The Final Detail: A Myron Bolitar Novel (6 page)

Finally Myron saw Hester Crimstein sweep into the courtroom, decked out in her best professional civvies: a sleek beige suit, cream blouse, and a tad overcoiffed, over-frosted hair. She took her spot at the defense table, and the room fell silent. Two guards led Esperanza through an open door. Myron saw her, and something akin to a mule kicked him in the chest.

Esperanza was dressed in a court-issued fluorescent orange
jumpsuit. Forget gray or stripes—if a prisoner wanted to escape, he was going to stick out like a neon light in a monastery. Her hands were cuffed in front of her. Myron knew that Esperanza was petite—maybe five-two, a hundred pounds—but he had never seen her look so small. She kept her head high, defiant. Classic Esperanza. If she was afraid, she wasn’t showing it.

Hester Crimstein put a comforting hand on her client’s shoulder. Esperanza nodded at her. Myron tried desperately to catch her eye. It took a couple of moments, but eventually Esperanza turned his way, looking straight at him with a slight, resigned, I’m-okay smile. It made Myron feel better.

The bailiff called out, “The People versus Esperanza Diaz.”

“What’s the charge?” the judge asked.

The assistant district attorney, a fresh-faced kid who barely looked old enough to sport a pubic hair, stood by a pedestal. “Murder in the second degree, Your Honor.”

“How do you plead?”

Esperanza’s voice was strong. “Not guilty.”

“Bail?”

The fresh-faced kid said, “Your Honor, the People request that Ms. Diaz be remanded without bail.”

Hester Crimstein shouted, “What?” as if she had just heard the most irrational and dangerous words any human being had ever uttered under any circumstance.

Fresh Face was unfazed. “Miss Diaz is accused of killing a man by shooting him three times. We have strong evidence—”

“They have nothing, Your Honor. Circumstantial nothings.”

“Miss Diaz has no family and no real roots in the
community,” Fresh Face continued. “We believe that she presents a substantial flight risk.”

“That’s nonsense, Your Honor. Miss Diaz is a partner in a major sports representation firm in Manhattan. She is a law school graduate who is currently studying for the bar. She has many friends and roots in the community. And she has no record whatsoever.”

“But, Your Honor, she has no family—”

“So what?” Crimstein interrupted. “Her mother and father are dead. Is that now a reason to punish a woman? Dead parents? This is outrageous, Your Honor.”

The judge, a woman in her early fifties, sat back. “Your request to deny bail does seem extreme,” she said to Fresh Face.

“Your Honor, we believe that Miss Diaz has an unusual amount of resources at her disposal and very good reasons to flee the jurisdiction.”

Crimstein kept up with the apoplectic. “What are you talking about?”

“The murder victim, Mr. Haid, has recently withdrawn cash funds in excess of two hundred thousand dollars. That money is missing from his apartment. It’s logical to assume that the money was taken during the commission of the murder—”

“What logic?” Crimstein shouted. “Your Honor, this is nonsense.”

“Counsel for the defense mentioned that Miss Diaz has friends in the community,” Fresh Face continued. “Some of them are here, including her employer, Myron Bolitar.” He pointed to Myron. All eyes turned. Myron stayed very still. “Our investigation shows that Mr. Bolitar has been missing for at least a week, perhaps in the Caribbean, even in the Cayman Islands.”

“So what?” Crimstein shouted. “Arrest him if that’s a crime.”

But Fresh Face was not done. “And next to him is Miss Diaz’s friend Windsor Lockwood of Lock-Horne Securities.” When all eyes turned to Win, he nodded and gave a small regal wave. “Mr. Lockwood was the victim’s financial adviser and held the account where the two hundred thousand dollars was withdrawn.”

“So arrest him too,” Crimstein ranted. “Your Honor, this has nothing to do with my client, except maybe to prove her innocence. Miss Diaz is a hardworking Hispanic woman who struggled her way through law school at night. She has no record and should be freed immediately. Short of that, she has a right to reasonable bail.”

“Your Honor, there’s just too much cash floating around,” Fresh Face said. “The missing two hundred thousand dollars. Miss Diaz’s possible connection with both Mr. Bolitar and, of course, Mr. Lockwood, who comes from one of the wealthiest families in the region—”

“Wait a second, Your Honor. First, the district attorney suggests that Miss Diaz has stolen and hidden away this alleged missing money and will use it to run. Then he suggests that she’ll ask Mr. Lockwood, who is no more than a business associate, for the funds. Which is it? And while the district attorney’s office is busy trying to manufacture some kind of money conspiracy, why would one of the already wealthiest men in the country deem it appropriate to conspire with a poor Hispanic woman to steal? The whole idea is ludicrous. The prosecution has no case, so they’ve come up with this money nonsense that sounds as plausible as an Elvis sighting—”

“Enough,” the judge said. She leaned back and strummed her fingers on the big desk. She stared at Win
for a second, then back at the defense table. “The missing money troubles me,” she said.

“Your Honor, I assure you that my client knows nothing about any money.”

“I’d be surprised if your position were different, Ms. Crimstein. But the facts presented by the district attorney are sufficiently troublesome. Bail denied.”

Crimstein’s eyes widened. “Your Honor, this is an outrage—”

“No need to shout, Counselor. I hear you just fine.”

“I strenuously object—”

“Save it for the cameras, Ms. Crimstein.” The judge hit the gavel. “Next case?”

Suppressed mumbles broke forth. Big Cyndi started wailing like a widow in a war newsreel. Hester Crimstein put her mouth to Esperanza’s ear and whispered something. Esperanza nodded, but it didn’t look like she was listening. The guards led Esperanza toward a door. Myron tried to catch her eyes again, but she didn’t—or maybe wouldn’t—face him.

Hester Crimstein turned and shot Myron a glare so nasty it almost made him duck. She approached him and fought to keep her face neutral. “Room seven,” she said to Myron, not looking at him, barely moving her lips. “Down the hallway and to the left. Five minutes. Don’t say anything to anyone.”

Myron did not bother with a nod.

Crimstein hurried out, already starting with the no comments before she hit the door. Win sighed, took a piece of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket, began to scribble something down.

“What are you doing?” Myron asked.

“You’ll see.” It did not take long. Two plainclothes cops accompanied
by the stench of cheap cologne made their approach. Homicide division, no doubt. Before they could even introduce themselves, Win said, “Are we under arrest?”

The cops looked confused. Then one said, “No.”

Win smiled and handed him the piece of paper.

“What the hell is this?”

“Our attorney’s phone number,” Win said. He rose and ushered Myron toward the door. “Have a special day.”

They arrived in the defendant’s conference room before the anointed five minutes. The room was empty.

“Clu withdrew cash?” Myron said.

“Yes,” Win said.

“You knew about it?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“The district attorney said two hundred thousand dollars. I have no reason to quibble with that estimate.”

“And you just let him?”

“Pardon?”

“You just let Clu withdraw two hundred grand?”

“It’s his money.”

“But that much cash?”

“It was none of my business,” Win said.

“You know Clu, Win. It could have been for drugs or gambling or—”

“Probably was,” Win agreed. “But I am his financial adviser. I instruct him on investment strategies. Period. I am not his conscience or his mommy or his baby-sitter—or even his agent.”

Ouch. But no time for that now. Once again Myron suppressed the guilt and mulled over the possibilities. “Clu okayed us receiving his financial statements, right?”

Win nodded. MB SportsReps insisted that all clients use Win’s services and meet with him in person at least quarterly to go over their accounts. This was for their sake more than Myron’s. Too many athletes get taken advantage of because of ignorance. But most of Myron’s clients had copies of their statements sent to Myron so that he too could help keep track of the ins and outs, set up some automatic bill paying, that kind of thing.

“So a withdrawal that big would have come up on our screen,” Myron said.

“Yes.”

“Esperanza would have known about it.”

“Yes again.”

Myron frowned. “So that gives the DA another motive for the murder. She knew about the cash.”

“Indeed.”

Myron looked at Win. “So what did Clu do with the money?”

Win shrugged.

“Maybe Bonnie knows?”

“Doubtful,” Win said. “They’ve separated.”

“Big deal. They’re always fighting, but she always takes him back.”

“Perhaps. But this time she made the separation legal.”

That surprised Myron. Bonnie had never gone that far before. Their turmoil cycle had always been consistent: Clu does something stupid, a big fight ensues, Bonnie throws him out for a couple of nights, maybe a week, Clu begs forgiveness, Bonnie takes him back, Clu behaves for a little while, Clu does something stupid, the cycle starts anew. “She got a lawyer and filed papers?”

“According to Clu.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes, Myron. That’s what ‘According to Clu’ means.”

“When did he tell you all this?”

“Last week. When he took out the cash. He said that she had already begun divorce proceedings.”

“How did he feel about it?”

“Badly. He craved yet another reconciliation.”

“Did he say anything else when he withdrew the cash?”

“Nothing.”

“And you have no idea—”

“None.”

The conference room door flew open. Hester Crimstein came in, red-faced and fuming. “You dumb bastards. I told you to stay away.”

“Don’t put this on us,” Myron said. “This is your screwup.”

“What?”

“Getting her bail should have been a slam dunk.”

“If you weren’t in the courtroom, it would have been. You played right into the DA’s hands. He wants to show the judge that the defendant has the resources to run away, and boom, he points to a famous ex-jock and one of the country’s richest playboys sitting right in the front row.”

She started stomping about as though the industrial gray carpet contained small brushfires. “This judge is a liberal schmuck,” she said. “That’s why I started with all that hardworking Hispanic crap. She hates rich people, probably because she is one. Having the
Preppy Handbook
here”—she gestured with her head at Win—“sit in the front row was like waving a Confederate flag at a black judge.”

“You should drop the case,” Myron said.

Her head jerked toward him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Your fame is playing against you. The judge may not like rich people, but she doesn’t much like celebrities either. You’re the wrong attorney for this case.”

“Bullshit. I’ve had three cases before this judge. I’m three and oh.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like that either.”

Crimstein seemed to lose a little steam. She moved back and collapsed into a chair. “Bail denied,” she said more to herself than anyone else. “I can’t believe they even had the nerve to ask for no bail.” She sat a bit straighter. “All right, here’s how we play it. I’m going to press for answers. In the meantime you guys say nothing. No talking to the cops, the DA, the press. Nobody. Not until we figure out what exactly they think the three of you did.”

“The three of us?”

“Weren’t you listening, Myron? They think it’s a money scheme.”

“Involving the three of us?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know. They mentioned your going to the Caribbean, maybe the Cayman Islands. We all know what that means.”

“Depositing cash in offshore accounts,” Myron said. “But I left the country three weeks ago—before the money was even withdrawn. And I never went anywhere near the Caymans.”

“They’re probably still grasping at straws,” Crimstein said. “But they’re going to go after you in a big way. I hope your books are in order because I guarantee you they’ll have them subpoenaed within the hour.”

Money scandal, Myron thought. Hadn’t FJ mentioned something about that?

Crimstein turned her attention to Win. “Is that stuff about a big cash withdrawal true?”

“Yes.”

“Can they prove Esperanza knew about it?”

“Probably.”

“Damn.” She thought about this a moment.

Win moved into a corner. He took out his cell phone, dialed, started talking.

Myron said, “Make me co-counsel.”

Crimstein looked up. “Excuse me?”

“As you pointed out last night, I’m a bar-appointed attorney. Make me her attorney, and anything she tells me falls under attorney-client.”

She shook her head. “One, that’ll never fly. The judge will see it for what it is, a loophole to make sure you can’t testify. Two, it’s moronic. Not only will it reek of a desperate defensive move, but it’ll look like we’re shutting you up because we have something to hide. Three, you may still be charged in all this.”

“How? I already told you. I was in the Caribbean.”

“Right. Where nobody but Preppy Boy could find you. How convenient.”

“You think—”

“I don’t think anything, Myron. I’m telling you what the DA
might
be thinking. For now we’re just guessing. Go back to your office. Call your accountant. Make sure your books are in order.”

“They’re in order,” Myron said. “I’ve never stolen a dime.”

She turned to Win. “How about you?”

Win hung up the phone. “What about me?”

“They’ll subpoena your books too.”

Win arched the eyebrow. “They’ll try.”

“Are they clean?”

“You could eat off them,” Win said.

“Fine, whatever. I’ll let your lawyers handle it. I got enough to worry about.”