Still, Stavros had refused to cooperate. It will never work, he’d wept.
That’s when Kane lost all patience and decided to play hardball. Look, you little shit, he snarled as Stavros blanched. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Pause just a fucking second and ask yourself what would happen if I give the gun you used to kill your wife to the authorities?
The remaining color had drained from Stavros’s face. You kept the gun? he asked incredulously. You’ve been planning to blackmail me all of these years?
If necessary, Kane said. So you don’t really have a choice, you piece of shit. Do what I say and you stand a good chance of beating this charge and getting wealthier than you’ve ever dreamed with all your gambling debts forgiven. Refuse—or worse, go to the cops—and you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison, wondering when one of my people is going to show up and gut you like a fucking trout.
The rest is history, Kane thought. There had been some issues to take care of and some that had arisen in the course of events that followed his escape. Killing Flanagan had been part revenge, but also a necessity to prevent any chance that the former detective, if questioned, might link him to Stavros.
Kane had been surprised that Guma had been able to win an indictment based on the circumstantial evidence he had; in fact, he’d been prepared to have a “little bird” inform Guma of the grave’s location, but it hadn’t been necessary.
The bigger problem had been when Stavros took off for Canada. The plan—the one involving Samira, the Russians, and Jon Ellis—required that he not be incarcerated, but the idiot had panicked when the body was discovered and had his bail revoked.
Fortunately, you’re a genius, Kane thought. He’d simply told Coletta to “confess” a bit earlier than planned, and then informed Bryce Anderson that his life depended on his ability to get Stavros out of jail on bond again. The motivated defense attorney had done just that; just as he’d followed the plan to have the trial set for this particular week so that Stavros would remain over the proverbial barrel until the plan was a done deal.
Kane had toyed with the idea of killing Stavros after he was no longer necessary. But there was no telling if the man would find a way to leave a trail to the financial windfall Kane expected to reap. So for the time being, the plan was to let him live; perhaps his banking services could be used again…if he beat the rap.
All was going according to plan. However, his nemesis Karp and Karp’s sidekick Guma had breezed through their case. And Anderson wasn’t prepared to delay! Well, he better get it done, or I will have him shot.
“Kane! Kane!”
Hearing his name called, Kane looked away from the mirror. “What, Samira?”
“I hope you’re not going to do that when it matters,” Azzam said furiously. “I’ve been talking to you for five minutes, and you haven’t heard a word.”
Kane felt his face flush from the criticism. He hated being criticized. He laughed to cover up his embarrassment. “I heard what I needed to hear. And by the way, your services will be required again tonight if you can tear yourself away from that other bitch.”
“I’d rather not,” Samira said. “I have a lot to do to be prepared and rested.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” he replied. “I like having sex when I’m stressed. Or perhaps, you’d rather I not allow you to attend the ‘festivities.’ In fact, maybe I should call my friends with al Qaeda and tell them that I’ve decided to keep you around awhile longer. Then your precious martyrdom will be put on hold.”
Samira knew she’d been put in checkmate again. “Fuck you, Kane.”
He smiled. “Exactly what I had in mind.”
29
“YOUR HONOR, THIS MORNING THE PEOPLE WILL BE CALLING three impeachment witnesses to the stand, or actually, recalling two of them—Dr. Charlotte Gates and Zachary Stavros—as well as Dr. Sally Thoms. With your permission, the people now call Dr. Thoms.”
“Objection,” Anderson said, his voice monotone compared to Guma’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed delivery. He was only making a record as they’d already haggled over the state’s rebuttal witnesses earlier that morning in the judge’s chambers.
Normally, he would not have risked the judge’s ire as he had in chambers with the vehemence of his protests and silly arguments. He’d known within the first five minutes how the judge would rule; however, the important thing was that it had taken a good forty minutes off the clock, and it was now almost ten. He had no idea how long the prosecution would take with these witnesses, or the length of time to allow for closings, but whatever it took, he was desperate the case not go to the jury. Chances were, they’d need more than a day to deliberate. But he’d seen juries come back in an hour, and if Emil Stavros was sent to prison any time before Monday, Anderson knew he’d be a dead man.
He wondered what Kane meant by not having to worry about Butch Karp come Monday. No, I don’t want to know, he told himself. I just want this trial to be over, but not just yet. At the same time, this was a high-profile case that he wanted to win; both to beat Karp and Guma, something rarely accomplished, and because Stavros, who didn’t trust Kane’s plan, had promised him a quarter-million-dollar bonus for an acquittal.
Anderson glanced at the back of the courtroom to check on the blond reporter. He tried to set up their date that night after court the day before, but she’d hemmed and hawed and said “something came up” and she might not make it. Bitch was saying you took a beating in court, lost your manhood, and is going to see how you do today, he thought. Fuck her. What I need to do today is survive, then I’ll worry about the blonde.
As everyone else in the courtroom waited for Thoms to enter, Anderson looked over at where Karp sat reviewing notes on a legal pad. Mr. Clean, he thought, but not without a twinge of envy. He, too, had come out of law school with high ideals, driven by the sense of purpose that every accused person deserved a competent, vigorous defense. That it was solemn duty to make the state prove its case before it took that most precious commodity, a man’s freedom. But he’d also been driven to do whatever it took to become a partner in a prestigious law firm so that he could afford a lifestyle that included cocaine and beautiful women. If that had meant conflict with his conscience, well, it had become easier over time. He’d even talked himself into considering it a sort of strength that he’d learned to accept that he was one of the bad guys; the idealistic young lawyer had been suffocated by poor choices and buried where no one would ever find him, not even the scientists with 221B Baker Street, Inc.
“I’d like to get this into the hands of the jury this afternoon,” Judge Lussman said as they waited. “I have another homicide trial on the docket with jury selection scheduled for early next week.”
Anderson felt his heart skip a beat. Not if I can help it, he thought. However, he said, “My client would like that as well, Your Honor. The election is a little more than a month away, and there’s a lot of work to do.”
“He’ll be fine,” Guma said. “There aren’t many distractions in a prison cell, though he may be limited on his use of the telephone.”
Lussman cleared his throat meaningfully. “Okay, now that we’ve drawn this morning’s line in the sand, gentlemen, let’s knock off the cat fighting. Ah, I believe Dr. Thoms has arrived.”
A short, attractive woman with what appeared to be prematurely gray hair entered the courtroom nervously looking around until she saw Karp, whom she first met in person that morning, smiled, and walked forward. The judge indicated with his hand the witness stand and invited her to have a seat where she was sworn in.
“Good morning, Dr. Thoms,” Karp began. “Would you tell the jury a little about yourself?”
“Yes,” she replied. “My name is Sally Thoms, and I am a professor of fashion design at Colorado State University in Fort Collins, Colorado.”
“Do you have any particular area of expertise?” Karp asked.
“Yes. My specialty is fashion history—trends, styles…sort of w
ho wore what and when,” Thoms said.
After several more questions to establish her area of knowledge, Karp asked that the court accept her as an expert in the area of fashion history. Normally, the request would have been ignored by the defense with little or no questioning. However, Anderson spent an inordinate amount of time questioning Thoms until the judge grew irritated, at which point the lawyer said, “No objection that I haven’t registered before.”
Karp frowned for a moment as he looked at Anderson. The tactics were an obvious part of the delay game. But why? He turned back to Thoms.
“Were you asked by the prosecution to review evidence in this case?” he asked.
“Well, Dr. Gates asked me to look at some items that I understand were located in a grave,” Thoms said.
“And what were those items?”
“Buttons,” Thoms said. “Snap-type buttons approximately a half inch in diameter.”
“Were you asked to look at any other items of clothing?”
Thoms shook her head. “No, just the buttons.”
“There was no cloth? Nothing to which the buttons were attached?”
“No, nothing else. It’s my understanding the…remains…had been in the ground for approximately fourteen years which, depending on the type of material, it’s very likely the material would have decomposed given New York’s climate, as well as insect activity, chemical additions to the soil…. I understand the grave was dug in a garden.”
“So there is no way of knowing what sort of material, or article of clothing, the buttons were attached, too?” Karp asked.
“Well, no, actually, I did have some luck in that area,” Thoms said. “If you would show the first slide, please.”
Karp did as told and a photograph of a half dozen buttons appeared on the screen. Several had what appeared to be mother-of-pearl faces, but the facing had fallen off the rest revealing rusted metal underneath.
“These are the buttons as they were discovered in the grave,” Thoms said. “As you can see, there is no material around the edges, the material having disintegrated. Next slide, please.”
The second slide showed the buttons as having been pried apart. “When these buttons are created, the tops—the part with the mother-of-pearl inlay—is snapped over the cloth onto the portion with the ‘nub’ that would be on the inside of the piece of clothing. The nub is the part that snaps into a hole in a third part of the button ensemble to hold the article of clothing, such as a shirt or dress, together.”
“Why is this important?” Karp asked, as if he were hearing this for the first time and had not received the report from Thoms more than a month earlier and questioned her both on the telephone and, that morning, in person.
“Well, because the inlay and metal on the top part of the button, when snapped into the second part, actually protected the cloth between them,” Thoms said. “Next slide, please…. Here you can see the small circular pieces of cloth I removed from the interior of two of the buttons. They are about a half inch in diameter and blue in color.”
“So the piece of cloth the buttons were formerly attached to was blue?” Karp asked. He turned to catch the reaction at the defense table and was pleased with what he saw. Emil Stavros looked stunned, while Anderson’s mouth hung open.
“Yes,” Thoms agreed.
“Is there anything you can add to this?” Karp said.
Thoms pointed to a large object on a stand that was covered with a sheet. “Would you reveal—”
“Objection!” Anderson said, gathering himself. “Foundation? I have no idea what the prosecution is attempting to uncover here, and I’d prefer the jury didn’t see it until we’ve established that it has anything to do with this case.”
Judge Lussman looked at Karp. “Counselor?”
“Very well, Your Honor, let’s lay a little foundation,” Karp said. “Dr. Thoms, can you illuminate us on what you did after prying apart the buttons and finding the pieces of blue material.”
“Yes,” she said. “Actually, it was quite a fun detective story. First, I determined that the blue material was silk…a very expensive type of silk imported from China.”
“You can tell that?” Karp asked as though surprised.
“Indeed,” Thoms said, warming up to the subject. “Like many other things in our lives, there are different qualities of silk both at its inception—i.e., the silkworms that produce the raw material, the quality and density of the weave, those sorts of things.”
“So did that lead you somewhere else?”
“As a matter of fact, it did,” Thoms said, enjoying herself now. “The mother-of-pearl inlay was very nice, as was the quality of the silk. And, very helpfully…next slide please…”
Karp hit the projector button and a magnified back of one of the buttons appeared on which several numbers were identifiable.
“This is the back of one of the ‘female,’ if you will, parts of the button—the part the nub fits into, thus the gender identification,” Thoms said, blushing slightly. “You can see a number; it’s a lot number. Now, believe it or not, fifteen years ago, there were not all that many companies producing the metal parts for buttons like these, especially with that sort of expensive inlay. I was able to trace the lot number to a company in Ohio, which produced the buttons for a clothier in New York whose designs were sold in Manhattan at Macy’s.”
“Were you able to determine what sort of design these buttons had once been part of?” Karp asked.
Thoms nodded. “Yes. It’s sort of a long, flowing shirt…not evening wear but comfortable, the sort of thing a woman with some means might wear to the park, or even around the house.”
“As a nightshirt?” Karp said.
Thoms pursed her lips. “Well, you’re talking to someone who likes flannel,” she said. “But it would be very comfortable in the summer. Silk from China, you know, was considered a very precious commodity in feudal Japan because of its comfort in hot, humid conditions.”
“Like summer in Manhattan,” Karp said.
“Yes, like summer in Manhattan,” Thoms agreed.
“So were you able to locate a similar shirt at Macy’s or elsewhere?” Karp asked.
Thoms shook her head. “No. The line was discontinued. However, I was able to talk the clothier into giving me the pattern from which I sewed my own version using a silk of the exact same color and quality.”
Karp turned to Lussman. “Your Honor, I believe we’ve established foundation for the evidence beneath the sheet, which is the replica shirt sewn by Ms. Thoms.”
With that, Karp walked over to the object on the stand and removed the sheet. Beneath it was a dressmaker’s dummy on which was draped a blousy blue silk shirt. He then offered the exhibit into evidence. He turned back to Thoms, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Professor. I have no further questions.”
“I object,” Anderson said. “How do we know that these buttons were only used on this one particular type of shirt?”
“Dr. Thoms, would you like to respond to that?” Lussman asked.
“Yes, I would,” Thoms said. “Actually, the buttons with this lot number were used only on this design.”
“Very well,” Lussman said. “I’ll admit the exhibit. You may show it to the jury.”
The jurors then examined Dr. Thoms’s artistry.
Anderson did little on cross-examination except go over the same points Karp had addressed. More stalling, Karp thought.
The next witness called was Charlotte Gates. When she was settled, Karp asked, “Dr. Gates, remind me, did you testify that there was a single bullet wound in the skull of Teresa Stavros?”
“No,” Gates said. “That’s not what I said.”
Karp was pleased to see the jury, which had paid rapt attention to Thoms, sit forward again and start writing in their notebooks. “No?” he said, as if surprised. “Could you explain?”
“Yes,” Gates said. “What I testified to was that there was a single entry wound. But I did not say it was
caused by a single bullet.”
“Do you have reason to believe otherwise?” Karp asked.
“Yes, I believe the entry wound was actually created by two bullets,” Gates replied.
There was a murmur in the spectator gallery even as Anderson jumped to his feet and angrily objected. “What is this?” he demanded. “This isn’t impeachment. He’s trying to introduce new evidence, which I might add was exculpatory and yet this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Karp smiled. When he’d first been told about this turn of event by Gates, he’d been just as surprised as defense counsel. Back in July, the forensic anthropologist had asked him to send the remains and the ballistics evidence to her laboratory in Albuquerque in preparation for the trial. Nothing against the New York ME’s lab, but they’re not as well equipped she’d said by way of explanation.
About a week later, and just before the sudden introduction of Dante Coletta into the mix, she’d called with the news that Teresa Stavros had been shot twice. When during the interview with Coletta, the chauffeur claimed that Kaplan had shot the woman once, he’d formed the idea of a trap…the rope for Coletta to hang himself with. However, it was evident that someone in the ME’s office had leaked Gates’s initial findings to the press and, he assumed, Anderson used it to tailor Coletta’s story. So he had Gates submit her latest finding to him—delaying until a week before the trial—and then turned it over with a bunch of other paperwork, counting on Anderson to turn the material over to an inexperienced lawyer or even law student who wouldn’t know what to make of it.
“If defense counsel will turn to people’s exhibit page one thousand, four hundred and sixty-five, he will find Dr. Gates’s addendum to her original report,” Karp said. “Please note that someone in Mr. Anderson’s office signed for it more than a week ago, but he apparently failed to read the material. And for impeachment, this evidence will unequivocally demonstrate that Mr. Coletta’s testimony is a pathetic fabrication.”
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