"The new boss." That's what the blog title means in Sicilian. I mean, in Italian.
(Left: Carlo Gambino's picture taken in the 1930s)
Last Monday, I reported for work at the RTC (Regional Trial Court), and not out-of-the-ordinary, my boss, the Judge, was running late. It was a criminal case day. This particular branch (Br.6) has been specifically designated as an SCC (Special Criminal Court) for Dangerous Drugs related cases. In short, our branch is the bottom of the stinking viper pit, and I, answerable only to the judge, am the pit boss. The courtroom was already sprawling with caught hoodlums--in neon green DETAINEE shirts, hand-cuffed as couples and smelling like stink-bombs from 1990's Gary Lising's joke shop. (I think there were 28 or 29 of them detainee fuckers that day.) Present too are some of their relatives and friends, most of whom look poor and jobless. Then there are some uniformed Policemen, sans their sidearms--who were supposed to take the witness stand that day. These pigs are prohibited to carry any firearm within the vicinity of the RTC. Also present are the provincial and city jail-guards, who unlike the cops, are permitted to carry their guns. (I am not sure as to the reason behind the distinction, and whether or not the evil sought to be prevented by the measure is actually prevented.) There are lawyers of all sorts, from the old and sickly looking to the really old and sickly. All the (court) branch employees are there, some of us having snacks, some pretending to be doing something important, some just staring into the abyss, and some, particularly me and this PAO (Public Attorney's Office) lawyer I have just met, and whose fucking name I cannot remember, were shooting bull and smokin' cigs to pass the time away. This lousy schmuck was smokin' Winstons and I was glad I had a pack of Marlboros. BTW, smoking is strictly prohibited within the confines of the RTC compound.
On or about 10:30 a.m., I saw the red 2007 Sentra my new boss drives to work. You see, I have a lot of respect for this man, as he is mine and my wife's padrino, ( ninong, godfather) at our wedding. He is also the father of one of my closest friends, Atty. JS, the best man in my wedding. Aside from that, my boss is also a member of the family--another widow's son like my grandfather, my father, my uncles, their friends, and the friends of their friends. He is a brother of my father and uncles from a different mother--if you now what I mean. He's a made guy. He's connected. He has been raised more than a few years back, but a whole lot later in time than my father. My father sent me to work for him for a while. Until I grow my bones, at the least.
Instantly, I entered the courtroom before he comes in and reviewed the court calendar. After having triple-checked the day's calendar to know who's here and ready from those not here, to those notified and those with no proof of notification, I waited there amongst the sea of green smelly shirts inside our non-air-conditioned sala. After about ten (10) stinking minutes I have endured, the boss has yet to come out from his chambers. Impatiently, I stormed out of the courtroom to check on him. He wasn't inside his SCRA (Supreme Court Reports) and PR (Philippine Reports) filled room. Instead, I found the boss standing at the front door which was open, with his arms on his waist and it looked like that he was more than moderately pissed.
Instead of proceeding to his chambers, he ordered the RTC security guard and a couple of clerks to find out the name, and license plate number of a certain 2007 ceramic white Mitsubishi Strada parked across the street of the court building. Apparently, he had an on-road altercation with its driver. That is why he was standing at the door. When I asked him what happened, he told me "Aba eh gusto akong i-run off the road! wang-wang pa ng wang-wang at bunubusinahan at tinututukan ako. Ang ginawa ko, pinauna ko na at sinundan ko, akalain mong dito pa sa harap ng RTC paparada. Baka mamaya ako ang gustong tirahin nyan talaga. Kung ganoon eh ang malas naman niya."
This is what happened. Boss lives at Sta. Maria, Bulacan. That being the case, he takes the NLEX (North Luzon Expressway) everyday, entering at Bocaue and exiting at the Tabang interchange. This guy in the white Strada, for a reason unknown to any except himself, kind of dangerously tail-gated boss's red Sentra and wanked his siren and horn repeatedly, perhaps to make the boss give way to his stupidity-induced charge as the boss was about to exit the tollgate at Tabang. He continued doing this crazy-ass stunt until the boss gave way, right after their convoy has reached the confines of Malolos territory. The boss followed the white Strada and coincidentally, the Strada was also headed to the Capitol grounds, where the RTC compound is likewise located. The boss told me he felt it was going to be a hit. Damn, I haven't received the SC (Supreme Court) appointment papers yet and my boss is gonna be hit already? I hoped not. No, I prayed not.
While the RTC sikyu was, upon the boss's orders, talking to the driver of the suspect vehicle, the boss left my side and proceeded to his car. He opened the driver-side door and reached for something found inside the glove box. It was his nickel-plated Colt M-1911 copy .45 caliber pistol sheathed in its old-school looking holster. He took out the piece, cocked it, and placed it in the back of his pants. Afterwards, he began his approach to the pick-up truck. I didn't follow him because I was naked. I was packing very light. All I had was my Parker fountain pen which has my name engraved on its shaft.
Meanwhile, the driver of the Strada must've thought he was done talking to the rent-a-cop and decided to start his engine and leave like his ass was on fire. Boy, did he fuck over the wrong fella. I have to admit, sometimes, I did that sort of shit when I was younger but fortunately, I haven't screwed guys that mattered--'fya know what I mean. Pa always warned me that someday, out of road-rage, some random tough guy will knock the balls out of an asshole driver like I was. That's part of the reason I quit being an asshole driver. Another part is that I ran-over a six (6) year old kid some years back. The boy lived, and the family paid good money to fix the kid up and keep me out of jail. I had to be a lawyer.
After facts unfolded, we learned that the driver was a "back-up" (trans.: bodyguard) of a child of the Governor. His name is Too Damn Dumb. The boss's car plates say 16-C 6. The boss immediately called up the Governor's secretary, demanding the head of Mr. Too Damn Dumb on a silver platter. The boss called up a couple of other people inside his chambers, all of whom are friends of the family.
Out of twenty-eight (28) scheduled trials on the day's calendar, we heard just one. Hell, IMHO, nobody is in a hurry to acquit these disconnected and unaffiliated drug thugs into the streets. BTW, the prosecutor's nose bled --from the heat perhaps. Or maybe he was just damn too old and sickly to be doing his job. Beside his portfolio of cases, he had a mini medicine cabinet which are labeled by the hour (7:00 am, 8:00 am, 9:00 am, and so on and so forth). He must have diseases which surely surpasses the total amount of the remaining black hairs on his head. We had our recess at 12:00 and after a short meeting with him--mostly comprised of him telling me what he wants done and when he wants it done--the boss said he had other affairs to attend to and left the building. With nothing left to do that cannot be procrastinated until the next day, I followed suit and left early too. On the way home, I called up my Pa. He also had a laugh about this story when he heard it. I imagined my old man shaking his head and laughing at the same time.
Bunot Fernando!
Mental Note: I better get a PTC (Permit to Carry) real soon. There are a million asshole drivers these days. One or two might just get unlucky and stupid enough to try to fuck me over.
