by Rick Acker
“Would you agree with me that this line and the line you just pointed out divide the page into thirds?”
“Approximately, yes.”
“Would you also agree that those lines are consistent with the minutes having been folded and placed in a business-size envelope?”
“Yes. If one was trying to conceal a forgery of this type, it would be logical to splice the documents at a fold in the paper to mask what had been done. That must have been done here.”
“Move to strike everything after ‘yes’ as nonresponsive.”
“Granted,” said the judge. “Mr. Kolesnikov, please try to answer yes/no questions with a simple yes or no whenever possible. If you can’t give an unqualified yes or no, then it’s fine to explain yourself. But if you simply disagree with Mr. Corbin’s theory of the case, that is another matter. Mr. Simeon is a very competent lawyer and does not need your help in arguing the defense’s version of the facts.”
“On the contrary, Your Honor,” Simeon said, “I will take whatever help I can get.”
“The witness is helping you quite enough without previewing your closing argument,” replied the judge.
Ben did not like the sound of that. He needed to win this round decisively, but he had a growing feeling that he was being outmaneuvered by Dmitry and would be lucky to come out with a draw—and evidently the judge agreed. He decided to gamble, hoping to shake up the witness in the process. “Mr. Kolesnikov, on the first day of trial, I called Josef Fedorov to the stand. Everyone in the courtroom turned to look except you and Mr. Brodsky. How did you know that Mr. Fedorov would not be walking through those doors?” he asked, pointing to the double doors at the back of the courtroom.
Dmitry went white, but recovered quickly. “He, um, he had mentioned that he planned to leave town, so I did not expect him to arrive at trial.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Was it inside the US? If so, we can find him and bring him in.”
“No, I think he was going overseas.”
“Then why did he leave his passport on the front seat of his car?”
Dmitry’s eyes went round and he began to sweat. “I—I—” he stammered.
Janet Anderson saved him. “Objection, Your Honor. Assumes facts not in evidence. Also, Mr. Corbin never disclosed this alleged information to us in discovery.”
Nuts! Whether by skill or luck, she had made exactly the right tactical move while Simeon sat watching impassively. Ben was confident that he could defeat her objection, but its real value lay in simply having been made. Ben had had Dmitry off balance. One or two more hard questions might have cracked him, and then Ben might have been able to beat him into making some useful admissions about the contract. But now Dmitry would have a minute or so to regain his composure and think through his answer while his lawyer’s objection was argued and ruled on. “Counsel, this is cross-examination,” said Judge Harris. “Mr. Corbin can assume whatever he wants as long as he does so in good faith, but your discovery objection may have more merit. Mr. Corbin?”
“Your Honor, this information isn’t responsive to any discovery they served on us. None of their interrogatories asked us what we knew about Mr. Fedorov’s whereabouts or anything like that. Their failure to ask the right questions is hardly grounds for an objection.”
The judge nodded. “All right. Based on Mr. Corbin’s assurances, I’m going to overrule the objection. If the defense can later establish that Mr. Corbin was being untruthful, I will consider a motion to strike and for sanctions.” He turned to Dmitry. “You may answer.”
“I didn’t know that his passport was in his car, so obviously I have no idea why he left it there,” the witness said smoothly. “You’ll have to ask him that, if you can find him.”
“But he won’t be able to answer me, will he?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do, because you had him killed, right?”
“Objection!” Anderson leaped to her feet again. “This questioning is highly argumentative and completely baseless!”
“Then why is your client shaking like a leaf?” Ben shot back, pointing to Anton, who sat quivering on the edge of his seat, every muscle tense.
Judge Harris looked down at Dmitry with a grave expression on his face. “Did you have Josef Fedorov killed?”
“No, Your Honor!” Dmitry replied firmly. “Of course not. He is my friend and colleague.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“No, Your Honor. I had recalled that he was going overseas, but based on Mr. Corbin’s statements, I must have been misremembering.”
The judge turned to Anton. “Do you know where Mr. Fedorov is? And remember, you’re still under oath.”
Anton shifted uneasily in his seat. “No, Your Honor. He was my friend too.”
“Why did you say ‘was’?”
“I meant ‘is.’ I . . . I am not so good with English.”
The judge regarded him silently for a moment, and Anton looked down at the floor. The judge turned to Ben. “Mr. Corbin, if you have any evidence that a murder has been committed, I urge you to contact the Chicago Police Department.”
“We’re already in touch with them, Your Honor,” Ben said, watching Dmitry carefully. He didn’t react. “May I question the witness now?”
“Certainly. I apologize for interrupting your examination.”
“I understand completely. If these men have murdered a witness to prevent him from testifying, that is obviously a matter of great importance to the Court.” He turned to Dmitry. “Mr. Kolesnikov, did Nikolai Zinoviev ever tell you that he had entered into a contract with Dr. Ivanovsky?”
“He did not.”
“Did you ever learn from any other source that there was a contract between the two of them?”
“No.”
This wasn’t going anywhere. “No further questions.”
“Mr. Simeon?” asked Judge Harris.
“No questions, Your Honor.”
“I didn’t think so,” observed the judge, and Ben’s heart sank.
Sergei Spassky and Elena Kamenev sat in one of the booths lining the walls of the Petrograd, examining the dinner menus—which were exactly the same as the lunch menus except that everything cost a dollar more and came with stuffed cabbage. When Olga Yanayev came out of the kitchen, she spotted them and walked over. “Hello, Sergei,” she said.
“Hi, Auntie Olga. I’d like you to meet Elena Kamenev, a friend of mine from the FBI. She’s investigating that break-in at my apartment last week.”
“Welcome to the Petrograd,” she said, eyeing Elena appraisingly. “What can I get for you?”
They both ordered and Sergei added, “And we’d like your company, if you have the time. I’ll buy you dinner.”
Olga looked over the restaurant, which had only two other occupied tables, both of which had passed to the tea, cigarettes, and gossip stage of the meal some time ago. Another waitress lounged behind the counter, reading the paper and occasionally visiting the other diners to refill teacups and confirm that they didn’t want anything more. “Yes. I’ll need to leave when the dinner rush starts, but that won’t be for another hour or so.”
Olga walked into the kitchen, returning ten minutes later with their food. She sat down next to Elena and turned to her. “So, have you had any luck finding this Chechen animal?”
“We’re working on it, but we don’t have him yet. But there are a couple of things you can do to help us. First, could you look at this sketch and description and tell me whether it matches the man you saw following Sergei?”
The old woman put on her reading glasses and studied the drawing and written description, her forehead furrowed in concentration. She nodded. “That’s him. I’ll show this to everyone I know. What’s the second thin
g?”
“As you can see from the description, we think he’s a Spetsnaz vet and may be looking for work in organized crime, probably as an assassin or enforcer. If you can think of anyone who might have hired—”
“I’ll show this to everyone I know,” Olga repeated flatly, looking Elena squarely in the eye.
Elena took the hint and moved on to a different topic. “Thank you. Sergei tells me you’re from Moscow. So am I; I lived there until I was twenty.”
“I thought I recognized your accent,” said the older woman, her face breaking into a smile. “What neighborhood?” The three of them chatted for the next hour, reminiscing about Russia and commiserating about the Chicago Bears. Around six o’clock, the restaurant started to fill up. Olga got to her feet and smoothed her apron. “Well, time for me to get back to work.”
“Me too,” said Sergei. “I’ve got an appointment to go look at an apartment.”
“You’re moving again?” asked his auntie. “You’ve only been in your place for six months. Just moving to a new apartment won’t protect you from people like this.”
“I’m not moving,” replied Sergei. “I talked to Josef Fedorov’s landlord. He told me that just before Fedorov disappeared, he said that he would be leaving and that the landlord had better look for new tenants. So he is. I told him I’d be interested in seeing the apartment, and he invited me to come over tonight at seven.”
Auntie Olga nodded. “It sounds like he was planning to go to ground after he cooperated with you. He should have done it first.”
Elena looked at Sergei with interest. “I actually have a warrant to search Fedorov’s apartment for evidence that he was murdered. I was going to execute it tomorrow, but I’d rather have a look without announcing that I have a warrant. That sort of news gets around pretty fast.”
“Yes, it does,” agreed Sergei.
“Mind if I come with you tonight?”
The landlord was a garrulous old Ukrainian with a gold chain peeking out of his open collar. “So, will you be renting together, then?” he asked as he guided them back to Josef’s apartment.
“We’re just friends,” replied Sergei.
The man nudged Sergei in the ribs. “Too bad for you.”
Elena laughed politely, which the landlord took as encouragement. “So, if she’s your friend, you’ll be inviting her over a lot, then? Maybe sitting out on the porch with her so she can increase my property value?”
“If I do, will you give me a break on the rent?”
The man laughed boisterously and clapped Sergei on the shoulder. “I like you. So, what is it you do for a business?”
Sergei briefly considered giving him a cover story but decided there was no need. It would be pointless anyway—if the landlord was working with the Brothers, he would already have Sergei’s description and possibly a picture. “I’m a detective.”
“Is she your assistant, then?” Another nudge to the ribs.
“No, we’re just friends,” replied Elena. “We don’t work together.”
“She’d be handy to have around, though,” put in Sergei. “She’s the best shot I’ve ever seen. Why, she could shoot an apple off your head at a thousand yards in high winds.”
The landlord looked at her with surprise. “Really?”
“Actually, I’d probably blow your brains out at that distance if there was wind,” Elena said modestly.
The landlord looked at them nervously, his gaze stopping briefly on the bulge in Sergei’s coat. He apparently decided they were probably mafiya enforcers of some kind and that he had better treat them respectfully—which was exactly what Sergei had intended.
The Ukrainian chuckled uncertainly. “Okay. So, here we are, then.” He stopped in front of an apartment door and took a big bunch of keys out of his pocket. His cell phone rang as he opened the door and led them into the apartment. He looked at the number and said apologetically, “I must take this.” He stepped to the side of the doorway and answered the phone. “Hello? Can I come down in a few minutes? I am busy now.”
As he listened, his smile faded. “Is it flooding right now?” He paused. “How did that happen?” A longer pause. “A toilet is not a garbage disposal, Maria. You cannot just—”
He listened again, then rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. I am on my way down.”
He ended the call and turned back to Sergei and Elena, making an effort to smile. “Call my mobile if you need anything—or please just come to the front office when you’re done looking.” He turned and hurried out of the apartment.
Sergei laughed softly as he watched the man scurry into the stairwell. He very much doubted they would be interrupted, no matter how long they stayed in Josef’s apartment.
The apartment was spacious and pricey, at least for Chicago’s Russian neighborhoods. Josef had decorated it with expensive vulgarity. The skin of a Siberian tiger, complete with snarling head, adorned the marble floor in the entryway. The kitchen counter held an impressive array of flavored vodkas and rums of the sort typically found in the liquor cabinet of a wealthy college fraternity.
The bedroom, however, was the pièce de résistance: a huge round water bed in a mahogany frame, three signed Patrick Nagel prints on the walls, a mirrored ceiling, and a bottle of Viagra on the dresser.
In the den, they found what they were looking for: Josef’s computer and a file cabinet holding five drawers stuffed with receipts, tax returns, import permits, and other random documents. “Bingo!” said Sergei after a few seconds of leafing through the documents. “If there’s anything, it’s in here.”
He took out a digital camera with a high-volume memory and started quickly flipping through the documents, snapping pictures of anything interesting. “So, how do you know Ben?” he asked.
“From college,” Elena answered as she started on another drawer. “Noelle—Ben’s wife—was my roommate my junior year in college. We’d been friends since sophomore year; a group of us would do stuff together most evenings, unless we had dates or something. That was pretty often for Noelle. She had a very serious boyfriend who took up a lot of her time.”
“Ben?” asked Sergei.
“No. She and her boyfriend broke up over spring break, and she was very depressed. She wouldn’t leave the room because she was afraid she would see this guy, who lived in the same dorm we did. Noelle is usually a lot of fun to talk to and spend time with, but not then. All she wanted to do was lie on her bed and listen to depressing music or talk about whether she and her boyfriend were going to get back together. And since she wouldn’t leave the room except for classes and meals, I started to get pretty sick of it.”
“So what did you do?”
“After this had been going on for about three weeks, I suggested that we go listen to a band at the Grove—that was an outdoor auditorium in the woods behind our quad. Eat some nachos and have a good time. At first she said no, but I insisted and we finally went. We danced with friends for a while, but then I went to get a Coke and found her dancing with some guy when I came back. He had sort of a college pretty-boy look: shoulder-length hair in a ponytail, goatee, gold hoop earring, good tan, tight T-shirt.”
“I know the type,” Sergei said, shaking his head. He stopped and his jaw dropped. “Ben?”
Elena nodded, a broad grin on her face.
Sergei stared at her for a second before breaking out in laughter. After a moment, he mastered himself. “Okay. Wow. So that’s when you first met Ben?”
She shook her head. “Actually, I didn’t meet him for about a week after that. Noelle was having fun, so I left her to dance the night away. I asked her about her new catch the next morning, and she told me it was nothing. She said he was fun, but kind of shallow—not a serious long-term prospect. Her exact words were that he was ‘perfect’ for her right then because she didn’t want another serious relationship and he was ‘basically eye ca
ndy.’”
Sergei roared with laughter. “So Ben ‘Eye Candy’ Corbin must have cut his hair, shaved, and lost the earring when he went to law school. What a shame. It’s amazing how time changes people.”
“By the way, that reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask you: What made you leave the Bureau?”
“Money,” he replied immediately, turning his attention to a row of boxes along one wall. “Lots of money.”
“Really?” she asked, a tinge of disappointment in her voice. “Are you making a lot more now?”
He stopped his work for a moment and glanced over at her. Her long blonde hair, slim build, and stylish trench coat made her look like she had just stepped out of a film noir.
“I only wish,” he said. “It wasn’t my money that made me leave. I had taken an accounting course—just one—in college, so I wound up working on that Inkombank money-laundering case. After that, the Bureau figured I was a perfect fit for all of the follow-up investigations they did. I spent my last six months there going through bank documents and running spreadsheets, and it got pretty old. Nailing shady bankers and accountants is important work, but it’s not that exciting. I wanted something that would get me out of the office and”—he gestured to Josef Fedorov’s unique decor—“let me see new and interesting places. Also, I didn’t join the FBI to go after money launderers.”
She had stopped working and turned her full attention to him. “Why did you join?”
“Mostly because of something that happened one summer when I was in college. I was running some errands with my mother when I saw these two big guys arguing with an old lady in a business suit. All of a sudden, one of them punched her in the stomach. She doubled over and the other guy grabbed the back of her head and smashed his knee into her face. She went down and both of them started kicking her in the head and chest. I started to run over to help her, but my mom practically tackled me. ‘They’re mafiya,’ she said, and I noticed that no one else was helping the old lady. In fact, everyone had disappeared from the street.
“We heard later that the police were looking for witnesses, but my mom wouldn’t call, and she and my father wouldn’t let me call.” He shrugged and looked down, shamed by the memory. “I joined the FBI because I didn’t want people to be afraid like that anymore.”
