Judge & Jury

by James Patterson

  “You know what I say to you, Monica?” He brushed back his long blond hair. “I say, I’m glad you liked it, Monica. All our fun and games so far. But now it’s your turn to do something for me. Something a little more serious. Something . . . more pleasurable.”

  Chapter 56

  “YOU WORK AT the federal courthouse?”

  He still had his strong fingers dug into her throat. Monica could barely suck enough air into her lungs to breathe. “Yes.” She managed a single word.

  “Good answer.” Karl nodded. He relaxed his grip a little. “You’ve been there awhile now, yes? I bet you know everybody. All the other fat cows? All the security personnel?” His fingers squeezed, and Monica’s eyes widened, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You do know them, don’t you, Monica?”

  She nodded, her lungs about to explode. Yes, she knew them. She saw them every morning and afternoon. One of them, Pablo, always kidded her because she liked Mike Piazza and the Mets, and so did he.

  “Good girl,” Karl said again, allowing her to take a needed gulp of air. “People trust you, don’t they, Monica? You never miss a day at work. You take care of your mother in your little house in Queens. It must be lonely coming home every day, making her din-din, checking her oxygen. Taking the poor woman to the doctor.”

  Why was he saying this? How did he know everything about her?

  With his free hand, Karl reached into the drawer of the bed table and removed something. What?

  A photograph! He flipped it in front of Monica’s eyes. An alarm bell went off in her. It was her mother! Outside their home in Queens. Monica was helping her down the stairs in her walker. What was going on?

  “Emphysema?” Karl nodded sympathetically. “Poor lady, barely able to breathe. What a shame, if she had no one to take care of her.” His thumb dug into her throat again. Shock waves ran down her spine.

  “What do you want from me?” Monica gagged, feeling as if her chest was about to explode.

  “You work in the courthouse.” His blue eyes gleamed. “I need to get something inside. This will be easy for you. As you Americans say—a piece of cake!”

  Suddenly Monica saw what this was about. What a ridiculous fool she’d been to even think he was interested in her. “I can’t. There’s security.”

  “Of course there’s security.” Karl smiled. He clamped his fingers on her throat again. “That’s why we have you, Monica.”

  Chapter 57

  ANDIE LOOKED NOTHING short of terrific as she opened her apartment door for me. She had on a zippered red sweater and a pair of faded jeans. Her hair was tied back in a brooch, with a few loose curls dangling down her cheeks. Her eyes were dazzling—and looked pleased to see me. I felt the same way about her.

  “Smells like I remember,” I said, inhaling a whiff of shellfish with tomatoes and saffron. The paella that was going to take me to heaven.

  “At least I won’t have to catch you sneaking around outside,” Andie said with a smile.

  “How about stakeout? That sounds a little better,” I said, holding out a Spanish Rioja.

  “You’re staking me out? Why?”

  “Well, maybe that’s what I’m here to talk about.”

  “Do tell,” said Andie, batting her eyelashes and grinning.

  I’m sure I just stood there for a second, recalling how she had looked to me in the jury box during the trial, with that crazy T-shirt on, before any of this happened. Our eyes had met a few times back then. I thought we were both aware of it. There had definitely been one or two averted stares.

  “I have some appetizers under the broiler. Make yourself at home.”

  I stepped into the small, nicely decorated living room as Andie ducked back into the kitchen. She had a yellow paisley fabric couch and a coffee table with Architectural Digest and InStyle on it. A creased paperback, The Other Boleyn Girl. I recognized the jazz she had on. Coltrane. I went over to the bookshelf and picked up the CD. A Love Supreme.

  “Nice,” I said. “I used to play a little sax. Long time ago.”

  “What?” she called from the kitchen. “Like in the fifties?”

  I came over and took a seat at the counter. “Very funny.”

  She slid a platter of cheese puffs and empanadas across the counter. “Here, I went all out.”

  I grabbed a cheese puff with a toothpick. “Tasty.” She poured me a glass of Pinot Grigio from an open bottle and sat across from me.

  She had a fresh, blossomy scent—lavender or apricot or something. Whatever this was—dinner, a date, just bringing her up to speed on Cavello—I was already enjoying it more than I thought I should.

  She smiled. “So, uh, this is just a little bit awkward, isn’t it?”

  “I left the car running downstairs, just in case.”

  “In case it got weird?”

  “In case I didn’t like your paella.”

  Andie laughed. “Bring it on,” she said, and tilted her glass. “So I guess this is good news, right?”

  “That’s right.” We clinked glasses. “Cavello is going down this time.” Suddenly, talking about my meeting with the gangster didn’t exactly seem like the thing to do. All we ever had between us was that awful trial. There was a lull. We both took another sip of wine. Andie smiled and let me off the hook.

  “We don’t have to talk about it. We can talk about your class. Or what’s going on in Iraq. Or, God forbid, the Yankees.”

  Over dinner, I finally told her more about my meeting with Cavello. I think it made her feel good, knowing the bastard would have to account for something. And the paella was a ten, just the way I liked it.

  Afterward, I helped her clean up, stacking dishes in the sink until she made me stop, insisting she’d finish the rest later. She put on a pot of coffee.

  Andie’s back was to me. We were talking about her acting, when I noticed a photo on the counter. Her and her son. She had her arm wrapped around his neck, smiles everywhere. Love. They looked like the happiest mother and son.

  When I looked up, Andie was facing me. “Don’t take offense, Nick. But why do you keep coming around here? What is it you want to say?”

  I was at a loss. “I don’t know.”

  “You want to say it hurts? I know it hurts.” Her eyes were glistening now. “You want to say you wish you could’ve done something?”

  “I don’t know what I want to say, Andie. But I know I wanted to come and see you.”

  And I wanted to just reach out and hold her, too. I don’t think I ever wanted to take someone in my arms as much as I wanted her. And I think, maybe, she wanted it, too. She was just leaning there, palms against the counter.

  Finally, Andie smiled. “Car’s still running, huh?”

  I nodded. In the past minute or so, the temperature had risen about a hundred degrees in the kitchen. “Don’t take this wrong, but I think I’m gonna pass on that coffee.”

  “Hey.” Andie sighed. “Whatever.”

  I found my jacket on the chair where I’d left it, and Andie walked me to the door. “Everything was great,” I said, “as advertised.” I took her hand and held it for a second.

  “It’s because I feel good around you. That’s why I came. You make me laugh. No one’s made me laugh in months.”

  “You know, you’ve got a nice smile, Nick, when you let it out. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  I turned to leave. “Not in a while.”

  She closed the door behind me. There was a part of me that wanted to say, screw it, Nick, and turn around. And I knew if I did, she would still be there. I could almost feel her standing on the other side of the door.

  Then I heard Andie’s voice. “What’s done is done, Nick. You can’t make the world come out right just because you want it that way.”

  I turned and pressed my palm against the door. “I can try.”

  Chapter 58

  RICHARD NORDESHENKO KEPT his face still as he squeezed his hole cards up from the table. A pair of threes. The player across from him, in
a black shirt and cashmere jacket, and with an attractive male companion looking over his shoulder, tossed $2,000 into the pot. Another player after him raised.

  Nordeshenko decided to play. He was ahead tonight. Decidedly. Tomorrow his work began. He would make this his last hand, win or lose.

  The dealer flipped over three cards: a two, a nine of clubs, and a four. No improvement, it would seem—for anyone. Cashmere Blazer winked to his boyfriend. He’d been pushing pots all night. “Four thousand.” Nordeshenko read him for four clubs, trying to make his flush.

  To his surprise, the other player behind him raised, too. He was heavyset and quiet, wore dark shades, hard to read. Despite his large hands he nimbly shuffled his chips. “Four thousand more,” he said, leveling off two stacks of black chips into the pot.

  The right bet, Nordeshenko thought. Drive the third player out—in this case, him. But Nordeshenko wasn’t going to be driven out. He had a feeling. Things had been going his way all night. “I’m in.” He stacked a tower of eight black chips and pushed them in.

  The dealer flipped over another four. Now there was a pair on the board. The guy chasing the flush checked. The heavyset player was betting now. Another four thousand. Nordeshenko raised him. To his surprise, Cashmere Blazer stayed along.

  Now there was more than $40,000 in the pot.

  The dealer flipped over the last card. The six of spades. Nordeshenko couldn’t see how it helped anyone, but he recalled when he’d been in this exact spot before. His adrenaline was racing.

  The man with the boyfriend puffed out his cheeks. “Eight thousand!” The few spectators murmured. What the hell was he doing? He’d been pumping the pot all night. Now he was throwing good money after bad.

  The heavyset player shuffled his chips. Nordeshenko thought maybe he did have a pair in the hole. A higher pair. Clearly, he read his hand for the best at the table. “Eight thousand.” He nodded, making two even stacks of eight black chips. “And eight more.”

  Now the murmurs became gasps. Nordeshenko made a steeple with his fingers in front of his mouth, then let out a deep breath. Clearly, the heavyset man expected him to fold. And 90 percent of the time, he would’ve done just that. He was up enough. Why give everything back?

  But tonight, he felt this power. Soon he’d put his life on the line. All the money in the world might be meaningless then. That gave him freedom. Besides, he was almost certain he had read the table perfectly.

  “Shall we make it interesting?” he asked. “Here is your eight thousand.” He looked at Cashmere Blazer. “And yours,” he said, nodding to the man in shades, evening out a second column of black chips. Then he made a show of doubling the entire stack. “And sixteen thousand more.”

  This time there wasn’t a gasp—only a hush. A hundred thousand dollars sat in the center of the table!

  Nerves were what separated you under fire. Nerves, and the ability to read one thing. Smell it. That’s what made him the best at what he did. Nordeshenko stared at the man in shades. Indecision? Fear?

  Cashmere Blazer sagged back, clearly feeling like an idiot. Better to toss in his cards now without showing them and not be thought a total fool. “Adios,” he said.

  ‘You’re bluffing,” the heavyset guy said, swallowing, his eyes X-raying Nordeshenko through his shades.

  Nordeshenko shrugged. “Play and see.” He was sure all the man had to do was push in the balance of his chips and he would take the hand.

  “Yours.” He grunted, flipping his cards upright. A pair of sixes.

  Nordeshenko flipped over his lower pair. “You were right.”

  Shouts went up. The dealer pushed the mountain of chips his way. He had won more than $70,000!

  Moreover, he had read every indication, every mannerism, correctly. That was a good sign. For tomorrow.

  Tomorrow was when the real game began.

  Chapter 59

  AT 10:00 A.M., Dominic Cavello was brought handcuffed into Judge Robert Barnett’s courtroom.

  Four U.S. marshals surrounded him. Several others were spread out at intervals along the perimeter of the room. This was a pretrial hearing, back at Foley Square. Cavello’s lawyers had made a motion to suppress all evidence related to the murders of Manny Oliva and Ed Sinclair. They wanted a hearing to determine whether the evidence should be allowed, but I knew the judge would see their request for what it was—a stalling tactic.

  Cavello acted his usual cocky self as he was led into the spacious room. He chirped hello to Joel Goldenberger across the way—asked how he was doing, along with the wife and kids. He made a comment to one of the guards about the Mets, how they’d finally put a real team together this year. When he spotted me in the rear, he winked, as though we were old friends. He conveyed the image of a guy about to beat some minor traffic violation, not a person on leave from the isolation unit at Marion who might very well be headed back there for the rest of his life.

  The door to the courtroom opened. Judge Barnett stepped in. Barnett was supposed to be a no-nonsense guy. He had been an offensive lineman while at Syracuse and served as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. He didn’t give a shit about the press, or free access, or Cavello’s lawyers’ theatrics. The judge had presided over a couple of Homeland Security cases after 9/11 and imposed the maximum sentence permitted by law on every one. We couldn’t have gotten a better judge for this.

  He quickly signaled everybody to sit down. “I’ve studied the motions,” he said, adjusting thick black reading glasses, “and I find no merit in the defense’s motion to delay this trial any longer. Mr. Cavello.”

  “Your Honor.” The defendant stood up slowly, showing no reaction to the decision.

  “You’ll be answering the United States government’s charges beginning Monday morning, ten a.m. You are entitled, by law, to be present at the selection of your own jury, which will take place in this courtroom. But these proceedings will be conducted totally in secret. No names will be divulged once they are selected. At that point they will be transferred to the Fort Dix army base in New Jersey, where, as you already know, your trial will take place. You will be restrained there as well, as will the jury. The entire trial will be conducted behind closed doors.

  “And, Mr. Cavello.” The judge stared down at him sternly.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m warning you only once. Any disruptions—and I mean if you as much as tip over a glass of water unexpectedly—and you will be watching your own proceedings on Court TV. Is that understood?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Honor,” Cavello said.

  “I didn’t ask you that, Mr. Cavello.” The judge’s voice stiffened. “I asked you if it was understood.”

  “Of course.” Cavello bowed respectfully. “Perfectly, Your Honor.”

  Chapter 60

  THE TELEPHONE WAS RINGING, and Monica Ann Romano froze where she was sitting on the living room couch. She didn’t want to answer it.

  She already knew who it was. Who else would be calling this late on a Sunday night? She had a crazy thought that maybe if she ignored the ring, he would go away. Everything would go back to how it had been before she had the best sex of her life.

  She just sat looking at the phone, letting it ring.

  “Would you answer it, please!” She and her mother were watching TV, and the ringing was blocking out the sound.

  Finally Monica stood up and wrapped the cord out into the hallway. She noticed her hands shaking. “Hullo.”

  “Hello, luv.” The voice on the other end made her blood freeze.

  How had she ever gotten herself into this mess? How had she been so pathetically stupid as to think he’d be interested in her? She should go to the police. She should hang up on him and call them now. They would understand; they would still trust her at her job. And if it wasn’t for her mother, she had told herself over and over, she would. She would!

  “What do you want?” she answered curtly.

  “You used to like hearing my voice, Monica,” the
caller said. “I’m feeling hurt. What do I want? I want the same thing you do, Monica. I want you and your mother to live a long, healthy life.”

  “Don’t play with me,” Monica spat out. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “All right,” he said. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “How about we meet for coffee tomorrow morning before you go to work? The café right across the square, where we met that other time. Say, eight thirty sharp. I’ll fill you in on what happens from there.”

  “This is it,” Monica said, her stomach knotting. “You promise, just this one thing.”

  “Be a good little girl, and you’ll never hear my voice again. But Monica,” Karl said in the sort of voice you’d use to reprove a child, “don’t get any ideas. I’ll do what I said I would. I promise. In fact, if I wasn’t so trusting you’ll be a good girl, I could do it right now. Come back in the living room. Come.”

  Monica ran back into the room where her mother was watching TV.

  A light shone on the window. Headlights. Then a car horn, three sharp blasts. She began to shake so hard she thought she could hear every bone in her body rattle.

  Chapter 61

  THAT MONDAY MORNING was the tightest security I’d ever seen for a trial. Godfather, Part II.

  It was more like a show of force by law enforcement. Dozens of cops, some in armor and riot gear, holding automatic weapons, manned barricades all over Foley Square. The line of prospective jurors stretched out the door, with policemen going up and down, checking IDs, opening bags, leading bomb-sniffing dogs. About a dozen TV vans were lined up and down Worth Street.

  Everything was by the book, exactly how I would have done it. Still, with several trials running concurrently, all the lawyers, witnesses, jurors, and staff, there were a thousand things that could go wrong.

  Instinctively, I checked the courthouse security room, which was situated on the ground floor. Security staffers were watching monitors of all floors. Entrances, elevators, the basement garage, and the corridor where Cavello was to be transferred to and from the Manhattan County Jail. I tried to tell myself that nothing was going to happen, that everything was going to go off as planned.