Dead Even

by Brad Meltzer

  By the time he arrived at the office, it was almost seven-thirty. Between the break-in, the bad night’s sleep, and the morning commute, he was mentally and physically drained. His eyes were tired, his shoulders sagged, and his stomach was still churning from lying to Sara. Without a doubt, he was in no shape to get an early start on the day. But if he was going to protect his wife, he knew he had a great deal of work ahead of him. Facing someone like Sara meant that every detail had to be accounted for. As he had learned from his very first appearance in court, a good attorney could take even the smallest opening and turn it into a victory.

  Heading up the hallway, though, Jared wasn’t thinking about trial strategies or witness preparation or jury selection. Instead, he was still trying to recall every possible circumstance that required a lawyer to recuse himself from a case. When he reached Kathleen’s desk, he forced a smile.

  “Good morning,” Kathleen said. “Starting early today?”

  “Yeah,” Jared said. “Clear my calendar for the rest of the month. This Kozlow case just became top priority.”

  “Why? It’s just a burglary.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s not important,” he snapped.

  “Take it easy. I’m only asking a question.”

  Jared leaned on Kathleen’s desk and lowered his voice. “I don’t want anyone to know this, but the prosecutor on the case is Sara.”

  “You’re facing your wife?” Kathleen blurted. Jared scowled.

  “Believe me, I’d love to get off the case. That’s why I need your help. As far as I can figure, having a husband and wife against each other has to present some sort of conflict-of-interest problem. Ethically, it seems to be a minefield for everyone involved, especially the client. So I want you to get a legal assistant to go through the rules of professional conduct and double-check whether this sort of arrangement is prohibited.”

  “Why not just take her on? We’ll bury her.”

  “Don’t you dare say that,” Jared warned.

  Kathleen stopped writing and looked up at her boss. “Take it easy, it’s a joke. I’ll let you know what they find.”

  Turning toward his office, Jared took a deep breath. Maybe this will actually work out. As he opened the door, he heard someone say, “Hiya, boss. What’s on the agenda today?”

  Kozlow was stretched out on the chair in the corner of Jared’s office. His feet were propped up on the wastebasket.

  “How’d you get in here?” Jared asked, annoyed.

  “Ancient Chinese secret,” Kozlow said. “I wouldn’t mention it to Kathleen, though. She strikes me as the type who hates surprises.”

  Walking over to the chair, Jared stared down at his new client. “Let me tell you one thing,” he said as he pushed Kozlow’s feet from the wastebasket. “I know you were the ones who broke into my house.”

  “Your house got broken into?” Kozlow asked innocently.

  “Don’t be a smart-ass,” Jared warned.

  Kozlow shot up out of his seat, grabbed Jared by his tie, and dragged him forward. “Then don’t use that tone with me,” Kozlow shot back. He held on to Jared’s tie with a tight grip. “Do you understand?”

  Jared nodded, shocked by the outburst.

  “You have a job to do, and we want to make sure you do it. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Here’s what I want,” Sara said, sitting at her desk as Guff took notes. “First, I want you to find out if a husband and wife can even face each other in court. That stinks more than a truckload of manure, so if you can find anything that says one of us has to recuse ourselves, maybe Jared will drop the case. Second, I want—”

  “You’re scared of facing him, aren’t you?” Guff asked.

  “Who, Jared? Not a chance. Why? Do I look scared?”

  “Forget I even asked. Now, what else did you want?”

  “I may be a little nervous, but I don’t think I’m scared.”

  “Okay, I got it. You’re not scared.”

  “I’m serious. It won’t affect me,” Sara insisted. When Guff didn’t reply, she added, “What do you expect me to say? Of course I’m scared.”

  “Why? Just because he’s your husband?”

  “There’s that, but there’s also the fact that things have a way of working out for Jared. They just fall into place for him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me put it to you this way: During our third year of law school, we took a class on the legal aspects of the American presidency. On the first day of class, the professor asked everyone in the lecture hall to stand up. Then, when everyone in this huge room was standing, he said, ‘Anyone who’s female, sit down. Anyone who was not born in the United States, sit down. Anyone who’s five-eleven or shorter, sit down.’ And one by one, the whole room started sitting down. When he was done with his list of questions, the only person still standing was Jared. And then the professor said, ‘This is the only person in this group who, except for the age requirement, is qualified to be president.’”

  “So big deal. All it means is Jared’s squeaky clean and six feet tall.”

  “That’s not just it, though. No matter how smart you are, or sneaky you are, or aggressive you are, Jared will always have an uncanny knack for making things work to his own advantage. That’s how he put himself through law school, and that’s why, despite the fact that he’s having trouble bringing in clients, he’s still close to making partner. It’s hard to explain, but he’s one of those guys who, even though he has to work hard at it, makes everything look easy.”

  “I hate those guys,” Guff said.

  “And I married one of those guys. Which means we’ll have to work even harder to win,” Sara said. “Anyway, back to business. I still want to get Doniger’s neighbor on the phone…”

  “Patty Harrison,” Guff said.

  “…get her on the phone so we can do an initial interview. She’s by far the best witness we have for the grand jury—she’s the only one who actually saw Kozlow leave the house. Third, I want to speak to Doniger again. We should make sure she’s fully prepped before we walk into the grand jury. And fourth…what was fourth?”

  “You want to interview Officer McCabe again. He’s waiting out in the hallway.”

  “What? He’s out there now?”

  “As we speak,” Guff said. “You were busy running around yesterday, so I called him up and asked him when he could come in. He works late on Friday and through the weekend, so he asked if he could do it today.”

  “Great,” Sara said. “Let him in.”

  A minute later, Officer Michael McCabe walked into Sara’s office. He had sharp eyes and a tired, almost droopy mouth, and he was thinner than Sara had remembered from their encounter on the videophone. Removing his police cap to reveal a head of thick black hair, McCabe took a seat in front of Sara’s desk. “So how’s the office treating you?” he asked in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

  “Everyone’s been terrific,” Sara said as she flipped to a page of questions on her legal pad. “Now let’s go over your testimony for the grand jury. Tell me again what happened that night.”

  “It was actually pretty simple. I cover the East Side, from Eightieth Street to Ninetieth, and from Lexington to Madison. So at about three-thirty in the morning, I get a call on my radio that someone just reported a burglary at 201 East Eighty-second. They describe the defendant, so I take off for Eighty-second Street.”

  “You ran there?”

  “Of course I ran there. I walk beat, remember?”

  “Of course,” Sara said, trying her best to sound knowledgeable. “You walk beat.”

  “Anyway, about two blocks from the crime scene, I spot someone who meets the defendant’s description, so I pick him up.”

  “And what was that description?”

  “Black jeans, long black leather jacket, goatee. He fit the description.”

  “Was he doing anything else suspicious? Was he running? Did he resist arrest? Anything at all that made him loo
k guilty?”

  “At three-thirty in the morning, on an empty street, two blocks from the crime scene, he matched the physical description of the burglar perfectly,” McCabe said dryly. “What else do you want?”

  “So you searched him right there?”

  “Yeah. Found the watch, the golf ball, and the money.”

  “Let’s do that again,” Sara said. “When I have you in the grand jury, they’re going to want more information than that.” Handing McCabe a copy of the complaint report, Sara started over. “Okay, Officer McCabe, now tell us what you found on the defendant.”

  Reading from the sheet, McCabe answered, “A platinum Ebel watch, a sterling silver golf ball, and four hundred and seventeen dollars.”

  “Perfect,” Sara said. “Just like that. Now, when you brought Kozlow back to 201 East Eighty-second Street, you woke up Ms. Doniger.”

  “Yep. She didn’t even know she was robbed.”

  “But she identified the items as her own?”

  “Oh, yeah. She paused a second, but then she did. Her mother’s name was on the watch and her own name was on the golf ball.”

  “Was anything else taken besides that and the money?”

  “That’s all I could find, and that’s all Doniger said was missing. The way I figure it, Kozlow was grabbing stuff, and then for whatever reason, he got scared and ran.”

  “And did you talk to Doniger’s neighbor, Ms. Harrison?”

  “No,” McCabe said. “I didn’t know she was the one who called in the tip.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sara said, looking up. “You never got a positive ID on the night of the crime?”

  “I didn’t know the neighbor called it in.”

  “Okay. That’s okay,” Sara said. “But you did get Doniger’s place fingerprinted?”

  McCabe shook his head no. “I already had the suspect—I didn’t think I needed his prints.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Sara asked. “Of course you need his prints. That’s probably the best way to prove he was in the house.”

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m not a detective. I just round ’em up and bring ’em in. Besides, we’re on a budget. We don’t fingerprint every place there’s a crime. Unless there’s a body, or it’s a big case, Crime Scene stays at home and we follow up as best we can.”

  “Well, that’s real helpful,” Sara said. “Remind me to thank the budget cutters when I lose the case.” Scanning her notes, she added, “Okay, just a few more questions. How long have you been friends with Victor Stockwell?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “An important one,” Sara insisted.

  “I know who he is, but we’ve never met.”

  Confused, Sara asked, “Then why’d you request him on the case?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “When I first picked up this case from ECAB, the booking sheet was marked for Victor. If you barely knew him, why’d you request him?”

  “I didn’t request anyone,” McCabe said. “Victor asked me if he could have the case.”

  Sara paused. “Really? Victor approached you?”

  “Yeah, he called me a few hours after the arrest—while I was doing the paperwork. He said he wanted the Kozlow case and asked me to put his name on the file. I figured he had some personal interest in it, so I wrote him in.” When he saw the puzzled look on Sara’s face, he asked, “Is something wrong with that?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara said. “That’s what I’ll have to find out.”

  When McCabe left Sara’s office, she shut the door behind him and returned to her desk. There had to be an explanation for why one of the office’s best prosecutors wanted such a low-profile assignment. Struggling to come up with a list of possible reasons, she picked up a nearby paper clip, unbent it, and started wrapping it around her index finger. Maybe Victor thought the case was interesting. Maybe he wanted to lighten his workload. Maybe he knew one of the parties involved. Maybe he knew Claire Doniger, and he was doing her a favor. Or maybe he knew Kozlow. As she continued to twist the paper clip, she thought about all the reasons why she should keep her suspicions to herself. But as her finger turned a light purple, she realized she had no idea what her next step was. The office was still uncharted territory, and without question, she needed help.

  Pulling off the paper clip, she looked for the intercom button on her phone. There wasn’t one—and this wasn’t her old firm. Leaning forward on her desk, she shouted, “Guff, can you come in here a second?”

  When Guff arrived, Sara asked him to close the door.

  “Uh-oh, what happened now?” he asked.

  “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “Let me guess: You want to see my secret list.”

  “Your what?”

  “My secret list of funny words. I know people’re talking about it. I put a couple on E-mail last week, and now everyone’s clamoring for the rest. I’m not giving them out, though. You’ll have to be satisfied with what you have: salami, wicker, Nipsey Russell—”

  “Guff, please listen for a second. Remember when we were in ECAB the day I took the case?” Guff nodded. “When the cases were delivered, you were talking to Evelyn and Victor. So what you never saw was that Kozlow’s case was originally marked for someone else—that’s why I decided to take it.”

  “So what’s the big deal? Cops request good ADAs all the time.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought. But I just found out that it wasn’t the cop who requested this particular ADA—it was the ADA who requested the case.”

  “Which ADA?”

  Sara was silent.

  “Tell me whose case it was, Sara. This isn’t funny. It can really be—”

  “Victor’s,” she finally said. “It was Victor’s case.”

  “Oh, no. Why’d you have to go do something stupid like that? That’s like teasing a rabid dog.”

  “The delivery guy pulled off the Post-it. He said it was just a request—I didn’t know any better.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Guff, I know it was a stupid move, but I can really use your help with this. There’s no one else I trust.”

  “I don’t know. I think this one is out of my league. If I were you, I’d go to Conrad.”

  “Conrad’ll bite my head off if he finds out I stole a case from another ADA.”

  “Listen, it’s your decision. But if I was choosing between the two, I’d take Conrad over Victor any day.”

  “How’d it go?” Conrad asked when Sara walked into his office.

  “How’d what go?”

  “Your talk with McCabe. Wasn’t that this morning?”

  “Yeah,” Sara said, trying not to rush into anything. “It was pretty good. Not great.” As she took a seat on Conrad’s olive-green vinyl sofa, she asked, “Where’d you get this sofa?”

  “Have Guff call down to purchasing. You’ll get one by next year,” Conrad said. “Now tell me about the interview.”

  “What’s to tell? The cop seems like a nice guy, but he made some stupid mistakes. Never got fingerprints; never got an ID.”

  “So typical—eighty percenter.”

  “Huh?” Sara asked.

  “In the DA’s office, twenty percent of the ADAs do eighty percent of the work,” Conrad explained. “The same thing applies to the judges in the courthouse and the cops and detectives on the street. To eighty percent of the people, this is just a nine-to-five bureaucracy.”

  “It’s not a bureaucracy,” Sara said. “The people here—”

  “Sara, do you know how many open warrants there are in Manhattan? Five hundred thousand. That means there are half a million criminals that we know about running loose on the streets—and then there are all the ones we still haven’t found. For the most part, we’re an assembly line. Eighty percent of the people just want their paycheck. They don’t want to risk their life and family to stop some scumbag criminal, and they don’t want to do what it actually takes to s
top crime. It doesn’t make them bad people; it just makes them bad public servants.”

  “And for some reason, you think I’m part of the twenty percent?” Sara asked.

  “Actually, I do. You’re thirty-two years old, which means you know what you’re getting into. And at that age, like it or not, this is your career. You may be unpolished, and you may be new, but you speak your mind, and Guff trusts you, which, believe it or not, says more than you think. If you can get this indictment and take it to trial, Monaghan will know you’re not here to play around. And since I’m always looking for someone to stand on the twenty percent side of the scale, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you aboard. So tell me what else happened with the cop and I’ll tell you how to fix it.”

  “Well, as I said, he never got an ID.”

  “No big deal,” Conrad said. “Set up a lineup so the neighbor can come in and pick Kozlow out. If there’s no time, have her do it in the grand jury. Then the jurors can see it for themselves.”

  “What about the fingerprints?”

  “You’re screwed on that one.”

  “Lousy eighty percenter,” Sara growled.

  Conrad smiled. “Any other problems?”

  Sara’s eyes fell to the floor. “Just one,” she said hesitantly. “There’s something I haven’t been completely honest about: When the case originally came into ECAB, there was a note on it that said, ‘Request for Victor Stockwell.’”

  A suspicious crease formed between Conrad’s eyebrows. “What happened to the note?”

  “The delivery guy took it off, and I let him throw it away,” Sara said. Before Conrad could interrupt, she added, “I know it was wrong, but I figured Victor gets so many requests, he wouldn’t miss one more. When I interviewed McCabe, though, I found out he didn’t mark the case for Victor—Victor requested the case from him.” As she finished the story, the room was silent. She could barely look Conrad in the eye.