“No.” Vatch grabbed the rubber handle above the door. “I got it.”
Vatch pulled himself up and out, lowering himself into the wheelchair. He took another quick glance down the street, and then rolled inside his apartment building, unsure of what he was going to do.
Anthony wasn’t a little kid anymore.
Vatch had clung to the idea that Anthony would remain the little boy who had crawled through his window to talk and play chess. Even though Vatch had resisted the idea that Anthony would grow up, he had seen the change. Anthony was definitely not an innocent boy, but that didn’t mean he should be thrown away.
###
Vatch knocked.
“It’s me.” He shouted at the door and knocked again. There was movement on the other side, some rattling. The deadbolts and chain were unlocked and undone. Eventually the apartment door opened. Vatch rolled inside.
“Where is he?”
Anthony’s mother didn’t say anything. She looked away, and Vatch rolled past her toward the back bedroom.
Vatch didn’t hesitate at the door. He opened it, went inside, and closed the door behind himself.
Anthony sat on the bed, staring at the floor. He had his headphones on, some monstrosity of molded plastic and foam. The headphones were supposedly designed by a 1990s rap star. Vatch heard the drum beat, and he was thankful that he couldn’t understand the rhymes.
“Anthony,” Vatch rolled closer to the bed. “Anthony.”
He reached out and shook Anthony’s leg.
“You need to talk to me.”
Anthony’s movements were slow. He looked up from the floor, turning to Vatch. Anthony had been crying. His eyes were puffy. He was scared.
Anthony pressed a button on his iPhone. The music stopped. He took off his headphones.
“What did you do?” Vatch stared at him.
Anthony bit his lower lip and looked away. It was all that Vatch needed to know. He rolled over to the window and looked outside. There was the fire escape that Anthony had used to come up to Vatch’s apartment in the past.
Vatch had to make a decision. He hesitated, but not for long.
“Take off your clothes.” Vatch turned around. Anthony looked confused, and so Vatch repeated his command. “Take off your clothes,” he said. “You want to live? You want to stay out of prison? You want a second a chance? You need to listen to me. Now take off your clothes. All of them.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT
Vatch tossed Anthony a towel. The boy wrapped the towel around his waist.
“Listen to me, Anthony,” Vatch rolled toward him, holding the boy in a hard stare. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was sharp. “You’ve got about five minutes, maybe less.”
Vatch paused. He studied Anthony.
“I’m trying to save your life. Understand?” Vatch waited for Anthony to agree, and then continued. “But now I’m going in deep with you. So you have to listen to me. We’re in this together.”
“I will,” Anthony nodded.
“Go to the bathroom and clip your nails as short as possible. There can’t be any dirt, blood, or anything else underneath. Then take a hot shower, use soap, and scrub every part of your body, especially your hands.”
Anthony looked a little confused and Vatch started to explain about gun powder residue, but stopped. There wasn’t enough time.
“When you get out of the shower,” Vatch said. “I want you to pick out an outfit that is exactly the opposite of what you were wearing tonight. If you were wearing baggy clothes, find something tight. If you were wearing a white shirt, find something black. Understand?”
Anthony, a little shocked, understood.
“You’re not lying to anybody. You’re not saying anything to anybody. Do you understand? If they want to know your name and date of birth, give it to them. Tell them the truth about that, because if you say you’re somebody else, they’ll charge you with obstructing legal process or giving a peace officer a false name or some other bullshit charge. You should cooperate with that information, but that’s it. Then you ask for a lawyer. Ask for a lawyer over and over. Do not say a word, not one word beyond your name, date of birth, and asking for a lawyer. No matter what they say or how much they threaten or how much evidence the cops say they have, do not say a word. Don’t speak. You want a lawyer. Say you want a lawyer.”
“I got it,” Anthony said, but there was hesitation and Vatch pounced on it. At this point, he had too much at stake for Anthony to mess up.
“No, Anthony,” Vatch shook his head. “You need to be confident. You have to do this.” Vatch spun his wheelchair around and saw a garbage can in the corner near Anthony’s closet. He rolled his wheelchair over to the can, dumped the small amount of paper out onto the floor, and removed the plastic liner.
“Put your clothes in this.” Vatch handed Anthony the plastic bag. “And your shoes and socks, everything.”
Anthony picked his clothes off the floor and filled the bag. Then he went to his closet, picked up a pair of red Adidas, and put the shoes in the bag, too.
Vatch followed him. He took the plastic bag from Anthony and started to leave. Then he stopped. “What’s on your cell phone?” he asked.
“Cell phone?” Anthony was confused.
“Any texts, any emails about this?”
Anthony told Vatch that there weren’t any.
“Give me your cell phone anyway.” Vatch held out his hand. “Don’t tell them your cell phone number, don’t tell them anything. Just ask for a lawyer.”
Anthony went to his bed, disconnected the iPhone from the headphones, and gave it to Vatch.
“Okay,” Vatch took a deep breath, still thinking about where he would search and what he would do if he was running the investigation. “I think that’s it. Go get in the shower. Then when you’re done, climb up the fire escape to my apartment. You’re going to sleep on my couch tonight.” Vatch decided to clarify, just in case Anthony didn’t understand. “I’m your alibi. You were in my apartment the whole night.”
“Okay,” Anthony turned. He took a few steps and stopped. “Frank?”
“What is it?”
Anthony looked away. “There’s one more thing.” He walked back to his bed. Anthony lifted up the pillow. He picked up a 9 millimeter Smith & Wesson. It was Ms. Finkel’s gun. “Gotta get rid of this too.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE
Vatch watched a rookie patrolman in the alley below through his window. The patrolman put on a pair of gloves, and much to the delight of the older supervisor, the patrolman climbed into a dumpster. His assignment was to pick through the garbage and find evidence. It was evidence that wouldn’t be found, because Vatch had it all in his little plastic bag.
They had come for Anthony about thirty minutes after Anthony had finished his shower, changed his clothes, and climbed up the fire escape. He was already gone, and his mother had lied. She told the police that she didn’t know where he was and that she hadn’t seen Anthony all night. She let them search the apartment, and then they had left.
Vatch turned away from the window and looked at Anthony, sitting on his couch and watching his television. Vatch felt sick. He worried about Anthony, and he also worried about himself. If either Anthony or his mother said anything, he could be charged with a crime. For the first time in his life, Vatch wasn’t the chaser. He could be the person being chased.
The only positive was that the victim was a gang-banger. Anthony had shot him in the small, nearby park. Nobody was around.
It was questionable how much effort the New York Police Department would actually put into the case. Dead black kids didn’t generate a lot of news coverage in New York City or much demand for accountability and justice.
Vatch looked down at the plastic bag in his lap. He needed to get rid of it. He rolled over to his closet. He found an old, empty backpack. He stuffed the plastic bag inside and zipped the backpack closed. His plan was fairly simple. He would dump the clothes at one of the large
metal Salvation Army donation bins on the other side of the city. The cell phone would be smashed and put in a dumpster far away, and the gun would be wiped clean, taken apart, and tossed into the Hudson River.
“Anthony, you need to sit tight,” Vatch started toward the door. “I’m going out for a little while. Don’t answer the door for anybody.”
Vatch was almost out of the apartment when his phone rang. He rolled back over to his desk. His cell phone had been charging. He disconnected the cord and picked up the phone.
Vatch looked at the caller ID. It was Brenda Gadd, and he figured that he didn’t have any choice. He had to answer.
Vatch pressed the “receive call” button.
“This is Vatch.” He listened, and then, “Yeah I looked at it all. It’s reviewed.”
Vatch took a breath and lied in response to a series of other questions.
“It actually went pretty quick,” he said. “Mostly securities documents, federal filings, stupid stuff that I thought we already had.”
Gadd complained about Tad Garvin and the last minute document dump.
“Well it’s taken care of,” Vatch said. “It’s good to go. Just send it over to Collins’ lawyer and go to bed. That case is done.”
Vatch hung up the phone, and he realized how much he didn’t care anymore. He had obsessed about Michael Collins for years. He had lost sleep. He had hunted Michael Collins as if it was the only thing that mattered in his life. And now …
Vatch looked down at the backpack in his lap. Then he looked over at Anthony, and Vatch decided that Michael Collins didn’t matter so much.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
The testimony resumed with the same formality and rituals that had occurred over the previous days. People stood as Judge Husk was led carefully to his chair by his loyal law clerk. The jurors returned to the same seats that they had occupied over the past week, and Michael and Quentin waited for Judge Husk to begin.
“Good morning,” Judge Husk smiled at the jurors with a hint of sympathy. “I hope you got the coffee and doughnuts that I brought in this morning. If not, they should be waiting for you in the jury conference room at our first mid-morning break.”
The jurors nodded. The judge, at this point, had become their wise grandfather, another flock of converts to the Cult of Husk.
The judge turned back to the attorneys.
“We are back on the record in the United States versus Michael Collins. As you all may recall, we took a break yesterday afternoon at the conclusion of Ms. Gadd’s direct examination of Ms. Krane. Now it’s time to give the defense an opportunity to ask its questions.”
Judge Husk nodded toward Quentin. Then the judge looked past the attorneys to the people in the gallery, scanning for Brea Krane.
“Ms. Krane,” Judge Husk said a little louder. “Ms. Krane, if you could return to the witness stand, we shall continue.”
Brea Krane sat in the back next to Tad Garvin.
Tad Garvin watched her as she stood and walked up to the front of the courtroom. The Cook Island accounts had been created for her. Garvin assumed that she had received the money transfer from Michael Collins and Andie Larone, because she told him that her flight out of the country left later that evening.
He was anxious for his afternoon reward. She had promised him that. One little gift before she left, and he hoped that he’d also get an invitation to come along.
Brea sat down in the witness stand. She had changed her outfit. It was a dark blue dress, not quite black but almost. It was conservative, so as not to offend the women on the jury, but it still showed off her form for the male jurors.
Once she had settled, Judge Husk continued.
“Ms. Krane, you are still under oath and still obligated to tell the whole truth. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Brea Krane nodded her head, and Michael noticed a very slight smile.
Then Judge Husk motioned for Quentin Robinson to begin.
Go slow, Michael thought. He stared at Quentin, wishing that he could do it. He didn’t want to be the client. He didn’t want to be the person being defended. He wanted to the be the attorney, but it was out of his control.
His freedom was in the hands of Quentin Robinson.
Please don’t mess it up.
###
Quentin stood at the podium. He looked down at the notes and questions that Michael had prepared for him along with some of his own. Quentin’s heart pounded and he wondered if others could hear it as well or maybe see his hands tremble. It was nerves.
This wasn’t his first jury trial. He’d represented hundreds of people as a poverty lawyer. Quentin had hustled deals. He had walked the fuzzy ethical line that all defense attorneys walk. But this was different. The stakes were higher. Michael wasn’t a homeless man accused of public urination. Michael Collins was a friend who was about to get away with stealing over $500 million and he, defender of the poor, had helped him in exchange for a roll of gold coins.
“Everything okay?” Judge Husk tilted his head to the side, wondering why Quentin hadn’t started his inquiry.
“Yes,” Quentin nodded. He took a deep breath, trying to catch himself. He turned to Brea Krane.
“Good morning, Ms. Krane. As you know, I’m Quentin Robinson. I represent Michael Collins in this matter.”
“I know who you are.” Brea Krane provided the requisite hostility.
“Very well,” Quentin looked down at his notes again. “I’m not exactly sure why the prosecutor, Ms. Gadd, called you in her case in chief.” Quentin glanced over his shoulder at Brenda Gadd, and then back to Brea Krane. “Because you’re my star witness. Did you know that?”
Gadd was on her feet before Brea Krane could respond.
“Objection, Your Honor.”
Judge Husk perked up. The old man had been getting bored. This was starting to get entertaining.
“Grounds?”
“Irrelevant, speculation, badgering.” Gadd shook her head. “I could go on.”
Judge Husk looked at Quentin, a sparkle in his eyes. Michael could tell that Judge Husk would give Quentin some room, if for no other reason than for sport. The trial had been so lopsided up until this point that the jury would’ve likely only deliberated for five minutes before returning a guilty verdict.
“Overruled. I’ll allow counsel to present its defense. But let’s get to the meat of the matter, shall we?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Quentin bowed his head slightly. “I’ll withdraw the question.”
He turned his attention back to Brea Krane, who now looked slightly uncomfortable.
“You’re my star witness, because you know that Michael Collins did not steal this money, true?”
“Are you kidding?” Brea laughed. “I think the documents …”
Quentin held up his hand, interrupting her.
“You didn’t answer the question.” Quentin took a step to the side. His nerves were under control now. He’d found a rhythm, and, as he paused, Kermit and Andie snuck into the back of the courtroom to watch the show.
Quentin looked at the jurors, scanning their faces, adding to the drama of the moment. This was what jurors expected defense lawyers to do, and he was going to exceed their expectations.
“Let me pose the question another way.” Quentin scratched his chin. “Michael Collins never admitted to you that he stole the money, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you don’t dispute that your father worked with Michael Collins and other attorneys at Wabash, Kramer and Moore, true?”
Brea Krane didn’t answer, and she didn’t have to.
“Lowell Moore and Michael Collins were the lead attorneys for your father, correct?”
“That’s true.”
“And Michael Collins was there with your father on the night he was killed. He was likely the last person to see your father while your father was still alive —”
“Object, Your Honor.” Gadd was on her feet. “This is speculation.
Ms. Krane can’t testify to this. She wasn’t there.”
Quentin turned to Gadd, pointing.
“Exactly!” he shouted before Judge Husk could rule. “I withdraw the question, and I’ll ask this.” Quentin turned back to Brea Krane. “You weren’t there the night your father was killed. Isn’t that right?”
Brea Krane nodded.
“Correct.” She tried to force some tears in order to slow Quentin down, but Quentin wasn’t going to stop. She didn’t know where this was headed, and Brea now regretted her decision to stop talking with Andie Larone.
“And you weren’t there in the meetings between Lowell Moore, Michael Collins, and your father, true?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” Brea Krane looked at Michael. “He took my money.”
Quentin paused. He shook his head and looked at the jurors, and then back at Brea Krane.
“Whose money?”
Brea started, but stopped herself.
“Perhaps the court reporter could read that last bit back to us.” Quentin looked at the court reporter. He nodded at her, directing the court reporter to read back the exchange.
She took the narrow roll of paper that fed into her stenography machine, and then brought it toward her to read:
Question: You weren’t there the night your father was killed. Isn’t that right?
Answer: Yes.
Question: And you weren’t there in the meetings between Lowell Moore,
Michael Collins, and your father, true?
Answer: What does this have to do with anything? He took my money.
Quentin nodded and thanked the court reporter.
“In your mind, it’s your money. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s my family’s money,” Brea tried to recover.
“And you want it, right? Who wouldn’t want a half-billion?”
“It’s my family’s money,” Brea repeated, avoiding the question.
“As a family member, you’ve had meetings with the prosecution and the investigators throughout this case. Isn’t that right?”
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