He held his breath as Sampson asked his first question.
“Pavel, I want to start by talking a little about your childhood. You got into a lot of trouble growing up in Brighton Beach, didn’t you?”
Pavel grinned. “I guess you could say that. I had a few rough patches as a kid.”
“Sounds like they were more than just rough patches,” Sampson said, cocking his head to the side. “Were you ever arrested?”
“Plenty of times.”
“For what?”
“All kinds of shit—drugs, breaking and entering, stealing cars, armed robbery, assault and battery. Stuff like that.”
“Anything else?” Sampson said, glancing down at his questions.
Feodor hesitated, then smiled. “I once got arrested for attempted murder. Stuck some asshole kid with a knife. Put him in the hospital. But I was found innocent of all charges.”
“You sound proud of it,” Sampson said, peering into Feodor’s face.
“I was a big shot after that,” Feodor said gloatingly. “Everybody, and I do mean everybody, was scared shitless of me. I was the toughest kid in my neighborhood.”
“I bet you were,” Sampson said deprecatingly.
For the next fifteen minutes, the anchorman ran through a series of questions about Feodor’s family and what it was like spending so much time in juvenile detention. As Pavel got more and more comfortable, his answers got more and more animated. Tapping his watch, Ethan reminded Sampson they only had an hour, and that it was time to push the interview forward.
“Let’s go back to the night of the murder,” Sampson said, picking up his cue. “In the transcript of your confession, you told the police you were drinking at a bar and that you met a couple of guys you didn’t know who asked you if you wanted to make some easy money helping them pull off a drug deal. Is that correct, Pavel?”
“Yup, that’s what I told the cops.”
“You also told them you couldn’t remember the name of the bar.”
“Yup again. I said I was drunk and forgot. That was my story.”
“Were you telling the truth?”
Ethan held his breath and looked at Mindy, waiting on pins and needles as Feodor took his time answering.
“Hold on a minute,” Pavel said. “Frankie, I need a cigarette.” O’Malley placed a Camel in his mouth and ignited it, then stared into his client’s eyes, shaking his head, warning him not to change his story. Feodor took a long drag and turned back to Sampson. “The answer to your question is no, I didn’t tell the cops the truth. I was lying.” His voice was steady and unwavering.
O’Malley slumped in his chair.
“What do you mean you were lying?” Sampson said dubiously.
Feodor smiled. A devious smile. “I wasn’t drinking that night. Not even one single beer. And I certainly didn’t meet anybody in a bar. I made up the whole thing.”
“Mr. Sampson,” O’Malley burst in, gesturing wildly, “my client’s gone over this many times with the police and with me. He doesn’t remember who he was with that night. He was drunk. That’s his story. That’s the truth.”
“Please, Mr. O’Malley, I wasn’t talking to you,” Sampson said, cutting him off. “I was talking to Pavel.” He turned back to Feodor. “I’m going to ask you that question one more time. I just want to make sure there’s no misunderstanding here.” He paused and peered at Feodor. “You just claimed you lied to the police. That you made up the entire story about hooking up with a group of guys you didn’t know in a bar. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yup, I made it up,” Feodor said. “The whole story about the bar is a figment of my imagination.”
“Hold your tongue, Pavel,” O’Malley said, his tone desperate.
“Mr. O’Malley, I just warned you. I’m not interviewing you,” Sampson said, raising his voice slightly. “Let him talk.” He turned back to Feodor. “Pavel, why should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to, but I didn’t meet nobody in a bar.”
“So who were you with that night in the Meatpacking District?”
Feodor took a long drag on his cigarette, lifted his head, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Ethan inched forward in his chair, Herb zooming into a tight shot of Feodor, Bobby locking his camera on a medium shot of Sampson who was waiting with baited breath. “I was part of the crew working with a guy named Nikolai Stanislov.”
O’Malley turned ashen gray.
“And who is Nikolai Stanislov?” Sampson said, pressing the point.
“He’s the underboss in the Kolkov crime family.” Feodor turned and glared at his attorney. “But you already know that, don’t you Frankie? Now everybody else is gonna know it too.”
“Hold on, Pavel. We’ll talk about what your attorney knows in a minute. But first I want to back up a second. Are you telling me you were in the Meatpacking District the night of the murder with the Russian Mafia?” Sampson said incredulously.
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Ethan looked at David and winked. All their hard work—finding Lloyd Howard, interviewing the junkies in the middle of the night, staking out Nikolai Stanislov’s law office—had just paid off in spades. Pavel Feodor was pointing the finger at one of the most notorious Mob families in the city, placing them at the crime scene the night Cynthia Jameson was murdered.
“Shut up, Pavel. Don’t say another word,” O’Malley said hysterically.
“Please, Mr. O’Malley,” Sampson said, “stop interrupting. Your client wants to tell me what really happened that night. You’ll have plenty of time to tell me your side of the story when we sit down and do your interview.”
Ethan whispered into Herb Glickstein’s ear. “You’re getting all this, right?”
The cameraman nodded. “Haven’t missed a word.”
“Go on, Pavel. Tell me about that night,” Sampson said, turning the page of his questions.
“The plan was to buy a big shipment of heroin from a Mexican cartel. I can’t remember which one. They’re all the same to me. We had a million dollars in cash in two duffel bags, and they were supposed to sell us two hundred pounds of pure, uncut heroin.”
“Hold on, Mr. Feodor,” Sampson said. “Let’s be clear about this. You’re telling me you were involved in a major heroin deal as a member of this Russian syndicate. Why didn’t you tell the police or the prosecutor?”
Feodor laughed. “Would you snitch on the Mob if you were in my shoes? I don’t think that would’ve been too smart, do you?”
“No, ah, probably not,” Sampson said, flustered.
Ethan held his breath, hoping Peter wasn’t losing control of the interview.
Sampson went on. “Okay, Pavel, so explain to me what went wrong that night. Why was there a shootout?”
“The Mexicans tried to cheat us, those motherfuckers. They wouldn’t let us test a random packet of heroin. They were going to sell us a cheap, watered-down product.” Feodor was getting angry on camera, his face contorted in a mask of hate. “One thing led to another, and we all started shooting. Just like that, there were bullets flying everywhere.”
Sampson looked stunned. “Were you part of the gun battle?”
“Hell, of course I was. I got me at least one Mexican—right here.” He tapped his shoulder, the chains binding his hands rattling through the microphone. “Ripped a big hole in him. Splattered his blood everywhere.” Pavel started laughing as he described the gun battle and the people who were shot and killed.
Ethan shuddered. Feodor’s physiognomy was frightening. The man was a sociopath and needed to be locked away forever.
“So you admit firing your weapon and shooting a lot of people,” Sampson said.
“I never denied it. I told the police during my so-called confession that I shot that Mexican and probably some others.”
“And how did Cynthia Jameson end up in the middle of the gun battle?” Sampson said, steering the conversation to the murder. “What was she doing there?�
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“I have no idea.”
“But you never denied shooting her. Why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t kill her,” Feodor said, scowling into the camera. “That’s a lie. I was shot, fell down, hit my head on the ground, and passed out. I have no idea who shot her.”
“But that’s not what you told the police. That’s not what the assistant district attorney, Nancy McGregor, told the jury.”
“I just told you I didn’t confess. The prosecutor made it up.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, Pavel. Your confession was played in court. The jury heard you say you killed her. It was on television, on the Internet, and in all the newspapers. I watched the video myself. You said loud and clear that you murdered her, didn’t you?”
“Not true,” Feodor said emphatically. “They changed it somehow. I may have seen the girl standing on the corner, but I have no idea how she was murdered.”
“Pavel, are you telling me you didn’t kill Cynthia Jameson?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t know who shot her. It wasn’t me. It must’ve happened after I passed out.”
“So you’re saying you’re innocent?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And you’re insinuating you were framed by the police and the prosecutor, that they somehow doctored your confession and misled the jury.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Pavel leaned over to his attorney. “And Frankie here knows that and went right along with them. He never told the jury I didn’t do it. He never told them I was innocent.”
Sampson turned to the public defender. “Do you want to comment on that, Mr. O’Malley?” The public defender blinked a couple of times and opened his mouth, but then shook his head no. Sampson continued. “Pavel, why didn’t you recant your confession during the trial? Why didn’t you tell the jury what you just told me? They might’ve found you innocent.”
Feodor smiled. “Because Alexey Kolkov paid me half a million dollars to keep my mouth shut.”
Ethan leaned back, surprised. This was the first time he’d heard anything about a payoff to Feodor.
“Would you repeat that?” Sampson said, glancing into the camera.
“No sweat off my ass,” Pavel said. “The Russians paid me big money not to mention they were behind the drug deal.”
“But why would they do that?”
“Why do you think?” Feodor said, smirking. “They run heroin big time, and the last thing they wanted was to be linked to that girl’s murder. Would’ve brought down too much heat from the Feds. Would’ve fucked up their lucrative business.”
Ethan quickly scribbled a follow-up question on a piece of paper and handed it to Sampson. “My producer wants to know what good all that money is now that you’ve been convicted.”
“None. But at the time, I didn’t think the jury was gonna burn me,” Feodor said, jerking his head toward O’Malley. “My big-shot attorney swore he’d get me off and that I’d be rich when I got out.”
“And you believed him?”
“Yeah, I believed him. But I didn’t know until it was too late that the Russians were also paying him a shitload of money to throw the case. Isn’t that right, Frankie? You work for the Mob, don’t you?”
Ethan tapped Glickstein on the shoulder, motioning for him to pan over and zoom into a tight shot of O’Malley’s face.
“Is he telling the truth?” Sampson said, staring at the public defender. “Were you paid off by the Russian syndicate to get Pavel convicted?”
O’Malley sat motionless, refusing to answer the question, Ethan understanding for the first time why the Russians had been so desperate to stop the interview. Pavel Feodor was a loose end. He was blowing their cover, describing their heroin operation, and implicating the syndicate in Cynthia Jameson’s murder.
Sampson pressed on. “So if you didn’t kill her, Pavel, who did?”
“Well, that should be pretty obvious,” Feodor said, the camera picking up a facial tick on his cheek. “If I didn’t do it, it had to be either the Mexicans or somebody else in Stanislov’s crew.”
“Are you saying that somebody in the Kolkov crime family may have killed Cynthia Jameson?”
Feodor nodded. “That’s what I’m saying. It could’ve been Nikolai Stanislov himself, that scumbag, who fired the gun that killed her. But as I told you, I didn’t see it. I was out cold in the alley.”
Frankie O’Malley had heard enough. He stood and jerked off his microphone, grim-faced, the cameramen panning after him as he dashed out the door without saying a word.
“Shall we continue?” Sampson said, glancing at Ethan. “I don’t think Mr. O’Malley plans to return.” He wheeled back to Feodor. “So you don’t remember what happened after you passed out in the parking lot, do you?”
“No. And I don’t remember pulling the trigger and murdering that girl,” Feodor said, staring into the lens.
“Mr. Feodor, I must say, many people in the audience aren’t going to believe you. They’re going to say you’re a convicted killer, that you’re changing your story to save your skin. Why are you coming clean? Why now?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Feodor said, his face fixed and determined. “The governor is talking about lifting the moratorium on the death penalty for little old me. I’m probably a dead man. So what do I have to lose?”
“But if the governor doesn’t make that decision and decides to send you to prison instead, aren’t you worried about the Russians and what they’ll do after we broadcast our story? You just told me the syndicate doesn’t tolerate snitches.”
“Sure I’m worried, but if I’m gonna die, I’d rather go down telling the truth. I didn’t kill Cynthia Jameson. Somebody else did.”
Sampson nodded, then quickly scanned through his list of questions. “I think I’ve covered everything, Ethan. Is there something else you want me to ask?”
“No. We’re good,” he said, putting his copy of the questions into his briefcase.
“And what about you, Mr. Feodor? Is there anything else you’d like to say while we’re still rolling our cameras?”
“There is one more thing,” Feodor said, shooting a quick glance at Ethan. “The syndicate already came damn close to rubbing me out. They ordered a hit on me just this week.”
Ethan looked up from his bank of monitors, startled.
“What do you mean the syndicate ordered a hit on you?” Sampson said.
“I don’t want him answering that question,” Gloria Jimenez said, jumping out of her chair. “It’s not relevant to your story. Stop the cameras.”
Ethan motioned to his cameramen to keep rolling. “I think it’s more than relevant,” he said, pointing at the press officer. “Mr. Feodor just told us the Russian Mob tried to kill him. Is that what happened the other day with the prison guard?”
“I’m telling you it’s not important,” Jimenez said, waving her arms as she rushed onto the set. “Pavel, don’t answer any more questions.” She addressed Ethan, furious. “The incident is still under investigation. I have no further comments. This interview is over.” Then she ordered the three corrections officers—who’d raced into the room—to escort Feodor back to his cell. They yanked him to his feet, kicking and screaming, and dragged him across the floor.
“Answer the question, Pavel,” Ethan said desperately. “Who was the prison guard?”
“An asshole named Jimmy Benito. He went berserk and tried to shoot me, but he was so drunk, the bullet missed my head and hit the wall behind me. Otherwise I’d be dead, and you wouldn’t be here interviewing me today.”
The corrections officers kept pushing Feodor toward the door, but when they reached the hallway, he leaned back and screamed, “That cocksucker works for the Russians. Fucking O’Malley told me yesterday. He was trying to get me to cancel the interview. He said if I talked, they’d hire somebody else to kill me. So you gotta get me out of here, otherwise I’m a dead man.”
Ethan stood speechless, watching as Feodor disappeared through the security checkpoint and back onto his cellblock. Then he spun around and looked for Sampson. “Did he just say what I think he did? That the Russians hired a prison guard to take him out and that O’Malley knew all about it?”
Sampson nodded.
“Shit,” Ethan said. “Now I understand why Gloria Jimenez was such a bitch today. She was worried we’d find out how close the prison came to losing their most infamous inmate.”
“And she was worried we’d find out one of her guards was working for Alexey Kolkov,” Peter said caustically. “We know O’Malley’s working for Kolkov. So it’s not too big a stretch for this guy Benito to be working for him too.”
Ethan turned to Mindy, who’d just joined them. “Let’s see if any of our sources can confirm a link between the prison guard and the Russians. I want a full-court press by the entire team.” Then he moved to the middle of the set. “Everybody listen up. We still have a full day of shooting ahead of us—exteriors of the prison and all those New York City street scenes. Let’s wrap and get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.”
Reaching for a cigarette, he sat down on a camera case and began replaying the interview in his head, focusing on the fear in Pavel Feodor’s eyes. Shit, Alexey Kolkov is a ruthless bastard. Is he gonna try to kill Feodor again now that the interview is over? Is he gonna try to kill me? My family? How far will this guy go to stop my story?
Sweating profusely, he grabbed his iPhone and called Sarah. He had to make sure she and Luke were okay.
CHAPTER 30
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER EIGHT when the black Lincoln cruised down Beaumont Street in Manhattan Beach. The weather forecast was calling for rain, and a dense fog was hanging over the million-dollar homes like tendrils of thick smoke. Mischa cut the headlights and slowed down in front of a big Tudor house halfway down the block. The windows were dark and shuttered, except for a thin beam of light peeking out from a room on the first floor. The two hit men checked their handguns. Anatoly was carrying his Ruger .357 Magnum, and Mischa a Sig Sauer 911 Scorpion, both fully loaded and fitted with silencers. They climbed out of the car and walked up the steps, glancing to make sure nobody was watching, then pushed their way through the front door—the Rolling Stones screeching the lyrics of “Gimme Shelter” booming from a stereo.
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