It was your typical father-son evening, at least as typical as it can be when the father involved is a powerful mob boss.
Paul Donnelly Sr.’s base of criminal operations was in the Bronx, but his tentacles reached into other boroughs, as well as Westchester and Long Island. The kind of activities that he was involved in had little respect for borders.
Paul Donnelly Jr. always had a rather complicated relationship with his father. He never wanted anything to do with the family business, and Paul Sr. had over time developed mixed feelings about that. While he wanted Paul Jr. to respect him and follow in his footsteps, he also took a real measure of pride in what his son had achieved, mostly on his own.
For someone in Paul Sr.’s position, one of the basic goals is always survival. One mistake is too many. He had managed to endure and thrive quite successfully, but part of him was glad that his son did not have that burden.
Paul Jr. had carved out a place in the world of precious stones; he always loved and understood real beauty, whether it be art, opera, or jewelry. He was the first to admit that his father’s money, however dishonorably earned, had helped greatly along the way. His father never understood or cared for the things that his son loved, but had come to respect his accomplishments.
On this night they did not discuss either of their businesses; they instead enjoyed a shared passion they had for harness racing. They went to Yonkers Raceway, sat in their private box, and stayed for six races. Afterward they went to a favorite restaurant, the one they always ate at after a night of racing, Spumoni’s, on Central Park Avenue.
Other diners at Spumoni’s had no idea who Paul Sr. was, unless they noticed the security around him. He had no real competition to speak of in his world; he had vanquished his main rivals a long time before. But he had not gotten to his preeminent position by being careless.
Survival was everything.
After dinner they went outside, and seconds later the world seemed to explode. A car went by and sprayed bullets from the rear driver’s-side window. The police would determine later that the shots were errant because of the speed at which the car was moving.
Seven bullets were fired. Six were wild and missed everything, and the seventh entered the skull of Paul Jr., killing him instantly. Paul Sr. emerged unscathed, except for the nightmare of having to watch his only son die.
Paul Sr. vowed and eventually got his revenge, but he would never fully recover emotionally from the guilt and horror of that night.
But if his enemies thought he would be scared into backing off from the most important project of his life, they were dead wrong.
Theodore George Paraskevakos has my undying respect and gratitude. He was a great man, yet for all his genius and heroism, he remains basically unknown.
Let me explain why I feel so strongly about Mr. Paraskevakos, or as I call him, TGP.
I hate telephones. I’m not talking about smartphones; I’m fine with texting, and emailing, and finding out the weather and sports scores. I love being able to google an actor’s name I forgot, or who won the 1949 World Series. All that is good, so perhaps I should be more specific.
I hate talking on the telephone.
Actually, I’m not a big fan of talking at all. To anyone. A select few people are exempt from this … my wife, Laurie, and my son, Ricky, come to mind. But the great thing about them is that we can be in a room without talking, and no one minds. The pregnant pauses can last almost as long as a real-life pregnancy, and none of us get annoyed or pissed off.
Silence is golden.
I also don’t mind talking to my friends Vince Sanders and Pete Stanton when we hang out at Charlie’s Sports Bar. But that’s because our conversation consists mostly of insults, with some sports thrown in. Insult talking and sports talking are acceptable forms of discourse, when done in moderation and in person.
And that’s one of the many things I love about dogs. The human, in this case me, completely controls the dialogue. That’s not to say the dog can’t respond and convey his or her feelings and opinions. But they use a wag of the tail, or a smile, or a head tilt, or a growl. Tara, my golden retriever, communicates better and is more eloquent than 90 percent of the people I know. She is the Winston Churchill of dogs.
I certainly dislike talking in my occasional forays into a courtroom, but as a sometimes defense attorney I’m forced into it. I hate writing briefs even more than talking, but that’s sort of beside the point since I have another lawyer who does that for me.
But telephone talking is the worst because talking is the entire purpose of being on the phone in the first place. There’s nothing else to do; you have this thing stuck next to your ear and mouth and you have to keep feeding it.
It’s intrusive. Part of the reason that people live in homes with doors and locks on those doors is that they want privacy and peace. Phones destroy that serenity. Suddenly a bell starts ringing and there’s an outsider in your home, and you’re forced to greet them. And most of the time you’re expected to chitchat before they come to the point.
And sometimes there is no point! Chitchatting is an end in itself!
I hate Alexander Graham Bell for what he did, and that brings me to the aforementioned Theodore George Paraskevakos. TGP invented caller ID and, by doing so, provided a peephole on the telephone door through which one can look and choose to admit or ban the person calling.
I, Andy Carpenter, am probably the only person in America who is relieved to learn that an incoming call is from a telemarketer. At least they have a specific reason for calling; they’re not looking to make small talk. And I’m quite sure they don’t get offended if someone hangs up on them or screens their calls; they expect it. It’s part of the job description.
Bottom line is that I am not antisocial, but I do have a definite bias against telephone conversation.
Of course there are exceptions, and I just had one. I called Chris Myers, who is a friend and technically an employee at the Tara Foundation. That’s the dog rescue operation that my friend and former client Willie Miller and I run, along with Willie’s wife, Sondra.
Chris answered and we dispensed with the “How are you?” in a few seconds. We both answered, “Good,” since that’s the only proper response. Except for maybe “Do I look fat in this dress?” and “Do you want a bite of my cake?,” there is no question to which an honest answer is less welcome than “How are you?”
“We’ve got a problem with the puppies.”
He answered, “I know. I assume you want me to solve it?”
“How’d you guess?” I asked if he had time to meet me down at the Foundation now.
“Sure. There’s something I want to talk to you about as well.”
Then we both hung up.
That was it.
I first met Chris Myers when he was in prison.
Usually when I go to a prison to see someone, I bring along a heavy dose of guilt, since I’m invariably visiting a client of mine who got convicted despite my efforts. But Chris was never my client, so I was off the hook for that one.
I didn’t know much about his case and still don’t. I am aware that he was serving a two-year sentence for involuntary manslaughter, as the result of punching someone in a bar fight almost three years ago, resulting in the person’s death. I’d heard that Chris could have gotten a lesser sentence if he copped a plea, but he insisted he was innocent, went to trial, and lost.
My meeting him in prison had nothing to do with his crime or his trial. Chris is a dog lover, and he used his time in the prison to start a program where inmates learned how to train rescue dogs who had not yet found their permanent homes, mostly because of behavioral issues.
It was a win-win for the dogs and for the inmates, and the program has continued and prospered since Chris got out. He had almost ten months shaved off his two-year sentence for good behavior, and because the prison was overcrowded. Since I like and respect him, I vouched for him to the parole board. The warden has let Chris continue in the program since his release, in a supervisory and consulting role.
Chris is, or I should say was, a lawyer. He worked in the litigation department for a Manhattan-based firm, but was disbarred once he was convicted of a felony. I would also love to be an ex-lawyer, sooner rather than later, but I’m not going to assault anyone to make it happen. I would be too afraid that the person I’d assault might return the favor.
Chris is already at the Foundation when I arrive, talking to Willie and Sondra. Willie and Sondra run the place day-to-day, and I help out when I can. When I’m not working on a case, which is my favorite time, I am able to do more.
Chris works here three days a week, not for the money, but because he enjoys it. Chris did well as a lawyer, and I believe he comes from some significant family money, so he’s basically doing it because he loves dogs.
Lovable dogs are something we have in great supply.
Right now they are in greater supply than usual. A very pregnant golden retriever showed up at the Animal Shelter in Paterson about three weeks ago. Her tag identified her as Killian, but there was no address or owner information. My guess is the idiot owners did not want to deal with a pregnant dog, so they left her at the Animal Shelter, which means the morons left her to an uncertain fate.
We put up the obligatory signs and advertised online, knowing no owner would show up to claim her. When that proved to be the case, we took her. She is a fantastic dog and has had eight adorable puppies while in our care. She’s patiently been nursing them ever since. But we’re not set up to care for a litter of puppies; we generally rescue adult dogs.
The other problem is that with Christmas approaching, people will see cute puppies and want to give them as gifts. Giving a dog as a gift is generally a terrible idea; anyone who wants to adopt a dog should take the initiative on their own.
“I’ll take care of the whole family at my house,” Chris says. “My neighbor will help, she’s always talking about how much she loves dogs, but her husband is allergic so she can’t get one of her own.”
Willie says, “Great. Sondra and I will take them in the van and follow you home. Thanks for doing this, my man.”
“No problem. How long do you think it will be?”
“I’d say we can start placing them in about six weeks,” Sondra says, and Chris and Willie both nod their approval.
While Willie and Sondra start getting Killian and her kids ready for the short trip, Chris asks if he can talk to me privately. Since only a couple of dogs are with us at the moment, I ask, “Can they listen in?”
He smiles. “Sure. I’m just a little paranoid.”
“What’s going on?”
“I think I can get my conviction overturned.”
“How?”
“I’ve just learned that a witness lied. The main witness against me.”
“How do you know this?” I’m not liking the sound of this; I hope that this is not an obsession for Chris that he is chasing with little chance of success.
“He told me he did. He said it’s haunted him since then.”
That changes the dynamic considerably. “He sought you out to say this, or you found him?”
“He came to me. I don’t look back, Andy. I have been thinking I would have to accept the situation and move on, but I did not commit that crime, and if I can prove it, I would like that very much. I could also get my law license back. I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me until the possibility came up.”
“What’s his name?”
“The witness? Charlie Burgess. He lives in Totowa, used to work at the post office. Although I think he might be retired.”
“Did he say why he lied?”
“He told me he was paid to lie, but wouldn’t say who paid him. He’s afraid they will find out what he’s doing.”
It’s time to address the legal elephant in the room. “How can I help?”
“You know your way around the criminal justice system, so I was hoping you can guide me through this. I’d pay you, of course.”
I shake my head. “First of all, paying is not an option. Working at the Tara Foundation comes with low salary, no health benefits, but full legal services in the area of lying witnesses. Who was your lawyer on the original case?”
“Ronald Hoffman. He’s retired, which is just as well. It’s fair to say I was not thrilled with his representation, although the case against me was pretty strong. Total bullshit, but strong.”
“Okay, so you want me to represent you in this?” I know the answer all too well.
“I do. I’m sorry.… I know how you feel about taking on clients, but this will hopefully be quick and painless. You’ll have this wrapped up by Christmas.”
It’s never quick and painless is what I’m thinking and don’t say. And since we just finished with Thanksgiving, there is no way a court will deal with this before Christmas. But I don’t say that either.
What I say is “Happy to do it.”
“I think you’re doing a really nice thing,” Laurie says, while we’re having dinner.
“What are you doing, Dad?” Ricky asks.
“I’m helping someone with a work thing.”
“Dad has a client,” Laurie says.
“It sounds awful when you put it that way,” I say, since I have for years now tried to avoid taking on clients, with unfortunately little success.
“It’s your dad’s friend Chris.”
Ricky knows Chris and likes him a lot. “Great,” he says, but then seems to lose interest.
“He seems to think it will be quick and painless,” I say to Laurie.
“And it won’t?”
“I haven’t looked into it yet, so I don’t know how painless it will be. But overturning a conviction is never quick; the system does not like to admit mistakes.”
“When are you going to look into it?”
“Unfortunately, right after we finish dinner, so please keep the dessert and coffee coming; I want to put it off as long as I can. I have a transcript of the trial, and Chris wrote up all of his dealings with the witness. I was hoping to watch the Knicks game, but that’s not going to happen.”
“They’re going to lose anyway.” Laurie doesn’t follow basketball, but I’ve told her enough about the Knicks over the years for her to be confident in her prediction.
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