The Defense: A Novel (7 page)
I looked around the courtroom and saw that everyone was waiting for the prosecutor to begin.
Miriam rested her elbows on the desk and held her hands delicately below her face. I’d seen her do this before. All eyes were upon her. She drew you in, framing that trustworthy face with those fragile hands. Rising from her seat, she approached the jury and began, confidently, to look at each one of them in turn, holding their eyes in her forensic gaze. Her way of connecting with them, each of them, and they connected all right. If she’d told the jury right then that Volchek was guilty, they would’ve convicted on her word—that instant.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Miriam Sullivan. I’m responsible for prosecuting Mr. Volchek for murder. In a moment I’ll give you an outline of the evidence. I’ll give you a route map to the truth about this murder. This map will show you the path that we have to take before you can say that Mr. Volchek is guilty. You’ve seen the TV coverage of this trial; Mr. Volchek is regarded by many to be the head of the Russian Mafia. Our main witness will tell you about life inside the Bratva, the Russian name that’s given to these criminal organizations. Indeed, ladies and gentlemen, you will see that the defendant faces a mountain of evidence against him.” As expected, she threw a manicured hand at her team’s table as an illustration. They probably had two or three copies of the evidence on that table and probably not that much of it proved Volchek was a murderer. However, it was the impression that counted.
She continued. “And that is what you have to evaluate—the evidence. Not the press coverage. I’m going to tell you a little bit about our case now and about the expert witness who will tell you that Mr. Volchek ordered Mario Geraldo to be killed.”
I had no clue what expert witness Miriam was talking about, but I had an inkling that this was her opening witness, her shot at revoking Volchek’s bail.
“But more important than the expert in this case is the man who actually pulled the trigger. That man will tell you that his boss, the head of the Russian Mafia, Olek Volchek, ordered him to kill Mr. Geraldo. That man, the man who shot Mr. Geraldo, is under FBI protection. His old and new identity will be protected in these proceedings because as a former member of the Bratva, this man is living under a death threat. In this trial, this man will be known as Witness X.”
Miriam paused for effect, allowing me time to read over the notes I’d just written. I reread the phrase
This man is living under a death threat
and underlined it. Twice.
Miriam talked for an hour about the burden of proof. She explained to the jury that they must be satisfied of Volchek’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The jury nodded throughout this portion of the speech, and Miriam went on to explain what pieces of evidence would satisfy that burden.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the first witness you will hear from the prosecution will be Dr. Irving Goldstein, the eminent forensic document examiner. He is a man who examines pieces of handwriting to determine who created them. Dr. Goldstein knows the defendant’s handwriting from public documents that we, the prosecution, have obtained. He can then look at another sample of handwriting and determine with scientific accuracy if the defendant wrote it or not.”
Those expensive high-heeled shoes of Miriam’s clicked over to the prosecution table, where she picked up what looked like some form of currency in a sealed plastic evidence bag.
“This is prosecution exhibit twelve. This is an old, one-ruble bill that has been torn in half. One half is unmarked; one half has a name written on it in marker pen. That name is
Mario Geraldo
, the victim in this case. Witness X will tell you that he was given one half of this note—the unmarked half—by his boss, the defendant, Olek Volchek, and when he was subsequently given the other half of the note with the victim’s name on it by an unknown messenger, that was his order to kill the victim. Witness X will tell you that this was the MO for the Russian mob; this was how the orders to kill were handed down by the defendant. How do we know the defendant wrote the victim’s name on the bill? Well, that’s where Dr. Goldstein comes in. Dr. Goldstein will tell you that the handwriting on this note matches exactly with the defendant’s handwriting.”
Miriam paused, the note still held aloft in her hand. This was the game changer. This evidence would blow his bail for sure. Several of the jury members fixed Volchek with a stern look.
I rocked back in my chair and folded my arms before whispering to Volchek in the seat beside me, “Lean back. Smile. The jury is looking at you. Pretend that you’re relaxed. The jury will think we’re not in the least concerned about this evidence and that we’ve got it completely covered.”
We both smiled.
“You’re shitting me, right? How the hell did you get bail in the first place?”
“The prosecution didn’t have this evidence for the arraignment. They only produced the handwriting report at the beginning of the year,” said Volchek.
I thought for a moment. “Why the hell would you write down an order for a hit? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Tell me she’s lying and we’ve got something to challenge this,” I said.
Volchek’s smile disappeared. His brow furrowed, and his voice deepened. “Do not presume to know anything about me or how I run my business. This is the old way. Back in Soviet Union, the gangs ran wild, but there was always loyalty to the boss. That loyalty did not always extend below, to the
vor
—what you would call the soldiers. If a soldier wants to move up in the Bratva ranks, the easiest way is to kill his biggest rival. But he cannot do this himself. Instead he uses other soldiers. He tells them that the boss, the
pakhan
, has ordered the rival to be killed. The other soldiers obey absolutely, and the
pakhan
knows nothing until it’s too late. I’ve seen entire Bratva kill one another in this way. I use the old way to make sure this does not happen. The old way is this,” he said, pointing to the exhibit just as Miriam lowered her hand and slowly walked back to the prosecution table.
He continued. “The only man who can order a hit in my organization is me. I control all kills. This way I do not start wars with other gangs, and I make sure my men do not kill each other. To do this, I have one man who is my torpedo.” He pronounced it
tor-pedd-o
. “It is old Soviet name for hit man. This man comes to me and me alone. In front of him, I tear an old, one-ruble bill in half. I give him one half of the bill. In this way, he becomes torpedo. When I need a man killed, I write down that man’s name on my half of the bill and it is sent to torpedo. He will check if his half of the bill matches the one he has been sent. If they are a match, he knows the order is real and that it comes directly from me. In this way, the old way, my men have trust from me and I have total loyalty from them.”
“And this Witness X, Little Benny, he was your torpedo, right? So why the hell did he keep the note?” I said.
“In Soviet Union we called a one-ruble bill
tselkovy
, meaning
the whole one
. It means that the torpedo has my whole heart in trust and loyalty forever. The torpedo is supposed to burn the bill after the job. Most do not. They keep their rubles. Old ruble bills can be hard to find these days. They are like a badge of honor. Some even have the one-ruble bill tattooed on their backs. I do not allow tattoos. We wear our pride in our eyes, not on our skin.”
I couldn’t react in case the jury saw me, but I wanted to put my hands over my head and scream. The courtroom no longer felt huge. It felt small and public and dangerous. I wondered where Amy was being held. Was she, too, feeling enclosed, trapped, and afraid? If I let myself wonder what was happening to her, I would go crazy.
Instead I started thinking. “Pass me the case files,” I said.
Volchek looked into the suitcase. He seemed to be looking for a particular file. He found one and handed it over. It said
DOCUMENT EXAMINERS
on the spine of the folder. I began flicking through it. Volchek had gone to nearly every major criminal defense firm in the state and gotten reports from several forensic document examiners. The index to this file said there were eleven such expert reports. Volchek must have been desperate. I flicked through to the concluding summary of each one of the reports. They all said the same thing—in their opinion, Volchek wrote that name on the ruble bill.
Miriam continued her opening statement.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will also hear from the victim’s family. You will hear from Tony Geraldo, the victim’s cousin. He’ll tell you about his cousin’s dispute with the defendant. He’ll tell you about the threats that the defendant made to Mario Geraldo’s life. He’ll tell you he feared the defendant would kill his cousin or arrange for his murder.”
That name, Tony Geraldo, seemed to stir some memory for me, but I was so wired that I couldn’t trace the thought. Miriam stepped into a nice rhythm.
“You’ll hear from the police officer who arrested and interviewed the defendant. You’ll hear this officer describe his investigation…”
My interest trailed off. I’d found the witness list in the file of papers. In all, we would hear from five witnesses. A small, tight, well-prepared group. Miriam avoided the usual machine-gun approach to prosecution, which relied on the hit-and-miss tactics of
just keeping going
with witness after witness after witness and something somewhere is bound to stick. She knew better than that. The forensic document examiner, Dr. Irving Goldstein, was the first witness. A good strategy, I thought. Get the boring bit out of the way and put a smoking gun in the hand of the defendant on day one. But I saw this as my biggest chance. Volchek must have spent a fortune getting all those reports and paying all those lawyers only to get back the same result every time—
It’s your handwriting
. As far as he was concerned, this witness was a lost cause. He couldn’t find another expert to challenge Goldstein’s evidence. Every single lawyer that Volchek retained had told him that Goldstein was watertight.
I had no choice. If Dr. Goldstein was as good a witness as Miriam hoped, Volchek could have his bail terminated within a few hours, and Amy would pay for that with her life. I had to destroy Goldstein’s evidence. If I could do that, I accomplished two things. One, I would get my remaining twenty-eight hours to figure my way out of this, and two, the Russians would begin to trust me. If Volchek thought I was busting a gut to keep him out of jail long enough to kill Benny, then he wouldn’t notice me cramming that bomb up his ass first chance I got. But before the con, I needed to gain his trust.
In the confidence game, we called it a
persuader
.
Miriam wrapped up her speech. “And, ladies and gentlemen, if you consider this simple proposition to be correct, then you
must
find the defendant guilty. We will show you his guilt and you
must
convict him.”
Miriam sat down. The jury looked tired.
Judge Pike said, “Mr. Flynn, will you be addressing the jury now or at the conclusion of the prosecution’s evidence?” I slowly rose from my chair and said, “Your Honor, the jury will want time to absorb Ms. Sullivan’s speech. Might it be preferable to give them a break and allow them some time for refreshments? I will need to take some instructions from my client before I address the jury.”
This was my usual tactic and one that most defense attorneys employed. I always liked to speak to my client after I’d heard the prosecutor’s opening. It was usually only then that the defense got to hear what kind of spin the prosecution was putting on the evidence. That meant checking with the defendant again, to see if any of what the prosecutor said was true. I also wanted the jury to like me. They’d sat for almost two hours listening to Miriam. I wanted to be the savior. I wanted them to see me stand up, say something quick, and get them coffee and pastries. I’m concerned they might need a break; I’m caring, connecting, and listening to them. Pretty soon I would be the only show in town.
Miriam saw my shot at wrestling the jury from her spell and tried to take back their favor. “Your Honor, I fear I may have gone on too long this morning. Perhaps instead of coffee, we could break for lunch?”
“Back here in one hour,” said Judge Pike.
The courtroom began to empty, and I felt a strong hand on my shoulder. Arturas said, “We’ll go upstairs to talk.”
I didn’t have time to talk. I had one hour to read eight thousand pages and prepare the greatest opening speech and the greatest cross-examination of my life. I shifted around in my seat and looked at him straight. “We can talk later. I have to work. And I need your help.”
Victor closed and locked the door of the reception room that we’d occupied earlier, up on the nineteenth floor. Arturas stood with his arms folded and tapped his foot. He was nervous and angry. His boss simply folded himself into the couch and watched.
“I need a laptop or a smartphone with Internet access,” I said.
“What for?” asked Arturas.
I ignored Arturas and spoke directly to Volchek—he was the client; he needed the answers, and he called the shots. “Your other lawyers tried to get expert testimony to challenge Dr. Goldstein directly. They wanted another handwriting expert to say that the murder note couldn’t have been written by you. I saw the bundle of reports in the case file; they couldn’t get anyone to offer that opinion. That’s because that opinion doesn’t exist. Not legitimately, anyway. You could probably get an expert to say that the handwriting
may
not be yours, but those guys don’t have Goldstein’s credentials, and when it comes to a Mexican standoff with expert witnesses, the one with the best résumé usually wins.”
Volchek nodded. He seemed to be buying it, but Arturas wasn’t. “What can you do? The other firms had months to challenge this evidence. What can you do in one hour?” said Arturas.
