The Plea, page 10
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
He stood and paced the room, working it through in his mind. I shut up and let him think.
A thought brought him to a halt.
“Look, you’re my lawyer now, okay? I’ll fire Gerry if it makes you feel better. I think it’s better if I have an expert criminal lawyer like you, but don’t go making crazy accusations—it scares me.”
“You should be scared. Twelve hours ago a federal task force came to me and told me they were going to put my wife in prison unless I helped them. They wanted me to get close to you and make sure you hired me to defend you in this case. Then they wanted me to lean on you to take a plea agreement: Turn state’s evidence on your own lawyers, Harland and Sinton, and their money-laundering operation, and in return you’ll get a light sentence for murdering your girlfriend. I was all set to do it, too. Then I met you and I discovered two things—I don’t think you murdered your girlfriend and you know nothing about Harland and Sinton. If you did know about their operation, you’d have the next best thing to a get-out-of-jail-free card. If that were the case, you wouldn’t want Gerry Sinton within a half mile of you, and you certainly wouldn’t want him sitting beside you when you were interviewed by the cops.”
His legs seemed to give way, and he half lowered himself, half fell onto the cold concrete floor.
“If you didn’t murder your girlfriend, it sure as hell looks like somebody set you up. And it wasn’t the firm. They don’t want you in the pressure cooker in case you make a deal and give them up in exchange for a reduced sentence. That’s why they didn’t want you to have bail. They wanted you inside, where a random act of violence, totally unconnected to them, would end your life. Dead men don’t testify.”
He shook his head and his breath quickened again. His hands ran over his knees, rhythmically, as he rocked back and forth, fending off the panic.
“The death of your girlfriend could be coincidental, but I don’t buy it. Look, I don’t have it all figured out yet. I know you’re innocent. I know you’re too rich and too famous to get involved in laundering cash.”
“Money laundering? This is Harland and Sinton we’re talking about here. They’re one of the most respected firms in New York. There’s no way they…”
“Hang on. I didn’t believe it at first either, David. But now I’m convinced it’s true. If it was all a pile of bullshit and the feds got it wrong, why would some random gangbanger buy himself a life sentence by killing a one-hundred-and-ten-pound white kid he never met before? It doesn’t get him any status. Yeah, guys like you might get beat up or worse in the cage, but there’s no reason for any of those guys to kill you, because you’re no threat. You’re insignificant to them. My theory is Harland and Sinton paid somebody to make you significant. They want you dead.”
“No, this is crazy, just totally trip-out crazy. No. No way. I mean, I don’t know anything about the firm doing anything illegal.”
“Exactly. I think you’re on the level with that. If you didn’t know shit, you wouldn’t be a target for the feds or for the firm. But you are a target. I’ve been told your IT security system, the algorithm that hides the money if it detects a cyberattack, the firm is using it to launder cash—millions of dollars. They’re pretending that they’re testing the system—but they’re washing the money. The feds want your algo so they can trace the cash back to the partners. If you give it to them, we can make a deal.”
“What? My algo is not designed to launder money. It’s a security system.”
“I know that. But I’m guessing the partners asked you to design their security system to a specification—so that if a threat is detected, the money starts to run. Am I right?”
He nodded.
“The feds want the money and the partners, and your algo is the key. If they can access the algo, it gives the FBI the full money trail—from the initial transactions all the way through to the clean bills. The firm triggered the algo the moment you were arrested. My guess is when the money lands in the final account, the partners will clear out. The FBI want to be there when the money lands. They want you to plead guilty, they want the algorithm, and then they’ll go easy on you and let my wife walk. But I think there’s another deal here.”
“I didn’t kill her. I won’t plead guilty.”
“I won’t let you go to jail for a murder you didn’t commit. We make a new deal. I’ll sell them the algorithm—the price is high—they have to let you and Christine walk.”
I put out my hand, and only then did I see that I was trembling.
He stared at me, just as frightened as I was.
David shuffled backward until his head hit the wall.
“I can’t,” he said.
“You have to. I’m your only shot at getting out of this in one piece.”
“No, I mean I can’t help you. The feds have it all wrong. The algorithm is on a separate internal system at the firm. I can’t access it.”
Lacing his fingers together, he held his hands above his head and then let them fall onto his skull. With both hands locked at the back of his neck, he swung his elbows together, then began flapping his arms. It looked like the kid was trying to blow an idea out of his head, using his arms for bellows.
“Oh God, I wish this weren’t happening,” he said.
He became completely still—frozen in thought. His body came back to life as he let the idea breathe.
“Eddie, what if I could get the algorithm traced? Why should I trust you?”
It was a good question. I thought about spinning a convincing line. Dismissed it and told him the truth.
“If I were you, I’m not sure I’d trust anyone. Unfortunately you don’t have a choice. The firm thinks you’re a threat and they want you dead. If we can give the feds enough to take the firm down, that gives you a shot, and I got something to bargain with for you and my wife. Then I’ll help you figure out who killed Clara. I don’t think this was a robbery gone wrong: Nothing was taken from your apartment. You’ve had time to think. If you’re telling me you’re innocent, then you must have some idea who would want to set you up.”
“There’re a lot of people that don’t like me. Guys who helped me set up Reeler, guys I paid off. They were all friends once, I don’t think any of them would kill somebody. But there’s one person I know who might.”
“Who?”
“Bernard Langhiemer.”
“Who the hell is Bernard Langhiemer?”
“A competitor. Somebody who once told me he’d destroy me. I can tell you everything you need to know about him.”
“We’ll talk about that when we get you out of here. In the meantime, I can protect you on the outside.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I got a friend I can call. He works for an old sparring buddy of mine. This friend is a little unusual, but he’ll keep you alive. People call him the Lizard. Well, to be accurate, he calls himself the Lizard.”
“The Lizard?”
“I told you—he’s a little unusual, but I trust him with my life. And I need contact details for your family, somebody who will get down here and organize your bail money.”
“I don’t have any family. Not really. You can call Holly. She can arrange the money transfer.”
“Who is Holly?”
“Holly Shepard. She’s an old friend and my PA.”
“Can she bring you some clothes, too?”
“Sure.”
He knew the cell number by heart, and I wrote it down in the file. David paced the room, muttering. I thought about the evidence against him, and what Dell had told me. For a moment I wondered if David was playing me.
“Can you really trace the money?” I asked.
He stopped. Rubbed his hands together.
“I’m not sure. I can try. You think they’ll let me off if I give it to them?”
The guard rapped the cell door with his stick. The viewer slid open, and I saw his dull eyes through the door.
“I got a call from the office. Your name’s Flynn, right?”
“Yeah, Eddie Flynn.”
“Your wife’s here to see you,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
From the top of the staircase, my view of the central lobby that morning was pretty much like any other day. Security was spread out all over, with teams focused on the bag scanners at the entrance and backup dotted around, ever watchful. The floor was black, hardened, ridged rubber, for heavy-duty footfall. There were rows of pine benches bolted to the floor with steel bars. The benches ran along the walls and a couple of islands of seats sat opposite the coffee machines. There would be a steady stream of defendants through the arraignment court that day, from morning until around one a.m., when they shut down for the night. That normally meant a river of family members, girlfriends, bail bondsmen, cops, lawyers, dope peddlers, reporters, pimps, probation officers, and court staff would pass through the doors.
Holly, David’s PA, picked up my call.
“Holly, it’s Eddie Flynn. I’m calling on behalf of my client, David Child. I need your help with—”
“Is he all right? They won’t let me see him, and the firm isn’t telling me anything. Is Gerry with you? Why hasn’t he returned my call? Is David gonna make bail?”
She spoke faster than I could listen. But she wasn’t panicked or hyper; she sounded like the kind of person who was super-organized and couldn’t understand why everyone else didn’t operate at the same level. It was hard to tell, but I guessed she wasn’t much older than David—mid- to late twenties maximum.
“Let me slow you down. I’m co-counsel with Harland and Sinton. I’m a specialist criminal defense attorney. By the sounds of it, you know that David has been arrested. I can tell you he’s been charged with a serious offense. I need you to come down to the bail office and arrange a transfer of funds to cover his bond. Can you do that?”
“Oh my God! Is he all right? David can’t cope with confined spaces. He’ll freak out … Does he have his meds?”
“Holly, he’s okay. I’m looking after him. Now, here’s what you need to do…”
I gave the address of the courthouse, the bank information for the court funds office, the case docket number, and asked her to bring some clothes for David. She wrote it all down and said she’d be right on it. After disconnecting that call, I dialed the Lizard’s cell and made arrangements for him to pick up David when he made bail. The Lizard was a former marine and peripatetic hit man/interrogator for Jimmy the Hat, my oldest friend. The Lizard was one of his men who’d helped me deal with the Russian mob. He could handle security.
As I came down the staircase I clocked Christine. She sat on a bench close to the east wall, underneath a sign that read, NO FIREARMS. NO PHOTOGRAPHY. A leather bag sat beside her; it looked new, expensive. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a clean black suit with a skirt that stopped just above the knee. She sat cross-legged. Her left leg swung rhythmically, threatening to dislodge her polished leather high-heeled shoe. She looked anxious. The weather had been good for the past few days, and with the radiators turned up full in the lobby for the benefit of the guards on the door, the heat in the room was fierce. With long, delicate fingers, she fanned at the pale skin of her throat, exposed by an open-necked cream blouse.
Before I could reach the bottom of the staircase, she saw me, grabbed her bag, and marched in my direction. Those high heels sent deep clacks echoing off the walls. Her steps were purposeful, fast, and they sent the bob of hair at the back of her head swinging around with the ferocious motion of her gait.
She reached the foot of the stairs and waited for me. I could see the confusion on her face, and the continued tapping with her shoe confirmed she was worried.
The skin around her blue eyes was taut and her cheekbones were colored, as if, with the wearing of the monochrome suit and the heels, they wished to display themselves more prominently.
No matter how many times I’d woken up next to her, or turned toward her as she watched TV on the couch, or caught the scent of her in the bathroom in the morning—every time I felt that flutter in the pit of my stomach and that warm feeling that I’d found the only woman on this planet I wanted to be with. Lately, that feeling had been immediately followed by a flood of self-loathing—I’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to me and it was all my fault. I still clung to the little hope I had left that maybe the split wasn’t permanent. The thought of her spending twenty-three hours a day in a prison cell if I messed this up sent a spike of adrenaline though my veins.
Before I even reached the bottom of the staircase, she started talking. She wanted answers.
“Gerry Sinton’s assistant just hauled me out of a meeting because of you. I thought I was going to be fired. She told me that you’re sabotaging their business and illegally soliciting one of their biggest clients. I told her there was no way you would do that. That you couldn’t do that. They sent me down here to talk to you. What’s going on, Eddie?”
“Take it easy. Let me try to explain. You’re right. I am representing David Child,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. Christine was a fiercely intelligent lawyer, and she knew more about litigation than I would ever know. We’d met in law school; she was a top student and I was hanging in there by a thread. We’d shared a cab into school one morning and I’d been mesmerized by her. Unlike the other women, who were career-focused and straitlaced, there was a wild streak in Christine. She had the same money and privileged upbringing that most of the other women in the class had enjoyed, but it hadn’t tainted her. Instead of spending her time studying and planning job applications, she was either in the bar or volunteering at a homeless shelter. Luckily, she had the brains to excel with little or no effort. I’d never met anyone like her before.
“Why are you doing this? Don’t you know this puts me in a terrible position?”
“You know I wouldn’t do anything to damage your career,” I said.
“How on earth do you think you can steal one of my firm’s clients? You’re not a corporate lawyer. You wouldn’t know one end of a law book from a Sears catalog.”
“This is going to sound crazy, but I’m doing this for you.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away from me. I saw her massage her temples, shaking her head slowly.
I came up behind her and stopped my hand in midair, just before I touched her shoulder. She sensed it.
“Don’t. I know you care about my career. That’s why I don’t understand this. It’s nothing to do with me. And I’m so pissed at Gerry Sinton’s PA—she spoke to me like I was dirt. God, Eddie, I could get fired,” she said.
My hand fell to my side.
We stood there for a moment. I said nothing and let the awkward silence fill the space between us. She turned and studied my face.
“What are you doing with this client? Tell me the truth.”
“We can’t talk here. Look, this isn’t about you and me. There’s something I have to tell you, but now isn’t the right time and this isn’t the place. I can come by later and we’ll talk. I’m not screwing with you, I promise. I want things back the way they used to be, only better. I can do that. I’m trying to do that. Trust me, I’m doing this for you—for us.”
She searched my face for signs that I was bullshitting her. She could read me, and I sensed she knew I was telling the truth.
“Amy loves you, and I know you love her. Sometimes … sometimes I think there might be a chance for us…”
The soft look in her blue eyes evaporated when she said, “Then you do stuff like this…”
“Christine—”
“No, Eddie. You’ve pissed off one of my bosses. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, but this can’t come back on me. You want to make things better? Fine. Fix this. Tell the client you made a mistake and send him back to Gerry Sinton.”
“It’s more complicated than that. Let’s take a walk,” I said, gesturing to the front door.
She slung her handbag over her shoulder and made for the door. I let her get ahead and focused my gaze on the glass-fronted entrance to the courthouse. With the overhead lights, I could see Christine reflected in the glass. I kept my eyes on the midpoint of the glass wall, concentrating on that dead center as I walked, gearing up my peripheral vision.
That was when I saw them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
There were two of them.
The first man had been following me down the stairs. He was heavyset, early forties, checkered shirt, green padded jacket, and a light mustache to match his hair.
He had paused on the staircase to check his cell phone when I’d reached the bottom and met Christine. Even while we talked, I could feel the big guy behind me. He wore dark pants with a solid crease down the middle and work boots. That sealed it. Any guy who’s got a pair of black, smart dress pants also owns a decent pair of shoes and there was no way he would come to court in his work boots.
The sandy-haired man in the green jacket kept coming, slowly, his phone in his hand with an earpiece running from the cell.
I wasn’t overly concerned about this guy. I couldn’t be sure, but he looked a lot like the man in the photo Dell had shown me: Gill, Harland and Sinton’s head of security, although I hadn’t yet gotten a chance to take a good look at his face.
The second man was a whole different story. He sat on the bench to my right. Arms folded, a newspaper spread out on the bench next to him. A long black overcoat spilled open as he lounged there, feet extended and crossed. His head back and eyes closed. He too wore an earpiece, only I couldn’t see the device it connected to. I detected a strong smell of stale cigarettes that grew in intensity the closer I got to him, and then I recognized him as the guy I’d seen in the hall earlier that morning, wearing the same coat. He’d dumped the gray sweater, to alter his appearance slightly, and wore a cream button-down shirt. But the neck tattoo gave it away. He was definitely the man I’d seen earlier with the smartphone. The one who’d looked straight at me. With a closer view of him I could see a mole on his right cheek, and he was heavily tanned, making his black hair appear even darker. He had a thin, pinched mouth, almost as if he didn’t have any lips, so that his mouth looked more like an open wound. It went against my instincts, but I guessed that he could only be an eye for Dell and the feds, though he really didn’t look like any kind of federal agent I’d ever seen.
