by Mark Young
I watched a look of disappointment spread across her face. ‘Don’t make fun of me,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want my help just say so.’
‘Hey. I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ I said. ‘The person I’m accused of murdering is of the daughter of our client in this civil case. And I’m pretty sure that I’m in here because of that, so its absolutely critical we keep those proceedings alive, even if that means concentrating on that and leaving me kicking my heels in here a bit longer. I can handle it for now,’ I said, knowing that that was bullshit but needing to say it to persuade the girl to take the case.
She looked at me for a long moment, eyes searching my face, then she slowly nodded. ‘Okay, so tell me about this claim,’ she said.
I sighed with relief. Fifteen minutes later she finished scribbling notes in her neat hand across a yellow legal pad. She’d listened attentively, only asking the odd question, and the ones she did ask were bang on the money. I took a sheet of paper and her pen and quickly scribbled a note to Emma and signed it. Then I set out Emma and Pascal’s contact details. ‘Can you scan this note to Emma and then speak to her on the phone and establish a link.’
She nodded, absorbed, excitement starting to rise. I needed to bring her down a bit, so I paused, eyes locked on hers and said, ‘and Morganna.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Please be careful. These people are dangerous.’
She held my eyes, serious. ‘I understand.’
I hoped to God she did. ‘Good. One last question. How long have you been practicing at actually being an attorney?’
She smiled. ‘Three weeks, but hey, don’t worry. I’m very, very good.’
Despite everything, I had to laugh. She had that kind of effervescence that only the very young seem to have, and there was a kind of mirth in her personality bubbling away just beneath the surface. She stood up as the CO came in to take me back to the block. I nodded to her and then she was walking away and I wished to Christ I was going with her. But then the screw was roughly pushing my shoulder and telling me to get moving, bringing me crashing back down to hell on earth.
Chapter 5
Pascal maneuvered her beat up old Volkswagen Golf down the winding drive way, past the hanging sign that read “Sunnybrook Nursing Home”, and on into the large shingled car park area in front of the home. She came to a halt, then leaned over and studied the paperwork lying on the passenger seat; release forms signed by Emma as well as a letter of authority directing the care home authorities to release Hannah into Pascal’s custody.
It was gone six in the evening and it took an hour to straighten out the staff with the paperwork, and then Pascal was being ushered into a bedroom and announced to Hannah Cohen by Candy, her care worker.
Hannah was sitting in an armchair, wearing headphones, eyes closed. Candy gently touched her shoulder, and her eyes slowly came open to blink and look around. She was small and birdlike with close cropped grey hair and barely a line on her face, other than around her eyes and mouth, which crinkled when she smiled at her visitors.
‘This is, Courtney, Hannah. She’s a friend of your niece, Emma,’ Candy said, and then quietly left.
Pascal was glad that Emma had phoned Hannah earlier and broken the news of Helena’s death, so she didn’t have to do it. She would not have known what to say, and even now she was struggling to know how to act. In the end she just said, quietly, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Hannah nodded, then passed Pascal a framed photograph she had been holding in her lap. ‘That’s Helena,’ she said with a sad smile.
Pascal said, ‘ she’s a beautiful girl.’
The old lady’s bright eyes searched Pascal’s face. Most people found Pascal cold and soulless, but Hannah obviously divined something human there, perhaps a heart that had known suffering as well, and she seemed comforted by what she saw in Pascal’s face. Hannah looked away for a moment, and seemed to wipe away a tear. When she turned back her face had a sad and wounded look. All she said, was, ‘no more.’ And that was all.
* * * *
After settling Hannah into the car with her immediate belongings – they’d come back later for the main stuff – Pascal walked back to sign the release form and say goodbye to the staff. At the door she turned back to watch a large black Mercedes drew up outside in the parking lot. She swept her eyes over the car and the sole occupant, then carried on into the reception area.
As she walked she felt that familiar jangling of her nerves. Her antenna, developed over time in the field, had picked up on something about the big car and its occupant, something that wasn’t quite right.
It was gone seven now and only Candy was still on duty at the desk, doing paperwork; she looked up and smiled as Pascal approached. She slid the release form across for her to sign, and Pascal leaned down to scribble her signature and slid it back across the desk, almost instantly realizing she’d made a stupid mistake. She had given her true address in St John’s Wood London. Too late to change it now. As she said goodbye to Candy, the outer door opened and the driver of the Mercedes entered and approached the desk, Pascal standing to one side.
The guy was built like a brick house, solid and swarthy, sweating, in a tight, ill-fitting suit, the buttons of which looked like they were about to burst off at any moment. He seemed to give off an extraordinary aura of menace, even though he was doing a good job of trying to cover it with a phony superficial smile.
He ignored Pascal and said to Candy, ‘Miss, I’m hoping to talk to a resident you have here, a Hannah Cohen.’ The guy was clearly American, the voice clipped and authoritative.
Before Candy could reply, Pascal said, as if she was a member of staff, ‘let me handle this, Candy.
The girl nodded gratefully, clearly intimidated by the guy.
Pascal turned to him. ‘I’m sorry, Mr?’
‘Eh, Smith. Mr. Smith,’ he said quickly, his eyes suspicious.
Probably not hired muscle, Pascal thought. The false name was shit, but didn’t really matter. She could see the wheels turning as he assessed the situation.
‘I’m afraid you’re too late, Mr. Smith. Hannah was removed from this home earlier today.’
‘Oh that’s too bad. I was so hoping to talk with her. Its about a relative of hers, information she’ll be desperate to hear. If you can give me an address, I’ll skedaddle out of here,’ he said, false smile in place, eyes flat and lethal.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Smith. Client confidentiality and data protection rules, we could lose our licence.’
Candy was answering a phone call, so Pascal made a play of riffling through papers on the desk, picking one up and studying it. She knew the guy wasn’t going to leave without an address, and she knew Candy would give it, probably unwillingly, under threat of violence, if Pascal left.
‘But, I will make an exception, since its urgent information she needs to hear, so long as you don’t tell.’
‘Honey, my lips are sealed,’ he said, a little more relaxed now he thought he was going to get what he wanted.
‘She’s gone to stay with her cousin, at,’ Pascal said, pretending to read off the form, and reeling off a fake address in Great Yarmouth.
The guy nodded and tapped the address into his phone. Then as he turned to go Hannah poked her head around the door, and said, ‘when are we going, Courtney? I’m getting very cold waiting out here.’
‘Right now,’ Pascal said, moving towards the door and nodding at Smith, who was watching like a hawk, suspicion rising every second. She put her arm around Hannah and part led, part frog marched her back to the car. As they moved down the drive, Pascal looked in the rear view mirror and could see Smith standing just outside the doors of the home, watching them. She knew he was taking down her plate number.
* * * *
As Pascal drove through the darkening streets, Hannah wrapped up and sleeping peacefully beside her, she worked through what she knew so far, and what she could guess. All she really had
to go on was Emma’s rather emotional re-telling of Hannah’s story, which had more holes in it than a Swiss cheese, and it wasn’t really a story at all. Young girl with her family and possessions deported to probably somewhere in eastern Poland in 1943, but she wasn’t even sure about the date. Family disappear along with an heirloom but no one seems to know the details of what actually happened, but the girl survives. Fast forward seventy plus years to Calver’s trip out to New York with Hannah’s daughter, Helena and a meeting with the K Corp. He intimates the lawsuit over the missing heirlooms is maybe not over, and more - maybe Hannah has started remembering what happened. Right after that meeting, Hanna’s daughter, Helena ends up dead, and Calver’s charged with the murder, neutralized, and now sitting on Rikers Island. Calver asks her to protect Hannah. Events show Calver’s on the money; if she’d come an hour later, Hannah would probably be dead by now.
She looked over at the sleeping woman, and couldn’t help smiling. Someone up there was watching over Hannah – so far. Then her smile faded. The guy Smith was a pro, but there was something else she’d sensed about him, even on such a short run-in. Smith was what she termed a force of nature. They were the kind who never gave up, and kept on coming whatever the odds or the risks, usually impervious to pain and completely unbound by any kind of moral notions of right or wrong. They were the worst; usually the only way to stop them, was to kill them.
But her first job was to arrange a hidden safe haven for Hannah, then she would have to get to New York. One thing was sure, Smith would track down her house in St John’s Wood in about five seconds flat so she would have to think of somewhere else. Christoff Wisliceny was an old colleague from her MI5 days, possibly the only male figure, other than her father, she’d ever been emotionally close to. She phoned ahead and he was waiting when they arrived at his flat in Southwark, south London.
* * * *
Hannah Cohen v Kurrilick Corporation and Milken
Southern District Court
Day 1
Charles Browder IV drummed his fingers on the defense table and quietly hummed to himself in anticipation. He checked his watch again and looked up at the bench expectantly.
Judge William T. Friedman scanned the sparsely populated courtroom and the Plaintiff’s empty chair. Friedman had a rather bookish look about him; thick wedge of dark hair, flecked with grey, swept across his head, and heavy black-rimmed glasses that made his eyes look like small goldfish swimming in a bowl. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Browder,’ he said. ‘Plaintiffs US attorneys have removed themselves from the court record, and if its a no show from the Plaintiff herself, I’m going to dismiss the action with costs, so—’
He was interrupted mid-sentence by the crashing open of the courtroom doors. He looked up as Morganna Fedler hustled in looking frazzled, weighed down by her heavy attaché case. She struggled to the Plaintiff’s table, dropped the case, and looked up at the judge. She stammered, ‘I’m so sorry your honour, for my lateness. Morganna Fedler, attorney for the Plaintiff, Hannah Cohen.’
For a moment Browder just looked on open mouthed, then his jaws clamped shut and he was rising to his feet, but judge Friedland waived him back down, and turned to Morganna with a half smile. ‘Well, Miss Fedler. Just in the nick of time. I was about to dismiss your clients action. What have you got to say for yourself?’ he asked.
‘Your honour, we seek a brief adjournment. I, I…have only just received the sketchiest of instructions. All plaintiff’s papers have been stolen and—
‘That’s not going to happen, Miss Fedler,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘This case has been dragging on for three years, but more importantly, we have jurors waiting here to be empanelled and to hear this case. You wouldn’t want to keep them - or me - waiting now would you?’
Morganna studied the judge’s face and knew, despite the folksy tone, he was not going to listen to argument. She swallowed, and said, ‘thank you your honour,’ and then she sat down.
The judge nodded. ‘Good. Incidentally, where is the Plaintiff? Is she going to put in an appearance?’ he asked.
Browder’s ears pricked up at the defense table and he looked over at Morganna.
‘I believe she is on her way your honour, although I am not exactly sure of her current whereabouts,’ Morganna said, looking down at her blank legal pad, and wishing she was somewhere else.
The judge nodded again. ‘Well, no sense waiting around,’ he said. ‘Lets get ourselves a jury.’
* * * *
Pascal woke early, on the couch - Hannah had taken Christoff’s spare room. She got up and stretched then made for the kitchen. She found the coffee machine and set it up to percolate with a full tank of water. Then she took a heavy bottomed, blackened with use frying pan off the wall, stuck it on the hob, dial half way round, then to the fridge for butter, eggs, bacon and tomatoes, all into the pan.
She put on the wall TV and flicked through the news stations, settling on RT, sound down low so as not to wake her compadre’s. As Christoff came into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown, Pascal handed him a cup of coffee and sipped one herself. She went over to the hob, picked up the frying pan and carried it back to the table and began to lay out her breakfast on a plate. Christoff politely declined, hiding his horror at the grease laden food – he was strictly a fruit and nut man.
‘Guess what? Five want me back,’ she said as she examined a fried tomato on the end of her fork, popped it in her mouth and started to munch and speak around it. ‘Went for a chat, few days ago, and they’re pretty relaxed about how I come in. You know, maybe part time stringer to start, or something more permanent, serious. Even suggested secondment to Six overseas for a spell. What do you think?’
He smiled. ‘I think you’re incorrigible, Courtney. And the fact that going to six might include a free trip to New York and a cushy berth at the Consulate never crossed your mind, right?’
‘As if, Christoff?’ she replied, deadpan.
As they sipped their coffee Hannah wandered in and Christoff made her a cup too. A few moments later she said, suddenly, ‘how will you get Jonas out of prison?’
‘Well, we have a bit of problem there,’ Pascal said, turning to her. ‘I’m no expert but I think the only way we’re going to get him out is by posting a big pile of cash for bail, and so far we can’t access his accounts, and even if we could, I get the impression from Emma, the cupboard’s bare.’
‘Well, perhaps I can help,’ Hannah said ‘I have money.’
Pascal looked puzzled. ‘So why were you stuck in a care home?’
Hannah sipped her coffee. ‘It’s a long story. When you get old its……..there didn’t seem to be any purpose or reason for going on and with Helena working so hard and away all the time, and John gone, I got to feeling lonely and alone. The care home seemed like a good idea at the time, to be surrounded by people again, you know, but with all this..’ she said looking around. ‘I don’t know anymore….’ she said, her voice tailing off.
Pascal said. ‘We can talk about bail money later, right now we need to set up a little conundrum for our friend Mr. Smith.’
She reached for the phone and dialed British Airways.
* * * *
Southern District Court
Morganna watched as Browder stood and questioned another juror. She had to admit, he was pretty good on his feet; smooth and confident; everything she wasn’t. They’d been going at it for around two hours and she still didn’t really know what she was doing. Browder had already bumped a juror off the panel, arguing that their answers to his questions suggested they could not be fair and impartial, although Morganna thought they seemed perfectly reasonable. She was trying to remember principles from law school about peremptory challenges and challenges for cause, but it was a blank. She was beginning to feel out of her depth and Browder was picking up on it, looking more and more confident by the minute as he realized he had a real rookie for an adversary.
She looked at her watch willing on the lunch bre
ak so she could get out and make some phone calls. Her old law professor and mentor, who was a civil trial lawyer in his spare time, was always there for her; she knew he was sweet on her, which helped. She’d give him a call and pick his brains, long as he didn’t ask for a date, although maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
* * * *
Day three and lunch was brown bread sandwich, bologna, and side dish of cold, wet pasta salad with pickle relish and some cold beans. But I was ravenous, so I shoveled it down the hatch. And I was learning fast too - little things; I’d noticed you had to eat real quick as they moved people in in groups, and then hustled you out after about 6, 7 minutes to let the next group in, whether you’d finished or not.
‘Man, you’s hungry,’ Jared said, watching me from across the table, his food untouched.
‘If you don’t want yours?’ I said, eyeing up his plate. He slid it across. ‘Tell me about Delgado,’ I said, scooping up some salad.
‘He Blood,’ he said, dragging the word out, as if mentioning the name of the notorious street gang was enough in itself.
‘Any reason why he’d pick on me, like that? I mean, I’m nothing to him, and I was minding my own business?’
‘Yeah, and you sure ain’t no ass candy,’ he said, brow furrowed.
I let that one pass. ‘So why?’ I said, again.
Jared studied me, thinking. He looked around at the eating men and the few corrections officers standing watching, then looked back at me. ‘You do have a point, my man. Hadn’t thought about it, but you’s right. I’s watchin’. Know what I’m sayin’. He comes over. Positions his self behind you in the queue, then starts hittin' on you.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Probly means the fix is in. Someone outside pulling some strings, as Delgado’s got no personal beef with you.’
I held his eyes, then looked down at my empty plate. There was no hiding place in Rikers. I had to get out.