Screenshots, videos, guides, musings,and stories about various PC games.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Jury Fury

Vicelord:



Mood Music: "Hyperactive", Thomas Dolby
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It’s morning again, and poor neurotic Ken needs a reminder that we’re keeping on top of things.

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I slam the door. “GOOD MORNING, KEN!” He moans.

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“What do you mean?”
“Forelli’s cousin, Giorgio -- he’s on trial. Fraud, attempted homicide -- he was BUSY down here a couple of years ago. They want us --
“By which you mean they want me --”
“-- yes, you -- to help the jury make the right decision.”

Manipulating a jury. Nice. I don’t think I’ve done that before. Ken wants me to concentrate my efforts on a couple of chumps who can’t up their minds. Me, I prefer the shotgun approach.

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Funny thing -- empty a few rounds of buckshot into a juror’s expensive car, and suddenly the facts seem all so clear.

Later that morning, after I take in lunch, I’m cruising through the city listening to the radio when the cellphone I took from that chef -- Teal? -- rings. It’s rung before, one of Teal’s partners wanting to know what to do with the rest of the product, but I was unable to snow the guy into thinking I was answering for Teal. He hung up. I answer the phone, hoping it’s someone in the same vein. Instead, I heard the voice of my dear old friend -- the charmer who let me sit in prison for fifteen years, Sonny Forelli.

“Tommy! How’s the sun-tan?”  I glance at my arm. It’s good. Little thin in places, but I’ve got time yet.
“I ain’t got no sun-tan,” I say.
“Well, you ain’t got my money, either, so I’m wondering to myself -- what are ya doin’? So tell me, Tommy, what are ya doin’?”
“I’m looking for the money, Sonny. Don’t worry.”
“I am worryin’, Tommy, ‘cause that’s my style. I seem to have this problem in my life of depending on unreliable people.”

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I gave Rosenberg my number. Guess Sonny yelled it out of him. Can’t say I blame him. Sonny’s a mean mother, and Ken…Ken would be panicked by a dirty look. I know Sonny from way back. Fifteen years way back.

I don’t too much trust Sonny, and I don’t too much like him, either. It’s mutual. We grew up together, him and me, but the older we got, the less we liked one another. Old man Forelli was obsessed with keeping the Forellis on top of things in Liberty, but more than that he was obsessed with keeping his "good name" clean. He used guys like me to do the dirty jobs: I was one of his favorite fix-it man.I guess Sonny minded his bragging about me, but we started butting heads. Doesn't help matters that I got pinned down and arrested all those years ago, soiling the "good Forelli name".

See, one of the things I did best was make life miserable for the Leones. They were chumps back then, but they knew how to fight. They wouldn't give up, no matter how hard we made it for `em. Eventually old man Forelli tried tact: we'd do them a favor if they stopped antagonizing us. All-out war, we could win....but that'd hurt the Forelli image. So I was told to knock off some guy in Harwood, some pusher the Leones were having a hard time with. I did it, all right -- but I had to go through a bunch of his buddies to do it. All I had was a shotgun, and I used it.

I tried to escape, but a couple of Leones in a car were waiting nearby. They gave my rear end a little tap and pinned me against a wall: the cops showed up and it was all over.

It was a victory for the Leone’s. They’d gotten a Forelli man to do their dirty work for them, and gotten the Forelli name in headlines as a result. The family was embarrassed. I figured that’s why I did fifteen inside -- but while inside, I heard different -- heard that the Forellis offered me to the Leone’s as a concession. I’d hit their enemy, they’d hit me, and there’d be peace.

Do I believe it?