Dead Man's Rule

by Rick Acker

  The judge nodded. “That’s my understanding of the law as well. I appreciate your creativity and tenacity, Mr. Corbin, but I’m going to have to grant Mr. Simeon’s motion. There is simply no evidence from which I can conclude that the contract in question exists. Judgment is hereby entered in favor of the defendant. Mr. Simeon, please draw up an order.”

  So that was it. Ben stood numb, still rooted in front of the lectern. The case was over, and he had lost. Intellectually, he had always known defeat was a possibility, but he had never really believed it in his gut. Now it was a reality, and it struck him like a shot to the solar plexus.

  As required by courtroom etiquette, both lawyers thanked the judge. Ben turned around and started walking back to his seat, avoiding Dr. Ivanovsky’s eyes. Instead, he looked at the blowup of the minutes, absently reading its familiar words. Then he stopped and read them again, remembering something Simeon had just said. His heart began to pound as he read it a third time with growing conviction that his hunch was right.

  He turned to face the judge. “Your Honor, the plaintiff requests leave to call one more witness.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN THE CHAIR

  Sergei awoke to find himself sitting in an unpainted metal chair, a bright light shining in his eyes. He groggily tried to raise his hand to shade his eyes, but he couldn’t—his arms and legs were tied securely to the chair.

  A light breeze chilled him, and he noticed that he was wearing only his underwear. He looked down at the floor and another sort of chill ran through him—he saw a wire crudely soldered to one leg of the chair. It snaked across the floor and up to a surge protector sitting on a worn wooden table. The table also held a pair of pliers, a syringe, and a gun.

  A small, almost polite cough alerted Sergei to the presence of someone else in the room, hiding behind the glare of the light. “Let me guess,” said Sergei. “The wire and the pliers are to make me talk. The syringe is full of thiopental sodium in case the wire and pliers don’t work. And the gun is the final threat in case the truth serum doesn’t work.”

  A hand reached out from the blinding glare and flipped the switch on the surge protector. Electricity coursed through Sergei’s body, seizing his muscles and pulling his face into a rictus of agony. His back arched and he clenched his jaws as he tried not to scream.

  After a few seconds, the hand switched the current off. Sergei collapsed back into the chair, breathing heavily.

  “In this room, there are two rules,” said a gentle, even voice with a Chechen accent. “First, you will speak only the truth. Second, you will speak only when spoken to. You broke both of those rules. You were wrong about the syringe and the gun. The gun is your reward if you follow the rules. After you have spoken the truth in answering all of my questions, you will die instantly with a bullet through your head. The syringe is your punishment if you break the rules. It is filled with diluted battery acid, not thiopental sodium. It will take hours, maybe days, to kill you. Now I will ask the first question. What is your name?”

  The SWAT team made a tight wedge around a battering ram. They waited outside the door of the small two-story house. Each member wore body armor and held an assault rifle or a shotgun. Elena Kamenev stood behind them, her shotgun ready. She wiped nervous sweat off her palms as she waited for the operation to start. According to the Department of Motor Vehicles, this was the address of the owner of the car driven by Sergei’s tail. She dreaded what might lie behind the door.

  The commander of the team nodded. The ram sprang forward, smashing in the door. The lead men burst through behind the ram. “Police! Hands in the air!”

  The crowd of armed men blocked Elena’s view, but she heard a woman shriek, “It’s the cops, Earl! Cops!”

  A confused sound of running feet and slamming doors came from somewhere farther away as Elena waited tensely outside, watching the corners of the building for fugitives. She heard one of the officers yell, “Freeze!” as teams of police ran through the house, looking for more occupants.

  After about two minutes, the commander emerged. “All right, ma’am. The building is secure. No sign of Mr. Spassky or the suspect you described.”

  She nodded, both relieved and disappointed. “Any sign of criminal activity?”

  He chuckled. “Only in the vegetable garden.”

  Curious, Elena slung her shotgun over her shoulder and cautiously walked through the door. She found a very ordinary, if slightly tacky, living room, complete with an overstuffed sofa protected by a plastic slipcover. A terrified woman of about fifty-five sat in a chair under the watchful eyes of two policemen as a third questioned her. A simple hair band held her long, straight gray hair away from her anxious face. She wore a rainbow-colored dress that would have been the height of fashion forty-five years ago in San Francisco.

  An open door led to a tidy kitchen with pink wallpaper and Formica counters. The water was running in the sink, partially muffling the voices Elena heard through the open window. She found the back door and went out, squinting in the unseasonably warm sun.

  The backyard of the house was not large, but it held an impressive vegetable garden and a picnic area. It also had a high privacy fence for reasons that became plain to Elena as soon as she took a close look at the table. It was covered with piles of cured marijuana leaves, some loose and some in plastic bags. It also held a food scale for weighing the crop. A handcuffed man—presumably named Earl—with shoulder-length gray hair and a full beard was arguing with a couple of SWAT team members, or at least trying to. One officer was methodically cataloguing and gathering evidence while a second guarded the prisoner. A third patiently questioned Earl, ignoring his angry outbursts but getting little useful information.

  Elena went back inside to see if they were having better luck with the woman. They were. “Here’s the receipt,” she said in a rapid, edgy voice as she handed a piece of paper to her interrogator. “See? Thirty-two hundred in cash. And it’s dated October thirty. It’s just like I told you—we haven’t seen that car since the day before Halloween. That sticks in my mind because we were worried some kids would egg it or something and we wouldn’t get as much for it. So we were really happy when those guys said they wanted to buy it.” She laughed nervously. “I guess we shouldn’t have been so happy.”

  The policeman examined the bank receipt carefully and placed it in an evidence bag. “If you sold the car, why is the title still in your name?”

  “They said they were going to take care of all the paperwork, but they must not have.” She looked anxiously at the officer as he took notes.

  Elena stepped forward and held out the drawing of Elbek Shishani. “Is this the man you sold your car to?”

  The woman glanced down at the sketch, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “That’s one of them. He did most of the talking. There was another guy who was taller and younger. He had a real strong accent, and I don’t think his English was too good.” She glanced around the room, and it suddenly dawned on her that the small army of heavily armed and armored urban warriors had not come for her and Earl. “Who are these guys?”

  “What is your name?” asked the voice for the hundredth time.

  For the hundredth time, Sergei said nothing, and another jolt of electricity wrenched him. It passed and he sagged back into the chair, dazed and only half-conscious. He felt the residual tingling in his limbs and absently wondered what the repeated shocks were doing to his nervous system, but he couldn’t summon the energy to care. He was going to die in this chair, so what did it matter?

  “What is your name?” asked the patient voice again, and again Sergei refused to answer. This time the expected shock did not come.

  The voice sighed. “You suffer needlessly, Sergei Spassky.” Sergei looked up at the sound of his name. “You are surprised that I know your name? I know many things about you, so there is no harm in telling me. All that will happen is that I will not have t
o hurt you. Now, what is your name?”

  Sergei felt an overwhelming urge to answer, to just give in and stop the pain. It would be so easy. And it would be harmless, just like the voice said. He opened his mouth and was about to speak when he realized that it would not be harmless. If he answered this question, it would be much harder not to answer the next “harmless” question. The one after that would be harder still to resist—whether it was harmless or not. The soft-voiced interrogator knew that, and that was why he was asking Sergei these questions.

  For the first time in his life, Sergei faced a moment that he could not escape with his glib tongue or his deadly gunplay. He was stripped not only of his clothing but of all his defenses. There was no escape, no ducking and weaving. He either had the strength to resist or he didn’t.

  He sat perfectly still for a moment, balanced on the edge of a knife. Then he slowly closed his mouth and stared straight ahead with his back straight and his head up, waiting for the next shock. They’ll probably kill me, he thought with bleak resolve, but they’ll never break me.

  The torturer sighed again, and Sergei saw a hand reach out toward the table from the shadows. He steeled himself, but the hand did not touch the surge protector. Instead, it picked up the syringe. “I am truly sorry that we did not have more time together, Sergei. Things might have turned out differently. I must go shortly, and I cannot leave you here. But before I depart, I will give you one last chance. What is your name?”

  The syringe and the gloved hand hovered at the edge of the shadows. Sergei stared at them, unable to tear his eyes away. His heart pounded at the terror of imminent excruciating death and a fog of fear shrouded his mind.

  Running feet and voices broke the agonizing silence. A door flew open and Sergei glimpsed a figure sprinting past him. A tense, low conversation in Chechen followed. Then the light went out, and two sets of footsteps walked quickly past him. A door opened and shut, and Sergei was alone in the darkness.

  Judge Harris gave Ben a jaundiced look. “Who is this new witness you want to call?”

  “Anthony Simeon, Your Honor.”

  Judge Harris stared at Ben in surprise. Whispers filled the gallery behind Ben’s back. Anthony Simeon stopped writing the directed verdict order and looked at Ben with faint amusement in his eyes.

  Janet Anderson, however, was not amused. She bolted from her chair. “Your Honor, we object strenuously. Mr. Simeon was never disclosed as a witness. And it’s highly improper to call a party’s attorney as a witness.”

  Ben was not about to back down. “Unless the attorney personally knows information that can’t be obtained from other witnesses. I just realized that Mr. Simeon might have such knowledge, Your Honor. This will take less than five minutes, I promise.”

  “I can’t see what unique factual knowledge he could possibly have about this case,” said Judge Harris, “but I expect you intend to enlighten me about that shortly.” He looked over at Simeon. “Are you willing to spend five minutes on the stand?”

  “I suppose,” Simeon said in resignation. “We’ll spend more time than that arguing about this.”

  “Thank you,” said the judge. “All right. You have five minutes, Mr. Corbin.” He took off his watch and placed it on the bench in front of him.

  The lead counsel for the defense walked up to the witness stand, was sworn, and sat in the witness chair. It was not a comfortable chair, but he looked comfortable in it.

  Standing at the lectern, Ben was anything but comfortable. “Mr. Simeon, when did you first see Plaintiff’s One?” he asked, gesturing to the blowup of the minutes.

  “When I wrote them, which was probably on October ten or eleven,” Simeon said nonchalantly.

  The courtroom became utterly silent. Ben stood frozen for several seconds, unable to believe his ears. “I, uh, thank you. Um, did you attend—? Strike that. Under what circumstances did you write that document?”

  “I am the attorney for the Brothers LLC. In that capacity, I attend certain of their corporate meetings and draft minutes memorializing them. I wrote these minutes after attending a meeting held on October nine.”

  “And did Nikolai Zinoviev also attend that meeting?” asked Ben.

  “He was there for part of it, but he left about halfway through.”

  Ben was still dazed, but he tried to concentrate and make sure he asked all the necessary questions. “While he was there, did he make the statements attributed to him—that you attributed to him in these minutes?”

  Anderson rose to her feet tentatively. “Objection: attorney-client privilege.”

  “Let’s see about that,” said Judge Harris. He turned to the witness. “Mr. Simeon, was Nikolai Zinoviev your client on October nine?”

  “No, Your Honor. Mr. Zinoviev did not ask me to represent him until after this lawsuit was filed.”

  “So nothing he said to you on the ninth could have been privileged. Objection overruled. You may answer the question.”

  “The answer is yes. Mr. Zinoviev did make those statements.”

  Ben pointed to the blowup on the easel. “You see the reference to a preexisting contract in the third paragraph of these minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Mr. Zinoviev say who the buyer in that contract was?”

  “Yes. He said it was one Mikhail Ivanovsky.”

  “Did that cause the Brothers some concern?”

  “Not that I recall. Mr. Zinoviev said there was a contract, but that it wouldn’t be a problem because he would ‘get out of it.’”

  “To your knowledge, did he get out of it?”

  “No.”

  Ben heard murmuring behind him as he formulated his next question. “Who retained you to defend this case?”

  “Mr. Zinoviev formally retained my firm, but our bills are being paid by the Brothers LLC.”

  Why are you doing this? Ben wondered as he began to recover his composure. He could have asked dozens more questions, but he probably wouldn’t get any better testimony than was already in the record. One of the cardinal rules of cross-examination is to ask only as many questions as absolutely necessary, because every question gives a hostile witness an opportunity to take a shot at the questioning attorney. And Ben had everything he needed. Besides, he half suspected that Simeon was somehow outmaneuvering him yet again, though he couldn’t figure out how. “No further questions.”

  As he walked back to his seat, he glanced at the faces of the audience. To his left, Janet Anderson sat pale and slack-jawed at the defense-counsel table and the Brothers were in a heated, whispered conversation. To Ben’s right, Dr. Ivanovsky beamed with the excited glee of a child who has just gotten a long-coveted toy for Christmas. Irina Ivanovsky smiled happily—not quite sure what had happened, but glad that her husband was pleased. Noelle gave Ben a wide, slightly disbelieving grin, amazed at what he had just pulled off. Ben saw, but did not really notice, a young man in the back of the courtroom with dark, intense eyes that took in everything.

  “Any questions, Ms. Anderson?” the judge asked.

  She looked at the judge, but couldn’t seem to make her mouth work.

  Anthony Simeon stirred in the witness chair and cleared his throat. “The defense has no questions for this witness, Your Honor,” he said dryly.

  “You may step down, Mr. Simeon.” Judge Harris turned back to Ben as Simeon returned to the defense table. “Does the plaintiff rest?”

  Ben rose from his seat. “First I would like to move the admission of Plaintiff’s One into evidence.”

  Ben looked at his opponent, curious how he would react. “No objection, Your Honor,” Simeon said casually.

  “Plaintiff’s One is admitted,” said the judge.

  “The plaintiff rests,” said Ben. He watched Simeon nervously. If he had a trap for Ben, he would spring it now.

  “The defense also rests.”


  The judge arched his eyebrows in surprise, wrinkling his forehead all the way to the top of his shiny head. “Are you sure, Mr. Simeon?”

  “Quite sure, Your Honor. Mr. Corbin has already put on all of my witnesses. I have no further questions for them.”

  “And no documents you wish to put in the record?”

  “None, Your Honor.”

  “All right.”

  The muttering from the Brothers grew louder. Ben glanced over and saw that Anton was half out of his seat, his red face a mask of rage.

  The judge saw it too and decided to cut the proceedings short. “Ordinarily, I would entertain closing arguments at this time, but I don’t see how Mr. Simeon could give one in light of his testimony. I will take this matter under advisement and prepare an order of judgment. You can pick it up when court opens tomorrow morning. This court is now in recess.” He banged his gavel and walked out of the courtroom at a brisker pace than usual. The watcher at the back of the room also slipped out, though nobody noticed except Dmitry.

  As soon as the judge was out of the room, Anton turned to Simeon and seemed about to lunge at him. Simeon didn’t flinch. “Hold it!” yelled the bailiff, drawing his pistol.

  Dmitry grabbed Anton’s arm and said something to him in Russian. Anton continued to glare at Simeon, who looked back at him steadily. Anton pointed at him. “You are a dead man!” he shouted and stormed out of the courtroom, followed by Dmitry and Pavel.

  Elbek closed the door to the torture chamber behind him, leaving the Russian detective slumped in his chair. He turned to his aide, a burly man named Yunus. “Now, what is the news from the watcher?” he asked, referring to the man the Chechens had hired to watch the court proceedings from time to time to ensure that they were getting accurate reports from Dmitry.