by Jared Paul
“Misses Cavanaugh. Are you ready to proceed?”
“I am your honor.”
Kelly Cavanaugh rose from the prosecution’s table. She was one of the district attorney’s most capable and savvy operators. When Bollier heard that she would be leading the team for Shirokov’s trial she allowed herself the first real glimmer of hope that he might actually be convicted. The case was solid but not ironclad. All of the drugs the DEA seized back on Riis Landing were not terribly difficult to link back to Shirokov and his gang, but there were still a lot of loose ends. By no means was the outcome a guarantee.
Too much of the DA’s case was built around Uri Grigoriyevich and the information he’d provided. If the defense could manage to successfully discredit him, things might get shaky.
Bollier pushed her doubts out of her head and listened to Cavanaugh address the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen, before the prosecution calls its next witness I would like to take a moment to speak about what happened here yesterday. You’re all familiar with Avi Solomon. I’m sure you’ve all seen his commercials on late night TV even before you saw him here in court.”
A few of the men and women in the jury’s box nodded their heads.
“Mister Solomon fancies himself a kind of celebrity. He represents rap moguls and Wall Street sharks and organized crime bosses from all over the city. He probably thinks that because he’s been on the cover of GQ that the normal rules don’t apply to him. But the fact is what he did yesterday was reprehensible. By going out of his way to attack the prosecution’s key witness he deliberately planted a seed of doubt in your hearts. Before you have heard anything our witness has to say, he’s already pitting you against him.”
The lawyers surrounding Shirokov all stood up at once to object. Judge Moore sustained the objection and told Cavanaugh to produce her witness now or never. She agreed to do just that, but got one parting shot in, telling the jury to “trust your own judgment, not mister Solomon’s.”
From the back of the courtroom an officer came forward and made the announcement.
“The state of New York calls forward one Uri Grigoriyevich.”
A low murmur spread through the crowd. Bollier turned her head to watch him coming in, the same as everybody else. Thirty seconds passed and nothing happened. The court officer cleared his throat and made the call for the star witness to appear again, speaking a little louder this time.
“The STATE of New YORK calls forward URI Grigoriyevich.”
A minute of awkward silence elapsed before Bollier knew that something was wrong. Before arriving in court Bollier had set her phone on vibrate. A chill crawled up her back when she felt it buzzing. She fished the phone out and read the message from Special Agent Kyle Clemons:
Bad news. Call me ASAP.
Bollier excused herself out of the aisle and hustled out of the courtroom. The lobby was mostly empty save for a couple security guards and lawyers coming and going with their clients. Bollier dialed the number and began walking down the hall, the sound of her high heels echoing off the marble with each stride. When Agent Clemons answered he sounded completely despondent and Bollier felt her stomach drop.
“Detective. Thanks for calling.”
“What’s up Kyle? Are you ok?”
Agent Clemons let out a very tired sigh.
“I’m fine. Uri not so much. He’s dead.”
“WHAT?” The detective’s shriek reverberated through the chamber, turning more than just a couple of heads. Bollier lowered her voice and walked faster. “How is that possible? He was under 24 hour guard wasn’t he?”
“I’m not sure exactly how it happened. But it looks like he tried to make a run for it, got into a tussle with one of my agents. Killed him, but caught one in the stomach during the struggle. He didn’t make it very far.”
“Why would he run? Why now?”
“Last night, last chance before he had to go through with it.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“He’s dead. I identified the body just a couple of minutes ago at the coroner’s office.”
“No I mean I don’t believe he would run. You know what I think.”
“Leslie.”
“Don’t.”
“That’s crazy. They couldn’t possibly have gotten to the FBI. It’s just not possible.”
“Kyle you really need to wake up. If you don’t I’m afraid they’re going to get you too.”
“Les. I know you’ve had a tough year. A tough decade, shit. But just because something goes wrong doesn’t make it part of some grand conspiracy. That’s exactly the way Uri thought. Completely paranoid, out of his mind. You’re starting to sound just like…”
Before her friend and confidante could finish the sentence Bollier cut him off by ending the call. She did not want to resent him for saying something he would later regret. Obviously he was frustrated, probably exhausted, not himself. Bollier could forgive him for calling her paranoid or even comparing her to a cretin like Uri Grigoriyevich but she was livid with his naiveté.
The Russians had infiltrated everywhere, gotten to everyone. What made the FBI so special? They were just ordinary people, albeit with a little more ambition and networking skill, but they were people all the same. People could be bought. People could be corrupted, or blackmailed, or murdered. There were no exceptions. If the Italian mob and a couple rogue CIA operatives could kill the President then what would stop the Russians from killing or bribing federal agents and bringing them into the fold? Kyle Clemons was being worse than cruel: he was being foolish. And that was something that the detective did not pardon.
Bollier rushed back into court to find the place in a general uproar. Shirokov, Solomon and the other lawyers were laughing so hard they almost looked shit-faced. Cavanaugh’s face looked like the color of a plum tomato. Judge Moore was banging his gavel repeatedly and calling for order. Once the clamor died down he asked for help.
“It appears that the prosecution’s key witness has gone missing. Does anyone have any idea just what in God’s name is going on here?”
Even though she felt she might be crossing a line, detective Bollier felt obligated to raise her hand. Judge Moore squinted through his glasses at her.
“Yes? Who are you miss?”
“Your honor my name is Leslie Bollier and I’m a detective with the New York Police Department. I played a part in investigating the defendant.”
“And do you have any knowledge as to the whereabouts of Uri Grigoryawhatsit?”
“I do your honor.”
“Would you be so kind as to share that with the court?”
Bollier was about to drop the bomb when Avi Solomon stood up and shouted an objection.
“Your honor! This is completely irregular. This woman has a clear bias against my client and is a partisan entity. If she’s going to share information…”
Judge Moore cut Solomon off with a ferocious hammer of his gavel.
“MISTER Solomon. I am going to get to the bottom of this right now whether you or anyone short of the Governor has anything to say about it. Miss Bollier, please proceed.”
“Thank you your honor. Just a few minutes ago I received a call from a friend of mine in the FBI who was assigned to guard Uri Grigoriyevich.”
“And what news did this FBI source have?”
“He’s dead. He suffered a gunshot wound last night.”
Compared to the chaos that followed, the mess that greeted Bollier when she ventured back into the courtroom was nothing. Every single person seemed to be shouting over each other. Reporters in the back room were furiously scribbling notes or running out to the lobby to call their editors with the scoop. The prosecutors, including Cavanaugh were yelling across the divide at Shirokov’s defense team.
It was only a sliver of a second, and she only saw it out of the corner of her eye, but Bollier could have sworn that she saw Shirokov smile and wave at her.
After Judge Moore finally quieted the crowd he addres
sed the detective again.
“Is there anything else that you can report at this time?”
Bollier flashed a glance at Shirokov and cleared her throat.
“Yes your honor. It is my personal belief that the defendant hired an assassin to kill Uri Grigoriyevich so that he would not be able to testify today.”
If the judge did not look pleased with Bollier’s theory the defense team went ballistic. Solomon demanded that Judge Moore find Bollier in contempt of court and have her removed from the premises. The other lawyers echoed his idea like angry, but well-trained parrots. Bollier heard one of the journalists in the back chuckle and let out a very loud “ho-ly-shit.”
Eventually Solomon got what he wanted, but only because Judge Moore ordered that the court room be cleared of everyone except the defendant and the attorneys. He shut down the proceedings and vowed to resume the trial another day when more facts had come to light regarding the fate of the witness.
Bollier left feeling light-headed but defiant. For her trouble she would more than likely be barred from returning to watch the trial unfold, but it felt worth it. If the Russians were going to break every rule then to hell with the rules. Three months had passed of watching, waiting, and letting the gears of justice grind forward. And for what? Because Shirokov was simply willing to go further the case was hanging on the edge of a cliff.
The state could write all the laws, and hire all the cops and agents to enforce them, but at the end of the day the real power lied in violence. Violence got things done. Violence got results. Gandhi could have gone on a hunger strike for a thousand years and India would still be under British rule if others hadn’t taken up the sword in support of the cause. The abolitionists could have protested and petitioned until they were blue in the face but the slaves would not have been freed without the help of violence.
Thinking like this made Bollier feel ashamed. She had been such a bright idealist at one time. She resented Shirokov and the other Russians for this most of all. It was worse than killing her partner, or kidnapping her, or threatening her life through her oldest friends. The Russians had changed the very way she thought about the world, and that violation was the most upsetting of all.
The guilt in turn made Bollier angry. For three months she had been playing by the rules, holding the leash on a far more effective weapon. When Bollier got home she poured herself a double whiskey neat. She stood by the tall window overlooking 8th avenue for a long time, sipping and watching a sweltering summer day turn to a beautiful summer evening, and feeling bitter she could not enjoy it. When the last of the drink was gone she picked up her phone and dialed the most recent burner number for Jordan Ross.
It was time to get back to violence.
...
Jordan Ross met the detective on Weehawken Street by the old hotel as planned. They walked north along the Lincoln Highway with a mostly-unobstructed view of the Hudson River. Kayakers paddled by in twos and threes, merrily stroking their way along with the current. Jordan watched them somewhat wistfully and tried to remember the last time that he’d done anything active for the sheer fun of it.
He was an intimidating physical specimen. Fifteen years as a green beret Jordan Ross was a precision instrument, but now he was even stronger, faster, and more toned than the prime of his youth in the army. Jordan Ross would have preferred a tight, light t-shirt to show off his relatively new physique, but he went with a loose fitted long-sleeved polyester number instead. The heat was cruel but there was no hiding a .38 in a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt. He never left the condo without it now.
Detective Bollier had mostly followed the same principle for several months, but before driving to meet Jordan Ross she decided that if she was going to be shot so be it, it would be less painful than melting in a solar flare. She was trim and relieved that she still fit into her short-cut jeans from college. An NYPD detective’s badge was strung around her bare neck on a lanyard.
They found a bench and sat down to talk. Both of them were wearing aviator sunglasses as they surveyed the glare of the river. After Bollier filled Jordan in on how the case against Shirokov was proceeding, there was a tense silence. Jordan was the first to break it.
“I told you we should have just killed him.”
“I know you did. You don’t have to say that I told you so.”
“Nobody said that. All I’m saying is right now, we wouldn’t be…”
“No, but we still would be no closer to finding anything out about the operation as it extends above and beyond Shirokov. I told you it’s bigger than him.”
“Seems big enough already. I should have put one in his brain, not his damn foot.”
Bollier was not a sentimental woman, but above all else she appreciated practicality. If nothing else Jordan Ross had that in spades. He would have made an excellent cop, she thought, if things had turned out different. Slowly she reached out and touched Jordan’s hand.
“It must have been hard. But you did the right thing.”
“Doesn’t feel that way. Now it looks like he might get away with everything.”
“Hey. He won’t. He won’t. There’s no way that we will let him. Whatever the jury decides, however it turns out, he will not get away with it.”
“He’s already gotten off for enough. Did I ever tell you about the last conversation that I had with Sarah before the accident?”
A chill passed through Bollier that she hoped she hid well enough. The arrangement with Jordan Ross had been strictly business. Both of them wanted revenge against the Russians, she had the knowledge, he had the expertise and nothing else to lose. Along with Agent Clemons’ resources they made a dynamic team, but that was the extent of it. They weren’t friends and Jordan Ross had never talked about his family before.
Bollier was an unapologetic introvert and It served her extremely well at her job. That keen analytical mind could recall every detail, every angle from a case and work towards a solution even when she was focused on something else. But she usually had no idea how to handle emotionally-charged discussions. She felt like she should say something but didn’t. She hoped it was one of those appropriate silences when you were waiting for the other person to say something meaningful. When Jordan Ross started talking again she felt a flood of relief.
“We were arguing. First it was about how hot it was in the car. Sarah was always too warm, everywhere we went. At the fundraiser in D.C. that night she complained it was too hot, then in the car on the way back…”
Jordan stopped. Bollier wasn’t sure what to say so she said I’m sorry. Another short silence passed and then Jordan repeated his regret that he should have killed Shirokov when he had the chance. Bollier shifted uneasily on the bench, which was all hard cedar and right angles.
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll get another chance.”
“Not if he’s convicted. Out here, in the open I can get to him maybe. If he’s locked up in Sing Sing until doomsday forget it. Anyway. I’m sure you didn’t call me just to have a nice little riverside chat. What’s up?”
A lump in her throat kept Bollier from speaking for a moment but she swallowed it down.
“One of our witnesses… went missing. And he’s not coming back. So we need another Russian stoolie who knows about Shirokov’s business.”
“What happened to the witness?”
“Got himself shot trying to escape FBI custody. Do you happen to recall if Zhadanov shared any of his travel plans with you?”
Jordan Ross laughed bitterly and slapped at his knee.
“Are you kidding? I dropped him off at a Greyhound station with fifty grand in cash. He could be anywhere. He could be on the Mars Rover for all I know.”
The detective felt a surge of anger rising and she fought to keep it down.
“Petyr Zhadanov had intimate knowledge of the heroin shipment. He had at least half a dozen girls working for him in that god awful night club. He was probably our best hope for …”
“He’s gone, dete
ctive. He’s gone. Jesus I handed you guys the case on a silver platter. How many people did I have to go through? How many? And you just drop your key witness like a nickel out of your pocket.”
“Don’t put that shit on me, Corporal. I wasn’t the one guarding Uri. And I wasn’t the one who just let Zhadanov go after interrogating him.”
Feeling restless, Jordan got up and paced between the bench and the short fence that divided the street from the Hudson. He had too much nervous energy. Like a volcano, he had been building up steam for weeks. He needed a release, but what he really wanted was a fight. He craved it. All of the intense cardio workouts in the world wouldn’t slake the insatiable craving to dig his hands into a Russian’s rib cage and pull a beating heart out with his bare hands.
