The Defense: A Novel (36 page)
The phone vibrated in my hand— Ferrar calling again. Miriam was too busy with the pictures to notice. She hadn’t seen anything. I glanced over her shoulder. Kennedy sat four rows back. He sat alone. No other agents around, but of course, they couldn’t reach Kennedy because I had his phone. I played the likely scenario in my head. Both Ferrar and Weinstein would be hauling ass from my apartment to this spot. I estimated it would take a half hour, forty minutes tops. I figured if Ferrar couldn’t raise Kennedy, he would try calling some of the other agents.
The double doors swung open with force, and Agent Coulson made his way to Kennedy’s seat. Coulson whispered something to his boss. Kennedy stood and started moving toward me. I stepped away from Miriam and stood in the center of the courtroom. Lawyers call it the “well.” Drawing his weapon as he advanced, he shouted, “Freeze, Flynn. You’re under arrest.”
I’d blown it.
Volchek spotted Kennedy making a move toward me, and his right thumb slipped over his cell phone.
For once I could think of nothing to say.
Kennedy stopped in front of me, the barrel of his Glock aimed at my head. Coulson had also drawn his gun, but he stayed back and covered his boss.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” I said to Kennedy as I held my hands up.
“On the ground slowly, facedown,” said Kennedy.
“He’s my lawyer. This is harassment,” said Volchek.
Keeping my hands high, I went down on one knee, then two; then I put my hands on the floor and went down. The marble floor felt cold on my cheek. Spreading my hands out in a crucifix position, I heard my pulse thumping in my ears.
My hands were pulled behind my back and cuffed. A strong arm hauled me to my feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” said Miriam. “I warned you not to fall for his crap. Can’t you see Eddie’s hustling you? He wants to be arrested. He’s playing for a mistrial. Take the damn cuffs off before the jury gets back.”
The agent ignored Miriam.
I managed a whisper to Kennedy. “Trust me. Don’t do this. They’ve got my daughter. Arturas is going to spring his brother. He’s got automatic weapons in that suitcase.”
Kennedy took a step forward so that he could see over the heads of the people in the gallery. The suitcase stood open, with a file sitting on top of the false bottom.
“You mean that empty suitcase? Too late, Flynn. We found your suicide note in your apartment, along with the manifest for the
Sacha
and the plans for the courthouse. It’s all over.”
At that moment, all I could do was pray that Jimmy would get Amy, that somehow he could get to her and take her home to her mom. I hadn’t prayed in a long time. My hands clasped together, and I asked God to help Jimmy save my daughter. The pain in my limbs fired up and my body felt heavy, slow, the exhaustion finally kicking in as the last reserves of adrenaline trickled away in my failure.
Kennedy began to lead me from the court, but he hadn’t realized he’d inadvertently created a small riot up ahead as reporters fought to get out of the courtroom so they could take a picture of me in cuffs.
A voice from behind me stopped Kennedy dead.
“Officer! You there! Turn around. Goddamn it!”
I knew the voice.
Kennedy and I both turned and looked back. Judge Pike stood in front of her chair, and Senior Judge Harry Ford stood beside her. His sixty-some years seemed to fall away. He no longer looked like an old judge. His back was straight and his chin proud.
“Who are you?” said Harry, rooting Kennedy to the floor with the power of his stare.
“I’m Special Agent William Kennedy, and I’m bringing this suspect in for questioning,” he said, about to turn again and leave.
“
Special Agent
Kennedy, you set one foot out that door with that man and you will be
Mr.
Kennedy within the hour. Turn around, take off those handcuffs, and sit your ass down,” said Harry, more like the captain from Nam than the judge. Kennedy did stop, and he did turn, but he didn’t take off the handcuffs.
“Guard,” called Harry to the security guard who had just returned to court with Benny, “if Special Agent Kennedy does not release Mr. Flynn, then you are to arrest that agent. If he resists, shoot him,” thundered Harry.
Beginning to protest now, Kennedy addressed the court. “This man is a…” he began—a major mistake.
“If those cuffs are not off in five seconds, you will spend a long time in the cells of this courthouse,” said Harry.
I saw Kennedy’s eyes moving quickly between me and Harry. A silence like no other I’d ever heard seemed to grip the courtroom. I could hear Kennedy’s breathing becoming heavier. I heard the guard move forward and draw his gun. Whatever magnetic power emanated from Harry was clearly finding its way to the security guard, who pointed his gun at Kennedy like he meant it. He leaned close so no one could hear him but me.
“You gonna blow up this place, Eddie? End it all?” said Kennedy.
“I’ve been set up. I’m going to do whatever it takes to save my daughter.”
“Where’s the bomb?”
“I told you, Levine is dirty.”
I couldn’t tell him about the vans in the basement. If I did, Kennedy would clear the building and I needed a little more time. Just a little more time.
“I don’t believe you. Levine is a decorated agent. Security are searching this whole building right now. I don’t trust you, not one bit.”
“Kennedy, let him go,” said Miriam.
“I can’t, and by the way, this is a federal matter. You’ve got no jurisdiction here, Ms. Sullivan,” he said.
“You can let him go and you will. You’re in a courtroom governed by state law, and you’re about to hand the head of the Russian Mafia a mistrial. If his lawyer is arrested, the trial collapses and he walks out of here. This is what Eddie wants. Can’t you see that?”
I sensed hesitation. Kennedy’s eyes began darting around the floor as his head worked overtime.
“Time’s up,” said Harry.
“I need a little more time, please. Stay here. Watch. It should prove interesting. I’m not going anywhere. In my left-hand jacket pocket you’ll find a business card. Look at it.”
With my back to Arturas, he wouldn’t see Kennedy taking the card. The FBI agent turned the card over in his fingers.
“That’s the FBI card I told you about. You’re Levine’s senior officer. You read his logs. Tell me that’s not his handwriting.”
Holding the thing in his hand had given Kennedy pause. I should’ve given it to him earlier. His expression softened; the lines on his forehead disappeared. With his mouth slightly ajar, I could smell the morning coffee on his breath. He recognized the handwriting.
“That card came from Gregor’s wallet. Look. You’re searching the building, fine. Give me the time while you’re searching. Give me thirty minutes. If you still don’t believe me in half an hour, you can arrest my corpse.”
Harry had enough. “Agent Kennedy, your five seconds are up already.”
I heard screams from the crowd, followed by people climbing over the seats behind us to get out of the firing line as the security guard advanced on Kennedy.
Miriam had her cell phone in her hand.
“I’m calling the city field office. Your director will want to know why one of his agents just messed up the biggest mob trial in fifteen years.”
Kennedy hesitated. Head down. Fingernails working swiftly on his thumb, tearing the skin, drawing blood.
“What did you tell me this morning, Agent Kennedy? Do you remember? You told me Eddie Flynn used to be a con artist. He’s conning
you,
Kennedy. He wants to get arrested and blow this trial. The longer this process takes, the harder it is to keep the witness safe from his old boss. Come on. Think! You’re not going to blow my career case for this. No way,” said Miriam.
A heavy breath and his head came up.
“You got twenty minutes, Flynn. I’m watching. You make a move? You die first,” said Kennedy as he took off the cuffs, nodded to the judge, and walked back to his seat, keeping me in view the whole time.
The guard put away his gun. Harry and Gabriella looked at each other and sat down.
“Agent Kennedy, I am the law in this court. Don’t forget it,” said Harry.
I took my seat at the defense table. The noise from the crowd sounded more like an audience at a heavyweight title fight than a murder trial. Volchek grabbed my arm and pulled me close.
“What the hell was that?” said Volchek.
“It was luck. Sheer, dumb luck.”
Judge Pike seemed ready to get the trial moving again. She considered herself a modernist reformer when it came to judicial office, and she refused to have a hammer and gavel in her courtroom. She banged the flat of her hand against the mahogany desk in front of her and then shouted for quiet.
“Judge Ford will be observing the remainder of this trial,” she said. “I’m glad to have him here, considering the behavior of certain members of this court.”
* * *
Judge Pike clicked the top of her pen into action and rested the point against her notepad, ready to hear from the witness. The last of the jury members filed in, and Little Benny regained his seat in the witness box. Miriam would ask only a few questions on the threat to Benny’s life, and then I’d have him.
Kennedy never took his eyes from me.
Rising to her feet and adjusting her jacket, Miriam got herself comfortable and began her short direct examination.
“Mr. X, how did you become a witness in this case?”
Benny appeared surprised by the question, but he answered quickly, usually a good indicator of an honest response.
“I was caught at the scene of a murder by police.”
“Whose murder?”
“Mario Geraldo.”
“And who murdered Mr. Geraldo?”
A pause. Benny wiped his mouth.
“I did,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if telling someone the capital of Australia.
“You did?” asked Miriam. The witness had omitted a little piece of evidence, and she was giving him another shot. I should have objected, but I didn’t.
“Yes. Olek Volchek sent me a message. The victim’s name on half of a one-ruble note. I had the other half. It is old Russian code for a hit
.
”
I got to my feet to object. I needed Miriam to hurry so I could get to Benny.
“Your Honor, this is not going anywhere near the issues.”
“Is it leading there?” said Judge Pike.
“Yes, Your Honor. Just getting there now,” replied Miriam. “After you were arrested for this murder, what happened?” she asked.
“I made a deal. I tell police who ordered the hit, I get discount on my sentence.”
“Have you been in prison all this time?”
“No. Once I made my deal, I went into FBI protection.”
“Why did the FBI put you in protective custody?”
Damn. Had to object again. “Objection. The witness doesn’t know the FBI’s motives.”
Judge Pike made a circular motion with her pen to Miriam, telling her to rewind and rephrase.
“Why do you think that you’re in protective custody rather than in jail serving your sentence?”
Benny didn’t say anything. He looked at Miriam, then the judge, and then his eyes came to rest on Volchek. A look of purest hatred.
“It is simple,” he began. “Olek asks other people to kill for him. He would have me killed if I was in prison. The FBI protects me from Volchek’s word because that is all it takes from him—one word and you’re dead. He knew I was testifying against him and he wants me dead.”
Miriam knew it wasn’t going to get much better, and she bowed out. “No further questions.”
The judge looked at me, waiting for my cross-examination. Court security, the FBI, and probably the NYPD were tearing the building apart right at that moment, searching for anything that might look like an explosive device. With a window broken in each van, the search team would definitely find the bombs this time. It would be only a matter of time. Maybe minutes. The crowd was silent, waiting for the murderer to be tested by the defense.
“I have just a few questions,” I said. I stood eighteen feet from Benny, outside the kill zone. The lead in my limbs faded away as my heart rate went up.
Everything that had happened in the last day and a half all came down to these final minutes, these final answers. I thought of my father and felt the cold touch of his medal against my skin.
“How might Mr. Volchek kill you?” I asked.
This seemed to amuse Benny. He laughed and looked around the courtroom, shifted in his seat, and wiped his face a few times.
“The man you represent does not care how he kills.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I know—I work for him for twenty years. He wants somebody dead, they’re dead. Doesn’t matter how.”
“So give me an example.”
Benny wasn’t laughing now.
“Well, Mario Geraldo—Volchek sends me the other half of my ruble with Mario’s name on it. So I shoot Mario. He did not say shoot him, stab him, drown him. His name on the ruble means he must die.”
“I just wanted a few other examples, say, the last three people he had killed. How did they die?”
“How should I know that?”
“You say you fear for your life; you say my client is a killer. Tell me about it. Tell me how he kills.”
“I told you—he writes down their names…”
“So tell me the names of the last three people he killed.”
I saw a flash of anger on Benny’s face, there and gone in a second. I needed to build that anger in Benny. Amy’s life depended on it.
“Tell me!”
Little Benny leaned forward, clenched his fists. “I do not tell. I tell only this murder.”
“You made a deal and you got twelve years to serve. Yet you could have told the DA and the FBI a lot more. You didn’t. Is that because you’re still loyal to someone in the organization? Or is there more to this?”
Shifting in his seat, Little Benny pulled at his shirt collar, which must have suddenly felt tight around his throat. He ran his fingers around his neck before reaching for a glass of water.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said.
“Oh, you
do
know, Mr. X. You were caught red-handed at the scene of a murder. You made a deal. You gave the FBI my client, Olek Volchek, for this murder, correct?”
