The Plea, page 24
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
“He didn’t do it, Zader. We had a deal—the pen drive for the immunity agreements.”
“You didn’t have a deal with me,” said Zader. “You tried making a deal with Agent Dell, but he has no authority in relation to the Child case. I told you, we don’t make deals that set murderers free. Not in my office. Best I could do would be twenty years if he pleads guilty. Otherwise, see you in court.”
As he swung away, toward the SUV, I started after him and then stopped myself. If I caught up with him I’d almost certainly lay him out. A night in the cage for assault wouldn’t help me defend David.
“This is a joke, right?” said Kennedy.
“You’re a big boy, Bill. It’s time you started acting like one,” said Dell.
Kennedy tilted his jaw and strode up to Dell, who welcomed him with a burning glare.
“You want to take a pop at me, kid? Go right ahead. I’ll kick your ass and take your badge,” said Dell.
Kennedy shook his head, turned to me, and said, “Eddie, I knew nothing about this, I promise you.” He meant it. He looked even more haggard and disheveled than the day before. His hair was wet with rain, his shirt, too, and I got the impression that the only thing holding him upright was rage. Kennedy was a straight shooter—no way he knew I was gonna be played. And that ate at him.
Dell stepped forward, inviting the attack. Kennedy backed off, walked into the back. Seconds later I saw him leave in a dark sedan.
The ballistics report became a ball of paper in my hand as Dell and his men poured into their vehicles and drove out of the hangar.
I’d done the very thing I’d promised myself I would not do. I’d given up an innocent man for my wife. A man who had risked his own neck to help Christine, who had paid for a helicopter to meet her coming off the plane in Virginia—a man I’d let down, badly.
I called Christine’s cell, but it must’ve been powered down for takeoff. The rain beat a tinny drum on the roof. With only me in the hangar, it became an echo chamber for my breath and the tap of my shoe on concrete.
Think.
Dell didn’t need me anymore. He’d gotten the code, the evidence that led to the partners and the money. He would take down the firm tomorrow—as soon as the money landed. He would wait with a team outside their offices and swoop in at precisely the same second that the first cent hit the firm’s account. He could be no help to me now.
Zader wanted his high-profile murder. He was making a name for himself. A name that he hoped would carry the weight of his political ambitions far beyond district attorney.
There was only one thing to do. Fight it out in court.
Seemingly from a distance, I heard a ringing, as if it were underwater. When I took the cell phone from my pocket, the noise from the ringtone, ricocheting off the hangar, almost deafened me. It certainly shook me out of my own head.
“Eddie, it’s Bill,” said Agent Kennedy. He’d never used his first name in conversation with me before. “What Dell did was wrong and I’ll have no part in it. If we can’t be straight, what hope is there? I’m sorry, Eddie. I wanted you to know that. And I wanted you to know where I’m headed.”
“I’m listening.”
“Federal Plaza. I’m going to check every police and prosecution file to make sure you’ve got everything for tomorrow. It probably won’t do your client any good anyway, but I want to help.”
“He’s been set up.”
“I know that’s what you think. Hell, you might be right. But look, what I can get for you—save it for trial. There’s no chance of a judge throwing this out for lack of evidence. And even if you did pull off some kind of Houdini stunt at the prelim, I hear Zader’s got a grand jury empaneled for tomorrow afternoon and they will definitely find a case against your client because you can’t even address them.”
“Let me worry about the grand jury—there might be a way of swinging something, but I’m not sure yet. The main thing is that I get working on this now, and I need you to do something else for me, if you’re serious about helping me, that is.”
“Sure, shoot.”
“I need to know everything about the victim. Whatever you can find, I want it. Other than what may or may not be a fight in the elevator, the prosecution doesn’t have a clear motive for this murder yet, and I don’t want to be hit with one tomorrow. If I’m right, Child was set up.”
“Sure. I can get background. I’ll have that to you ASAP. Anything else you need?”
“I was going to ask you about something. I’m being followed. Hispanic guy with a tattoo on his throat. It’s The Scream, by Edvard Munch. He warned me with a vial of acid that David should keep his mouth shut. I’m guessing he’s muscle, working for Harland and Sinton off the books. You know him?”
“I only know the firm’s security team. Dell told me he already filled you in on Gill and his men. I haven’t seen anyone matching that description around the firm. I’ll look into it. If you see him again, call me.”
“Thanks. If I see him, I’ll call.”
Kennedy’s voice became heavy, slow.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I got you into this. I’d only joined the task force last month. They’d gotten nowhere and I was brought in to look over the evidence, see if there was something they missed. Despite what Dell told you just now, we were going to indict the associates if we couldn’t nail Harland and Sinton. We were all set to do it, too. Then Child fell into our lap over the weekend. Dell wanted Child to cut a deal, but we had to separate him from the firm and get him a new attorney. He asked me if I knew anyone who could handle it for a nice payoff. I suggested you. He said he’d heard the name before, and he pulled Christine’s file. He had deep background on all of the associates. You were the perfect fit for the job. Eddie, I’m sorry.”
“I know you didn’t set me up. You can help me now. Get whatever files you can grab and meet me in my office in an hour. I need to start planning what the hell I’m going say at the hearing tomorrow.”
My thoughts became lost. Silence filled the line.
“You know, you might be wrong about this. I know you think Child doesn’t have it in him, but the security camera footage from the apartment building puts him as the last person to leave that apartment and minutes later his girlfriend’s body is found. She’s dead from multiple gunshot wounds and the gun is in your client’s car. The facts make him good for the murder. Are you sure you’re on the right side of this?”
“I’m a defense attorney, Kennedy. I don’t have a right side—I just have a client.”
That was what Kennedy expected to hear. All law enforcement think the same thing about attorneys. How do they sleep knowing they set the guilty free? It’s even harder to sleep when you’ve got an innocent man in jail. Well, I was done with nightmares.
“Don’t worry. I know I’m right on this one. I can feel it. I’ll see you in my office in an hour.”
“Okay, but let me check it out first, make sure it’s safe. What are you gonna do for an hour?” asked Kennedy.
I thought it over. There was nothing to be gained from heading back to the Lizard’s house. Besides, I’d had an idea.
“I’m going to fry Zader’s backup,” I said.
“What? The grand jury? What are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to get my secret weapon, which’ll give us a chance at destroying the case if it ever gets as far as the grand jury.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to hire Child another lawyer.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Finnegan’s Pub on Fifty-sixth Street looked more like a flophouse for the blind than a public bar. A sign on the door read WE NEVER CLOSE.
I sat outside the bar in the driver’s seat of Holly’s Honda, the interior light shining on the new ballistics report from Dr. Peebles. From the unique markings and striations on the bullets found in the victim, he was able to confirm that those rounds could only have been fired from the gun found in David’s car. A slam dunk for the prosecution. Only one thing bothered me about the report: From Peebles’s examination of the weapon, he’d found traces of soil on the grip, and some of that soil had made its way into the tiny gap around the magazine, which slotted into the butt of the gun. I told myself I would think about it later, that it probably meant nothing, but all the same, little details like that tugged at my mind. I got out of the car and approached Finnegan’s.
The windows of the pub were taped up from the inside, and a second door, just beyond the entrance, was always closed and shrouded in thick green curtains that smelled of rotten beer and cigarettes. It was almost as if the patrons were vampires and if any natural light penetrated the bar at any moment, the entire clientele would burst into flames. It had a reputation as a rough joint and the owner, Paddy Joe, tolerated all kinds of customers. Ten years ago it would not have been unusual to find a gang of bikers in one corner, the 58s in the other corner, the Bloods playing pool, and half of the Sixteenth Precinct’s homicide squad hitting tequila slammers at the bar.
“Is Cooch in tonight?” I asked.
Paddy Joe looked up from the bar and for a moment I couldn’t take in his face because his head seemed to be as big as a silverback’s. A steel-wool beard hung over his T-shirt and the end of that beard met my eyeline at his stomach. Taking a step away from the bar, I was able to focus more clearly on his handsome blue eyes and row of capped teeth that looked like a stack of gold bars lying in the mouth of a dark cave.
“He’s in his spot. Good to see you, Eddie. You want a Coke or somethin’?”
When I was hitting the bottle, Paddy had made sure I got home from the bar in one piece—so he knew I’d kicked the booze, or was trying to.
“No, thanks. I’m good. Nice to see you, too, man.”
He held up his massive fist for a bump. I obliged him. It was like a marshmallow briefly touching a wrecking ball.
I turned away from the bar and walked past the broken jukebox and up a small flight of steps to a large booth in the far left-hand corner of the pub. There, surrounded by three drunk lawyers, Cooch was holding court.
“It’s like I always say, you never put your client on the stand. It’s suicide,” said Cooch. “Take Gerry Spence, yeah, best damn trial lawyer I ever saw. Spence practiced for fifty damn years, never lost a case and only once or twice put his client on the stand.”
Two of the male lawyers at Cooch’s table were around his age; the third was a young guy, blond, hanging on Cooch’s every word. I hung back to let Cooch finish. He was a little deaf and had problems with his volume. You could almost hear him in the street, he was so loud. Cooch also wore a hearing aid, which he tapped occasionally if he didn’t hear what you were saying. Like if you reminded him that it was his round at the bar.
“Spence used to say you told your client’s story through your cross-examination. Attack the prosecution case. Attack, attack, attack. But pick your battles…”
The two middle-aged lawyers had heard it all before—this was Cooch’s favorite topic—and they began their own conversation. Undeterred, Cooch switched his attention to the young lawyer.
“Criminal law is war, kid. But don’t fight the system; fight the evidence. It’s like … what’s his name … Irving Kanarek. He’d fight over a coin toss. You ever hear of him, kid?”
The young man shook his head.
“He was a defense attorney out of LA. He represented Charles Manson. Almost got him off, too. But Irving took it too far. He objected to everything. He made objection after objection after objection. He objected during direct, during opening speeches—everything. He sure pissed off the judge plenty. In the Manson trial Irving got himself sent to jail for contempt, twice. He was just a belligerent guy. Once, the prosecutor called a witness and asked him to state his name for the record. Old Irving was on his feet in the blink of an eye. ‘Objection, Your Honor. This answer is hearsay. The witness only knows his name because his mother told him!’”
The young lawyer laughed out of politeness, then stared into his beer.
Moving into the light, I nodded at Cooch.
“Now, here’s a real talent, kid. This here is Eddie Flynn. You see him in court, you watch him. Learn from him. He’s the next Gerry Spence,” said Cooch.
I exchanged greetings with the other lawyers, who shook hands with Cooch, made their excuses, and left. The young lawyer finished his Miller, thanked Cooch for the advice, and made his exit. I took a seat.
“Nice kid, highest score in the bar exam and top of his class at law school. A real prospect. Pity he doesn’t have the first freakin’ idea of how to be a lawyer, but he’ll learn. Like you did, Eddie.”
“You gave me your fair share of advice when I was his age. I was grateful; it helped.”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“What do I know?” he said.
“Look, I need a favor, Cooch.”
“Wha’? Didn’t catch that,” he said, and leaned toward me, tapping his hearing aid.
I whispered, “I’ll pay you ten grand for a day’s work in court tomorrow.”
“Ten large? Tomorrow? What’s the case?” He had little difficulty hearing that.
“Murder. It’s the prelim tomorrow. You’re second chair.”
Raising his hands, he looked at the patterns of nicotine staining on the ceiling, muttered something, and then returned his attention to me, waiting for the details.
Despite his advanced years, the seventy-year-old lawyer was still as sharp and as dedicated as any I’d ever met. Cooch took a real interest in his clients, getting to know them, getting to know their families, their bail bondsmen, their kids and pets. He survived on repeat business from a large group of clients, most of whom were related and who specialized in low-level organized crime and warehouse robbery. It had been close to a year since I’d last seen Cooch, and in that time he’d aged considerably. The skin around his throat now drooped and his shirt looked too big for him, his hair now almost completely white. The last strands of Just for Men were a fading memory, quickly evaporating with the spread from his powder-white roots.
“So? Come on, you gotta give me details. How am I gonna prepare when you don’t tell me anything about the case? You want me to take half the witnesses? What? Come on, what do you want me to do?”
One of the lawyers who’d sat with Cooch had left a finger of scotch in his glass and the melting ice cube had diluted it. I stared at the dark, amber liquid in the glass for a long second. I shouldn’t, I told myself, as I picked it up and swallowed the damn thing.
“Look, don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Come on, Eddie, that’s not fair. You must want me for a reason. So what do you want me to do tomorrow?”
“At the prelim? Absolutely nothing.”
“Wha’?”
“I don’t want you to do anything at the prelim. I need you for the grand jury,” I said, unable to fully restrain a smile.
“Hang on. I can’t do anything at a grand jury; I can’t cross-examine … You know this. It’s pointless even being there. You remember what Judge Sol Wachtler said when he was in the court of appeal?”
This was one of Cooch’s favorite lines. I knew it by heart, but I let him talk.
“He said, ‘A prosecutor could persuade a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.’ Your client’s wasting his money; there’s nothing I can do there.”
“I didn’t ask you to say anything at the grand jury; you just have to show up.”
Cooch leaned back into the fake leather seats and let his mouth fall open as he thought this through.
After a few moments, he sat up and pointed a clubbed finger at me.
“You don’t want me to do anything at the prelim, but you need me to be there, right? And then you want me to go along to the grand jury with a surprise?”
“You got it.”
He shook his head and laughed. “Eddie, you’re one twisted genius, you know that?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
I felt like I was taking refuge from the storm in a toy car. The rain bounced off the hood and flooded the windshield. I told myself that I couldn’t call Child because I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the deafening beat of the rain. He’d called me and I hadn’t answered the phone. I couldn’t face that conversation just yet, not until I had an answer for him—not until I’d found a way out.
I tried Christine’s cell again. Voice mail. Trailing through my dialed call list, I hit the number for the hospital. This time I got through to the nurse on Popo’s ward pretty quickly. He was conscious, cooperative, and filled full of morphine, so they wouldn’t let me talk to him. They weren’t letting the cops talk to him either. I asked the nurse to tell Popo I’d called and that I was grateful for what he’d done for David. The nurse said she’d pass it on. I disconnected the call and returned my attention to West Forty-sixth Street.
There were no people on the street; the rain kept pedestrians inside. I’d been parked for almost twenty minutes and I hadn’t seen a single person pass my office. A few cars drove by way too fast to be casing the place. I’d driven up and down a few times myself, just to look out for anyone who might be sitting in a car, waiting for me to go back to my office. As far as I could tell, the street was clear. I was no surveillance expert, and I’d resigned myself to wait for Kennedy. For all I knew, Gerry Sinton could have half of his security team in my office already with eager guns waiting in the dark for my return.
I was late and Kennedy hadn’t shown. I was about to call him when I saw a dark sedan pass me and park fifty yards ahead, just outside my building.
I waited and saw the tall, lean figure of Bill Kennedy exiting the car, a blue plastic folder tucked underneath his right arm. The horn on the Honda sounded like a sick donkey. It was enough to turn Kennedy around. I flashed the lights, got out of the car, and locked it with the ignition key. By the time I’d joined him, I was wet through and the files I carried in my jacket weren’t faring much better. The rain was too hard for us to stop and talk and we ran to the entrance to my building.
