by Brad Meltzer
Finally, Conrad leaned forward in his chair. “You really love to make it hard on yourself, don’t you?”
“That’s what I’m good at.” Looking up, she noticed that the crease between Conrad’s eyebrows was gone. “You’re not mad?” she asked.
“Sara, if you knew Victor wanted the case, would you have stolen it from him?”
“Not a chance. I only—”
“Then that’s that. I’d never fault you for trying to race to the front of the pack. If anything, that’s what we need more of.”
Conrad’s reaction wasn’t at all what she expected. Still processing it, she gave him an appreciative nod.
“You don’t have to worry,” he continued. “I’m on your side.”
The way he said it, Sara knew he wasn’t lying. “So what do I do about Victor?”
“Has he said anything to you about the case?”
“I know he’s pissed off, but he hasn’t asked for it back.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Don’t you think it’s a little weird? I mean, why would Victor even want this junky little case in the first place?”
“How should I know? People request cases all the time—most often because they want to get another shot at a repeat offender or because they know someone involved in the case. Maybe Victor’s the one who first prosecuted Kozlow and he’s still pissed that Kozlow walked. Maybe he’s a friend of Doniger and he wanted to do her a favor.”
“Or maybe this case is about more than just a burglary.”
Conrad shook his head. “You’re still not giving up on the front page, are you?”
“I can’t,” Sara said despairingly. “It’s all I’ve got. Besides, this isn’t just my active imagination.”
“You sure about that?”
“I think I’m sure. I mean, we have a burglary where, of all the expensive things that can be taken, only two small items are missing; then there’s the low-life burglar who somehow has access to the city’s best lawyers; then there’s the fact that of the two firms he hires, one is my old one and the other is my husband’s. And if that weren’t enough, we’ve got the world’s best prosecutor begging for the case and lurking in my office. What else do you need? A big neon sign that says ‘Suspicions “R” Us’?”
“I still think you’re overreacting—there’s a logical explanation for every single one of those.”
“Really? Then how about this one: If everything’s so normal, why didn’t Victor ask for the case back?”
“Wait a minute, what are you accusing Victor of?”
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I just think you have to admit it’s worth a look around.”
“I’m reserving judgment,” Conrad said. “But since you’re dead set on investigating, what do you plan to do next?”
“I’m not sure. I figured I’d start with Victor, but I didn’t know where to look.”
“If you want, you can check out AJIS—that’s the information system that’ll tell you who Kozlow’s old prosecutors were. You can also check it to see if Victor had another case with Ms. Doniger. But I’m going to warn you again: There are a dozen good reasons for Victor to want that case. So if I were you, I’d skip the delusions of grandeur. All they do is get your hopes up.”
“Don’t worry,” Sara said, her voice racing with nervous excitement. “I’ve got it all in perspective.”
Watching as Sara furiously scribbled notes to herself, Conrad shook his head.
“What?” Sara asked, looking up. “What’d I do?”
“Nothing,” Conrad said. “Is there anything else?”
“One last thing: How do I catch the bastards who broke into my house?”
“Yeah, Guff told me about that. While you were interviewing McCabe, we placed a call to the Twentieth Precinct. They’re on it, but they don’t have a clue. Chalk it up to bad luck and forget it.”
“What’re you talking about? What about your speech? About doing everything you can to stop crime?”
“That was just for show,” Conrad joked. “Although you may get lucky when they get the fingerprint results.”
As Conrad finished, Guff entered the office. “Shame, shame, shame,” Guff said. “Now you’re sounding like a real eighty percenter.”
“Do you eavesdrop on every conversation?” Conrad asked him.
“Just the good ones,” Guff said. Turning to Sara, he added, “Got you some news on the trial front. First, Doniger’s neighbor, Patty Harrison, said she’s happy to testify. You can call her today to set up a time. Second, I looked up the conflict-of-interest issues. According to the rules, husband against wife is a definite conflict. The bad news is you can get around it as long as you get written consent from the client after a full disclosure of the conflict.”
“Damn,” Sara said. “So all Jared has to do is—”
“Hold on a second,” Conrad interrupted. “Your husband’s the defense attorney?”
“I told you it’s not my imagination,” Sara said. “Got any advice for this one?”
“Tell him to get off the case or you’ll divorce his ass,” Conrad said. “I saw this once before—you’re looking at an ugly situation.”
“So it’s allowed?” Sara asked nervously.
“Only under certain circumstances,” Guff said. “The firm has to do some legal maneuverings, and at the very least, Jared has to get written consent from Kozlow. Also, Jared must be able to conclude that despite your involvement, he can adequately represent the interests of the client. That’s how they deal with the conflict-of-interest problems.”
“And you better get all of that in writing,” Conrad said. “The last thing you want is to win and then have your victory taken away when Kozlow appeals and cries that he was given an unfair trial.”
“So as long as Jared gets consent, he can stay on the case?” Sara asked, not looking forward to the answer.
“Sorry, I wish it were better news,” Guff said.
Conrad pointed a finger at Sara. “Be careful with this one. I know you’re dying for the victory, but don’t let the case take over your entire life.”
“Too late,” Sara said.
Ignoring hunger pains and a pile of pink message sheets, Jared worked straight through lunch. He reread the burglary statute, made a list of possible defenses, and started searching for every criminal case in the past ten years that had similar facts.
Even Jared’s office showed off his current obsession. The Woody Allen poster that had hung on the wall behind his desk was now replaced by a large piece of poster board containing a professionally enlarged image of the crime scene—from Doniger’s and Harrison’s houses, to Officer McCabe’s location when he received the call on his radio, to the exact spot where Kozlow was stopped. Every morning, Jared planned to start his day the same way: He’d come in and stare intently at the poster, silently accounting for every second of the incident. Each day, he’d run through all the details, constantly searching for another debatable point he could use to his advantage. At trial, all he needed was the tiniest of mistakes—one slip-up, one misidentification, one moment unaccounted for. That was all it took to win on the facts; that was all he needed to protect his wife.
At the same time, if he couldn’t win on the facts, he could try to win on the client. As he had seen in countless trials, some defendants were so believable—indeed, so likable—that the jury couldn’t help but vote not guilty. But as Jared watched Kozlow bite his nails and spit the remnants into a coffee cup, he realized Kozlow wasn’t one of them.
Kathleen walked into the room. “Ready for a pick-me-up?” she asked. “I’ve got Brownie on the phone.”
Jonathan Brown was one of Manhattan’s least prominent and most unlikely antiques dealers. Specializing in entertainment memorabilia, he was also Jared’s one-stop-shopping source for the hardest-to-find collectibles. They had met at an antiques show when Jared was in law school, but it wasn’t until Jared bought the Chinatown knife that Brownie realized he had
a client for life. A salesman first and a collector last, Brownie always said that Jared got the exclusive first look at his newest inventory. And since he liked Brownie, Jared, for the most part, believed him.
“Ready to deal?” Brownie said as Jared picked up the phone.
“Listen, Brownie, now’s really not the—”
“Uh-oh, here he goes—he’s taking out his violin. Ohhhh, Brownie, we’re still paying off loans. Lower the price a little bit and I’ll think about it. Well, that gig’s not working today, baby. Because I just found me the veritable goose that lays the golden eggs.”
“I’m serious—”
“Before you say it, let me finish. Remember that wish list you gave me? The one with the words ‘If You See These, Buy Them for Me’ in big letters? Well, I found the number three item on your list. For a price to be negotiated, you can soon be the owner of your very own—get a load of this, Mr. Movies—your very own scuba mask from The Graduate! I’m talking authenticity here. From the famous pool scene. Good as old and almost sol—”
“Brownie, I don’t have time for this now.” Jared hung up the phone. “You almost done with that paperwork?” he asked Kathleen.
“Here you go,” Kathleen said, handing a small pile of papers to Jared.
After quickly reading each page, Jared walked to Kozlow and placed them on his lap. Handing Kozlow a pen, he said, “Read these, and if you agree with what they say, sign them.”
“What are they?” Kozlow asked.
“They’re consent forms to let me be your attorney. And more important, by acknowledging that the prosecutor is my wife, they also show that you’ve had full disclosure about the situation and that I’ve obtained adequate consent. That way, if we lose, you can’t go tell the appellate court that you need a new trial because you didn’t know we were husband and wife.”
“So if I don’t sign these, I can still get that appeal.”
“Sure you can. But if you don’t sign them, Sara won’t bring the case. She’s too smart to not require this paperwork.”
As Kozlow leaned over to sign his name, Jared said to Kathleen, “Have you been able to get in touch with Doniger’s neighbor or the officer yet?”
“Why so early?” Kathleen asked. “We usually wait until after the grand jury. At this point, we don’t even know if they’ll indict.”
“I don’t care. I want you to call them,” Jared said, refusing to take his eyes off Kozlow. “When it comes to this case, we have to pretend the worst has already happened.”
At four o’clock that afternoon, Sara picked up her phone and dialed Jared’s number. Kathleen put her through.
“What do you want?” Jared answered.
“Nice greeting,” Sara said. “Very warm.”
“Sorry, I don’t have time right now. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” Jared said. “So what do you want?”
Surprised by her husband’s tone, she asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m just busy with the case. Now what’s up?”
“I wanted to make sure you know about the consent forms so we can—”
“I already had them drawn up and sent out. They’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
“Good,” Sara said. “Now are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“Dinner? Oh, crap, I forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll never make it in time; I’m completely swamped.”
“Jared, don’t give me that. You promised Pop you’d be there.”
“I know, but—”
“But what? You have too much work? Kozlow hasn’t even been indicted yet.”
“Don’t start with me,” Jared said. “If you do your job, I need to be prepared for the results.”
“Fine, pull an all-nighter. It won’t do you any good—I’m still going to kill you in court.”
Jared didn’t respond to the jab.
“Hello?” Sara said. “Is anyone there? Someone who can take a joke, perhaps?”
“Listen, I have to go,” Jared said. “I’ll see you at home.”
Sara heard a click and her husband was gone.
“Everything okay?” Guff asked, looking through the case files on Sara’s desk.
“I don’t think so. He’s working awfully hard, considering there’s no indictment.”
“Maybe he’s just trying to get ahead on things.”
“Maybe,” Sara said. “But I can tell when my husband’s nervous, and right now, something’s got him crazy. From here on in, the honeymoon’s over.”
Chapter 7
AT SEVEN THAT EVENING, SARA AND GUFF STOOD OUTSIDE the Second Avenue Deli, where the smell of kosher pickles and fried knishes drifted through the air. As a stream of East Siders followed their noses into the land of giant pastrami sandwiches and insulting waiters, Sara noticed the chilly air. “Winter’s on her way,” she said.
“You think?” Guff asked, blowing into his cupped hands and jogging in place to stay warm. “Now tell me again why your grandfather wants us standing out here when it’s nice and warm inside?”
“Guff, I told you ten times already—don’t call him my grandfather. He’s Pop. He likes being called Pop. That’s what we call him. And if we want to eat with him, we have to meet him outside. Otherwise, he thinks we’re not meeting him, and he’ll go home. Trust me, it sounds ridiculous, but it’s no joke. I’ve been stood up enough times to know.”
“He’s a real character, huh?”
“That’s why I invited you. He may be my closest surviving relative, but he’s a little overwhelming one-on-one. If you have two people against him, he’s easier on the senses.”
“Why didn’t Jared come?”
“Jared said he was busy, but I think it’s also because he and Pop don’t always see eye-to-eye.”
“Why?”
“When Jared and I first started going out, Pop said that Jared wasn’t the right type for me.”
“So?”
“So, he said it to Jared’s face—the night they first met.”
“I assume you disagreed.”
“Of course. Regardless of what my Pop says, Jared’s always been the one.”
“How’d you know?”
“What do you mean how’d I know? There’s no one reason. You just sort of…know.”
“Don’t give me that sentimental claptrap. There must be something you can point to—one incident that gave you some kind of sign.”
Thinking for a moment, Sara said, “Actually, there was this one thing. When I was little, around nine or ten, my dad started going on a ton of business trips—he was a salesman for a women’s clothing company. At the same time, I started having this recurring nightmare about being deaf. It was terrifying. Everyone would be talking, but I couldn’t hear anything. And then, even if I was screaming at the top of my lungs, no one could hear me. This went on for almost two years.”
“Because you missed your father.”
“Exactly. When my mom took me to a psychologist, he told her that the nightmare was based on my fear of being alone. Since I was an only child, and my parents were away from home a lot, it was a natural occurrence. With some help, I eventually got over my little prepubescent fears and moved on with my life. Then, twelve years later, my parents died. And the nightmare came back. The same terrible, haunting dream: I’m ten again, I’m deaf, and even though I’m screaming like a maniac, I can’t hear myself, and no one can hear me. This time, though, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many psychobabble techniques I used, I couldn’t shake it. It was torturing me. But when I started going out with Jared, the dream suddenly disappeared. I haven’t had it since. And that’s at least one of the reasons I knew he was the one. Naturally, Pop disagrees, but that’s just his nature.”
“I don’t understand—how can one person be that bad?”
“You’ll see,” Sara warned with a smile. “An
d let me give you one last hint: When you’re stuck for something to say, don’t ask him about the garment industry.”
Expecting a crotchety old man, Guff was surprised when Pop finally turned the corner. With soft, alert eyes and a mild smile, the old man was far more sympathetic looking than Guff had imagined. As he got closer, Guff also realized how big he was. A former beat cop in Brooklyn, Pop was no longer a mass of muscle, but in his determined, lumbering strides, Guff could see hints of the man he used to be.
After giving Sara a kiss hello, Pop stared at Guff. After a moment he asked, “What’s wrong with your hair? Is it fake?”
“It’s real,” Guff said. “And I’m Guff. Nice to meet you, Pop.”
“Call me Pop,” Pop said as he shook Guff’s hand. “And I’m just kidding about the hair part. Just good fun and all that.” Guff shot a look at Sara as they followed Pop into the restaurant. “Where’s that suck-up husband of yours?”
“He’s working on a case,” Sara explained. “He said to send you his best.”
“Don’t lie to me, sister. I’ve been stood up by better than him.”
“I’m sure you have,” Sara said.
The hostess seated Guff, Sara, and Pop in a booth in the back of the restaurant. “So is this place any good?” Guff asked.
“Good?” Pop said. “This is the Second Avenue Deli! They’ve been putting out pastrami since Eisenhower first scratched his giant-sized forehead in the White House.”
“Eisenhower had a big forehead?” Guff asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Pop said. “Ike had a huge melon. So did Jack Kennedy. Only difference was, Kennedy had hair. Look at the pictures—it’s true.”
“I never knew that,” Guff said, fighting back a smile. “Who else had a big head?”
“My gosh, back then, everyone did. That’s why we all wore hats. Goldwater, Nixon, Milton Berle, even that fella de Gaulle from France—he had a giant one. It was like a secret code.”
“Secret code?”
“Oh, sure. Wearing a hat meant something. It’s like the letters in a deck of cards. Add them together and you get—”
