Splicer (11 page)

Rusty’s pre-trial examination began that morning at ten. Monday. Less than 10 days since the arrest. The court system, normally the foot-dragger, the slow, leaky machine of justice - had suddenly jumped to life, full throttle.

Jayne appeared to accept this new urgency. It was just another of the universe’s sour mysteries. Rusty felt like he was being pushed up to the edge of something he didn't care to look over.

The pre-trial was basically a practice trial - where counsel and prosecution get a chance to feel out the case in front of a judge. If the judge thinks it has merit, he calls for a trial date and designates a new judge. The process was designed to protect the court system from frivolous cases. It also boosts lawyer’s earnings dramatically. Every trial is really two. At least two.

Of course, Jayne felt the case would never go to trial. At least that's what she said. She repeated again to Rusty that she didn’t have the time to defend him, but would help with the pre-trial

They decided to meet for a brief breakfast each morning at 9:00 AM. On their first one, Jayne ordered cinnamon toast with her coffee. Rusty drank orange juice and sweated.

"Aren't you having anything with that?" she asked, the first morning.

He shook his glass at her. "Pulp," he replied. "I'm having pulp with it."

She didn't laugh. "I'm going to ask for a dismissal this morning on the grounds of lack of evidence. It will probably be rejected, but we have to have it in the record. Then we'll take our first shot at the immovable Mr. Dimbrowsky"

Rusty swept his hand over a thick stack of notes on the case. "Look at this stuff. Why isn't Grieves in here? At least as a witness."

"The police are working on it." She nodded to an associate across the cafeteria. "They traced an address from the calling card number you dug up. But no Grieves - just a deserted warehouse. He couldn't be living there."

"Grieves could. Give me the address. I'll go find him."

"Hold on there, Sherlock. Let the police do their job."

Rusty looked confused. "They act like they're hiding something. Everyone seems in an awful hurry lately." She shook her head but thought
exactly
. Were the police holding something back for the trial?

She stirred her coffee absently. "Anything they learn has to be handed over to us."

Rusty found the legal honor system baffling. "Sure."

  "It's the law, pure and simple. An appeal court would throw out a decision in a second if it finds that the Crown withheld evidence. Dimbrowsky will be very scrupulous. Nothing hurts more than having a strong case thrown out because of one little overlooked scrap of evidence. Everything they find, helps us."

"I'm not convinced. I get the feeling they're not trying as hard as they could."

Jayne shook her head quickly. "Let's worry about you more and Grieves less."

"I'm going to go look for him."

She looked surprised. "We can hire a detective if you really think it's important."

Rusty sat back in his chair. "I can't afford it."

Jayne shrugged. If she were in his shoes, she might be tempted to play detective too. But investigators were just like cops. They got paid to do a job that was both dangerous and tedious at the same time - a difficult combination.

"I'm going on record as advising against it. I don't think you know what you're in for," she said, seriously. "But if you insist on doing your own research, be careful. You're not just an ordinary citizen anymore. You're a famous killer."

"Thanks … I think," answered Rusty.

Courtroom 306 was smaller than Rusty imagined it. Despite this, large ceiling-height windows behind the bench gave the room a sense of space, a quality of timelessness that was augmented by the brooding dark original woodwork and the recently remodeled blond oak furniture and dais. The pre-trial was well attended. Behind the bar sat a dozen reporters and a mix of public, friends and other lawyers.

Unlike American courts, where the defendant sits with the lawyer, Rusty was required to hunch over in the prisoners box - a waist high walled-in bench, off to the left of the defendants table which was attended by Jayne, Carolyn, and a number of bulging files and dockets.

Jayne looked anxious, ready for a fight. She was pacing behind the table, her eyes on the floor. Occasionally she would stop and her eyes would go to Rusty as if she had just had a revelation. Then she would return to her pacing while Carolyn sat making notes. Before court was called to order, Carolyn moved to the back of the courtroom, behind the hallowed bar beyond where only lawyers could reside while a trial was in session.

Dimbrowsky sat, calmly flipping through a clipboard crammed with yellow legal size pages, each filled with his careful, heavy handwriting.

There was no air of expectancy in the courtroom. Lawyers familiar with McEwan's style knew there would be no bloodletting on the first day. This was, after all, only a pre-trial. The electrifying presence of a jury was missing. It was just a warm up.

Judge Anderhoff entered and all rose. He made much over the lack of water at his bench. Then they began. He watched over the proceedings with half-veiled eyes, his chin propped up by his left arm. He gave the impression of taking notes but for all anyone knew he might be reading the latest Mechanics Illustrated.

After reading the charge, Dimbrowsky rose. The humorless prosecutor bowed his head for a moment, and then began. He went through the entire murder scene in exacting detail. The air temperature. The location of Ludd's rental car. The position of the body and hands. It struck Rusty that Dimbrowsky's job was not so much to paint a picture of guilt, but to act as teacher to the judge playing the role of impatient student. Even his language was over-simplified, sophomoric. He was holding the judge’s hand and taking him through the case in baby steps.

Jayne made no objections. She tapped her fingers on her files and fidgeted. She had her long blond curls pulled back behind her head and her dark framed glasses propped low on her nose. Her attempt at looking scholarly was only threatened by a keen sheen of hunger in her eyes. To Rusty she always looked like she couldn't wait to have her turn to tear into someone. She was like a pacing lioness.

When Dimbrowsky finished, Jayne rose and spent half an hour going over the case again from her perspective. She strode in front of the court, her head high, her actions quick and purposeful. When she was finished, she read a short statement to the Judge asking that the case against Rusty be dropped due to a lack of evidence. Anderhoff lifted his head in surprise, looked around the room, and called for a ten-minute recess. When he returned he was serious again.  The motion was denied
.

Otter sat in his blue Ford updating his notes on his visit to Avril Ludd. Another waste of time. His partner had just stepped off the elevator that emptied onto a bare concrete vestibule at the north end of the Police garage.

Koz ought to retire
thought Otter.
Or take a desk job.
He heard that Kozak was facing some more tests. Someone heard a rumor it was congestive heart failure. CHF. That explained the nitro pills.
Christ, could he get any thinner?
And he was still smoking two packs a day. He had twelve weeks of sick days but he wouldn't take them.
God, he's a dense bastard.

Kozak ambled up to the driver’s door, his keys out. He pulled open the door and adjusted his shoulder holster before getting behind the wheel.

"Ever been to New York?" Koz asked.

Otter snorted. "You're dreaming if you think they'd let us go there."

"They won't send both of us. Cutbacks. But they'll send you."

"Braintree would bitch about the cost of a UPS package sent to the big apple. You're out of your mind." Braintree was up to his neck in cutbacks. He was a bulldog on a very tight leash.

"The prosecution doesn't know it yet, but they've got a big problem. McEwan is going to skewer Rosenblatt on the stand. And all that money he has coming because of this key-man policy bullshit will spill out all over the witness stand like some toxic waste spill. Dimbrowsky will suck it back and choke. The case will go to hell. And we'll all look like shit-eating fools."

"So I'll be hiding out on 42nd Street. What's going to save your ass?"

"XTech is out there. They're mixed up in this. Too many fucking billions are involved." He had a faraway look in his eyes.

Otter felt vaguely out-of-tune with his partner’s logic. "The Security Commission is investigating GeneFab and any possible sale has been put on hold. What more do you want us to do? Go and arrest the shareholders?"

"When you get there, flash that handsome Polish smile. Show off the power suit. Snarl a little. Threaten them. They know that Mounties always get their man."

Otter smiled stiffly. "I saw Ludd's throat, Koz. I don't think they
threaten
too easily. You go if you're so gung ho …” His look told Otter he wanted to, but it might not be a good idea. He didn't look so good. Some of the skin around his eyes and mouth almost seemed transparent. Otter could see the sluggish workings of red and blue veins just below the surface.

"You think Redfield was capable of what you saw?" asked the older cop.

"Anything is possible, Koz. Anything."

Kozak gave Otter a lingering look of impatience. "I hate it when you get philosophical with me. Screw possible. I'll tell you what's likely. A hundred million dollars has got some very greedy people frothing at the mouth. This little murder wrap with Redfield is just a cute little bow on a big pile of donkey shit and they're hoping we don't notice the stink. Fuck ‘em."

"What made you change your tune?"

"One. Rosenblatt was in an awful hurry to close a deal with this company. Look at the phone records from
GeneFab
when you get a chance. Dozens of calls. Maybe Ludd was playing hard to get. No problem. Bing, he's gone. And Rosenblatt looks just nervous enough to know why.

Two. We learn that the army is involved. The U.S. army, for God’s sake. Since when did they have scruples? And they want this
Splicer
thing bad. Gosh, I can't imagine why?

Three. We delay the sale with this investigation by Securities and all kinds of industrial strength crap starts to hit the fan. Braintree's upset. The Feds are pissed. I wouldn't be surprised if the U.S. President doesn't call. I guarantee our little delay tactic won't stick for long.

Now with all that, a goddamn smorgasbord of earthly delights to choose from, who would choose the ex-employee with nothing to gain as the villain? Agatha Fucking Christie?"

"We did," answered Otter stubbornly.

"Shit. We were told to pick him up. We're the three stooges minus Curly." 

Kozak was worked up. A blood vessel at his temple was turning purple. It was throbbing obscenely. He started the car and pulled onto the ramp that led them to the street.

"I'm not playing the stooge anymore." Otter left the comment untouched as they sailed over the rise of the exit ramp and landed foursquare onto College Street.

"So we can sit around here with our fingers lodged up our butts and wait until the TV stations and the papers lose interest. The politicians love when that happens! Or you can go and introduce yourself to the boys who are rattling our cages."

"Fine, Koz. If you can pull it off with Braintree, I'm RWA. But what about the DNA evidence you been working on. It pins down our perp pretty solid."

Kozak brayed unpleasantly. "Rosenblatt is laughing out of the other side of his face. DNA fingerprinting? These guys
are
the DNA business. It's like asking the world's greatest art forger to give you a deal on an authentic Picasso. Which it just so happens he has hanging in his rec room. I think Rosenblatt really only wants to see us go in the wrong direction. Even if what you learn in New York is next to nothing, it might be enough to shake the surviving partner."

"Hey Koz. Loosen up. It's just another case."

"That's where you’re wrong, buddy. You never know how many chances you're going to get, Greg. You just never know. Just in case, let's not blow this one."

In the hallway of the courthouse, against the red oak wainscoting, Rusty leaned, waiting for his lawyer and the weighty wheels of justice to begin grinding on again. Lunch had gone badly.  His meeting with Helen from Great Barrier hinted at an indistinct future. His fame (infamy?) was growing like an oil slick on stagnant water. Clients were calling with questions. The other employees were concerned about the trial’s effect on their corporate reputation. A company specializing in Security didn't need this kind of publicity.

Helen offered him a month off without pay; she needed to have him out of the line of fire she said. She was trying to be fair, he realized, but as far as the courts were concerned, a month was the mere blink of an eye. With the serving of motions and briefs, summer and Christmas recesses, witnesses who were unavailable, judges who were sick, lawyers who were tied up with dozens of other matters and motions and pre-trials and divorces and plea-bargainings - the people concerned with this case would be lucky to see the end of it in two to three years. By then Rusty would be broke again and two to three years older.
These halls were not the bastions of justice,
he thought,
they were the crossroads into a personal limbo.
With his eyes to the floor, his shoulders bowed, he heard the echo of footsteps approaching. When they stopped beside him he looked up into the anxious face of Avril Ludd.

"Who's Kim Soo?" she asked.

Rusty blanked.
Ludd's wife?
He'd witnessed this scene in a dozen movies and television shows. The grieving widow confronting the suspected murderer, banging on his chest with her hands through a fountain of tears. But Avril looked so calm. In fact, she actually looked quite beautiful. He could see no violence, no hate in her simple expression of confusion. But what she had asked was incomprehensible to him. He could feel the blood rushing to his head.

"Who is Kim Soo?" she asked again, plainly.

Rusty looked around, hoping the entourage of court clerks and lawyers filtering back from downtown restaurants and cafeterias would show up and rescue him from his dilemma.

"You bastard," she growled under her breath. "Tell me who the hell Kim Soo is?"

"Avril … why should I know who she is?"

"Because you do. I know you do."

Rusty groaned and reddened. "I don't think you do." He took a deep breath. He stared at her and those sharp unwavering eyes. "And I didn't do it. What happened to your husband?” Avril set her mouth hard. The muscles in her jaw tightened. Rusty realized there was more anger there than sorrow.
Why?

"If I tell you I don't think you had anything to do with it, will you tell me about Kim Soo?"

Rusty searched her eyes for some clue to her madness. "Tell the police, not me."

"Do you think it will do any good? Do you? What you need is the real murderer."

Rusty's mouth had become as dry as pumice. "Who's that?"

"How about Kim Soo?"

Rusty moved his head slowly from side to side. "Avril, I'm sorry. This isn't making any sense to me. How do you know about this Kim Soo?"

"I found a letter. A memo of all things, on her - what she likes …"

God
thought Redfield.
Sexual preferences?

"Perfume. Clothes. Christ, Rusty - who was she?"

Despite his initial shock, Rusty felt the patience draining out of him. He was tired of questions. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Ludd."

"You're a lousy liar too!" From the distance the doors to the elevators slid open and Jayne, Dimbrowsky and others entered the hallway. Avril hesitated, turned suddenly and was gone. He was relieved, but an irritating memory had floated up to the surface.

:

Several years before, when Rusty was still working for GeneFab, Ludd - over a few to many drinks at a company holiday party - had hinted at an affair he had while in Las Vegas on business. From what Rusty remembered, and the details weren’t that clear, Ludd had met a blackjack dealer. Or maybe she was a crew leader. Ludd had whispered to the males present at the table, with some slurred sense of pride, that she used to work the Playboy Club in Hong Kong. She was Japanese. Or Korean. He wasn’t sure. Rusty remembered his description of her. Tall for her size. Lithe (which he said with some difficulty). And she had a PhD
. In what
? they asked.
Blowing your brains out
Ludd had answered.

Rusty remembered more than anything else that night, the look on Grieves' face when he heard Ludd’s confession - like he had found a hundred dollar bill on the floor. Rusty had never seen that look of pure satisfaction on the programmers face before. And he didn’t like it at all
.