“In this situation, the objection is overruled. In fact, I rather like attorneys who get to the point.”
The first battle with Brenda Gadd had been lost.
###
Agent Vatch’s testimony soon gave way to tedium. Dozens of documents were flashed on the overhead projector’s screen as one exhibit after another was analyzed and described. They were mostly bank account records.
Gadd meticulously followed the money trail. It started with Joshua Krane’s accounts, and Michael knew where it would end.
After a brief lunch break, the “Agent Frank Vatch Show” continued. Hours passed. More documents were projected onto the screen.
Michael noticed that Judge Husk’s head tilted downward. His eyes closed, and the judge appeared to be asleep for most of the afternoon testimony. Quentin didn’t object, because there was nothing to object to, and so the testimony continued without interruption.
The jurors did a better job than Judge Husk. They kept their eyes open, but they were also struggling to remain engaged. The early excitement was gone.
Mercifully, Judge Husk interrupted Gadd at three o’clock.
“I think we’re done for the day. We’ll excuse the jury a little early so I can talk with the attorneys.”
The jurors were visibly relieved. At the words granting them freedom, the juror’s faces lit up. Judge Husk was their hero.
The courtroom stood as the jurors lined up and were led out the side door.
Michael watched. A few of the jurors looked at him, briefly, and then looked away. After being pounded with documents for more than six hours, it seemed like they had already found him guilty.
When the jurors were gone, Judge Husk directed everyone to sit.
“Ms. Gadd, I don’t mean for you to take any offense at this, but I think you’re killing me.”
Brenda Gadd stood, a little confused.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I guess I don’t understand.”
Judge Husk leaned his small frail body forward and raised his voice.
“I said, ‘you … are … killing … me.’ “ He paused between each word for emphasis. “It’s getting cumulative and redundant.”
“Your Honor, we have the burden to prove this case beyond a reasonable doubt. I’m merely trying to —”
Judge Husk raised his hand.
“I’ve been a judge for nearly a half-century, Ms. Gadd. I know the legal standard and the burden of proof expected of the government in a criminal case. What I am saying now, is that you do not need to describe every document. The documents are admitted into evidence. They speak for themselves.”
Judge Husk looked at Quentin.
“I assume you agree.”
Quentin Robinson stood. He knew better than to disagree with a judge, especially when a judge was irritated with opposing counsel.
“That is correct, Your Honor.” Quentin sat down.
“Good.” Judge Husk turned back to Brenda Gadd. “We’ll start again tomorrow. In the meantime, rethink how you present your case. All of these thousands of documents are in evidence, and have been graciously stipulated to by Mr. Robinson. So, please do not torture me.” Judge Husk’s ancient lips curled into a smile. “As the young people say these days, ‘life is short.’”
CHAPTER SIXTY THREE
Across town, Kermit Guillardo returned to Hoa Bahns. He walked past the cashier who was flipping through a celebrity gossip magazine while sipping on a bubble tea and snacking on a coconut croissant from the nearby bake shop.
He went past the shelves of overpriced toilet paper, Band-Aids, and cosmetics to the back, where he stopped at the pharmacy counter.
Kermit looked through the glass and didn’t see anybody, then Kermit noticed the bell. He hit the button, and a few seconds later the man with the scar appeared. He wore a white pharmacist’s coat, just as he had before.
“Here for a pick-up.” Kermit’s head bobbled. Kermit let the magnetic energy from his dreadlocks fill the space. “Hoping it’s done.” He took an envelope filled with cash out of his pocket and slid it through the small opening at the bottom of the glass window.
The pharmacist didn’t say anything. He just picked up the envelope and examined its contents while making a soft clucking sound.
“It’s for Michael Collins,” Kermit added. “I think that should be sufficient.”
The pharmacist turned and disappeared into the back. Kermit heard shuffling from behind a shelf of bottles and plastic containers filled with various powders. A minute later he came back holding the same envelope that Kermit had dropped off a few days earlier.
The pharmacist slid it under the window, and then walked away. He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.
Kermit took the envelope, which wasn’t sealed. He opened the top flap and removed the document inside. Kermit turned to the last page.
When he had dropped it off, there was only Michael’s signature. Now there were two.
CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR
Michael ate a dinner of institutional meatloaf and gravy. He had been too nervous to be hungry, but he forced himself to eat something. Then Michael went back to his cell and waited. The phone call was supposed to come after dinner, but he wasn’t sure when.
He flipped through a few magazines, trying not to think about the mountain of evidence that Brenda Gadd and Agent Vatch had submitted to the court. It was only the first day, Michael thought. Tomorrow will be worse.
Michael looked at the photograph of his namesake taped to the wall. Then he closed his eyes. He imagined that the noise of the MDC’s air exchange were waves crashing on the beach. He imagined that he was back in Hut No. 7.
Michael tried to prevent darkness from taking over. If he had a bottle of whiskey, he’d have drank it all. But there wasn’t anything like that in his little cell.
Instead, he focused on the beach, imagining every detail. He had to remain hopeful, although nothing was in his control.
###
A guard knocked on Michael’s door. The sound startled him. Michael had fallen asleep, and he wondered how long he’d been out.
“Phone call from your attorney.”
The guard knocked, again. He wanted Michael to move faster.
“Thanks.”
Michael sat up and got out of his bed. He followed the guard out of the pod, through a series of locked doors and hallways, to a small room with a telephone.
The room was designated to be used exclusively for phone calls between attorneys and their clients. Unlike the other telephones in the MDC, nobody was supposed to monitor these conversations. They were theoretically private, but Michael didn’t believe any of that, so he was careful.
“Hello.” Michael put the receiver to his ear.
“Is this Michael Collins?” It wasn’t Quentin. It was a female voice. It was Andie.
“Yes, this is Michael Collins.” His mood brightened.
“I just wanted to tell you that the documents you’ve provided to us are ready.” There was a pause. “Would you like me to proceed?”
Michael felt a smile involuntarily break across his face.
“Yes.” Michael nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Very well.” Andie was curt and professional. She didn’t break character. “Anything else?”
Michael wanted to tell Andie how much he loved her. He wanted to say how much he wanted to see her. He wanted to hold her and fall asleep with her next to him, all the things that he usually kept bottled up inside.
But, Michael pushed those thoughts away. It wasn’t the time. He couldn’t take the chance.
“No,” Michael said. “There’s nothing else. … Except …” He thought for a second. Michael tried to focus. He ran through different scenarios. “Just make sure you keep a copy for our records.”
“Makes sense,” said Andie. “And before I hang up, your friends wanted me to pass on a message.”
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“That they love you very much
.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” Michael melted. “I love them more than anything.”
“Of course,” Andie said, still professional. “They all know that.”
CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE
Brew was the name of the latest gastro-pub to open in what was one of the most cursed corners of Park Slope. New restaurants cycled through the space about every year, sometimes a restaurant would hang on for two years, but never more than that.
They were usually owned by well-intentioned but naive men who were running away from dead-end, white-collar jobs. In the midst of their mid-life crisis, opening a restaurant was perceived to be easier than either going back to school or getting a divorce. Although the divorce inevitably came shortly after the restaurant tanked and the couple’s life savings evaporated.
Brew was still in its initial honeymoon period. It was a novelty, and the neighborhood do-gooders were interested in “helping it succeed” for fear of a national chain or a Starbucks taking over the corner. That dedication would fade in a few more months, but at the moment, the bar was filled.
Pierced and tattooed young people sat on stools next to new moms who had babies strapped to their chests.
The new, hipster moms were trying to live their pre-birth vow that the “baby won’t change me.” It was an admirable goal and entirely plausible right up to the point when the infant refused to be strapped to the mother’s chest like an enormous fleshy brooch.
Andie Larone walked to the back of the restaurant. There was a booth in the corner. She sat down, picked up a menu, and waited.
###
Brea Krane arrived twenty minutes late, but Andie didn’t say anything. Brea kept her coat on, and sat down across from her.
“Do you have it?” Brea got to the point.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s see it.”
Andie opened her purse. She took out the envelope and handed it to Brea.
Brea Krane took the envelope. She opened it and removed the sheet of paper with the passwords for the other two Cook Island accounts.
“Good.” She nodded.
“Now what are you going to say to get Michael out?” Andie asked, but Brea immediately held up her hand.
“Not now and not here.” Brea looked around. “I testify in two days. I’m going to make sure these accounts and passwords work.” Brea removed a new disposable cell phone from her purse. “Call me on this tomorrow. My new number is the only one programmed in the contacts.”
Andie nodded.
“Fine.” Andie took the phone. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.” Brea Krane got up from the table and walked out the door.
Andie watched her. She doubted that Brea Krane had any intention of making good on her promises.
###
Brent Krane followed his sister down 8th Street. The crowd could not believe that she was with Michael Collins’ girlfriend. They went mad when they had greeted each other like old friends. His sister was a traitor. She was a liar. He now understood why he had been sent away. He had been tricked.
Brent felt the gun in his pocket. He thought about killing her right then. Why not? Brent picked up his pace. Within a few seconds, Brent had closed the gap to twenty feet. He slid his finger onto the trigger. A surge of power came up his back and buzzed his neck.
The gap closed to ten feet, and then five.
Brent was close now. He could smell his sister’s perfume. Brent took the gun out of his pocket, matching her stride for stride. And then a single voice in the crowd told him to stop. It pierced through the fog.
The voice, however, wasn’t calling for mercy. The voice told him that she needed to pay him first. He needed to get his sister’s money before she was killed. He needed the money, just in case he survived the final confrontation.
CHAPTER SIXTY SIX
Gadd’s approach changed during the second morning of testimony. Rather than ask Vatch to comment on each individual document, Gadd offered documents in bulk.
“Agent Vatch, have you reviewed what has been previously marked as Exhibits 27 through 50?”
Gadd pointed at a stack of documents on the prosecution’s table, and Vatch responded that he had reviewed them all and that they were all documents received from various banks through the course of his investigation.
“Very well.” Gadd nodded. “Without any objection, the United States would now offer Exhibits 27 through 50.”
Judge Husk looked at Quentin, and Quentin stood.
“We have no objection, Your Honor.”
“Good. Exhibits 27 through 50 have been offered and are now entered into evidence.”
A smile formed on the edges of Judge Husk’s mouth as he accepted the stack of documents. It was an expression of satisfaction. His lecture the previous afternoon had worked. Gadd was no longer going to offer each exhibit individually. Therefore, there was now a higher likelihood that he would live long enough to hear the jury’s verdict.
###
The rest of the morning moved as quickly as the first ten minutes. Brenda Gadd offered several batches of exhibits, and each time they were admitted without objection or further testimony. The pace of the trial was now in a full sprint, and by the mid-morning break, Brenda Gadd had finished her direct examination of Agent Vatch.
Judge Husk nodded, and looked at the jurors.
“We’ll come back in twenty minutes. The prosecution has completed its initial inquiry. Now counsel for Defendant Collins will have an opportunity to question Agent Vatch. When he concludes, Ms. Gadd will ask follow-up questions and so on and so forth until we are done and move onto the next witness.”
Judge Husk looked away from the jurors and out into the courtroom. There were fewer people on the second day, but it was still more of an audience than in a typical criminal case. He raised his hand, slowly.
“Please rise as the jurors exit.”
Michael and the others stood and watched the jurors get up, stretch, and amble out of the courtroom. They were more relaxed than during jury selection, and Michael saw that they had started to form several internal groups. Friendships were forming. People of similar ages and education levels had gravitated toward one another. It happened every time.
Quentin waited a second until he was sure that they were all gone. Then he turned to Michael. “We should talk.”
###
It took a few minutes for Quentin to make it through security, but eventually he was allowed into the back. On each floor there was one secure conference room where attorneys were allowed to meet with clients who were in custody.
Quentin came through the door. He had a notebook and pen, ready to work.
He put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and then sat in a chair across the small table.
“Any ideas?” ” Quentin asked as he wrote the date on the top of the notepad.
“Have you talked to Andie?” Michael asked.
Quentin shook his head. “No. She and Kermit have been running around, but I haven’t interfered.” Quentin paused. He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “They’re obviously up to something, but I don’t want to know.”
“That’s for the best.”
“So I’ve prepared my cross, but is there anything you want me to ask?”
Michael nodded.
“You need to suggest that they haven’t disclosed all the information. You need to suggest that there are more documents out there.”
“Are there?” Quentin doubted. “We’ve been killed with documents. My computer crashed a couple times because the files they sent over were so big.”
“Just create some doubt,” Michael said. “You need the jury to leave today wondering whether or not the government is hiding information. That this was all a smokescreen.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed.
“Is there something specific I need to know? The judge might call me up to the bench and ask.”
“Just say the situation is developin
g. That you believe in good faith that there are additional documents that have not been disclosed.” Michael leaned in. “You’ve made an external record of all your written requests over the past two months, now we need to do it in there. Every witness needs to be asked about the other documents that were not disclosed.”
Quentin nodded.
“Okay.” Quentin stood. “But Michael, whatever is developing needs to develop soon.” He walked toward the door. “We’re in deep trouble out there.”
###
The doubts that Quentin expressed in private were gone in the courtroom. His early stumbles during opening arguments were over, and now Quentin projected confidence.
“Tell me about Agent Pastoura.”
“She was my partner.” Vatch remained steady, suppressing his inner asshole.
“She was more than that.” Quentin came back at him. “She was a good friend. True?”
Agent Vatch didn’t take the bait. So Quentin continued without asking the judge to force Vatch to answer his question.
“You both were there on the night that Joshua Krane was murdered, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you are not claiming that Michael Collins is at all involved with that murder, right?”
“He has not been charged, but I don’t know.”
“I’m only asking about what you know.” Quentin interrupted. He stopped Vatch before Vatch could do any real damage. “And as you sit here today, you have no specific evidence that Michael Collins was involved.”
“Depends on what you mean by specific.” Vatch enjoyed himself, and Quentin realized that his whole line of questioning was a mistake. It was one thing for Michael Collins to be a thief. It was a totally different thing for the jury to think Michael was a murderer.
Quentin changed course. He decided to stop digging himself further into a hole.
“Other things happened that night, didn’t they?”
Brenda Gadd rose to her feet.
J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide Page 18
