by Brad Meltzer
“Big deal,” Guff said from the sofa. “I say we go down there tomorrow and have a look around ourselves. We don’t need some overrated detective to do the work for us.”
“I don’t know,” Conrad said. “I know this may sound strange coming from me, but maybe you should just plead out the case and be done with it. Considering what Monaghan said, it’s far more important that you don’t lose your first case at trial. And based on your witness list, it doesn’t sound like you have much to work with.”
Biting her lip, Sara couldn’t help but agree. But ever since Pop’s accident, she knew it wasn’t about her job. The stakes had been raised. The fight was for Jared. “No,” she insisted. “I can’t plead out.”
“But if you get rid of this, you can take your other cases and—”
“I’m taking care of the other cases.”
“Are you?” Conrad asked.
“I’m taking care of them,” she repeated. “If I can’t get a detective on this one, then I’ll go up there myself. Tomorrow morning, we’ll visit Claire Doniger and see what we can find.”
At one-thirty, Jared headed to “Chez Wayne,” the firm’s private dining room, for lunch. Every day, over three hundred employees swapped stories, shared gossip, and stuffed their faces in Chez Wayne’s enormous dining area.
Sitting alone in the back of the room, Jared ignored the conversations of his fellow employees. He dug into his minestrone soup, his mind focused on the case. Although he didn’t want to jinx himself with overconfidence, he was feeling good about his position. Sara still had almost nothing in terms of information, and her witnesses were becoming even more difficult to work with. Things were finally looking good for the defense, and best of all, his wife would be safe. So when he saw Marty Lubetsky enter the room, Jared waved his hand to get his boss’s attention.
Approaching Jared’s table with a tray of food, Lubetsky asked, “What’s got you so happy?”
“Nothing,” Jared said. “I was just thinking about the AmeriTex case from last week.”
“Jared, don’t fish for compliments.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Sure you weren’t,” Lubetsky said as he set his tray down and took a seat. “Don’t worry, though. I got copies of the motions. It was nice work.”
“Thanks,” Jared said.
“Now tell me about the Kozlow case. How do things look?”
“Good. Very good. I’m still hoping for a dismiss and seal, but I don’t think Sara’s going to go for it.”
“How’s her case?”
“It’s starting to crumble. By the end of the week, I think she’ll realize she’s stuck with a loser. And as she starts getting desperate, I’ve got a few more tricks.”
Resting against the doors of the subway car, Sara knew she was in trouble. From the moment she had taken the case, things had been sliding downhill. And no matter how hard she tried to climb back up, she could feel everything collapsing around her. As the train headed uptown, swarms of commuters packed in and Sara was pushed to the center of the car. With her back and shoulders pressed against strangers, she started to feel claustrophobic. She opened her coat to cool herself off, but the subway’s dry, chalky air caused her to break into an uncomfortable sweat. Closing her eyes, she tried to forget her fellow passengers. She tried to forget about Jared and Kozlow and Sunken Cheeks. And she tried not to think about her parents and her family and what would happen if she lost the case. But regardless of how hard she tried, and how many other things she could shut out, she couldn’t stop thinking about Pop. She’d never forget the fear in his eyes when he was wheeled into the hospital room. She had almost lost him, and he knew it. They had broken Pop. That was what she couldn’t shake, and unless she could prevent it, that was what they were going to do to her husband. Hold it together, she told herself, clutching the handle of her briefcase. It’ll be fine.
When the train reached Seventy-ninth Street, Sara shoved her way out of the car, desperate to get a breath of fresh air. As quickly as she could, she climbed up to the street and finally breathed a sigh of relief. On the walk home, she did her best to convince herself that everything would be okay—that she just needed to calm down and stay focused. But as she turned down her block, she heard someone behind her say, “Hey, Sara. What’s going on?”
Whirling around, Sara was relieved to see that it was just her upstairs neighbor, Joel Westman. “Sorry, Joel. I thought you were someone else.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Joel said as he caught up to Sara. “Are you okay? You look sick.”
“I’m fine,” Sara said as they approached their building. “I think I’m just coming down with a cold. It’s been a rough week.”
“I know what you mean. Work can really get in the way of life,” Joel said. “Meanwhile, what happened to your briefcase?”
Looking down, Sara saw that someone had scratched the word Win into the side of her leather briefcase. Her heart skipped a beat. The threat was closer than she had known—indeed, so close it had been standing right next to her on the subway.
Chapter 12
ON THURSDAY MORNING, SARA STOOD IN FRONT OF 201 East Eighty-second Street, anxiously waiting for Conrad and Guff to arrive. It had been over a week since she had spoken to Patty Harrison, and Sara knew that if she didn’t turn up something soon, she was going to have a hard time at trial. Staring at the old but pristine brownstone with potted plants on the doorstep and elegant tall windows, she couldn’t help but compare Claire Doniger’s home with her own. If Sara and Jared’s brownstone had Upper West Side character, Doniger’s had Upper East Side polish.
A cab pulled up and Guff and Conrad got out. “So this is where Kozlow picked the original fight?” Guff asked, staring up at the house.
“Take a good look at it,” Conrad said. “Try to imagine all the events as you know them and make sure they physically could work in this location.” Following Conrad’s instructions, the three coworkers stared at the building, trying to imagine Officer McCabe dragging Kozlow to Doniger’s door and Patty Harrison peering through her peephole.
“Okay, I’m done,” Guff said within thirty seconds. “Can we go inside now?”
“Shut up,” Conrad and Sara said simultaneously.
When they were done looking at the facade of the building, Conrad and Guff climbed the steps. “Hold on a second,” Sara said. “I want to talk to Harrison first. I haven’t been able to reach her since the grand jury.” She walked across the street to Harrison’s brownstone. Conrad and Guff followed.
As Sara rang Patty Harrison’s doorbell, Conrad put his finger over the peephole in the door.
“Why’re you doing that?” Sara asked.
“If she sees us and doesn’t want to speak to us, she’ll pretend she’s not home,” he whispered. “This way, she has to ask—”
“Who’s there?” a voice called out from behind the door. Conrad smiled.
“Ms. Harrison, it’s Sara Tate,” Sara said. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“No,” Harrison shot back. “Go away.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Sara said. “I promise.”
“I said go away. I’m through talking to you.”
Confused, Sara looked at Conrad. “Ms. Harrison, is everything okay?” she asked.
There was no answer.
Banging on the door, Conrad said, “Ms. Harrison, this is Assistant District Attorney Conrad Moore. I’m giving you two options: You can open the door now, or we can come back with a search warrant, a carload of cops, and a battering ram. Either way we’re coming inside.”
“You don’t have probable cause for a search warrant,” Sara whispered.
“She doesn’t know that,” Conrad said under his breath. Then, raising his voice, he yelled, “Ms. Harrison, you have three seconds to make up your mind. After that, we’ll make sure the whole neighborhood knows you’re refusing to cooperate with the authorities. One…two…”
The dead bolts clicked and the d
oor opened.
As Sara walked inside the cluttered house, Harrison had her back turned, with her head in her left hand. “Is everything okay?” Sara asked, touching her shoulder.
When Harrison turned around, Sara saw a deep purple bruise under her swollen left eye. The right side of her bottom lip was gashed and another bruise marked her right cheek. Harrison’s right arm, in a fiberglass cast, hung from a sling around her neck. As soon as Sara saw her, she felt nauseous. Harrison was no longer just a witness. She was now a victim.
“Who did this to you?” Sara asked.
“Please, leave…” Harrison begged as the tears filled her eyes.
“Tell us who did this,” Sara said. “Was it Kozlow?”
“We can protect you,” Conrad added as Harrison sat on the sofa in her living room.
“She said she could protect me, and look where that got me,” Harrison said, pointing at Sara.
“But this time—”
“He broke my wrist with his hands!” Harrison shouted, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “With his bare hands!”
“Tell us who he is,” Sara said, putting her arm around Harrison.
“Get off me,” Harrison said, pulling away. “Get out of my house. Just by coming here, you’ve put me at risk. If you want to bother someone, go bother the Donigers. They’re the ones who started this.”
“Please, Ms. Harrison, let us help you.”
“I don’t want your help! I want you out of my house!” Harrison screamed, her face flushed. “Now get out! Get out of my house!”
Searching for words, Sara headed for the door.
“I was just trying to be a good citizen!” Harrison shouted after her. “That’s it—a good citizen!”
“We know that,” Conrad said as he followed Sara. “That’s why we—” The door slammed shut.
Guff looked over at Sara. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Can you believe that?”
“He used his bare hands,” Sara said. “He snapped her wrist with his bare hands. What kind of animals are we dealing with?”
“I’m not sure,” Conrad said. “But I have a few questions for Claire Doniger.” Conrad walked across the street and banged on Doniger’s door. Putting his finger over her peephole, he waited for an answer.
There was none. Conrad rang the doorbell and banged one more time.
“She probably heard you shouting,” Sara said.
“Or maybe she’s just not home,” Guff added.
“That’s bullshit,” Conrad said. “I know she’s in there.” Banging his fist against the door, he shouted, “Open up, Ms. Doniger! We know you’re in there!”
“Forget it,” Guff said, heading for the front steps. “We’ll find her later.”
When there was still no response, Conrad followed Guff down to the sidewalk. “Are you coming?” Conrad asked. Sara was still standing in front of Doniger’s door. Moments later, she walked down the steps and joined Conrad and Guff. “What was that about?” Conrad asked.
“Ms. Harrison said that we should talk to the Donigers, as if there were more than one. I checked the mailbox, and it said ‘Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Doniger.’ Apparently, Claire Doniger is married.”
“Then how come we’ve never heard of this Mr. Doniger?” Guff asked.
“You got me,” Sara said. “But it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.”
In her office, Sara called Claire Doniger. “Hello, this is Claire,” Doniger said when she answered the phone.
“Hi, Mrs. Doniger. This is Sara Tate calling. I was wondering if I could ask you a quick favor.”
“Please, we went through this yesterday,” Doniger said. “I—”
“Actually, I’d just like to speak to your husband.”
There was a short pause on the other line. Then Doniger said, “My husband is dead.”
Startled, Sara said, “I’m sorry to hear that. When did he die?”
Again, there was a short pause. “This past Friday.”
“Really?” Sara asked, trying not to sound suspicious. She mentally counted the days. “I hope your testifying didn’t interfere with the funeral. When was it?”
“Saturday.” Before Sara could ask another question, Doniger added, “To be honest, this last week has been terribly hard. He was sick for a bit—the diabetes got the best of him in the end. That’s why I really didn’t want to get involved with this whole burglary thing. It seemed so pointless compared to everything else I’ve been going through.”
“No, I understand perfectly. I’m sorry I’ve been pressing so hard.”
“It’s okay,” Doniger said. “And I’m sorry I’ve been so short with you. It’s still a new adjustment.”
“Of course,” Sara said. “You have my deepest sympathies. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” The moment Sara hung up the phone, she looked up at Conrad and Guff.
“He’s dead?” Guff asked.
“She says he died this past Friday,” Sara explained. “Apparently he was a diabetic. Says he was sick for a while.”
“You don’t believe that for a second, do you?” Conrad asked.
“Are you kidding? We’ve spent the past two weeks in close contact with this woman and she fails to mention that her husband died? We saw her on Monday, and she never said a word. At that point, she’d barely been a widow for seventy-two hours.”
“What are you going to do?” Guff asked.
“You tell me,” Sara said. “What does it take to get a body exhumed?”
At eight-thirty, Jared was alone in his office. Kozlow had left almost two hours earlier, and Kathleen had just gone home to be with her husband. Relishing the quiet, but unable to relax, Jared sat on the edge of his chair and planned his upcoming conversation with Sara. First, he’d tell her that he’d spoken with Pop at lunchtime. That would get her guard down. Then he’d ask her how work was going. Although that would probably get her guard up, he knew he had to hit the issues quickly. Over the past few nights, no matter the subject, he’d seen Sara’s patience shrinking, and a prolonged discussion about work wasn’t going to make talking to her any easier.
Jared looked at his watch. He couldn’t wait any longer. He’d been tempted to make the call since lunch, but it was smart to hold off until late in the day. By this time, Sara would be tired and frustrated, the long workday taking its usual toll. As his corporations professor in law school used to say, “The wearier the prey, the quicker the kill.” It was the professor’s corniest line, but at this moment, as Jared picked up the phone, he couldn’t have agreed more with its accuracy.
Dialing Sara’s number, he eventually heard her answer, “ADA Tate.”
“Sara, it’s me.”
“What do you want?”
Jared kept his voice warm and sincere. “I just wanted to see how you were doing. Is that okay?”
“That’s fine. What else is going on?”
“I spoke to Pop today. He sounds like he’s doing well.”
“I know. I went by to see him during lunch,” Sara said. “Thanks for checking in on him.”
“Not at all.” They paused.
“Okay, Jared, what’s the real point of this call?”
Jared shook his head. His wife knew him too well. “I wanted to make you one last offer.”
“Jared!”
“Just listen a second. I’m not going to badger you about what’s good for my job or your job. We’re talking about something bigger than careers. You said it yourself—we’re talking about our marriage and our lives. As long as this case goes on, all of that’s at risk. You’ve seen what’s happened in the last week and a half. Every day’s spent grating against each other; every night’s spent ignoring what’s really important. Sara, if we use the dismiss and seal, we can end that right now. Then we can get back to our lives, and our marriage, and Pop, and everything else we’ve been trying so hard to juggle.”
“And that’s your final offer? The famous dismiss and seal?”
“That’s it. After today, I’m starting to p
repare the evidentiary motions. And once that starts, even though I’m trying to protect you, we’re going to find ourselves at trial. Now c’mon, honey, what do you say?”
“No matter how you couch it, Jared, it’s pure manipulation. You don’t think I see that?” Sara laughed. “Besides, I’m not making a move until I hear from the medical examiner.”
“What does the medical examiner have to do with this burglary?”
“Well, if we can get him to dig up Arnold Doniger’s body, he’ll tell us if we have to also charge your client with murder.”
Jared leaned forward in his seat. “Who’s Arnold Doniger?” Without getting an answer, Jared heard a click. His wife had hung up.
“What’d he say?” Conrad asked.
“I think he wet his pants right there,” Sara said.
“I can’t believe you hung up on him like that.”
“He deserves it on this one. He calls me up, acting like he’s Joe Law, expecting me to grovel at his feet just because he pulls a couple heartstrings. I hate it when he uses Pop and my career against me—he knows it makes me crazy.”
“Those’re your Achilles’ heels. Any good opponent would exploit them.”
“Well, I don’t want an opponent. I want a husband.”
“If you love him so much, how come you’re not willing to give, Sara?”
Sara looked up at Conrad. She was tempted to tell him about Sunken Cheeks. And that she was only fighting this hard to protect her husband. But instead, she lied, “Because he’s the man on the other side. Giving him a hard time is my goal.”
Conrad watched her carefully. “Do you want to try that one again?” he asked.
Fidgeting with some paper clips, Sara didn’t reply.
“Have it your way,” he said. “I’m done asking.”
Ten minutes later, Guff returned to the office and handed Sara a few pieces of paper. “Here’s the copy of your order to exhume. Judge Cohen signed it, and they’re digging him up tonight. The autopsy’s scheduled first thing tomorrow morning.”
