Black River

by G. M. Ford

  “I’d take ’em out on Saturday mornings with me and dump ’em while I was fishing.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Lebow, was anyone in this courtroom today present when you were offered the two thousand dollars a week to switch samples?”

  Victor Lebow pulled a pair of black-framed glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He put them on and slowly surveyed the room. Satisfied, he returned the glasses to his pocket.

  “Well?” Warren Klein prodded.

  Lebow looked up at the judge.

  “Answer the question, Mr. Lebow.”

  Lebow looked around the room again. “No,” he said, in a low voice.

  “Excuse me?” Klein managed.

  “I said no.”

  Nicholas Balagula never blinked. Neither did Ivanov. They sat there like they were at the movies. Bruce Elkins flicked a confused glance at his client and then tentatively began to rise.

  “Perhaps you didn’t understand my question, Mr. Lebow,” Klein began.

  “Your Honor,” Elkins said.

  “Yes, Mr. Elkins,” the judge replied.

  Elkins brought a hand to his brow, then shook his head. “Never mind, Your Honor. Please excuse the interruption,” he said, as he sat back down.

  Warren Klein wore his most conspiratorial smile as he wandered over to the witness box and leaned on the rail. “I think you may have misunderstood me, Mr. Lebow, so let’s start from the beginning, okay?”

  “Whatever you say,” Lebow said.

  “I asked you whether or not the parties responsible for drawing you into this conspiracy were present in this courtroom today.”

  “And I said no,” Lebow said.

  Before Klein could collect his wits, Fulton Howell leaned out over the bench and shook his gavel at the witness. His voice shook as he spoke. “Mr. Lebow,” he began. “Unless I’m mistaken, you have signed a deposition stating that the defendant Nicholas Balagula and his associate Mr. Ivanov were present in the room when the falsification scheme was hatched. That’s true, is it not, Mr. Lebow?”

  Victor Lebow sat staring down into his lap.

  “Mr. Lebow,” the judge prompted. “I direct you to answer my question. Did you or did you not sign a deposition in which you swore that the defendant Nicholas Balagula was present at the time of the conspiracy?”

  “I did, yeah,” Lebow answered, without looking up.

  “Are you now contradicting that sworn statement?”

  “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  “There’ll be no guessing here, Mr. Lebow. Was Mr. Balagula or Mr. Ivanov or both present when the conspiracy was proposed?”

  Lebow pulled the glasses from his pocket, put them on, and peered over at the defense table. “I never seen either of those guys before in my life,” he said.

  34

  Monday, October 23

  2:09 p.m.

  The air seemed to have been sucked from the room. In disbelief, Bruce Elkins looked back over his shoulder at his client, only to find Nicholas Balagula sitting quietly in his chair, whispering to Mikhail Ivanov from behind his hand. Elkins felt cold and unable to draw breath, almost the way he’d always imagined the onset of a heart attack would feel. Then, without willing it so, he found himself on his feet.

  “Call for an immediate dismissal of charges,” he said.

  Fulton Howell’s face had already moved through the deep-red stage and was now something more akin to blue.

  “Your motion is noted, Mr. Elkins. Now sit back down.” He squeezed the words out from between his teeth like putty.

  “Your Honor—” Klein began.

  The judge waved him off. “Sit,” was all he said. He leaned out over the bench again. “Would you tell this court, Mr. Lebow, why it was you saw fit to give false witness in a matter of such seriousness?”

  Victor Lebow had an answer ready. “They threatened me.”

  “Who threatened you, Mr. Lebow?”

  He pointed at the prosecution table. “Over there,” he said. “Them.”

  “Are you referring to Mr. Klein, Mr. Butler, and Ms. Rogers?”

  “Not her. The other two.”

  “How did they threaten you, Mr. Lebow?”

  “With jail. I mean, they kept saying I was going to prison for a long time.” His face was a knot. “And, you know, all the bad things that were going to happen to me in jail. How I was gonna get fucked up the ass and all. They kept telling me I was gonna be the only one who took the rap. And that the real bad guys would go free, and it was just gonna be me in the jailhouse.”

  “And so you decided to implicate Mr. Balagula.”

  Lebow shook his head. “I never heard of the guy before”—he pointed at the prosecution table—“until that Klein guy kept saying his name.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said Harmon and Swanson were on the pad and that it was this Balagula guy who was paying the freight.”

  “And you merely took their word for the fact that Mr. Balagula was the guilty party?”

  Lebow shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I didn’t much care,” he said. “By the time they started talking about how I could maybe not go to jail if this guy Balagula was convicted, I woulda signed just about anything.”

  “Your Honor,” Klein protested, “we have both transcripts and tape recordings of our conversations with Mr. Lebow, and I assure you—”

  Fulton Howell ignored Klein. “You are aware, Mr. Lebow, that your testimony here today forfeits any immunity agreement you may have been granted in return for your testimony against Mr. Balagula.”

  Lebow’s lower lip was beginning to quiver. “I know.”

  “And that you are, in all probability, facing a sizable term in a federal prison.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “And with that in mind, you still insist that Mr. Balagula was not present when you entered into this conspiracy and that your original statements were false?”

  “I do.”

  The judge sat back for a moment, taking the witness in. “Could you perhaps tell the court why it is that you have chosen to change your story at this late stage in the proceedings?”

  “I hadda to do the right thing,” Lebow stuttered. “If I kept on with this Balagula story, they were gonna send the wrong guy to jail and the real bums responsible for all those dead babies was going to be walking around the streets.”

  “So you’ve changed your story in the interest of justice.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Why did you wait until now?” The judge’s voice was rising. “For pity sake, why did you allow the expenditure of so much time and money before you told the truth? You could have come forward months ago.”

  “I was scared,” Lebow said. “People said they were gonna kill me. I didn’t know what to do. I…wanted…to…” He hiccuped once and began to sob. The judge watched for a disbelieving moment, then dropped his hands to the bench with a slap and shook his head in disgust.

  “I want to see Mr. Klein and Mr. Elkins in my chambers. Mr. Lebow is to be remanded to custody.” He pointed at the defense table. “I want to see the transcripts of your conversations with Mr. Lebow and the recordings thereof, ASAP.”

  “I’ll need a little time, Your Honor,” Warren Klein protested.

  Howell ignored him, turning his attention to Elkins instead. “I want you to consider your position as an officer of the court, Mr. Elkins, as well as the ramifications of suborning perjury.”

  Elkins puffed his chest. “I take exception to that remark, Your Honor.”

  “Exception noted. Court is adjourned until nine o’clock Wednesday morning, when I will rule on Mr. Elkins’s call for a dismissal of charges.”

  Fulton Howell jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Chambers,” he growled.

  Klein walked over to Ray Butler. They stood together whispering before Klein disengaged and made his way to the front of the room.

  Bruce Elkins lingered at the defense table. The jury could be heard rustling out
the side door, and the spectators disappeared through the door at the front of the room. Elkins leaned in close and swept his eyes from Balagula to Ivanov and back. “You set this up, didn’t you?”

  Neither man answered.

  “You arranged the whole thing,” Elkins persisted.

  “I think they’re waiting for you,” Nicholas Balagula said.

  “I won’t be party to it,” Elkins hissed. “I will not sit idly by and allow you to subvert the criminal justice system.” He pounded the desk, caught himself, and looked around. “I’ll resign before I’ll be part of this”—he searched for a word—“this abomination.”

  Balagula looked at him like he was a schoolchild. “We have been miraculously spared the wrath of an unjust and spiteful prosecution,” he said, using Elkins’s own words. “Just do your job, Mr. Elkins. As I keep telling you, I’m innocent, so the rest will take care of itself.”

  “Mr. Elkins.” It was one of the bailiffs. “The judge is waiting.”

  Elkins reluctantly got to his feet. Balagula smiled up at him. “Have you no faith that truth and justice will prevail, Mr. Elkins?”

  The lawyer was talking to himself as he made his way out of the courtroom.

  Renee Rogers scratched her chair back along the floor and stood up. She stretched and then wandered over to Corso’s side.

  “Can you believe this?”

  Corso shook his head in disgust. “It was a setup, all the way. Balagula took one look at Klein and knew all he had to do was give him a shiny new witness and Warren would be just the asshole to run with it.”

  “But Victor Lebow is going to prison. How in hell do you induce a guy into going to prison for you?”

  “For how long?”

  “Eight to fifteen.”

  “So he serves what?”

  “Fifty months minimum.”

  “A million bucks.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re broke. You’re facing felony charges from the hospital disaster. You’re getting death threats from the victim’s families. You’ve just declared bankruptcy. Balagula comes to you with an offer you can’t refuse. Go to the cops. Claim it was Balagula who gave you the phony core samples. Claim you were there. That you can put the smoking gun in his hand. After what happened to Harmon and Swanson, they’re gonna lock you up like Fort Knox. Then, when the time comes to testify, you change your tune. Take the rap. You let the heat die down, let everybody forget about you, and walk away four years later with a million bucks. A quarter million a year. Twenty thousand a month. Tax-free.”

  She thought it over. “Assuming you’re right, you think Elkins knew?”

  “Unless he’s the greatest actor I’ve ever seen,” Corso said, “he was just as blown away as the rest of us.” She nodded solemnly. Corso continued. “There’d be no reason to tell Elkins. He’s too fond of appearing on talk shows to agree to suborn perjury. All Balagula had to do was put things in place, let Elkins do his job, and wait.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Rogers said. “That sonofabitch has screwed us again. He’s gonna walk.”

  “The judge said he wanted to see the transcripts.”

  She laughed. “Which are going to show that Lebow is telling the truth. That’s exactly how it’s done. You scare the crap out of them and then offer them a way out. It’s standard operating procedure.”

  “You never know with juries.”

  “No way,” she scoffed. “Howell’s not going to send it to any jury. He’s going to come down with a directed not-guilty verdict, and Balagula’s going to waltz out of here a free man.”

  A door opened at the top of the aisle. A green-jacketed U.S. marshal started down the aisle. As the door stood open, the noise of the media horde outside rushed into the courtroom, more of a snarl than a roar—and then, as the door snapped shut, silence again.

  “Sounds like the grapevine has delivered the news,” Corso said.

  “Amazing how that works,” she said disgustedly.

  They went silent as the cop walked past them, lifted the rail, and made his way over to the nearest bailiff. They leaned together in animated conversation.

  “Question,” Corso said.

  “What?”

  “Last trial. Here in Seattle.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You had the jury in a hotel for the duration of the trial.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which hotel?”

  “The Carlisle Tower.”

  “And you fed them three meals a day, right?”

  “At least.”

  “Who paid the bill?”

  “Initially or ultimately?”

  “Both.”

  “Initially, it was King County, who then bled the General Accounting Office for reimbursement.”

  “How detailed do you figure the bill was?”

  She pursed her lips. “Knowing the GAO, I’d say they probably wanted it itemized down to the last Q-Tip. Why?”

  “Which department do you figure would handle that for King County?”

  “I’d start with the county auditor.”

  The door to the judge’s chambers burst open and banged against the wall. Warren Klein came storming out into the courtroom. He strode quickly across the floor, threw his coat over one arm, and grabbed his briefcase before turning his attention to Renee Rogers. Three words into his speech, and you knew two things: one, he’d rehearsed it; two, it needed more work. “If your busy social schedule will permit, Ms. Rogers, we’ll be working at the hotel this afternoon. Two o’clock.” Showed two fingers. “Despite your unfortunate lame-duck status, we’re hoping you’ll contribute some final advice about how to avoid this impending disaster you and the other incompetents have foisted upon us.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t pencil you in,” she said.

  They stood for a moment, their gazes locked, before Warren Klein barged through the gate and up the aisle. “Professional to the end,” Corso whispered.

  Halfway between the bench and the defense table, Ray Butler stood with his cell phone pressed to the side of his head. Occasionally his lips moved, but mostly he listened.

  The movement of his hand caught Renee Rogers’s attention. He was pointing at the phone and rolling his eyes. He began to move her way, talking now. “Yes…yes, I understand. I’ll see to it…. Yes.” He rested onecheek on the table and listened for a full minute before heaving a sigh and pocketing the phone. His expression made it clear he hadn’t been chortling with his wife about the new house.

  He looked up at Renee Rogers. “You want to guess?” he asked.

  “We’ll be having breakfast with the AG tomorrow morning.”

  “She’s coming here?”

  “As we speak.”

  Her lips were nearly invisible. “She’s going to make sure the shit rolls downhill.”

  “We’re gonna need wheelbarrows,” Butler said.

  “Dump trucks,” she amended.

  35

  Monday, October 23

  4:21 p.m.

  “Try the county auditor,” she suggested. “Already been there,” Corso said. “And the accounting office. And county records.” Before she could respond, he said, “And I have been assured that hard copies of the material I’m looking for are to be found somewhere in your files.”

  Wearily, she checked the clock. “It’s closing time. You come back tomorrow and maybe we can—”

  “I really need it tonight,” he interrupted. He gave her his best smile.

  The woman shrugged. “Then you’re out of luck, buddy,” she said. “If Marcy were here, it might be a different story.”

  “Marcy?”

  “On vacation with her sister. Maui. Two weeks.” She checked the clock again. “I’m from ccounts payable. I’m just holding down the fort until she gets back.”

  Corso waited. The woman leaned over the counter and, in a stage whisper, said, “Not to speak ill of the suntanned, but King County better hope she comes home in one piece.”

  “Why’
s that?”

  “Because otherwise she might take her filing system to the grave with her, in which case nobody is ever going to find anything in here again.”

  She turned her back on Corso and began to straighten up. Pushing things around on the desk, sliding the chair in. When she walked to the long line of gray file cabinets and began to push the lock buttons, Corso piped up. “I’ve got an idea,” he said.

  She stopped and looked dubiously over in his direction. “Such as?”

  “Such as, the bill I’m looking for went out sometime in the last half of last year. Can you find the paperwork from that time frame?”

  “Yeah, “ she said. “But she doesn’t file the material by date or category. Or by any other method I’ve ever heard of.” She waved a disgusted hand. “We’d literally have to start at the front and work our way back to find what you’re looking for.”

  “Maybe not,” Corso said.

  She raised an eyebrow and went back to pushing buttons.

  “Which one has the accounts payable for the last half of last year?”

  She stopped and walked eight feet down the row of identical cabinets. She patted the next-to-last one. “Someplace in here.”

  “Open it up,” Corso suggested.

  This time, she gave him the other eyebrow.

  “Please,” he said.

  With a sigh, she thumbed open the latch and jerked With a sigh, she thumbed open the latch and jerked the drawer out.

  “Just open the drawers in that cabinet and pull out whatever appears to be the biggest file. If that’s not the one I’m looking for, I’ll go away and leave you alone.”

  “The biggest?”

  “Thickest. The one with the most pages.”

  She looked at Corso and then the clock. She bent at the waist and pulled open the bottom drawer. Then the next and the next and finally the top one again. She slid the top two closed and reached into the third drawer down. “No contest,” she announced. “This one’s way bigger than anything else in there.”

  She used her foot to close the remaining drawers as she perused the file. “Hmmmm,” she said. She looked Corso over again.