by Brad Meltzer
As they made their way down the stairs, Guff realized Doniger was no longer following. “By the way,” he whispered to Sara, “you don’t have the authority to sign a search warrant. You need a judge.”
“I know that,” Sara smiled. “But she doesn’t. And now that we have her consent, we can search anywhere we want.”
“Cute trick. Now what exactly are we looking for?”
“I’m not sure. All he said was to check the basement.” When Sara and Guff reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves staring at what appeared to be Arnold Doniger’s home office. On the far wall was a small wooden desk, a two-drawer file cabinet, and a personal computer. There was a Princeton reading chair in the corner of the room and a packed-to-capacity bookshelf on the right-hand wall. On the left wall was a perfectly preserved six-foot-long sailfish—apparently a trophy from a successful fishing trip—and a doorway that led to a storage room full of empty boxes and old furniture. The other two walls were covered with old photographs and other personal effects: pictures of Arnold Doniger when he was in the navy, photos of him on his sailboat, and one large portrait from his and Claire’s wedding.
“Nice picture,” Guff said, looking at the wedding photo. “They look really happy.”
“It’s sick, isn’t it?” Sara asked. “One day you’re wearing the white dress; ten months later, you’re wearing the black.”
“Welcome to the world of prosecution,” Guff said.
Sara read through a framed article from Avenue magazine next to the photo of the couple.
“Anything interesting?” Guff asked.
“Define ‘interesting,’” Sara replied. “According to this little society-page story, when Claire and Arnold were planning their wedding at the Pierre, Claire hated the curtains in the Cotillion Room so much, she had new ones made just for their wedding. Apparently, the Pierre refused to replace them, so Claire paid for them herself. Then, when the wedding was over, she just left them there—obviously they were too big to take home. The funny part is, the Pierre liked what she did so much, they left them up, and Claire’s curtains are still there today—making her the talk of the town for at least a full ten minutes.”
“So you’re saying Claire’s the type of person who enjoys a good roll in the dough?”
“If you’re asking me if she likes this lifestyle, I’d say the answer is yes.”
As Guff approached Arnold’s desk, Sara suggested, “You take the desk; I’ll take the rest of the room.”
Fifteen minutes later, they hadn’t found a thing. Frustrated, Guff started lifting each photograph to look behind it. “What’re you doing?” Sara asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll find a secret passage, or a used syringe, or something cool like that. You got any better ideas?”
“Not really,” Sara said, stepping through the doorway that led to the other half of the basement. She saw an old, worn love seat, a set of four wooden kitchen chairs, and a variety of empty computer, stereo, and kitchen appliance boxes. She also saw a clear glass door that looked like it led to an industrial refrigerator. When Sara pulled the door open, a blast of cool air hit her in the face.
“What’s that?” Guff asked.
Sara flipped on the light switch and stuck her head inside. At least three hundred bottles of wine were perfectly stacked in the cooler.
“Son of a bitch,” Sara said. She eyed the back of the six-by-six-foot wine cellar, pulled a pen from her briefcase, and jotted a note to herself. She then stepped back into the storage room, a knowing glare lighting her eyes.
“What’s the big deal?” Guff asked. “It’s just a wine cellar.”
“That’s not all it is,” Sara said, leaving the room. “Let’s get out of here.”
Sitting in Fawcett’s office in the basement of the medical examiner’s building, Sara waited for Guff to get off the phone.
“No, I understand,” Guff said. “But do you think it’s possible?”
As Guff waited for his answer, Fawcett walked in and sat behind his desk. “Who’s he talking to?” he asked Sara.
“Chillington Freezer Systems. They made the actual cooling unit for Doniger’s wine cellar.”
“Yeah. Yeah. No, I agree,” Guff said. “Thanks again for the help.” When he put down the phone, he turned to Sara and Fawcett. “Well, the wonderfully helpful customer-service people at Chillington said that a wine cellar is normally set at fifty-five degrees, and anywhere between fifty-five and eighty percent humidity, depending on the conditions of the room.”
“I don’t care about wine preservation,” Sara said. “I want to know how cold their freezers can get.”
“That’s the thing,” Guff said. “A wine cellar isn’t a freezer. It’s designed to chill, but not to get much lower than that.”
“So how low—”
“Relax, I’ll get there,” Guff said. “According to the woman on the phone, you can manually turn the temperature down to somewhere between forty-five and fifty degrees. But if you turn off the dehumidifier and the reheat coil, and the room doesn’t get any sun—”
“Like a basement.”
“Exactly,” Guff said. “In a room like a basement, you might be able to get it down to twenty or twenty-five degrees.”
“I knew it!” Sara shouted, slapping Fawcett’s desk. “I knew it the moment I saw it!”
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Fawcett asked. “Why the sudden fascination with wine cellars?”
“Because of what you said in the autopsy,” Sara explained, pulling out the preliminary draft of Fawcett’s report that she was keeping her notes on. “You said that Mr. Doniger had some tearing in the lining of the brain, and that it might be caused by intense cold or freezing temperatures. Here’s our intense cold. That’s how they kept the body from smelling up the entire house, and that’s how they made it look like he died days after the burglary—they stuffed him in the wine cellar and turned the cold on full blast. Originally, I’ll bet they planned to just call an ambulance the next morning and say that her diabetic husband had died. But when Patty Harrison called in a burglary and Kozlow got arrested, they had to improvise.”
“What about the stuff in his pockets?” Guff asked. “The golf ball and the diamond watch?”
“My guess is Kozlow was being greedy. He probably grabbed them on the way out, hoping no one would notice. Clearly, he didn’t know he’d be arrested minutes later. Then, when the cop brought him back to the Donigers’ house, the cop asked Claire if she’d been burglarized. She had no choice but to go along with the burglary story. At that point, it was better than saying Kozlow was over there to kill her husband.”
“It’s certainly possible,” Fawcett said. “A few years ago, there was a man who tried something similar with his dead wife. As I remember it, he put her in a meat freezer until his step-children left for vacation.”
“See, that’s why I love New York,” Guff said proudly. “People are so conscientious.”
To make sure that he always had an easy excuse to return home, Jared left most of his belongings in his apartment. Once a week, he would come home to pick up an extra suit, a few more ties, or whatever else he could come up with, so he could take a look around and, most important, see his wife. After their last fight, Jared was determined to stay away, but Rafferty’s recent threat caused him to rethink his strategy. All he needed now was a little time in the apartment. To make sure that Sara wasn’t suspicious, he called first. He said he’d be by at approximately eight o’clock. Hoping to catch her asleep, he didn’t arrive until midnight. As quietly as possible, he made his way to the bedroom. Slowly, he opened the door.
“Where’ve you been?” Sara asked as soon as he entered. “You’re four hours late.”
Jared didn’t respond. He leaned his briefcase against his nightstand, then went straight to the bathroom. For the past two and a half weeks, their conversations were becoming shorter and more sterilized, eroding to the point of near silence. Office
news was clearly off-limits, but now, the tension had begun to extend to small talk as well.
When Jared came out of the bathroom, Sara was under the covers, her back turned toward her husband. Suddenly, she heard Jared ask, “Were you going through my briefcase?”
“What?” Sara asked, turning over.
“Were you going through my briefcase?” Jared repeated, pointing to the floor. “When I went into the bathroom, it was standing up straight. Now it’s facedown on the rug.”
Laughing, Sara said, “I know this may surprise you, but there’s this thing we call gravity.”
“Don’t give me sarcasm!” he shouted. “I’m serious!”
Caught unawares by his sudden hostility, Sara asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you think is wrong? I caught you—”
“You didn’t catch anything,” Sara shot back. “You’re just pissed because you’re finally realizing that you’re going to lose this case.”
“Don’t say that!” he yelled. “I’m not going to lose!” His eyes were blazing with a look Sara had never seen on his face before. Gone was his usual unclouded confidence. In its place was pure desperation.
Trying to calm him down, she said, “Let’s just call it a night and save the fighting for tomorrow.”
“I’m serious, Sara, I’m not going to lose.”
“I’m sure you won’t.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m not losing.”
“Jared, how do you want me to respond to that?” Sara asked. “‘You’re right’? ‘You’ll never lose’?”
“I just want you to take me seriously.”
Sara didn’t reply.
“Don’t ignore me like that,” Jared said. “Do you take me seriously or not?”
“If you have to ask, the answer doesn’t matter.”
“Well, I have to ask. So give me an answer.”
Turning away from her husband, Sara said, “Go fuck yourself.”
When Jared returned to Pop’s apartment, it was almost one in the morning. Still upset, he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the outcome of the upcoming motions. Even if only half of them went his way, he thought as he opened the door, he was still in good shape. Now well accustomed to the smells of Pop’s apartment, Jared didn’t pay attention to the mustiness that had seemed to be suffocating him when he first arrived. He didn’t even notice the pictures of Sara that used to taunt him every night. But as he walked into the apartment, he did notice the 1946 vintage electric fan that was, for some reason, now spinning.
One of Pop’s best old keepsakes, the powder-blue art deco fan had been built by General Electric in the years before they made the metal blades childproof with an adequate protective cage. “And it still works,” Pop used to brag whenever the subject came up.
Watching the fan as it oscillated on the side table next to the couch, Jared knew something was wrong. When he had left this morning, the fan was turned off. And with the arrival of winter, only a lunatic would still be…
“Guess who?” Kozlow asked as he bolted out of the hall closet. Just as Jared turned around, Kozlow jabbed Jared in the nose with the palm of his hand. “They were in the office today!” Kozlow shouted as blood ran from Jared’s nose. “They were in the office and then in the basement! How the hell did that happen?” Before Jared could answer, Kozlow gave him a knee to the stomach. “C’mon, hotshot, explain that one to me!”
Doubled over in pain, Jared noticed a broom that had fallen out of the closet when Kozlow jumped out. All he had to do was grab it. But before he made a single move, Kozlow followed Jared’s gaze and turned around. “You were going to use this against me?” Kozlow asked, picking up the broom. With a quick swing, he smashed Jared in the ribs. “Answer me!” He hit him again in the shoulder. Then again in the ribs. Then again in the shoulder. “Why aren’t you answering me?” Kozlow screamed as Jared dropped to the floor.
Standing behind his victim, Kozlow put the broom under Jared’s neck and pulled tight. Choking for air, Jared fought wildly to wrench the broom from his neck. He dug his fingers against his throat, trying to get some leverage. It was no use, though. Kozlow wouldn’t let go. Jared continued to gasp and his face flushed red.
With a sharp tug up, Kozlow forced Jared to his feet and pushed him forward. They approached the edge of the couch. On the nearby side table, the fan was still spinning. When Jared realized where Kozlow was heading, he went wild. In a roar of adrenaline, he planted his feet and pushed backwards, sending both himself and Kozlow crashing into a wall full of picture frames. Glass rained to the floor. The sudden fit of energy had clearly caught Kozlow by surprise, but within seconds it didn’t seem to matter. Maintaining a firm grip on the broom, and holding it taut against Jared’s neck, Kozlow was once again in control. He shoved Jared toward the blades of the fan. Jared was squirming and his hands grasped violently at every nearby object—anything to stop him from reaching the couch. He pulled over the lamp, kicked over the wooden coffee table, and pressed his feet against the sofa. But the more Jared fought, the harder Kozlow pushed.
With one final heave, Kozlow threw Jared facedown on the arm of the couch and pressed his knee into Jared’s back. Kozlow picked up the fan and dropped it on the corner of the couch. Jared pulled his head back, his face only a few inches from the blades of the fan. Kozlow grabbed him by the hair and slowly pressed forward.
“You promised us that you’d win,” Kozlow said. “Isn’t that what you said? That you’d definitely win?”
“Later…” Jared coughed. “The motions.”
“Fuck later. This is for now,” Kozlow said, pushing Jared’s face even closer.
Jared turned his head to the side, buying himself the tiniest amount of space. Then Kozlow twisted him back, so that Jared’s chin faced forward. He was so close to the fan, he could smell the dust on the spinning blades.
“Tell me when it hurts,” Kozlow said.
Only millimeters away from the fan, Jared gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. Kozlow smirked. And Jared screamed.
The next morning, Conrad and Guff were standing outside the courtroom, looking for Sara. “I can’t believe she’s late,” Conrad said. “This is the second time.”
“Maybe something came up,” Guff said.
“What could possibly come up? What else is she working on?”
“Her archery skills? Her tetherball game? How should I know?”
Looking at his watch, Conrad realized it was time to go inside. As he pushed open the swinging door to the courtroom, he saw Jared and Kozlow sitting on a bench in the back. Jared had a two-inch piece of gauze covering the end of his chin. Walking up to his opponent, Conrad said, “Nice to see you.”
“You, too,” Jared said flatly.
“What happened to your face?”
“None of your business.”
“Have it your way. You seen your wife?”
“No. Why?”
“Because I need to speak to her, and I’m not sure where she is.”
“You did fine without her last time,” Kozlow said, laughing.
“That’s funny,” Conrad said. “I hope you’re laughing like that at your sentencing hearing. It’s a great way to show everyone what a hump you are.”
“Okay, we get the picture,” Jared said, standing up. “You’re a real tough guy. Now get away from my client before I file harassment charges.”
Standing face-to-face with Jared, Conrad said, “I guess you have no idea how hard it is to prove harassment.”
“And you must have no idea how hard it is to be on the receiving end of the suit. Even if you win, it’ll consume six months of your life.”
Before Conrad could say another word, Sara came bursting through the door. Jared and Conrad looked at each other and fell silent. “What happened to your face?” Sara asked.
“Nothing,” Jared said.
Five minutes later, the court clerk called case number 0318-98: State of New York v. Anthony Kozlow. With his angular j
aw and perfectly trimmed beard, Judge Bogdanos cut a handsome but intimidating figure. As a prosecutor almost twelve years ago, he had been well known for his zealous, almost irrational belief that anyone who was arrested was guilty of something. To defense attorneys, Bogdanos was biased; to prosecutors, he was a hero.
“I’ll keep this short and sweet,” he said as the parties sat down. “On the defendant’s motion for a continuance for further fact finding, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the diamond watch, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the silver golf ball, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the testimony of Officer Michael McCabe, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the testimony of Patricia Harrison, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion to suppress the testimony of the 911 operator, motion denied. On the defendant’s motion denying probable cause, motion denied.”
And so it went. All thirty-four of Jared’s motions were ruled on, all of them denied. When Bogdanos was finished reading his decisions, he looked up and said, “Mr. Lynch, while I admire your persistence, I want you to know that I don’t enjoy having my time wasted. In life, there are rare moments when quantity is more important than quality, but believe me when I say that this is not one of them. Understand?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Jared said, his eyes on the judge.
“Perfect. Then let’s set a trial date. If it’s possible, I’d like to do it next Thursday.”
“That’s fine with the People, Your Honor,” Sara said.
Although tempted to ask for a later date, Jared kept quiet. Forcing a grin, he said, “The defense will be ready, Your Honor.”
“Good,” Bogdanos said. “I’ll see you all then.” With a quick flick of his wrist, he banged his gavel and the clerk called the next case.
“How’d it go?” Kathleen asked as Jared passed her desk.
Without responding, Jared headed straight for his office and closed the door.
