The Defense: A Novel (12 page)
Both Volchek and Arturas remained silent. I took that to be a
yes
.
“He’s been sentenced already, hasn’t he? I read in the
Times
that an anonymous witness in an upcoming Russian Mafia trial got time. Everyone reading that knew it was your case. How long did he get? Ten years?”
“Twelve,” said Arturas.
“So what stopped him giving up the good stuff? It doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he give up your whole operation and walk away a free man with a new identity, courtesy of the FBI?”
Volchek spat on the floor, and although his face was turned toward me, his eyes sought out Arturas as he said, “Perhaps Little Benny still has some loyalties.” His bleak, ferocious gaze returned to me.
“No matter. I do not think you can win this case, Mr. Flynn. You can try. I will allow you that. But come tomorrow, we plant the bomb under the seat. We won’t risk planting it tonight in case a cleaner finds it. Tomorrow we plant the bomb, just as Arturas planned,” said Volchek, and as he spoke the name of his lieutenant, I saw again some form of dark, bloody desire in his expression, as if the murders that went before and the deaths still to come were a source of sadistic pleasure for Volchek. This man was the head of his organization and yet he’d taken the time to torture Jack and his sister. Arturas was all business, whereas Volchek enjoyed the wet work.
For all of Volchek’s talk of the Bratva, of loyalty and trust, it didn’t change the fact that when his man got caught, he pointed the finger straight at the boss, at the
pakhan
, at the very man who, in giving him that ruble bill, had given him his
tselkovy
, his
whole heart
. In large criminal organizations you have to have a certain level of trust. You demand loyalty or you don’t stay in business too long. I guessed Volchek was in his early fifties. Not many gangsters live to that age, never mind stay out of jail, and this fact was testament to the loyalty that existed in the Bratva’s ranks. Loyalty clearly came with high expectations, and if they were not met, the consequences were inevitable. The scar on Arturas’s cheek was probably some form of testament to that demand. Volchek despised Little Benny. Blowing someone up sends a message to everyone in the Bratva ranks. It sends a message to every law-enforcement agency in the world. It sends a message to every rival gang: We can get you—anywhere. Betray the Russian Mafia and die.
Darkness fell on the building as a huge rain cloud moved overhead, muting the dying light.
I heard a noise, loud and urgent. Someone pounding on the courtroom door.
I watched Victor and Arturas drop to their knees and remove something from their shoes. A hidden compartment in each of their boot heels stored short, wickedly curved blades. They were made of the same material; no bulky handles, just slim, gray, single-piece knives. I guessed them to be ceramic. That material wouldn’t show up on the metal detectors. The blades probably cost a lot of money. You can buy a decent knife for seventy-five dollars. These knives probably cost seventy-five hundred each.
This was their backup. If it all goes to shit, they pull out knives. No guns. Whatever Arturas had on me, I knew then he didn’t have that big revolver with him. If they couldn’t get the bomb in there, then he sure as hell couldn’t smuggle a gun through security, either.
Victor listened at the door, his knife in his left hand held down by his side, the tip of the blade held upward, toward the ceiling. Arturas appeared more accomplished with the knife. He drew it, reversed it, and held it blade to ground in the ideal fighting grip: allowing him to cut, stab, and run. The reverse grip keeps the knife discreet and avoids creating an easy target for your opponent to knock the weapon out of your hand. In addition, striking down allows a lot more force to be generated, and it’s a lot faster than driving a blade upward. I’d had occasion to use a knife in the past—for protection.
Arturas joined Victor at the door.
They listened.
Nothing.
BANG! BANG!
Arturas gestured me forward and said, “We’ll open the door. You speak to whoever is there and deal with it.”
Victor took the left-hand door. Arturas moved to the right, holding the detonator in his left hand. The bomb vibrated again, and for the first time I noticed a red dot of light on the detonator, which I guessed meant that it was armed and ready.
The courtroom echoed softly with our breath.
“What if it’s the feds?” I said.
Arturas said, “Why would the feds want to speak to you?”
“The prosecutor hired a jury consultant. I saw him in court today. His name is Arnold Novoselic. Arnold is a renowned lip-reader. I’m concerned he may have read me or one of you guys talking about the bomb.”
Volchek shook his head and said, “Impossible. See who’s at the door.”
Arturas and Victor gripped the door handles and looked at each other.
They opened the doors to a tumultuous river of light.
* * *
They were lined up like a firing squad, but instead of muzzle flash, I drowned in rapid fire from a dozen cameras. I instinctively put my hands up to my face, shielding my eyes from the sudden fluorescent onslaught.
When we started our law firm, Jack had insisted on publicity shots for advertising. I had to sit in a bright room next to a large plant and smile for forty minutes while a photographer got overpaid to make me look half decent on a poster or a coffee mug. In hindsight, the coffee mugs were a mistake. No client likes to have their attorney’s face on their mug. Only reminds them of their car accident, rape, divorce, murder rap, or—worst of all—their bill. The memory of that day at the photographer’s made me smile. I’d been bored. I’d taken out a pack of cards and hit the photographer and his assistant for fifteen hundred each. I’d had to. In those days, Jack and I didn’t have the money to pay for gas, never mind photo shoots. I felt my teeth grinding at the thought of Jack and what he’d gotten me into.
With my hands in front of my face, I started forward. The photographers weren’t expecting it. A tall guy who shined a permanent beam of light in my face from his TV camera almost fell when I started toward him. I’m sure every one of them had shot me before with a big stupid grin on my face and my arm around some lowlife. Like it or not, I operated a scale; the more horrific the crime the client was alleged to have committed, the closer I would be to them when we were photographed. According to that ratio, I should have been standing beside Volchek with my hand on his ass. If you are any kind of a decent criminal lawyer, you will get your picture in the paper and you will get to know some reporters.
Behind the cameramen lay the real sharks—the reporters. The camera guys gave way, and instantly, I was surrounded by microphones, voice recorders, and pleading hands. Apart from the ship that sank on the Hudson a few days ago, this was the big story in town. Every reporter wanted a piece. Volchek was one of the biggest organized crime bosses ever to face a modern trial, and since no cameras were allowed in court, they had all waited for him to leave the courtroom so they could get their shots and sound bites before he ducked into an elevator.
“Eddie, how are you going to defend Volchek?”
“Eddie, great show today. What’s in store for tomorrow?”
“Mr. Flynn, will your client testify?”
A dozen other questions were flung at me all at once. I made it across the hall to the elevators and turned to the crowd of reporters. They hadn’t noticed Volchek. He stood behind Victor, which was much the same as standing behind a moving wall. The elevator doors chimed and opened. Victor dragged the suitcase of files and moved behind the reporters and around their left flank as they continued to focus on me. Sneaking in front of them and then ducking behind me into the elevator, Victor beckoned me inside. Volchek moved into the corner of the elevator while Arturas and Victor stood in front. The reporters now realized who was being protected and called the photographers forward. But it was too late.
The doors started to close. Arturas and Victor were both on edge, breathing heavily. They kept their hands in their coat pockets, no doubt clutching their knives. Their eyes were wide and watchful for any threat. These guys were dangerous like this. Adrenaline and fear were a powerful combination in anyone, but in men like Arturas—deadly. A hand stretched out and caught the closing doors, arresting their path and forcing them open. It wasn’t an overenthusiastic reporter, as I’d hoped.
It was Barry, the security guard. He had the look of a man who’d been searching for me all day. As the doors opened again, he joined me in the elevator.
“Eddie, I got to thank you again for what you’re doing for Terry. I told him you would represent him for free, and he nearly hit the ceiling he’s so happy. He called his wife; they want you over for dinner.”
Barry stood around a lot. When you do that long enough, you develop a pose. A way of standing that eases your body and causes you the least pain. Barry shifted his weight onto his right leg. He waited for an answer from me with his right hand resting casually on the butt of his .45 Beretta.
Victor hit the button for the top floor again.
I looked over Barry’s shoulder and saw Miriam standing about twenty feet away, talking to one of the feds, the tallest one. He wore a sharp navy suit, white shirt, and blue tie. His hair was so black that I thought it had been dyed. Miriam pointed at me. The fed looked straight at me and then glanced upward as he began to walk toward the elevator. He must have known he wouldn’t reach me before the doors closed, and he was checking the electronic floor display above the elevator doors. He would wait and check which floor we stopped on before following us up.
The elevator doors closed.
Jesus Christ, Barry. What the hell are you doing? I’m wearing a bomb,
was what I wanted to say.
I didn’t, of course.
Barry waited for me to accept his friend’s invitation for meat loaf and beer, but I couldn’t look at him. It was because of me that he was in this elevator. If I hadn’t said anything about Terry’s case, if I’d politely declined, he wouldn’t be here. Arturas set his lips tight.
I picked up Barry’s face only in my peripheral vision. He chewed gum. I could see his jaw muscle flexing and relaxing at the side of his head. A faint wet chewing sound as Barry rolled the gum around in his mouth. The elevator slowed at the nineteenth floor.
“Nineteenth floor?” said Barry, clocking the illuminated floor number on the elevator panel. “You pulling an all-nighter?”
“Yeah. Big case. It’s quiet up there, and we can use the space. The conference rooms downstairs are too small. I’ll be here with my clients most of the night. If I get a chance, I might slide down to night court later. Which judge is taking the graveyard shift?”
“Judge Ford,” said Barry.
“You’ll have to tell Terry I need a rain check on dinner. Say, it’s still okay to work up here, right? I haven’t been in this courthouse in a while.”
“Sure. Happens all the time. I found a pillow, a toothbrush, and a shaving kit in the conference room on the tenth floor yesterday. As long as you don’t move in permanently, it’s all good. This is a public building, after all, and we never close, so yeah, be my guest. I’m pulling a double shift myself, so I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. Say, some of the guys are ordering pizza later. You want I could send you up a couple slices?”
“No, thanks, Barry. Appreciate it.”
The elevator opened on the nineteenth floor. Barry moved to the side so we could squeeze past him.
“Tell you the truth, judging by the state of this place, I don’t think even the cleaners come up here no more,” said Barry with a derisory laugh.
Barry stayed in the elevator for the ride down. We moved back to the reception room and the chambers that we’d occupied earlier. Arturas unlocked the door and we filed in. He closed it and was about to insert his key into the lock.
“Don’t lock it. The FBI are on their way up here.”
Arturas and Volchek crowded around me.
“What are you talking about?” said Volchek.
“I just saw the prosecutor pointing me out to the fed in the blue suit. The jury consultant I spoke to you about, he must have told her about the bomb, and now she’s told the feds. They’re on their way. I saw one of them before the elevator closed on the fourteenth floor. He was looking up at the floor-level indicator above the elevator. He was checking which floor we were headed to.”
“Victor, go watch the elevator. Tell me where it stops and where it’s headed,” said Volchek.
We stood in the reception, silently waiting for Victor.
“Moving past the seventeenth floor on its way down,” cried Victor from the hallway.
“If it stops on fourteen, they’re coming straight up,” I said.
“Moving past sixteen.”
Volchek and Arturas stared at me, but I couldn’t look at them. I kept my gaze on the floor and prayed the elevator made it past the fourteenth.
“It’s stopped on fourteen,” said Victor.
Arturas put his knife to my cheek.
Volchek took out his cell phone and dialed a number.
My legs began shaking, and I could feel my pulse thumping in my temples.
Volchek’s call was answered quickly. “It’s Olek. We may need to kill the girl. Stay on the line and wait for my order.” He dropped his arm, holding the phone by his side, listening, waiting to hear from Victor whether the elevator was headed this way.
The tremors began to crawl over my whole body and I shook my hands, set my jaw, and waited.
My mind raced as I fought to control my panic. Arturas pressed the knife harder into my cheek.
“Wait,” I said. “Just relax. The feds aren’t going to arrest me. They’re not going to risk blowing the trial. The jury consultant spoke to the prosecutor, and it was the prosecutor who spoke to the fed. Miriam is trying her dream case against the head of the Russian mob. There’s no way she would allow the feds to pick me up because that leaves you without a lawyer. That puts the trial in jeopardy. If they do come up, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a shakedown. I’ll bullshit them and send them on their way. Don’t hurt Amy, please.” The last word caught in my throat.