of those two things, then Karen would refer to her rolodex full of other lawyers happy to take the case. If you did pass that test, then she passed you along to me and we would have a meeting either at my office or at whatever lockup you happened to find yourself in. Hopefully said meeting would be in my office, if only for the scenery. My office sits on the fortieth floor of an impressive Midtown skyscraper. They say it has one hell of a view of Lower Manhattan. Guess I'll take their word for it. Someone once asked why I paid so much for this corner office when I could have gotten another one on the same floor without a view for a hundred thousand dollars cheaper. I didn't dignify them with a response. In this business, what I do on the books and off of them, you show strength by your decisions. A blind man wasting a hundred grand on a view he'll never see is part of my strength. It's part of my power. I bought the office because I could. "Phone call for you," Karen's voice chirped out of the speaker on my desk. "It's... Uncle Angelo..." --- [b]Syosset, New York 1 PM[/b] "Matt, my boy," Don Campisi said cheerfully. His old and withered hands felt like sandpaper scrapping against the skin of my hands. He patted the back of my hand and put the other hand on my elbow to guide me across the lawn. He thought of it as a favor, but I could get around the yard better than he could. I've never laid eyes on the man but I can describe the old mob boss perfectly. Short, squat, with wisps of white hair on his pale scalp. Large eyeglasses so thick his eyes look alien. To the world at large, Angelo Campisi looks like a doddering old grandfather. To think that's what he is would be to sorely underestimate the man. "I'm so glad you made it out," he said once we were both sitting in lawn chairs. "I know it's a hell of a drive out of the city, especially for you." "Well, I didn't hear any moaning under the car when I stopped, so I guess I did alright." "If you hit 'em just right, you won't hear any moaning at all!" Campisi laughed at his own joke before moving on to small talk. He had to tell me all about his kids that I didn't care about. I nodded at the right times and said the right things. One of Campisi's men came out and dropped off two impossibly strong coffees. Just the smell of it gave me the jitters. Campisi picked one up with shaking hands and took a long sip. After that he finally got down to it. "I want you advice on something, Matty. You know Joey Bags? Works with that crew out in Red Hook? He and Paulie got into some trouble last night on a deal." "What kind of deal?" "They were working out a plan with those biker guys you rep." "The Crusaders?" "Those are the guys. They were gonna use these Cruasder fucks to mule coke and dope across the country. They're always going on these cross country rides to Piss-ant, Florida or somewheres out in California. They don't go on the interstate, and they can make drops and deliveries to our people in Miami, Kansas City, or wherever. Instead of a fucking pick-up truck carrying two hundred pounds, fifty bikers carrying six pounds a piece make drops over the course of a week. " "Good idea," I said. I knew all about the scheme, and the meet, from the Crusaders. "I'm a bit upset you didn't use me as a go-between." "Doesn't matter now," Campisi said with a shrug. "As I said before, there was trouble. That cocksucker in the mask showed up, the one that dresses like the devil, and he kicked the shit out of them all before stealing the coke my guys had sent. Joey Bags is in the hospital and two fucking pounds of blow are in the wind!" I knew that all too well. Campisi was exaggerating. It was actually a pound and a half of cocaine I stole last night. And it wasn't in the wind, it was down a storm drain eight blocks away from the meeting. The part about Joey Bags is probably true. I remembered breaking a few of his ribs. Campisi took another sip from his coffee. "What do you know about this guy, Matty?" "Just what you know, Uncle Angelo. I heard that he took over the rackets of the Puerto Rican Army back during the summer. He runs Washington Heights." That's the rumor on the street, anyway. In truth, since I took out Martinez brothers, Washington Heights has never been safer. The Devil acts like an up and coming racketeer, except he doesn't fill the void when he eliminates the competition. "Look into it for me, will ya?" Campisi put his dried up hand on the back of my hand. I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. "You got friends on the police force and the DA's office. They have to have a file on this guy. If he's trying to muscle in on our action, then he is in for one rude awakening. We ain't fucking Puerto Ricans, we know how to fight back." "I'll see what I can do, Uncle Angelo. As long as you answer this: Why didn't you let me know about the deal going down between your guys and the bikers?" Campisi shrugged again. "It's Paulie's show, you know how he is with you. Thinks cause you're a mick you can't be trusted." I didn't say it, but I thought that maybe Paulie was on to something. Maybe he was the only member of the Campisi Family with any bit of sense. --- [b]Williamsburg, Brooklyn 2:15 PM[/b] Yussel Goren had never seen so much blood in his life. It seemed to coat the floor and walls of the small Brooklyn apartment. It covered his hands and arms. The thighs of his navy blue pants were a deep crimson now due to the blood. Neta was face down in the carpet, her blood pooled out from the spot where she had fallen and oozing out through the rest of the room. Yussel stumbled forward. He took his yarmulke off with his blood-stained hands and stuttered out some words in Yiddish. He fell to his knees and began to weep. His free hand found a bloody knife buried in the carpet. He held it up and looked at it just as the door to the apartment burst open. "NYPD," the heavyset uniformed officer said, his gun out and aimed at Yussel. "Drop the weapon!"