by Adam Mitzner
Will didn’t say anything. His situation was nothing like Eve’s. He’d had no idea that Sam was a murderer, and she had.
“And then, when the pieces started to fit together even more, I still ignored them because . . . I just couldn’t believe it was true. You know how Sam told you that he was from that town near where you grew up? He isn’t. He’s got a type when it comes to brokers. Girlfriends too, I’m afraid. Young, Midwestern—hicks, he’d endearingly call us—folks who believe that dreams really do come true. We were made to order for him.”
“But you stayed after you knew. After he killed your lover. I wouldn’t have.”
“Well, you weren’t put to that test, were you? It’s easy to say that you would have walked away from everything, but a lot harder to actually do. What would you have told Gwen? Forget Gwen—what would you have told Maeve Grant? The minute you say you think your client might be a criminal, they launch a full-on investigation and, best-case scenario, you’re fired. Worst-case scenario, you wind up in jail. The truth is, Will, that if I hadn’t killed Sam, you’d still be doing his bidding—and looking the other way when it suited you.”
Will didn’t answer. He liked to think that he would have walked away after he realized just how deep he was in. But he hadn’t told Gwen the full truth. He certainly hadn’t told Maeve Grant the truth. Eve was right that it was easy to say but much harder to do.
After all, he was still in it, and was now in deeper than he could have ever imagined.
29.
An all-hands meeting of the Toolan team was rarer than a blue moon. This was only the second one that Gwen could recall, the last one having been when she was assigned to the case three months earlier.
The meeting was held in the Taylor Beckett boardroom, a space rarely entered by associates. It occupied the entire north wall of the fifty-second floor, providing helicopter views of Central Park. Its interior had a table that sat more than a hundred, so that it could accommodate the full partnership the one time a year they met to decide whether to expand their ranks. The Toolan team numbered less than twenty, which made for a lot of empty chairs for today’s gathering.
Gwen sat two-thirds of the way down the table, between fellow third-year associate Steph McCarthy and a first-year, Rob Gardner.
“Any idea what’s going on?” Gardner whispered to her.
Gwen almost laughed aloud at the thought that she might be in the know about such things. “No, but we’ll find out soon enough.”
The meeting was called for four o’clock, but it wasn’t until ten after that Benjamin Ethan swept in. “Apologies for my tardiness,” he said as he made his way to his seat at the head of the table. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. You’ll be reading in the press later today that the prosecution and I have jointly written to Judge Pielmeier to request a trial date as soon as the Court can accommodate. Precisely when that is going to be is anyone’s guess, but I think we’re likely to be picking a jury no later than three months from today, and it may be as soon as thirty days. Anyone who’s been on trial before will tell you that it’s nonstop work. And that begins today. We’ll give you this weekend to see your loved ones and feed your pets, but don’t expect that luxury again until there’s a verdict.” Ethan stopped and, after perusing the faces of his team, said, “Now, how was that for a pep talk?”
Everyone laughed . . . the way the press corps does when the president makes a joke.
“Last matter. After this meeting, I’m going to meet with the trial team. The rest of you will comprise the war room, and you’ll be on call in the office during the trial days. I know that everyone wants to be in court, but I cannot emphasize strongly enough how critical the war room function will be to the overall defense.” He waited a beat. “Any questions?”
Gwen looked around the table. No one raised a hand or said a word, even though she knew that they all had the same question: Who had been picked for the trial team?
Ethan smiled. “Good. Okay then, everybody back to work.” Then after a beat, he revealed the winners of the trial-team sweepstakes. “Jay, Doug, and Gwen stay behind. Thank you all.”
Steph leaned over to whisper in Gwen’s ear. “Oh my God,” she said, as if Gwen had just won an Oscar.
As the others scurried out of the room, Gwen noticed that there were suddenly a number of empty seats separating her from the rest of the anointed.
“Come on and join the party, Gwen,” Kanner said, motioning for her to occupy the chair beside him.
She could feel everyone’s eyes on her as she collected her belongings and transferred them and herself six seats toward the table’s head. When she sat down, Ethan began speaking again.
“Congratulations to all of you. And I mean that sincerely. It should come as no surprise to any of you that I selected only the best for this trial team. Your reward for being so outstanding is to continue to be so until Jasper Toolan is acquitted. Now, I know that some of you have been on trial teams before, but I also know that no one has been on a trial like this one before. The media attention is going to be like nothing anyone here has ever faced. And that means that you need to comport yourself as if you are on trial too.”
Gwen thought Ethan was pouring it on a little thick. After all, she wasn’t on trial.
“Your conduct now will directly reflect on Jasper,” Ethan continued. “Believe me, reporters will be talking to your friends. They’ll be checking to see what you post online. They’ll be trying to listen to your conversations in the elevators, at restaurants. The less scrupulous ones will be hacking into your email, if they can, and going through your garbage.”
Gwen remained stone-faced through this parade of privacy-intrusion possibilities, although she saw a smirk from Doug Eyland, the most senior associate on the case. Ethan must have seen it too, because he said, “You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Remember when those idiots representing President Trump were quoted because they were talking about the case in a restaurant? Don’t think for a second that if you tell something to a friend in ‘confidence’”—he actually made air quotes as he said the word—“the National Enquirer or TMZ isn’t going to offer that friend ten thousand dollars for the story.”
Ethan came to a stop. He made eye contact with each member of the trial team.
“So if there is anything, anything at all, about your inclusion on the trial team that would compromise the defense of Jasper Toolan, you need to withdraw from the trial team right now. Understood?”
Not surprisingly, no one said a word. Instead, everyone nodded that they comprehended, Gwen included. As she did, Gwen wondered if anyone was more compromised than she. She could only imagine what would happen if, in the middle of the trial, her boyfriend was arrested for money laundering.
30.
Will woke up the next day and posted a birthday message to Gwen’s Facebook page. He had thought he’d be the first one, given that most people didn’t set an alarm for 5:30 a.m., but it turned out that she already had three other messages. Two from the night before, albeit after midnight, and one from a guy who lived overseas.
On his night table was the necklace he’d be giving Gwen that night, encased in its blue Tiffany box. Looking at it now, he wondered if she would think that an engagement ring was inside, even though it was clearly larger than a ring box. If it hadn’t been for the uncertainty in his life at the moment, Will would have popped the question on her birthday. So, if Gwen was the least bit disappointed that he wasn’t proposing, he could remedy that very quickly.
As his first order of business in the morning, Will ran the same Google search he did each day. What was different this time was that he got a hit.
Will blinked hard and checked the source: New York’s Newsday. The paper of record for Long Island. Then he double-clicked on the article.
The headline read: BODY FOUND IN SHALLOW GRAVE IN PINE BARRENS.
He could feel his heart rate spike, a hammer now pounding in his chest. According to the reporting, two hi
kers, a married couple with a dog, had discovered the grave. The victim was unidentified.
Will took a moment to collect his thoughts. He tried to think through what was going on. To be in today’s news, the body must have been found last night. His mind conjured the image of a morgue, stark white, men and women in lab coats, with serious expressions, wearing goggles, no doubt.
Then his thoughts turned to Sam. Or at least as much of him as the hikers had found. After three months, not much would be left of him. Animals roamed the Pine Barrens. The elements. Sam couldn’t be more than bones by now.
Still, they’d conduct forensic test after forensic test. But what could they really discern? His shattered skull would indicate he’d died of a gunshot, and they’d know the caliber of the bullet. Eve told him that she’d gotten the gun from a friend and that it had been unregistered, which meant that linking the murder weapon back to her was not going to happen.
It was doubtful that Sam’s fingerprints still existed, but even if they did, they wouldn’t match anything in any criminal database. Will knew this for a fact because Maeve Grant had run a background check on Sam when he opened his account, and it would have been red-flagged if he had a criminal record.
Teeth. He’d still have his teeth. But the police would have nothing to match the corpse’s teeth against. Dental records were used to confirm identity, not determine it.
Will breathed for the first time since seeing the headline. No amount of forensic testing would reveal that the dead man in the shallow grave was Sam Abaddon.
Before leaving for work, Will detoured to Eve’s apartment to share the news about Sam. Given that it was only an hour past dawn, he assumed that Eve would be fast asleep. Through the door he could tell the buzzer was loud enough to wake the dead, but he still expected to wait while Eve rose from bed, put something on, and came to the door.
Instead, the door opened while his finger was still on the doorbell.
Eve was fully dressed, clad in a dark suit. He couldn’t recall Eve ever wearing anything but a dress, and more often than not it was something very low-cut. In this morning’s outfit, she looked as if she were heading to a corner office. Even more unexpected than the fact that she was awake at 6:00 a.m. and dressed like a banker, she was not alone. Sitting at the small dining room table in the foyer was a dark-complexioned man with a full beard, wearing a suit and tie.
“I’m sorry to bother you so early, Eve. But . . . I need to talk to you in private for a minute.”
He wondered if she already knew. Little else would cause Will to ask to speak to her privately first thing in the morning other than something to do with Sam. And it had been only the day before when he’d come to tell her about the Chinese guy who knew Sam was dead. Two visits in as many days, especially after so little contact since Sam’s death, should have been enough to create a panic. But Eve didn’t show a hint of distress. It was true what she’d said on their first meeting: she was indeed the one who kept her head while all others around her were losing theirs.
“This will only be a moment,” she said to the man at the table.
Will tried to get a better look at Eve’s guest, but as soon as she stepped into the hallway, she closed the door behind her.
“There’s an article in the paper today. Two hikers found a body buried in the Pine Barrens,” Will said in a hushed tone. “It didn’t identify Sam or state a cause of death, but it’s got to be him.”
Eve received the information without displaying any emotion. Her poker face was so good that Will asked if she had already heard the news.
“I assumed it was only a matter of time before they found his body. But if we’re lucky, they’re never going to figure out it’s Sam. No one even knows he’s dead.”
Although she hadn’t meant it to, the statement cracked Will’s sense of security. Someone did know Sam was dead.
“The Chinese guy—Qin—knows.”
Eve’s face became noticeably strained, her jawline tighter.
“That’s what should concern us now, Will. Not the police.”
31.
Will’s conversation with Eve had put him at ease. Everything is going to be fine, he told himself as he walked out of his building.
That optimism was short-lived, however. As soon as Will stepped into the street, he saw two men in dark suits exit a late-model black sedan. They both flashed badges as they approached. It had the effect of freezing Will in place, as if his feet had suddenly become stuck in cement.
“Will Matthews?” one of them called out, not quite a question as much as an identification.
Before Will could answer, the two men were upon him. They were each large, in both directions—six foot two and 275 pounds. By standing in front of Will, the men created something of a wall, blocking any hope of escape.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Thomas Benevacz. My partner is Special Agent Ramirez. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Nothing the man said registered after “FBI.”
When his wits returned, Will knew that the right move would be to end this. He could say that Maeve Grant required that any client inquiries go through the appropriate channels, and while he’d love to help, he would lose his job if he violated firm policy. That dodge would have the added benefit of being true. But he saw the next move too. Maeve Grant would tell him that if he didn’t cooperate, he’d be fired. At least by engaging a little longer, he could get a bead on the FBI’s area of focus.
“Okay.”
“Do you know a man named Samuel Abaddon?” Benevacz asked.
Despite how confident he’d been a moment ago that Sam would remain a John Doe forever, Will’s first thought was that the FBI had already identified his body. But he pushed that aside. There was no way that the FBI could have gotten involved that quickly. A dead body found in the Pine Barrens was a matter for local cops.
Which meant that, just like his meeting the previous day with Billingham, the FBI was here about money laundering. Will couldn’t believe that his life was at the point where this constituted good news.
“Yes. He’s a client,” Will said.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
He was careful not to show his relief. The FBI thought Sam was alive.
“I don’t remember, exactly,” Will said.
“So not recently,” Ramirez said.
“No. Not recently.”
“A week? A month? Several months?” Benevacz again.
“A couple of months, I’d say. Not sure the exact date, to be honest.”
“Is that strange? To go a couple of months without speaking to a client?”
“No. He’s out of the country. I don’t need to speak to him to handle his accounts, because I have discretion in the trading.”
“What did you discuss the last time you spoke?”
Will shrugged. “I honestly don’t remember.”
“No idea, then?” Ramirez followed up.
“I’m assuming it was about a trade.”
“Which trade?”
“Like I said, I can’t remember if it even was about a trade. That’s my . . . speculation. I trade in his accounts every day.”
Benevacz said, “You said Mr. Abaddon was out of the country. Where is he?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“You’re giving us a lot of honest answers,” Ramirez said, picking up on Will’s nervous tic.
“Can I ask you what this is about?”
“You can ask,” Ramirez said, making it clear he was the wiseass in the partnership.
“We’d like to talk to Mr. Abaddon,” Benevacz said.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to give you his cell number, but I can check with my boss to see if that’s okay. Or I can—”
Benevacz interrupted him. “Are you aware of anyone who has spoken to Mr. Abaddon in the last . . . let’s say month?”
Will froze, pretending to give it some thought. Obviously no one had spoken to Sam in the last month.
“No. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re telling us that”—Benevacz looked down at his notes—“Evelyn Devereux hasn’t heard from Mr. Abaddon either?”
The answer should have been a simple no. Instead, Will’s silence caused Ramirez to once again pounce on the hesitation. “You know Ms. Devereux, don’t you?”
“Yes. I know her. I was trying to recall if she’d told me whether or not she’d heard from Sam. I . . . don’t remember.”
“You were going to say ‘honestly’ again, weren’t you?” Ramirez said with a cocky smile.
That’s enough, Will thought. He now knew what this was about, and he wasn’t helping himself by talking to them. In fact, he’d probably done significant damage with what little he’d said.
“I want to help you guys, but I really am not allowed to talk to you about a client without first informing my boss. I’m sorry, but I’m probably going to get into trouble for saying as much as I’ve already said without firm approval. Would you mind if we tabled this for the time being? I’m going to work now. As soon as I get there, I’ll tell the proper people that you want to conduct an interview with me. If you give me your card, either I or someone else from Maeve Grant will get back to you.”
Ramirez looked to Benevacz, ceding the next move to him. Benevacz reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card.
As soon as Will was in the back seat of a cab and had given the driver Maeve Grant’s address, he called Eve. With each unanswered ring, Will’s panic went into overdrive. When the call went to voice mail, he hung up.
Agents Benevacz and Ramirez must already be there.
