Black River (19 page)

Sunday, October 22

10:59 a.m.

J
oe
Bocco leaned back against the wall. He had his feet crossed in front of
him and wore an expression of extreme boredom. Sergeant Sorenstam
popped the clip from a serious-looking Glock .40-caliber and worked the
slide, sending a single round down onto the floor, where he
accidentally kicked it once before picking it up and dropping it into
his pocket. Sergeant Hamer had a pair of black-framed half-glasses
resting on the end of his nose as he read the document in his
hands.

“What’s this?” Corso demanded.

“National asshole week,” Bocco offered.

Hamer stepped over and waved a finger under
Bocco’s nose. “I’m not telling you again. You watch
your mouth, you hear me?”

Sorenstam pocketed the piece.
“This”—he looked over at Bocco in
disgust—“Mr. Bocco here says he’s in your
employ.”

“Yeah. He is.”

“In what capacity?”

“As a private security consultant.”

“Doing what?”

“Doing what you guys ought to be doing. Guarding
Miss Dougherty.”

The cops exchanged looks. Bocco looked over at Corso,
then nodded at Hamer.

“Asshole here told her about the
boyfriend,” he said.

Hamer started for him. Sorenstam stepped between them,
using his palms to keep his partner at bay. “Take it easy, take
it easy,” he said.

Hamer stepped back, adjusted his coat, and shrugged.
“How the hell was I supposed to know?”

“Musta been sick for the sensitivity
workshop,” Bocco said.

This time it was Corso who stepped between the men.
“Something wrong with his carry permit?” he asked
Hamer.

“I’ll let you know when I’m finished
with it,” Hamer snapped.

Corso turned his attention now to Sorenstam. “His
license in order?”

“Seems to be.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Hamer said, “is we
don’t like cop wannabes.”

Bocco burst out laughing. “Cop? Wannabe? Are you
shitting me? I’d rather be Judge Judy’s toilet
slave,” he said.

Hamer was red-faced and pointing again. “Watch
your damn mouth.”

Sorenstam sighed and took his time as he pulled the
clip from his pocket and thumbed the loose round in on top of the
others. From his other pocket he produced the Glock. He kept the
business end pointed at the floor while he inserted the clip and
snapped on the safety, then turned it handle first and handed it back
to Bocco.

“Try not to hurt yourself,” he said.

Bocco rocked himself off the wall, slid the gun into
the holster on his hip, and then stepped around Sorenstam and held out
his hand.

“Whadda you want?” Hamer demanded.

“My paperwork.”

“I’m gonna call it in,” Hamer
said.

“Let’s go,” Sorenstam said.

They stood for a moment like statues. Bocco with his
arm extended. Hamer with the paperwork held back, out of reach.

Sorenstam started up the hall. “Let’s go,
Troy. He’s not worth the trouble.”

Hamer opened his fingers, allowing the papers to float
to the floor, turned, and followed his partner up the hall.

Bocco waited until they were out of sight before
retrieving his PI license and gun permit from the floor. “Is it
just me,” he wanted to know, “or didn’t cops used to
be more competent?”

“Don’t get me started,” Corso
said.

Joe Bocco stuffed the paperwork back into his wallet.
“I didn’t get a chance to see how she took the news. Minute
I started ragging on them, they rousted me out into the hall.
That’s where you came in.”

“Why don’t you go downstairs and get
yourself a cup of coffee or something,” Corso said.
“I’ll see how she’s doing.”

Corso stood in the hall for a moment, composing
himself, and then pulled open the door and stepped inside. She was up
on her right side facing the wall. As he crossed the room to her
bedside, a slight movement of her shoulders told him she was aware of
his presence.

He stood there with his hands on the top rail. She slid
deeper into the covers and sniffed up a runny nose. He waited for what
seemed like an hour before she carefully rolled over onto her back and
looked his way. He could see the long-ago little girl in her
tear-streaked face. Lost her kitten Buster and wasn’t believing a
word about this kitty heaven stuff. “Sorry you found out that
way,” Corso said.

She started to cry. “He was so sweet to
me…” she began, before sliding into a series of racking
sobs. Something about crying women brought out the worst in Corso. He
felt compelled to
do
something. To right
whatever wrong had brought forth the sorrow. To turn back time, if
necessary. To do whatever it took to make it stop, not so much for the
sufferer as for himself, because, for reasons he’d never
understood, it was the suffering of others that connected him most
readily to the well of sorrow he carried around in his own heart and
forced him to wonder, once again, why his own pain was so much easier
to ignore than that of others.

He clamped his jaw, as if to lock the homilies in his
mouth, the preacher talk of better days in better places. Of lives cut
short as part of the grand plan. Of divine justice, the power of
acceptance, and how time heals all wounds. Instead, he reached down and
put a hand on her shoulder.

Sunday, October 22

9:00 p.m.

“I
’m going back to Boston on
Tuesday,” Robert Downs said. “I’m not accomplishing a
damn thing here.” He ran his hand through his hair and looked
around the hotel suite.

It had been nearly seven o’clock when, after
devouring a room-service cheeseburger and downing a pair of Heinekens,
Corso had finally gotten around to checking his messages: six, all from
Robert Downs.

“All I’m doing here is beating myself up
for not knowing my father, and I can do that from home.” He
pulled a handful of papers from his back pocket and dropped them on the
coffee table. “My Harvard financial records,” he said.
“Undergrad, grad, and med school. The whole thing.”

“You’re getting married pretty soon,
aren’t you?”

“Seventeen days,” Downs said.

“Probably a lot of details to be attended to back
in Boston.”

He blew air out through his lips.
“Pamela—my fiancée—she’s obsessing. She
calls every fifteen minutes. It’s like I’m supposed
to—” He stopped himself. “Listen to me.” He
wandered over and sat down in the chair on Corso’s right.
“I want to thank you for the help,” Downs said.

Corso waved him off. “I told you before, Robert.
I’m pursuing my own ends here. The school district would have
stonewalled me. I’d never have gotten a peek at those,”
Corso said, gesturing at the folded pile of papers on the table.
“We’re even.”

“I’ve been reading
Backwater
,” Downs said, naming
Corso’s first book, “and I’m amazed at the way you
take these people you didn’t even know and imbue them with
life.” He waved a hand in the air. “It’s like what
I’ve been trying to do with my father: take all this disparate
information and somehow shape it into the picture of a man who makes
sense to me. I just can’t do it.”

“It’s easier when you don’t know them
at all,” Corso said. “That way you can start from scratch
without any preconceptions.”

“But how can you be sure you get it
right?”

“You can’t. All you can do is look at what
a person leaves behind. Look at his art. Look at his children. Look at
the feelings he’s left behind in others. Then look at the little
things in his life. Ask people about how he kept his car. Find out if
he returned things on time. Did he remember birthdays? Send Christmas
cards? Show up at graduations? You do enough of that, and you start to
get a picture of the character who does things for reasons that make
sense to other people.”

“That’s exactly it,” Downs said.
“I can’t, for the life of me, understand this fixation the
man had on me and my education. We hardly knew each other. I
hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty years, and then I find out that
his every waking effort went toward me, while—I mean, I’ve
gone years at a time without even
thinking
about him.”

“Reasons is where you have to be most
careful,” Corso said. “That’s where the self-serving
bullshit and the psychobabble rear their ugly heads.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, first off, when you start ascribing
reasons for people’s behavior, you’re kind of assuming
they
were aware of why they were doing
whatever it was, aren’t you?” Corso didn’t give him a
chance to answer. “And that doesn’t square with my
experience at all. Seems to me a great deal of human behavior is every
bit as mysterious to the person doing it as it is to those
watching.” Corso shrugged. “Let’s say we knew your
father had an impoverished childhood. We knew he always wanted to get
an education but had been thwarted by circumstance. The natural leap
would be to assume that his desire to see you become a doctor was just
him living out his own desires vicariously through you.”

“I don’t know anything about his
childhood,” Downs said sadly.

“Doesn’t matter,” Corso said.
“Because whatever we say after the fact, even if it seems to fit,
is just conjecture. All we can be sure of is that your father did the
things he did because, in his mind at least, that was what worked out
best for him. Somehow or other, he got more pleasure sending his money
off to schools than he would have gotten spending it
himself.”

Downs got to his feet. Jammed his hands deep into his
pockets. “That doesn’t leave much room for things like
altruism or heroism.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Corso said.
“Mother Teresa did what she did because that’s what felt
best to her. Maybe she had a longer worldview than the rest of us.
Maybe compassion made her all gooey inside. All I know for sure is that
there was something in it for her.”

“That’s pretty cynical.”

“Ask war heroes and they’ll all tell you
the same thing. It was over and done with before they ever thought
about it. They were so scared or so mad or so outraged they acted on
impulse. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because, for them, being heroes was the line of
least resistance.”

“How can that be?”

“It
can
be, because
something inside was telling them they wouldn’t be able to live
with themselves if they didn’t take action.”

A silence settled over the room. Corso got to his feet,
walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. It was
one of those businessman’s suites: living room, kitchen, and a
little office area downstairs; bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Extended
Stay, they called it. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Corso
asked.

Downs was pacing the living room. “I’ve got
to sign the insurance paperwork and the pension fund paperwork. Stuff
like that.”

“What are you doing with his stuff?”

“Mr. Pov. He’s going to take care of it for
me.”

“He’ll probably find a home for a lot of
it.”

“Hard to believe.”

Downs stopped pacing, took a deep breath.
“You’ll let me know if anything develops? If you ever
figure out what this is all about?”

“Hell, I ever figure this one out I’ll
write a book about it.”

Downs walked into the kitchen and offered a hand.
“Thanks,” he said. The men shook hands, and then Downs
turned and walked to the door. He didn’t sneak a last look, just
pulled open the door and left.

And it was as if the whisper of the door and the
clicking of the lock were the sounds of Corso himself hissing to a halt
and coming to rest. Suddenly he felt bruised and tired and old. His
throat was dry and seemed to be getting sore. His eyes felt scratchy,
as if they were packed with fine sand.

He sipped at his water as he wandered into the living
room and sat back down on the couch. He set the water on the glass top
of the coffee table and picked up the packet of financial records. He
unfolded papers and used his hands to iron out the wrinkles.

Later, when he recalled the moment, he knew he’d
have to spice it up a bit in the book. Add a little drama. Like how
he’d studied the records for hours and was just about to give up
when suddenly, in a flash of insight, it came to him. Readers
didn’t want to hear he’d been using the heels of his hands
to straighten Robert Downs’s financial records when the back page
became separated from the others and he glanced down and read the last
item, the list of those who had previously requested these records.
Mr. Donald Barth, thirteen times. Mr. Robert Downs, four times. South
Puget Sound Public Employees Credit Union, once. Fresno Guarantee
Trust, once. Boston Hanover Bank, one time.

Monday, October 23

11:23 a.m.

S
am
Rozan, chief earthquake engineer for the State of California, twirled
an end of his mustache as he thought it over. “That’s hard
to say,” he said finally. “At least thirty million
dollars.”

Warren Klein leaned on the witness box. “So the
perpetrators of this fraud, in your opinion, profited to the sum of
what you estimate to be thirty million dollars.”

“At a conservative estimate,” Sam Rozan
said.

“Thank you, Mr. Rozan. That will be
all.”

The judge pointed to Bruce Elkins.
“Cross.”

Elkins got slowly to his feet. “Not at this time,
Your Honor.”

Fulton Howell was scowling now. He opened his mouth to
rebuke Elkins but instead turned his attention to Klein. “Mr.
Klein, am I to understand that the government’s next witness will
be its last?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Klein had his Boy Scout
face on.

The judge shuffled though a stack of papers on the
bench. Unable to find what he was looking for, he leaned over and
whispered to the court clerk, who picked her way through several files
before handing one to the judge.

“Mr. Elkins,” the judge began. “In
your pretrial brief you indicated the defense’s intention to call
nine witnesses. Could you please indicate to the court how long, in
terms of days, you believe the defense will require to complete its
case?”

“It is the defense’s intention to rest,
Your Honor.”

“Without calling witnesses?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

He crooked a finger at both lawyers. “Approach
the bench.” Neither Elkins nor Klein had gotten a full step
closer to the judge, when suddenly Fulton Howell bellowed, “No!
Stay where you are. I want this on the record.”

For the first time, Howell was visibly upset. Wagging a
finger like a parent to a child, he directed his ire toward Bruce
Elkins.

“Mr. Elkins, if you think for one minute that you
are going to subvert the justice system by laying the grounds for an
incompetent-representation defense, you’ve got another think
coming. Do you hear me?”

“Your Honor—”

“Shut up, sir. Because, Mr. Elkins, if that is
indeed your intention, I will personally take you before the ethics
board and see to it that, in addition to never practicing law again,
you are punished to the fullest extent possible under the law. Am I
making myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

A moment passed. “Well?” the judge
demanded.

“It is my considered legal opinion that it is in
my client’s best interest not to offer a defense.”

Fulton Howell’s hands were shaking. A deep, ruddy
glow had consumed his throat. “Perhaps you would be so kind as
to explain to the court how it is you have reached that
conclusion.”

“Certainly, Your Honor,” Elkins said.
“It’s quite simple. We do not believe the state has proved
its case within a reasonable doubt. We don’t believe they have
provided this jury with a single strand of connective tissue that
attaches my client, Nicholas Balagula, to any of the sundry enterprises
responsible for the tragedy at Fairmont Hospital. Not one witness. Not
a single piece of paper with my client’s name scribbled on
it.” His voice was rising now. “The state’s case is
nothing but inference and innuendo.” He pounded the table.
“I believe resting the defense best expresses our utter contempt
for the pile of unsubstantiated rumors the prosecution calls a case.
And I believe that tactic will best enable this jury to experience our
complete faith that they can be trusted to see through the
lies.”

Fulton Howell was unimpressed. “That’s
quite a risk, Mr. Elkins.”

“I have discussed the matter with my client and
offered him the opportunity to obtain different counsel, should he so
desire.”

Howell looked over at Nicholas Balagula. “Is that
so, Mr. Balagula?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And you understand that Mr. Elkins is risking
your life on the single throw of a dice, so to speak.”

“I understand. I am innocent,” he said.
“I have nothing to fear.”

Howell searched Balagula’s face for irony, and
finding none, sat back in his chair.

“I am informed by the U.S. Marshal’s
Service that for security reasons they will require fifteen minutes and
an empty courtroom in order to safely deliver the prosecution’s
final witness to these proceedings.” He checked his watch.
“Normally, with the approach of the noon hour, we would adjourn
until after lunch. However, owing to the unusually stringent security
required in this case, we will adjourn for twenty minutes only.”
Bang
. “Court will reconvene at
eleven-fifty sharp,”
Bang
.
“Bailiffs, clear the courtroom.”

Warren Klein was having a discussion with the court
clerk. Ray Butler and Renee Rogers gathered the piles of papers and
folders together in the center of the table. At the far end of the
room, Balagula, Ivanov, and Elkins formed a tight muttering knot as
they moved leisurely up the long aisle together behind a phalanx of
bailiffs.

“Hey.”

The sound pulled Corso’s head around. Renee
Rogers. Black leather purse slung over one shoulder, big pile of files
in her arms. “You were late this morning.”

“I slept in,” Corso said. He’d had
twelve hours of dreamless sleep. If the maid hadn’t come to the
door, he’d probably still be in bed.

“I slept all day Sunday,” she said.
“I just couldn’t seem to get enough.”

Corso pulled open the gate. Renee Rogers stepped
through, and they started up the aisle together. “I’d offer
to help with the files,” Corso said, “but I’m afraid
it’d look like I was carrying your books.”

She laughed. “The whole world already thinks
we’re sleeping together. We were on CNN last night. Did you see
it?”

“I don’t watch much television.”

“Neither do I, but Warren called and insisted I
turn it on.”

“Thoughtful.”

“In living color. Looking like we just got out of
the shower.”

Corso pulled open the arched door and allowed Renee
Rogers to precede him into the lobby. Two of the street doors were
open. The breeze rushed in with the noise of the crowd on its back,
swirling around the marble canyon like a squall.

“My mother called this morning,” Rogers
said. “She allowed as how you were a good-looking specimen and,
according to the news, quite well off, but she wanted to know if maybe
we couldn’t keep it a bit lower-key. She said the postman had
looked at her oddly today.”

Corso laughed as they angled over toward the nearest
corner. “So what do you think of the no-defense defense?”
Corso asked.

Rogers shrugged. “Risky,” she said.
“It’s going to come down to whether or not the jury
believes what Victor Lebow has to say.”

“Any reason they shouldn’t?”

“Juries tend not to like witnesses who’ve
been granted immunity.”

“Must be what Elkins is counting on.”

“He’s done his homework. He’s hoping
he can discredit Lebow in front of the jury. If he manages that,
we’ve got us a horse race.”

“What kind of witness is Lebow?”

She waggled her free hand. “I’ve seen
better. He didn’t immediately come forward—which Elkins is
going to be all over—and he’s got a criminal
record.”

“I came upon something last night,” Corso
said.

“What kind of something?”

“Something that could tell us how Balagula
compromised your jury.”

“Really?”

“Rogers,” a voice called.

Her gaze remained riveted to Corso. “You’re
sure?”

“Not quite.”

“We’ve got work to do, Rogers,”
Warren Klein bawled. “Courtroom C. Two minutes.” He wiggled
a pair of fingers and then clicked off across the floor, with Ray
Butler trotting along behind like a pack mule.

For a moment, Corso thought she was going to launch the
files, shot-put style, at his back. Sanity prevailed, however. She
hitched her purse strap higher on her shoulder, took a better purchase
on her folders, and turned to Corso.

“I shall be professional to the end,” she
said, with exaggerated solemnity.

“To the end,” Corso said.

“Or until I kill him,” she said, and
marched off.

Corso wandered over to the open door. For security
reasons, the entire media swarm had been moved to the area adjacent to
the back door of the courthouse. Bruce Elkins was outside, addressing
the assembled multitude.

“…whose entire case is about to hang on
the word of a convicted felon: a man who has been convicted of federal
perjury charges. A man who was granted immunity on a variety of federal
charges in return for testifying against my client, and whose only
function will be to obliquely connect my client to a conspiracy in
which they have otherwise found it impossible to demonstrate my
client’s involvement.”

At eleven forty-five, the courtroom doors were
reopened. When Corso strolled back inside a minute later, Elkins,
Balagula, and Ivanov were already ensconced at the defense table. At
the front of the room, a dozen U.S. marshals stood shoulder to
shoulder, gazing impassively out at the empty seats.

A minute later, the prosecution team arrived. Renee
Rogers cast a wish-us-luck gaze Corso’s way as she walked by.
Corso got to his feet and slipped out of his coat. By the time he
folded it over the seat and sat back down, Judge Howell had resumed his
place behind the bench and located the gavel.
Bang
.