We take a few steps down the center hallway, then turn left through sliding pocket doors and into a large sitting room. In the center of the room, across from the doors are two antique couches facing each other across a coffee table. Anna Groszek, sitting forward in one of the couches, motions for me to sit in the other. Her friend remains standing and takes a position behind Anna.
Anna sees me looking at her friend and says, “My nephew, Boris.” I nod and glance up again at him. His eyes narrow as he returns the look.
Anna pours coffee from a white porcelain pot into a pair of dainty porcelain cups. She asks me if I would like cream or milk. I start to say neither, that I’ve had my morning ration of coffee, but Boris stiffens. I tell her milk will be fine. Anna pours the milk, then lifts my cup and hands it to me across the coffee table. I thank Anna, take a sip of the coffee. It’s very good, and I say so.
Anna nods, and we sit quietly and, from my end, uncomfortably. All I want to do is get the video and tell Anna to get away before the Hansons come after her. But the old woman is stretching this out deliberately. She knows I’m ill at ease, and she’s having fun watching me squirm. Finally, Anna decides it’s time to move things along.
“It’s all there? The amount we agreed to? Yes?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve counted it myself.”
Anna looks back at Boris, who walks to the suitcases, lays them on their sides, and opens them. His eyes widen when he sees the money. Anna remains impassive. “Very good,” she says. “Of course, we will count it ourselves, once you’ve left.”
I exhale, relieved. “Of course.”
Anna waves to Boris to zip up the suitcases. She watches him do so. We both do. Then the old woman turns to me and asks, “Your client, he was good with this?”
“Not hardly,” I say. “But I convinced him that he had no choice.”
“As I knew you would.” With that, Anna reaches into a white leather handbag and removes a mustard-colored nine-by-seven-inch envelope. “As we agreed,” she says, handing me the envelope. “Two copies.”
I reach out for the envelope, take it, and bring it to my lap. I hesitate. “These are all the copies of the video? There are no others?”
Anna Groszek casts me a cold look. I have offended her. “Your client is safe. You have honored your end of the bargain, and now so do I.”
Anna stands and I follow her lead. “Look,” I say, “there’s something you should know. I’m pretty sure Mr. Hanson has figured out you’re the source of the video. The angle of the video is straight on and down, and yours is the house directly behind Jennifer Yamura’s house. My client is a powerful man, Mrs. Groszek. And recent events indicate to me that he’s more cunning than I’d given him credit for. And more dangerous. I’m not sure when you’re planning on leaving the country, but I’m thinking the sooner the better.”
The old woman processes what I’ve just told her. She looks once at Boris, then back at me. “Do not worry about me, Mr. McFarland. This money will be deposited this morning into my bank and wired immediately to my other bank in Poland. Tomorrow, Boris and I fly on US Air to Frankfurt, then to Warsaw.”
“Envoy class, of course.”
Anna Groszek smiles.
23
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20; SUNDAY, OCTOBER 21
It’s been a week since I met Anna Groszek, and Piper and I are in our room at the Park Hyatt at the Bellevue. We checked in an hour ago, enough time to change and get ready before heading down to the ballroom and this year’s American Way charity gala.
I watch Piper pull on the strapless black Romona Keveza gown she bought at Latrice, a pricey boutique in Bryn Mawr. The dress looks great against her shoulder-length blonde hair, and I say so. I put on my jacket, and we leave the room, take the elevator down to the hotel lobby, and walk toward the elliptical marble-and-iron stairwell that leads up one flight to the grand ballroom. The ballroom is vast. Almost a hundred feet long and eighty feet wide, with thirty-foot ceilings, the space can comfortably accommodate eight hundred people. Tonight it holds seventy-five tables set for ten. Each is fitted out in white linen, white china, sterling silver, and glistening crystal stemware—appropriate for the annual blue-chip charity affair. I lead Piper into the room, toward our table near the front. I spot Kimberly Baldwin, who, apparently, will be sitting with us. Next to Kimberly is a good-looking man who appears to be twenty years her senior. The imprisonment of Kimberly’s husband, Phillip, doesn’t seem to have stunted her social life.
“Hello, Mick. Piper, you look smashing!” Kimberly gushes as she leans in to kiss me and Piper. Kimberly introduces us to her date. “My dear, dear friend, Allen Cohen. He’s been such a godsend to me through the nightmare of the past two years.”
Piper praises Kimberly’s gown and hair, and Kimberly makes Piper promise to give Kimberly the name of her stylist. Allen and I are exchanging small talk about the Eagles when I spot my partner, Susan, coming up to the table. Piper and I stand to greet her.
Just as Susan joins us, I hear Piper say, “Uh-oh.” I turn to my head in time to see Devlin Walker approaching us. With him is his wife, Leisha, wearing a blue sequined gown altered to accommodate her condition. She’s visibly pregnant, her abdomen sticking out, though you probably couldn’t tell if you were standing behind her. Leisha is apparently one of those lucky women who carries her pregnancy only in the front. “Basketball on a stick,” Piper once described it.
“Hello, Mick, Piper,” Devlin says, extending his hand. “Leisha, you remember Mick and Piper McFarland from Mick’s days at the DA’s office. This is Mick’s law partner, Susan Klein.”
“So, when are you due?” Piper asks Leisha.
“If I stuck myself with one of those temperature thingies turkeys come with nowadays,” Leisha says, “it would pop.”
We all smile, then Leisha says to Devlin, “Come on, honey, I need to sit down.” Devlin takes Leisha’s arm, and they walk away.
We take our seats, and I scan the room. Our table is one row back from the stage. The front line of tables includes three containing the American Way of Eastern Pennsylvania officers and directors and their spouses. Another table is filled with local politicians. I see the president of the city council and his wife. Seated with him is the chairman of the Philadelphia Democratic City Committee and his wife, and the president judge of the court of common pleas and her husband.
The fifth table in the front row was purchased, as it is every year, by Hanson World Industries. David’s half brother, Edwin, sits facing the stage. The physical differences between Edwin and David are striking. Where David is tall and lean, Edwin is a fireplug, maybe five foot seven, and thick and solid as rock. In contrast to David’s fair complexion and sandy-blond hair, Edwin is olive-skinned and has dark hair. There is something striking about David’s older brother, though. He radiates strength, energy. Not the charismatic Kennedy type that wins instant affection, but the subdued, smoldering kind that commands respect, even fear. Contributing greatly to this are Edwin’s eyes: wide set on his large face and deep and dark, almost black. They give the impression that they front a keen and calculating intelligence.
To Edwin’s left is a dour woman who appears to be in her late forties and who I assume is Edwin’s date. To Edwin’s right are Kevin Kratz, David’s law-school lackey, and Kevin’s wife, Loretta. After we graduated, David made sure to enlist Kevin to follow him to HWI’s general counsel’s office. Based on what I’ve learned recently about David, my guess is that he knew that in order to seize the general-counsel position, he would need a loyal lieutenant by his side at HWI, just as he did in college and law school. Ironically, when David stepped down, Edwin tapped Kevin Kratz to succeed him. I’m sure this galls David, and I’m equally sure that was a big part of why Edwin did it. To the left of Edwin’s date sits Brandon Landis, the president of HWI’s North American operations. Next to Brandon is his trophy wife, Lauren. The last two seats at the HWI table are empty. I wonder who had the audacity to stand up Edwin Hanso
n by no-showing.
Edwin looks tense. Even more tense is Kevin Kratz, whose facial tic, a twitching of the right side of his mouth, is running on overdrive.
One row back from us, in the third row, is Devlin’s table. He and Leisha are seated there with three other couples. I recognize two of the men and one of the women as assistant district attorneys. Among them is one of my closest allies in the turf war Devlin and I waged before I left the prosecutor’s office. From what I hear, he’s now Devlin’s best friend. I think of the many bridges I burned with the thoughtless manner of my departure. A wave of sadness sweeps through me.
After a moment, I feel Piper’s hand on my own. She leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “Are you all right?”
Before I can answer, a sudden silence seizes the room. For some reason, my eye alights on Kevin Kratz. His twitching has stopped. His face is frozen marble. Then he says something to Edwin, and I see Edwin’s left hand form into a fist.
I feel Piper’s hand on my own, pressing down hard. I turn to her and see that she’s facing the back of the room, the central door, where David and Marcie stand smiling, poised to enter.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Susan says. “What is he thinking?”
Piper continues to press my hand.
Then Kimberly Baldwin puts her two cents in. “Ooh la la. This is going to get interesting.”
David and Marcie glide across the room. David’s custom-made tuxedo is perfectly tailored to fit his broad shoulders. His diamond studs and cuff links sparkle in the light cast by the massive chandeliers. Marcie is stunning. She’s wearing a strapless, ombré, floral-print gown in hues of green and silver. Formfitting, the dress highlights her trim figure and generous bosom. Her lustrous raven hair kisses her bare collarbones.
“Would you look at that ice . . .” Kimberly says, referring to Marcie’s necklace, a five-strand beaded creation of emeralds accented with round brilliant diamonds that would put Harry Winston to shame. I glance at the necklace, but I’m more captivated by Marcie’s green eyes, which seem to gather in the emerald light of the stones; her irises have an almost otherworldly glow.
“Like they were the king and queen,” says Allen Cohen.
Susan and I exchange uncomfortable glances, shake our heads. I know she’s thinking the same thing I am: Bad move. Bad freaking move.
I notice now that Piper no longer has her hand on mine. Instead, both of her hands are under the table. I’m guessing she’s rubbing them furiously, something she does when she’s especially nervous.
David and Marcie reach the HWI table, where no one rises to meet them. David leans down to Edwin and offers his hand. Edwin accepts it, reluctantly, his eyes filled with fury. Then Marcie leans down and pecks Edwin on the cheek, and she and David move around the table. Edwin’s date smiles nervously, and Brandon and Lauren Landis are cold but polite. Kevin Kratz’s wife certainly understands what’s happening but looks too bored and miserable to care. Then David and Marcie reach Kratz himself. David hovers over Kratz, staring down at him, without offering his hand. Kratz glances at Edwin, then, drawn by the force of David’s will, stands up and extends his own hand. David waits before accepting, then leans in and whispers something in our classmate’s ear. Kratz turns positively white.
The whole room has watched this little play unfold, and everyone is talking about what they’ve seen. At our own table, Kimberly Baldwin expresses her distaste for Edwin and her hope that David’s clever lawyers help him beat the charges, forgetting, it seems, that those clever lawyers are sitting with her. Susan gapes openly at Kimberly when she says this. Piper continues to lean forward in her seat, her hands beneath the table. From a table behind me, I hear references to Cain and Abel and Romulus and Remus. For my part, I’m still flummoxed as to why David, soon to face a jury likely composed of blue-collar workers struggling to make ends meet, would show up at a black-tie gala. He’s smarter than this. So is Marcie.
A few minutes later, just after our salads are delivered, the band stops. I notice Candace Stengel, the American Way chairperson, up on the stage. She gives the typical introductory remarks, naming the other officers and directors with her tonight, thanks everyone for donating their time and money, and makes a fuss over the politicians sitting in the front row. Then she says something about tonight being “especially special” thanks to a pair of exceptionally generous gifts made by two of our fellow attendees. “I first want to thank Kimberly Baldwin, who has reached out to the American Way during a tragically painful time in her life. It would have been easy for Kimberly, whom I count as one of my dearest friends, to have become cynical. But Kimberly, as we all know, is the eternal optimist and never one to be kept down. And she’s shown it to the American Way tonight by donating a hundred thousand dollars.”
Kimberly basks in the praise. But I know the reason behind her generosity isn’t to get accolades or do good—she simply wants everyone to know she’s still rich. Still in the game.
When the clapping dies down, Candace continues with a short speech about the American Way’s philosophy of focusing on the community, working with neighborhood groups to empower individual citizens through education, employment, and financial assistance. “American Way really defines what it means to be a grass-roots organization,” she says. “And here in Philadelphia, there is one company that has kept its boots on the ground and marched right beside us for more than a quarter century. That company, as most of you know, is Hanson World Industries, Philadelphia’s own homegrown Fortune 500 company. And I am proud—no, breathless—to announce that in addition to HWI’s annual corporate gift, one of its directors has today donated the unprecedented sum of one million dollars to our Educational Impact Fund.”
The room falls completely silent. All eyes move to the HWI table just below Candace at the front of the room. All eyes, that is, but mine and Susan’s. We’ve both figured it out, and we’re looking at each other.
Candace spends the next five minutes gushing about the generosity of David and Marcie Hanson. I study her face for some sly signal to her guests that her praise is tongue in cheek. But she betrays no crack in the apparent sincerity with which she sings tribute to my clever client and his Machiavellian wife. It can’t be easy for Candace, I’m sure. David has been charged with a young woman’s murder. But $1 million is $1 million. And Candace will put that money to good use.
As for the crowd, it is a squirming millipede. Legs crossing and uncrossing. Hands wringing, fingers fiddling. Pained, even cringing, faces. Most everyone clearly wants to stand up and shout: Candace! The guy’s a murderer! Take his money, okay. But shut up, already!
And then comes something even harder to bear. Candace calls David Hanson up to the stage to say a few words, accept the organization’s thanks.
David kisses Marcie, then stands and glides to the steps that lead him up to the stage. Candace hugs him, hands him the microphone, then steps aside. David starts his speech by lamenting the high school dropout rate in Philly’s poor inner-city neighborhoods. African American neighborhoods are particularly hard hit by this plague, he tells us. The very children who most need education to raise themselves out of the poverty into which they’ve been unfairly cast by birth and circumstance have the hardest time staying in school. And that is why, he says, he felt compelled to donate a million dollars to the American Way’s Educational Impact Fund. Real money to address a real problem.
Somewhere in the middle of David’s speech, I glance back a couple of rows, to where Devlin Walker is sitting. I see my adversary staring at my client, utterly motionless. What I also see is the smile on Devlin’s lips. It’s there because Devlin, like Susan and I, knows that this is all going to come back to bite David in the ass. Perhaps sensing me, Devlin turns in my direction. His smile grows just a little wider, and he raises his glass ever so slightly. I turn away.
Later, after dinner, Piper visits the ladies’ room while Susan and I take up positions near one of the two small bars set up in the foyer. I spot
David and Marcie in the back of the ballroom, talking with two couples. The men I recognize as senior partners in a big defense firm that handles a lot of HWI’s legal work. Both lawyers are visibly uncomfortable. They cannot afford to irritate Edwin Hanson, who could pull their assignments on a moment’s notice. On the other hand, they can’t disrespect David, either, because if he wins an acquittal and returns as general counsel at HWI, he’ll be the one holding their purse strings.
Susan is more interested in Marcie Hanson than in David. “She’s like Madame Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities.” The comparison to the female revolutionary who knits the names of the people she wants killed when the revolution finally comes strikes me as apt. “She’s taking notes on how people are treating her husband. Those who treat David well will be taken care of when he returns to power. Those who don’t will lose their heads.”
“When he returns? Not if?”
“Look at them,” Susan says of David and Marcie. “They’re acting like there’s no doubt in their minds. I think they’re absolutely certain David is going to beat the charges.”
“He has great lawyers,” I say, trying to sound carefree myself, though I am far less certain of David’s fate, even given the things I know that David doesn’t. A moment later, I watch David and Marcie take their leave of the corporate attorneys and walk toward us. “Give me a minute with them,” I ask of Susan. I walk to meet the Hansons.
A Criminal Defense Page 20