Black River

by G. M. Ford

  Ivanov was visibly shaken by the sight of Renee Rogers. “You can’t,” he stammered. “This isn’t…”

  “I can and I will, Mr. Ivanov,” she snapped. “I’m not playing by the rules anymore. If this is what it takes to bring Nicholas Balagula to justice, that’s the way it’s gonna have to be.”

  “So make up your mind,” Corso said. “You’re either going to help us nail your boss or we’re going across the street right now and deliver you to the local authorities on charges of jury tampering and attempted murder.”

  “It’s up to you, Mr. Ivanov,” Rogers added.

  Ivanov turned his head and looked out the side window for a moment. “Go to hell,” he said finally.

  “Okay,” said Rogers. “Let’s take him in.”

  Corso stepped out into the street and pulled open the sliding door. He took Ivanov by the elbow and started to pull him out onto the pavement. Suddenly Ivanov jerked his arm free and said, “Wait.” He looked from Corso to Rogers and back. “And you—what—cut me some sort of deal? A plea bargain?”

  “You disappear,” said Rogers.

  Ivanov’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Into your silly Witness Protection Program?” He made a rude noise with his lips. “I think not.”

  “You walk,” Rogers said. “On your own. You gather up whatever you have and you disappear.”

  Ivanov’s eyes narrowed. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Rogers repeated.

  A garbage truck roared to a stop across the street. Amid the clatter of a pair of emptying Dumpsters, Ivanov said, “Since we were boys….”

  “What?” Rogers said.

  “We’ve been together since we were boys,” Ivanov said sadly.

  “And in all that time,” Corso said, “if there were risks to be taken, you took them. If somebody had to go to jail, you were the one.”

  “I was—”

  “Has he ever, even once, stepped into the breach? Come forward and taken the beating for you? Ever?”

  “ ’Cause he’s certainly not going to do it now,” Rogers added. “He’s going to walk out of that courtroom tomorrow a free man, and he’s going to disappear before we think of anything else to charge him with, leaving you rotting in jail.”

  Ivanov took several deep breaths. “You want me to say what?”

  “We want you to testify that you were present when the scheme to fake the concrete samples was implemented,” Rogers said quickly. Before Ivanov could reply, she went on. “We also want you to confess to arranging the murders of Donald Barth, Joseph Ball, Brian Swanson, and Joshua Harmon.”

  Ivanov nearly smiled. “I clean up all your loose ends at once for you, eh?”

  “One more thing,” Corso said.

  Ivanov turned his face away, shaking his head in disgust.

  “You also confess to having personally killed Gerardo Limón and Ramón Javier, in an attempt to clean up your own loose ends.”

  “All at Mr. Balagula’s behest, of course,” Renee Rogers added.

  Slowly, Ivanov swiveled his head around until he was staring Corso in the face.

  A look of admiration swept over his features. “Really,” he said. He nodded twice, as if agreeing with himself. “I told Nico you were a dangerous man. But I had no idea—”

  “Well?” Rogers prodded. “What’ll it be?”

  “But I didn’t—” Ivanov began.

  “We don’t care,” Rogers said. “When you walk out of that courtroom tomorrow morning, you have seven days to leave the country. We will keep your murder confessions confidential. But if you ever show up again on our radar screens, we’ll prosecute you for three murders. Other than that, we will formally agree not to seek your extradition from whatever country you might choose to live in.”

  Ivanov shifted his gaze to Rogers. “You have the authority?”

  “I do,” Rogers lied.

  “In writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Comes a time a man needs to look out for himself,” Corso added.

  Across the street, the garbage truck roared off, swirling diesel fumes and bits of airborne refuse in the night air. “You know what the joke is?” Ivanov asked.

  “What’s that?” said Corso.

  “The hospital wasn’t our fault. All we did was reduce the concrete by ten percent. We’ve done it a hundred times before.” He shook his head sadly. “It was those two inspectors, Harmon and Swanson.” He looked up at Corso. “They took out another ten percent of their own. Next thing you know they’re driving sports cars and buying houses in Marin County.”

  “Greed’s a terrible thing, isn’t it, Mr. Ivanov?” Corso gibed.

  Ivanov didn’t answer, merely looked away.

  “You agree to our terms?” Rogers said.

  Ivanov dropped his chin to his chest. “Yes,” he said.

  Renee Rogers slid out of the driver’s seat and stood in the street, pushing the buttons on her cell phone. Then she spoke, first identifying herself and then demanding, “Two U.S. marshals to the corner of Fourth and Cherry. Pronto.”

  Joe Bocco pushed the jump seat forward, stepped out of the van, dropped to one knee, and jacked three rounds out onto the pavement. After pocketing the ammunition, he slid the sawed-off shotgun into a sleeve sewn into the lining of his raincoat and got to his feet. “If you guys don’t mind, I think I’ll pass on the marshals.” He nodded toward the van. “He ain’t going anywhere.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Corso said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bocco,” Renee Rogers said.

  He gave her a silent two-fingered salute and walked off. Corso and Rogers stood together in the street, watching until Joe Bocco rounded the corner on Spring Street and disappeared from view.

  She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “This doesn’t feel nearly as good as I imagined it would.”

  “How come?”

  She looked toward the van and Ivanov. “I can’t believe we’re letting this slimeball go. He’s every bit as responsible.” She shook her head. “It’s just not right.”

  “What’s right got to do with it?”

  “I like to think it has everything to do with it.”

  “You gotta stop confusing justice and the law.”

  “Oh, pleeeease—”

  “Lawyers…the courts…you guys…you dispense the law. Justice is dispensed on the ends of piers and in back alleys.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what the cliché says, isn’t it?”

  “It got to be a cliché by being true.”

  The muscles along the edge of her jaw rippled. She gave a grudging nod and jammed her hands into her pockets.

  “I think this is where I came in,” Corso said.

  She swept her eyes over his face. “You’re not coming to court tomorrow?”

  “I’ll catch it on the news.”

  They stood uneasily for a moment before Renee Rogers stepped forward and gave him a hug. He hesitated and then slowly wrapped his arms around her.

  “Thank you again for saving my life,” she said, and let him go.

  “I told you—” he began.

  She reached up and put two fingers over his lips. “I know, Mr. Hard Guy was just saving himself.” She held his gaze. “I had my eye on you that night, you know.”

  “Things got a little out of hand,” Corso said with a shrug.

  Her eyes crinkled into a smile. “At least I was wearing my good underwear.”

  “Your mother would be proud,” Corso said.

  She managed a tight smile and turned toward the van and Ivanov.

  “See ya,” Corso said, and strode off up the street. He walked about twenty feet and then stopped and turned aroud.

  “Hey.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Hey what?”

  “You know what Ivanov was saying about Harmon and Swanson buying themselves houses in Marin County?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had a guy say the same thing to me about the Joe Ball charac
ter. About how he and his wife just bought a house. Seems like every place we go people are buying real estate after they get involved with Balagula and Ivanov here.”

  Her spine stiffened. “So?”

  “When you get Ivanov spilling his guts, ask him about how they got the jury list from the last trial. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts the name Ray Butler gets bandied about.”

  She was silent for a long moment. “Sometimes I’m not sure I like you,” she said.

  “Join the club.”

  42

  Wednesday, October 25

  10:04 a.m.

  Judge Fulton Howell took his time getting situated behind the bench. Satisfied that his chair was in exactly the right place and that the drape of his robe was correct, he turned his frowning visage toward the nearly empty courtroom. Bang.

  “In light of the testimony of Victor Lebow—” he began.

  Renee Rogers got to her feet. “Your Honor.”

  Out of habit, the judge looked over at Warren Klein, who sat stonefaced behind the prosecution table. When Klein failed to meet his gaze, he turned his attention back to Renee Rogers. “Ms. Rogers,” he said.

  “The prosecution would like to call a final witness.”

  The judge folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. “I was under the impression that Mr. Lebow was to be the state’s final witness.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. As of Monday afternoon, it was our intention to have Mr. Lebow be the final witness for the prosecution.”

  “And?” the judge prompted.

  “New developments in the case have provided the state with additional information that we believe, in the interests of justice, should be introduced in this court.”

  “In the interests of justice?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “As I recall, Mr. Lebow’s last-minute testimony was allowed on much the same supposed basis.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked over at the defense table. For the first time, Bruce Elkins sat with his hands steepled beneath his chin. Nicholas Balagula had abandoned his day-at-the-beach slouch and was now sitting bolt-up-right in his chair.

  “Mr. Elkins?”

  “It was my impression that the state had rested its case.”

  “No, Your Honor, the state had not,” Rogers said.

  Fulton Howell deepened his scowl and called for the court reporter, who walked over, put her head together with the court clerk’s, and returned to the bench with several pages of trial transcript. After a moment, the judge looked up and addressed himself to Bruce Elkins. “Apparently your impression was faulty, Mr. Elkins. The prosecution never rested its case prior to my call for an adjournment.”

  Elkins shrugged. “As previously stated, Your Honor, the defense does not wish to dignify these spurious proceedings. We remain confident that the jury will see through the web of innuendo which the state calls a case and will reach the judicious conclusion.”

  “I take it, then, you have no objection, Mr. Elkins.”

  “None,” Elkins said, with a wave of the hand.

  Fulton Howell’s distaste for the tactic was evident on his face. He swiveled his head back to face Renee Rogers. “Before I rule on this matter, Ms. Rogers, let me make it clear that any semblance of yesterday’s travesty of justice will not be tolerated.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she said.

  His voice began to rise. “I will not permit this court to become any more of a laughingstock than it has already become. Whatever testimony this witness may offer had better be both verifiable and germane to this case. Am I making myself clear?”

  Renee Rogers lifted her chin a notch. “The testimony is of sufficient magnitude and is sufficiently verifiable to have led to the investigation of one of our own staff members, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked from Klein to Rogers and back. “Would that explain the absence of Mr. Butler from today’s proceedings?”

  “Yes, it would, Your Honor.”

  He now turned his attention to the defense table. “And Mr. Ivanov?” he inquired.

  Elkins spread his hands. “I have no knowledge as to the whereabouts of Mr. Ivanov.”

  “Mr. Balagula?”

  “Mr. Ivanov is indisposed.”

  “Indisposed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Indisposed in what manner?”

  Renee Rogers broke in. “Your Honor.”

  “If you don’t mind, counselor.” His voice dripped acid.

  “Your Honor,” she said again, “with the court’s forbearance, Mr. Ivanov will be the state’s next and final witness.”

  Silence settled over the room like new-fallen snow. Judge Fulton Howell moved his gaze from table to table as if watching a tennis match replayed at half speed.

  “Do something,” Nicholas Balagula said to his attorney. He reached out and prodded Elkins in the back: once, twice. Hard. “Do something, goddammit!” he demanded. When he received no response, he jumped to his feet and started up the aisle. He made it about halfway to the door before a pair of U.S. marshals came out of the woodwork, blocked his path, and then, when he tried to force his way through, wrestled him to the floor, where he was handcuffed and subsequently pulled to his feet.

  Most of those in the room at the time believed Bruce Elkins buried his face in his hands in a show of frustration. Truth was, the move was designed to hide his lips, which despite his best efforts seemed intent on arranging themselves into a smile.

  43

  Wednesday, October 25

  10:14 a.m.

  While hope springs eternal and charity begins at home, faith apparently requires the assistance of iron bars. The Ming Ya Buddhist Foundation of Seattle sat on Martin Luther King Way South, wedged between a derelict steel yard and an Arco gas station. The red-rimmed windows of the bottom two floors were protected by wrought-iron security bars, whose decorative loops and whirls were more reminiscent of New Orleans than of New Delhi.

  Corso parked on the side street. On this side, a set of wooden stairs led up to a porch. Above the narrow door, a dozen gold Chinese characters glittered. At each end of the landing, a red lantern waved its tassels in the breeze.

  Corso walked down the slight incline to the front of the temple, where, high up under the eaves, a pair of golden dragons flanked a molten sun.

  Corso knocked on the red metal door. Nothing. He knocked again, harder this time, and waited. Still nothing. He had turned and started back the way he’d come when he heard the scrape of the door.

  The boy was somewhere between twelve and fourteen. Bald and barefoot, he took Corso in from head to toe. He held the door open with his back and inclined his head, as if to question. “I need to talk to someone,” Corso said.

  Without hesitation, the boy leaned back into the door and pushed it all the way open. Corso stepped inside. The boy’s feet pattered on the bare floor as he hurried around Corso. He pointed at Corso’s shoes and then at a reed mat to the right of the door, where a pair of Nike sandals rested.

  Corso dropped to one knee and then the other as he removed his shoes and placed them beside the sandals. The kid was off down the hall like a rabbit. Halfway down he stopped short, slid back a screen, and disappeared from view. Corso stood still. He could hear muted voices. After a moment, the boy stepped back into the hall and stood with his hands at his sides, not moving. Corso walked toward him, bending low under the doorway. A Buddhist monk sat cross-legged on the floor. At the sight of Corso, he adjusted the saffron-colored robe on his shoulder and smiled. His broad brown hand gestured to his left. Corso heard the door slide shut behind him.

  He padded across the room, sat on the floor, and forced his legs across one another. Rice-paper screens covered the windows. The air was filled with the pleasant odor of incense. The room was dominated by a life-sized Buddha. Gold and gleaming, it sat between a pair of low tables, draped with red silk. Candles flickered on the tables.

  “How can I help you, Mr….”
>
  “Corso.”

  “Ah.”

  “I have a few questions.”

  “Ah,” the monk said again.

  “About a woman named Lily Pov.”

  “A tragedy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are seeking what?”

  “Understanding.”

  “Of what?”

  Corso told him.

  “I could not expect you to understand, Mr. Corso,” the monk said.

  “Try me.”

  “You spoke of a funeral for Lily Pov. Here at the temple.”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged his smooth brown shoulders. “In the Buddhist tradition, there is no such thing. What would usually happen would be that the family and friends would go to the Pov home. They would bring an envelope with money to help pay for the funeral expenses. There would be an ahjar sar.”

  “A what?”

  “Perhaps, in the Christian tradition, a deacon.”

  “Sort of a middleman between the sacred and the secular.”

  “Yes. The ahjar sar would bless the gifts and the mourners. Food would be served. This would go on all day.”

  “So if this is something that usually happens at home, why was Lily Pov’s”—Corso searched for a word—“bereavement held here at the temple?”

  “Mr. Pov has many friends in the local Khmer community, far too many for his house. We offered the temple as a courtesy.”

  “You know that she killed herself.”

  “So I was told.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “We are not like Catholic priests. We do not hear confessions.”

  “Surely there must have been talk.”

  “There is seldom a shortage of talk.”

  “Hypothetically…” Corso began.

  “Hypothetically,” the monk repeated.

  “Why would a woman who had waited nearly ten years to come to this country, who was engaged to a Cambodian man—”

  “Engaged?”

  “Promised in marriage.”

  “Ah.”

  “A woman who had the support of her elder brother and, as you say, the entire Cambodian community—why would a woman such as this choose to kill herself?”