The Missing Piece (15 page)

“Love you,” said Linda.

“Me, too,” said Hugh, and cut the connection to pick up the call.

Linda went into the kitchen and stared into the refrigerator. An open bottle of pinot grigio stood on the shelf. She took it out, pulled the cork, and breathed in the rather subtle bouquet.

What the hell, she thought, and mixed an ounce with a full glass of seltzer. She barely tasted the wine, and when she crawled into bed the thought that the Roman silver case would waltz into her courtroom tomorrow hit her like a sudden slip on ice.

*   *   *

They were through their third beers, and McQueen had fallen silent. Gary sat sideways at the computer, his thumb worrying a loose ply on the tabletop. One computer monitor displayed a history of 60 Centre Street compiled by the New York State Courts Historical Society. The other showed an architectural plan of the mezzanine level between the third and fourth floors of the courthouse.

“What's up, Mike?” he said.

McQueen grunted.

“C'mon, Mike. Talk to me.”

McQueen sighed. “You know, Gary, when I don't think about this too closely it all makes sense to me. But when I walk out the door and you're not in my ear, I think there are too many leaps of logic.”

“These aren't leaps of logic,” said Gary. “Leaps of faith, maybe, but not logic.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that's the problem. Faith is something you either have or you don't.”

“I have enough for both of us.”

“Maybe,” said McQueen. “But what if I find it? What if it really is in one of those places you showed me? Then what?”

“Good question, Mike.” Gary turned completely away from the computer to face McQueen. He punched a fist into his other palm, then let both hands drop onto his lap.

“In the courtroom before the trial that day, Linda told me she had an argument with Judge Johnstone. She said it was about legal things.” Gary tapped the right monitor. “According to the Appellate Division, Johnstone ruled that a lot of Croatia's evidence and a lot of Hungary's evidence couldn't come in.

“Croatia's story was that the treasure was dug up on one of Marshal Tito's vacation compounds near the city of Pula. A soldier would testify to the unearthing. Hungary's story was that is was dug up in a forest near the town of Polgardi by a quarry worker self-educated in Roman antiquities. Problem was, the quarry worker was long dead, so Hungary needed to rely on chemical analysis of soil crusted on the pieces and the artistic similarity to a Roman-era silver tripod in a Hungarian museum and definitely dug up in Polgardi. So there was lots of evidence for the jury to chew on, but the way Johnstone ruled basically gave the trial to Leinster.

“Now the trial will be the way Linda thought it should be. If I had to bet on a winner, my money would be on Hungary because it gets to put in all that evidence. And Hungary winning is the best scenario for us.”

“Why is that?” said McQueen.

“Well, first, we'd be dealing with a government, not a flake like Leinster.”

“But we don't know anyone in the Hungarian government.”

“Yes, we do,” said Gary. He clicked the mouse, typed furiously in a dialogue box, and pulled up a web page with a much retouched photo of Robert Pinter, the lawyer who represented Hungary. “He's Hungarian. Born near Polgardi. Lived there till he was fourteen.”

“The same Polgardi where the treasure was found?”

Gary smiled at McQueen's slow enlightenment.

“He's tied into the Hungarian community. The embassy in Washington. The consulate here at the UN. How do you think he landed a big case like this?”

“I thought he just got lucky,” said McQueen.

“Luck has nothing to do with it. Connections do. So after we find the piece, after the trial ends, after we know the rest of the treasure is on its way to some Hungarian museum, we hire Pinter to negotiate with the Hungarians.”

“They'll deal with us?”

“They'll deal with Pinter,” said Gary. “And he'll deal with us because we aren't thieves. We didn't steal the thing. We found it fair and square, just like the guy who dug it up. He'll know that. He'll be a national hero, and we'll be rich.”

“What if Leinster wins?” said McQueen.

“Leinster ain't gonna win,” said Gary.

“What if Croatia—”

“Hey, Mike, anyone ever tell you you're a negative person?”

 

CHAPTER 17

Linda felt better than she had in days. She had awakened without nausea, chomped a full sleeve of saltines before leaving home, and, by the time she arrived at the courthouse, felt hungry enough to buy a buttered roll at the coffee shop. She sat at her desk, tearing off chunks of the roll with her teeth, reveling in the sensation of a full mouth, wondering again whether her morning sickness had been illusory, her test results an error.

“Uh, Judge?” said Mark.

“Sorry,” Linda said, and quickly wiped the butter from her lips with a napkin. She was so enthralled with the solid feel of her stomach that she had not seen him walk into her office.

“Court officer called. All of the lawyers are in the courtroom.”

“Thanks. Tell him I'll be right down.”

“Do you want me down there with you today?” he said.

“What about your motions?” She brushed the crumbs from her lap, then stood up from her chair.

“Well, I thought with this being an important trial, I should come down to meet the lawyers and get a feel for the issues in case you need me to research any rulings you might need to make.”

Linda came out from behind her desk and shooed Mark ahead of her into the anteroom.

“I doubt anything substantive will come up today,” she said. “This is more of a scheduling conference. Let me feel them out. I'll call if I need you.”

Linda took the nearest set of internal stairs down to the second floor, then followed a catwalk corridor halfway around the hexagon to her robing room. She found Bernadette waiting inside.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Linda.

“Don't get too excited,” said Bernadette. “I can't rearrange my schedule like this every day.”

*   *   *

On floors three through six, the center circle of the courthouse floor plan was an enclosed corridor. On the second floor, it was an open gallery with alternating brass rails and marble pilasters. Down below was the black and white marble of the rotunda floor inlaid with brass symbols of the zodiac. Up above was the rotunda dome, with its dazzling WPA mural depicting in six lunettes the History of the Law from Hammurabi to Lincoln.

Ivan steered a wide dust mop along the gallery. He already had worked the corridors on the third and fourth floors, using the dust mop as an excuse to peek into each courtroom. Only the second floor remained.

Ivan turned down the last of the corridors that shot off the gallery like the spokes of a wheel. The doors to the two courtrooms were near the outer end of each spoke. In between, steam radiators and hardwood benches lined the walls. Dust collected under the radiators and the benches, but dust no longer was on Ivan's mind because Robert Pinter sat on one of the benches with an old man. Pinter, looking more heavy-set and gray than the last time Ivan saw him, leaned an elbow on a thick briefcase while he pored over an open file on his lap. The old man wore a brown suit and black orthopedic shoes. He had a long thin neck that matched his long thin legs, which were crossed, and his long thin arms, which were folded in such a way that his sleeves rode up almost to his elbows. A red feather poked out of the band of his brown fedora.

Ivan pushed the mop along the opposite wall. At the end, he lifted on his toes to look through the square window in the door of Judge Conover's courtroom. Two lawyers sat at counsels' table. Pinter could have been in court on any case, the old man sitting beside him could have been any client or any witness. But the other two lawyers were proof. Ivan glanced back at Pinter. For a moment, the lawyer lifted his eyes off the file as if picking up on a smell or a sound or perhaps even a memory. He never looked Ivan's way, and then the old man snorted and diverted his attention. Ivan carefully leaned the mop handle against the wall, then took a dust rag from his pocket and went inside the courtroom.

*   *   *

Foxx had expected curiosity seekers: reporters, an art critic or two, court employees interested in the return of the trial. He was wrong. The only extraneous person in the courtroom was Ivan, who seemed more interested in dusting the deep window recesses than in the courtroom proceedings. Which hadn't started yet, though he heard the judge speaking to someone in the robing room.

He stood beside the bench and watched the third lawyer pull up a chair at counsels' table. He remembered each of them from the first trial and noticed the subtle changes brought on by three years of time. Arthur Braman had a tad more gut and a bit less of a comb-over, but still moved with the regal bearing of a partner in a white-shoe firm. William Cokeley, the lawyer representing Croatia, now seemed more calm and seasoned than the youthful brat of three years ago. He still dressed in the slightly crass manner of a suburban attorney who might walk in any day mixing stripes and plaids. Robert Pinter looked grayer and more bristly. A sole practitioner in a legal landscape dominated by huge firms, he litigated with a chip on his shoulder, and that chip, Foxx guessed, had only grown larger. Foxx wandered over and leaned down with his fists on the table.

“Where's the other guy?” he said.

“The auction house?” said Braman. “I called him yesterday. Says he can't be here today, but he'll appear for the trial.”

“Then I'll tell the judge you're ready,” said Foxx.

“As we'll ever be,” said Braman.

Foxx pushed off the table. He had one speed in the courtroom: slow; one demeanor: calm; one message he wanted to convey: don't bother me.

He opened the robing room door to find Judge Conover and Bernadette Symanski chatting across the desk. He had an affinity for these Catholic school girls who grew up as the standard-bearers for their working-class Italian or Irish or Polish families. Hell, he'd knocked knees with enough of them.

“We are ready,” he said.

“Thank you, Officer,” said Judge Conover.

Bernadette mouthed
hello, Foxx
, and he winked in return.

“Do you want the lawyers in here?” he said. Judges usually held pretrial conferences in the robing room.

“This case is all in the courtroom.” Linda stood up and lifted her robe off the coat tree. “And all on the record.”

Foxx went back outside and held the door slightly ajar. Except for Ivan, the only other new person to appear was McQueen. The judge signaled she was ready. Foxx pounded his fist on the rail of the clerk's box and called the courtroom to order. The lawyers stood, Judge Conover climbed the bench, and Bernadette settled into the clerk's box.

Foxx strolled through the well and into the gallery, where McQueen sat in the last row.

“Just like old times,” he whispered.

“Not quite,” said McQueen.

*   *   *

“Mr. Cokeley, I am going to start with you,” Linda said from the bench. “Judge Johnstone excluded the testimony of Anton Fleiss. The Appellate Division reversal means that Fleiss may testify. Do you still intend to call him?”

“Unfortunately not,” Cokeley said, standing up. “Mr. Fleiss died in May. However, I understand that a new witness has been located and will arrive in time to testify.”

“Do you have the name of this witness?”

“I don't,” said Cokeley.

Both Pinter and Braman began to rise, but Linda waved them down.

“You don't know the name of your own witness?” she said.

“It's complicated,” said Cokeley. “As you might expect, most of the soldiers who participated in the unearthing of the treasure are either dead or retired. Yugoslavia broke up, and it took the Croatian military authorities some time to locate this witness and obtain his consent. I understand he only agreed to testify yesterday.”

Linda glanced down at Bernadette, who sat in the clerk's box taking notes, then back to counsels' table.

“Mr. Pinter, you had something to say?”

“This is a new witness,” said Pinter. “I believe we have the right to depose him.”

“Mr. Braman?”

“I agree, Your Honor. Especially since Mr. Cokeley knew five months ago that Anton Fleiss would be unavailable to testify.”

“I did not know five months ago,” said Cokeley. “I found out only two weeks ago when I reached out to advise him that the trial would be imminent.

“Now about the deposition, Your Honor, the Appellate Division did not disturb Judge Johnstone's ruling that allowed both Croatia and Hungary twenty-four hours to identify and produce witnesses to the unearthing. Croatia's position is that the twenty-four-hour period never expired because the courtroom invasion occurred and then the judge declared a mistrial. It is as if the clock stopped and will not start running again until we reconvene to start the trial anew.”

“But, Your Honor,” said Pinter, “the deposing of a newly discovered witness on the eve of trial, even during a trial, is basic trial procedure.”

“We all know that,” said Cokeley. “But the discovery phase of this case ended long ago. Judge Johnstone did not reopen it with his decision. He simply gave Croatia and Hungary an additional twenty-four hours to produce witnesses. He said nothing at the time about adjourning the trial for depositions if either party found such a witness. The Appellate Division did not disturb that part of the ruling.”

“There are some principles so basic and so obvious,” said Braman, “that there is no need to state them.”

“Is that why you didn't bother to appeal this issue?” said Cokeley. “It was too obvious?” He turned his attention to the bench. “The fact is that this witness was in the same military detail as Anton Fleiss at the unearthing. He saw everything that Fleiss saw and, from what I understand, will testify just as Fleiss would have testified. If counsel need to prepare to cross-examine him, they can review Fleiss's deposition.”