The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella

by Steve Cavanagh

  My jaw was clenched so tight it began to ache.

  “Benny is in FBI custody. He’s well protected and well hidden. Even my contacts can’t find him. You’re the only one who can get close to him because you are my lawyer.”

  He lowered his voice and said, “Before you cross-examine Benny, you will take off your jacket and, when the court is empty, we will tape the bomb underneath the chair in the witness box. Benny takes his seat, and we detonate the device. No more Benny, no more case, no more problem. You are the bomber, Mr. Flynn. You’ll go to prison. The prosecutor won’t have enough evidence for a retrial, and I will go free.”

  “You’re one crazy son of a bitch,” I said.

  Volchek didn’t react at first. He didn’t fly into a rage or threaten me. He just sat there for a moment before tilting his head as if he were considering his options. There was no sound, other than my heart jackknifing in my chest, and I wondered if I’d just earned myself a bullet. I couldn’t take my eyes from Volchek, but I could feel the others staring at me, almost quizzically, like I was a guy who’d just put his hand into a snake pit.

  “Have a look at this before you decide,” said Volchek, nodding to Arturas.

  Arturas picked up the white gym bag and opened it.

  Jack’s head was inside.

  My stomach cramped. My mouth filled with saliva. I retched, covered my mouth, and coughed. I spat and fought to hold on to my senses and gripped the seat beneath me until I could feel my fingernails scraping the leather. All traces of a calm facade left me completely.

  “We thought Jack could do it. We were wrong. But we take no chances with you, Mr. Flynn,” said Volchek, leaning forward. “We have your daughter.”

  Time, breath, blood, motion—everything stopped.

  “If you so much as touch her . . .”

  He took a cell phone from his pants pocket and flipped it around so that I could see the screen. Amy stood on a dark street corner in front of a newsstand. My little girl. She was only ten years old. I saw her standing somewhere in New York, hugging herself against the cold and staring warily at the camera. Behind her, the news banner carried the headline on the cargo ship that sank on the Hudson on Saturday night.

  I hadn’t realized how much I was sweating; my shirt was soaked, along with my face and hair, but I was no longer afraid. I no longer cared about the bomb, the gun, or the pair of mute giants staring at me with their dead eyes.

  “Give her back to me and I’ll let you live,” I said.

  This produced laughter from Volchek and his crew. They knew me as Eddie Flynn, the lawyer; they didn’t know the old Eddie Flynn : the hustler, the backstreet fighter, the con artist. In truth, I’d almost forgotten him myself.

  Volchek inclined his head before speaking. He seemed to be considering each word carefully. “You are in no position to make threats. Be smart. Nothing will happen to your daughter if you do as I tell you,” said Volchek.

  “Let her go. I will do nothing until I know she’s safe. Kill me if you want. In fact, you’d better kill me, because I’ll go to my grave with my thumbs in your eyes if you don’t let her go now.”

  Volchek took a pull from his cigar, opened his mouth, and for a moment, he let the smoke play over his fat lips, savoring the flavor.

  “Your daughter is safe. We picked her up outside her school yesterday while she waited for the bus to take her on her field trip. She thinks the men looking after her are security guards, working for you. You’ve had death threats in the past, and she knows this. Your ex-wife thinks Amy is on the school trip, hiking in Long Island. The school believes she’s with you. She won’t be missed for a day or two. If you refuse to carry out your instructions, I will kill her. But that will be a relief. Your daughter will suffer if you don’t cooperate. Some of my men . . .”

  He trailed off deliberately, pretending to search for the right words, letting my imagination build me a nightmare. My whole body tensed, as if preparing to repel a physical attack. I felt adrenaline washing my system with rage.

  “Well, some of my men have unusual appetites for pretty little girls.”

  I lunged at Volchek. Out of my seat before I knew what I was doing. Cramped, no purchase, ducking my head, but fired up, I still managed a decent right cross that connected sharply with Volchek’s left cheek. The cigar went flying out of his filthy mouth. My left hand drew back, and I steadied myself before I punched him in the throat.

  Before I could throw that second punch, a huge hand grabbed me and picked me clean off the floor. Turning, I saw the giant psycho had taken hold of me. He was about to put me on my ass like an errant child when my old habits took over. My right hand grabbed for his face, hard, driving my fingernails into his fleshy forehead. It was an automatic, unconscious response and distraction. My left hand slipped into the big guy’s jacket, and I lifted his wallet. It took half a second. Fast and soft. I hadn’t lost much speed over the years after all. It was a clean lift. The big guy hadn’t noticed; he was too busy trying to take my head off. As I slipped the wallet into my pocket, a fist the size of a dinner plate appeared in front of my face. I turned away from the blow and felt the impact burn across the back of my skull. I fell, smacking my head on the limo floor.

  I stayed on the deck and felt the pain roaring into my head. It was my first pocket dip in fifteen years. It was instinct; it just happened because that’s who I was.

  No—it’s who I am.

  The skills and techniques that I’d developed and used as a successful con artist—distraction, misdirection, persuasion, suggestion, the load, the switch, the drop—I’d used these methods just as much on the street all those years ago as I had for the past nine years in the courtroom. I hadn’t really changed. I’d just changed the con.

  My eyes and my mind closed as I gave in to the thickening dark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I woke up on leather seats, the back of my head aching. One of the gorillas held a bag of ice on my neck. It was the big blond guy who looked as if he’d just lost his spot in a Swedish heavy metal band. The sweet, acrid smell from Volchek’s cigar made me feel sick. I figured that I’d been picked up from the floor of the limo and dumped in the seat. My eyes burned a little from the smoke, but it took me only a second to realize the giant psycho who’d knocked me out was no longer in the car. I took the ice pack and dropped it to the floor.

  “We’re at the courthouse now,” said Arturas.

  I sat up.

  “Why are we at the courthouse?” I said.

  “Because Mr. Volchek’s trial starts this morning,” said Arturas.

  “This morning?” I said. I summoned the image of my daughter on Volchek’s phone and felt the anger building more pain behind my neck and iron tension in my muscles.

  “Trial starts in an hour. Before you go, we need to know that you can do this. Otherwise we kill you now and your family later,” said Arturas. He took out his revolver and placed it on his folded knee.

  Arturas handed me an expensive-looking glass with a splash of urine-colored liquid swilling within. It smelled like bourbon. I downed it and felt that familiar, sour heat. It was my first drink since I’d checked out of rehab for alcohol addiction. For a second I thought about how much money I still owed the clinic, then dismissed the thought. There was a time and place for falling off the wagon, and right then seemed as good a time as any. I held my hand out for another, and Arturas spilled more of the liquor into my glass from a matching crystal decanter. I swallowed it fast and enjoyed the burn. A shudder ripped through my body from the strong alcohol, and I shook my head. I was trying to clear my mind, like shaking a Magic 8-Ball; I didn’t come up with any answers.

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  “Safe and happy for now,” said Arturas. He poured me another drink. I tucked that shot away and started thinking.

  “Why’d you kill Jack?” I asked.

  Volchek nodded to Arturas; he was happy to let him fill in the details.

  “All of the lawyers
we saw said Benny’s evidence would convict Volchek. So it made sense just to kill Benny; it’s a simple solution, but we can’t find him. We . . . persuaded Jack to wear the jacket, so we could kill Benny when he got to court. But he couldn’t do it.”

  I wondered what kind of persuasion they’d tried on Jack. No doubt he would’ve been tortured. He was an asshole and a gambling addict, but he had been my partner, and my feelings toward him softened a little then. Whatever Jack used to be, he wasn’t cut out to carry a bomb. Most days he was lucky if he could carry his briefcase without tripping over his own feet. They must have worked him pretty hard.

  “Why Jack?” I asked.

  “It had to be a certain kind of lawyer. We know you and Jack started that firm with loan-shark money. Jack had a bad reputation for lying and not paying his debts. He needed money; clients started leaving the firm after you quit, and we needed someone who could carry the bomb through security. Security at the courthouse is good. It will be better today. We couldn’t smuggle a bomb in there; everybody’s searched going in, body scanned and then searched again—everyone except you and Jack. We know this. We watched both of you walk into that court building every day for months. Neither of you were ever searched. The security guards let you two straight through—like old friends. We told Jack what we told you; plant the bomb and take the hit.”

  Arturas leaned back in this seat and shot a quick glance at Volchek. It was almost like they were a tag team; Arturas had laid out the facts, straight and clear. After that, he seemed happy to let his boss handle the intimidation.

  “Jack sat where you are now, Mr. Flynn, just three days ago. He wore the same jacket as you, with the same bomb inside. We told him what we told you. I opened the door of this car and told him to go and do his job,” said Volchek, lowering his eyes to the floor.

  His head came up through the pall of smoke, framing his face in the gray mist as he continued. “Jack froze. He shook like a . . . what you call it? Epileptic? Like he was having a fit. He had piss running down his leg. We closed the door and took him to our place.”

  He sucked on the cigar again and watched the warm glow at the tip.

  “I tied him to a chair. I tell him I will kill his sister if he doesn’t do as I ask. Victor here”—he pointed at the blond guy—“brings the sister to us. I take my knife and I cut her face in front of him. ‘Will you do it now?’ I ask him. Nothing. I go to work on her with my knife and he just sits there.”

  I could almost feel a clamp coming down on my chest. This monster had my little girl. A noise startled me slightly; my knuckle joints cracking with the tension in my fist. In my other hand I held the empty bourbon glass, and I thought about punching it into Volchek’s eye before deciding against it. Given that my last attempt at taking him on had gone so badly, I didn’t want to take another shot.

  Not yet.

  “I realize then that I could not rely on Jack. Before I kill him, I gave the sister some satisfaction. I hand her my knife. I helped her cut him, cut him bad.”

  A hellish fire kindled in his gaze, bathing his eyes in light. He appeared to find the memory delicious.

  “Jack was in over his head, so I cut it off and gave it to his sister before I killed her, too. She was brave. Not like her brother.”

  I looked at the gym bag on the floor, now mercifully closed, and thought of Jack. My opinion swung back to hating him. If I could, I would have kicked his severed head into the Hudson. Just plain kicked the shit out of it. Jack deserved to lie at the bottom of the river next to that sunken ship.

  “We don’t have time for a dry run for you,” continued Arturas. “You take the bomb in now, Mr. Flynn. Calm yourself. Remember your daughter. You get the bomb in—you are a step closer to her. If you get caught, you go to jail for trying to blow up a public building. You’d get life, no parole. What do you think?”

  I thought he was right. People who try to blow up public buildings in this city don’t usually fair too well in sentencing. I would be in the running for life imprisonment without doubt. The only saving grace would be that I’d planted the bomb because they’d threatened my daughter. Extreme duress isn’t an absolute defense, but I might avoid life.

  That sickening smile spread over Arturas’s face once again. I almost got the impression that he could guess what I was thinking. Volchek stubbed out his cigar and peered at me through the dying smoke. I thought that they were both intelligent, ruthless men, but each had a different kind of intelligence. Arturas seemed to be an adviser, the man with the plan who thought through the eventualities and carefully weighed up the risks, a calculated thinker. His boss was way different. Volchek’s movements were slow and graceful, like a big cat sitting in the long grass, stalking its prey; his intellect was primal, instinctual—almost feral. My instinct told me that these men weren’t going to let me live to tell my tale, no matter what happened.

  “I haven’t set foot in that building in a long time. What makes you think I’m going to be able to just walk in today without being searched?”

  “You know the security guards and, more important, they know you,” said Arturas. His voice began rising, and he sat forward to hammer home his point. “We’ve been watching the courthouse for a long time, lawyer. I’ve spent nearly two years planning this to the last detail. Whoever carries the bomb has to be someone the guards trust, someone they least expect. There is no other way of getting a bomb into that building. I’ve watched you myself, running through the doors late for court, waving at the guard on the desk when you jog through the sensors and set off the alarm. They ignore it and wave you on. You talk to the guards. They know you. They even take your calls for you.”

  I didn’t carry a cell phone. I never liked the thought of anyone being able to pin my location to the nearest cell phone tower. It was a hangover from the old days that I’d never shaken off despite Jack having bought me more than one cell phone. I lost them all. When I was practicing, I’d be in the courthouse most of the day. If anyone needed me urgently, they rang the pay phone in the lobby. Usually somebody in security had a good idea what court I’d be in and they’d come get me. A couple of bottles of whiskey for the security guys at Christmas and a basket each at Thanksgiving was a small price to pay for that kind of help.

  My head began to clear a little.

  “Why can’t you kill this guy some other way? A sniper could take him out as he travels to court.”

  Arturas nodded. “I’ve thought about that. I’ve thought over every possibility. We don’t know where he is or how he will get to court. This is the only way. We had lots of law firms look at the case. Those big firms practiced all over the city. You and Jack had nearly all of your cases here, in Chambers Street. You got to know the staff. Those other lawyers charge nine hundred dollars an hour. You think they have time to talk to a security guard? No. I knew this had to be the way the very first time I saw you and Jack run through security, setting off the alarm, and no one batted an eyelid. You showed me the way.”

  Arturas was the brains here. This was clearly his plan. He seemed somehow detached, coldly rational, and I imagined he’d be that way even when it came to pulling the trigger. The opposite could’ve been said for Volchek. Even though he appeared calm after I’d hit him, I could sense that a monster lay behind his restrained pose, pawing at the surface, ready to break free at any moment.

  I put my head in my hands and breathed deeply and slowly.

  “There is one more thing, Mr. Flynn,” said Volchek. “You should know that we are fighters. We are proud. We are Bratva : This means brotherhood. I trust this man.” He put his hand on Arturas’s shoulder. “But much can go wrong. You must get the jacket inside. Your daughter’s death is one phone call away. You will get in. I know this. I can see a fighter in you, too. Do not fight me.”

  He paused to light another cigar.

  “Arturas and I came here twenty years ago with nothing. We spilled much blood to get where we are, and we will not run without a fight. But we are not stupid
men. The trial is scheduled to last for three days. We are giving you two days. We cannot risk more. Two days to get Little Benny onto that seat so we can kill him. If he is not dead before four o’clock tomorrow, I have no choice. I will have to run. The longer the case goes on, the more likely the prosecutor will try to revoke my bail. A nine-hundred-dollar-an-hour lawyer told me that. You are smart enough to know he is right.”

  I’d seen that happen before. Most prosecutors don’t have their most damaging piece of evidence at the arraignment when the accused applies for bail. DNA and expert evidence takes time to prepare. But by the time the case comes up for trial, the prosecution have all their ducks in a row, and if the prosecutor gets a good run on the evidence, they will make an application to the judge to revoke the defendant’s bail. That usually seals the defendant’s fate. All it takes is a small, yet deliberate, delay by the custody officer for the jury to see the defendant in handcuffs. A second’s glance at those bracelets and it’s all over—the jury will convict every time.

  I nodded at Volchek. He knew that I was experienced enough to know prosecution tactics, so there was no point in denying it.

  As Volchek delivered his ultimatum, he struggled to hide the brutality of his true nature from his voice.

  “The court has my passport as part of my bail terms. I get merchandise flown in from Russia three times a year, by private plane to a commercial airstrip not far from here. That plane arrives tomorrow at three o’clock and leaves at six. If Benny is still alive at four—you’ve run out of time. I will need to leave the court at four to make the plane. That plane is my last chance to get out of the United States. I want to stay. I want to fight. Little Benny must die before four tomorrow, or I will kill you and your daughter. Know this as a solemn vow.”

  The whiskey glass shattered in my hand.

  I felt like I was falling. My body slumped, my jaw trembled, and I shut my teeth tight to keep them from rattling. Blood dripped from a cut in my palm, but I couldn’t feel the pain. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. My breath escaped in a short, low moan. If anything happened to Amy, the pain would kill me. I could feel my brain, my muscles, my heart, burning with the mere thought of that agony. My wife, Christine, had put up with a lot from me : the long hours in the office, the three a.m. phone calls from police precincts all over the city because the cops arrested one of my clients, the missed dinner dates and excuses I made for myself that I was doing it all for her and Amy. When I hit the bottle a year ago, she threw me out. I’d lost one of the best things I’d ever had. If I lost our daughter? I couldn’t even begin to contemplate that horror.