The judge’s cheeks redden more.
Cat is incensed. “Your discretion. Are you mad? Your reputation? Your reputation. I’ll show you your reputation. What’s your reputation going to be like when more girls turn up raped and left for dead? In pieces, like before. Why would Thomas Pierce lie to me from the very beginning of all of this, knowing only that I was FBI?”
Judge Rifkind says nothing.
“Why is Isabella—whatever the hell her last name is—attending secret partnership meetings for, as you put it, one of the country’s most prominent international law firms? She’s not even a lawyer. She’s not a partner at the firm. She’s nothing. Have you bothered to even try to put the pieces together?”
Cat sucks in a deep breath, but it is no use. She has to say it. “Or do you just want to spend more time staring at my breasts?”
That’s it. Judge Rifkind has had enough. He takes the file with the declarations, raises it above his head, and comes down on the desk with enough force that Cat thinks its glass top might shatter.
“Enough,” he says. “Get the hell out of my chambers. Marshal . . .”
His big voice booms louder than the papers being slammed down.
Suddenly, the judge’s federal marshal appears, as do others behind him. “Remove them, but do not arrest them,” Judge Rifkind says, as he throws the declarations at Cat, white paper scattering like ribbons before her eyes.
Cat, Nate and the detective are escorted out into the hallway, down the elevators and into the parking lot. One of the marshals delivers the papers and declarations to them with a polite nod.
In the car, Cat is spewing every four-letter word she can think of and then some.
Nate thinks Cat has lost it, but he understands why. Cat and Rifkind have history. Sometimes, history is not a good thing.
Cat takes off her suit jacket, throws it in the back seat. “Goddamned idiot. Are you kidding me? Thomas Pierce and Black and Knight probably contributed to his state judicial campaign under the table, even though it’s illegal, before he became a federal judge. He’s in their back pocket. So much for lady justice . . .”
“Calm down. We’ll see if we can get another federal judge to issue it tonight or tomorrow. Judge Rifkind’s not the only judge in town.”
“I know. But knowing the bastard, he’s probably on the line to Pierce and his partners as we speak, and on the phone to all his colleagues, just to mess with us. He’ll use his power and his influence to make sure we never get a warrant.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
Nate is trying to remain calm. He’s never seen Cat so worked up. But in a way, he finds this sexy. She is such a hothead.
“And by calling Pierce, he’ll alert him that we’re coming. Pierce will destroy any evidence before we can get to it. Hell, they may be in Eastern Europe by the time we get a warrant. We should have never gone to Rifkind. I should have known better. Now all this work—the entire investigation is blown—and for what? We got nothing from Rifkind. Damn it, how could I have been so stupid?”
“Cat, listen to yourself. You’re overreacting. How do you know there is any connection between Judge Rifkind and the firm? He made a good point; maybe we do need more evidence. Maybe we are going down a rabbit hole. Alice in Wonderland. Maybe we’re going to meet the Mad Hatter. Hell if I know. Maybe we’ve got blinders on and we can’t see anything objectively.”
Cat grows furious, slams her hand against the dashboard. “No. You’re wrong. What about the schools in Europe? What about the fake names, the passports? And why would an international law firm be lying about its staff for no reason? No, they are hiding something. Something big. I can smell it. I can feel it. I can taste it as sure as I am sitting here with you.”
Nate says nothing.
“And Rifkind’s a law-and-order Republican. He loves putting criminals behind bars. But he won’t issue the warrant. The only way it computes is if he is part of it.”
“I don’t know,” Nate replies, shaking his head.
“And why would Big Tiny turn up dead right before we get to him? I’ve read his rap sheet and his prison record. He was a big man, mean, tough and vicious. A guy like that can defend himself. Except he turns up dead, in his own house, a floater in his own swimming pool, no less. No, someone close to him killed him. Someone he trusted. Someone on the inside of all of this. He never saw it coming before they killed him. I’m so sick of all of this.”
“All of this. What’s all of this?” Nate asks, trying not to question, then realizing he sounds mocking.
“All of this is why we need the damned warrant. That’s what all of this”—Cat flourished her arms in the air—“is.”
Nate keeps driving.
Cat says nothing to him for the rest of the trip. He knows why. She feels connections no one else does. She cannot put them into writing. She cannot put them into words. She cannot explain them any better than she can explain her sixth sense. It is driving her every choice right now.
Cat’s sixth sense is on fire.
* * *
No sooner has Cat left Judge Rifkind’s chambers than he picks up his desk phone. Carefully, he dials the number to reception at Black and Knight, a number he knows by heart, his fingers shaking as he presses the keypad.
A young female voice answers the phone at Black and Knight. Judge Rifkind recognizes it as Sarah’s voice. She is her usual chipper self. Reddish auburn coloring; the twang in her voice speaks of the Deep South, Alabama or some such place. Judge Rifkind never bothered to ask her where exactly she is from. “Oh hi, Your Honor. How are you doing today? No, Mr. Pierce ain’t here today. He’s meeting with folks in the Cayman Islands today. Told me absolutely, positively, no phone calls today. None at all.”
Judge Rifkind’s baritone voice booms into the receiver. “I don’t care if he’s on a space station floating miles above the earth—you get him a message. Tell him the message is from me. Tell him to call me ASAP. Day or night on my cell phone. I just had a very interesting meeting with some federal folks that he will want to know all about. You do that today for me, little lady. All right, honey? You do that, okay?” As he says the words, his mind goes back in time to when he watched Sarah’s cute little ass in a too-tight short skirt. When she bent over to get some files, Judge Rifkind thought he could see just a hint of Sarah’s pink underwear. Victoria’s Secret for sure, he thought. And what lay underneath. The thought of Sarah standing in front of him semi-naked, in her pink panties, has the desired effect. “You tell him that for me, you hear, now, honey?”
“Okay, Your Honor. I’ll see if I can get a message to him, but you know how it is—international and all. And he might not have his cell phone on. Maybe I’ll try e-mailing or texting him the message, okay?” In her southern twang, she asks as if it really is okay.
Judge Rifkind restrains himself from losing it over the phone. That would not be a nice thing to do to a clueless receptionist who enjoys Victoria’s Secret underwear. “You do that, my dear. I look forward to seeing you the next time Thomas and I have lunch.” He emphasizes the word “seeing” but figures she has no idea what he’s talking about.
True to form, she says, “Okay, Your Honor. Have a great day. B-y-y-y-e.”
Judge Rifkind seriously wonders if Thomas Pierce knows his firm, and potentially his life, are in danger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Vision is the art of seeing things invisible.
—Jonathan Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects
Judge Francisco Calderon Gonzales is an entirely different man from Judge Rifkind. Born in Cuba, he immigrated to the US with his family, following Fidel Castro’s taking hold of the Cuban government. Remembering the days before Fidel, he often wonders how different his life would have been had a man named Fidel Castro never been born. He remembers a sense of utter security growing up in the lush green hills of Havana. He remembers waking to the smell of orange blossoms in the spring in his bedroom as a child. He remembers the acrid s
mell from the mosquito coils that his mother rested on his windowsill at night to prevent him from being bitten in the summer heat. He remembers his father, a Cuban appellate court justice, throwing lavish parties, all manner of judicial and legislative friends and much family being invited, everyone gathering for roasted suckling pig, barbecued chicken, ropas viejas, black beans and rice and, of course, some of the best Cuban rum that money could buy. Those parties would go on till all hours of the night and into the morning.
He remembers climbing Caribbean avocado trees during these parties with his cousins and school friends. Competitions at the top of the trees to see who could see the farthest and then describe what they saw. Back then, Judge Francisco Calderon Gonzales, or Franco, as his friends called him, could see the farthest. He always won the game. It was this game that had taught him to appreciate the power of the story, the power of words. It was this game that had fueled his attraction to the practice of law.
Sometimes, it was not just what you saw, but how you told the story about what you saw, that won you the prize. It was about words carefully chosen. It was sometimes about the power of silence. When telling a story, it was about the pictures you could create in the imaginations of others. It was about the feelings you evoked with the power of words and the power of silence.
This love of words and language, or more, of story, had led him to know what he wanted to do in life.
He wanted to tell others’ stories.
To be a lawyer, like his father.
That was really the role of a good lawyer, after all. To tell a compelling and provocative story. To make others care, when they had never cared before. To make a jury care about a stranger. To make a jury feel love or hate. To make a jury cry for someone they hardly knew.
This was the power of his words as a younger man.
As a young trial lawyer.
Judge Francisco Calderon Gonzales remembers everything about Cuba—sometimes with joy. Sometimes with pain. Leaving his home country instilled in him a deep sense of justice. Not just legal justice, but social and economic justice.
Tomorrow, every kind of justice that Judge Francisco Calderon Gonzales has ever known will come to bear.
Nate calls him from the police station, describes what has gone down with Judge Rifkind, or to be more precise, what has not gone down. What is Rifkind up to? thinks Judge Francisco Calderon Gonzales. Rifkind is known as a hard-ass who issues warrants all the time on the flimsiest evidence.
What Nate describes does not sound like Rifkind.
Judge Gonzales knows, just as Cat does, that there is something going on. Judge Gonzalez tells Nate to come to his home with Cat and bring whatever evidence they have to swear out a warrant. He figures it will be better to meet at his home, rather than at his chambers at the courthouse, just in case they run into Judge Rifkind. They don’t want to alert him to what is going on.
Nate and Cat pull up to Judge Gonzales’ house twenty-three minutes later. Set on two acres of wooded land, the house is imposing, while Judge Gonzales is not. As soon as Nate opens the car door, Judge Gonzalez is already out of his front door to greet Nate and Cat. The man is small framed with a graying mustache and hair. His eyes are the color of roasted coffee beans. He has a warm smile and demeanor. Judge Gonzalez ushers them in and closes the front door.
Cat wonders how many young hoodlums have come in contact with Judge Gonzales only to change their lives for the better because of the interaction.
Inside, the house is all warm woods and mahogany paneling and a beautiful carved white limestone hearth. There is a low fire burning in the fireplace. The air smells of mint. Judge Gonzales goes into the kitchen and is making himself a mojito. “Do you want one of these?” he shouts. “They are very refreshing on a day like today.” Nate and Cat reply in the affirmative. “I sent my staff home for the day before you arrived.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Cat says, sitting on one of the overstuffed couches in the living room. She instantly likes this man. Even though she knows he’s come from money, there is something so warm in his personality. A patience in his eyes. He is what a judge should be. What a judge is supposed to be.
“None of that ‘Your Honor’ stuff,” he says to her. “To you, I am Francisco.” Judge Gonzales is walking toward her with a silver tray with three mojitos, tall crystal highball glasses perspiring in this Florida heat. He puts the tray down, picks up a glass. Cat and Nate grab a glass. Francisco says, “Cheers.” He sips at the cocktail for awhile. Then he goes back to his ice water.
He looks at the fireplace and then at Cat. “I know, it’s crazy to have a fireplace going in South Florida in the summer, but it brings back memories of times gone past. And when it rains here, sometimes the air can get cool. Perhaps I am an old man of old habits that do not wish to die . . .” It is as if the man is caught in his past staring at the fire, thinking of things long gone.
Then, as quickly as he was in a different place, he is looking at Cat and present in the moment. “Now, what do we have in mind, as far as that warrant?” He slides tortoiseshell glasses onto his face. Cat removes photographic evidence from her briefcase. She explains finding Big Tiny face down in his pool and all the rest of it.
Judge Gonzales listens attentively, chewing on a mint leaf he has fished out of the bottom of his glass. His brown eyes sparkle.
He considers all of it for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, he speaks. “And you shared all of this with my good Republican friend Judge Rifkind?”
“Yes, and he didn’t do a damned thing,” Cat replies.
“Well, there is clearly enough here for a warrant to issue. I can see that. And it is very strange that Judge Rifkind refuses to issue a warrant.”
Judge Gonzales takes his glasses off, perching the tip of them on a pursed lip, considering something. “I know that he and Mr. Pierce’s father went to the same law school. Judge Rifkind went on to become a lawyer. Pierce’s father, William, went on to become a diplomat. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“So perhaps Judge Rifkind is part of the problem. And perhaps I can be part of the solution. I’ll issue the warrant for you for Black and Knight’s downtown Fort Lauderdale offices tomorrow morning first thing. Send a black-and-white officer to my chambers to pick it up at seven a.m. sharp.”
Cat finds herself gushing at the news. “Thank you, Your Honor.” It is all she can do not to jump off the couch and hug the judge.
“Francisco, my dear.”
“Thank you, Francisco.”
“You are most welcome. I hope that in the morning, justice will be served.”
* * *
Judge Rifkind gets a call from Thomas Pierce at five thirty in the afternoon. Taking the Cuban cigar out of his mouth, he lets the phone ring five times before picking it up, trying to control his growing anger.
Thomas Pierce says, “It’s me. What’s up?”
Judge Rifkind’s voice is like rolling thunder. He doesn’t care if he deafens Thomas Pierce. “I told Sarah to tell you to call me ASAP. And this is what I get? Where have you been all day? Clayton down there with you? I’ve been trying to reach him all day too.”
Pierce lets anger wash over him, trying to control his own rage. “Look, I don’t give a shit if you were one of my father’s dearest friends. Don’t you ever speak to me like that again. Ever. Clayton is here with me. We’ve been in meetings all day. Now, what is going on?”
Judge Rifkind puts the cigar down in a crystal ash tray. His voice grows louder, his spittle spewing with each word. “You listen up. You remember that pretty FBI agent, the one with the nice rack? Well, guess where she and her boyfriend were this morning, you little shit?”
Pierce does not respond.
“They were sitting in my chambers unloading on you and Black and Knight. Asking me to issue a search warrant for your offices. Something about secret files. Of course, I turned them down. I told them they didn’t have enough evidence. Too speculative. Sent th
em on their way.” He takes a long puff of his cigar and exhales, feeling his blood pressure returning to something like normal. “So, I just figured that would be something that you and Clayton might be interested in.”
“What did she say as far as specifics?”
“Well, there’s the thing about you lying to her about Anna and a few bodies that they found that they can link to Big Tiny. And let’s not forget Big Tiny, a floater in his own pool, his throat cut in a little bit of overkill. Luckily, the big bastard cleaned out his house and his computer files before they executed that warrant, or someone else did it for him. One of your associates, perhaps? There’s more, but you get the picture.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
Judge Rifkind inhales again, turns his head and exhales smoke. Damn, a good Cuban cigar is a relaxing thing. He takes another long drag and exhales before answering the question.
“I don’t know. I’d say you better conclude your business in Cayman. Take the first flight out. I’ve known Dr. Powers for many years. When she’s on to something or someone, as the case may be for you, she doesn’t stop.”
Thomas Pierce hangs up.
In the next ten seconds, he dials through to Yosef and to Isabella. Isabella does not pick up, but Yosef does.
“Yosef, I need you to go to my office. I want you to take the files for the Operation out of my office. Take them to the warehouse where we house the girls when they arrive. I need you to scrub the computers at the office. Destroy the hard drives if you must. The feds are about to get a search warrant and we can’t have that evidence available.”
Yosef says nothing.
“I tried to call Isabella, but she is not picking up her line. You need to get ahold of her and tell her what is going down. Tell her she needs to get rid of any evidence at the house. All of it. At once.”
Clayton grabs the phone out of Thomas’ hand and screams into the receiver. “Do it now.” He hangs up.
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