The same guy approached our table, and I whipped out some cash before he could put the card on top of Christine’s purse. I winked at him. He took the money and winked back. I wasn’t a hustler then, but I still admired talent when I saw it.
* * *
Miriam hunched over her desk while I flipped through my case file and removed all of the crime-scene photos. Swiftly, I flicked through the medical examiner’s report so that the folded pages hid the envelope from everyone’s view. I continued to hide the envelope with the report while my fingers worked underneath the pages—opening the envelope and setting the photographs among the crime-scene photos. I put the report aside and looked at the mass of photos on my table. A casual glance would not be enough to discern which photographs didn’t belong in the pile. Volchek paid no attention to me. Just in case he chanced a look, I piled the photos together and held them close to my face.
These were the photographs that started this whole mess; they got Mario killed. Two photographs. The first showed Volchek sitting down to dinner with Arturas and a third man. The photo was taken in a dark restaurant, probably the Sirocco Club. Volchek must’ve seen Mario taking the shot and immediately threatened him. That’s what the nightclub dancer Nikki Blundell had seen.
The third man in the photograph wore a navy suit and a white shirt. He had neat red hair, a thin, well-kept mustache, and a wide smile—Tom Levine. Volchek got papped having dinner with an FBI agent. Mario must have known Levine. I remembered Tony telling me in the restaurant that morning that Mario got busted by the feds and did five years in Rikers for it. Either he met Levine then or, more likely still, Levine was the agent who busted him. Volchek must have spent a lot of time and money buying Levine, and he wouldn’t want such a valuable asset exposed by an idiot like Mario. There was no doubt about it—anyone who tries to blackmail the Russian mob has to be an idiot.
The second photo was taken at a different location. A parking lot at night. I saw Arturas, Levine, and three other men. Initially, I didn’t recognize them. Then I turned around, and I saw the same three men sitting in court. One was Japanese—the Yakuza. The other two were representatives of the cartels. The same men who had stood and applauded Volchek as he walked into the courtroom yesterday morning. Jimmy had told me Volchek hadn’t played well with others, that he had resisted making deals with other criminal organizations, that this resistance was costing him his business. Levine must have facilitated the meeting between Arturas and the three gang leaders. For what purpose, I didn’t yet know, but I was sure that this photo was part of the reason behind Arturas running a con on his boss.
I could have kissed Tony. The photograph of Levine and Volchek together would seal the persuader on Kennedy and maybe save my life. I looked around the court and saw Kennedy sitting a few seats behind Miriam. I didn’t see Levine or Coulson beside him. That would make things easier for me, but I still had to find a way to talk to him alone and in private.
My time was running out. I needed to make a move. I would have preferred to get a look in the suitcase before speaking to Kennedy, but there was no time to lose.
Victor saw me looking at the suitcase. If I could have gotten a glance into it at that moment, I felt sure that I would find all the answers. At that time, it was still too risky: too many people around and Victor would not easily let me get near the damn thing.
My watch read 10:05 a.m. Two hours until the warrant application. I turned and looked at Kennedy. He was checking his watch. I had a terrible sinking feeling that Kennedy might be lying. That AUSA Gimenez might be sitting down with Judge Potter right now. If that was the case, I had no more than an hour or so before they broke down my door. I thought it was more and more likely that the Russians had planted something in my apartment, something the FBI could use to nail me to the wall for trying to blow up Little Benny. I prayed I was wrong. Wrong about Kennedy, wrong about the Russians. Somewhere, on some deep level, I knew that at least one of those suspicions would be true.
Judge Pike and the jury came back into court. Miriam dismissed Tony Geraldo. Still no sign of Harry. I had no questions for Tony, and he walked confidently from the witness box like he was Frank Sinatra.
“The people call Officer Raphael Martinez,” said Miriam.
Miriam would be back on strong ground with Martinez. No overelaboration or theorizing in his statement. He just recounted the facts. I suppose in this case he didn’t need to get creative. He’d caught Benny red-handed in the dead guy’s apartment, and Benny gave up the head of the Russian mob for the murder.
Martinez was a handsome Hispanic male in his late thirties, dressed in a well-fitting suit. He moved confidently but without swagger to the witness box. The file of papers in his arms was feathered with Post-it notes to mark important documents and to show the jury that he was well prepared. He held his head up and looked the jury members in the eye. Martinez had nothing to be afraid of.
“Officer Martinez, would you tell the members of the jury your rank and experience on the job?”
Not good again from Miriam, two questions at once. She was better than that. I thought that her nerves were affecting her. Lesser advocates might have thrown in the towel by then, but Miriam came back strong. Within ten minutes, she broke into a good flow, and Martinez rattled through Benny’s confession and plea bargain in under thirty minutes.
Solid.
As she got her last answer, she turned away from the witness and walked toward me on her way back to the prosecution table.
She smiled as she said, “Your witness.”
If I tried to shake Martinez, I’d lose. Sometimes there are witnesses who cannot be broken, and Martinez certainly belonged in that category. I decided to keep it brief and question him on topics that Miriam hadn’t touched upon in her direct examination.
“Officer Martinez, please open the bundle and look at folder three, tab nine, page two,” I said. In cross-examination there is no “would you?” or “can you?” Everything, absolutely everything, should be a statement, not a question. They say good lawyers never ask a question unless they already know the answer. This is true, but it’s not because lawyers have any greater knowledge than anyone else. It’s because we give you the answer we want in the question.
Martinez found the page, which he’d marked with one of his yellow Post-its.
“Officer, this is a photograph of a picture frame, found smashed in the apartment?”
“Yes.”
I turned to the jury and smiled, deeply satisfied with the answer, and I paused briefly before turning to the witness again.
“The description below the photograph states ‘broken photo frame,’ but it does not tell us how many photographs were in the frame, does it?”
His eyes narrowed. He seemed slightly puzzled. “No, it doesn’t.”
Beaming a satisfied and knowing grin, I turned again to the jury and repeated Martinez’s answer slowly and joyfully, “No, it doesn’t,” holding it before the jury like a prize won in hard-fought battle. The jury nodded. They weren’t sure what I’d won yet, but they seemed intrigued. Miriam didn’t react. She froze in a look approaching boredom, like any good attorney should when they think their opponent has just landed a blow. Best to look unconcerned and hope the jury follows your lead. In truth, those questions weren’t for the jury’s benefit—they were for Kennedy: I wanted him thinking about that photo frame.
“Can I have a second to consult with my client, Your Honor?”
“Yes, Mr. Flynn.”
I leaned over and whispered to Volchek. “What did you have for breakfast?” I said.
“Your favorite, pancakes. Why?”
“Just playing a game with the DA, letting her think I’m hatching a master plan and generally making her nervous. But there is something I need to know. I think you’re close to an acquittal and you won’t have to use the bomb. What I need to know is what Little Benny will say to the jury. The one thing the DA doesn’t have is motive. My guess is Little Benny provides the motive. So I need to know, why did you order the hit on Mario Geraldo? What was hidden in the photo frame that you wanted so badly?”
Arturas wasn’t there to advise him and Victor didn’t appear to be too quick on the uptake.
“Mr. Flynn, do you have any other questions?” asked the judge, but I pretended I hadn’t heard.
“Come on. Give me the shot. I can destroy Little Benny, but I can’t do it if I don’t know what he’ll say in the witness box. What was in the photo frame?”
Running his hands over this thighs and smoothing his pants, Volchek considered my question again.
“Mario took a picture of me with someone. Someone that I work with in secret. Someone close to law enforcement. He is my biggest asset. I could not risk losing him. Mario wanted money for the picture. I sent Little Benny to kill him and destroy the evidence.”
“How many photographs did he have?”
“One, no copies. That’s what Arturas told me. I wanted to deal. Arturas wanted to send a message.”
“And Arturas told you it was just the one photograph, the photograph Mario took in the Sirocco Club?”
“Yes,” said Volchek, nodding. His eyes were natural, his facial muscles relaxed, his hands open and resting on his lap. He was telling the truth. That was all I needed to know.
Arturas had dealt with Mario because Arturas knew Mario had another photo—of Arturas meeting the cartels and the Yakuza. If Volchek found out that Arturas had met the cartels and the Japanese in secret, then Arturas probably would have found his name on one half of a torn, one-ruble bill. Arturas had kept this meeting secret from Volchek, and Little Benny made sure it stayed secret by killing Mario and destroying the photos.
It was as much as I was likely to get without examining the suitcase.
10:40 a.m.
I couldn’t risk taking any more time over this. I had to speak to Kennedy before he got his warrant.
“Mr. Flynn, do you have any further questions for this witness?” said Judge Pike, finishing her sentence with an impatient snap of her teeth.
“Your Honor, may I take just another few minutes with my client?”
“Fifteen-minute recess,” said Pike.
A nod of the head as she rose was good enough for me, and I strode quickly to the aisle.
“Bathroom break,” I said as I passed Volchek and heard Victor get up noisily and follow me as I headed for the door of the court. My pace slowed as I approached Kennedy. I could hear the deep, resonant footsteps of Victor behind me, getting closer as I moved purposefully toward the fed.
Five feet to Kennedy’s seat.
I quickened my pace, putting distance between me and Victor, and locked my eyes on the FBI agent. Kennedy saw me staring at him and started to rise. I grabbed his tie in my left hand, pulled him to his feet, and came close, nose to nose, chest to chest, and my hand slipped unseen into his jacket.
Before Victor got to me, I had time to mouth a short sentence, just two words.
“Trust me.”
Kennedy pushed me away like I was crazy. I kicked open the court doors, marched through the crowd in the hall, and locked myself in the disabled bathroom. After ten seconds, I heard a knock on the door and a deep, Slavic voice.
“Don’t go nowhere, lawyer. I’m waiting.” Victor, standing guard outside. I could hear the background noise build up in the hall as the courtroom emptied for a break. Reaching into my pocket, I took out Kennedy’s cell phone and dialed the number for my secure cell. After four rings, Kennedy answered.
“What the hell is this?” he said.
“This is Eddie Flynn. I have your phone. You probably guessed that already. No doubt you recognized your number on the caller ID. The phone you’re holding is mine. Sorry I couldn’t take your card this morning. I needed to call you and I didn’t have your number, so I had to switch phones. Thing is, I’ve been kidnapped by the Russian mob and I need your help. Your friend Tom Levine is working for them. They’ve kidnapped my daughter, and I’ve got their bomb. Looks like you’re about to have a very bad day.”
I held the phone tight to my ear and whispered as loudly as I dared. “My best guess is that Arturas is planning to take over the Bratva. He’s setting up his boss, but I can’t figure out how he’s going to do it.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Mr. Flynn,” said Kennedy simply.
“Maybe, but I’m right about this. Mario Geraldo got killed because he saw Tom Levine having dinner with Volchek and he photographed them. Benny never told you why he killed Mario. It was because Mario was trying to blackmail Volchek with the photos. Plus, Arturas was meeting other gang leaders behind Volchek’s back. You don’t get in bed with the competition unless you’re either going to jump ship or hijack the ship you’re already on. You’ve got the photo of Levine; it’s in your right-hand jacket pocket.”
This was my play. I was gambling everything on Kennedy believing me and arresting the Russians, but I didn’t dare tell him everything. The bomb in my jacket, the vans downstairs, there was nothing that linked them to the Bratva. My fingerprints would be on the vans and the bomb. I needed to be sure Kennedy believed me before I told him everything. I waited for a few seconds.
“You got it?”
“This doesn’t prove a thing.”
My back hit the bathroom wall, and I slid down the tiles. A hollow feeling in my chest spread into my throat.
“Wh-what?”
“Not that it should concern you, but Agent Levine worked undercover for a couple of years. His mission was to infiltrate the mob. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had more than one dinner with Volchek.”
“But I found an FBI card in Gregor’s wallet. It had a number on the back written in pen; it’s Levine’s number. If he was undercover a couple years ago, then at some stage he flipped to the other side. He’s working for the Russian mob. I couldn’t tell you any of this earlier because he was listening and he would report straight back to Volchek.”
“Tom Levine is a decorated agent. I’d need more proof than that. I have to say, Mr. Flynn, your story is a little crazy. We know you’ve just returned to practice after a stint in rehab. You feeling okay?”