Madriani - 02 - Prime Witness

by Steve Martini

  I wonder for a moment if he’s already heard, whether he knows that Iganovich has disappeared. Is it possible that his pipeline is better than my own?

  “I’m in a hurry,” I say.

  “You blew it,” he says. “The extradition. They tell me you have to start the whole process over,” he says. “How many months?”

  I look at him. He doesn’t know. Not yet. He is thinking that the worst of it is more delay. Wait till he finds out the suspect is gone. My real troubles will start then.

  “I warned them,” he says. He’s talking about Ingel and the supervisors over in Davenport, where he tried to blackball me on the assignment. I’m beginning to wish that maybe he’d succeeded.

  “I have no time for this.” I push past him to the door of my car, unlock it with the key. He grabs my shoulder. I pull away from him. At this moment it comes as close to blows as we ever have. For an instant we stare at each other, intense and molten. Then he takes his hand from my shoulder, his eyes two burning coals. It is not the anxiety borne by his sister that troubles the Coconut. It is that I have not genuflected to his authority.

  “I warned you,” he says. He is back to finger gestures in my face, an inch away. “That if you fucked up, I’d have your ass.”

  I’m in the seat, behind the wheel, the door closed, engine started. He’s in my open window, which I have rolled down so I can see, to avoid crushing him against the car next to me, though the impulse at this moment is strong.

  I begin to roll. His hands grip the top of my window.

  “I’m going to the AG,” he says. “A formal complaint. I’m demanding an investigation of your conduct. The attorney general should have had this case from the beginning. They will be all over your ass,” he says. “Do you hear me? All over your ass.” He’s beginning to shout as I pull back, out of the parking space. I ignore him through all of this, like he’s not there.

  As I drive away down the line of cars headed for the exit, I can hear his solitary voice, stripped of its feigned articulation, no longer elegant or precise, spitting venom at the back of my car, echoing off the concrete ceiling:

  “The AG, you sonofabitch. Do you hear me? You’ll be hearing from the AG.”

  Lenore, Claude and I are in Emil Johnson’s office, on the speaker phone. I’ve gotten Harry to cover my afternoon court appearances. Emil is giving me stern looks from the other side of his desk, a prelude of worse things to come in the press, I think.

  Johnson’s got his feet planted in the middle of the desk, two gunboats, snake-hide cowboy boots with silver tips.

  Denny Henderson is relaying from Vancouver the details of Iganovich’s disappearance.

  “It was early this morning,” he says. “About four o’clock. He slipped away from the two cops staked out in front of his motel.” Coming over the line Henderson sounds like he’s talking through a hose.

  “They think he had help,” says Henderson.

  Emil is all eyes at this news.

  “Help to escape?” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  “What kinda help?”

  “They think there were two of ’em. The cops up here have no idea who they were, but one of ’em caused a diversion, a fire in a dumpster down the street, a big blaze,” says Henderson. “The cops thought it was a building. They left for two minutes to check it out. When they got back in position everything looked fine. In the morning they discovered that Iganovich was gone. The motel clerk says he saw him leave with two people, in a late model sedan.”

  “Great,” says Emil. “Sounds like they oughta hire the clerk to do surveillance. At least he sees what’s goin’ down. Stay with it. And call us as soon as there’s anything else.” Emil punches a button on the phone. The speaker goes dead.

  “Hot damn,” he says. His feet are off the desk, his gut up against it. “At least that explains the Scofield stuff.”

  “Emm.” Claude is looking at him. “How so?” he says.

  “There were three of ’em. The Russian did the kids. These other two did the Scofields.” In Emil’s mind, it’s a nice neat little package. I think maybe he’s planning to serve it up to the press before the Canadians can reveal that Iganovich is gone.

  “Why? What’s the motive?” I say.

  “They’re crazy,” he says. “You saw the bodies. Tell me, are those the acts of sane people, logical minds?”

  Lenore scoffs at this. “If they were working together, why didn’t we find evidence at the Russian’s apartment, or in the van? Forensics would have found hair, prints, something,” she says. “And if they were working together, why the different rope on the Scofields, and failure to grind the stakes to a point?”

  Emil gives her a sneer, as much as to say if she wants to join the club, play with the boys, she should at least humor his theories.

  But Goya is a quick study. In one day, after coming on board, she digested all of the evidentiary reports. She can now spit the facts of the case at Johnson like a computer.

  Emil looks as if he’d like to brush all this aside, troublesome little details. But Lenore is right. Something else is happening here.

  “Well, what do we do now?” says Emil.

  “We wait,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “Till we see what the Canadians come up with.”

  “That’s fine for you,” he says. “Some of us have to run in this county, for re-election.” He emphasizes the end of this word.

  “Not in the next two days,” I tell him.

  “The public is fickle,” he says. “They tend to remember things like this.” Helped along by one’s opponent he means. Emil would like to put a favorable spin on things before the pieces of this disaster become fixed like concrete in the public psyche.

  “And what if we run to the papers, and the next day the Canadians take him again? You’d look a little foolish,” I say.

  “Still, they fucked up,” he says. “He got away on their watch. I’m not gonna wait for ’em to remind the papers that the only reason our guy was on the street was because of a mistake made in your office,” he says.

  “I’ve got another what-if,” says Claude.

  “Yeah?” Emil’s waiting for this latest contribution.

  “What if he kills again, up there?”

  Emil’s eyes get big and round. He hasn’t considered this scenario. “Sonofabitch,” he says. “We call a press conference right now and take the high ground.”

  The arrest warrant and diplomatic note have arrived in Canada, and the political heat is now getting severe. Claude and I have prevailed on Emil Johnson to hold off on any disclosures, his threatened news conference, at least for twenty-four hours. By then, if the Canadians have not found Iganovich, we will no longer be able to keep the lid on this thing.

  For the moment I am dealing with matters closer to home, Roland Overroy and his incompetence.

  “Coulda happened to anybody,” he says.

  This is Roland’s excuse for the error that freed Andre Iganovich, Overroy’s failure to check the pocket parts for the current law, the controlling murder statute in this case.

  It is nearing six o’clock, the last business of the day. I have instructed Roland to stay after for this meeting. I have held off until most of the office staff have gone home. Overroy is in my office, called on the carpet to answer for his interference in the Putah Creek cases.

  “What do you expect?” he says. “In working conditions like this. I’m buried in cases. You put me in a closet down the hall and expect me to perform. You could at least have Lenore pick up some of her old cases.”

  I remind him that the crucial error on the murder statute was made before he assumed Lenore’s workload, back when he had time for afternoon cruises on the Delta.

  He ignores this.

  “You knew I was working on these cases. Why didn’t you tell me about the phone call from Washington?” I ask this in measured tones, trying to curb my natural enmity toward this man.

  “Because I alrea
dy handled it,” he says. He is flip in his manner, dismissing the question. His idea of handling it was to deliver a statute repealed from the law nine years ago. I shake my head.

  I have wondered whether this mishap was more a matter of design than negligence, Roland’s way of doing me damage. But he is such a giftless bastard that in the past I have dismissed such notions.

  Now I begin to wonder about the news stories, the disclosure to the press of our theories concerning a second, copycat killer. Such revelations are not beyond Overroy, I think. His is a sacred crusade, recouping his pride and power.

  I tell him there are people now making noises, demanding an inquiry by the state attorney general. This does not seem to bother him much, like maybe the buck in the office stops with me. I’m sure Roland could come up with a dozen artful answers to any probe, each one aimed at deflecting blame back on me.

  I would fire him on the spot, but the Civil Service Commission would never allow it. They like graduated penalties, a million mistakes, each documented a dozen times in writing, with counseling sessions so that the culprit knows what he did wrong, and marathon warnings. So obsessive and time-consuming is the process that Roland and hundreds like him have carved notches of incompetence, like badges of honor, on the arms of their desk chairs. Hawking each of his mistakes through the course of a single day would consume all of my time. And so he has survived through the better part of three decades, and five DA’s.

  “If you wanna blame somebody,” he says, “blame that bimbo.”

  I look at him questioningly.

  “Perez,” he says. “It was her job to get the pocket parts back in the books. She can’t keep out of her own way. You ought to be riding her ass,” he says. One of Roland’s crowning traits, blaming others.

  The phone on my desk rings, the back line. I pick it up. It’s Claude, calling from the county jail.

  I watch Overroy as I listen to Dusalt on the phone. Roland is beginning to muster signs of anger, working it into his face with effort. I have heard from others that he staged little screaming sessions with Feretti whenever required. And when it was over, they would bury it and forget, and Overroy would go on as before.

  I listen with interest to what Claude is telling me. Overroy is trying to read what is happening in my face, what tidbit may be on the phone. I make my face a bare stone tablet to keep it from him. “I’ll be over there in five minutes,” I tell him, and I hang up.

  Roland doesn’t miss a beat. Before the phone is in the cradle, he is talking. “Next time somebody calls for something in a rush, I’ll ignore it,” he says. His opening shot.

  “Is that a promise?”

  This pushes him a notch higher.

  “Since you arrived, you’ve been a sonofabitch,” he says. A little name-calling to stoke the coals. “You’re worried I might get Feretti’s job. You’ve been doing a number on me since you arrived. Constant harassment,” he calls it. “Degrading assignments. You take a junior attorney in the office and give her the hot cases. It makes me wonder about you and her . . .” He bites his tongue before finishing this. The little gray cells are churning upstairs. False charges of advancement in return for erotic favors would constitute actionable sexual harassment by Goya against him. He knows this. She would have his ass in a federal court on a Title VII action before he could turn around. This whole thing is eating at him, that Goya is now in line for his old position. With Roland it is not merely that he himself must do well with virtually no effort, but that by his terms, the only measure of true success is when the careers of those around him are in free-fall like plummeting drops of rain.

  “What do you want me to say, Roland? You want my candid evaluation of your abilities? You won’t like it,” I say. “But if that’s what you want”—I shrug—“fine. You’re not much of a lawyer. On a scale of one to ten I’d rate you a two. You’re lazy, incompetent. You lack initiative.” I gaze toward the ceiling as if I’m running over some checklist I have previously made. “And I suppose I would have to say that on the whole, you’re a major bore. Is that plain enough for you? Now that we’re finished, I’ll memorialize it in writing and we can put it in your personnel file. Now are you happy?”

  He looks at me, beady little crazed eyes. “You’re an asshole,” he says, “an absolute asshole.”

  “Yes,” I say, “and I’m all over you. So I’d advise you to open your eyes, light a match and take a good look at yourself and where you’re headed.” My voice never rises above a conversational tone.

  Before he can open his mouth I tell him: “Get out. You’ll have my memo in the morning.” It is the end of our session.

  It’s a dramatic exit, like an actor who’s overplayed his part. He slams my door, nearly breaking the glass.

  I wait until I hear his footfalls diminish, out the front door. Then I grab my coat and prepare to meet Claude at the county jail. If Iganovich had killed in Canada because of this error, I would have haunted Overroy into an instant, early retirement. As it is, I think that the fates have lavished their entire cache of karma on Roland this day. Claude Dusalt’s phone call was brief and to the point. Andre Iganovich was delivered, chained and cuffed, to the Davenport County Jail forty minutes ago.

  They stand like Hawkeye and Chingachgook, more swarthy, and not quite so lean. Benny Sanchez and his brother set bold profiles for the press photographers who are milling around them for an angle, that special shot to grace tomorrow morning’s editions. The television crews are just arriving, setting up their lights.

  I watch them through the one-way glass of an observation window in the jail, a little room that Claude has requisitioned. The brothers Sanchez pose in the reception area and tell reporters how they snatched Andre Iganovich from his motel room in Canada under the nose of the Canadian cops, and transported him across an international boundary while authorities on both sides girded themselves to find the fugitive. It is not an auspicious moment for law enforcement.

  Claude tells me that Emil is in a quandary. He does not know quite what to do with these two men, whether to arrest them for kidnapping, or award each of them medals.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” says Claude. He tells me that this is what Dr. Park paid the two men to stalk the Russian through the extradition hearing, on the long-odds chance that they might have an opportunity to abduct Iganovich and bring him back.

  “I’ve interviewed Park,” he says. “Got him in a back room in case you wanna talk to him.” He tells me that Park is now a broken man. He is ready to do whatever time is required for this crime. According to Claude, Park was concerned that we were about to cut a deal on the death penalty.

  “Said he didn’t have any confidence that we would hang tough. So he took things into his own hands. Do you want to talk to him?” he says.

  “No. The damage is done,” I say.

  “You wanna charge him with anything?”

  “Not likely,” I say. On this I have the same problem Emil does. If charged and tried, any reasonable jury would award Park the Nobel Prize.

  “Has anybody told Jacoby?” I ask.

  “He damn near tore my head off,” says Claude. “He says the authorities up in Ottawa are ‘outraged’—his word. I had to swear a blood oath that we had nothing to do with it. I think he’s more than a little suspicious. He tells me they’re getting ready to file a formal note of protest with Washington, demanding that we return the suspect for proper extradition. He wants to know if we’ll agree to this.”

  A few years ago such a note would have sealed our fate. Iganovich would have been returned to Canada for completion of extradition. A federal court would have blocked our prosecution until this was done. But the Supreme Court has changed all of that.

  In a case involving a Mexican physician and the torture-murder of an agent of the Drug Enforcement Administration, the Supreme Court has thrown the gates open to abduction as an acceptable remedy for producing fugitives in U.S. courts.

  Claude’s now looking over my shoulder, out thr
ough the one-way glass. “Emil’s arrived,” he says.

  I turn. Johnson is in full-dress uniform, polished brass, a shiny chrome pistol on his hip, and shoes that haven’t seen duty since the last parade.

  He waltzes in like this is part of his regular evening rounds, just looking after the welfare of the drunks in the tank. Halfway through the main entrance he smiles with feigned surprise. What a coincidence, the press is here. This has all the guile of a silent motion picture. He’s a beaming grin, from ear to ear, for the cameras. He’s shaking hands with the Sanchez boys, a lot of back-slapping and congratulations. He maneuvers himself between the two shorter brothers, and places an arm around each of their shoulders. In this pose there are toothy pictures of the three of them for the morning papers. The two brothers look as if they haven’t slept in three days, wrinkled shirts and dirty pants, stubble on their faces like magnetized metal. Standing next to Emil they look like poor relations to Pancho Villa locked in a bear hug with George Patton.

  I can’t hear any sound, but I can see Emil warding off questions, the words “no comment” forming on his lips through a forced smile.

  Finally he backs away from the crowd toward the door leading to our little room. Claude pushes a button and the latch buzzes open.

  A burst of sound, voices, a fusillade of questions from the outer room. “I’ll have more to say tomorrow.” It’s Emil’s farewell. “Tomorrow,” he says. He’s through the door. It slams shut behind him with the authority of case-hardened steel, locking out the din in the other room. The smile fades from his face.

  “Goddamn greasers,” he says. “I oughta throw their worthless butts in the can, give ’em a good shower, and spray some DDT up their kazoos.” He’s talking to Claude, still looking back at the closed door as if the Sanchez brothers were standing in front of him.

  Then he turns and sees me.

  “Hello, counselor.” He pauses for a few seconds to mentally regroup. He did not expect me to be here.

  “Fine pickle they’ve got us in,” he says. “Papers want to know whether we were in on this little escapade. Like asking if I still beat my wife. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he says. “If I say we had nothing to do with it, we look like a bunch of boobs. If I say we blessed it, Park and Sanchez can call me a liar. Then we look even worse.”