“Then Godspeed.” The judge’s deep breath was loud and heavy in the silent office. After a pause, he said, “There have been additional developments this morning that may make the conversation we’ve had thus far moot. Duvall was murdered this morning. Strangled. Tongue cut out.”
Samantha drew in a deep breath.
The judge’s eyes were grim. “Intimidation message to other witnesses clear.”
Her chest felt hollow. “Duvall was in the custody of French officials, under the protection of armed officials. Who got through? And how?”
“We only know enough to know we likely won’t know either, except for the claim of I Am Maximov found in his cell.”
“But Maximov was never an organization that killed its own,” Samantha said.
“Obviously, the historical objectives of Maximov have devolved into general anarchy.” The judge shrugged his shoulders. “Another problematic development is that the lead prosecutor from Colombia will move for a mistrial when the proceedings begin this afternoon.”
Samantha’s stomach churned. “But a mistrial will end the proceedings prematurely. No verdict will be reached, not even one that reaches the defendants who have been apprehended thus far. Each of the four crimes at issue have someone like Duvall, and others. If the proceeding ends in a mistrial, all the defendants will go free. It will all have been a waste of time. No headway will be made in the war on terrorism. A mistrial is,” she paused, “something that shouldn’t even be discussed at this point.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.” Lines creased at the corners of the judge’s eyes, and his lips were drawn in a marked frown. For the moment, he looked worried, older, and defeated. “But I can’t say that I blame the Colombians. They lost lawyers due to the Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing, and Judge Calante’s death from the explosion yesterday is an overwhelming loss. He was well-liked. Popular in his country. A great jurist. Especially with Duvall’s death, the motion for a mistrial will have legs. Once the media catches wind of it, we’re not going to get one more word from witnesses in this proceeding, so what is the point of the trial? Tombeau, Duvall’s friend, was more talkative than Duvall, correct?”
“Yes,” Samantha said.
Judge O’Connor’s marked frown reappeared. “He won’t be any more. Tombeau found Duvall’s tongue. In his cell.”
Stomach churning, Samantha held the back of her hand to her mouth.
The judge continued, “Not that the live witnesses were giving us much of anything. Still, Duvall’s death gives the Colombians fodder for their mistrial motion, which they were planning on making even before they knew of it.”
“President Cameron’s feelings about the mistrial?” she asked, though she knew the answer. This sitting of the ITT was the president’s brainchild, something he had conceived and for which he’d fought long and hard.
“He’s gravely concerned. He strenuously opposes the early termination of this ITT proceeding through a mistrial.”
Samantha nodded as her mind raced through scenarios of how the argument would proceed. “Defense counsel will argue in favor, and I hope prosecutors—except those for Colombia—will oppose. A mistrial requires a vote of nine judges. Any idea of how the judges will vote?”
“American judges are inclined to vote no. But that leaves nine others, and from what I understand, the judges from the other three countries are wavering. As Amicus counsel”—his eyes held hers—“President Cameron and I need you to present solid arguments in opposition to the motion for mistrial.” His words hung heavy in the room.
“Your honor, Amicus counsel is supposed to be an adviser to the court.” Samantha leaned forward, keeping her tone even. “Even in the hybrid world of ITT proceedings, the judges aren’t supposed to tell Amicus counsel what their arguments should be.”
The judge folded his arms, the mask of congeniality gone in an instant. A deep frown matched the intense look of frustration in his eyes. “Counselor—”
“But in this instance,” Samantha tried to make her tone placating, but firm, “your directive coincides exactly with what I know my role should be. I will do my best to defeat the mistrial motion and the arguments presented in its favor.”
The judge gave her a curt nod. “Prior to his death, Stanley Morgan believed this proceeding was doomed, and he was vocal about his belief. He believed the underlying goal of using the proceedings to draw out Maximov was never going to come to fruition. He believed the evidence wasn’t adding up for a conviction of Maximov.”
“Your honor, with all due respect,” Samantha said. “Stanley Morgan believed the proceedings could draw out Maximov, but not within the existing parameters. And given the state of affairs and the pending threat of a mistrial, I’d say his fears were well founded and are coming to fruition. The record must be expanded to make this trial as productive as it should be.”
He gave a slight headshake. Shrewd brown eyes locked on Samantha. “Yesterday your questions to Duvall highlighted the weaknesses in the case against Maximov. When we talked on the phone yesterday evening, I was more than displeased. Your desire for an interview with Stollen is something that Stanley Morgan also attempted. Before I became a judge, I was a litigator. I recognize the value of a second-chair attorney who is both brilliant and hard working. Now, I’m wondering—did you agree with Morgan’s opinions?”
Samantha gave Judge O’Connor a slow nod. “Yes.”
He frowned. “Based on what?”
She swallowed. “Hunches from cold, hard facts. It’s been my job for the last year to analyze, with a bird’s eye view, every investigative report that’s been admitted into the ITT record and even information that isn’t in the record.”
In the chair next to her, Zeus shifted and turned to her. The judge asked, with laser-like focus in his dark eyes, “Elaborate. Please.”
“I believe Vladimer Stollen will have information that is fundamental for finding Maximov. Information we don’t currently have. Once we find Maximov, we can determine whether he is calling the shots. It he isn’t, we can find the people he is using to breathe life into the low-level cells that are doing the street work. We can locate the revenue streams they use and cut them off. Maximov—the man—has to be terminated, because he has become a myth to every young anarchist around the world.”
“Your belief that Stollen has information. Based on more than a wing and a prayer?”
“Stollen and Vasily Maximov were the last two known cohorts of Andre Maximov to have been captured. Stollen was always believed to be second-in-command to Andre Maximov, and therefore one of the forces behind the group—Maximov-in-Exile. Vasily Maximov, Andre’s son, was right behind Stollen. In the intervening years after Stollen was arrested, law enforcement agencies have only managed to capture people like Duvall. No one who has a direct link to Maximov or even, in reality, the Maximov-in-Exile organization. They’re simply young anarchists who’ve seized upon a convenient cause and claim a link. Interviewing Stollen is worth a try, though I can tell you that Brier will strenuously oppose the motion.”
The judge arched an eyebrow, glancing at Zeus. “And if Stollen gives us anything, it will be helpful to task force and bounty hunters?”
“Yes,” Samantha said.
“Your motion refers to Stollen’s familiarity with known Maximov hideouts in Turkey, Syria, and even Greece.”
“Yes,” Samantha said.
He gave both her and Zeus a knowing look. “These are areas that the task force has combed through—and will continue to do so. My understanding is there is another mission in Syria tonight—of which I’m sure Black Raven is aware.” He paused. “Am I correct in assuming that you intend to ask Stollen questions about areas that have nothing to do with Turkey and Syria?”
“Yes.” Please don’t ask me where. She trusted the judge, but she didn’t want to have to reveal the true locale to him. Not now, not when Zeus and Gabe believed advance knowledge that Black Raven was headed into Praptan would be detrimental to the searc
h. “And that is why we want the interview to be conducted under seal, with as few participants as possible. Black Raven is planning an operation, based upon the expectation that Stollen will provide helpful information.”
The judge leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, the fingers of both hands pressed together, with his chin resting on his thumbs. “Why do you think Stollen will tell you anything helpful now?
“If there is an offer of years off his sentence—”
The judge shook his head. “That was offered before.”
“I propose we sweeten the deal,” Samantha said.
“How?”
“Immediate release from prison to house arrest upon his information leading to the capture of Maximov. Also, given the reach of the terrorists who are attacking this proceeding, I suspect that Stollen feels more secure in a supermax prison than out in the world. Provide him with security that will enable him to live in relative freedom. Offer Black Raven protection. For life. If he gives information that leads to the capture or apprehension of Maximov.”
The judge nodded. “Not a bad idea.”
“Judge, Samantha and I have conferred on this.” Zeus shot Samantha a sideways glance, as unreadable as any he typically threw her way. “But before Black Raven protection is officially part of the inducement package, I need an official sign-off. I’d like you to have an understanding of the cost to taxpayers. We’re coming up with an estimate now. As with all of our estimates, I can assure you the number will go up.”
Judge O’Connor gave Zeus a nod. “Fine. Assuming the tribunal grants the motion, when my aide is putting together the package of bargaining chips, I’ll have him consult you. He’ll communicate directly with me on this, and I’ll officially sign off.”
The judge frowned as his phone rang. “Excuse me.” Listening, he shut his eyes. “Good God.” He put the receiver down and pressed a button on the intercom. “Bring Brier to me.” To Samantha and Zeus, he said, “His wife and her security detail were murdered this morning at Brier’s home in D.C. The usual ‘I am Maximov’ note was written in blood in the bathroom mirror.”
Stunned, Sam rose to her feet. Zeus rose alongside her.
As the judge listened to the caller, he gave her a nod, whispered, “Don’t leave,” and resumed the call by saying, “Do we know who?”
There was a sharp tap at the door, then the judge’s security put his head in the office and announced Brier.
When Brier entered the office, the judge stepped around from his desk, directed the attorney to sit, and delivered the harsh news. His tone and words, concerned but firm, conveyed immeasurable sympathy.
In the silence that followed, the charismatic lawyer who boldly and deftly overpowered judicial proceedings and presented arguments with the force of a freight train, devolved into a beaten-down, stunned man. His shoulders slumped forward. With his elbows on his knees, Brier dropped his face into the palm of his hands. Long seconds passed with his silver-gray haired head down, where his harsh sobs were rattling gasps for air.
While the judge and Zeus both stood in firm-jawed, stoic silence, Samantha knelt to the floor in front of Brier and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Robert, I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
When he looked up, tears filled his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but no words came out. He slowly sat up straight, reaching for her hand with his left hand and holding on to her as he did. With his right hand, he reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, then dabbed the tears from his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.
“We’ll assist you with arrangements to get home as quickly as possible.”
Brier nodded. “Thank you. I’ll leave when proceedings conclude today.”
The judge, thoughtful eyes on Brier, shook his head. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to leave sooner?”
Brier dabbed moisture from his eyes. “My wife. Madeline. You know she is a lawyer.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath and shook his head. “Was. She was a lawyer. We worked together for the last thirty years. She had a very firm understanding of the importance of my work as a defender of civil rights and those who are falsely accused. She knows how important this proceeding is. Knows how important it is that the International Terrorist Tribunal does not become a result-oriented court.”
Samantha admired the man’s ability to provide a compelling speech in the face of such abject grief, while tears streamed from his eyes and down his cheeks. Zeus, standing a few feet from Brier, had gridlock attention focused on the lawyer, who seemed to be drawing strength from his profound grief.
“I’ve been a defender of the rights of the criminal accused for my entire career. Can’t the terrorists see that? Why would they come after me?”
“They’re not choosing sides,” the judge said. “They’re not being selective. They are anarchists, and they want the ITT to stop. It is now clear that they’re going after the loved ones of anyone involved.”
“The Colombians have informed me they will be moving for a mistrial when proceedings commence,” Brier continued. “Madeline, God rest her soul, would want me to remain here to argue in favor of the motion.” In a tone that became both bitter and grief-stricken, he stood as he added, “I will draw upon her indomitable spirit and present an argument to the tribunal that will result in the termination of this ITT proceeding.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Once the judges took the podium, the first order of business for the tribunal was the Colombian motion for a mistrial. Second was the French motion for expansion of the record. Third was her own motion to interview Stollen. For the next three hours, Samantha was on her feet.
Throughout the arguments, she stayed at the podium, facing the twelve judges and paying close attention to Judge Ducaisse, who was dictating the order of the proceeding. She also paid close attention to Judge O’Connor, who with a nod or shake of his head informed her whether he thought her arguments were hitting their intended mark. She made snap-fire decisions, carefully crafted her words, addressed each argument presented by counsel—while making sure she sounded authoritative and calm.
Stanley Morgan had taught her to sound calm, decisive, and cool—a balm for proceedings that were in disarray. Confident that she could be the glue that held the proceedings together, she forged ahead. As the other lawyers argued, Abe instant messaged counterpoints to her. She’d scan through his messages. If she deemed the points important enough, she’d incorporate them into her argument.
Each move she made, she was mindful of the need to be delicate when she responded to Brier, whose grief was palpable with each word, giving him an air of solemnity and persuasiveness that seemed to overpower the entire proceeding.
A fifteen-minute recess came midway through the afternoon. She turned and glanced into the gallery the second the judges exited the dais. Zeus was already walking in her direction. Thank God. She’d been sipping water at the podium for three hours, and now there was only one place she needed to be.
As she washed her hands in the bathroom, he stood with his back to the door, arms at his side. “You’re doing a great job.”
In the mirror, she glanced in his direction as she reapplied her lipstick. His eyes were on her hand, the black lipstick tube, the bright red paste of the season’s newest red, and her lips. “Thanks. I can’t tell whether I’m scoring with the judges.”
Reaching for a napkin, she blotted some of the red lipstick from her lips, before reaching in her purse for a tube of gloss. As she slid the applicator along her bottom lip, her eyes caught a flicker of his frown.
“Well, that’s hell.” His tone was low, his voice gruff.
“What?”
“Not knowing whether you’re scoring.”
“Oh.” Through the mirror, she watched his slight frown deepen. “So red lipstick turns you on?”
“On your lips, apparently yes.”
Dropping the gloss into her purse, she pulled out a roll of antacids. “We’re not going there, Hernandez.”
“Couldn’t agree more. For the moment. About the proceedings, every time you speak, the Colombian judges look down, at their tablets. Or notes. They’re working hard on ignoring you. News reports in Colombia are grim. Public opinion there is Colombia should never have joined forces with the U.S., the U.K. and France.”
Slipping her thumbnail between the foil-lined packaging, she separated one chalky tablet from the others as she turned away from the mirror and faced him. “I’ve given up on securing the votes of the Colombian judges.”
“Wise move. If body language is an indicator, the French are more receptive to you. Americans are nodding in agreement. The judges who are most undecided are the judges from the U.K.”
“I’m watching. I agree.” She chewed on an antacid, and peeled another from the roll.
His slight frown reappeared. “Your breakfast was hours ago—”
“I ate a power bar while I was getting dressed. At eleven.”
“You should eat another. What you’re doing is strenuous. Food would be—”
“I don’t eat much during proceedings.”
“Figured that out. But why not?”
“Stomach’s usually in a knot when I’m arguing,” she said, dropping the roll of antacids into her purse, and walking in his direction, to the door. “Just like my neck.”
He frowned. “I’ll arrange a masseuse for you this evening.”
Message received.
His eyes? Unreadable, yet she knew he wasn’t considering doing a neck rub. And why? Because she’d been damn effective at giving him the don’t-touch-me-again message that morning. And who the hell could blame her? Sex with him was a distraction.
Don’t think about how his warm strength seeped from his fingers into the coiled-up tendons and muscles of your too-tight neck. Don’t think about that.
You were right when you told him you needed sleep. Bitchy as it sounded— Yes. At this point in the day, a bit more sleep last night would’ve been good.
Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) Page 29
