Read Online Condemned by John Nicholas Iannuzzi - Free Book Online

Marshal,” said Sandro. “It’s not as bad as you’ve heard.”
    â€œOne of these days, maybe I will.”
    Sandro first met Tatiana six years ago, when he was defending her father, Vasily, on charges that he owed the I.R.S. tax on two million dollars of undeclared income. Sandro claimed, on behalf of Marovich, that the money was not income, but rather money wired or smuggled into the United States when he emigrated from Russia. After two lengthy conferences, although the I.R.S. was pig-headed and obtuse, a Tax Court judge persuaded the attorney for the Service that the documentation of K.G.B. raids which unearthed millions of other dollars belonging to Marcovich in Russia, and Tatiana’s testimony concerning Vasily’s and her family’s narrow escape from Russia in the middle of the night, and the K.G.B. plot to murder them—all supported Sandro’s contention that Vasily did not earn the money while in the United States. Upon an agreement whereby Marcovich would make a payment of several thousand dollars for some technical impropriety in filing his tax returns, the I.R.S. agreed the case should be discontinued.
    At the time of the I.R.S. case, Tatiana was in her junior year in college. More recently, when Vasily decided to open a large, sumptuous restaurant in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach area named “Vasily’s,” he contacted Sandro to help with the application for a liquor and cabaret license and the other legal details that were necessary to satisfy the municipal bureaucracy of New York City. Vasily’s—at least for the moment—was the newest and largest of the popular Russian Brighton Beach supper clubs. Since, during the pendency of the IRS problems, Vasily had transferred ownership of all his business interests into Tatiana’s name, she was the nominal owner of the restaurant.
    Their second encounter was a year and a half ago. Since then, Sandro and Tatiana had become frequent companions; dinner and theater expanded into the occasional weekend jaunt to the British Virgin Islands for sailing or Aspen for skiing. Tatiana had arranged, weeks back, for her father to take over her tasks at the restaurant so that she and Sandro could drive up to Watkins Glen to spend this race weekend together.
    â€œWhat’s really up?” Sandro said to the Marshall.
    â€œSeems this Judge Ellis thinks you’re supposed to be trying some case down there in front of her instead of frolicking up here in God’s country.”
    â€œBullshit!” Sandro said angrily. “Sorry,” he said, turning to Tatiana.
    Tatiana smiled, taking one of Sandro’s hands in hers. “Mr. Luca still lives in a world of knights.” The emphasis she put on the ‘k’, made the word two syllables.
    The Marshal nodded, his ear working on understanding Tatiana’s accent. “I have orders to transport you to the nearest airport and deposit you on a plane going to New York. Then I’ve got to call the Judge and tell her what plane you’re on. I’d be very much surprised if you didn’t have a Southern District Marshal meeting you on the other end.”
    â€œDo you know what case I’m supposed to be trying, by any chance?” Sandro and Tatiana began to walk toward the area where street cars were parked. The Marshal followed.
    â€œI think—not positive about this. It’s a big drug case with jigaboos.”
    â€œJigaboos? I haven’t’ hear that word in years.”
    â€œWhat are jigaboos—” Tatiana shook her head.
    â€œIt’s a word for black people,” said Sandro.
    â€œReally? I never heard this.”
    â€œLots of big city ways and words haven’t reached up here yet, thank the Lord,” the Marshal said to Tatiana. “Where are you from? You don’t sound like you’re from New York.”
    Tatiana glanced toward Sandro.
    â€œYou must be talking about the Hardie