The Defense: A Novel (6 page)

The murder didn’t cross state lines and wasn’t, as far as I could tell, drug related, so the NYPD and the district attorney’s office held on to the case. The feds would hold the witness so they could keep an eye on proceedings. I remembered an unusual feature of the case, something that had grated on me from the first time I read the reports in the papers. There was only one charge—murder. Volchek hadn’t been indicted for drug running or racketeering or any of the usual organized crime charges. He faced a single charge of first-degree murder.

The prosecution team heaved cardboard boxes full of files onto their table, grabbed extra seats, and built a fortress of paper on their desk. Psychological tactics for the jury
—look at all the evidence we have against this guy.
The state had an army of the top prosecutors, who’d had months to prepare a watertight case, and an unlimited budget.

Miriam looked cool and professional, every inch the seasoned litigator. She wore a black suit with a skirt. She wasn’t classically beautiful, and I’d heard her described as having quite plain features. But her demeanor changed when she came to court; her eyes took on an intensity that was almost hypnotic. Throw in the legs, the shapely figure, and it was a good visual package for the jury. Not that she needed an advantage. She could’ve looked like Danny DeVito and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Miriam was just a devastating lawyer—period. She’d made her name in vice before moving to sex crimes. During the five years that Miriam prosecuted sexual offenders, the conviction rate for rape almost doubled. She’d graduated to homicide, and so far, she was on track for the DA’s job come election season.

Arturas placed the suitcase on the floor underneath the defense table and took his seat at the end of the row behind me. I heard a rumble of heavy footfalls and murmurs from the crowd, and I didn’t need to turn around to know that Volchek was making his entrance. I opened the suitcase and looked inside at the seven files that contained probably six or seven thousand pages in total.

The rumble from the crowd became louder. I turned around to see Volchek walking down the central aisle, alone. Then a Hispanic male stood up in the middle of the crowd. He wore a red and blue bandana, a white shirt and track top. Tattoos spread from his neck up over his jaw and onto his face. It wasn’t the mere fact that he’d stood up that caught my eye; it was what he was doing. He clapped his hands in a slow cadence. An Asian guy in a dark suit got up and began to join in with the applause just as somebody else stood to attention. The third man was also Hispanic. He wore a maroon T-shirt and he also sported black, wiry tattoos on his bare arms and neck.

Volchek nodded politely at each of the men as he passed them and sat down beside me at the defense table.

“Friends of yours?” I said.

“No. They are not friends. They are my enemies. They’ve come to watch me fall.”

The slow, staccato applause for Volchek died down.

“So exactly who are these enemies?” I asked.

“The Puerto Ricans and the Mexicans run lines for the South American cartels here in New York. The other man is Yakuza. They are here to show me that if I go to prison, they are coming for me and my operation. They are in for a surprise,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jean Denver, one of the few female clerks, emerged from the entrance to the judge’s chambers. She winked at me. I liked Jean; she was intelligent, fun, and kept the court running efficiently. She wheeled a heavy trolley. It contained five binders that were thick with paper. The judge’s case files. Judge Pike must be ready to make her appearance. That meant I was about to get my first look at the jury. You can be the most knowledgeable lawyer in the world and be an amazing cross-examiner, but if you don’t know how to talk to a jury, you’re in big trouble. Before you talk to them, you have to understand them. Most jurors don’t want to be jurors. The minority that actively want to be jurors should be avoided at all costs.

I could feel the muscles in my neck getting tighter and tighter each minute, as if the wiring from the bomb was sliding up my back to choke me.

Miriam walked over to my table and stood beside me. Staring into space, my head was running at a hundred miles an hour. I could feel the heat from Miriam’s smile. She held a handwritten message on a yellow Post-it, which she waved at me before sticking it to the desk.

YOUR CLIENT’S GOING DOWN. I’LL HAVE HIS BAIL REVOKED BY 5 P.M.

My mouth was dry. That note was a death sentence for Amy. If Miriam was right, and she was successful in revoking Volchek’s bail, then Amy and I would be dead before the cuffs warmed up on Volchek’s wrists. I was aware of my heels bouncing on the marble floor, and I swore silently and battled to calm down and think.

Miriam didn’t normally get so personal. Like most good lawyers, Miriam usually stayed detached. We’d come up against each other a few times in the past and came out about even. In the first case I tried against Miriam, I’d underestimated her badly. She wiped the floor with me. My client was caught selling meth outside a school. No deals on a plea, so we fought it and my scumbag got heavy time. Her performance for the jury was flawless; she’d remained composed, restrained, and gave the impression to the jury that she was just recounting facts, not playing on their emotions. About a month after the trial, someone told me that Miriam’s son went to that school and had been offered drugs by my client. She hadn’t mentioned it to me and sailed through to an easy, dispassionate victory. Even though it was the right verdict, and an easy one for the jury, the way she secured that win impressed me.

The note she’d handed me was intended to rile the defense. That meant Miriam was worried. This was no ordinary murder. Miriam’s career case started today. If she lost this open-and-shut wonder, she’d be out of a job. Prosecutors often experience more pressure on such a case because they’re expected to win, and if she secured a verdict, with the feds holding the hand of her star witness, news of her victory would travel in the right circles. I handed the note to Volchek. First, so that he could see I wasn’t swapping notes with the prosecutor about the bomb, and second, I needed him scared. People who’re scared like options. If such things had existed, the hustler’s bible, page one, would read exactly the same as the first page of the trial lawyer’s manual:
Give the people what they want.

“She’s going for your bail straight off the bat,” I said.

Arturas leaned over the rail to listen. I watched as Volchek grew pale and turned toward Arturas.

“You did not expect this,” said Volchek.

“She can’t do that yet. The other lawyers told us the prosecutor would try, but that they were confident she wouldn’t get it,” replied Arturas.

“You think they were maybe being optimistic because they wanted to get retained in your case?” I said. I watched Arturas’s face tighten, his eyes narrow.

“She must think she has a great first witness: a game changer. A good trial attorney will always start a case with a strong witness. Miriam Sullivan is a great attorney. She thinks the first witness will be enough to put you in handcuffs.”

Volchek bared his teeth and snarled, “Arturas, you told me you had thought of everything. You’ve had two years to plan. First Jack can’t even get out of the limo with the bomb, never mind get through security. Now this…” His arm reached out as if to claw at Arturas’s face, but he held back at the last moment. “If you fail me again…” He shook his head.

Arturas stroked the scar on his cheek. He saw me watching him and took his hand away from his face. Up close, I saw that the scar had not fully healed. A translucent liquid oozed from a red, puckered section of the wound just below his eye. Guys like Arturas don’t go to the ER for that kind of treatment, and whoever had stitched his cut hadn’t done a very good job. Backstreet doctors, high from their own prescription pads, aren’t known for their care with hygiene, or their skill with a needle for that matter. The scar looked keloid and infected and would probably stay that way; damaged tissue sometimes never fully heals.

I began to wonder about that scar. Perhaps it was a punishment from Volchek for a past failure. Arturas focused his anger on me.

“You will not let her revoke bail. Your daughter’s life depends on it. One phone call is all it takes to have her little throat cut,” he said.

Rage stripped the anxiety from my voice. “Take it easy. I won’t let it happen. She would need something incredible to get Volchek’s bail revoked on the first day. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it,” I said.

I heard the door to the judge’s chambers opening. I was about to start a case that I knew nothing about. Whatever Miriam had up her sleeve that was so good, I would learn all about it from her opening statement to the jury. I straightened my tie, adjusted my jacket, and felt the weight of the bomb on my back.

“Silence in court! All stand for the honorable Justice Gabriella Pike, case docket number 552192, the People versus Olek Volchek on one count of murder in the first degree.” With that announcement from the court officer, a small, unassuming brunette in dark robes jogged into the courtroom and sat down before the announcement finished and long before most people had lifted their ass off their seats. Judge Pike did everything at high speed. She spoke quickly, walked quickly, and ate quickly. As a defense attorney, she’d been a formidable lawyer because, just as she was with everything else, she could think on her feet with stunning rapidity. This made her a devastating cross-examiner. She could shift tactics at the drop of a hat, and her skills soon became noticed by the right people. Deeply ambitious, it didn’t take long for Gabriella to become the youngest judge in the history of the state, and because she was a former defense attorney, she made a point of giving all defense attorneys a real hard time.

“Please be seated with Her Honor’s permission,” cried the officer, and people settled.

Judge Pike looked at me. “Mr. Flynn, I thought your partner was counsel in this case,” she said. She spoke with a slightly diluted Brooklyn accent, but her speedball delivery hid the breadth of that accent well.

A throbbing pain began in my head.

“I’m stepping into my friend’s shoes for the duration of the trial—unless Your Honor has any objection?” I said it more in hope than anything else. I knew she would have no objection, and she said so. Changing the counsel of record happened a lot. Criminal clients were always firing their attorneys and hiring new ones. Some defendants changed counsel five or six times during the life of their case—usually because they didn’t like the advice they’d been given or because their attorney sent them a large legal bill.

“Can we have the jury, please?” said Judge Pike to no one in particular, but the jury officer heard his cue and departed through a side door to fetch them. I prayed for a little break to bring me some hope. The judge would watch the jury closely. If the prosecutor’s opening witness was really strong and the jury was leaning against Volchek, this might give Judge Pike enough confidence to revoke Volchek’s bail when the time came. The pain in my head worsened, and I began to feel nausea creeping into my gut. I had no choice at the moment but to deal with what was in front of me. Jack had been a good lawyer. Surely he would’ve picked a good jury.

The jury filed in and took their seats: six in the first row and six in the elevated row behind.

I doubted if I would’ve picked any of them.

The first juror was a white guy in his early forties. He wore a plaid shirt and spectacles. He looked considerate, moderately intelligent, and probably ranked as the worst choice of all. The rest were not a jury of Volchek’s peers—five small black women in their late fifties to early sixties, wearing floral dresses, strong ladies with a certain charming appearance but no friends of the Russian mob. Then another four women in their thirties and forties: two white, one Hispanic, and one Chinese. I saw a black guy wearing a white shirt and a red bow tie. Bow ties spell danger to trial lawyers; no one is more strident in their views than a man in a bow tie. The last guy was Hispanic, and his shirt looked well ironed with sharp creases down both arms. He looked clean, well presented, and something about him spoke of a quiet intelligence. He didn’t rank as a good choice either, but he was probably the best of a bad bunch. At least he would listen. It’s so vital to have a jury member who is willing to listen. Their face can be your barometer for success: As long as that face is computing and occasionally smiling and nodding at your points, you’ve got a chance. Other jurors might listen to him and be led by him.

“Ms. Sullivan, your opening statement, please,” said the judge.

An expectant silence fell on the room. Arturas reached into the case, produced a legal pad and a pencil for me to take notes. He’d thought about everything. I opened the pad, pushed the pencil away, took out my
DAD
pen, and readied myself to take notes.

My first note is usually the name of the case and the name of the judge and prosecutor. When I looked at my pad, I’d written only one thing—
Amy.
Until a year ago, I’d cherished Sundays. That was our day. No matter what case I’d been involved in, or how overworked I was, on Sunday I made pancakes for breakfast and Amy and I would hit Prospect Park for the afternoon. It was our time. She’d learned to ride her bike on the footpath leading up to the Nethermead Arches Bridge and couldn’t wait to get home to tell Christine; she’d fallen asleep on my shoulders on the way back from the zoo and dribbled all over my shirt; and we’d eaten ice cream cones beside the lake as we watched the geese flying over the boathouse and talked about her best friends and the kids that gave her a hard time for being a little different. Amy didn’t listen to the latest boy bands or hip-hop artists, and she didn’t watch much TV. She liked reading and listening to old rock bands, like The Who, the Stones, and the Beatles. If it was raining, we’d buy too much popcorn and go watch an old movie. I’d always looked forward to Sundays. But it was no longer our day; since the breakup, Christine wanted Amy to be settled for going back to school, so we’d switched to Saturdays. At the end of every Saturday afternoon, I dropped her off, kissed her goodbye, and left to drive home to my empty apartment.