Counterplay bkamc-18

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Would it be fair to say then that Mrs. Stavros, while unconscious or dead, was executed with two shots to the head?”

  “Objection. Counsel knows it’s speculative and he’s using loaded words to sway the jury.”

  “Sustained. Mr. Karp, would you like to rephrase your question?”

  Karp acted as if he were giving it some thought. “No thank you, Your Honor. I have no further questions for Dr. Gates.”

  Again, Anderson’s questions seemed designed more to take up time than to win any points with the jury. In fact, from Karp’s point of view, all he did was reinforce Gates’s testimony.

  After breaking for lunch, at which time Guma and Karp discussed trying to speed things up as it was so evident that Anderson wanted to slow them down, Guma recalled Zachary Stavros. But not before Karp replaced the sheet over the dressmaker’s dummy.

  “I believe you testified earlier in the trial that you have never read the reports regarding the exhumation of your mother’s remains or subsequent reports by forensic investigators, is that true?” Guma asked.

  “Yes,” Zachary said, shaking his head. “Like I said, you asked me not to, and I don’t have a way to get the reports.”

  “Has anybody ever told you what is in the reports?”

  “No. You said I have to wait until the trial is over.”

  Guma approached Zachary and handed him several sheets of paper. “I am handing you letters, marked collectively People’s Exhibit 17A to F, addressed to Dr. Donald Craig and dated February of this year. Did you write these letters?”

  “Yes, they’re letters I wrote to Dr. Craig. He asked me to write down any memories of my mother that came to me after the initial sessions when I was hypnotized.”

  “Zachary, you’ll see on the first page I handed you some text that I’ve highlighted in yellow. Would you read that, please?”

  “Yes,” Zachary said, clearing his throat. “It says, ‘I can even remember what my mother was wearing that night-it was a blue, silk or some other material like that, shirt or maybe a dress. Very loose. I liked how cool it felt on my cheek. And I liked the buttons, which were shiny.’ ”

  Guma looked at Karp who stood and walked over to the dressmaker’s dummy. Karp gently pulled the sheet off.

  “Does this look familiar?” Guma asked.

  Zachary sobbed and nodded.

  Gently, Lussman began to remind him, “Sorry, but you’ll need to-”

  “Yes, it’s my mother’s shirt,” he blurted out and began to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Zachary, that was a tough thing to do to you,” Guma said, his own voice husky. “This isn’t your mother’s shirt. It’s a replica. Your mother was buried with her shirt.”

  Guma turned to the judge, fighting the tears in his own eyes. “I have no further questions.”

  Lussman nodded and looked at Anderson, who had his face in his hands. “Mr. Anderson, do you intend to question the witness?”

  Anderson looked at his watch. One o’clock. Closings could take a couple hours, maybe less. The jury might get the case. Stavros is going down for this, he thought, and if he does before Monday, I might as well go jump in that grave in his backyard. I have to stall. “May I approach the bench?”

  “By all means,” Lussman said.

  With Guma and Karp present, Anderson angrily hissed, “They’ve been sandbagging me with their ‘late-arriving’ evidence and witnesses. All of this could have been presented during their case in chief.”

  “Nonsense, this only became necessary when you put a witness on the stand who I think you knew was lying,” Guma shot back.

  “You’re accusing me of a pretty serious offense, Mr. Guma!” Anderson snarled.

  “Handsome is as handsome does, Anderson,” Guma retorted. “Let’s get to closing arguments and see who the jury believes. Then Mr. Stavros can spend the weekend behind bars where he belongs!”

  “Mr. Guma, Mr. Anderson, let’s keep this civil,” Lussman said.

  Anderson held whatever he was about to say to Guma and turned to the judge. “I am obviously going to have to digest what we’ve all heard here today and perhaps make an application for surrebuttal to recall Mr. Coletta to explain the divergence in theories here.”

  “Explain why he perjured himself, you mean?” Guma said.

  “Your Honor, at the very least, I need some reflective time to respond in my summation to this new turn of events. Please, in the interest of fairness to my client, I’m asking for a small delay until Monday morning,” Anderson said. “We’ll still have the case to the jury by noon, if not before.”

  Lussman looked at the lawyers in front of him. The prosecution had obviously torn the defense to pieces, but Stavros still deserved the benefit of the doubt. He was still innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt…. For a few more hours anyway. “Okay, Mr. Anderson, you have the weekend. Gentlemen, return to your seats.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Karp and Guma were alone in the courtroom. “Something’s going on with Anderson,” Karp said. “It’s almost like I can put a finger on it, but not quite.”

  “Yeah, know what you mean,” Guma said. “This isn’t about one more weekend of freedom. He was sweating bullets to get this trial delayed until Monday. I wish I knew what he was up to.”

  Karp looked at the dressmaker’s dummy and suddenly the words of an old saw popped into his head. “Sometimes it is the blind who see what the sighted cannot though it is right in front of him.” Yes, it’s right in front of me, he thought, but I can’t see it.

  30

  Karp leaned against the window of his office, looking down on the sidewalk outside the Criminal Courts building. His thoughts drifted to Zachary Stavros’s comments months back about wishing he could be any one of the people on the sidewalk except himself.

  Do you ever wish that, Karp? he asked himself. Do you ever wish you could choose to be one of those other people on the sidewalk? A cowboy visiting from New Mexico? A professional basketball player with the Knicks? A Navy officer? At one time or another in his life, he’d wanted to be one of those three. But that wasn’t what Zachary was saying, was it, Karp? He said he’d trade places with anybody else down there. The bum. The messenger boy on the bicycle. The madman. Or, God forbid, a defense lawyer!

  Karp chuckled at his own joke and turned back toward his desk. There weren’t many people on the sidewalks in and around 10 °Centre on a late Saturday afternoon anyway, and he was procrastinating. He’d come to work on his summation for Monday in peace and quiet until going back to the loft to get ready for the evening’s festivities at St. Patrick’s. But he couldn’t keep his mind on the trial. Not with the white king and white queen from an expensive Carlos Torres chess set sitting in an evidence bag on his desk and so many unanswered questions as to what that meant.

  However, it wasn’t just the sudden possible resurrection of Kane, if indeed it was Kane who had been sending the pieces. Nor was it only the thought of a dangerous terrorist running around Manhattan with the president of Russia due to speak at the United Nations on Friday. It was more of a feeling of not being able to see the big picture of what all of it put together meant because he was standing too close to it. Or smack dab in the middle of it.

  All night he’d tossed and turned with a voice in his head. Sometimes it is the blind who see what the sighted cannot….

  At one point in his fitful dreams, Marlene had wakened him and they’d made love more out of a need to touch base and take comfort in the familiar than any great passion. He’d never tired of her lithe body and had always been amazed how she could make each time different than the thousands of times before. When they at last fell asleep, she was lying on top of him, nestled in his arms. But when he woke in the morning it was with the voice echoing forward from his dreams.

  So what are you not seeing, Karp? Come on, use that analytical mind that’s seen through a zillion defense strategies and out of a gazillion tight corners…. Nothing…Some genius you are.

 
Karp reached down and absently traced his finger across some of his summation notes. He came to a crossed-out name. Detective Michael Flanagan. They’d never figured out a way-mostly because it wasn’t necessary-to introduce him into the trial as the cop who shut down the initial investigation. So his name had been crossed out for the closing argument.

  Karp tapped the notepad. Although open to the possibility, he hadn’t put much stock in the theory that Kane was connected to Teresa’s murder through Flanagan. It was just too big a coincidence that fourteen years ago, Stavros killed his wife and called upon Kane to help cover up the crime. If that’s true why would the murder suddenly come to light at this particular moment in time with Kane and an international terrorist group threatening?

  Karp furrowed his brow and wiped his hand across his face. Let it roll, Karp. What if the trial of Emil Stavros really was part of some larger plan festering in the mind of Andrew Kane?

  A distraction?

  Maybe, but for what purpose? I’m not all that involved with Putin’s appearance. That’s not it, and it’s more than just a distraction aimed at me and the feds…. Emil Stavros has to know that it’s Kane pulling the strings that has placed him in jeopardy. Why wouldn’t he try to make a deal with us in exchange for helping us catch Kane?

  Karp’s conscious and subconscious minds jumped to the same conclusion. Kane is blackmailing Stavros to help him…something to do with the murder. Something that could put him away, if it fell into the “right” hands.

  But Stavros is already dead meat.

  That might be the literal truth. Would Kane leave him alive? But I think Guma and I surprised them. I think Stavros was told not to worry about it, as long as he cooperated, he would be acquitted…that’s why the little smile at the beginning of the trial.

  Why would Kane need Stavros?

  Stavros is a banker. Criminal masterminds need bankers, secret accounts, wire transfers. Cash.

  Okay. So Kane has blackmailed Stavros into helping him…something to do with banks…but what?

  Revenge?

  What’s that got to do with banks?

  Bank robbery?

  Using terrorists?

  Then money to pay for terrorists to help Kane do something else? Kill me and my family? I don’t know.

  Don’t let your ego get in the way of your brain, Karp. So al Qaeda, which by the way is loaded with oil money, is so impoverished and eager to help kill you that first they murder a half dozen schoolchildren and another half dozen officers of the law, then a former Catholic archbishop, a former detective, a couple more New York cops, then two Homeland Security agents, and the police chief of the Taos Pueblo, then another…at last count…dozen feds…Oh, and let’s not forget between ten and twenty-it was difficult to tell from the pieces-hostages and captors in Aspen.

  Not to mention all the attempts on my family and friends. Okay. Okay. I get it. This is more than vengeance aimed at me.

  Brilliant, my dear Holmes! But the questions remain. What? When?

  Karp tapped his finger on the notepad again. It reminded him of watching Guma doodle on his own notepad in court after lunch the day before as they waited for the judge. He’d written the word stalling and surrounded it with a variety of squiggles and arrows.

  Stalling. Anderson had been so desperate to stretch the trial to Monday, knowing there’d be no delays after that. So it was important to make sure there was no way Stavros would be in prison this weekend.

  Which means it’s not Putin the terrorists and Kane are after…

  His eyes caught sight of the white king. Nope. We’re not talking the terrorists being after the white king of the Jews here, Karp, my man…

  Karp grabbed the telephone and punched in the cell phone number of Special-Agent-in-Charge S. P. Jaxon. “Espey, I know this is going to sound like it’s coming out of the blue, but we’ve got it all wrong,” he said. “I think it’s the Pope they’re after. And if I’m right, it’s going to be inside St. Patrick’s. We have a mole in security inside that church. It’s the same problem we had starting with Michael Grover, the traitor bastard responsible for the slaughter of those children and cops and Fulton getting shot.”

  “Hold on a second,” Jaxon said. “I’m outside the cathedral standing near one of the television trucks. There, that’s better. What do you mean…did you get new information?”

  “No, just looking at old information in a new way,” Karp replied and explained how he’d come to his conclusions.

  “I have to admit, it makes sense,” Jaxon said. “I’ll run it by Ellis.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “It’s your call, but I’d like to keep this to as few people as we can trust with our lives,” Karp said. “I don’t know how much I trust Ellis, but for sure I don’t know him well enough that I’d put my life in his hands. Do you?”

  There was silence and then, “No.”

  “It’s just we all know there’s a mole in his agency or yours, maybe both,” Karp said. “So let’s just keep this as quiet as possible…need-to-know basis only…. Hey, I’ve always wanted to say that. Who’s in charge of the inside security?”

  “Vic Hodges,” Jaxon said. “Former ATF agent, works for Homeland Security now. He was in Aspen. He has an HS team working with him.”

  “Yeah, I think Lucy mentioned him,” Karp said. “She doesn’t like him much.”

  “He’s a little strange,” Jaxon agreed. “But I did a background on him after Aspen…don’t tell Ellis. He seems straight up. Has a wife and kid in the Midwest. Decorated. Shot in the line of duty…twice. Was deep undercover in an Aryan gang. Bound to be a little weird.”

  “Why is he doing the security?”

  “He can recognize Samira Azzam and some of her associates. If they somehow manage to get in as part of the spectators or the church types-there’s a bunch of them-he’s seen their faces. I also have a few of my guys inside…. Think we ought to tell the Pope’s people to call this off?”

  Karp thought about it. “Tough question. But what would we tell them? There might, or might not be, a plot against the Pope by a supposedly dead psychopath and his gang of cutthroat Islamic terrorists? We don’t really know how they plan to get past security or how they plan to pull this off. If I’m even right about this.”

  “The Pope would be safe.”

  “And every time anybody wanted to throw a panic into the public and force us to live in holes, they make a threat…viable or not. And if Kane is alive, this might be our best chance to bring him out, as well as Azzam and any Russian involvement.”

  “Do we have a right to risk the life of the spiritual leader for a billion or so people? The consequences of something happening to the Pope are enormous.”

  “I realize that. Maybe we could quietly get word to his top security guy and just let him know that the threat has increased today more than it was yesterday.”

  “I might be able to do that. And to be honest, if the target is the Pope, it would be easier to try something outside the cathedral, maybe when his motorcade is on the way to the airport. Security around St. Patrick’s is going to be tighter than a rusted nut for blocks around the cathedral. No one in without law enforcement or church credentials, or VIP passes is going to be allowed on the streets within three blocks of the cathedral. No pedestrians. No cars that aren’t official. As far as the adoring masses, this is a media event. The mayor’s office is installing giant-screen televisions on the streets for all the pre-, during, and post-ceremony action.”

  Karp picked up the evidence bag. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But then what’s Stavros’s role?”

  “He’s home with an electronic bracelet, isn’t he?” Jaxon asked.

  “Yeah…so maybe this is something he can do on a computer from home,” Karp said.

  “What if there was a sudden brownout that affected his electricity only?” Jaxon said.

  Karp laughed. “I thought you guys didn’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

&n
bsp; “Vee half vays, my friend,” Jaxon said. “What about you? Going to stay home now?”

  “Nope,” Karp said. “My kid…Lucy…is already at the cathedral with her boyfriend, and soon so will two thousand more people. Marlene’s going. You couldn’t stop her with a cathedral full of terrorists. This is her one and only chance to get that up close and personal with His Holiness. So I want to be there if anything happens. Besides, if I don’t think the Pope should call it off, how could I stay home? I’m going.”

  “Figured as much,” Jaxon said. “Well, I’m going to talk to a couple of my guys who, like you said, I’d trust with my life. And then go find the head of the pontiff’s Swiss Guard security detail.”

  “Swiss Guard? I thought those guys were ceremonial? The metal helmets and pikes.”

  “Some of what they do is ceremonial and medieval,” Jaxon said. “But they’ve changed with the times, too. They’re all former elite Swiss military and well trained.”

  “Trust them?”

  “Yeah. These guys are the Vatican’s version of the Untouchables. All Catholic. Impeccable reputations. Five hundred years of dedication to the Pope. If we can’t trust them, we might as well just give the world to Kane. Anyway, I want to find one of my best guys, K. C. Chalk, ex-Navy SEAL, and let him in on this…. What’s next for you?”

  “I’m going to make a couple of calls, one to Denton,” Karp said. “He’ll know what to do as far as security outside the cathedral and on the motor route without tipping anybody else off.”

  “Who else?”

  “Detective Clarke Fairbrother. I think he was taking the day off, but maybe he’d like to keep an eye on his old friend Emil Stavros after the electricity goes out.”

  “See you in a bit, then…. Oh, if you’re not the white king, then Marlene probably isn’t the white queen. So who is?”

  This was the conclusion that Karp hadn’t wanted to reach. But his conversation with himself had served as a reminder that the terrorists in New Mexico weren’t just trying to kill John Jojola and Ned Blanchet. “That’s a big part of why I want to be down there…. I hate to say it, but I think the white queen is Lucy.”