“Hazards of war, I guess.” Kane smiled.
Malovo didn’t return the smile. “Be careful, Mr. Kane,” she said coldly. “I am not one of your toys. I represent very powerful people who can put a stop to this little plan and turn you over to your friend, Mr. Karp.”
Kane blanched but then laughed as he regained his color. “Don’t threaten me,” he sneered. “Your people want my plan to succeed as much as I do. You need to blame this on the Chechen nationalists so that you can keep your little army in place, while your puppets supply you with oil and fat bank accounts. It is a good thing for both of us that others want us to succeed for their own reasons, isn’t that right, Mr. Ellis?”
Malovo looked up to see the compact, dapper figure and face of Jon Ellis of Homeland Security. “Yes, Mr…. Hodges,” Ellis said. “But enough of these little sideshows—we’ve gone along with your little personal vendetta, and now we want you to focus on the real task at hand.”
Ellis sat down at the table and ordered a double-malt Scotch on ice. He hated drinking with the psychopath Kane and the Russian agent almost as much as he was revolted by the idea of helping Islamic extremists accomplish another act of terror on U.S. soil. However, he and certain others—rich and powerful men and women from many walks of life and areas of the country—were dedicated to protecting the United States of America from enemies within and outside the borders. They were concerned that the American public was growing complacent about the dangers of international terrorism. Safe in their little homes with their big cars and big-screen televisions, they second-guessed actions that men such as Ellis needed to take if they were to win the War on Terror. Hell, they didn’t really get that it was a war…they saw bombings and beheadings as unrelated criminal acts by some shadowy, deranged people, not a battle of Armageddon proportions of Western civilization against the mongrel hordes of the third world. Even September 11, 2001, had been reduced to a three-digit call for help, 9-11, and the subject of anniversary specials on television.
The citizens of the United States just weren’t scared enough anymore. Which made them harder to control and manipulate.
So the rich and powerful people Ellis worked for had decided that the American public needed a new wake-up call. When the Russians had broached the idea that Kane had come up with, it seemed the perfect vehicle for the lesson plan. After this, Americans would realize just how dangerous these Islamic maniacs were and quit questioning the money spent on Homeland Security and the use of the American military to “stabilize” certain parts of the oil-producing world.
Of course, there was the side benefit of keeping the Russians involved in the War on Terror. Sooner or later, as soon as they quashed the pesky nationalists, they’d have to take on the Islamic extremists in Chechnya. And they could hardly complain about the use of the American military while occupying another country themselves.
“As you wish,” Kane said. He raised his glass. “Here’s to focusing on the ‘real task at hand.’ ”
“Good, then it’s settled,” Ellis replied, raising his glass. “To the real task.”
They all drank, then Ellis looked thoughtfully at Kane before asking, “I’m curious. What’s with the expensive chess pieces? It almost got you nailed by Ciampi, who I bet got it from Karchovski. If Jaxon didn’t have to run everything through me, your ass might be on its way back to New York attached to a U.S. Marshal.”
Kane frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
25
September
“THE PEOPLE CALL ZACHARY STAVROS.” GUMA LOOKED TO the side door panel through which the young man entered. He smiled in encouragement as his witness passed looking pale and shaky.
Sitting to Guma’s left, Karp watched his old friend, searching for signs of how he was holding up. The month preceding the trial had been particularly grueling as they prepared, searching for weaknesses, plugging gaps, working on witness prep and preparing their opening and closing statements.
After one particularly long weekend, Karp asked Guma how he was feeling. He said it lightly but was concerned as the circles under his friend’s eyes seemed more pronounced every week, and at other times, he didn’t seem to be quite in the same room, though he was well prepared for the trial, his opening remarks simple, to the point, and powerful.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to kick off during my opening or fall asleep, unless it’s during your closing, Guma had replied with a smile.
Hey, I didn’t say anything about your obtuse opening, Karp laughed. And to be honest, I’m probably more likely to keel over than you. It’s been a long month.
Master of the understatement, Karp thought. Hell, it’s been a long year, although maybe the worst of it is finally over. Ever since the debacle at Aspen, in which eight law enforcement officers had been killed and a half dozen others seriously wounded, there’d been no sign of Kane. The official view, according to a briefing he got from Ellis, was that he’d died in the blast.
Crime scene technicians had found very little in the way of identifiable human remains, particularly from inside the house. Bits and pieces, blood splatters, that’s about it, Ellis had said. However, a single Gucci loafer with enough blood inside to be tested had turned out to be a positive match for a blood sample taken from Kane when he was incarcerated.
It was better than nothing, but Karp would have preferred a body—something along the lines of the Old West days when the local sheriff would pose next to the coffins and corpses of deceased outlaws. Not usually the bloodthirsty type, in Kane’s case, he’d been willing to make an exception.
The Saudi embassy had registered a complaint with the U.S. Department of State alleging that “law enforcement cowboys had, through their precipitate actions, negated the possibility of a peaceful resolution to the hostage situation, resulting in the tragic deaths of innocent members of the royal family.” The State Department, according to Jaxon who had a friend at State, had essentialy told the Saudis to “stick their complaint where the sun don’t shine” considering that the “innocent” royal family had been harboring armed terrorists and a fugitive on the FBI’s “Ten Most Wanted” list.
Still, even the assumed death of Kane did not necessarily mean the long year was over. There was a chance that whatever plan he was working on was still in place. After all, Azzam had last been seen in New York, running away from a bombing at Brighton Beach, and there’d been no report of her having been in Aspen during the siege. Jaxon had told him that his agency, the FBI, and Homeland Security were going forward as if there were still a threat against the United Nations during Russian President Putin’s visit toward the end of the week.
When Karp told Jaxon that his source, “the same one that gave me the photograph of Azzam,” believed that the second woman accompanying Azzam was in fact a Russian agent named Nadya Malovo, the FBI agent grimaced. “Christ, that’s all we need,” he said, “Russians plotting with Islamic terrorists to commit crimes on U.S. soil. A little tough to believe considering the enormous ramifications, even for the former KGB, but not without merit either. Without going into areas that I’m not allowed to discuss, the concept that the Russians are looking for reasons to remain in Chechnya has been discussed in the highest circles.”
He’d asked Karp to keep the information under his hat for the time being, which he was only too happy to do. As far as he was concerned, with the exception of his friend Jaxon, all the spies, and agents, and terrorists were welcome to take their games out of Manhattan permanently.
Especially as there were plenty of other distractions that week, both in Manhattan and at home. As previously announced, the Pope would be attending the installment and celebratory mass for Cardinal Nicolas King as the new Archbishop of New York on Saturday. Even though the Vatican’s public relations office had gone to great lengths to note that the Pope’s visit would be short and limited to the events at St. Patrick’s, an estimated one hundred thousand more visitors than usual had deluged Manhattan hoping for a glimpse of t
he pontiff or to simply be in the same city.
Police Chief Denton and Jaxon had both assured Karp that security for the Pope’s visit would be every bit as tight as it would be for Putin’s speech the following Friday. “But the ‘chatter,’ at least according to Ellis, still focuses on the United Nations theory,” Jaxon said. “And if the Chechen nationalists are trying to make a point about Russian intervention in their country, attacking the Pope would seem counterproductive. An attack on the United Nations wouldn’t exactly be a public relations coup, especially if a lot of innocent people were killed. But at least the attack would be seen as political and might even garner some twisted understanding by people of the sort who sympathized with the Irish Republican Army’s tactics as the only way for so-called freedom fighters to defeat a military power. Not to mention, there are a few people in this country who wouldn’t be too terribly upset if the United Nations was bombed.”
“Either way,” Denton added. “We’ll be ready.”
Security measures were in place, or so it was believed, that assured Karp that everything that could be done had been done. Good thing, too, as he planned to attend the event at St. Patrick’s with his family, including Marlene, the twins, and Lucy, who’d returned to New York with her mother after Aspen, and Ned, who’d flown in to JFK that morning.
With the election only two months away, Murrow was working himself into a tizzy trying to line up speaking engagements and, as Guma and Newbury liked to tease, “baby- and ass-kissing events.” But Murrow was adamant that Karp needed to get “face time” on the television and in the newspapers.
The polls still showed Rachman running a distant second, though she continued to outspend Karp four to one in advertising and it was reflected in small gains she’d made, especially in neighborhoods where being seen on television was more important than what you said. However, the nearer the November election, the more desperate Rachman was becoming; her attacks were growing ever more virulent.
While touting her credentials from her time as head of the Sex Crimes Bureau, she did all she could to portray Karp as “soft on sexual predators.” She’d even managed to dredge up old allegations that Karp was a closet racist. And perhaps, she hinted, even anti-Catholic, as evidenced by his “personal investment” in the case against Archbishop Fey and other local parish priests who were part of the “Kane conspiracies.” She was smart enough not to come right out and say it was because he was a Jew—that wouldn’t have played well in New York—but left the idea swinging in the wind for the anti-Semitic crowd to grasp onto.
As Zachary Stavros was sworn in, Karp looked over at Emil Stavros, who actually caught his eye and smiled. The banker was dressed in a gray conservative two-thousand-dollar suit, his wavy pewter hair combed back in perfect rows from his tanned face. He oozed confidence and looked immaculate, like he just walked out of the dry cleaner’s.
I’m sure we look like chewed-up dog toys by comparison, Karp thought. Of course, Stavros was probably well rested and well fed, having been released to his home with a monitoring bracelet in early August.
The defense had made a motion to dismiss the indictment based on the proffered testimony of Dante Coletta. Skirting a fine line with Judge Lussman’s admonition to watch the pandering to the press, as well as attempts to poison the jury pool, Anderson had worded his argument in such a way as to infer that the DAO was not acting on Coletta’s story due to politics.
The judge dismissed the motion with a meaningful glare at Anderson. But the lawyer had not been cowed.
Barring the outright dismissal of the charges, Anderson argued, at the very least, his client should be allowed out on bail. “The unfortunate incident that led to his present state of incarceration was due to a momentary lapse in judgment,” he said. “Imagine, if you will, the shock of a body being discovered in your backyard when you had no idea it was there. I would remind Your Honor of his own words that Mr. Stavros is still presumed to be innocent and viewed in that light, one can understand why he got in a car and told his driver—a man who did know the truth—to ‘just drive.’ ”
Judge Lussman had agreed to let Stavros out on a substantial bail. However, he’d insisted that Stavros remain at his residence and that his movements be monitored with an electronic bracelet. If Stavros left his home, a signal would be sent via the telephone line to an officer with the probation department.
Hell, even Martha Stewart probably knows how to get around electronic monitoring devices, Guma groused. But there was nothing else he could do.
As Guma checked his notes one last time at the lectern, Karp looked down at the prosecution table. The calm before the storm, he thought. The witness the press has been falling all over themselves to interview with no success.
They’d made a decision to call Zachary to the stand immediately following Guma’s opening, which had kept the jurors riveted with their eyes following his every movement, many of them taking notes. All good signs.
The thought was that instead of saving Zachary for the emotional impact wrapping up the state’s case would have had, they would present his testimony as it fit into the chronology of events. After he testified about his childhood memory, he’d be followed by former detective Bassaline to describe the original efforts to investigate Teresa Stavros’s disappearance, including his interview with the now-accused gardener, Jeff Kaplan. Detective Fairbrother would then be called to describe the subsequent cold case investigation, taking particular care to note that the false credit card statements and reported “sightings” had all been part of an elaborate scheme—with emphasis on the idea that it was unlikely that a punchy ex-fighter-turned-gardener was able to pull it off.
At that point, Drs. Swanburg and Gates would be called to the stand to describe their roles in the discovery and identification of Teresa Stavros’s body. Then Fairbrother would be recalled to testify about the subsequent arrest of Emil Stavros in upstate New York. Unfortunately for the defense, Judge Lussman had ruled in the prosecution’s favor to allow the defendant’s flight north to be brought into evidence as something the jury could weigh regarding his consciousness of guilt.
If Zachary Stavros had wrapped up the case, Karp and Guma decided, it would put too much emphasis on the questionable science of recalling repressed memories, which the defense was sure to attack. Instead, his recollections told in the proper chronology would simply be a small piece of the overall puzzle that would be reinforced with the remaining testimony.
“Good morning, Mr. Stavros…Zachary,” Guma said. “Would you please tell the jury how you are related to the defendant and the deceased in this case?”
Karp glanced at a photograph Guma had left on the prosecution table next to his yellow legal pad. In it, Teresa Stavros and her son were playing in the surf at Fire Island. Teresa looked beautiful in a loose sweater with her hair pulled back, but it was the adoring smile of the boy as he looked up at her that caught the eye. Now, that’s love, Karp thought. He was suddenly reminded of Marlene and his own sons, and his heart went out to the young man on the stand.
At an earlier motions hearing, Guma had to fight for the right to show photographs of Teresa Stavros. The defense attorneys had, of course, wailed and gnashed their teeth that photographs were prejudicial and meant to sway jurors with emotion rather than evidence dealing with the actual crime their client was accused of committing. So Lussman had compromised; Guma was allowed to pick a single photograph, and he’d chosen the one on the beach, which he now showed the jurors as a slide on a projection screen.
Guma had prepared Zachary for the photo presentation. But it was immediately clear that Zachary had become overwhelmed while sitting in a courtroom full of people. Notwithstanding the witness preparation, when shown the photo in the antiseptic, staid courtroom setting, Zachary was emotionally impacted.
“Is this a photograph of you and your mother?” Guma asked.
Zachary nodded and reached for a glass of water.
“You’ll have to answer into the microph
one,” Judge Lussman said, adding, not unkindly, “my court reporter doesn’t know how to write a gesture.”
Zachary tried to speak but couldn’t clear his throat. He took a drink of water.
Come on, kid, Karp thought. You can do this.
“Yes, that’s my mother and me,” Zachary replied, staring at the photo.
Zachary then lifted his head, glanced over at the jury, and then directly at Guma. The witness prep, perhaps, was starting to kick in.
It was like the first warm breath of spring after a cold winter. Relieved, Karp imagined that he could hear a sigh from the other people in the courtroom, except the defense of course.
Zachary settled into the witness chair and let Guma take him through his testimony. “What’s your earliest memory, Mr. Stavros?”
“The earliest I can remember is lying in my mom’s arms, looking up at her face,” he replied. “I can still see her eyes—green—and feel this silky blue dress or nightshirt she used to wear.”
Karp looked over at Emil Stavros, who was doing a passable imitation of a man hurt to see his son on the witness stand. A man who’d lost the woman he loved, and now also his son.
Guma continued. “Do you remember a night when you saw and heard your mother and father arguing?”
Zachary nodded but quickly added, “Yes, I remember a night when I saw and heard my mother and father arguing.”
“What do you remember about that night?”
“Objection. Your Honor knows what problems I have with this witness’s so-called memories, and I want to make a record of it,” Anderson said from his seat.
“So noted, Mr. Anderson, and overruled,” Lussman replied automatically, then said to Zachary, “You may continue.” The defense objections to the use of Zachary Stavros’s repressed memories had already been taken up in the Daubert hearing with the testimony of forensic psychologists. At that time, Lussman ruled that evidence was sufficiently trustworthy to be weighed by the jury. It would, he said, be up to the defense to cross-examine and counter with their own expert witnesses regarding the reliability of repressed memories. Anderson was just making a record for future appeals and, in the process, casting aspersions on the witness’s testimony, hoping a juror or two might see it his way.
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