The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella (12 page)

Damn, I hadn’t seen this coming. Patrick shifted in his seat, adjusted his awful tie.

“Yes.”

“Was that a result of a historical allegation of sexual harassment being proven against you?”

“The inquiry upheld the allegation. I don’t accept their finding. The complaint didn’t arise until ten years after the event. Witnesses in my defense had passed away. Some were—”

“So just to clarify, your pension was cut by the NYPD because you were found to have sexually harassed a fellow officer? Yes or no?”

“Again, the allegation was totally—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“And as a retired officer, now with a reduced pension, it’s just a coincidence that you decided to supplement your income by giving evidence
against
the NYPD as an expert witness?”

“Pure coincidence.”

“Nothing further,” said Vinnie.

Not a bad rescue job. But the damage had been done. As Vinnie sat down beside his client, I saw the entire defense table rise up as Marzone’s knees brushed against it when he began to quietly rip into this counsel. Neither Vinnie nor Marzone looked happy.

Boles asked no questions of Mr. Patrick. If he could make Marzone the bad guy, this only helped him. Without Vinnie or Boles landing any real blows on Patrick, there was no need to ask anything on redirect, and Judge Winter released him from the box.

We all knew what was coming next. In any other case like this, in front of any other judge, we would call our next round of expert witnesses, who spoke to the issue of damages. In the last three months, Jack and I had spent around thirty grand on forensic accountants’ reports detailing Chilli’s estimated earnings for what would’ve been the rest of his life. This kind of speculation was a fine art, and if you chose the right accountant, you could double or even triple the amount of damages your client could legitimately claim.

Any other court, any other case, any other judge. But not Winter.

He hated accountants, didn’t understand the actuarial calculations, and stated openly that juries didn’t either. So he offered the attorneys a choice: Either agree on an amount of damages that the jury should award if the plaintiff wins, or simply let the jury read the damn reports in their own time.

“Any further liability witnesses, Mr. Flynn?” asked Judge Winter.

“None at this time, but I reserve the right to call further witnesses in rebuttal,” I said.

“Noted. I’ve already made counselors aware of my approach to damages. We’ll proceed with the remainder of the testimony. Mr. Federof, we’ll begin your case after the lunch adjournment. Who is your first witness?”

“Detective Marzone.”

We packed up our files and greeted Maria’s sister, who’d come to court to support her. They went off together for an appointment at the maternity unit. In the hall outside the courtroom, I saw McAllister leaning against a pale marble pillar. She hadn’t changed her clothes, still had that lithe, casual pose. She saw me and tugged her sunglasses over her nose. Her eyes said it all.

Whatever Frost had on Marzone, McAllister had found it. Before I got to her, I felt a strong hand on my arm. It was a big hand. A hand the same size as a stop sign. In the exact same moment that I felt the grip, McAllister slipped behind the pillar before Marzone saw her.

A voice that sounded like it came from inside a barrel said, “A friend of mine will be in court this afternoon. He wants to make sure I don’t get nervous. When people are nervous, all kinds of accidents can happen.”

Releasing his grip on my arm, Marzone lumbered away to join his counsel.

“What did he say?” said Jack.

“He said he’s got a friend coming this afternoon to watch the trial.”

Any blood in Jack’s face flooded down to his feet. His skin looked the same color as the marble hall. Without acknowledging McAllister, Jack and I made for the elevators. Just as the doors began to close, McAllister ducked inside.

Only then did I see she’d brought a backpack. A man’s backpack.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The screen on the digital camera was no bigger than my business card. I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or fear that made my hands shake so much.

“I can’t see it. Put it down on the desk,” said Jack.

We took our seats and placed the camera on the worn desk of the consulting room. Frost’s files held nothing, and McAllister had almost given up until she checked an old backpack that she’d found in his desk drawer. Underneath a pile of stinking sweatpants and T-shirts, she’d found the camera. It wasn’t departmental issue—far too expensive. As far as McAllister knew, Frost had no interest in photography as a hobby. The camera looked to be worth several thousand dollars, and instantly she knew this was what Frost was hiding. In plain sight.

She told Jack and me that she’d found a few memory cards in the inside pocket of the bag. They contained some vanilla pictures of various members of the Morgue Squad, but two of them held video. This was what Frost had hinted at on the ferry.

The screen came to life as the video finished loading and started playing.

“I don’t want to watch it again,” said McAllister, taking a seat on the other side of the desk.

At first all I could see was a gray blur accompanied by the sound of a drum. Then the blurring slowed, along with the beat, which I figured didn’t come from a drum but from feet moving fast along a sidewalk. As the beat stopped, the angle tilted upward beyond the pavement to display two cars parked along the side of the street maybe a couple hundred feet ahead. The headlights of the Crown Vic burned into the trunk of an old, red Pontiac. The
camera swam and focused on the license plate of the unmarked cop car, then the Pontiac. I knew that plate—it belonged to Chilli Hernandez.

“Frost was following Marzone on his own dime?” I said.

She nodded and said, “I think he discovered the chalk mark at Ed Genarro’s murder scene and knew that it was only a matter of time before Marzone found somebody to pin it on. There are hours of footage on those memory cards. His persistence paid off when he got this footage.”

Hard breathing from the camera operator; Frost had been in his early sixties after all. The view dropped a little as Frost made some kind of adjustment. He set the camera down on something flat.

“He’s shooting this from behind a Dumpster,” I said.

McAllister nodded in agreement.

The lens refocused as the driver of the Crown Vic killed the lights, Marzone got out of the passenger seat of the car and joined his driver on the sidewalk. Normal police procedure for a stop dictated that they kept their lights on—to dazzle any potential shooters. Roark came into focus then, his face clear beneath a streetlight. It didn’t matter that Marzone had his back to the camera. There probably wasn’t a single other cop in the whole of the country who could match Marzone for sheer size. They talked for a few seconds before they approached the Pontiac.

Roark led the way and bent low to speak to the driver. He stood back as the door opened and Chilli stepped out, willingly, with his hands in the air.

“Roark didn’t get hit in the face with the driver’s door,” said Jack.

I nodded, unable to take my eyes from the screen.

Dressed in blue jeans and white vest, Chilli held his hands high and wide—empty. No knife.

Roark closed the door of the Pontiac and motioned to Chilli to turn around and assume the position. Without complaint, Chilli slowly turned and spread his hands on the roof of the car.

The audio was there, but much too faint to make out. While he searched Chilli, Roark was talking to him. Marzone moved close and took a clear plastic bag from his jacket. He placed the bag in the back pocket of Chilli’s jeans. Then the bag came away. Something shiny and black remained in Chilli’s pocket. At the same moment Marzone whipped the bag away, Roark drew his gun and held it by his side.

“They were going to plant the knife and then shoot him,” said Jack.

Stepping closer to Chilli, Roark turned to Marzone for half a second. Chilli’s hands moved so fast I had to stop the video and rewind it. He must’ve felt the plant, and his right hand swept down and up, tossing the object away from him. It bounced on the sidewalk, and as it came to a stop, I could see it more clearly. The blade shined under a streetlamp.

This didn’t go down well with Roark. He spun Chilli around and pointed at the knife. Even though the audio was terrible, I could just make out Roark’s instructions.

“Pick it up.”

No one moved.

Marzone lumbered toward the fallen weapon and kicked it toward Chilli’s feet. Again, the instruction from Roark. I tried to imagine what Chilli was feeling. He knew if he picked up the knife, he was a dead man. There were no other cars on the street, no people, not even a light on in a nearby row of houses.

Maria had been right about Chilli. She told me he was street smart. I saw then on the screen, Chilli did the only possible thing that could’ve saved him. He screamed for help.

Roark moved toward Chilli instantly, his left hand drawn back to punch Chilli in the face. This time Chilli moved, fast. He stepped toward Roark at the last second and landed a head-butt. The gun fell from Roark’s hand and Chilli shook his head, staggered. Roark dropped, holding his shattered nose and trying to stem the flood. Chilli tried to run, fell forward. You don’t deliver a head-butt like that without feeling it yourself.

That’s when Marzone grabbed him from behind, lifted Chilli clean off his feet. He kicked at Marzone’s ankles and pulled at his arm. It looked like being caught in some kind of terrible piece of machinery that would not let go until you were crushed. Marzone didn’t move. His legs were still. The kicking got fierce, then slowed. For a second Marzone’s arm slipped down just a fraction, before sweeping up again, in a tighter grip.

That second of release allowed Chilli a little air. And one single, raw cry.

“I can’t breathe.”

The grip tightened and held firm. A hollow feeling in my chest grew into a dull ache. I wanted to close my eyes, or look away, and never have to watch this again. I could feel the plastic pen in my hand cracking. But I watched every agonizing second, because I owed it to Chilli Hernandez.

The fight slowly went out of him. After all movement had left Chilli’s body, Marzone let go.

A dead man fell to the sidewalk.

The camera tumbled and bounced. A fleeting glance of Frost’s face came on the screen as he bent down to pick it up. When the view returned to Marzone, he was staring straight at the lens.

Frost panicked. Ducked behind the blue Dumpster, then ran into the dark.

“He got away in the alley next to the 7-Eleven,” I said.

The image died, replaced with a blue screen that read,
Repeat? Clear? Share?

Only when the video ended did I become aware of the room again. The consultation booth was small, dirty, and soundproof. A quiet space for lawyers to talk to their clients.

“Dear God . . .” was all Jack could manage.

McAllister was staring at me. Watching me think through the possibilities.

“Frost had no probable cause to follow Marzone. Add to that, he’s not officially on duty, and worst of all, he simply sat on this video, didn’t show it to anyone. That’s a big problem.”

“Why didn’t he arrest Marzone and Roark?” said Jack. “The guy lied—he had more than enough to put Marzone away for murder.”

“No, he didn’t,” I said. “Don’t you remember anything from law school? Article 700 of the Criminal Code—you need a warrant for video surveillance. This evidence is inadmissible in a criminal trial. If Frost had a warrant, the memory card would be in a sealed bag in the evidence locker, not stuffed in the bottom of a stinking gym bag. Frost knew he couldn’t use it in court, and so did Marzone. You saw the end of the video. Marzone clocked Frost. That’s why Marzone took him out on the ferry and not me. Marzone knew I didn’t have anything on him, but Frost did. He didn’t want to take the chance, so he took out the guy who posed the greatest threat.”

As I spoke, I looked at McAllister. I could tell she’d thought of more angles. And the two main reasons why Frost didn’t use the footage.

“Frost wanted the whole squad, didn’t he? The hit man, the cops, everybody. Nothing tied the video to the hit man. He figured he’d get himself a new target—me. He knew Marzone would kill to protect himself, and he wanted to catch him trying to put a bullet through my head. And then there’s the big reason why Frost sat on this, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” said McAllister.

I didn’t need to say any more. She looked pleased that I’d thought of it.

“Whatever goddamn reason he had for not arresting Marzone with this video doesn’t matter, does it?” said Jack. “Now we’ve got it. We get Vinnie to pay us real money to lose the video. This isn’t a criminal court. We could use it in a civil trial.”

“Not now, we can’t,” I said.

“What?” said Jack and McAllister together.

“There’s no testimony from Frost. Without his testimony as to the authenticity of the video, it could never be admitted as evidence. Thanks to Marzone’s hit man, the video died with Frost. But there’s something else we can do; we can show it to Boles,” I said.

Standing and running his fingers over his arms, Jack said, “Wait, we can’t show this to Boles. This proves Marzone intentionally murdered Chilli. He was not acting as a cop. He’s just a killer. The city walks away with their money if we use this. It proves their defense and kills our entire case.”

“Sure it does, but it gives us a whole new case. One that we can’t lose.”

“What about Marzone?” said Jack.

McAllister stretched her neck, focused on me, and said, “We lean on Vinnie. Roark, too. Separate them from Marzone. Just like we planned. How much do you think Vinnie knows?”

“An operation like this is like a boys’ choir—everyone’s got to sing off the same hymn sheet. The hit man will need to be close to Marzone’s defense. Vinnie mentioned a friend who had an interest in this case. I wouldn’t be surprised if the hit man insisted that Marzone used Vinnie—so he can keep an eye on things. I doubt if Vinnie knows the whole truth of it, but he’s smart—he’ll know there’s something rotten going on. They wouldn’t tell Vinnie about the operation, but I’m sure he’s put most of it together. In fact, I’m counting on it.”