The Plea, page 34
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
“That’s what he said in his report, until you got at him. Then he changed his mind,” said Morgan.
“Detective, if someone wanted it to look like they were covered in GSR, being in a car crash where the air bags deployed might be enough to fool an expert like Dr. Porter.”
“It might.”
“In all fairness to Dr. Porter, he had not read the scientific study on air bags and GSR comparison, which the defense discovered, had he?”
“No, he had not.”
“If someone had that knowledge and engineered a car accident, they could make it appear that the driver of the vehicle had GSR all over them?”
“I don’t know.”
Kennedy gave me the copies of the security pass he’d obtained from the Interpol conference; copies had been e-mailed to him. I distributed the copies and watched Zader turn white. Neither Morgan nor the judge had yet made the connection.
“This security ID was obtained from the Interpol conference where this paper was presented. This ID was presented by a delegate who attended that lecture. Do you recognize the person in that photograph?” I said.
“I can’t say that I do,” said Morgan, but he didn’t sound at all convincing.
“Let me help you; look at exhibit fourteen.”
Rollins found the relevant exhibit in the bundle of papers. Morgan did likewise.
“The ID is for a Sarah Callan. Compare the photo on the ID to the picture of Clara Reece in exhibit fourteen, the profile picture of Clara Reece taken from her Reeler account. It is clearly the same woman in the footage who accompanies the defendant to his apartment, and it is without doubt the same young woman in the photo ID for Sarah Callan, correct?”
Silence. The judge answered the question meant for Morgan.
“It is the same woman. Clara Reece and Sarah Callan are one and the same,” said Rollins.
No experienced detective handed his ass in the witness stand is going to argue with the judge.
“It would appear so, Your Honor,” said Morgan.
“Detective, the checking account, the library card, the driver’s license all issued on the same day last year could be someone creating a history for a false identity?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“Of course. You’re NYPD. The police department has never created a false identity for an undercover police officer, have they?”
Even Judge Rollins smiled at this one.
“It’s possible,” he said.
“You had no DNA or fingerprint matches for the body in the apartment, did you?”
“No.”
“And the victim’s face had been obliterated, so you couldn’t ID the body?”
He nodded.
Rollins interrupted me. “What does this mean, Mr. Flynn?” he said.
This was the moment. This was my shot. I took a breath, put down the document and placed a hand on David’s shoulder. He was rocking back and forth in his chair, shaking his head, his eyes filled with tears. I steadied him.
“Your Honor, the defense believes that Sarah Callan assumed a false identity in order to frame David Child for murder. Her murder.”
“What?” said Rollins.
I changed DVDs, found the image of the figure in the hazmat suit leaving the apartment just as whoever it was climbed through the crime scene tape.
“Your Honor, the person shown in that video is the person who committed murder in that apartment. It is the same person who attended a lecture in Paris during an Interpol conference on the similarities between air bag deployment residue and GSR under the name Sarah Callan, the same person who would three months later assume the false identity of Clara Reece, the same person who three weeks later met and began dating the billionaire David Child, the same person we saw entering the apartment with a similar-looking young female and then leaving that apartment alone the day before the murder. We do not yet know the identity of the real victim, but I believe that Clara Reece—or Sarah Callan—is still alive, as she was the one with the obscure expert knowledge to know how to produce a convincing false positive for GSR, and I believe she orchestrated the car accident to load the defendant with that false evidence. The real victim was shot in the panic room. That room is soundproof, and a person could easily be hidden there. The real victim had her face obliterated by gunshot wounds so that she could not be identified. The time signature on the vent camera matches the timings on the building’s security log, which means the defendant was not in the apartment when the shots were fired. And we know someone was alive and moving around in the apartment after Mr. Child had left—the door handle moved. We all saw that. There she is on the screen, leaving the scene of the crime. This was a highly sophisticated but ultimately failed attempt to frame Mr. Child for murder.”
“To what end?” said Rollins.
“Your Honor, Mr. Child is one of the wealthiest men in this city.” I left it at that, let Rollins fill in the blanks. Let him believe the lie. David had been set up all right, but blackmail had nothing to do with it. The ID for Sarah Callan listed her as a civil servant, which could mean anything, but librarians are unlikely to wind up attending Interpol lectures.
Morgan had been staring at the ceiling, trying to take it all in. He soon snapped out of his contemplative mood when the judge addressed him directly.
“Detective, I don’t need to hear anything further. Mr. Zader, I take it the detective was your final witness?”
The DA was on feet, ready to mount a rescue mission. He realized that Rollins was going to rule against him. The footage of the door handle moving had proven to be the final straw.
“Yes. Judge. This is simply ridiculous. The defendant could have arranged this elaborate scheme just as easily as any supposed…”
“Do you have evidence of that, Mr. Zader?” said Rollins.
“No, Your Honor, not at this time, but…”
“Then I suggest you go and investigate. There seems to have been a lot of evidence, which Mr. Flynn has presented, that either the police ignored or simply overlooked. And I am not impressed by Officer Jones and his blatant attempt to mislead this court. Given the footage that undoubtedly proves there was someone walking around in that apartment after Mr. Child left, and considering the inconsistent time signatures on the 911 call and the security log, and having regard to the unchallenged testimony of Gershbaum, I am of the view that at present there is insufficient evidence to prove that the defendant was in the apartment when the shooting occurred. There is insufficient evidence to hold the defendant on the current charge, and accordingly, I find in favor of the defense. Mr. Zader, if you are sure of these charges, you always have the grand jury. I am not convinced—case dismissed.”
The sound of Judge Rollins pushing back his chair as he rose, closing his notebook, and leaving the court was lost in the sensational roar of the crowd. What had promised to be a celebrity murder trial and fodder for a few months of news had now turned into a conspiracy-fueled celebrity murder mystery that the journalists knew would haunt the country for years—or more precisely, the media would haunt the public with articles speculating on the identity of the real murderer.
I almost didn’t hear David crying. Holly held him close. His shoulders bucked with the ecstasy of release, of freedom, of escape and loss. He’d lost her all over again, because the life he’d had with Clara had been a lie. Clara Reece didn’t exist. The life that lay before him was frightening and uncertain, but at least he could make something of it.
“David, don’t mourn Clara. The night of the murder, she told you she was freaking out in the elevator because she was claustrophobic. You saw the elevator footage from the day before. She wasn’t claustrophobic. She was setting you up: making it look like you scared her, giving you motive.”
He nodded, straightened up.
I heard Zader approach me from behind.
“Get ready for round three,” said Zader.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Believe it. We’ve got a grand jury on standby. In twenty minutes’ time I’ll be leading the same witnesses through their testimony. Pity we don’t have time to wait for the transcript from this hearing. None of your cross-examination will get as far as the grand jury. I’ll get my indictment. There’s no reason for you to even be there—you can’t ask questions or make a speech. Just leave it to me. I’ll be sure to call you and let you know what happened.”
“The grand jury won’t give you an indictment. I know that. But you’re right about one thing—I won’t be at the hearing. He will,” I said, pointing to Cooch.
“Pity he can’t cross-examine any witnesses,” said Zader.
“He won’t have to,” I replied, and with that, Cooch approached the bench, retrieved a CD-ROM from the clerk, and joined my conversation with Zader.
“Mr. Coucheron, here,” I said, laying it out for Zader, “suffers from poor hearing. He wears a hearing aid. The live feed from that aid is digitally recorded and made available to Mr. Coucheron at any time. He can’t question your witnesses or make a speech—you’re right about that—but he can play this recording. It’s court certified.”
I threw the disk at Zader’s face. He reacted quickly and caught it.
“I just served the disk on you in open court in front of the cameras. Mr. Coucheron will tell me if you don’t play it. If I hear you didn’t, I’ll have you indicted for prosecutorial misconduct and misuse of public office. Good luck getting an indictment with that.”
“Goddamn it,” said Zader. He turned to his entourage and said, “Pull the grand jury for a month.” I walked away, Cooch, Holly, and David behind me. I heard Zader calling after me, “This isn’t over yet.”
I checked my phone; one message from the Lizard: FBI cleared the building. 2 agents inside with Christine. She’s ok.
It was all I could do to hold it together, to keep walking and not collapse in relief. Still, this wasn’t over yet.
The solid wall of reporters didn’t seem to budge as I approached. The cameras were blinding, the fastball questions lost in a shower of voices, and the pleading hands and thrusting microphones and voice recorders all melted into a single, hungry boiling mass. Something was happening at the rear of the pack; the reporters parted, and two men in suits forced their way through the back of the crowd. One of them held out a pair of handcuffs. They both wore dark suits, and they were both in their thirties, fit and with an air of authority in their gait. They were the same men who’d brought Christine to court. One was Latino and the other was an asshole; the asshole wore aviators and looked like he was enjoying himself. I almost held out my hands for the cuffs, but they walked past me and the Latino slapped them on David. With every click and ratchet of the cuffs tightening on David’s wrists, the noise and camera flash multiplied in intensity. David was shaking his head, pulling away, his world crumbling before him like rotten floorboards being sucked into the earth.
“Hey. That’s my client and the judge just released him. What the hell are you doing?”
“Dominguez, United States Treasury officer. I’m arresting him.”
“For what?”
“Grand larceny,” he replied, and proceeded to recite David’s rights.
“What? This is bullshit,” I said.
The explanation came from behind me. It was Dell, whispering it in my ear.
“I told you not to be taken in by this guy. You messed up. He conned you, Eddie. Your client just stole seven point nine billion dollars.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
As we sped through Manhattan in the back of a black SUV, I went through every piece of evidence in my head, every play made by Gerry Sinton, and everything I’d been told in the last forty-eight hours. David was chewing on his lip, at once angry and scared. I found it hard to look away from him. Over and over, a single thought rang loudly in my head.
I’ve been conned.
To a former confidence man, that thought was a source of some considerable shame. Even though it was evil, even though people had died, I still could not help but marvel at the sheer ingenuity of it. It was possibly the greatest con I’d ever come across.
And it had been played on me.
The SUV slowed and bobbed around the traffic lanes. The Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations were gearing up for the evening. Hundreds of people in green and white littered the sidewalk. Irish souvenir stalls, hot dog carts, and coffee stands fought their way along the line of parade-goers, vying for any last-minute trade. The parade had passed a half hour ago. It would take us at least that long to get to the Lightner Building in this traffic. NYPD were reopening the roads, and the SUV sped up. The city was readying itself for Skyfest, the Saint Patrick’s Day fireworks display that started in Dublin, then moved from city to city. Paris had it last year, and New York wanted to put its own stamp on the tradition.
I sat beside David in the eight-seater SUV. He looked numb, shaking his head, muttering to himself. I told him to keep quiet. The treasury agents sat in the additional seats behind us. Kennedy had taken a seat in the front, beside Dell, who was driving.
“This is a mess,” said Dell.
“Your operation is way out of control,” said Kennedy. “I’m here to make sure you don’t harm any civilians on this crazy mission of yours.”
Dell shot him a look and said, “You can bet I’ll be talking to your superior officer after what you pulled. You’re supposed to be my number two on this task force. You’re supposed to be focusing on the firm, not the Child case.”
“Where are we going?” I asked for the third time. I’d insisted on accompanying David to processing, but I knew there was no way he would be brought to a precinct or the FBI premises. I knew where we were headed—I just wanted confirmation.
Dell provided it after the fifth time I asked.
“That algo trace your client gave us enabled our tech to follow the money, just like you said. But fourteen minutes ago it crashed. Just before it died, it reported that all of the funds—almost eight billion—did not make it into Ben Harland’s account as planned. Instead it transferred into a Harland and Sinton client account. The name on the client account is ‘David Child.’ Forty-three seconds after it hit the account, the money disappeared. We’re going to Harland and Sinton now, to meet the rest of the team who have already made the arrests. Your client is going to log onto their accounts system, and he’s gonna tell us where he’s hidden the money.”
“I didn’t take the goddamn money,” screamed David. He was on the brink of another panic attack. I spoke to him softly and gripped his arm hard. The pain brought him down, made him focus.
I whispered to him, “David, tell me you didn’t do this.”
He looked like he was drowning. His eyes glazed over, and he simply shook his head.
Was this the face of a man falsely accused for the second time? Or the face of a man who’d stolen the world? I couldn’t tell. I’d allowed myself to get too close.
I trusted my gut. I’d backed David. I was pretty sure he wasn’t a killer. Would he steal eight billion dollars? I had no clue. I was with him as his counsel, and we were on our way to the building where Christine was being held. Right then all I cared about was getting my wife out of there.
“Let this play out,” I said.
He put his head in his hands, and I knew I would get nothing more out of David.
I typed out a text to the Lizard.
I’m on my way. Do nothing until I give the ok.
“You’re the only person with access to that algo, Child. You altered the code last night when you logged into Harland and Sinton’s database and traced the algo—that means either you stole the money or, at the very least, you know where it is. And we’re not leaving that building until you show us exactly what you did and how we trace the cash,” said Dell.
I looked at David and he leaned back, wiped his hands on his pants, and puffed out two whimpering breaths.
It took an hour to get to the offices of Harland and Sinton. In the distance, the final traces of daylight were disappearing behind the Chrysler Building as we stepped out of the car. There was no one waiting for us outside the Lightner Building. Nobody in reception, not a soul standing by the elevator.
“They’re supposed to have this place locked down,” said Dell, taking a cell phone from his pocket. As we waited for the elevator, I thought I caught a familiar smell.
Stale cigarettes.
The elevator opened and the treasury agents fanned out of the doors. Through the glass partition I could see Christine sitting in the conference room with two men. Dell led the way into the large conference room, dominated by the center table.
Ferrar and Weinstein sat at the conference table drinking coffee. Beside them, Christine, hands cuffed to the front. I ran to her, but Ferrar stood in my way.
“You can’t approach her. She’s in federal custody,” said Ferrar.
“If you don’t move, you’ll be in the state hospital,” I said.
A hand on my shoulder, Kennedy.
“Eddie, calm down. This isn’t helping,” said Christine. Dirty tear tracks on her face. She looked tired, beaten, resigned to going to jail because of the firm. I shrugged off Kennedy’s hand and made for Christine. Ferrar moved for his weapon but stopped, realized his dominant arm still hurt like hell, and he switched hands to grab for his piece with his left. I pushed past him and embraced Christine.
“Let him go, Ferrar,” said Kennedy.
She placed her hands on my stomach and I took her in my arms. I could feel her trembling. I kissed her head and her mouth and held her close, tight. I whispered, “When you get out of here, you keep going and do not come back, no matter what happens. Amy’s okay. She’s with Carmel.”
She said nothing, but I felt her legs shift and give way. I held her tight. Her worry for Amy was all that had kept her going. Now that she knew our daughter was safe, her body was ready to give up.
Dell addressed Ferrar and Weinstein. “You two, where’s Schaffler? He’s supposed to be downstairs covering the entrance.”
“Damned if I know,” said Weinstein.
