Black River (25 page)

Wednesday, October 25

10:04 a.m.

J
udge Fulton Howell took his time getting
situated behind the bench. Satisfied that his chair was in exactly the
right place and that the drape of his robe was correct, he turned his
frowning visage toward the nearly empty courtroom.
Bang
.

“In light of the testimony of Victor
Lebow—” he began.

Renee Rogers got to her feet. “Your
Honor.”

Out of habit, the judge looked over at Warren Klein,
who sat stonefaced behind the prosecution table. When Klein failed to
meet his gaze, he turned his attention back to Renee Rogers. “Ms.
Rogers,” he said.

“The prosecution would like to call a final
witness.”

The judge folded his arms over his chest and leaned
back in the chair. “I was under the impression that Mr. Lebow was
to be the state’s final witness.”

“Yes, Your Honor. As of Monday afternoon, it was
our intention to have Mr. Lebow be the final witness for the
prosecution.”

“And?” the judge prompted.

“New developments in the case have provided the
state with additional information that we believe, in the interests of
justice, should be introduced in this court.”

“In the interests of justice?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“As I recall, Mr. Lebow’s last-minute
testimony was allowed on much the same supposed basis.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge looked over at the defense table. For the
first time, Bruce Elkins sat with his hands steepled beneath his chin.
Nicholas Balagula had abandoned his day-at-the-beach slouch and was now
sitting bolt-up-right in his chair.

“Mr. Elkins?”

“It was my impression that the state had rested
its case.”

“No, Your Honor, the state had not,” Rogers
said.

Fulton Howell deepened his scowl and called for the
court reporter, who walked over, put her head together with the court
clerk’s, and returned to the bench with several pages of trial
transcript. After a moment, the judge looked up and addressed himself
to Bruce Elkins. “Apparently your impression was faulty, Mr.
Elkins. The prosecution never rested its case prior to my call for an
adjournment.”

Elkins shrugged. “As previously stated, Your
Honor, the defense does not wish to dignify these spurious proceedings.
We remain confident that the jury will see through the web of innuendo
which the state calls a case and will reach the judicious
conclusion.”

“I take it, then, you have no objection, Mr.
Elkins.”

“None,” Elkins said, with a wave of the
hand.

Fulton Howell’s distaste for the tactic was
evident on his face. He swiveled his head back to face Renee Rogers.
“Before I rule on this matter, Ms. Rogers, let me make it clear
that any semblance of yesterday’s travesty of justice will not be
tolerated.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she said.

His voice began to rise. “I will not permit this
court to become any more of a laughingstock than it has already become.
Whatever testimony this witness may offer had better be both
verifiable and germane to this case. Am I making myself
clear?”

Renee Rogers lifted her chin a notch. “The
testimony is of sufficient magnitude and is sufficiently verifiable to
have led to the investigation of one of our own staff members, Your
Honor.”

The judge looked from Klein to Rogers and back.
“Would that explain the absence of Mr. Butler from today’s
proceedings?”

“Yes, it would, Your Honor.”

He now turned his attention to the defense table.
“And Mr. Ivanov?” he inquired.

Elkins spread his hands. “I have no knowledge as
to the whereabouts of Mr. Ivanov.”

“Mr. Balagula?”

“Mr. Ivanov is indisposed.”

“Indisposed?”

“Yes.”

“Indisposed in what manner?”

Renee Rogers broke in. “Your Honor.”

“If you don’t mind, counselor.” His
voice dripped acid.

“Your Honor,” she said again, “with
the court’s forbearance, Mr. Ivanov will be the state’s
next and final witness.”

Silence settled over the room like new-fallen snow.
Judge Fulton Howell moved his gaze from table to table as if watching a
tennis match replayed at half speed.

“Do something,” Nicholas Balagula said to
his attorney. He reached out and prodded Elkins in the back: once,
twice. Hard. “Do something, goddammit!” he demanded. When
he received no response, he jumped to his feet and started up the
aisle. He made it about halfway to the door before a pair of U.S.
marshals came out of the woodwork, blocked his path, and then, when he
tried to force his way through, wrestled him to the floor, where he was
handcuffed and subsequently pulled to his feet.

Most of those in the room at the time believed Bruce
Elkins buried his face in his hands in a show of frustration. Truth
was, the move was designed to hide his lips, which despite his best
efforts seemed intent on arranging themselves into a smile.

Wednesday, October 25

10:14 a.m.

W
hile hope springs eternal and charity
begins at home, faith apparently requires the assistance of iron bars.
The Ming Ya Buddhist Foundation of Seattle sat on Martin Luther King
Way South, wedged between a derelict steel yard and an Arco gas
station. The red-rimmed windows of the bottom two floors were protected
by wrought-iron security bars, whose decorative loops and whirls were
more reminiscent of New Orleans than of New Delhi.

Corso parked on the side street. On this side, a set of
wooden stairs led up to a porch. Above the narrow door, a dozen gold
Chinese characters glittered. At each end of the landing, a red lantern
waved its tassels in the breeze.

Corso walked down the slight incline to the front of
the temple, where, high up under the eaves, a pair of golden dragons
flanked a molten sun.

Corso knocked on the red metal door. Nothing. He
knocked again, harder this time, and waited. Still nothing. He had
turned and started back the way he’d come when he heard the
scrape of the door.

The boy was somewhere between twelve and fourteen. Bald
and barefoot, he took Corso in from head to toe. He held the door open
with his back and inclined his head, as if to question. “I need
to talk to someone,” Corso said.

Without hesitation, the boy leaned back into the door
and pushed it all the way open. Corso stepped inside. The boy’s
feet pattered on the bare floor as he hurried around Corso. He pointed
at Corso’s shoes and then at a reed mat to the right of the door,
where a pair of Nike sandals rested.

Corso dropped to one knee and then the other as he
removed his shoes and placed them beside the sandals. The kid was off
down the hall like a rabbit. Halfway down he stopped short, slid back a
screen, and disappeared from view. Corso stood still. He could hear
muted voices. After a moment, the boy stepped back into the hall and
stood with his hands at his sides, not moving. Corso walked toward him,
bending low under the doorway. A Buddhist monk sat cross-legged on the
floor. At the sight of Corso, he adjusted the saffron-colored robe on
his shoulder and smiled. His broad brown hand gestured to his left.
Corso heard the door slide shut behind him.

He padded across the room, sat on the floor, and forced
his legs across one another. Rice-paper screens covered the windows.
The air was filled with the pleasant odor of incense. The room was
dominated by a life-sized Buddha. Gold and gleaming, it sat between a
pair of low tables, draped with red silk. Candles flickered on the
tables.

“How can I help you, Mr….”

“Corso.”

“Ah.”

“I have a few questions.”

“Ah,” the monk said again.

“About a woman named Lily Pov.”

“A tragedy.”

“Yes.”

“And you are seeking what?”

“Understanding.”

“Of what?”

Corso told him.

“I could not expect you to understand,
Mr. Corso,” the monk said.

“Try me.”

“You spoke of a funeral for Lily Pov. Here at the
temple.”

“Yes.”

He shrugged his smooth brown shoulders. “In the
Buddhist tradition, there is no such thing. What would usually happen
would be that the family and friends would go to the Pov home. They
would bring an envelope with money to help pay for the funeral
expenses. There would be an
ahjar
sar
.”

“A what?”

“Perhaps, in the Christian tradition, a
deacon.”

“Sort of a middleman between the sacred and the
secular.”

“Yes. The
ahjar sar
would bless the gifts and the mourners. Food would be served. This
would go on all day.”

“So if this is something that usually happens at
home, why was Lily Pov’s”—Corso searched for a
word—“
bereavement
held here at
the temple?”

“Mr. Pov has many friends in the local Khmer
community, far too many for his house. We offered the temple as a
courtesy.”

“You know that she killed herself.”

“So I was told.”

“Any idea why?”

“We are not like Catholic priests. We do not hear
confessions.”

“Surely there must have been talk.”

“There is seldom a shortage of talk.”

“Hypothetically…” Corso began.

“Hypothetically,” the monk repeated.

“Why would a woman who had waited nearly ten
years to come to this country, who was engaged to a Cambodian
man—”

“Engaged?”

“Promised in marriage.”

“Ah.”

“A woman who had the support of her elder brother
and, as you say, the entire Cambodian community—why would a
woman such as this choose to kill herself?”

He gave a serene shrug. “Who can say? Perhaps it
was her duty.”

“Her duty?” Corso considered this comment.
“What if the prospective husband changed his mind and decided he
didn’t want her for a wife?”

“For no reason?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is more likely that Mr. Pov would have
killed the prospective husband. In the Cambodian tradition, he would be
within his rights to do so.”

“What if…before the wedding…she
became involved with another man?”

The question seemed to startle the monk. “Then
the man to whom she was promised might be well within his rights to
kill her. As would her brother. It would then be her duty to save them
the trouble and take matters into her own hands.” He read
Corso’s expression. “I’m sure this all sounds rather
quaint and bloodthirsty to your ears, Mr. Corso, but as I told you
earlier, our customs are often seen as odd by outsiders.”

“People change their minds all the
time.”

“In your tradition, Mr. Corso, not in
ours.”

“Till death do us part.”

“Hmmm,” was all the monk said.

Wednesday, October 25

11:01 a.m.

O
n
the far side of the marsh, three white vans were parked along the top
of the levee, doors open, orange lights pulsing. Corso watched as a
pair of men in bright yellow jackets wheeled a gurney to the rear of
one of the vans and lifted a slack, black bundle inside. He pulled his
eyes back across the surface of the water, his gaze floating from the
rushes, whose brown tops leaked white into the fall wind, to the matted
grassy hillocks cowering a foot above the water-line, to the rotten
stumps and the lace of lilies, spread here and there across the
wavering surface. And finally to the near shore, where the little man
stood, stiff and straight at the water’s edge, his fingers laced
behind his back, his elbows touching.

Corso crossed the grass and stood silently at his
side.

“The birds have all gone,” Nhim Pov said,
after a moment. “They have no tolerance for the noise and the
engines and the lights.”

“They’ll be back,” Corso said.

Nhim Pov pointed at the vans with his chin.
“They’ve been here all morning. Ever since it was light
enough to see.”

“Tomorrow they’ll be somewhere
else.”

Nhim Pov inclined his head. “Certainly, there is
no shortage of death and misery.”

“No…there never is.”

“The son of Mr. Barth. He called. Said he’s
going back to Boston. Asked me to distribute what was left of his
father’s things.”

“It’s time for him to get on with his
life.”

Nhim Pov nodded. “One must go forward. Time never
looks back.” He brought his hands out from behind his back and
heaved a sigh. For the first time, he looked at Corso. “So, you
are still working on your story?”

“The story’s over,” Corso said.
“This morning, a man confessed to the murder of Donald
Barth.”

Nhim Pov averted his eyes. “What is that saying
you Americans have? Confession is something for the soul.”

“Tonic,” Corso said. “Confession is
tonic for the soul.”

“Yes.”

“He will go to trial?”

“No,” Corso said. “The confession was
part of a plea agreement. The matter is closed.”

“For all time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you imagine he feels better now that he has
un-burdened his soul?”

Corso watched the wind plow furrows in the marsh water
as he thought it over.

“I think…like most of us, he just did what
he felt he had to do.”

“Sometimes that is all that remains.”

“Or so it seems at the time.”

Nhim Pov emitted a dry laugh. “There are no
mistakes, Mr. Corso. In the final act, everything comes to the end for
which it was intended. If this man killed Donald Barth, I’m sure
he had a good reason.”

“And if it was another man who actually killed
Mr. Barth?”

“Why would the first man have confessed if he was
not guilty?”

“Perhaps he was
induced
to do so.”

Nhim Pov smiled. “Forced by outside
influences.”

“Yes.”

“Then I must assume the real killer had an
equally good reason for his deed. Everything is done for a
reason.”

“What would be a good enough reason to kill
another man?”

“Honor,” Nhim Pov said immediately.

“Whose honor, the killer or the
killed?”

“Both,” Nhim Pov snapped. “To live
without honor is to be no more than a beast of the field. To die
without honor—” He broke off, his eyes locked on
Corso’s. The two men stood in silent conversation for what seemed
an eternity.

“What about fear?” Corso asked. “What
of a man who kills from fear?”

Nhim Pov sighed. “What is more universal than
fear? What would make him more human than fear? A man without fear is
not a man at all.”

Half a mile away, the three white vans were moving,
turning around one by one, and heading back toward the road, lights
flashing like orange pinwheels.

The two men stood in the quiet, watching the procession
bounce out into the road and head north toward the freeway. Corso
turned to leave. Nhim Pov’s hand on his elbow stopped him. Pov
started to speak but stopped himself. Corso pointed.

Above the tree line a dozen canvasback ducks veered
across the sky, wheeled once around the marsh, and then splashed into
the water, where, amid impatient quacks and airborne feathers, they
began to feed.