Eddie Flynn 02-The Plea

by Steve Cavanagh

Within a few short hours, we were on the road.

  ‘Holly, if we all make it out of this thing alive, I want you to do one thing for me.’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I want you to take this car to a scrap metal yard and crush it.’

  My legs were so cramped in the front passenger seat of the Honda that I thought I might need to get my feet amputated.

  In the rearview mirror I saw the Lizard’s van hugging our path. We’d driven around for an hour before venturing toward the courthouse, to make sure we weren’t followed. Holly found a parking garage and drove to the top level. The Lizard joined us.

  We left the vehicle and descended in the elevator to the street. With his hood up, David was pretty anonymous; the baggy hood hid his face well. He wore his suit underneath the loose-fitting clothes.

  ‘So how are we going to get into court?’ asked Holly.

  ‘I told you, a friend is giving us a lift,’ I said.

  The hard rain that had soaked the city overnight was finally letting up. The sun threatened the metallic sky, like a match bleeding through touch paper.

  We were six blocks from the courthouse when I stepped into a convenience store. Only when the Lizard told David and Holly to follow me did they enter the small, cramped space. A deli occupied one half of the store. The owner, Lenny Zigler, piled stacks of newspapers, candy bars, foil-wrapped breakfast sandwiches, and magazines at the door. For thirty years Lenny delivered the papers to the local courthouse. A budget cut five years ago led to Lenny’s run being dumped, until a new superior court judge was appointed – Harry Ford. Harry had a penchant for hot New York strip sandwiches with lots of jalapeños, especially after a heavy night on the Jack. The morning paper delivery recommenced soon after Harry took up the post – at double the price and with a free sandwich thrown in.

  ‘It’s a shit morning, ain’t it, Eddie? How’s Judge Harry. He hasn’t sent you here about that thing last week? I already told him, he wants his sandwich hotter, he’s gotta use the microwave,’ he said.

  ‘It’s nothing like that. Tell you the truth, I need a ride to the courthouse.’

  ‘Somebody break your legs? It’s only …’

  Lenny’s words fell away as my mouth opened. He looked at the picture of David on the cover of every paper at his feet, then looked at the young man behind me as he threw back his hood.

  The Lizard and I helped load Lenny’s van, which was parked at the rear entrance to his business. When we were done, David and Holly hopped in and sat on the stacks of newspapers. I took a seat on the wheel arch, and the Lizard sat up front with Lenny. The smell of ink from the newspapers and the hot meat in the sandwiches mingled with a residual odor of gasoline and oil.

  There was no conversation; David rubbed his hands and picked at his fingernails.

  ‘It’ll be okay, David,’ said Holly.

  David returned the sentiment with a half smile. The case was running around inside my head as I tried to make sense out of it. Lenny wasn’t getting much small talk from the Lizard; he was too busy scanning the traffic and the sidewalks – alert to any potential threat. To break the awkward silence, Lenny turned on the radio. It was just past eight a.m., and the hourly news bulletin led with David’s story. He didn’t want to hear it, but he didn’t want to be rude to Lenny, so he covered his ears in his hood and plugged his headphones into his iPod.

  ‘In other news, Harbor Police have identified the body of the male pulled from the East River yesterday. Benjamin Harland, a sixty-eight-year-old …’

  ‘Hey, Lenny, turn that up fast,’ I said, as a cold feeling spread over my spine.

  ‘… partner in the successful Manhattan law firm Harland and Sinton. It’s believed that the deceased may have suffered an accident while sailing in the bay over the weekend. The boat has not been recovered, and the deceased’s twenty-three-year-old daughter, Samantha Harland, is still missing.’

  Turning in his seat, the Lizard looked at me, waiting for my take on this.

  Holly told David what we’d all just heard on the radio.

  ‘What does this mean? What’s going on?’ he asked.

  I shook my head, trying to make sense of it all.

  ‘Well, with Harland and Sinton about to go down for the biggest money-laundering scheme in US history, I don’t think Ben Harland had any kind of an accident. Either El Grito got to him, or Gerry Sinton. Harland was the partner that gave the firm its legitimacy; sure he took the money that Gerry washed, but this was Gerry’s scheme and he was using Harland. Now it’s all about to unravel and Gerry is scared. He’s offing witnesses. Clearing the decks and getting ready to run with the money as soon as it hits the account. This is an endgame. You can only run an operation like that for so long. Soon everybody gets caught. Gerry is desperate now. The firm is going down, and they want to hide. They’ll be even more determined to take you out before they run. We’ve got to get you clear of these charges so you can take off. The longer you stay in the city, the more dangerous it becomes.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  The basement elevator took us to the eighth floor of the municipal court building. I checked the listings and found David’s case scheduled in court twelve.

  It wasn’t a big courtroom, with seating for no more than a hundred spectators. When we got there, every seat was taken either by a TV reporter, a journalist, or a blogger. They’d all been chatting among themselves until we walked in. It was as if I’d stepped on some kind of mute button, because the noise from the crowd instantly stopped, then blew into a frenzy of questions as I led David toward the defense table. We’d discussed this; he was to say nothing.

  Holly and the Lizard followed and sat behind us, in the seats reserved for defense lawyers. I let my case files fall on the desk and surveyed the courtroom while David got comfortable. The prosecution table was empty; Zader wanted to make a dramatic entrance. The clerk, Pattie, sat in front of the judge’s raised bench. Apart from Pattie, the court guards, and half the media in New York, the courtroom was empty.

  At least I thought it was.

  Emerging from beneath Pattie’s desk, Cooch stood up, adjusted his pants, and then pointed back beneath the desk at Pattie’s computer as he whispered his instructions. Pattie nodded.

  Cooch lifted a slip of paper from his jacket, removed his reading glasses from his case and put them on, then proceeded to read whatever was on the slip of paper while Pattie typed on the computer.

  Pattie smiled and nodded at Cooch. He winked back at her, put a hand on her shoulder, then whispered something in her ear. She laughed. He saw me at the defense table and worked his way around the long clerk’s bench, past the prosecution table, then sat down on my right.

  ‘All set?’ I asked.

  He raised his thumb.

  ‘David, I’d like to introduce you to Cooch. He’s the latest member of your defense team.’

  David got up from his seat and shook hands warmly with Cooch. As he did so, David couldn’t help but look over his new lawyer. The tie that Cooch wore was too wide to have been made this side of 1974, his shirt was yellowing slightly at the collar, but the suit fit Cooch well and was at least bought in the last ten years.

  ‘Thank you for helping me,’ said David.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Cooch.

  ‘Eddie, can we have a moment?’ said Cooch.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  We took a stroll to the witness box, out of earshot.

  ‘You’re not going to win the prelim today,’ said Cooch.

  ‘I’m not banking on it. I’ve got some ammo, but it could go either way …’ I stopped talking. Cooch was shaking his head. He wasn’t referring to the evidence.

  ‘You know who our new judge is, don’t you?’ I said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Tell me it’s not Rollins,’ I said.

  His face creased and he nodded again, apologetically. The one thing I’d focused on in my first year in practice was learning the character of the judges. Some j
udges are heavier on sentencing for certain crimes. Some won’t entertain a self-defense case. Some are high on damages and some are low. Some won’t listen to a single word from a defense attorney’s mouth.

  The worst of them all was Judge Rollins, a man who had just been appointed to the bench and was yet to let a defendant go out on bail for less than a five-figure bond. In the two months he’d been in office, he hadn’t dismissed a single prosecution case and gave ninety percent of the maximum sentence to every soul who was unfortunate enough to mount a defense before him.

  He was building a fearsome reputation, and the word had spread fast among the defense attorneys. The result, in recent weeks, had been as the new judge had intended. Plea bargains were the order of the day. No contested charges. Every defendant pleaded guilty and the judge’s list of cases was already looking light. He’d been home early every afternoon last week, his quota for the day complete.

  I needed to figure out a way to handle Rollins. If I couldn’t, the case was over before we even started.

  ‘I’ll be back in a second. Cooch, come get me if the judge appears,’ I said.

  Unbuttoning my jacket, I slipped my phone from the inside pocket and began dialing before I left the courtroom.

  They should’ve landed hours ago. David had tried to get ahold of the helicopter charter company that was supposed to meet Christine, Amy, and Carmel as they got off the plane, but he couldn’t get anyone in the office to answer the phone. I looked up, scanning the corridor. There was no one looking my way. Slamming my fist into the wall, I swore over and over again under my breath. I had a sensation of falling, my guts slamming into my throat, an overwhelming desire to grab on to something to stop the world from turning. Steadying myself with a palm on the door, I breathed in and out. David needed me with a cool head.

  I told myself they were fine. The only thing I could do was pray that there had been some pitfall along the way – no phone signal, or maybe they lost their phones? My throat narrowed at the thought of it, and I squeezed my eyes closed in an effort to banish those thoughts.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  I turned, a little startled.

  Lester Dell held out a cell phone. With a passive look on his face, he said, ‘There’s a call for you. You have a major problem.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  At the corner of Dell’s eyes I detected the ghost of a smile.

  I took the phone.

  ‘Eddie,’ said Christine. It felt as though I’d been hooked up to the grid power all night, and hearing her voice just pulled the plug, cut the power, and let every muscle in my body relax.

  The relief lasted all of two seconds.

  ‘Jesus Christ, what’s going on? I’ve been arrested,’ said Christine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They followed us from the airstrip at Remo. Two federal agents picked us up a few hours ago. The chopper took us to Grey’s Point. They must have monitored it. They were waiting for us on the road, almost ran us off the highway. This is bullshit. I thought there was a deal.’

  ‘Hold on. Are you okay? Is Amy all right?’

  ‘She’s pretty shook up, and so am I. They left her with Carmel when they grabbed me. I’m in a custody van, headed somewhere. I don’t know where. Can’t see out of the windows, but I think we’re headed—’

  The call went dead. I turned my back to Dell, transferred the phone to my left hand, and said, ‘Give me a second. Stay on the line, Chrissie. Tell me if …’

  Spinning on my heel, I slammed an elbow into Dell’s face, let my momentum take me full circle, and followed it up with a right cross that took him clean off his feet. Before he could react, I was on top of him, pinning his shoulders to the ground with my knees. I leaned over him and dug my fingers into his face. He bucked and kicked, but I held firm.

  ‘You piece of shit. You had my wife picked up. My daughter was in that car. She could’ve been killed. We had a—’

  Dell’s knee slammed into my back. He trapped my wrist, threw a leg over my shoulder, and pushed. As I twisted, I tried to get a hold on Dell’s ankle, my hands moving fast, scrabbling around.

  But I had a better idea than simply trapping his ankle.

  I let him sweep me off of him. For a guy almost twice my age, Dell’s speed surprised me, and he was up and on me in a second.

  Two quick shots to my kidneys before I heard a guard hollering and Dell’s weight lifted from my chest.

  ‘Lester Dell, Federal Task Force Commander,’ he said, reaching for his badge. He held out his ID to the guard. I lifted my head and saw Big Tommy.

  ‘That man assaulted a federal officer in the execution of his duty. You saw him. Arrest him right now,’ said Dell, struggling to catch his breath.

  I stretched my back, got slowly to my feet, and looked Big Tommy in the gut. His head was several feet above me. My head swam, and I half lowered myself, half fell back to the floor. I sat there, my legs stretched out in front of me, breathing hard. Craning my neck, I felt a sharp, burning pain and saw Tommy give me a nod.

  ‘I didn’t see shit,’ said Tommy, walking away.

  Dell watched him go, swore, and sat down on the bench outside of court twelve.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  He laughed, touched his lip, and spat a little blood onto the floor. The door to the courtroom opened and a reporter stuck his head out. I waved him away with a menacing look. He closed the door.

  ‘Your wife’s immunity agreement is in exchange for her giving evidence against Gerry Sinton and Ben Harland at their trial. In case you haven’t heard, Ben Harland is dead. Found in the East River this morning. He’s bought his ticket to immunity. Sinton is cleaning house. NYPD spoke to him this morning, and he has an alibi for the same time we know that Harland left port. Unfortunately, Sinton is only half the prize. The money is due to hit an account in Manhattan at four this afternoon in the name of Ben Harland. I’ve no idea how Sinton will access the money, but unless we catch him lifting it or transferring it to his name, we’ve got nothing on him. Could be that he’s not going after the money at all. Maybe he has enough squared away somewhere. I think this is why the final account was always in Ben Harland’s name; it’s a fail-safe position. If something goes wrong, Sinton can off Harland and lay all of the blame for the money laundering on a dead man. We have literally nothing linking the money to Gerry Sinton. So we have no choice but to go after the associates Ben Harland set up. Your wife is one of those associates.’

  He coughed, spat a little more, composed himself, and leaned forward.

  ‘The immunity agreement died with Ben Harland. But I’m going to give Christine one last shot. It’s all up to you, Eddie. David Child has lied to you. He’s a lot more involved than you think. He didn’t design that algorithm to prevent cyberattacks – he designed it to hide the money from the FBI and the Treasury Department. It’s not perfect, but it might be enough to get us a conviction. Get me my plea. He gets ten years for murder, gives evidence that Gerry Sinton ordered him to design the program to launder the money, and who knows? Maybe David will get out in five. This is your only option now. This is Christine’s only option. You’re supposed to get this boy to plead guilty, not get him off. You screw me, I screw you.’

  ‘What about the phone I gave you? Can’t you get something from Gill’s phone that links the attempted hit on Christine to Gerry Sinton?’

  ‘The phone was wiped remotely about an hour after you gave it to me. We’re not even sure how it was done. The FBI’s techs are scratching their heads.’

  I thought of Langhiemer. If he could trace my phone in less than a minute, he could wipe a cell phone’s memory.

  ‘Someone is framing David and helping the firm. The more I think about it, the more I see this guy being involved. I don’t know what his connection is to the firm, but he’s at the heart of this. His name is Bernard Langhiemer.’

  ‘Who the hell is Bernard Langhiemer? Look, Eddie, this is bullshit. David killed his girlf
riend. Gerry Sinton runs the firm’s wash house – that’s it. Don’t get sidetracked. This is your last chance.’

  And so it came right down to it. The whole way.

  David or Christine?

  I couldn’t save them both. If I didn’t take this deal, the most likely outcome would be that David and Christine spent the rest of their lives in prison. The deal made sense. All I had to do was make my client plead guilty.

  Slowly, I got to my feet, smoothed down my suit, and adjusted my tie.

  ‘No deal. I told myself when I got back into practice I would do what’s right. David Child didn’t kill that girl, and I’m going to prove it.’

  ‘Since when did you care about what’s right? You’re a defense attorney. I don’t care about charging your wife, or the other associates – I want the partners. I can’t have Ben Harland now, so I need Gerry Sinton for the whole operation.’

  Dell’s phone rang.

  He took the call, then hung up.

  ‘Gerry Sinton just got into the elevator. He can’t see us together. Think about what you’re doing. Think about your wife.’

  My eyes misted. I wiped them and cleared my throat.

  ‘That’s all I ever do, Dell.’

  ‘Be sure to tell her that. My men left Carmel and Amy where we found them. They’re out of it now. Christine’s on her way here. An hour, tops, until the custody van drops her in holding. If we don’t have a plea agreement by then, she’ll be charged with money laundering, conspiracy, fraud, everything Ben Harland avoided when he took a dip in the river. Stop friggin’ around and get me the plea. Do your goddamned job, and look after your wife,’ he said. Then he got up and went back into the courtroom.

  Big Tommy stood around twenty feet from me. He made sure Dell had gone, then turned away. There was nobody else in the corridor.

  I took Dell’s ankle weapon from my jacket pocket, checked that the first round was chambered, tucked the Ruger LCP into the back of my pants, and followed him into court.