Black River

by G. M. Ford

  “Hell, I ever figure this one out I’ll write a book about it.”

  Downs walked into the kitchen and offered a hand. “Thanks,” he said. The men shook hands, and then Downs turned and walked to the door. He didn’t sneak a last look, just pulled open the door and left.

  And it was as if the whisper of the door and the clicking of the lock were the sounds of Corso himself hissing to a halt and coming to rest. Suddenly he felt bruised and tired and old. His throat was dry and seemed to be getting sore. His eyes felt scratchy, as if they were packed with fine sand.

  He sipped at his water as he wandered into the living room and sat back down on the couch. He set the water on the glass top of the coffee table and picked up the packet of financial records. He unfolded papers and used his hands to iron out the wrinkles.

  Later, when he recalled the moment, he knew he’d have to spice it up a bit in the book. Add a little drama. Like how he’d studied the records for hours and was just about to give up when suddenly, in a flash of insight, it came to him. Readers didn’t want to hear he’d been using the heels of his hands to straighten Robert Downs’s financial records when the back page became separated from the others and he glanced down and read the last item, the list of those who had previously requested these records. Mr. Donald Barth, thirteen times. Mr. Robert Downs, four times. South Puget Sound Public Employees Credit Union, once. Fresno Guarantee Trust, once. Boston Hanover Bank, one time.

  32

  Monday, October 23

  11:23 a.m.

  Sam Rozan, chief earthquake engineer for the State of California, twirled an end of his mustache as he thought it over. “That’s hard to say,” he said finally. “At least thirty million dollars.”

  Warren Klein leaned on the witness box. “So the perpetrators of this fraud, in your opinion, profited to the sum of what you estimate to be thirty million dollars.”

  “At a conservative estimate,” Sam Rozan said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rozan. That will be all.”

  The judge pointed to Bruce Elkins. “Cross.”

  Elkins got slowly to his feet. “Not at this time, Your Honor.”

  Fulton Howell was scowling now. He opened his mouth to rebuke Elkins but instead turned his attention to Klein. “Mr. Klein, am I to understand that the government’s next witness will be its last?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Klein had his Boy Scout face on.

  The judge shuffled though a stack of papers on the bench. Unable to find what he was looking for, he leaned over and whispered to the court clerk, who picked her way through several files before handing one to the judge.

  “Mr. Elkins,” the judge began. “In your pretrial brief you indicated the defense’s intention to call nine witnesses. Could you please indicate to the court how long, in terms of days, you believe the defense will require to complete its case?”

  “It is the defense’s intention to rest, Your Honor.”

  “Without calling witnesses?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  He crooked a finger at both lawyers. “Approach the bench.” Neither Elkins nor Klein had gotten a full step closer to the judge, when suddenly Fulton Howell bellowed, “No! Stay where you are. I want this on the record.”

  For the first time, Howell was visibly upset. Wagging a finger like a parent to a child, he directed his ire toward Bruce Elkins.

  “Mr. Elkins, if you think for one minute that you are going to subvert the justice system by laying the grounds for an incompetent-representation defense, you’ve got another think coming. Do you hear me?”

  “Your Honor—”

  “Shut up, sir. Because, Mr. Elkins, if that is indeed your intention, I will personally take you before the ethics board and see to it that, in addition to never practicing law again, you are punished to the fullest extent possible under the law. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  A moment passed. “Well?” the judge demanded.

  “It is my considered legal opinion that it is in my client’s best interest not to offer a defense.”

  Fulton Howell’s hands were shaking. A deep, ruddy glow had consumed his throat. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain to the court how it is you have reached that conclusion.”

  “Certainly, Your Honor,” Elkins said. “It’s quite simple. We do not believe the state has proved its case within a reasonable doubt. We don’t believe they have provided this jury with a single strand of connective tissue that attaches my client, Nicholas Balagula, to any of the sundry enterprises responsible for the tragedy at Fairmont Hospital. Not one witness. Not a single piece of paper with my client’s name scribbled on it.” His voice was rising now. “The state’s case is nothing but inference and innuendo.” He pounded the table. “I believe resting the defense best expresses our utter contempt for the pile of unsubstantiated rumors the prosecution calls a case. And I believe that tactic will best enable this jury to experience our complete faith that they can be trusted to see through the lies.”

  Fulton Howell was unimpressed. “That’s quite a risk, Mr. Elkins.”

  “I have discussed the matter with my client and offered him the opportunity to obtain different counsel, should he so desire.”

  Howell looked over at Nicholas Balagula. “Is that so, Mr. Balagula?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And you understand that Mr. Elkins is risking your life on the single throw of a dice, so to speak.”

  “I understand. I am innocent,” he said. “I have nothing to fear.”

  Howell searched Balagula’s face for irony, and finding none, sat back in his chair.

  “I am informed by the U.S. Marshal’s Service that for security reasons they will require fifteen minutes and an empty courtroom in order to safely deliver the prosecution’s final witness to these proceedings.” He checked his watch. “Normally, with the approach of the noon hour, we would adjourn until after lunch. However, owing to the unusually stringent security required in this case, we will adjourn for twenty minutes only.” Bang. “Court will reconvene at eleven-fifty sharp,” Bang. “Bailiffs, clear the courtroom.”

  Warren Klein was having a discussion with the court clerk. Ray Butler and Renee Rogers gathered the piles of papers and folders together in the center of the table. At the far end of the room, Balagula, Ivanov, and Elkins formed a tight muttering knot as they moved leisurely up the long aisle together behind a phalanx of bailiffs.

  “Hey.”

  The sound pulled Corso’s head around. Renee Rogers. Black leather purse slung over one shoulder, big pile of files in her arms. “You were late this morning.”

  “I slept in,” Corso said. He’d had twelve hours of dreamless sleep. If the maid hadn’t come to the door, he’d probably still be in bed.

  “I slept all day Sunday,” she said. “I just couldn’t seem to get enough.”

  Corso pulled open the gate. Renee Rogers stepped through, and they started up the aisle together. “I’d offer to help with the files,” Corso said, “but I’m afraid it’d look like I was carrying your books.”

  She laughed. “The whole world already thinks we’re sleeping together. We were on CNN last night. Did you see it?”

  “I don’t watch much television.”

  “Neither do I, but Warren called and insisted I turn it on.”

  “Thoughtful.”

  “In living color. Looking like we just got out of the shower.”

  Corso pulled open the arched door and allowed Renee Rogers to precede him into the lobby. Two of the street doors were open. The breeze rushed in with the noise of the crowd on its back, swirling around the marble canyon like a squall.

  “My mother called this morning,” Rogers said. “She allowed as how you were a good-looking specimen and, according to the news, quite well off, but she wanted to know if maybe we couldn’t keep it a bit lower-key. She said the postman had looked at her oddly today.”

  Corso laughed as they angled over toward the nearest
corner. “So what do you think of the no-defense defense?” Corso asked.

  Rogers shrugged. “Risky,” she said. “It’s going to come down to whether or not the jury believes what Victor Lebow has to say.”

  “Any reason they shouldn’t?”

  “Juries tend not to like witnesses who’ve been granted immunity.”

  “Must be what Elkins is counting on.”

  “He’s done his homework. He’s hoping he can discredit Lebow in front of the jury. If he manages that, we’ve got us a horse race.”

  “What kind of witness is Lebow?”

  She waggled her free hand. “I’ve seen better. He didn’t immediately come forward—which Elkins is going to be all over—and he’s got a criminal record.”

  “I came upon something last night,” Corso said.

  “What kind of something?”

  “Something that could tell us how Balagula compromised your jury.”

  “Really?”

  “Rogers,” a voice called.

  Her gaze remained riveted to Corso. “You’re sure?”

  “Not quite.”

  “We’ve got work to do, Rogers,” Warren Klein bawled. “Courtroom C. Two minutes.” He wiggled a pair of fingers and then clicked off across the floor, with Ray Butler trotting along behind like a pack mule.

  For a moment, Corso thought she was going to launch the files, shot-put style, at his back. Sanity prevailed, however. She hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder, took a better purchase on her folders, and turned to Corso.

  “I shall be professional to the end,” she said, with exaggerated solemnity.

  “To the end,” Corso said.

  “Or until I kill him,” she said, and marched off.

  Corso wandered over to the open door. For security reasons, the entire media swarm had been moved to the area adjacent to the back door of the courthouse. Bruce Elkins was outside, addressing the assembled multitude.

  “…whose entire case is about to hang on the word of a convicted felon: a man who has been convicted of federal perjury charges. A man who was granted immunity on a variety of federal charges in return for testifying against my client, and whose only function will be to obliquely connect my client to a conspiracy in which they have otherwise found it impossible to demonstrate my client’s involvement.”

  At eleven forty-five, the courtroom doors were reopened. When Corso strolled back inside a minute later, Elkins, Balagula, and Ivanov were already ensconced at the defense table. At the front of the room, a dozen U.S. marshals stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing impassively out at the empty seats.

  A minute later, the prosecution team arrived. Renee Rogers cast a wish-us-luck gaze Corso’s way as she walked by. Corso got to his feet and slipped out of his coat. By the time he folded it over the seat and sat back down, Judge Howell had resumed his place behind the bench and located the gavel. Bang.

  33

  Monday, October 23

  11:53 a.m.

  “Would you tell us your name, please.” “Victor Lebow.”

  Unlike those of the previous witnesses, Victor Lebow’s physical presence did little to inspire confidence. He was a thin man in his late fifties, with greasy hair and a twitchy left eye that flickered like a candle every time Klein asked him a question. He sat in the witness box, sweating into a gray wool suit that looked like it belonged to somebody else.

  Predictably, Warren Klein wasn’t taking any chances. He seemed determined to take his witness from childhood up until the minute he entered into a criminal conspiracy with Nicholas alagula. Equally predictably, Bruce Elkins objected to every word Victor Lebow uttered.

  Two minutes into Lebow’s testimony, however, Judge Howell lost patience with Elkins’s repeated objections and threatened to have him removed from the room if he didn’t sit down and keep quiet, an attitude Elkins now adopted with an air of stoic martyrdom.

  “Could you please, Mr. Lebow, explain to us in what capacity you were employed on the Fairmont Hospital construction project?”

  Lebow coughed into his hand. “Inspection liaison officer.”

  “And could you explain to the jury, Mr. Lebow, precisely what an”—Klein made quotation marks in the air with his fingers—“inspection liaison officer does?”

  Lebow thought it over. “I worked in between the testing lab and the state inspectors.”

  “What exactly were your responsibilities, Mr. Lebow?”

  “Mostly I took the concrete core samples from the job site and delivered them to the lab for testing.”

  “Testing for what?”

  “Strength and rigidity.”

  “Could you tell us something about how such tests are conducted?”

  Lebow crossed and uncrossed a leg. “Sure,” he said. “They put them in a hydraulic press and stress them to the breaking point.”

  “What laboratory conducted the tests?”

  “Phillips Engineering Technology of Oakland.”

  “How often were these tests conducted?”

  “Once a week.”

  “So once a week you took concrete core samples from the Fairmont Hospital job site to the laboratory for testing.”

  “Objection, Your Honor. Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  Klein walked quickly over to the defense table, where Ray Butler handed him a piece of paper. “Mr. Lebow, can you tell us what amount of stress the core samples were expected to endure before failing?”

  “The specifications called for a minimum of fifty thousand pounds per square inch,” Lebow said. He craned his neck around the courtroom as if searching for someone who might disagree. “Theoretically,” he added.

  Klein walked to the side of the witness box, handed the piece of paper to Victor Lebow, and looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, I have handed Mr. Lebow a copy of People’s Exhibit Thirty-eight, already offered in evidence.”

  “So noted,” the judge said.

  Klein now stepped in closer to Lebow. “Can you tell me, Mr. Lebow, whether or not you recognize the document you are presently holding?”

  Lebow’s eye was flickering like a signal flare. “Yes, I do.”

  “Would you tell us what it is, please?”

  Again Victor Lebow nervously checked the room. “It’s the week-to-week test results of the core samples.”

  “Is that your signature at the bottom of each week, attesting to the validity of the results?” Lebow nodded silently. “Please answer out loud for the record, Mr. Lebow?”

  “Yes,” he stammered. “That’s my signature.”

  “Your signature attests to exactly what, Mr. Lebow?”

  He looked confused. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Well, Mr. Lebow, as you didn’t conduct the stress tests yourself ”—Klein reached into the jury box and turned the page over—“you can see here that the tests themselves were attested to by several employees of Phillips Engineering. I’m assuming that those signatures attest to the testing validity, and I was asking you specifically what your signature attested to.”

  Lebow thought it over. “I guess it says that the samples I gave them for testing were the same ones I got from the inspectors on the job site.”

  “Were they?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Were the samples you delivered to Phillips Engineering for testing the same samples you took from the job site?”

  Lebow looked up at the judge, as if asking for relief. Fulton Howell glowered down at the little man like the Old Testament Jehovah. “Answer the question.”

  “No,” Lebow said in a low voice.

  Klein cupped a hand around his ear. “Could you speak up, please?”

  “No,” Lebow said again, angry now. “They weren’t the same samples I got from the job site.”

  Klein took his time now, milking the moment for all it was worth, casting his eyes from the judge to the jury and finally to Bruce Elkins, as if daring him to object.

  “Mr. Lebow, if the samples
you delivered for testing, and whose validity you attested to with your signature, did not come from the job site, where did they come from?”

  “They were made up special.”

  “So the samples you delivered to Phillips Engineering—”

  Elkins was on his feet. “Your Honor!”

  Judge Howell waved him back down. “Move along, Mr. Klein, once again, the question has already been asked and answered.”

  “Who made up the samples you took to Phillips?”

  “I don’t know.” He threw his hands up. “I mean, I didn’t see ’em get made or anything.”

  For the first time in days, Warren Klein frowned. “Who did you get them from, Mr. Lebow?”

  “I got them from the on-site inspectors.”

  “You’re referring to Joshua Harmon and Brian Swanson.”

  “Yeah.”

  Klein paced in front of the jury box. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Lebow, what induced you to take part in a fraud such as this?”

  Victor Lebow hesitated and then looked down into his lap. “I needed the money.”

  “Excuse me?” Klein taunted.

  “I said I needed the money,” Lebow answered angrily. “I had a consulting business, went tits up….” Helooked up at the judge. “Sorry. I went bankrupt. I was under a lot of pressure.”

  “And how much were you paid to perpetrate this fraud?”

  “Two thousand dollars a week.”

  “For how long?”

  “The whole project.”

  “Sixty-some weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  Lebow was squirming around in the seat like he was on a griddle.

  “Would you tell us please, Mr. Lebow, how it came to pass that you were drawn into this conspiracy?”

  “They knew about my money problems.” He looked up at the judge again, pulled at his collar, and continued. “Said I could get myself out of debt if I played along.”

  “Played along how?”

  “You know, if I dumped the real samples and delivered the ones they made up special.”

  “Dumped?”

  “Yeah,” Lebow said. “In the bay. I’ve got me a little boat. For striper fishing, you know.” He looked around for other anglers but found the cupboard bare.