The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella (13 page)
Read The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella Online
Authors: Steve Cavanagh
We’d spent most of the lunch hour in the consultation room. Fifteen minutes before we were due back in court, we packed up and made for the elevator.
As the doors opened on our floor, I saw Maria standing beside her sister, with their backs to the wall outside the courtroom. A man had his back to me, and he was talking to Maria. I’d never seen this guy before, but that didn’t mean much. A lot of people were watching this case, and I’d expected Maria to get caught by at least one reporter before the trial was over. She’d been well briefed; “no comment” was the stock answer to all media. Only thing was, the guy talking to Maria didn’t look like a reporter.
He wore a checkered suit.
Maria nodded politely at this man. It was plain that she was uncomfortable in his presence. The closer I got, the more I thought Maria was beyond uncomfortable—she was scared and trying to hide it.
“Hi,” I said, standing beside Maria, her sister, and the man in the checkered suit.
At first I thought he hadn’t heard me. He was still staring at Maria and smiling. The smile didn’t even look human. I could smell cigarette smoke coming off him, and something else. It was a smell I hadn’t encountered before—the way I imagined a lethal, decaying chemical would smell.
He looked at me finally. The same dead expression. The muscles of his face had pulled his lips into a grin, but you got the impression that a dark, malevolent creature was controlling his body in a poor attempt to hide the true nature of what lay underneath.
His attention turned back to Maria.
“I just wanted to wish you well. Your husband’s death was a terrible tragedy. Bless you. Bless both of you,” he said, his voice high and cracked.
Then, before any of us could react, his hand moved toward Maria’s belly. A thick, nicotine-stained thumbnail touched the top of her stomach. The nail was sharp and pointed. He drew the nail down, sending a ripple over the fabric of her dress, all the way over her stomach. Then he drew it horizontally across her midriff, completing the sign of the cross.
We were too stunned to move. Maria’s mouth lay open, her hands raised. We were simply stunned by the gesture. The sheer destruction of her personal space. It was more than overfamiliarity—there was a horrible intimacy to that touch, a foul violation.
“Bless this child. I hope it lives longer than its father,” said the man as he turned and walked away.
I saw him take a lighter from his pocket, and the cap flicked open and closed as the Zippo rolled around his fingers.
Click, click
.
I held Maria and tried to calm her. Looking behind me, I saw that Jack and McAllister had watched the whole thing from a distance. They’d seen the man draw the sign of the cross on the baby. They knew what it meant—the terror of its true meaning.
This was the hit man.
He was coming after Maria and the baby.
It took less than twenty minutes for Vinnie to complete his direct examination of Marzone. They’d gone through the whole story in enough detail to sound convincing. Genarro’s murder, the confidential tip about Chilli waving a knife and boasting about offing some union guy, tracking down Chilli, Roark getting the door in the face, and Marzone saving his partner by grabbing Chilli before he had time to use the knife.
The last five minutes of testimony was devoted to Chilli’s record. Vinnie sat down with a list of Chilli’s convictions for violence ringing in the jury’s ears.
And Marzone’s lie that Chilli had held a knife and attacked them.
And listening to all of this, Mr. Zippo. The man in the checkered suit. The hit man for Marzone’s Morgue Squad. The man who liked to draw crosses with his fingers, with chalk, and with the scope of a rifle as it leveled at Frost’s head.
Click, click
.
I wanted to rip into Marzone—destroy him. I wanted the jury to see that video, to see Marzone’s arms and how free they were from knife wounds. His story didn’t add up. I could make it a hell of a lot shakier.
No questions. That was the order.
The idea that I’d had in the consultation room took on a new dimension. Suddenly I could see a way out for Maria, for me, for Jack—and a way to take down the whole damn crew.
“Your Honor, may I have a moment to confer with Mr. Federof? It should take only a few minutes.”
As much as he hated accountants, Judge Winter hated wasting time more. But he could smell something here. He knew if I was talking to Vinnie, there was a chance of a settlement. If the case settled, he would have a clear schedule for a week. I could see his graying eyebrows weighing the possibilities.
I could tell that the judge didn’t much like Vinnie and the smug look he wore on his face. Vinnie probably thought I was coming back to him to take the five grand. Vinnie was in for a surprise.
“Ten minutes, maximum,” said Winter as he rose and headed out of the court.
“Let’s find somewhere private, Vinnie. And bring your friend with the Zippo. This concerns him, too. Trust me, you need to hear this.”
The consultation booth on the tenth floor was even smaller than the one we’d used to view the footage. But family court had finished for the day, so I knew the entire floor would be empty. I went into the room first, followed by Vinnie and the hit man, who was still playing around with his lighter.
“Vinnie, wait outside for a second, will you?” I said.
“Anything you got to say, you can say it in front of me,” said Vinnie.
The killer was intrigued; his lips turned up at one side. I held my eyes on his face and prayed he couldn’t tell that I was scared shitless of him. I could put on a good front when I needed to, and that moment required me to be cooler than Steve goddamn McQueen. I sat
down across the table, leaned back in the chair, and nonchalantly flicked a hand at Vinnie, gesturing for him to leave. If I had a rubber ball, I would’ve bounced it off the wall.
“It’s okay, Vinnie,” said the man. Vinnie didn’t question this guy; he almost fell over, he left so quickly.
The door to the consultation room closed. I could smell cigarettes and just a hint of that other, foul odor.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I want to forget,” I said.
“Forget what?”
“In a word,
you
. I want to forget that you even exist. I can do that. I’ve done it before. Jack forgets things real easy. He’s already forgotten you. But I need some reassurance that you’ll forget about Maria and me and Jack.”
His eyes looked wet, and the veins in his neck got a little darker as he leaned across the table and said, “Your client, you, and your partner would be difficult to forget. You’ve been on my mind for a while now. In fact, ever since you took that ferry ride, I’ve been thinking about you all constantly.”
“I think you’ve made a mistake. It’s not us you need to worry about. It’s Marzone.”
“Freddy has a terrible memory. I’m not concerned about him.”
“You should be. I’m sure he’s been reliable in the past, but he got sloppy with Chilli Hernandez. I saw the video.”
“I was afraid you might say that. This news makes quite an impression. One I will always remember.”
“I forgot to mention that I’m giving you something in return for your memory loss.”
“And what is that?”
“I’m going to give you the only copy of the video, for a start. But first I’m going to show it to the city’s lawyer. You won’t mind that. He’s old, and he forgets real easy. Besides, there’s nothing in that video that ties you to Marzone. My memory isn’t that good. I’m convinced I won’t remember anything about you when Boles and I have that conversation. The big question is, when Marzone goes down, do you think he’ll keep his mouth shut about you? Come on. He’ll be the first one to make a deal; give you up in exchange for ten years at a minimum-security prison. Apart from the video, I’ve got one more gift.”
He seemed to relax, and the tense bubble of air around him dissipated. His shoulders fell, and his head came up.
“And what is this gift?”
“Time.”
“Time? For what?’”
“That’s up to you. Vinnie is going to let me adjourn Marzone’s testimony and take a new witness out of sequence—the deputy chief commissioner. Ten minutes in the box and I can rattle him enough into making a deal. I won’t mention you, what Marzone was really up to—nothing. Like I said, you’ll slip my mind completely. But Marzone is done for. I’ve also got this,” I said, handing him over a copy of the traffic camera photo: Roark’s face, lit up behind mine as he choked me.
“It’s coming apart at the seams. With the media attention this case is getting, the NYPD will be under severe pressure to get rid of Marzone. Even if they don’t fire him, he won’t be able to take a leak without Internal Affairs watching him. It’s no longer a question
of
if
Marzone goes down; it’s
when
. I’m giving you my memory and a head start. That’s the best deal you’ll make all day.”
“How much of a head start?”
“I’m guessing that Marzone and his boys will hang around for a while to watch me question the deputy commissioner. An hour? Maybe more.”
At first he said nothing. He didn’t move. Didn’t even appear to breathe. Just a dead stare from those black eyes.
“Call it an hour and a half and you’ve got a deal. How do I get the video?”
“When I’ve shown it to Boles, I’ll hand it over to Vinnie. Fair enough?”
Suddenly he clapped his hands together, and the slap echoed around the small room. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching.
Startling me brought a smile to his lips.
“How’s your memory?” I asked.
“Becoming shakier by the minute,” he said, before rising and leaving the room without another word. I heard Vinnie in the hallway, asking what the hell that was all about. The muffled reply was lost to me.
A hand stopped the door from closing, and Vinnie came in, looking confused and angry.
“What are you doing?” he said.
From my jacket pocket I removed a photograph of Vinnie, taken that morning in Harry Lam’s restaurant, handing a brown package to an Asian guy at a table.
Funny, the paler Vinnie became, even with the tan, the brighter his suit seemed to become.
“You set me up.”
“I did. The man you gave that money to is a friend of Jiang’s. Jiang asked him to collect a package for him this morning at his restaurant. The restaurant is owned by the man who took the package – Harry Lam, and he’s about to get married to a nice lady named Ann Fulton.”
“Fulton? That name sounds familiar.”
“It should. She’s juror number seven.”
The only thing holding Vinnie upright seemed to be the ocean-blue suit and starched shirt. It looked as if somebody had pulled the cork out of him and he was deflating right in front of me.
“With your reputation for jury interference, this photograph ends your career and puts you behind bars. You and Marzone will make excellent cell mates. What’s the going rate for perverting the course of justice and jury tampering—ten, twelve years? I wasn’t at the restaurant, and because you insisted on me dumping, there’s no evidence of any settlement negotiations. We’ve got you, on film, giving five grand to a juror’s fiancé for no good reason other than to buy her verdict. This is the end of the line, Vinnie. Unless . . .”
It was like somebody plugged Vinnie’s suit back into the mains. He sprang to life.
“Yes? Unless what?”
“Unless you do exactly what I ask of you in the next hour.”
“What do you want?”
“Very little. I don’t want to cross-examine Marzone just yet. I want to have a crack at Alfred’s client. After I cross-examine his witness and Boles and I have had a talk, I’m going to give you a memory card, which you will hand over to your friend. He’s expecting it. Relax. This is about covering you and your friend.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s enough,” I said.
As Vinnie turned to leave, I said, “Oh, sorry. There is one more thing. I want my clients back. All of them. You can keep that photograph, by the way. I’ve got copies.”
Even twenty minutes after our conversation, Vinnie had not yet recovered. He was a guy who liked to have it all planned out. Now he didn’t know where this was going and how it would affect him. He didn’t have control. For a guy like Vinnie, that must’ve been killing him. Nevertheless, he’d come through. All the lawyers were in agreement that I needed more time to prepare against Marzone, that some new evidence might be coming to light, and that for the sake of the parties and moving the trial forward, it would be better to start the city’s case. Judge Winter was initially against the idea. He didn’t like taking witnesses out of sequence. A strong hint from Vinnie that the case might just settle if he allowed us to proceed clinched it for the judge.
Boles called Deputy Chief Commissioner Johnson to the stand. Boles knew I would likely attack the police on the race argument, pouring statistics of racial profiling in stop and searches all over their case like molasses. That shit sticks. So instead of the police commissioner, Boles had called the deputy commissioner as his star witness—chiefly because Deputy Commissioner Johnson was young, smart, and black.
The NYPD’s lawyers knew how to defend race allegations in front of a jury. They’d been doing it for years.
For a half hour, Boles questioned Johnson on police tactics and training, about the Patrol Guide, and even about refresher training for officers. As Johnson delivered the answers, I looked at the jury. He was a convincing witness. Even I started to believe the NYPD does everything it can to stop its officers using choke holds. They banned it, they inform officers
verbally and in writing not to do it, and they train them not to do it. If any officer breached that rule, well, that was all on the officer, as the department had done everything possible to avoid that.
“After the unfortunate death of Mr. Hernandez, what action, if any, did the police department take in response to the incident?” said Boles.
Johnson spoke with an educated, erudite tone. But not in the practiced way of a politician. He had at least retained a normal speech pattern, so that it actually sounded like he meant what he said.
