The Defense: A Novel

by Steve Cavanagh

  “All rise,” said the security officer. Pike slammed the door of her chambers closed on her way out. The court began to empty. It was four thirty. Miriam went into a huddle with her team. The jacket felt heavy on my shoulders. I’d run my persuader as best I could; if it worked, then Volchek should have been dancing a jig. When my gaze fell across him, I saw him smiling, but Arturas, curiously, was not.

  As the reporters rushed out, I saw one man standing against the exiting tide: Arnold Novoselic. He buttoned his coat and slipped along the benches as he made his way toward the prosecution table, his gaze permanently fixed upon me.

  I shook my head, but his stare never faltered and his look seemed to be one of determination. At least I knew Arnold wasn’t just here to observe: He was batting for the prosecution.

  Miriam ignored her team once she registered Arnold’s approach. She met him before he could reach her table, and they sat down on an empty bench together. I glanced at Volchek and saw that he’d remained seated with his arms folded. As I looked back at the benches, I saw both Miriam and Arnold turning their eyes away from me: Arnold had told Miriam about the bomb.

  They got up together and made for the door. Miriam’s team saw their leader leaving and quickly packed away their files and followed her. Before Miriam reached the door, she turned back and looked at me with a puzzled expression. I thought that could only be bad news. After the pounding she’d just taken, she should’ve been looking at me like I’d just keyed her car. Averting her gaze, she scanned the emptying room, and her eyes found the three men in crisp suits whom I took to be feds. Arnold and Miriam waited at the door, and I saw Miriam introduce the jury consultant to the FBI before they left together.

  I hung my head and swore under my breath. I’d run the perfect persuader and hopefully bought enough trust from the Bratva, but all that was about to change. From the look on Miriam’s face as she left the court, I knew I had a fifty-fifty chance of being arrested the second I stepped out of that courtroom and Amy wouldn’t live a moment longer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I felt more and more uncomfortable as the courtroom emptied. The Russians didn’t move from their seats. Within a minute, I was alone with them in the courtroom.

  “Victor, get the door,” said Volchek.

  Big Victor looked like he could eat his way through any door. He had a huge set of shoulders and a neck like a Michelin tire. Victor put his hands on the rail as he got up, and I noticed that his knuckles were misshapen and scarred. His nose looked like it had been set improperly after a bad break, and I figured him for a fighter. I’d been the toughest kid on my block and quickly grew to be the best young boxing talent in Brooklyn. But when I started training in Mickey Hooley’s, I quickly realized I didn’t have what it took to be a pro fighter. I still liked the training, though. Until I was eighteen, if I wasn’t hustling in the street, I was in the gym, pounding the shit out of something. That was a long time ago, and even though I had a little talent, I didn’t rate my chances against Victor.

  Victor walked slowly toward the exit. He put his wide back to the double doors, barring entry. It looked like we were going to have a little talk.

  “I want to talk to my daughter,” I said.

  “I will rape and kill your daughter if you ask that question again,” said Arturas.

  I didn’t know what the hell had gotten into him. He should’ve been pleased things had gone so well. I shut up and silently vowed that if I got out of this, Arturas would suffer. Volchek, on the other hand, seemed much happier.

  “You did well, lawyer. If you do as I ask, your daughter will be returned to you unharmed,” said Volchek, now trying to take up Arturas’s trademark smile.

  “We’re not risking the security checks again. The courthouse stays open all night, and there are people all over the building for night court. You will stay in the little office upstairs. Don’t worry. Gregor will be back soon. You will have plenty of company. Victor and Arturas will also stay to keep an eye on you,” said Volchek.

  I thought then that Gregor must have been the monster who put my lights out in the limo. When I’d woken up on the limo seats, he was gone.

  I’d spent more than one night in this courtroom, and in hindsight, I regretted every single one of them.

  Christine once told me that she felt alone in our marriage. In the last year of our relationship, I hadn’t actually slept in our house that often. Jack and I were killing ourselves to cover the courts twenty-four hours a day, and I’d missed my family. I had told myself I was doing it for them, so they could have a better life. But Christine and Amy really just wanted to see me. Even with all the extra work, the money still wasn’t coming in too fast. Christine asked me if I was really working or if I was having an affair. She didn’t really think I was having an affair; she was just angry. This wasn’t the kind of life she’d expected. In the aftermath of the Berkley case and my law license being suspended for six months, instead of staying home, I headed out to the bar and spent more time away from the people I loved the most. I came to realize that I didn’t want to face Christine and tell her that I’d thrown away all those nights spent in the Dracula Hotel; that I’d missed Amy’s school plays and sports days to duke it out in court with a judge; that I’d sacrificed our marriage for nothing. Up until last year, Christine and I’d had a pretty good marriage. We had a good house in Queens, a smart daughter, and even though I didn’t make that much money and worked impossible hours, we had been reasonably happy. Or so I had thought.

  I’d met Christine in law school. I didn’t speak to her for the first month of school. I just couldn’t summon up the courage. There were plenty of pretty, rich girls in my class and not too many guys like me, who turned up to lectures with ripped jeans, oil on their T-shirt, and the stink of last night’s beer still on their breath. Back then I wasn’t a bad-looking guy, and I didn’t lack attention from the girls who wanted to slum it for a night. But I wanted Christine. We had met for the first time on the day after Saint Patrick’s. I stumbled out of Flannery’s at nine a.m., still drunk, and jumped in a cab to take me to class. Before the cabdriver took off, a girl opened the passenger door and hopped in beside me; it was Christine.

  “You’re going my way, right?” she said.

  “Right,” I said.

  The cab pulled away, and she began stripping down to her underwear. She took off her top and her jeans and dumped them on the floor of the cab, reached into her bag, put on some deodorant and a fresh pair of pants and a top. She had been on an all-night drinking session, too. Throughout this performance, she didn’t say a word. The cabbie and I just stared, openmouthed. We pulled up outside the entrance to the law school, and she paid the fare, got out, tucked her long brown hair behind her ear, and said to me, “Sorry. Are you shocked?”

  “No,” I replied. “I’m delighted.”

  That was the start of it. We met again that same evening and fell in love over a pitcher of beer and a bucket of shrimp that I hadn’t paid for.

  She was free. That was what I loved about her. I loved her even more after we got married and she gave me Amy to hold for the first time. Amy had the same free spirit as her mom.

  I felt that vibration at the base of my spine again, the same vibration that I’d felt earlier in court, and I guessed that was Arturas deactivating the device.

  “Do you know what pleased me most of all today?” said Volchek. “You didn’t flinch when you felt the bomb arming. I saw Arturas arm it. You understand what you have to do now to get your daughter and get out of this.” He gestured to the witness box. “If I gave you a chance at cross-examining Benny, what would you ask him?”

  “I don’t know yet. The obvious questions spring to mind, that he’s trying to implicate you to save himself. That he made a deal with the prosecution to avoid a life sentence and that he’s no more credible than your average jailhouse snitch.” My train of thought led me into a question, something that had bothered me about this case since I’d first read about i
t in the paper. Volchek was on trial for a single murder, the murder of Mario Geraldo. Volchek was the head of a vast, multimillion-dollar criminal organization. If Benny got caught in the middle of a hit, why didn’t he make a good deal? Why didn’t he spill his guts to the FBI about Volchek’s entire operation and walk into witness protection instead of giving him up for one murder and having to do serious prison time when all of this was over?

  “You see, the problem with attacking Little Benny because he’s a snitch is a little flawed because he only dropped the dime on you for this murder. He didn’t tell the feds about the rest of your operation. That gives him some credibility as a witness. He could have told them, couldn’t he?” I said.

  Both Volchek and Arturas remained silent. I took that to be a yes.

  “He’s been sentenced already, hasn’t he? I read in the Times that an anonymous witness in an upcoming Russian Mafia trial got time. Everyone reading that knew it was your case. How long did he get? Ten years?”

  “Twelve,” said Arturas.

  “So what stopped him giving up the good stuff? It doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t he give up your whole operation and walk away a free man with a new identity, courtesy of the FBI?”

  Volchek spat on the floor, and although his face was turned toward me, his eyes sought out Arturas as he said, “Perhaps Little Benny still has some loyalties.” His bleak, ferocious gaze returned to me.

  “No matter. I do not think you can win this case, Mr. Flynn. You can try. I will allow you that. But come tomorrow, we plant the bomb under the seat. We won’t risk planting it tonight in case a cleaner finds it. Tomorrow we plant the bomb, just as Arturas planned,” said Volchek, and as he spoke the name of his lieutenant, I saw again some form of dark, bloody desire in his expression, as if the murders that went before and the deaths still to come were a source of sadistic pleasure for Volchek. This man was the head of his organization and yet he’d taken the time to torture Jack and his sister. Arturas was all business, whereas Volchek enjoyed the wet work.

  For all of Volchek’s talk of the Bratva, of loyalty and trust, it didn’t change the fact that when his man got caught, he pointed the finger straight at the boss, at the pakhan, at the very man who, in giving him that ruble bill, had given him his tselkovy, his whole heart. In large criminal organizations you have to have a certain level of trust. You demand loyalty or you don’t stay in business too long. I guessed Volchek was in his early fifties. Not many gangsters live to that age, never mind stay out of jail, and this fact was testament to the loyalty that existed in the Bratva’s ranks. Loyalty clearly came with high expectations, and if they were not met, the consequences were inevitable. The scar on Arturas’s cheek was probably some form of testament to that demand. Volchek despised Little Benny. Blowing someone up sends a message to everyone in the Bratva ranks. It sends a message to every law-enforcement agency in the world. It sends a message to every rival gang: We can get you—anywhere. Betray the Russian Mafia and die.

  Darkness fell on the building as a huge rain cloud moved overhead, muting the dying light.

  I heard a noise, loud and urgent. Someone pounding on the courtroom door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I watched Victor and Arturas drop to their knees and remove something from their shoes. A hidden compartment in each of their boot heels stored short, wickedly curved blades. They were made of the same material; no bulky handles, just slim, gray, single-piece knives. I guessed them to be ceramic. That material wouldn’t show up on the metal detectors. The blades probably cost a lot of money. You can buy a decent knife for seventy-five dollars. These knives probably cost seventy-five hundred each.

  This was their backup. If it all goes to shit, they pull out knives. No guns. Whatever Arturas had on me, I knew then he didn’t have that big revolver with him. If they couldn’t get the bomb in there, then he sure as hell couldn’t smuggle a gun through security, either.

  Victor listened at the door, his knife in his left hand held down by his side, the tip of the blade held upward, toward the ceiling. Arturas appeared more accomplished with the knife. He drew it, reversed it, and held it blade to ground in the ideal fighting grip: allowing him to cut, stab, and run. The reverse grip keeps the knife discreet and avoids creating an easy target for your opponent to knock the weapon out of your hand. In addition, striking down allows a lot more force to be generated, and it’s a lot faster than driving a blade upward. I’d had occasion to use a knife in the past—for protection.

  Arturas joined Victor at the door.

  They listened.

  Nothing.

  BANG! BANG!

  Arturas gestured me forward and said, “We’ll open the door. You speak to whoever is there and deal with it.”

  Victor took the left-hand door. Arturas moved to the right, holding the detonator in his left hand. The bomb vibrated again, and for the first time I noticed a red dot of light on the detonator, which I guessed meant that it was armed and ready.

  The courtroom echoed softly with our breath.

  “What if it’s the feds?” I said.

  Arturas said, “Why would the feds want to speak to you?”

  “The prosecutor hired a jury consultant. I saw him in court today. His name is Arnold Novoselic. Arnold is a renowned lip-reader. I’m concerned he may have read me or one of you guys talking about the bomb.”

  Volchek shook his head and said, “Impossible. See who’s at the door.”

  Arturas and Victor gripped the door handles and looked at each other.

  They opened the doors to a tumultuous river of light.

  * * *

  They were lined up like a firing squad, but instead of muzzle flash, I drowned in rapid fire from a dozen cameras. I instinctively put my hands up to my face, shielding my eyes from the sudden fluorescent onslaught.

  When we started our law firm, Jack had insisted on publicity shots for advertising. I had to sit in a bright room next to a large plant and smile for forty minutes while a photographer got overpaid to make me look half decent on a poster or a coffee mug. In hindsight, the coffee mugs were a mistake. No client likes to have their attorney’s face on their mug. Only reminds them of their car accident, rape, divorce, murder rap, or—worst of all—their bill. The memory of that day at the photographer’s made me smile. I’d been bored. I’d taken out a pack of cards and hit the photographer and his assistant for fifteen hundred each. I’d had to. In those days, Jack and I didn’t have the money to pay for gas, never mind photo shoots. I felt my teeth grinding at the thought of Jack and what he’d gotten me into.

  With my hands in front of my face, I started forward. The photographers weren’t expecting it. A tall guy who shined a permanent beam of light in my face from his TV camera almost fell when I started toward him. I’m sure every one of them had shot me before with a big stupid grin on my face and my arm around some lowlife. Like it or not, I operated a scale; the more horrific the crime the client was alleged to have committed, the closer I would be to them when we were photographed. According to that ratio, I should have been standing beside Volchek with my hand on his ass. If you are any kind of a decent criminal lawyer, you will get your picture in the paper and you will get to know some reporters.

  Behind the cameramen lay the real sharks—the reporters. The camera guys gave way, and instantly, I was surrounded by microphones, voice recorders, and pleading hands. Apart from the ship that sank on the Hudson a few days ago, this was the big story in town. Every reporter wanted a piece. Volchek was one of the biggest organized crime bosses ever to face a modern trial, and since no cameras were allowed in court, they had all waited for him to leave the courtroom so they could get their shots and sound bites before he ducked into an elevator.

  “Eddie, how are you going to defend Volchek?”

  “Eddie, great show today. What’s in store for tomorrow?”

  “Mr. Flynn, will your client testify?”

  A dozen other questions were flung at me all at once. I made it acro
ss the hall to the elevators and turned to the crowd of reporters. They hadn’t noticed Volchek. He stood behind Victor, which was much the same as standing behind a moving wall. The elevator doors chimed and opened. Victor dragged the suitcase of files and moved behind the reporters and around their left flank as they continued to focus on me. Sneaking in front of them and then ducking behind me into the elevator, Victor beckoned me inside. Volchek moved into the corner of the elevator while Arturas and Victor stood in front. The reporters now realized who was being protected and called the photographers forward. But it was too late.

  The doors started to close. Arturas and Victor were both on edge, breathing heavily. They kept their hands in their coat pockets, no doubt clutching their knives. Their eyes were wide and watchful for any threat. These guys were dangerous like this. Adrenaline and fear were a powerful combination in anyone, but in men like Arturas—deadly. A hand stretched out and caught the closing doors, arresting their path and forcing them open. It wasn’t an overenthusiastic reporter, as I’d hoped.

  It was Barry, the security guard. He had the look of a man who’d been searching for me all day. As the doors opened again, he joined me in the elevator.

  “Eddie, I got to thank you again for what you’re doing for Terry. I told him you would represent him for free, and he nearly hit the ceiling he’s so happy. He called his wife; they want you over for dinner.”

  Barry stood around a lot. When you do that long enough, you develop a pose. A way of standing that eases your body and causes you the least pain. Barry shifted his weight onto his right leg. He waited for an answer from me with his right hand resting casually on the butt of his .45 Beretta.

  Victor hit the button for the top floor again.

  I looked over Barry’s shoulder and saw Miriam standing about twenty feet away, talking to one of the feds, the tallest one. He wore a sharp navy suit, white shirt, and blue tie. His hair was so black that I thought it had been dyed. Miriam pointed at me. The fed looked straight at me and then glanced upward as he began to walk toward the elevator. He must have known he wouldn’t reach me before the doors closed, and he was checking the electronic floor display above the elevator doors. He would wait and check which floor we stopped on before following us up.