The Missing Piece (5 page)

So, because she knew the judge never would let it go, Linda went into the courtroom. There were five lawyers at counsels' table, Lord Leinster seated in the gallery, Foxx in the jury box, and the other officers playing cards on the rail. The piece stood on a small table in front of the jury box. Linda walked closer and had to admit that the urn was quite something.

It was approximately eighteen inches high. The lowest third was spherical with a circular flange that formed a base. The top of the sphere tapered slightly and then flared at the neck. There was a hunting scene depicted on the sphere, Roman soldiers pursuing deer and boar against a mountainous backdrop. The detail was startling, and in the bright light of the courtroom, the silver shined like a full moon on a clear winter night.

“Is there something wrong?” It was Gary Martin, standing at her shoulder.

“Why? Does it look like something's wrong?” said Linda.

“You don't look like yourself.”

Linda glanced at Foxx, who sat perfectly still in the foreperson's seat with his eyes closed and his hands palms up on his knees. Could he be meditating, she wondered. He certainly wasn't focused on her.

“Oh, Gary, it's been a horrible day,” she whispered. “The judge and I had a terrible argument and I feel sick about it.”

“What did you argue about?”

“Legal stuff. It probably would seem like nonsense to you, but it's important to me.”

“You're not going to quit, are you?”

“No,” she said. “But I feel like it. He told me to come out here and look at the piece before the trial starts. It's like he's trying to make up but doesn't really know how because we never argued like that.”

“It's a nice piece,” said Gary.

“It's okay, I suppose.”

“But you like this kind of stuff.”

“You're right, Gary,” she said. “Sorry. It's a beautiful piece. Too bad I'm not in a mood to appreciate it.”

Gary leaned closer as if to say something else, then melted away.

Linda lifted a hand to the urn, telling herself that she probably never again would be this close to something so old and so valuable. But she felt the eyes of the attorneys on her and hurried back to the robing room.

“Well, then,” said the judge. He stood up and lifted his robe off the coat tree.

“You're taking the bench?”

“We're about to start the trial, remember?”

“But isn't this the time to talk settlement?” said Linda. “That was the purpose of those rulings of yours, right?”

“Oh, it was,” said the judge, zipping his robe up to his throat. “But I need to hear the openings first. If Croatia and Hungary promise evidence today that they cannot deliver tomorrow, this case will settle easily. Just not today.”

*   *   *

Foxx called the courtroom to order as the judge climbed the bench and Linda took her seat in the clerk's box.

“Does anyone have any application before we start?” said the judge. “No? Then bring down the jury.”

Foxx went out the jury room door and up a half-flight of stairs to the jury room. There were eight jurors, including two alternates, and as Foxx matched the faces with the jury slips, he recognized the usual collection of waiters, wannabe actors, and stay-at-home housewives who made up the stereotypical Manhattan jury.

After Foxx seated the jury, Judge Johnstone gave a welcoming speech that explained courtroom procedures, apologized for the threadbare courthouse furnishings, and predicted delays when the lawyers needed to argue legal matters out of their presence. As the judge spoke, Foxx stood between the jury box and the witness stand. Twice he nudged the jury door, making sure it was locked. Twice he let his eyes drift toward the nice-looking redhead seated directly opposite the urn.

“In this trial,” the judge told the jury, “you will be asked to determine title to a silver treasure that dates back to the Roman Empire. The plaintiffs are the Republic of Croatia and the Republic of Hungary. Each of these countries claims a superior right to the treasure.

“The defendant is Lord Leinster, who you see sitting in the gallery. The auction house that currently holds the treasure is here, as well, though it has no claim. Keep in mind that because Lord Leinster is a defendant he bears no burden of proof.

“I will now turn you over to the lawyers for their opening statements. Be patient, listen carefully, and do not form any conclusions until you have heard all the evidence.”

Croatia's lawyer stood up from counsels' table and moved toward the small podium at the far end of the jury box. As he shuffled his papers, the entry doors rattled.

“What's that?” said the judge.

McQueen cupped his hand to the window. “Someone's trying to get in.”

“I'm expecting my associate,” said Arthur Braman.

The doors rattled again.

“Why are the doors locked?” the judge said, fixing his eyes on Foxx.

“Captain Kearney's orders,” said Foxx.

“Captain Kearney does not have the authority to lock my courtroom. We have public trials in America, not Star Chamber proceedings. Unlock that door right now.”

McQueen opened the door, and the associate took her seat at counsels' table. Croatia's lawyer cleared his throat and began his opening statement.

“Our story begins during the latter days of the Roman Empire and involves a general named M. Tullius Salvus, whose army operated in what is now Eastern Europe.”

Foxx glanced at McQueen, who leaned against the marble doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. Not exactly standing at attention, thought Foxx, but at least he didn't have his nose buried in his book.

“In those days, Roman generals traveled with their armies like modern-day rock stars, bringing their entire households with them. One of the things that General Salvus carted around as he traveled was a treasure consisting of fourteen silver pieces: five plates, five urns, and four vessels resembling what we might call ice buckets. One piece of the treasure is displayed here to give you an idea of the beauty and exquisite craftsmanship of the treasure whose fate you will determine.

“We will introduce evidence to prove that this treasure, wherever it may have traveled during its sixteen-hundred-year journey to this courtroom in New York City, was last unearthed within the borders of Croatia. We will—”

The entry doors opened, and a man wearing a black ski mask and a loose-fitting maroon warm-up suit shouldered his way into the courtroom. With a boxer's quickness, the man punched McQueen in the gut, then pulled a gun from beneath his jacket and slugged him in the head.

“Freeze,” he yelled, sweeping the gun around the courtroom.

A second gunman in a maroon warm-up suit and black ski mask punched in through the doors. He stepped over McQueen, who lay motionless on the floor, then ran through the gallery and vaulted over the rail and into the well. He smacked the microphone off the podium and waved his gun in the face of Croatia's lawyer.

Foxx, frozen at the jury room door, slowly drew his gun. The second gunman grabbed the redheaded juror by the blouse and yanked her over the rail. Then he fixed his eyes on Foxx.

“Drop it,” he growled, twisting the muzzle of his gun against the juror's throat.

“Okay, okay,” said Foxx. “Just keep calm.”

The gunman said nothing else, and Foxx carefully passed his gun, muzzle first, into his left hand as he replayed the gunman's words in his head. The voice sounded husky, as if trying to disguise an accent.

“Here,” the gunman growled again. He stamped the floor with his sneaker.

Foxx crouched forward, moving close enough to hear the juror whimpering. He set the gun on the floor, pausing to search for something, anything, that could identify the gunman later. He saw nothing but two black eyes through the slits of the ski mask.

“Move back.”

Foxx did. The gunman shoved the juror into her chair, then kicked Foxx's gun into the corner formed by the jury box and the rail.

“Other side.”

Foxx crossed to the other side of the well, where the first gunman herded everyone else against the rail. The officers' guns already lay on the floor well out of their reach. Foxx fit himself next to Gary, who was turned sideways as if to shield the judge and Linda.

“What the hell happened?” whispered Gary. “How the hell did these guys get past the mags?”

Foxx shrugged.

“Shit, look at Mike,” said Gary.

Blood seeped through McQueen's hair and streamed across his face. One arm bent under his chest, the other twitched at his side. But Foxx concentrated on the gunmen, still hoping to spot one distinguishing characteristic. Both men were athletic and moved with precision and a bare minimum of talk. The word
military
stuck in Foxx's mind.

The second gunman grabbed the silver urn and dropped it into a burlap sack. He whistled two notes, one low and one high, then swung over the rail and into the gallery.

“Everyone face that way,” he said, pointing his gun at the bench.

The lawyers, the officers, everyone turned their backs to the gunmen. Gary stood off Foxx's left shoulder, slightly in front. The judge and Linda stood in front of Gary, who lay a protective hand on each of their shoulders.

“Jury, heads down.”

Across the courtroom, the jurors doubled over in their seats. Linda, sobbing softly, bent her head toward Gary's hand. Foxx could read her mind. She was scared that the gunmen would shoot them all in the back. But Foxx didn't think so. They were here for the silver urn, and if they wanted to get out of the building they needed to move fast. Sure enough, he heard the creak of a door swinging open, felt the slight change in pressure of the courtroom air. They'll be gone in a second, he thought. Then came the loud, sickening pop of a gunshot.

“Gary?” someone said.

Right in front of Foxx, Gary Martin's hands slipped off the judge's and Linda's shoulders.

“Gary, are you all right?” Foxx cut in front of Gary and lifted his chin. Gary looked confused. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. His eyes focused, then drifted from Foxx.

“You hear me, Gary?”

Gary began to sink. His knee, then his hip, then his shoulder settled on the floor as gently as lying on a bed. A red stain spread on the back of his uniform shirt.

 

CHAPTER 5

Foxx lit his sixth and last cigarette of the day and lifted his foot onto the low wall at the corner of Duane and Lafayette. The intersection was quiet, just a few cars stopped at the light before heading toward the ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge. There was no foot traffic, either. The last stragglers from the courthouses and office buildings bordering Foley Square were long gone. Foxx blew smoke skyward and pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. In the unearthly quiet, he could almost hear music screeching out of the restaurant around the corner.

Foxx opened his eyes and blinked them dry. The early October sky was a clear, luminous blue, while down at ground level the sidewalks were dark except for the faltering lamplight. Across the square, three huge lanterns hanging from thick iron chains lit the portico of 60 Centre Street.

An arm slipped through his. He tensed until he heard her voice, angling downward from above his left ear.

“Hey, Foxx, whatcha thinking?”

Ursula.

“Ever wonder how birds decide to migrate?” he said.

“I don't know. The weather? The color of the leaves?”

“The weather can be different year to year. Same with the colors of the leaves. But the one constant is the angle of the sunlight. That's their cue. People react the same way.”

“Are you about to take wing for Capistrano?” said Ursula.

“I'm talking about memories. The angle of the sun cues intense memories from years past. I remember walking out of the hospital that night. The sky was exactly the same.”

“I remember, too. I don't need the sky to tell me.” She withdrew her arm and receded enough that the smell of her hair faded. “You have another one of those?”

“I didn't know you smoked.”

“I don't,” said Ursula.

Foxx shook his pack, and Ursula pinched a cigarette with her fingernails. She was tall and big-boned, the type who looked dynamite in nursing scrubs but somehow raw in a pleated skirt and scoop-necked blouse. Foxx thought she cleaned up nice anyway.

“McQueen sent me to fetch you.” Ursula steadied his hand with hers as she drew on the flame from his lighter. “The band is on its last number.”

The band, a group of court officers from Kings Supreme, was the reason Foxx had vacated the restaurant.

“What's next on the program?” he said.

“Live auction.”

“How is he holding up?”

“Better than last year. You know how he hates to be the center of attention.” Ursula took a drag, and a tiny cough clicked in her throat. “But I worry about him. All he does is sit at that computer and search for new information about that damn treasure.”

“I don't know what I'd do in his place.”

Ursula stubbed out her cigarette, then turned to leave. Foxx grabbed her arm.

“No,” she said.

He wanted only to tell her how much he admired her, for coming back, for sticking around, for doing what lots of people always said they would but never did. But those words did not come.

*   *   *

The third annual fund-raiser for Gary Martin offered many ways to separate people from their money, not that any of the many people who packed the restaurant cared. They ate, they drank, they danced, they mingled in ways that violated the stratified caste system of the courthouse because they wanted to support Gary. But even on a night rife with bittersweet bonhomie, Foxx and McQueen, two-thirds of what had been a triumvirate until that day, knew the virtue of variety. And so they had organized 50/50 cash raffles, balloons with gift certificates inside, silent auction items ranging from gift boxes of wine to weekends in the Berkshires. But the big event was the live auction, and McQueen, who could be caustically glib in private, froze up before a crowd, which left Foxx the auctioneer by default.