‘But, what if they ... you know ...’ protested Heinrich moving a finger across his throat.
‘We have no choice. We are dealing with desperate men. As long as there’s a chance to get him out, we just have to go along with it. But not entirely,’ Newman added quietly, a devious smile spreading across his face.
‘I don’t understand. What do you have in mind?’
‘We will pay with money we no longer have.’
‘How on earth will we do that?’
‘Come over here and I will show you.’
After Heinrich left, Newman rang Joachim Sprungli – his Swiss banker in Zurich – and instructed him to transfer three million dollars out of the Walhalla account into the one nominated by Farim. At first, Sprungli was opposed to the idea, but once he understood the true purpose of the transfer, which couldn’t be traced back to Newman, he became quite enthusiastic. It would give the annoying authorities investigating the bank a lovely new red herring to follow. Newman realised of course that the transaction would be closely monitored, the funds traced and most likely frozen once they reached their destination. However, according to Sprungli, that was going to take some time – Swiss bureaucracy; meticulous but slow. It was an ingenious ploy; classic Newman – sting the stinger. The key to its success lay in getting Horst released as quickly as possible. If the Defender of the Faith was true to his word, Horst would be released as soon as the money was paid. If not, Newman reasoned, there was nothing further to be done.
52
Archibald often worked through the night, especially when something challenging landed on his desk. The prosecution had finally served all the depositions, permitting for the first time a complete overview of the entire case against his client.
‘Exhibit 1,’ scribbled Archibald in his tiny, almost illegible handwriting. ‘A photograph, a Nazi ring, a medal, SS uniform insignia and a cigarette case with a swastika, are found in N’s holiday home.’ Archibald sat back and lit a small cigar.
‘Exhibit 2,’ he continued to write, ‘Krakowski present at lake shooting in November 1944. K. identifies gravesite; 6 bodies found.’ Archibald almost broke his pencil in half. ‘This is unbelievable! How on earth did Carrington find this guy?’ he muttered to himself.
Archibald reached for Krakowski’s statement in the pile of papers on his desk and began to read it carefully a second time. This wasn’t going to be an easy trial. If the witnesses for the prosecution had any credibility at all and stood up to cross examination, Sir Eric was in deep trouble.
Newman pushed the floor clerk impatiently aside and walked into Archibald’s room. Mumbling an apology, his embarrassed solicitor followed close behind.
‘Good morning, Mr Archibald,’ Newman said, holding out his hand. ‘Already working on my case, I see.’
Surprised, Archibald looked up. Clients didn’t normally come bursting into his room unannounced. He sensed an aura of new confidence – bordering on arrogance – in his client. This was hardly the demeanour he had expected of a man facing a war crimes trial based on – he had to concede – rather troubling evidence. If he wanted to get out of this, Sir Eric had a lot of explaining to do and Archibald could hardly wait to hear what his client had to say. Newman would first have to convince his counsel, before his counsel could attempt to convince a jury.
‘Please forgive my appearance,’ apologised Archibald, rubbing the prickly grey stubble sprouting on his chin, ‘but I’ve just spent my first sleepless night on your case. The first of many, I suspect,’ he added gravely.
‘I appreciate your concern,’ Newman said breezily, ‘but you’ve only heard part of the story so far.’
‘Quite. And I must say, I’m anxious to hear the rest.’
‘Sir Eric has carefully considered all the depositions, just as you asked. He will give us his instructions this morning,’ interrupted Voss, fidgeting nervously in his seat.
‘I’m encouraged to hear that, Sir Eric, because so far your case is full of surprises, with more twists than a TV soap opera,’ said Archibald, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘Take this newly discovered grave in Austria, for instance, containing the remains of six bodies. Five of them German soldiers – SS – all showing evidence of bullet wounds. And then we have an eyewitness – a celebrated Jewish composer – who seems to have returned from the dead to tell us about a shooting more than fifty years ago. And here it says DNA tests have confirmed that one of the bodies with a bullet hole through the head is that of his brother.’ Archibald took a deep breath and stabbed a finger at the notes in front of him.
‘And what about the South American night club proprietor?’ he continued. ‘Another eyewitness? Apparently providing damaging identification testimony and pointing an accusing finger at you with tales of Nazi gold, collaborating Swiss banks, embezzled money and murder. And finally – as the pièce de résistance – we are presented with something rather romantic: a famous violin. A Stradivarius, allegedly taken from the father of our eyewitness in a German concentration camp. According to the chain of evidence here,’ Archibald held up a bundle of papers, ‘the violin has somehow turned up in your possession after the war right here in Australia, was given by you to charity and then auctioned in London. And this, I must say, is just the tip of the forensic iceberg waiting to sink you, unless you can ...’
‘Explain all that,’ Newman interrupted confidently. Smiling, he sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. ‘I can!’
‘I sincerely hope so – for your sake, Sir Eric, because one thing is already certain. You will go to trial.’ Newman nodded briefly without replying.
‘I can see we understand each other,’ said Archibald, closing his brief.
‘Where would you like me to begin?’ said Newman.
‘Preferably, at the beginning. Please tell us, Sir Eric, who are you?’
53
Carrington was going over his opening address for the last time. It was a tense moment, like the start of a race or the beginning of a final exam. First impressions were important. As an experienced litigator, Carrington always addressed the jury without looking at his notes; a subtle, yet effective, reminder that he was on top of all the facts and legal issues. Preparation and confidence went hand in hand.
‘It’s almost time to go,’ Jana said, looking at her watch. ‘I can’t believe the moment has finally arrived.’ Carrington crossed out a sentence and began to scribble something at the foot of the page. He didn’t appear to have heard the reminder. ‘Marcus, we really have to go,’ urged Jana, closing her briefcase. He nodded absentmindedly and slipped his marking pens into the top pocket of his bar jacket without taking his eyes off the notes. Somehow, there was just never enough time.
Late as usual, Carrington ran up the stairs with his gown flapping annoyingly behind him. He had to hold on to his wig, or risk having it blown off by the stiff morning breeze. The entrance to the court building appeared to be under siege. Clutching furry microphones on long poles like rows of exotic spears in crazy battle formation, a news-hungry crew of excited cameramen was indiscriminately filming everyone who entered the building.
The packed courtroom was throbbing with excited spectators. Unable to get through, Carrington had to ask the court attendant to clear a passage to the front. Archibald was already sitting at the bar table – waiting.
‘Only a very brave man would prosecute a murder case half a century after the event,’ observed Archibald. Carrington untied his red bag and began to arrange his books and papers on the bar table. This was classic Archibald – put your opponent off balance as soon as you can.
‘Only a man afraid of the evidence would make such a remark,’ Carrington replied casually without looking at Archibald. ‘I hope your client is going to answer his bail. I cannot see him in court.’
‘Oh, he’ll be here all right. But be careful Marcus, it will get very hot in the kitchen, don’t get burnt.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got asbestos fingers.’
‘Al
l rise,’ said the court attendant, pounding the floor with his staff.
The judge entered the hushed courtroom and walked onto the Bench. ‘Call the matter,’ she instructed her associate. Opening her notebook, she looked with anticipation at the barristers seated at the bar table in front of her and reached for her pen.
All heads turned towards the wood-panelled door at the back of the court. Sir Eric knew how to make an entrance. Dressed in a dark navy, double-breasted suit, white shirt and silver tie, he looked more like an elder statesman than a man accused of murder.
Jack had arrived early to secure a good vantage point in the gallery just above the jury box. Here he comes, he thought as he watched Newman walk slowly towards the court attendant waiting for him in front of the dock. With each step the tension grew. It was Jack’s first glimpse of the accused. Displaced by reality, the mental picture he had pieced together about Sir Eric evaporated. Carrington the prosecutor sat calmly at the bar table. Jack was wondering what must be going through the barrister’s mind. The battle of wits was about to begin.
The judge’s associate stood up and faced the accused.
‘Eric Newman,’ began the associate, reading from the indictment, ‘you stand charged with having on the 13th of November 1944, murdered David Krakowski and having, on that day, attempted to murder his brother, Benjamin Krakowski. How do you plead, guilty, or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty, Your Honour,’ Newman replied calmly, and sat down.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ Carrington began, rising to his feet after the jury had been sworn in. ‘As Her Honour has just told you, it is now my task to open the case for the Crown ...’ Newman sat stone-faced in the dock – his back straight as a ramrod – discreetly scrutinising each of the twelve jurors sitting directly opposite. He knew they now held his fate in their hands. ‘You have just heard that the accused stands before you charged with murder. The evidence will show that the murder was committed a long time ago – on November 13th, 1944 to be precise – on the distant shores of a lake in Austria.’ A ripple of excitement washed over the spellbound spectators hanging on Carrington’s every word.
‘It isn’t often the case, members of the jury,’ continued Carrington, looking directly at the jurors, ‘that the murderer himself, and the very act of murder, are captured in a photograph with a date written on it.’ Carrington paused to let this sink in. ‘But that is precisely what happened here. Such a photograph does exist and the circumstances of its discovery are significant.’
Archibald was carefully watching his former pupil work the jury. He was waiting for a mistake. A mistake in the opening address could easily turn into a valuable appeal point later in the trial. Carrington outlined the case for the prosecution with detachment and almost clinical precision. The sober language only added to the drama of his cleverly constructed opening address. The court heard an extraordinary tale of murder, greed and Nazi gold. It was told about heroic survival, famous violins and secret concentration camps. Peppered with fascinating forensic detail, an extraordinary story spanning over fifty years was being pieced together with great eloquence by the unassuming barrister standing at the bar table.
The spellbound spectators in the gallery stared at Newman.
‘Thank you Mr Crown,’ said the Judge at the conclusion of Carrington’s lengthy opening address. Glancing at the clock above the jury box, she noticed it was almost four; the first day of the trial was over. ‘The court will now adjourn until 10 am Monday,’ Her Honour said, ‘bail is continued.’
Carrington felt suddenly very tired. He turned around and looked for Jana. Catching his eye, she winked at him encouragingly.
‘I hope for your sake that the evidence can establish all you have just promised the jury,’ said Archibald, pointing a warning finger at Carrington. ‘Otherwise ...’
‘Don’t worry, Archie. It’s early days ...’
Archibald shrugged and left the court. He found Carrington’s confidence annoying. Cocky bastard, he thought. You’ve got a little surprise coming, mate. That should knock you down to size a bit ...
Jack caught up with Jana in the corridor just outside the court. ‘Marcus had the jury eating out of his hand; impressive,’ he said. Jana nodded, but didn’t stop to speak to Jack. ‘Have you got a moment?’ asked Jack, falling in beside her.
‘Not really. We are meeting with Hoffmeister.’
‘What; now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I come along?’
‘What do you think?’ Jana replied curtly. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you ... ’
54
Hoffmeister had arrived from Buenos Aires the day before. His solicitor had called in the morning, requesting a meeting with Carrington to go over Hoffmeister’s statement.
‘Mr Hoffmeister and his lawyers are in reception,’ announced the floor clerk over the phone.
‘He’s here,’ Carrington said to Jana, sitting opposite, ‘with his entourage. Just as I thought.’
‘Entourage?’ asked Jana, raising an eyebrow.
‘Yes. A high-profile solicitor, and a barrister I know well. Both know how to charge. This will be costing Don Antonio at least four grand a day. Not bad for a guy who’s strapped for cash. I think I know who’s paying the bills.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Wait and see.’
Don Antonio swept into the room and gallantly kissed Jana’s hand. Dressed in a blue blazer, white slacks and sneakers, he looked like he had just stepped off his yacht. ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. ‘How’s the tango coming along, Inspector Gonski? You’re a natural, trust me. But I should really let my lawyers here do the talking; I’m paying them enough.’
‘We have a problem, Marcus,’ began the barrister, dropping a copy of Hoffmeister’s statement onto the conference table.
Here it comes, Carrington thought, aware of the empty pit in his stomach. Just as I feared. ‘Oh, in what way?’ he said.
‘After careful reflection, Mr Hoffmeister is no longer sure ... he can ... identify the accused. You must understand, it was all such a long time ago.’
‘I understand perfectly, but your client was very clear about all this when I spoke to him in Buenos Aires. He says here in his statement that he actually took the photo! Does he now maintain that he didn’t?’
‘It’s more complicated than that, Mr Carrington,’ the solicitor tried to explain. ‘My client was under a lot of pressure at the time he spoke to you. Pressure from the Americans. As you know, his son is on trial in Florida – drugs ...’
‘Are you suggesting that what he told me in Buenos Aires was not true?’ Looking decidedly uncomfortable, the solicitor began to fidget in his seat.
‘I told you what I thought you wanted to hear,’ Hoffmeister cut in. ‘I’m sorry. The Americans insisted I cooperate. I did it to help my son.’
‘You are obviously mistaken. All I wanted to hear was the truth. I thought I made that perfectly clear at the time,’ Carrington said frostily.
‘There’s nothing to be achieved by pointing the finger,’ said the barrister. ‘We are here in good faith to tell you that my client has reconsidered his position.’
‘Good faith! That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? What you’re saying is that your client lied to me then, or he’s lying to me now. It has to be one or the other. Do enlighten us, Mr Hoffmeister,’ Carrington said caustically, turning towards the suave Don Antonio, ‘which one’s the lie?’
‘Please, Marcus, this isn’t getting us anywhere,’ pleaded the barrister.
‘You’re right, it isn’t. And thank you for letting me know all this after the opening day of the trial. Perfectly timed, wouldn’t you say?’ Carrington was bristling with sarcasm.
‘What will you do?’ the solicitor asked.
‘The only thing I can under the circumstances. Your client will be declared a hostile witness.’ Carrington stood up. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘I’m so
rry it turned out this way,’ Hoffmeister said, standing up as well, ‘but please remember, I didn’t have to come here at all ...’
‘You are quite right. I was just wondering about that. Why did you come all the way from Argentina to tell me this, Mr Hoffmeister? Perhaps because everything is for sale, even the truth,’ Carrington added as an afterthought, answering his own question.
Hoffmeister stopped at the door, turned around and smiled. ‘Welcome to the real world, Mr Carrington,’ he said quietly and left the room without closing the door.
‘What a performance,’ Carrington fumed. ‘Do you know what I think? The cunning Don Antonio planned this from the very beginning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He sucked us in. Look at all the information he gave us in Buenos Aires. It was too good to be true.’
‘Do you think he was making it all up?’
‘No; that’s the irony of it. I believe everything he told us was true.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He was sending a signal to Newman.’
‘You lost me.’
‘He knew we would use the information in the case. His evidence is one of the cornerstones of the trial. He also knew this would put huge pressure on Newman. And of course Newman would know exactly where it all came from. Bingo! It was time to make a deal.’
‘Isn’t that a little far fetched?’
‘Is it? No, I don’t think so. It’s very clever, that’s what it is. Hoffmeister knew the whole time he held all the cards. Without him, we couldn’t prove any of it,’ Carrington conceded. ‘I wonder how much Newman had to pay him. Don’t forget, Hoffmeister was desperate for cash. You saw him in Buenos Aires. He was manipulating his creditors. He manipulated us as well. We just didn’t see it. And now we’re paying the price. It just happened, right here in this very room. He just walked out of the case and took the cornerstone with him. We’ve been had, I’m afraid. You’ve got to admire the old fox. It’s quite brilliant.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 23
