The first rule of the hustler’s bible—give the people what they want.
Before he whipped his head around to Arturas, I saw fire in Volchek’s eyes. He didn’t want to have to blow up a witness in live court. The risk was huge. Running was just as big a risk. He’d given up all hope of winning this case a long time ago. And I was giving that hope back to him.
“There is no chance you can win this case, lawyer. Better, smarter lawyers looked at all of this before,” said Arturas.
“It doesn’t cost you anything to let me try. At least with Goldstein, I have no choice. I’ve got to work on his evidence or your boss loses his bail.”
The room became silent. I could hear Victor’s heavy breathing. The hum from the photocopier fans. A car horn outside. Volchek wanted this, I could tell. I was the answer to his prayers.
“There’s one more thing,” I said.
“What?” barked Arturas.
“You haven’t brought me my coffee yet,” I said.
Tipping the ash from his cigar onto the floor, Volchek said, “Victor, get Mr. Flynn some coffee.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lunch had taken an hour and fifteen already.
I checked my watch and saw twenty-six hours left on my clock. The watch was a twenty-dollar digital with an LCD display. Cheap, nasty, and I loved it more than any other watch that I’d ever owned. Amy and I shared the same birthday—September first. I had picked her up on the morning of our last birthday and taken her shopping. Christine and I had been separated since late June. I’d felt awkward going to the house in Queens that I’d once shared with my family, and Amy and I went out instead. I’d had no idea what to buy for a ten-year-old, so I thought she should pick something out. As we passed a little jewelry store off Broadway, I felt Amy tugging at my sleeve. In the store window she saw digital watches for sale. We went in and she said she wanted two exactly the same—one for me and one for her. I told her I already had a watch, a gift from her mom. She put her mane of white-blond hair on the glass counter and studied the watch she’d chosen. Christine often worried about how serious our daughter could be; I hadn’t listened. I thought Amy was just more mature than most girls her age and that she had an adult’s intelligent curiosity.
Amy curled her little fingers around the watch and said, “Daddy, you’re going to stay with the doctors to get better, right?” She was talking about the residential alcohol clinic that I’d tentatively signed up for, at Christine’s insistence. The store clerk walked in back, giving us some room.
She whispered the rest of her plan, like it was our secret. “Well, I thought if we both got these watches, we could set the alarms for eight o’clock. Then you would remember to call me and we could like, talk, or you could, like, read me a story, or something.”
She was so sincere, so earnest. And although she was tall for her age, and impossibly cute and even mischievous at times, the beauty in her heart shone out of her in everything that she did. Her kindness saved my life that day; if we hadn’t bought those watches on our last birthday, I wouldn’t have made it through rehab. Every night, our alarms went off simultaneously at eight, and I called her. I had called her from the clinic, and I had read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to her over the phone. She was much better at being a daughter than I was at being a parent.
Sitting at the defense table, I tried not to play with my pen; it made me look nervous. Jean had left Goldstein’s ARAE paper on my chair.
This judge took her sweet time because she could. The courtroom largely consisted of reporters. Due to the perceived threat on the life of Witness X, there would be no televised coverage of this trial, just print reporting. Judges were always sensitive when it came to cameras in the courtroom. Most didn’t like being filmed and would happily rely on any old reason to exclude the cameras. There wasn’t even any CCTV in the courtrooms. No judge wants to be recorded saying something stupid when they’re off their guard.
I could sense the anticipation in the room. Everyone who’d heard Miriam’s opening knew this was a no-hoper of a defense case. The Asian gang leader that I’d seen earlier was already shaking his head, wondering what the delay was. Surely Volchek should have been found guilty by now.
I couldn’t think about Amy any longer. If I did, I’d go crazy. Volchek sat beside me in the defendant’s seat. Arturas and Victor were behind us.
I swallowed back my emotions, my fear, my doubts, and I turned to look at the menacing face of my client.
“Where’s my daughter?”
“She’s close by, and she is well. I check in from time to time. She’s eating potato chips and watching TV. You keep doing okay, maybe I let you see another photo,” said Volchek.
Another few minutes passed and there was still no sign of the judge. My opening speech would be simple, but my cross-examination of Dr. Goldstein worried me. I played the cross-examination in my mind—question, answer, question, answer, over and over, trying to perfect my style.
“You,” said Volchek. “I hope this delay is not down to you.” He wore an accusatory look. Running a persuader on this guy would be tougher than I’d imagined.
“You know, my father was a war hero,” continued Volchek. He looked at the ornate ceiling of the courtroom as he recalled his parent. “He killed a whole sniper team single-handed in battle of Stalingrad. Stalin decorated him personally. My mother was a Polish Jew, liberated from the camps, and she fell in love with my father—the hero.” His features softened as he thought of his mother, and his voice seemed to drop and drift in tandem with his recollections. “She gave me the name ‘Olek.’ It means protector. She didn’t live long after the war.”
“Too bad. Tough in Russia, huh?” I said. I wanted to tell him that once I’d gotten my daughter back, he wouldn’t live long either.
“My father drank after my mother died and lost both legs to diabetes. I would wheel him around the bars in east Moscow with his medals shining proudly on his chest while he sipped at a bottle of vodka. I was only twelve, not much older than your daughter. I was proud of my father.”
His eyes took on that bitter, almost predatory aspect as he said, “That pride faded when he got really drunk. Then he wanted to fight. The lion in him didn’t remember that his legs had gone. He would start trouble; then he would realize he couldn’t stand, and he would say, My son will fight for me, and I would have to fight whatever drunk or pimp he’d insulted. Maybe he wanted me to live up to the name my mother gave me; maybe it kept a piece of her alive for him. When I turned sixteen, I killed him, sold his medals, and bought my first gun. But I loved him. I always loved him. If I lost a fight, the beatings he gave me were bad; his disappointment was worse. If you disappoint me, lawyer, your daughter can fight for you.”
I wanted to take his head off. I focused my anger, locked my eyes to his, and said, “You know a lot about me from watching my movements. You probably know where I live and what I’ve been doing for the last few months, but you have no idea what I’m capable of in a courtroom. All those other lawyers you saw, they don’t know how to work over a witness like me. They don’t know how to get the prosecution to make mistakes, and they don’t know how to marry a jury to your cause. I do.” I stood up now, unable to contain myself, and I bent over him to ram this home. “This witness is more than enough to kill your case and your bail. I’m going to stop him, and you’re going to give me a shot at Little Benny. You need to understand something. You don’t need a bomb to win this case. You’ve already got one—I’m the bomb.”
As I spat those words at Volchek, I could feel the hairs on my neck prickling; I could feel my shoulders tightening, a feeling I’d had before, a feeling that had eluded me in the bathroom that morning when Arturas put the revolver to my back. Hustling for a living is no joke. You develop an instinct for danger, a sixth sense that keeps you one step in front of the mark and the cops. If you don’t listen to that voice in your head, you either die or you go to jail. Everyone has that instinct but not many embrace it. We’
ve all had that feeling of being watched, of sitting at a bar and knowing that behind you, someone was boring their eyes into the back of your head. It’s those instincts that con men tap into. They hone those feelings and learn to trust them. My alarm bell rang loud at that moment. My early-warning system usually let me know when I was being watched, when I’d been made, and when it was time to run.
In that second I knew I had eyes on me other than Volchek’s.
My head came up instantly to scan the room. The crowd were talking and laughing in nervous anticipation of the battle that was to come, like a ravenous mob eager for the first sight of blood in the bear pit. I focused on the back wall, letting my peripheral vision pick up inconsistencies in my view. That’s when I saw him. A man unlike the others; he wasn’t nervous; he wasn’t talking. He was perfectly still—a statue in a sea of movement.
As soon as I saw him, I knew instantly why I’d felt his singular presence in the mass of people. Out of the hundred or so people in the benches, he alone sat motionless, staring at me intently.
And I knew why.
His name was Arnold Novoselic. I’d come across him about four years ago and I’d never forgotten him. This in itself was not to be expected, as Arnold had a rare and undervalued quality; he was inconspicuous, a nobody among nobodies, an innocuous man in a city of isolated souls. His hairline receded almost to the top of his fat neck. He wore the same brown suit, ivory shirt, and big, black-rimmed glasses that he’d worn when I’d first met him, but it wasn’t his appearance that made him memorable. In fact, Arnold took great pains in crafting his appearance with the deliberate intention of being as unmemorable as possible. His appearance and the indifference it inspired in others was his hiding place, his armor.
I knew that Arnold’s gifts lay in observation. As a natural voyeur, he always looked out, paying little attention to himself, and maybe because of that, no one paid attention to him. A gift well suited to one of the best jury consultants in the business. He could tell what way a particular juror would vote, how social dynamics worked within a jury, who were the leaders of the group, and who would follow what vote. He did this through personal study, statistical analysis, racial profiling, and one particular skill that Arnold liked to keep secret.
I’d met Arnold four years ago, when he’d interviewed to be a jury consultant in a case that I was preparing against a pharmaceutical company. I remembered that I’d been unimpressed and a little creeped out by Arnold Novoselic in person. On paper, Arnold clearly had the best results in his profession. He never missed a call. In every case he’d ever done, he had predicted the jury’s verdict precisely. That worried me, but what made me even more suspicious was the fact that in four cases in which he’d consulted, he’d been able to accurately predict each juror’s verdict before they were polled. That meant he’d achieved one hundred percent accuracy four times out of four. I knew that in the jury business, there was no such thing as perfect predictions. So I’d asked him there and then, in my office, what was his secret.
Arnold knew he couldn’t hide anything from me, and for once, he told the truth. He told me his secret. While other jury consultants merely wondered what the jury was saying, Arnold knew precisely what they talked about because Arnold was a gifted lip-reader.
Juries aren’t supposed to talk about the case anywhere except in the locked, and very private, jury room. In reality, they talked to one another almost constantly. They whispered their comments on witnesses to one another and even swore at crucial points of the case. Arnold saw and read all of that. And used it.
Looking past Volchek, my eyes focused on Arnold as he sat twenty-five feet away. As much as he liked to hide himself away from the public eye, he couldn’t hide either himself or his expression from me. Fear almost dripped from his fat little nose. I knew then that Arnold had lip-read my conversation with Volchek. Arnold knew about the bomb for sure. But I didn’t know why Arnold was there, or what he might do with that information.
I looked back at Volchek and said, “Give me a minute. There’s somebody I have to talk—” But I couldn’t finish my sentence; everyone in the courtroom stood up for Judge Pike as she made her return to the bear pit.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Mr. Flynn, if you’d like to give your opening statement, please,” said Judge Pike.
Pikey was in a fine mood today. She had a big media-hungry case and a chance to advance her career by putting away a known Russian gangster.
The opening statement is always important. It’s your chance to frame the case for the jury. Miriam had hit the jury with a lot of information. She told them there was more than enough evidence to convict. She sounded like a real person, not a lawyer. I had to change that. I stood up and immediately began fidgeting with my jacket. The bomb felt awkward and heavy and somehow hot. My back was sweating even though I felt quite cool. My hands shook a little as I tilted the jug to pour myself a glass of water. After a long, cold drink, I felt ready. Miriam sat poised to take copious notes of the defense case. Her expert witness, Dr. Goldstein, sat three rows behind Miriam. He wasn’t expecting to give evidence until later this afternoon or tomorrow morning. I recognized him from his photo on the university website. If possible, he looked like even more of a super-nerd in person than in his terrible photograph.
I turned to the jury and gave them a smile.
“Members of the jury, it’s a pleasure to be here with you all. Ms. Sullivan spoke today for around two hours. I will speak now for around two minutes.” A ripple of laughter from the jury. “This case involves a terrible crime. It’s for the prosecution to prove to you that Olek Volchek committed this crime. If, at the conclusion of this case, you have reasonable doubts about whether Olek Volchek committed this crime, then it’s your solemn duty to acquit. But it’s your choice. Ms. Sullivan told you to find Mr. Volchek guilty. We won’t tell you to do anything. We will ask you to consider the evidence, we will invite you to consider our view of the case, and we will leave it to you and your good judgment. And that’s all I have to say at this point.”
I sat down.
In a criminal case, there are two doors for a jury to walk through : guilty or not guilty. Miriam tried to push the jury through her door. I wanted to hold my door open for them and welcome them in. Juries behave just like every other person on the street—they don’t like being pushed into anything; they like having a choice.
Dr. Goldstein looked nervously at his papers. The more surprised and off balance he became, the better it was for me. At that point I had a choice before me—I could play it safe or set a trap for Miriam. The trap was a risk that could easily backfire. On the other hand, if it worked, it could win me favor with the jury.
I took my chances.
I leaned over to Miriam, and Arturas strained to hear what I said. I’d told him to look out for it, that I might do it if it felt right. I didn’t want to give the impression I was letting Miriam in on the bomb.
“Goldstein—he’s a graphologist. Don’t call him, or you’ll regret it,” I said.
“What the hell is a graphologist?” asked Miriam, as I’d expected. I had my answer already lined up for her.
“Goldstein is a forensic document examiner. His job is to determine authorship from a sample of handwriting; it’s a scientific analysis. Graphology tries to interpret the author’s personality from his handwriting; it’s a bunch of shit. It’s like a Christian archaeologist who digs up dinosaur bones testifying that the world is only five thousand years old. You can’t be in both schools at once; it’s hypocritical. Don’t call him.”
I sat down.
She would call him.
A look of anger spread over her proud features. The judge looked at her. I’d finished my opening. It was time for the prosecution to begin their evidence. I’d thrown Miriam off guard. Goldstein looked to be the only prosecution witness in court. She stood up.
“Your Honor, I call Dr. Irving Goldstein.”
Surprised at hearing his name so soon, Dr. Golds
tein quickly folded his papers, buttoned his jacket, and moved forward. The smirk spreading across his face failed to mask his nerves. After all, this was the biggest case of his career. If my work paid off, it would be the last case of his career. He tripped over the leg of a chair on the way to the witness stand and held tightly to his papers. The report was his rock, and he clung to it. He had every right to feel confident, as his report was accurate, well written, and true. I couldn’t challenge a single word of it.
Without anyone knowing it, I’d relied on Miriam being predictably brilliant. I thought of her as a great trial lawyer. She would do the same thing that I would do in her situation. I would take my opponent’s best point and I would use it. I would ask the doc about graphology. I could control the question, make it sound normal, ordinary, even boring. I could give him all the time in the world to explain his answer fully, throwing out my opponent’s best point like a dirty rag. Miriam would do the same thing.
I counted on it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Goldstein was in his fifties, and it looked to me like he’d been fifty for around thirty years. His suit looked older than him, and to top it all, he wore a bow tie.
He stood for the oath. Adjusting his glasses as he read the card, he carefully recited the words that put him in my domain. Pouring himself two glasses of water, he settled down for a marathon session on the stand. Miriam would be quick with Goldstein. A good lawyer should be fast with all expert witnesses because, more often than not, they’re just boring as hell. Their evidence is vital, but they’re just pretty awful at explaining it so you have to keep it brief : Who are you? Why are you smarter than any other guy in your field? Tell us what we need to know and then shut the hell up. Miriam probably told him he would be in the box for a day. He didn’t know he’d be in and out in an hour or two.
The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella Page 19