by Brad Meltzer
“You’re incredible, y’know that? You really are.”
“And how’d everything go with your negotiation? Did it all work out?”
“It was great,” Jared said, dropping his briefcase and loosening his tie. “Nothing to really talk about.”
Sara watched her husband carefully. She knew that tone in his voice. “You want to try that one again, handsome?”
Jared turned back toward his wife. He wanted to tell her about the negotiation and the scolding. But not today. Not when she was finally feeling good. He wasn’t going to ruin it for her. Eventually, he said, “It’s really nothing.”
“And you think I’m going to believe that?”
“Actually, I was hoping you would.”
“Well, I’m not. So why don’t you save us some time and tell me the truth.”
Jared slumped down on the sofa and rested his head against the oversized cushions. “There’s not much to tell. I spent the entire afternoon trying to save them from a risky trial and a ton of bad publicity. Then, to thank me for caving in and screwing up, Lubetsky screamed at me for a half hour, followed by Rose, and topped off by Thomas Wayne, big boss extraordinaire.”
“Did you say anything back?”
“They were right. What could I possibly say?”
“How about ‘Stop yelling at me, you fat, bloated weasels—I obviously tried my best’?”
“Call me insane, but I don’t think that’s the best reaction for the situation.”
“So, let me guess—instead, you reacted the way you always do. You stood there and—”
“I stood there and let them yell in my face,” Jared said as his shoulders sagged. “I thought that was the best way to calm them down.”
“Honey, even if they’re right, you can’t keep letting them talk to you like that. You’re still a human being. I know you hate confrontation, but you can’t always pick the path of least resistance.”
“It’s not that I hate confrontation—”
“It’s just that you love having things perfect and neat and clean,” Sara interrupted. “I know why you do it. And I love the fact that you do it—I wish I could be as self-controlled as you are. But when it comes to your bosses, you can’t always avoid fighting with everyone in authority.”
“Listen,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Can we stop talking about work? I’ve had enough tension for one day.”
“Good,” Sara said, “because it’s time to open your present.”
“You bought me a present?”
“Nothing extravagant—I just wanted to say I love you. Your help this morning meant more than you know.”
“You didn’t have to…”
He trailed off as Sara darted to the bedroom and returned with her leather briefcase. “Here,” she said, handing it to Jared as she sat down next to him.
“You’re giving me your briefcase?”
“Your present’s inside. I didn’t have time to wrap it, so I thought I’d pretend the briefcase was a box. Work with me—use your imagination.”
“What a wonderful box,” Jared said as he admired the briefcase. He quickly opened it and pulled out a red, white, and blue metallic pinwheel.
“I told you it wasn’t special,” Sara said. “One of the homeless guys was selling them on the subway. You have to read the words on the stick, though—it says ‘Welcome to the Puerto Rico.’”
“I love it,” Jared said, blowing on his present. As the pinwheel spun, his smile returned to his face. “This is great. I mean it. Go, the Puerto Rico!”
Laughing, Sara took him by the hand and helped him up from the sofa. Dragging him back to the kitchen, she said, “And wait until you see what I made for dinner.” When they were standing in front of the stove, she said, “Close your eyes.”
“I know what you made. I smelled it the moment I got—”
“Quiet. Close your eyes.” When he obliged, she added, “Stick out your tongue.” As Jared followed her directions, Sara dipped her finger in the homemade sauce. She then brushed her finger across his tongue. “How’s that taste?”
“For the record, that was the most blatant sexual come-on you’ve ever employed.”
“So? Did it work?”
“It always works,” Jared said with a grin. Keeping his eyes closed, he felt Sara’s hands around his neck. She pulled him close and kissed him. First on the mouth. Then on the tip of his chin. Then down to his neck. Along the way, she loosened his tie and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He did the same thing to the buttons of her blouse. “Do you want to stay here or go into the—”
“Here,” Sara said as she pressed him against the counter. “Right here.”
Chapter 5
“WHAT’D YOU THINK?” SARA ASKED.
“Are you kidding? It was incredible. That part when you were up on the countertop…”
“I’m talking about dinner, dreamboat.” Wearing only a T-shirt, Sara sat at the kitchen table across from Jared, who had put on a pair of sweatpants.
“Oh,” Jared said. He stared down at his empty plate. “It was great. Everything was great. Especially you.”
“Don’t give away all the compliments; you deserve half the credit,” Sara said, reaching across the table to hold his hand. “By the way, what time is it?”
“Why? You got a date?”
“Yeah. A date with Justice. I have to get back to the courthouse. My arraignment’s supposed to come up at around eleven.”
“Oh, God—your case,” Jared said. “I’m so sorry, I meant to ask you more about it. I’ve just been so caught up in—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sara said. “The case is fine. Well, maybe it’s fine. Actually, it probably isn’t fine, it’s a squeaker. I think it can definitely work out, though. Maybe. If I’m lucky.”
“Sounds like you can’t lose.”
“Don’t make fun. You know how I get under pressure: peaks and valleys, peaks and valleys. When I got the case, I was on top of the world; an hour later, I was out of my skin, terrified about my job; an hour after that, I was learning the ropes, obsessed, but somehow confident; and when I got home, I thought it was all going my way.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m back in the valley. Not only am I nervous about the case, I’m worried about how I got it. You should’ve seen me this afternoon. Staring at that stupid little folder, I was in a complete panic. And when that split second came when I had to decide whether I was going to take it—I felt like it was my only chance.” Pulling away from her husband, Sara stood up. “Tell me the truth. Was it wrong for me to take the case like that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Jared said in his usual diplomatic tone. Deep down, Sara knew he was avoiding the question, but she wasn’t in the mood to hear his lecture. It’d be the same as always: When it came to work, her husband kept it on the straight and narrow. “All that matters is how you feel.”
“I feel terrible. Now that the adrenaline’s gone, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like this gnawing ghost that’s floating around in my stomach. And the worst part is, I’m not sure why I’m upset: is it because I know it was wrong to take it, or simply because I got caught with it?”
“Listen, you can’t change the past. You saw it, you grabbed it, and now you have to live with it. Besides, the way you described it, it sounds like no one in the office even cared that you stole it.”
“Except for Victor. I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Speaking of which, have you told your assistant that it was Victor’s case in the first place?”
“Not yet. We were running around all afternoon, so there really wasn’t time. Besides, I don’t think I’m going to tell him just yet—I want to do a bit more digging before I put that relationship at risk.”
“You still think there might be something else at play?”
“I’m not sure,” Sara said, picking up her blue pantsuit from the floor. “But if this isn’t a Victor-level case, I have no idea how it’s
going to save my job.”
When Sara was finished re-dressing for her late-night arraignment, she headed for the door.
“Good luck,” Jared called out. “Make ’em suffer.”
“You don’t have to worry,” Sara said. “The defense is in for some serious hurt.”
At precisely ten-thirty, Sara entered 100 Centre. At the courtroom that was reserved for arraignments, she was surprised to see Guff leaning against the courtroom door.
“What are you doing here?” Sara asked. “You didn’t have to come.”
“You’re my boss,” Guff said. “Where you go, I follow.”
“Well, thanks, Guff. I really appreciate the support. Now we just have to wait for—”
“ADA Tate! What are you charging him with?” a voice boomed from down the hallway.
“Burglary in the second degree,” Sara barked back while Conrad was still thirty feet away.
When the burly prosecutor reached his two colleagues, he asked, “And why’d you choose that?”
“Because burglary in the first degree requires a weapon, or a dangerous instrument, or a physical injury to a victim, and there’s no indication of any of those here.”
“Isn’t that also required for burglary in the second?” Conrad challenged.
“Not if the building is a dwelling,” Sara said, her voice gaining confidence. “And according to the definitions section, 201 East Eighty-second Street is definitely a dwelling. The victim sleeps there every night. I called her myself.”
Conrad smiled. “Good for you. Now what about criminal trespass? Why not charge him with that?”
“Because by taking the watch, the golf ball, and the four hundred dollars, the defendant committed a crime, making criminal trespass too light a charge.”
“What about robbery?”
“According to the cop, there was no force used. That ruled out robbery.”
“And what about breaking and entering?” Conrad asked.
“That’s where you were bullshitting me,” Sara said. “In New York, there’s no such thing as breaking and entering.”
“Are you sure?”
Sara stared him down. “Of course I’m sure. It took me an hour to figure that one out. Now can we go inside and get this sucker started?”
“You’re the boss,” Conrad said, gesturing toward the door.
Because of the late hour, Sara expected to find the courtroom mostly empty. But as she stepped inside, she was surprised to see it filled with prosecutors, police officers, court employees, defense attorneys, and recently arrested defendants. Prosecutors sat on the right side of the room, defense attorneys on the left. Defendants were held in a waiting room outside the courtroom until their case was about to be called, and in the center of the courtroom, the judge presided over each arraignment, which usually lasted four or five minutes. In that time, the charges were announced and bail was set.
As she stepped into the room, Sara knew whom she was looking for. From a legal perspective, she realized that arraignments were a vital guarantor of freedom and fairness. But from a strategic perspective, she knew that arraignments played a completely different role, not the least of which was allowing the opposing attorneys to get their first look at each other. A strong defense attorney meant a nightmare for a prosecutor, while a weak one might mean an easy victory. Either way, like football coaches who spy on the following week’s opponents, the prosecutors of the DA’s office loved to know who they’d be facing. Sara was no exception.
“Any idea which one he is?” she asked Conrad as they took a seat in the first row of wooden benches.
Conrad stared at the dozen defense attorneys who were currently sitting, writing, or filing last-minute papers on the left side of the room. “We won’t know until they call him.”
“Oh, no,” Sara said.
“What’s wrong?”
Sara pointed to a tall blond man across the room. He wore a finely tailored suit and carried a black Gucci briefcase. “That’s Lawrence Lake, a partner at my old law firm.”
“I think he’s the one you’re going up against,” Guff said.
“How do you know?” Conrad asked.
“Are you kidding? I can smell the enemy the moment he enters the room. It’s part of my untamed, feral side.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Oh, I’m definitely crazy,” Guff said, squinting his eyes to look fierce. “Crazy like a fox.”
“Or crazy like a psychopath,” Conrad said. Turning to Sara, he asked, “Did you find out anything else about Kozlow?”
“Just what’s in his file. He’s been arrested twice before: once for first-degree assault, the other for first-degree murder. In the assault, he used a switchblade; in the murder, he shoved a screwdriver into someone’s throat.”
“Jesus,” Guff said. “Someone has trouble playing with others.”
“Not according to the jurors. He got off both times.”
“So he’s a good liar,” Conrad said. “But if I were you, I’d look at the facts of those cases. Maybe he’s got a thing for creative violence.”
“I’ll check them tomorrow,” Sara said.
“Now are you all set on the bail amount?” Sara nodded. “What’s your perfect number?” Conrad asked.
“I want it to be at least ten thousand. That’s high enough that he shouldn’t be able to afford it. But I’m asking for fifteen because I know that judges always lower it a bit.”
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry,” Conrad said. “When the judges rotate into night arraignments, they’re usually so pissed off about their jobs, they tend to slap the defendants around just for fun.”
“Let’s hope so,” Sara said, glancing at Lawrence Lake’s Gucci briefcase.
Fifteen minutes later, when the court clerk called the case of State of New York v. Anthony Kozlow, Sara saw Lawrence Lake rise and head toward the defense table.
“Damn,” she whispered under her breath.
“Don’t cave in,” Conrad said.
As Sara walked briskly to the prosecutor’s table, Anthony Kozlow was escorted into the courtroom by one of the court officers. He was wearing a ratty black leather jacket and looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. Sara couldn’t help but wonder how an angry little scrub like him could afford a player like Lake. Approaching the defense table, Kozlow shook Lake’s hand as if the two were old friends.
Staring at Kozlow, Sara felt her forehead break out in sweat. This wasn’t like her old cases at the firm. She wasn’t fighting some faceless corporate entity. She was fighting Tony Kozlow—a man standing only ten feet away. She had never met him, and she didn’t know him, but she was going to do everything in her power to keep him in jail.
Without looking up, the judge read from the complaint form that Sara had prepared. He explained that Kozlow was being charged with second-degree burglary, and he checked that an attorney for Kozlow was present. After reading the rest of the complaint to himself, the judge looked up at Sara. “Are you asking for bail?”
“We’re asking that bail be set at fifteen thousand dollars,” Sara explained. “The defendant has a long history of violent criminal activity, and—”
“Two arrests are hardly a long history,” Lake interrupted.
“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “I thought I was in the middle of saying something.”
“I understand the prosecutor’s point,” the judge said. “And I can see Mr. Kozlow’s record. Now, Mr. Lake, let’s hear the other side.”
Lake smiled smugly at Sara. “My client was arrested twice. That’s clearly not a long history. To keep it short: Mr. Kozlow has ties to this community, he’s lived here almost continuously throughout his entire life, and there isn’t a single conviction on his record. There’s absolutely no reason why bail needs to be that high.”
The judge paused for a moment, then announced, “The 180.80 date is Friday. I’m setting bail at ten thousand.”
Relieved, Sara assumed that even if Kozlow could afford Lake, it’d
still take at least a few days to raise that kind of money.
Without blinking, however, Lake said, “Your Honor, my client would like to post bail.”
“Please see the clerk about that,” the judge said. He banged his gavel, and the clerk called the next case. In and out in less than five minutes.
Without saying a word, Sara turned around and walked straight out of the courtroom into the hallway. Guff and Conrad followed. “Okay, so he posted bail,” Conrad said. “What’s the crisis?”
“The crisis is Lawrence Lake. That guy’s not a dial-a-lawyer. It costs about five hundred bucks an hour to talk to him.”
“So Kozlow has some money stashed away,” Conrad said. “Happens all the time.”
“I don’t know,” Sara said, tempted to tell them about Victor. “I have a bad feeling about this. Kozlow doesn’t seem like a kingpin—so where does he get the money and influence to talk to someone like Lake?”
“I have no idea,” Conrad said, looking at his watch. “But it’s way past my bedtime, and we’re not solving this tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow morning.”
Standing in the middle of the hallway, Sara couldn’t let it go. “What about—”
“Go home and get it out of your mind,” Conrad said. “The workday is done.”
Before Sara could argue, Kozlow stepped out of the courtroom and brushed past her. “Sorry, Sara,” he whispered. “See you on the streets.”
“What’d you say?” Sara asked.
Without answering, Kozlow headed up the hallway.
Unwilling to run in the early morning rain, Jared got to work at eight o’clock and headed straight to the firm’s private gymnasium and basketball court, hoping that a good workout would relieve the stress caused by the previous day’s events. Located on the seventy-first floor, the private facility had been installed at the request of Thomas Wayne, whose love of basketball outweighed his partners’ hopes for an expanded library. Among the lawyers of Wayne & Portnoy, the private facility was affectionately known as “the highest court in the city,” and its three plate-glass walls provided a stunning view of downtown Manhattan.