Eddie Flynn 02-The Plea

by Steve Cavanagh

  While I waited for my order, I opened my copy of Dell’s file and began leafing through the documents. The first batch consisted of share transfer agreements, all of them witnessed by associates at Harland and Sinton. I counted forty-plus agreements, including the one that had been witnessed by Christine.

  Behind those papers was a typed list of companies. I counted thirty per page and eighteen pages. None of the companies were familiar. The list was in alphabetical order, and I flicked back to check on the name of the company in Christine’s agreement. This was the information they’d gotten from Farooq. Dell’s team in Langley must’ve been monitoring these company accounts. That’s how they figured out the new laundry system.

  The only other documents were photographs of Harland and Sinton’s security team. I lingered on the photograph of Gill that I’d seen before.

  Four more photographs behind that one. The firm’s security team. Group shots of five men. Two of them wore black suits, white shirts, dark ties and had sensible corporate haircuts. The other two wore civilian clothes: button-down shirts tucked into jeans.

  There were no pictures of the man in the black overcoat with the screaming man tattooed on his neck.

  After a few minutes of being transferred around, I finally managed to have my call placed to a nurse at the Downtown ER. Popo was out of surgery – but still in critical condition. When the pancakes arrived I had no appetite, but I still took a bite. Lester Dell was right about one thing – the pancakes were excellent.

  I sat for a while, thinking things over. In the corner of the diner were two PCs flashing the words ‘INSERT COIN.’ I lifted my coffee and moved to one of the computer terminals. There was a slot beside my knees, and I fed it a couple of dollars’ worth of change. The screen changed and brought up the Google homepage. I typed in ‘Bernard Langhiemer’ and hit search.

  At first the search came back with a ton of results for some other guy with a slightly different name. I hit the option to search for the exact spelling of the name and got back six thousand results – all in German. To narrow down the results, I typed ‘David Child’ together with ‘Bernard Langhiemer’ and pressed return.

  One article from a tech blog came up first, showing positive results for both names. The piece was on dot-com companies, specifically why certain social media platforms took off and why some simply failed. I didn’t follow this stuff myself – I wasn’t on any social media – but I knew how it worked. A small section of the article looked at a social media platform called Wave and compared it to Reeler. According to the article, Wave was the brainchild of Bernard Langhiemer. It launched two weeks after Reeler, and a year later it shut down. The author figured that Reeler was more user friendly, less sophisticated than Wave, and it had gotten there first. All of which contributed to the failure of Langhiemer’s project. I scrolled through another half dozen pages, but they were all in German and related to ancient family trees.

  There was nothing online about any fallout between Langhiemer and David, and nothing I found indicated Langhiemer could be a threat to anyone. I thought David had probably made a bad call if he thought Langhiemer had set him up. The guy seemed vanilla enough.

  I took a minute to log into my e-mail. Nothing urgent. I logged out, gathered my files, paid the check, and headed for the door.

  I heard the chiming from my personal cell and hoped it would be Christine. The caller ID told me the number was unavailable.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what you’re doing,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. Male, early thirties, maybe a trace of the Midwest in the accent.

  ‘Who is this?’ I said.

  ‘Bernard Langhiemer.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I looked around the diner. No one was paying any attention to me. I decided it was safer on the street, so I left and headed back downtown.

  ‘How did you get this number?’ I said.

  ‘So, you are investigating me,’ he said, spitting out the sentence through his teeth.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Oh, you did. Don’t try to fool me, Mr Flynn. I know you searched for me. What I want to know is why.’

  I couldn’t understand how he had traced me so fast from a single search in an Internet café. Then I remembered that I’d checked my e-mail. Maybe he’d found me through that. There was no mileage in playing this guy, so I cut through the dance and went straight to it.

  ‘I want to meet,’ I said.

  In the background I could hear a female voice. Somebody shouting at Langhiemer, ‘Hang up. No calls.’

  I head a rasp on the mike and a muffled male voice. Langhiemer had put his hand over the phone to say something he didn’t want me to hear. Maybe the voice was his girlfriend, but it was a strange choice of words. It stuck with me.

  When he spoke again, his voice was clear and had lost none of the anger.

  ‘And what would we discuss? The minimal amount of money in your firm’s client account? Your overdraft? Maybe your fondness for paperback crime novels or the fact that you always have breakfast at Ted’s Diner? I can go on …’

  ‘You’re fast, Mr Langhiemer. Real fast. If only you’d been quicker launching Wave, you might be rich by now. Too bad David Child beat you to it.’

  ‘So this is about David, I see. I’ll be in touch,’ he said, and disconnected the call.

  I stared at my phone in disbelief. Bernard Langhiemer just became real interesting.

  Christine’s older sister, Carmel, had picked up Amy from school and joined her at a bed-and-breakfast just off the 245 in Red Hook. Amy was shaken. She was quiet and would not let go of Christine. Seven months ago she’d been taken by the Russian mob, and although she’d not been physically hurt, the damage had been done. Her recovery was steady, but slow, and this was all too much for her. Christine cried on the phone. I fought down the urge to go to them, to hold them both. Whatever it took, I needed to get them the hell out of New York – someplace safe, someplace far away, where no one would look for them.

  ‘Eddie, I’m scared,’ said Christine.

  ‘I’ll fix this. I’m going to make sure you are all okay. I love you.’

  She sighed, and I heard the emotion thicken her voice. ‘I … Don’t let anyone hurt you,’ she said, and clicked off.

  I stepped to the curb in Foley Square and headed for the DA’s office at 1 Hogan Place. Security in the building was tight, and while I was there, I was in no immediate danger.

  I took the elevator to the reception area of the district attorney’s office. The receptionist was an old guy by the name of Herb Goldman. Herb had seen a dozen district attorneys come and go in his time. His steel-gray hair framed a liver-spotted face that was almost as old as the building.

  ‘Come to give yourself up, Eddie?’ asked Herb.

  ‘I surrender, Herb. Guilty of being a defense attorney. Do I wait here for the blindfold and the firing squad?’

  ‘You can sit on the stained couch over there while I find whatever dumb schmuck has agreed to talk to you. Who are you lookin’ for?’

  ‘Julie Lopez.’

  Herb’s eyes shot up a little as he picked up the phone and called an internal number.

  ‘He’s here,’ he said.

  Replacing the receiver, he told me to take a seat and I would be seen shortly.

  It was coming up on one thirty p.m. Two and a half hours until the prelim started.

  I barely got a chance to sit down before the district attorney himself, Michael Zader, kicked open the door and said, ‘Flynn, this way,’ before turning and storming back into the cavernous office.

  Herb chuckled and, making sure Zader had disappeared through the door, he put his hands together, made a wuzz noise, and pretended to stab me with a lightsaber. The DA got a lot of shit because his surname sounded like a character from Star Wars. Nobody, not even Herb, would do it to his face anymore.

  The outer office housed fifty of the top assistant district attorn
eys in the city. It was open plan, with no desk dividers, and the ADAs sat in clusters of four, facing one another. Zader encouraged his staff to discuss their cases in the office, bounce their opening and closing statements off of one another, give feedback and critique, learn from it and be better. Zader had made advocacy coaching mandatory at two hours a week and spent around five percent of his budget on the tutors. Conviction rates had begun to rise as a result. He was a real student of the courtroom and had risen through the ADA ranks like wildfire. After Zader had won his first murder trial in devastating fashion, his colleagues had stopped leaving Star Wars toys in his drawers.

  We passed Miriam Sullivan’s desk, which sat in a corner office beside Zader’s, but she wasn’t in. I saw the sign on her window, SENIOR ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY. She’d run against Zader in the last election and lost, narrowly. Usually the unsuccessful candidate bows out of the prosecution game at that point, but not Miriam. I’d heard that Zader persuaded her to stay and told her that he’d nominate her when he left office in four years; he was already planning his campaign for governor.

  I followed him into his office and closed the door behind me. Zader looked like an older male model. He carried less fat than most professional body builders and even though he didn’t have their mass, he was plenty ripped. Sleeves rolled up, top button undone beneath a pale blue tie, and black, glossy hair – he looked like he was ready to pose for a catalog.

  ‘Sit,’ he said, as he poured himself an orange juice from the bottle he kept in a small fridge beside his desk. No bourbon in this office. He didn’t offer me anything.

  He sat down and flicked through a file in front of him. The office had a big-screen TV on one wall, and behind him, his shelves were stacked with books on court presentation, instructional DVDs on advocacy, and leather-bound volumes of statute. A laptop and PC in front of him, and no pictures anywhere; Zader was married to the job.

  Without taking his eyes from the pages, he said, ‘So, who is your connection in justice?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘You must have greased a lot of wheels, or handed over a lot of brown envelopes, to land a client like David Child. I was just wondering how you made such a high-level connection, extortion maybe?’

  I sighed.

  ‘Just curious how a low-ball lawyer like you got his hands on a big fish like Child?’ Only then did he raise his head enough to look at me.

  ‘That’s privileged and you know it. I thought Julie was ADA on this case. Why am I talking to you?’

  A twitch at the corner of his mouth passed for a smile. Lifting the glass, he took a long drink, draining the OJ and leaving a thick residue of orange pieces clinging to the side.

  ‘I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t have any vodka to go with the orange juice.’

  Zader was all tactics. All the time. It was common knowledge around the courts that I’d dropped out of practice for a year and hit the booze hard. Nobody else had seen fit to bring it up upon my return a few months ago. It was personal, and most lawyers, even prosecutors, didn’t hold any grudges against me. Shit, plenty of lawyers went through AA. No, Zader didn’t have a problem with me because I used to be a drunk. He didn’t like me purely because I was a competent defense attorney. As far as he was concerned, I was scum.

  ‘I don’t drink that much anymore. Anyway, it’s a little early for me. I’m here to pick up the discovery in the Child case, not to trade insults. No disrespect.’

  ‘None taken. How’s your wife? I hear she’s working in a real law firm. Good for her. At least somebody in the house is bringing home good money. Oh, wait, you’re separated now. Sorry, I forgot.’

  The wooden armrest cracked a little as I gripped it ever more tightly. I didn’t need this. I was too close to the edge already without Zader taking potshots at me, trying to piss me off.

  I said nothing, simply cocked my head and smiled. A sneer flickered across his features momentarily and was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

  Closing the file in front of him, he leaned back in his chair. ‘I got your discovery right here. I also got something else sent to my office this afternoon.’

  ‘Flowers from your boyfriend?’ I said.

  He nodded as if it was game on. I didn’t care if he did have a boyfriend, but Zader was the kind of homophobic tight-ass who would be gravely insulted by such a juvenile joke.

  Behind him sat another desk, piled high with papers. On top of one stack sat a fat brown envelope. Grabbing it from the top of the pile, he opened it, took out the pages within, and tossed the envelope over his head.

  ‘This is a draft plea agreement for David Child,’ he said, waving the agreement in front of him.

  I didn’t respond.

  ‘To be more precise, Flynn, it’s a federal plea agreement. Your client admits to shooting his twenty-nine-year-old girlfriend in cold blood and he gets five years as long as he cooperates fully with federal law enforcement.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any agreement,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ said Zader. ‘You’re not going to either.’

  Folding the pages in two, he then ripped along the fold, doubled the pages again, and ripped them again, before letting the pieces drift onto his desk as he set his hands on the mahogany.

  ‘Destroying a federal document is an offense. You might’ve learned that in law school, but I suppose you were too busy doing sit-ups in the gym.’

  ‘It doesn’t become an official federal document until it’s signed. We’re not offering a deal here. I brought you in to tell you that personally. I don’t know who you know, or who your client knows, but there’s been a lot of pressure put on my office from on high to make sure this deal is signed. I’ve just read the case file on this murder, and I’ve rarely seen a more open-and-shut case. Your client is guilty as hell, and I won’t be bought. Should it cost me my career, I will not allow a plea bargain in this case.’

  ‘It’s not your case. Lopez is ADA on record.’

  ‘Things change, Eddie. Lopez is now second chair. I’m taking this case on personally. Doesn’t matter how rich your client is. Doesn’t matter how many federal strings he tries to pull. I’m personally going to send him to prison for life for killing that girl.’

  ‘He tells me he’s innocent, and actually, I’m starting to believe him. This case must be real shaky if you have to come on board to steady the ship.’

  ‘They all say they’re innocent. Read the file and you’ll see that this guy is guilty.’

  ‘Sounds like a bluff to me. There’s always a deal. You think five years is too light, but if my guy wanted to plead in exchange for ten years, you’d bite his arm off.’

  ‘Eddie, this case cannot be won. If your client wanted to take twenty years, I’d think about it. The way I see it, your client’s conviction is written in the stars.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The gods have decreed it. Think about it. Your guy gets hit by another car when he’s making his getaway? Then there’s the arresting officer – talk about a stroke of luck.’

  ‘Officer Jones?’

  ‘Hell yeah. He’s a fifteen-year veteran, although none too bright. He could never make it past the sergeant’s exam. This year he decides to call it quits, gets a job in a private security firm guarding engineers for an oil company in Iraq. And on his last day in the NYPD, he arrests your client, makes the biggest bust of his career – even though he didn’t know it at the time he pulled your guy in.’

  ‘I don’t believe in fate,’ I said.

  ‘I do,’ said Zader. ‘And this afternoon I’m gonna seal your client’s fate.’

  ‘Who are you calling first? The IO?’

  A light went off behind his eyes.

  ‘I’m going to call the GSR expert as the first witness. I could just submit his report, but I want the judge to hear this evidence because there’s no getting around it. I’ll sink your case with one witness.’

  As he spoke, his fingers lightly brushed his
jawline.

  A tell.

  He’d just lied to me. I felt sure whatever contact Dell had with the DA, he’d managed to persuade him to call the GSR expert, but for different reasons than Zader just gave me. Being a DA is not about results. It’s about the PR you get with those results. Sure, he’d improved the figures, but anyone can massage the numbers. He was smart enough to know that he needed a high-profile murder to put his face on the national news. The Child case was his dream come true. If he kicked off the prelim with incontrovertible expert evidence that he puts before the world’s media, he’s golden come the state elections. Instead of handing over a report to a judge, he would put on a show for the cameras.

  ‘I’m gonna have your client’s head on a plate, and I want him to know that.’

  A knock on the door. Miriam Sullivan came into Zader’s office carrying a man’s suit covered in clear plastic. Fresh from the dry cleaner’s, just for the cameras. She was dressed in a business suit and had cut her hair short since I’d last seen her.

  She laid the suit on a chair in front of the TV and left without a word.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ve got a press conference in twenty minutes,’ said Zader.

  I took the copy of the file from him and closed the door to his office on my way out.

  I paused at the open door to Miriam’s office.

  ‘You collect dry cleaning now?’ I said.

  She shook her head. Took off her glasses and stroked the red grooves at the top of her nose. Miriam was a forty-year-old attractive but deadly courtroom operator who prosecuted her cases with a cold-blooded detachment that gave her the edge over most of her opponents.

  ‘Don’t, Eddie.’

  ‘I’m not here to gloat, Miriam. You should be in that office, as DA. You’re better than him. You sure as hell shouldn’t let him treat you like that. It’s disgusting.’