Eddie Flynn 02-The Plea

by Steve Cavanagh

  ‘Nice kid, highest score in the bar exam and top of his class at law school. A real prospect. Pity he doesn’t have the first freakin’ idea of how to be a lawyer, but he’ll learn. Like you did, Eddie.’

  ‘You gave me my fair share of advice when I was his age. I was grateful; it helped.’

  He waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘What do I know?’ he said.

  ‘Look, I need a favor, Cooch.’

  ‘Wha’? Didn’t catch that,’ he said, and leaned toward me, tapping his hearing aid.

  I whispered, ‘I’ll pay you ten grand for a day’s work in court tomorrow.’

  ‘Ten large? Tomorrow? What’s the case?’ He had little difficulty hearing that.

  ‘Murder. It’s the prelim tomorrow. You’re second chair.’

  Raising his hands, he looked at the patterns of nicotine staining on the ceiling, muttered something, and then returned his attention to me, waiting for the details.

  Despite his advanced years, the seventy-year-old lawyer was still as sharp and as dedicated as any I’d ever met. Cooch took a real interest in his clients, getting to know them, getting to know their families, their bail bondsmen, their kids and pets. He survived on repeat business from a large group of clients, most of whom were related and who specialized in low-level organized crime and warehouse robbery. It had been close to a year since I’d last seen Cooch, and in that time he’d aged considerably. The skin around his throat now drooped and his shirt looked too big for him, his hair was now almost completely white. The last strands of Just for Men were a fading memory, quickly evaporating with the spread from his powder-white roots.

  ‘So? Come on, you gotta give me details. How am I gonna prepare when you don’t tell me anything about the case? You want me to take half the witnesses? What? Come on, what do you want me to do?’

  One of the lawyers who’d sat with Cooch had left a finger of scotch in his glass and the melting ice cube had diluted it. I stared at the dark, amber liquid in the glass for a long second. I shouldn’t, I told myself, as I picked it up and swallowed the damn thing.

  ‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, Eddie, that’s not fair. You must want me for a reason. So what do you want me to do tomorrow?’

  ‘At the prelim? Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Wha’?’

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything at the prelim. I need you for the grand jury,’ I said, unable to fully restrain a smile.

  ‘Hang on. I can’t do anything at a grand jury; I can’t cross-examine … You know this. It’s pointless even being there. You remember what Judge Sol Wachtler said when he was in the court of appeal?’

  This was one of Cooch’s favorite lines. I knew it by heart, but I let him talk.

  ‘He said, “A prosecutor could persuade a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.” Your client’s wasting his money; there’s nothing I can do there.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to say anything at the grand jury; you just have to show up.’

  Cooch leaned back into the fake leather seats and let his mouth fall open as he thought this through.

  After a few moments, he sat up and pointed a clubbed finger at me.

  ‘You don’t want me to do anything at the prelim, but you need me to be there, right? And then you want me to go along to the grand jury with a surprise?’

  ‘You got it.’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘Eddie, you’re one twisted genius, you know that?’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  I felt like I was taking refuge from the storm in a toy car. The rain bounced off the hood and flooded the windshield. I told myself that I couldn’t call Child because I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the deafening beat of the rain. He’d called me and I hadn’t answered the phone. I couldn’t face that conversation just yet, not until I had an answer for him – not until I’d found a way out.

  I tried Christine’s cell again. Voice mail. Trailing through my dialed call list, I hit the number for the hospital. This time I got through to the nurse on Popo’s ward pretty quickly. He was conscious, cooperative, and filled full of morphine so they wouldn’t let me talk to him. They weren’t letting the cops talk to him either. I asked the nurse to tell Popo I’d called and that I was grateful for what he’d done for David. The nurse said she’d pass it on. I disconnected the call and returned my attention to West Forty-Sixth Street.

  There were no people on the street; the rain kept pedestrians inside. I’d been parked for almost twenty minutes and I hadn’t seen a single person pass my office. A few cars drove by at speed that didn’t appear, to me at least, as if they were casing the place. I’d driven up and down a few times myself, just to look out for anyone who might be sitting in a car, waiting for me to go back to my office. As far as I could tell, the street was clear. I was no surveillance expert, and I’d resigned myself to wait for Kennedy. For all I knew, Gerry Sinton could have half of his security team in my office already with eager guns waiting in the dark for my return.

  I was late and Kennedy hadn’t shown. I was about to call him when I saw a dark sedan pass me and park fifty yards ahead, just outside my building.

  I waited and saw the tall, lean figure of Bill Kennedy exiting the car, a blue plastic folder tucked underneath his right arm. The horn on the Honda sounded like a sick donkey. It was enough to turn Kennedy around. I flashed the lights, got out of the car, and locked it with the ignition key. By the time I’d joined him, I was wet through and the files I carried in my jacket weren’t faring much better. The rain was too hard for us to stop and talk and we ran to the entrance to my building.

  I hadn’t been in my office since early that morning, and with the normal traffic through the front door, there was no point in putting my usual precautions in place. There was no dime and no toothpick to tell me if I had any unplanned guests waiting for me upstairs. We entered noisily and I closed the door too quickly, much too eager to get out of the storm. If anyone was upstairs, they probably heard us come in.

  We shook out our clothes, and I wiped the rain from my face and swept back my hair, which had begun to cling to my forehead. Our breath was misty in the cold lobby, and pools of rain water already formed around our feet. I gestured toward my office with a flick of my eyes. Kennedy nodded, handed me the plastic folder, drew his service weapon, and ascended the stairs cautiously. I followed him at a distance.

  A reading light shined in my office.

  Kennedy put his palm out flat, telling me to remain at the top of the stairs. He moved with a graceful, silent skip toward the door, his gun ready in a two-handed grip. I followed him, and we took our positions on either side of the door. Kennedy shook his head and mouthed that I should stay put. In one smooth, fluid movement, he flicked the doorknob with one hand, then kneed it all the way open as he pushed inside, his gun raised in front of him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Rain trickled down my back, and I pressed myself harder into the wall.

  I heard nothing.

  Not a sound.

  ‘Kennedy?’ I said.

  ‘Clear,’ he said.

  I breathed out, went inside, and turned on the lights. I must’ve left my desk lamp burning this morning. That’s not like me. I was being careful. If Dell hadn’t offered me the cash to represent Child, I had planned to put this month’s electric bill on my credit card. We shook off more rain from our clothes. Then I took off my jacket and sat down to read the contents of the folder Kennedy had given to me.

  The documents Kennedy brought didn’t contain much more than I’d seen already. Only a few other pages of exhibit lists and a clearer, larger version of the map of David’s apartment.

  ‘You still think your client is innocent?’ asked Kennedy.

  I nodded.

  ‘I don’t like the way it played out with Dell, so I’ll do what I can, but I’ve got to know why you’re so certain about Child,’ he said.

  ‘I know how it looks. But I’ve looked him in
the eyes. He doesn’t have it in him. It looks bad for David because that’s the way it’s supposed to look. Whoever set him up wanted him nailed for Clara’s murder. By the way, you haven’t shown me what you got on the victim.’

  The FBI man put both hands in his pockets, drew them out, and held open his empty hands.

  ‘Nothing?’ I asked.

  ‘No tax records, no social security number, no medical records in this state. Same with dental. No birth records, no cell phone registered in her name. The only thing I got was a driver’s license, library card, and an ATM card all issued around six months ago to Clara Reece.’

  ‘That ever happen to you before?’

  ‘Nope. Come to think of it, I’ve always been able to get at least one hit, even if it’s only birth registration. Her cell phone was an expensive burner. She had cash in her purse – no credit cards, just the checking account. Apparently PD sent a car to the address David gave for Clara. I know that she’d just moved in with David, but the apartment was cleared out. No furniture, no letters, and no TV, even. There wasn’t a scrap of paper in that place. Oh, and the smell; apparently the whole place had been steam cleaned and chemically treated a few days before the murder. She’d told her super that she was moving in with David, but he says he didn’t clean the apartment. Somebody did, and they were thorough. The cops weren’t even able to grab a hair from that apartment.’

  ‘It’s almost like she’s been erased,’ I said.

  Nodding his head, Kennedy said, ‘I got to admit, that threw me. The DA has got this set up as a wild crime of passion. Somehow, it doesn’t feel that way to me. Sounds to me like Clara Reece was running from something, or somebody, and hit the jackpot when she met your client. It doesn’t prove anything, Eddie. But it’s something to throw into the mix. I just don’t know how far any of this will get you.’

  ‘If I’m right, it was a setup,’ I said.

  He suppressed a laugh. ‘Well, if he has been framed, then it’s the best setup I’ve ever seen. Your client says he left his apartment at 20:02, having just kissed Clara goodbye. She was alive and well when he left, according to him. Yet Gershbaum hears the shots, goes to his balcony and sees the window blowing out from the stray bullet and calls security – his call is logged at 20:02. The security camera doesn’t show anybody else going near the apartment until the security guards arrive four minutes later. The only person in that apartment is our dead victim. If there’s another killer, well, they must have flown away. Child shot her, Eddie. Why can’t you see that? So, what’s your client’s defense? Either he’s lying or Clara Reece shot herself in the back of the head twelve times. I don’t think she could’ve managed that, and there’s no one else who could’ve done it, because no one else was there. Gershbaum didn’t see anyone escaping onto his balcony, and nobody left his apartment in that time either – you can see his front door from the security footage, too. And if that weren’t enough, the murder weapon is in his car. Face it, this man killed her. You have to stop seeing what you want to see and look at the bare facts.’

  Something Kennedy said pulled at me, but I wasn’t sure what it was. It was like I’d just been flashed a deck of cards and the dealer had held on to one card a microsecond longer than any other as he ripped through the deck. The dealer would show me the card he wanted me to remember – in fact, it would be the only card I could see. The others would go by in a blur. In my mind, I repeated what Kennedy had said, looking for my card.

  I found it.

  ‘You said I’m seeing what I want to see. And I want him to be innocent,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to sound so blunt, but you needed to hear it,’ he replied.

  ‘But that’s it. That’s the key.’

  It was simple. It was the cornerstone of any hustle, people believe what they can see.

  Kennedy stretched his back and, as he did so, the file on his knee slipped off onto the floor. I stood and cracked my neck, then walked around my desk to bring the blood back into my feet.

  ‘I need another favor. And I need a ride,’ I said.

  ‘Where to?’ asked Kennedy, checking his watch.

  It was coming up on one a.m.

  ‘Central Park West. I need to take a look at the crime scene.’

  ‘That may be difficult.’

  ‘That building runs twenty-four hours a day. We can get in. We’ll figure something out. If this plays out the way I think it will, then I’m going to need you to look into an alternative suspect for Clara’s murder. Guy called Bernard Langhiemer.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s hiding something. David and Langhiemer have history. I talked to him today, and he—’ The words caught in my throat. I stood at the window, gazing through the blinds at the street below. A blue Ford had parked thirty feet from my office. The driver’s window must’ve been open. I could see the wisps of smoke gently trailing above the roof of the car.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’ said Kennedy.

  ‘I can’t see from here,’ I said. The light from my desk lamp reflected onto the window, masking the view of the driver.

  I heard Kennedy get up from his seat to come take a look. I turned and saw that he’d spotted the lamp’s reflection on the glass. He took two steps toward the desk. He was going to shut off the lamp so we could get a better view.

  Something in the back of my mind began to grow. It wasn’t a theory, or a thought; it was deeper. A feeling of unease that was now exploding into panic.

  ‘Don’t move. Wait!’ I said.

  Kennedy stopped in his tracks, his hand on my desk.

  ‘Before Dell offered me the money yesterday, I was getting worried about how I was going to pay the electric bill.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t you get it? I’m pretty positive I didn’t leave that lamp on. Somebody’s been here.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Slowly, Kennedy brushed aside the loose pages on my desk to get a better view of the cable switch for the lamp. He picked up the cable from the desk. Carefully, he laid it back down. It was enough for me to see that somebody had tampered with the switch. A red wire led from directly underneath the switch to a freshly drilled hole in my desk.

  Kennedy and I exchanged glances. Neither of us could breathe. Sweat broke out on our faces.

  With the cable resting on the desk, the switch pointing upward, the wire was invisible. The hole in my desk was only a couple of millimeters wide. Just the right size for the wire. Pushing aside my desk chair with one hand, Kennedy got on his knees and took a small torch from his pocket. Twisting onto his back, he pushed himself under my desk like a mechanic sliding underneath a car.

  ‘Eddie, come take a look. For God’s sake, move slowly and don’t touch anything.’

  Gingerly, I lay down beside him and looked underneath. There were six two-liter plastic cola bottles taped to the reverse side of my desk. They sat way back, so my knees wouldn’t touch them if I sat down in my office chair. The red wire ran through the hole and was taped along the base of each bottle. Each bottle was filled with a cloudy liquid and what looked like foil lining the base.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t touch the lamp. We’re going to get up very slowly, grab your files, and get out.’

  And we did. As Kennedy closed the door to my office, he breathed out and wiped the sheen of sweat from his forehead into his hair.

  ‘It’s an acid bomb. The bottles are filled with hydrochloric acid. He added a trip to the cable switch on the lamp. If we’d turned off the lamp, the power would’ve fed into the red wire and heated the aluminum base of each bottle. Five, maybe ten seconds later, that desk would’ve been on the ceiling and your entire office would’ve become an acid shower. Ever see somebody drop baking soda into a bottle of cola? It’ll shoot fifty feet in the air. The acid in those bottles would’ve been superheated and a lot more powerful.’

  ‘It’s the guy, the one I told you about.’

  �
�I hear you. I had my suspicions about this guy as soon as you mentioned him. This confirms it. We’ve got to take him out,’ he said as he dialed on his cell phone.

  While he waited for somebody to pick up his call, he said, ‘Officially, I’m not supposed to be here. I can get Ferrar and Weinstein, maybe. They’ll take a risk for me. The man in that car is waiting for you to turn off the lamp. He’s waiting to hear you scream.’

  We sat in the dark lobby of my building. Kennedy had his Glock in one hand, his cell phone in the other. He was waiting for a call from Ferrar to tell him they were in position.

  ‘The man with the tattoo on this throat, who is he?’ I said.

  I looked into it. ‘Nobody knows his real name. People call him El Grito – the Scream. He’s an interrogator, and a hitman for the Rosa Cartel: one of the largest in Mexico. They’re at war with the other cartels, but they’ve managed to hold the White Line – the route from Boca del Rio right through the country, all the way to Tijuana. El Grito is one of the most feared men in South America. In the Mexican drug wars, these guys need a reputation. They build their name on brutality and fear. El Grito likes to use acid and he never gags his victims – he likes to hear them scream. The acid bomb is his MO.’

  ‘I don’t like this, Kennedy.’

  ‘The cartel has a lot of money tied up with Harland and Sinton. I guess they’re here to help the firm with their little problem.’

  ‘This gets better and better,’ I said.

  ‘Eddie, I’d no idea the cartel would become directly involved. The media is all over this thing, and that should be enough to keep them the hell away from it.’

  ‘The guy who tried to knife David before Popo got in the way, he was Mexican. And Dell’s informant, Farooq, wasn’t he burned with acid?’

  Kennedy looked at the floor and said, ‘It’s thin, but it fits. This guy is protecting the firm.’