Irrefutable Evidence

by Melissa F. Miller

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sasha scanned the faces of the hastily assembled grand jurors. Despite the short notice and the fact that it was the day before Christmas Eve, sixteen of the twenty-three members of the standing grand jury had managed to show up. Sixteen, just enough for a quorum, if her faded law school memories of federal procedure were correct.

  Grand jury service had to be among the most onerous of the civic duties the government asked of its citizens. But here they sat, open-faced and patiently waiting for Charlotte to get started. A few of the women even wore festive holiday sweaters. One had small ornaments adorning her ears.

  Unlike a trial, a grand jury proceeding was shrouded in secrecy. The location, the identity of the jurors, their deliberations, and all of their decisions were protected from the public. No judge sat in on the proceeding. The target was given no notice or opportunity to speak. It was just the grand jurors, the witness, the prosecuting attorney, and the court reporter, as it had been for hundreds of years. The result of all this one-sided secrecy was the reality that a prosecutor could get a grand jury to indict on the merest of evidence—or, as the saying attributed to former New York State Chief Judge Sol Wachtler went, a prosecutor could persuade a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.

  At this particular moment, the imbalance struck Sasha as just fine. She was the sole witness. Her job was to walk the grand jurors through the documents and show them what she and Yim had seen. If she succeeded, they’d indict. If she didn’t, well, Charlotte had made a fatalistic little sigh, letting Sasha imagine the painful death that awaited the undercover agent. Charlotte’s theatrics had earned her a fierce glare from Connelly, but Sasha had gotten the message.

  Connelly. Her cranky, anxious personal bodyguard and his Glock were currently parked out in the hall on a bench near the elevator bank. When Charlotte had informed him that he not only couldn’t accompany her to the grand jury room, but that he wasn’t even permitted to know its exact location, Sasha had feared he’d explode. But she’d shot him a pleading look and he settled himself on the bench, arms crossed, glowering at everyone who dared to walk past him.

  They’d both definitely need a long week of hot sandy beaches, sapphire blue waters, and fancy umbrella drinks when this was over.

  “Ready?” Charlotte stage whispered.

  “As I’ll ever be.” Sasha squirmed in the wooden seat. She’d had the misfortune to testify on a handful of occasions and didn’t think she’d ever be as comfortable on this side of the process as she was when she stood in Charlotte’s shoes.

  Charlotte proved to be an effective prosecutor, Sasha had to hand it to her. Not that it came as a surprise. She was smart, self-assured, and carried herself with an air of certainty that everyone would see everything, including the evidence, the same way she saw it. In fact, Sasha envied her ability to assume that her views would prevail.

  Her questioning was direct, succinct, and focused on highlighting the mountain of documentary evidence that laid out the scheme. Sasha’s answers were similarly to the point. Anyone listening would have been justified in thinking they’d spent hours polishing the question and answer routine. But the truth was far from it. They’d had a hasty meeting over stale bagels in Charlotte’s office to sketch out the salient points. It had been all they’d had time to do. Judging by the way the grand jurors’ heads were bobbing along to the story, it had been enough.

  Charlotte did a quick wrap-up summarizing the evidence and asked the grand jury to return a “true bill,” the term of art for a criminal indictment. Then she turned the floor over to the grand jury foreperson to ask any questions he might have.

  The foreman, an African-American man who looked to be in his late fifties smiled at Sasha as he peered at her over the half-moons of his glasses. “I have a question for Ms. McCandless. How come she’s here talking to us and not this insurance gal she mentioned—Ms. Kim?”

  “It’s Yim, actually,” Sasha said mainly to buy time to formulate a response. Charlotte had worried the jurors would wonder why she showed up with an attorney as her sole witness but hadn’t shared any strategy for addressing the potential question. Sasha decided to lead with humor. “I’m not privy to the Assistant U.S. Attorney’s thought process, but she may have figured she’d end up on Santa’s naughty list if she dragged an innocent office worker away from her holiday preparations. I went to law school with Ms. Cashion, so she likely had good reason to assume I’m already on the naughty list, so I was a safer bet.” She waited until the chuckling died down and then let her expression grow more somber. “But in all seriousness, I know all the same information as Ms. Yim, I’m local, and I happen to also know a little bit about insurance coverage law in case you have any questions in that vein. I think I was a logical choice to serve as a witness.”

  “I can see that,” he agreed in a thoughtful tone.

  Behind the jurors, Charlotte pantomimed wiping sweat off her brow. Yeah, right, as if she were the one on the hot seat.

  The kindly foreman leaned forward again. “Now, you know all this insurance law stuff, but you don’t know anything about the organized crime business Ms. Cashion was talking about. Or do you?”

  She cleared her throat and let her eyes scan all sixteen faces. “I know a little bit—what I remember from law school and what I picked up watching Law and Order. I think that Ms. Cashion’s office has solid support for its belief that this scheme implicates the Manetto family up to the highest levels of the organization.” Frankly, Sasha thought the evidence Charlotte had presented on that point was paper thin, but then she wasn’t the federal prosecutor. Several of the grand jurors were chewing their lips and the ornament earring lady was twirling one of the bulbs in her ear in a worried gesture. Not good. She hurried to continue, “I imagine it’s pretty daunting to consider indicting a reputed Mafia boss and murderer on any amount of evidence. At least, I know if I were in your shoes, I’d be daunted.”

  One of the sweater ladies mouthed, “Amen.”

  The foreman looked around at his fellow jurors, as if he were taking the temperature of the room, then returned his eyes to hers. “That’s for sure.”

  “I can tell you that under the law, if the Manetto family profited from the arson ring, they’re all on the hook.” She was about to launch into a mini-lecture on criminal culpability and conspiracy but she could sense that she was losing them. She shifted tacks. “I can also tell you there are no victimless crimes. Maybe nobody died in any of these fires, but hardworking Pittsburghers lost their jobs, their homes, and in at least one case, a husband and wife who built a business through hard work and sacrifice are in danger of losing their dream.” Another pause to meet each grand juror’s eyes. “And why? Because someone didn’t pay a gambling debt and his bookie decided to engage in self-help? Or the property taxes started to eat too far into some fat cats profits? Why should people like you and me pay the price so people like Giancarlo Manetto can import the bricks for his backyard pizza oven all the way from Italy at some obscene cost?”

  She sat back. That was the best she could do. Charlotte didn’t want to mention the undercover FBI agent, which was her call. But it made it hard to personalize the situation, and Sasha’d learned long ago as a junior lawyer representing faceless behemoth corporations—jurors always respond better to the personal threat, the personal damage.

  “Anyone else have any questions for Ms. McCandless?” the foreman asked.

  Nobody spoke up. He waited a beat then nodded. “All right then. We’re gonna excuse Ms. McCandless and get down to voting. You have yourself a very Merry Christmas, ma’am.”

  “I will, and the same to all of you. And I may not be a prosecutor, but I am a member of the bar, so I do want to say thank you all so much for your service. It’s got to be thankless at times, but without you, the system simply wouldn’t work.” She picked up her bag and headed for the door. Charlotte held it open and ushered her into the hall.

  “You did great, of course,” she said, steering Sas
ha toward the hallway that led to the elevators.

  “I hope so. I’m not convinced they’re going to indict.”

  “They’ll indict.” Charlotte’s voice rang clear with no hint of doubt.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Charlotte stopped mid-step and turned to face her, so Sasha stopped, too. “They feel like they’re part of the system. They identify with me, with the Department of Justice. They always indict.”

  “Okay, as long as you’re satisfied.”

  “I am. I’ll call you after they vote to return a true bill, but I’m telling you now, they will. It’s clear sailing from here.” Charlotte held out her hand. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. Now all you guys have to do is find Yim,” Sasha said as she shook Charlotte’s cool, perfectly-manicured hand.

  “We will.”

  Sasha turned the corner to go find Connelly to take him out for lunch. She was in the mood for Thai food.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Charlotte called while they were following the host to their favorite table—a two-top tucked between the sleek bar and the doors to the kitchen. It sounded like a less than ideal location, but it was so private and out of the way that they often felt as though they were hiding in plain sight when they sat there.

  “Sasha McCandless,” Sasha answered the ringing phone.

  “The grand jurors returned an indictment,” Charlotte announced without preamble.

  “That was fast.”

  “Told you.”

  “Well, thanks for letting me know. And congratulations. Now comes the hard part,” Sasha said.

  “I can’t wait to nail Giancarlo Manetto’s hide to the wall,” Charlotte said in a very unladylike growl.

  “Okay then.”

  “I’m going to go. I want to give my undercover agent the good news. Have a Merry Christmas. Oh, and enjoy your anniversary trip.”

  “Thanks, Charlotte. I hope you take some time to enjoy the holidays, too. You know, before you start nailing hides to walls.”

  Charlotte had regained her composure and was laughing politely when Sasha hung up.

  She pocketed the phone and slipped into the chair that the host was holding out for her. Connelly settled himself across the table and leaned forward expectantly. The moment the host handed them their menus and turned to walk away, Connelly said, “So?”

  “So the grand jury voted to indict Manetto, Riggo, the insurance broker, the fire inspector, and the two guys inside the company for arson, racketeering and conspiracy under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, and various and sundry related offenses.”

  “Nice work,” he said.

  She tilted her head and regarded him. He looked like he meant it. And the tension around his eyes seemed to have lessened.

  “Charlotte did all the work. But she did need a witness, so thank you for being so understanding about what I had to do.” She smiled across the table at him.

  “I don’t know that I was all that understanding. But I also know that you’re the world’s smallest bulldozer when you’ve made up your mind, so there wasn’t much I could do other than stand aside so I didn’t get run over.”

  She pursed her lips at the unflattering comparison to construction equipment but didn’t pursue it. She flipped open the menu. “I think I’m going to try something new,” she said idly.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught him shaking his head. “Why do you do this? Pick something you enjoy and stick with it.”

  “Spoken like a man who’s ordered the same exact meal for three years. Where’s your sense of adventure?” she teased as she closed the menu.

  “You’re kidding, right? I’ve been tailing you around town for a day and a half ready to shoot anyone who looked at you two seconds too long. I have all the adventure I can stomach, thank you very much. I don’t need to try a new curry to mix things up.”

  She changed the subject. “Speaking of mixing things up, I was thinking I might try hang gliding on our vacation or maybe parasailing.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’re going to try sitting still and staring out at the ocean from a chair in the sand, taking long, lazy walks with your husband, and even longer, delicious midday naps.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lunch was a lingering, languid meal that led into a stop in at a new wine bar just a few doors down from their Thai joint for a glass of mellow red wine. Over their glasses of pinot noir, they decided to do some last minute shopping for Sasha’s parents. An hour and a half later, their arms laden with packages, they ducked into the coffee shop on the corner to end their Shadyside shopping extravaganza with a peppermint mocha for Connelly and double espresso for Sasha.

  By the time they made their way back to the condo building, the sun had set and LED Christmas lights were blinking on porches and front windows throughout the neighborhood. Even a few fat, wet snowflakes began to tumble down from the sky.

  Sasha turned toward Connelly to remark that she felt like she was on the set of a holiday special when a large man stepped out from the shadows of their building and blocked their path. She gasped and dropped her packages. Connelly took a half-step in front of her and reached inside his jacket.

  “Where’ve you two lovebirds been?” the man rumbled in a deep baritone.

  Connelly’s hand fell to his side. Sasha leaned forward and squinted at the shape in the dark.

  “Hank?” they asked in unison.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” He stepped forward so they could make out his face.

  “What the devil is wrong with you?” Sasha demanded. “Connelly could have shot you.”

  “Or she could have deviated your septum,” Connelly added. “Ask me how I know.”

  She ignored the crack and stared at Hank’s stony face. “Something’s wrong. Is it one of the kids? What happened?”

  He tilted his head toward the building. “I’ll tell you inside. I’ve been freezing my buns off out here. Keep that gun handy, Leo.”

  Connelly shot Sasha a worried look and bent to gather the fallen presents. She took the packages so he’d have his hands free. As they headed around to the front of the building, Sasha said, “Why didn’t you call one of us? How long have you been waiting?”

  Hank shook his head and blew into his hands to warm them. “Inside.”

  They hurried through the lobby. Hank didn’t even engage in his usual argument with Sasha about taking the stairs, although he did make Connelly go ahead and check that each landing was clear. Thanks in no small part to Hank’s behavior, by the time they reached the condo, Sasha’s heart was hammering in her chest and her mouth was dry.

  Connelly unlocked the front door and shouldered it open, his gun drawn. Hank followed him in and hit the lights. Sasha trailed behind with the bags.

  “All clear,” Connelly called from the top of the stairs to the loft. He clambered down, followed by a blinking cat and a slow-moving dog. Apparently they’d woken the pets.

  Sasha removed her coat and hung it from the stand in the foyer, then held her arms out for Hank’s. He shook his head.

  “I’m not staying long. And neither are you,” he added pointedly.

  “Okay, Hank. Enough with the cloak-and-dagger routine,” Connelly said. “Out with it.”

  Hank shook his head. “Your U.S. attorney friend got her indictment today, I heard.”

  He was looking at Sasha, so she answered. “Yes, she did.”

  “Well this afternoon a birding group went out looking for a bald eagle’s nest that’s rumored to be located in an abandoned oil refinery down under a bridge off Washington Boulevard. They didn’t find the aerie but they did find Laura Yim’s wallet floating near the riverbank.”

  Sasha sucked in air, hard, like she’d just taken a punch to the gut. But Hank wasn’t finished.

  “The ornithology enthusiasts called the East Liberty police station-although apparently, they were on the wrong side o
f the river and should have called the Sharpsburg PD. While the locals were distracted by their turf war, the Bureau sent in a unit. I tagged along. They found her luggage. And her right hand. A couple toes.”

  “Ah, I don’t … I have to sit down.” Sasha was about to sink to the floor where she stood, but Connelly grabbed her under her arms and carried her to the sofa. His face was gray. His eyes drilled a silent promise into hers. We’re going to be okay. He held her gaze until she nodded and then he turned back to Hank.

  “Mafia hit?”

  “She didn’t kill herself by sawing herself apart piece by piece, Leo.” Hank grimaced as if he immediately regretted the sarcasm. “Yes, we think it was one of Riggo’s men.”

  “When?” Sasha croaked from the couch.

  “She’s been dead a couple days—reports aren’t back yet. But the good news for you, to the extent there is any good news, is that she was killed before you testified.”

  “And that’s good how?”

  “Whoever did her may not know about you—yet. They were trying to keep her quiet. And you’ve already talked,” Hank explained gently.

  “Right,” Sasha agreed. “And getting rid of me won’t make the data disappear. So I don’t think I’m really in danger.”

  “Were you not listening to me? Someone cut Laura Yim into pieces. Are you willing to bet your life that you’re right? I wouldn’t. And, luckily, you don’t have to. You might have enough time to get out of town before they come looking for you. Maybe,” Hank said grimly.

  Sasha felt cold. Chilled to the bone as if she’d spent hours outside in the whipping wind, that kind of cold. She started to shiver violently.

  “Well, in three days we’ll be in Fiji,” she responded.