by Brad Meltzer
“I don’t believe this,” Jared said.
“I’m truly sorry, sir. He had your policy number, so I—”
“How would someone get that?”
“I have no idea. It’s printed on your health insurance card. Have you lost your wallet recently?”
“Is everything okay?” Sara asked as she entered the kitchen.
Jared nodded to his wife and turned his attention back to the phone. “Ms. Axelrod, I’ll have to call you back later. I don’t have those papers in front of me.”
“But—”
Jared hung up the phone. “What’s wrong?” Sara asked, assessing his expression.
“More problems with our insurance company,” Jared said as he again wiped his forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure, because—”
“I’m sure,” Jared insisted. “They just messed up one of our claims. I can take care of it.”
Wandering up and down the narrow aisles of the neighborhood grocery store, Jared spent the early part of Saturday morning doing some not-so-necessary shopping. Over the past four days, he hadn’t once slept straight through the night. Regardless of how exhausted he was, he found himself waking up at three, four, and five o’clock in the morning. Always for the same reason—always to check on Sara. He was hoping that Saturday was going to be the day when he’d be able to sleep late and catch up on the lost hours. But when Sara’s alarm went off at eight o’clock, Jared was forced to face the day. He did everything in his power to lie in bed and keep his eyes shut, but again, it was no use. He couldn’t get the question out of his head: Are they going to take her? That was what he asked himself every morning, and that was all he cared about.
Unwilling to face the answer, Jared crawled out of bed. While Sara showered, he decided to run to the market. Fifteen minutes later, he headed home carrying two bags of groceries and half a dozen bagels. Walking past dozens of other New Yorkers who were carrying similar packages, Jared still couldn’t take his mind off his wife. She’ll be safe, he told himself. Otherwise, he’d have to—
His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill siren of an oncoming ambulance. With the traffic lights on its side, it flew down Broadway. When Jared first looked up, the ambulance was four blocks away. Seconds later, the ambulance was about to reach Eightieth Street—the block Jared and Sara lived on.
Don’t turn, don’t turn, please don’t turn, Jared whispered to himself as he stood on the corner of Seventy-ninth. All around him, people covered their ears to block out the deafening scream of the siren, but Jared didn’t notice. He was too focused on the ambulance. Especially when it turned down Eightieth Street.
The first thing he did was run. That was instinct. Clutching his bags, Jared darted up Broadway at the fastest sprint he could manage. Not Sara, he begged. Don’t let it be her. He was moving quickly, but for him, not fast enough. Without hesitation, he let go of the groceries and took off. He could hear the wail of the siren echo down the narrow street. When he turned the corner, he saw that the ambulance had stopped halfway down the next block, right in front of their apartment. “Sara!” he shouted. But as he took his first few steps down Eightieth Street, he saw the ambulance move farther down the block. It had stopped to inch its way past a double-parked car. And as it maneuvered past the obstacle and turned onto Columbus Avenue, Jared finally stopped running. It’s all right, he thought, standing there with his hands shaking. Sara was all right. She had to be.
With a confident stride and a commanding look in her eyes, Sara strolled across the grand jury room. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are here today to do one job—and that job is justice.”
“‘That job is justice’?” Conrad interrupted as he sat in the front row of the jury box. “This isn’t a congressional hearing—we want these jurors to take you seriously.”
“I can’t help it,” Sara said, throwing her legal pad on the table in the front of the room. “Every time I get nervous, I start spouting clichés. All those years of bad movies are finally catching up with me.”
“Didn’t they teach you about juries in your old law firm?” Guff asked, seated next to Conrad.
“I told you, I did two trials in six years. We settled everything else.”
“Ah, the paralysis of passive resistance,” Guff said. “How I long for that stagnant touch.”
“Make another joke, and I’ll ram my stagnant touch straight up your stagnant—”
“Leave the boy alone,” Conrad interrupted. “Let’s get back to juries.” He stood up and moved next to Sara in the front of the room. “Whether you’re in a grand jury or a regular trial, juries are always about trust. If they trust you, they’ll take your side. If not, you lose. But there’s a difference between having a jury like you and having a jury convict for you. If you want a jury to vote against the accused, you need more than a few warm smiles and some smooth hand gestures.”
“So what’s the trick?”
“The trick is language,” Conrad said. “There’ll be anywhere from sixteen to twenty-three people on the grand jury. All you have to do is convince twelve of them that the facts justify a felony charge. They’re not voting to convict him; they don’t have to put him in jail. All they have to do is find reasonable cause to believe that Kozlow committed the crime. That’s a pretty low threshold, but it’s easy to get tripped up.”
“What do you mean by language? What do you have? Magic words?”
“You bet your stagnant ass we have magic words,” Conrad said. “Rule one: Never use the defendant’s name. Never call him Kozlow, or Anthony, or Tony. That humanizes him and makes it harder for the jurors to vote against him. Call him ‘the defendant,’ or ‘the accused.’ Rule two: Always use the victim’s name, the cop’s name, and the witnesses’ names. Ms. Doniger, Officer McCabe, Ms. Harrison. That makes them seem more human and believable. Rule three: Never use the actual words of the crime you’re charging the defendant with. In other words, don’t say, ‘He committed a burglary,’ or ‘He committed murder.’ Those words sound scary to people, not to mention the fact that the jurors will start asking about all the elements of the crime before they’ll vote. To make it easier, say, ‘If you believe the accused stole from Ms. Doniger…’”
“And this really works?” Sara asked skeptically.
“In my nine years here, I’ve never lost in a grand jury,” Conrad said. “I may not win at trial, but I always get there. And I get there because I was taught to focus on the details.”
“And who granted you these pearls of wisdom?”
“The United States government,” Conrad said proudly.
“You were in the military?” Guff asked sarcastically. “No way. You’re so laid-back.”
“I gave them a three-year commitment, they put me through law school. But after three years, they force you out of the criminal side. When they told me I had to do boring civil stuff like wills and taxes and divorce work, I made the jump over here.”
“Love that combat zone, don’t you?”
“Can’t live without it,” Conrad said. “Now let’s get back to the point. Do you know what your game plan is?”
“I’m calling people in order of involvement. I’ll start with the cop, then Doniger, and then Harrison. Kozlow goes on last.”
“So Kozlow’s decided to testify?”
“He filed notice,” Sara explained. “I guess Jared figures he’ll make a likable witness. I’m hoping if he goes on last, the jury will have already made up their minds.” Pausing for a moment, Sara thought about the rest of her witnesses. Harrison was easily the best, since she was the only one who had seen Kozlow leave the house. But if she refused to testify, or even worse, denied that she had seen anything, Sara knew that Jared was right: The entire case was in trouble. Looking at Conrad, she continued, “One last thing—I know you won’t like this option, but if everything starts falling apart tomorrow, I have to think about dismissing it.”
“I’d never argue that with you,” Conrad
said. “This is your case. And believe it or not, I appreciate the consequences.” Noticing the distant look in Sara’s eyes, he added, “I’m serious about that. It’s okay to be realistic.”
“Says the man who never settles.”
“Sara, not every case is a winner. Think about what you’ve faced: shaky witnesses, a shifty defendant, even your own husband. When it comes to emotional baggage, you’ve got more than a small piece of carry-on luggage here.”
“But this case—”
“I know you wanted this to be your breakthrough case, but you can’t make something from nothing. Well, sometimes you can, but now isn’t the time. When you get in there tomorrow, you’ll make your decision. And no matter what happens, you’ll live with the outcome.”
“It’s not the outcome that scares me, it’s the motivation behind it. You should’ve heard Jared last night—he did a guilt dance on my head that would’ve made my mother proud. And trust me, that’s saying something.”
“I believe it. Between the lack of witnesses and Victor breathing down your neck, you’ve got a ten-ton argument for washing your hands. You may not like dismissing it, but in this situation, it’s far better than losing.”
“I guess,” Sara said despondently. “Though it’s hard to see the difference.”
Rafferty reached across his sculptural leather sofa and answered the ringing phone.
“You said you wanted me to check in,” Kozlow said on the other end of the line.
“Have you forgotten how to say hello, or is that just a Neanderthal greeting?” Rafferty asked.
“Hello. How are you?” Kozlow growled. “Are we set for tomorrow?”
“We should be. Sara’s planning to subpoena both Claire and Patty at the crack of dawn.”
“Really? Are they going to be there to receive them?”
“Without a doubt,” Rafferty said. “Then when they give up nothing at the grand jury, we’re done with this nonsense.”
“Are you sure that’s the best way to do it?”
Rafferty refused to answer the question. “Where are you calling from?”
“Don’t worry,” Kozlow said. “It’s a pay phone. What do you think I am, stupid?”
“I’m not sure. Was it stupid to grab that diamond watch and the sterling silver golf ball?”
“Why do you have to keep bringing that up? I was—”
“I don’t want to hear it, you greedy little leech. If you’d never done that, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“What’d you call me?” Kozlow asked. “You think I’m greedy? Let me tell you something, you Kennedy-complex wanna-be, you were the one who—”
“Good-bye,” Rafferty interrupted. With a flick of his wrist, Kozlow was gone.
Chapter 9
EARLY MONDAY MORNING, SARA PACED UP AND DOWN the dark, tiled hallways on the ninth floor of One Hogan Place, trying her best to look calm. Outside the grand jury room, a small line of assistant district attorneys was forming, all of them waiting for a chance to present their cases. Since the waiting room couldn’t accommodate everyone, the hallway was also filled with dozens of witnesses, family members, and defense attorneys. Sara stared intently at the ever-growing group, hoping to take her mind off her anxieties.
Lawyers in the crowd were easy to identify, with their navy-blue or gray single-breasted suits and stark white shirts. Anyone who wasn’t wearing the uniform was, by default, a witness, a victim, a defendant, or a family member there for moral support. To separate the ADAs from the defense attorneys, Sara needed only to read body language. The defense attorneys were relaxed and at ease. Since they were not allowed to participate in grand jury proceedings, they had nothing to lose. By comparison, the ADAs were usually younger, with a slight but noticeable tinge of nervousness in their eyes. A hand anxiously arched on a hip, bitten fingernails, a few too many glances at a watch—that was all it took to identify the prosecutors. That and their unmistakable attempts to look as calm as possible. The moment she realized the pattern, Sara stopped pacing.
Behind her, a man in a gray suit said, “I was hoping we’d be first, but I hear we’re seventh and eighth.”
Turning around, Sara recognized the man from her first day’s orientation. “Seventh and eighth?”
“To appear in front of the grand jury,” the man said. “Of the seventeen other ADAs who started with us, six have already done it. All got indictments but one. That guy Andrew from Brooklyn tanked it something fierce. My bet is he’ll be the first one to go. And rumor says layoff decisions are being made today.”
Sara raised an eyebrow at the news. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” she asked.
“Charles, but people call me Chuck.”
“Charles, Chuck, the both of you—do me one small favor? Don’t talk to me right now.”
The grand jury was selected once a month in a manner Guff called “the criminal justice version of bingo.” But unlike a traditional jury, which made a guilt determination in only one case, the grand jury usually heard dozens of cases each day and decided only whether there were reasonable grounds for the DA’s office to prosecute the case. Since the jurors served for a full month, the first Monday of the term usually meant a new grand jury—and the worst day to present a case. In the beginning of the term, the jurors were cautious novices, trying carefully not to indict the wrong man. By the end, they were jaded veterans, realizing that an indictment was only the first step of the process. In the beginning, they were nice people trying to do the right thing. By the end, they were average New Yorkers, ready to believe the worst about anyone.
Another twenty minutes went by before Sara heard Guff’s voice from down the hallway say, “Look who I found.” Turning around, she saw Guff wheeling a small metal cart that contained all of her files on the case—she was determined to be prepared for everything. Behind him came Officer McCabe, Claire Doniger, and Patty Harrison. McCabe looked calm, Doniger looked annoyed, and Harrison looked terrified. As she approached her witnesses, Sara said, “I hope you understand why we had to—”
“Don’t treat me like a child,” Doniger blurted, her tinted salon-styled hair bouncing with a life of its own. With her Adolfo suit, bottled tan, obvious face-lift, and tiny purse, the fifty-four-year-old Doniger looked exactly as Sara had imagined. When Doniger walked right past her, Sara realized their conversation was over.
Turning toward Harrison, Sara lightly touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” Harrison said unconvincingly.
“Do you want to tell me who threatened you?”
“Nobody threatened me,” Harrison insisted. Her jet-black hair was pulled back and clipped with a black velvet bow, and her ice-blue eyes danced as she spoke. “But I’m telling you one thing: I will not become a leper in my own neighborhood.”
“Who’s making you feel like a leper? Ms. Doniger? Kozlow?”
“I don’t even know who that man Kozlow is. I saw him that one night leaving Claire’s house. He looked shady, so I made a phone call. That’s all I know.”
“And that’s all I need you to say. Just tell the story.”
Harrison turned away. “No. I’m not doing it.”
“It’s your duty to do it.”
“I don’t have a duty to anyone except myself. My husband left me eight years ago for his big-haired personal assistant; my daughter moved out to San Francisco and I never hear from her, and the highlight of my week is flirting with the meat guy at the deli counter in the supermarket. It may be pathetic, but it’s my life, and I enjoy it. And I’m not giving it up for some mythical sense of duty.” When Harrison noticed some of the other people in the hallway staring at her, she turned to them and yelled, “Mind your own damn business, you nosy twits.”
Giving Harrison a moment to calm down, Sara waited silently. Finally, she said, “You’re right. It’s your neck on the line, not mine. But when your daughter is strolling around in that fresh California air one night and someone bashes her head in, I hope
the person who sees that crime has more backbone than you do.”
Harrison stared straight at Sara. “Are you done?” she asked.
“I’ve said my piece,” Sara said, and walked away.
As she headed back down the hallway, Sara saw Jared arrive with Kozlow, who looked impressive in a pinstriped suit and stylish-but-sensible glasses. Typical Jared move, she thought. From her husband’s hand motions, it looked like he was telling Kozlow to wait at the other end of the hallway, away from Sara’s witnesses. Kozlow stayed behind and Jared came walking toward his wife.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, reading Sara’s body language.
“I’m fine,” she said. She took a deep breath.
“Are you sure?” Jared asked. He reached over to rub her arm.
Sara quickly pulled away. “Not here. Not now.”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”
“It’s not the time.”
“I understand,” Jared said, getting back to the point. “Have you thought about the dismiss and seal?”
“Of course I’ve thought about—”
“Sara!” Guff yelled down the hallway. “You’re on!”
“So?” Jared asked, looking into his wife’s eyes. “Do we have a deal?”
Sara paused and stared down at the floor.
“I have the paperwork right here,” Jared added. He had her. He could feel it.
She knew what this meant to him. And hurting him meant hurting herself. Looking up, Sara gave her answer. “I’m sorry. It’s not right.”
“But—”
“Please don’t ask me any more,” Sara said, walking toward the jury room. “You’re already hitting below the belt.”