I dont know. Mr. Hinds, maybe you should talk to your client. You are, of course, free to make of this evidence whatever you can in her defense. Personally, I dont think it will make a difference, says Templeton.
Spare us your heartfelt assessment of our case, says Harry.
Of course, but there is one more item, the reason I asked you to come over here today. A bit of a wrinkle thats developed.
What wrinkle? I say.
Do I have your word that what Im about to say doesnt leave this room?
I look at Harry. He nods. Go ahead.
It better be good, says Harry.
Ordinarily Id let you flounder for a few weeks, push and shove over the items in dispute. I could leave you with the illusion that theyve simply been misplaced. But that would be deceptive.
And, of course, youd never do that, says Harry.
Never, says Templeton.
Youre talking about the missing photographs? says Harry.
Six of them, I believe. They were taken from your client and inventoried when she was arrested.
Where are they? I ask.
Thats the problem.
Dont tell me theyve been destroyed, I say.
No, at least not as far as we know.
What do you mean as far as you know? Listen, says Harry, either deliver them up or tell us where they are.
Thats the problem. I cant.
Why not? I say.
I cant tell you that either. What I can tell you is that you would be wise to take the matter into court at your earliest opportunity. File a Brady motion. I wont oppose it. Give you my word. Get a ruling from the court if you can.
Brady v. Maryland is the seminal case in criminal discovery. Under the U.S. Supreme Court ruling, the government is required to deliver to the defense any and all exculpatory evidence. Even if the evidence by itself may not prove innocence, if it tends in that direction the state must turn it over.
Personally, I think the photos are probably irrelevant and immaterial, says Templeton. Its hard to see how you could fashion a defense around six photographs. Of course, I dont know what the photos represent. Maybe you could enlighten me, he says.
Last time I looked, Brady is a one-way street, says Harry. We dont have to truck information in your direction.
I just thought as long as we were sharing things, says Templeton. And, of course, as far as Im concerned youre entitled to look at the photographs.
But you cant just give them to us?
Sorry, he says.
I dont get it, I tell him. If you think the photos are immaterial, why wouldnt you oppose a Brady motion?
File it and find out, says Templeton. Thats all I can tell you. You wont get the photographs any other way.
TWENTY-ONE
Anyone familiar with such things might have been skeptical, but Nitikin knew that regardless of the passage of time, more than forty years, the device itself was virtually pristine.
The reason for this was the manner in which it was stored. Soviet physicists had long known that the greatest threat of deterioration to a gun-type nuclear device would be from oxidation and corrosion of the metal parts, and degradation of weapons-grade uranium if it were subjected to oxygen and hydrogen in the atmosphere for long periods.
Corrosion resulted from the close proximity of highly enriched uranium and ferrous metals, in this case tungsten carbide steel. Separate the uranium from the steel, and store each of them properly, in the case of uranium in a vacuum-sealed container, avoiding moisture and humidity, and the shelf life for a weapon of this kind would be extended geometrically, almost indefinitely.
The two subcritical elements of uranium, the projectile and the four concentric rings of the target, had been machined to precision and stored in their separate sealed lead-contained vaults while the weapon was still in the Soviet Union, before it had ever been shipped to Cuba. They had never been removed.
Nitikin had never even seen them, but he knew they were there from the periodic Geiger readings he took through the test vents in each of the lead cases. From these readings he knew that the two separated elements of weapons-grade uranium, the target and the projectile, neither of which alone possessed critical mass sufficient to cause a chain reaction, would, when combined under pressure at the proper velocity down the gun barrel, result in a massive chain-reaction detonation.
If it worked properly, the entire sequence, from detonation of the cordite initiator launching the uranium bullet down the barrel, to the flash of light hotter and more brilliant than the core of the sun, would take but the barest fraction of a second.
The parts were relatively easy to assemble as long as you had the proper tools, protective gear, and, most important, a deft touch with the tongs needed to position each of the elements while they were bolted or fitted into place.
For Nitikin it was this last part that had become the problem. He had developed a slight palsy in his hands. Over the past few years it had worsened. He knew that he could no longer manipulate the metal tongs either to load the gun with the subcritical uranium projectile or to fasten the uranium target rings to the tungsten carbide tamper at the muzzle end of the barrel.
Nitikin had told no one about this, least of all Alim or any of his cadre. He was afraid of what they might do if they knew, not for himself, but for Maricela, his daughter.
Nitikin, at least in his mind if not his heart, remained the staunch warrior. But he knew that Maricela was afraid, fearful of what was happening. He kept the details from her for her own safety. But she was not stupid. How much she knew, he couldnt be sure. He told her not to ask any questions and to remain out of sight as much as possible.
She had asked him to leave with her on her last trip, to go back to Costa Rica and to live with her and her children there. For Nitikin it was strange. For the first time in recent memory, he actually wanted to go. But by then it was too late. Alim and his men had arrived with money for the FARC rebels and funds for the cartel in Mexico. Alim knew about the device. Nitikin was trapped.
For himself he did not care. Living and hiding with the bomb had been the purpose of his life for so many years that it no longer mattered. But he loved Maricela and did not want her harmed.
He had stalled for time, hoping Alim would allow her to leave, to go back home to her family. Twice he had asked Alim to permit men from the FARC whom he trusted to see her home safely and twice Alim had put him off. Nitikin had already told Maricela that if they permitted her to go, she was never to return to visit him again, under any circumstance. Though the thought crushed his heart, he would say good-bye to his daughter and never lay eyes on her again in this life. Yakov Nitikin knew he was a dead man. If age did not take him soon, Alim would, the moment his usefulness ended and his knowledge became a burden.
TWENTY-TWO
If the study of crime is a science, its first rule of physics is the law of opportunity. Every cop on the beat will do two things first: nail down the time frame for the crime, and then cast his net over the universe of possible suspects and start trolling for calendars.
If you kept your appointments, and your social agenda for the evening didnt include sticking knives in Emerson Pike, they would cross your name off the list.
When they are done, the police will zero in on the names that are left, concentrating on people like me who dont have an alibi for the night in question. It may not be rocket science, but it works.
I have scoured my calendars, the one at work as well as my personal Outlook file from my smartphone, the cellular I carry on my belt. There are no entries on either for the night that Pike was killed, nothing but blank space. I have gone so far as to check my phone records to see if I might have made calls from the house or my cell phone during the period that the police believe the crimes were committed, a rough ninety-minute time frame betwe
en nine and ten thirty. I am left to conclude that after hours I lead a dull life. I could find nothing.
Some people would at least slap their computers around, send an e-mail to a friend. Generally I dont even do that. If Im not prepping for a case, Im reading or watching a movie on cable. With my daughter, Sarah, away at college, widowed and living alone as I do, unless a nosy neighbor peeked at me through a window, I have no way of proving where I was that night.
You worry too much, Harry tells me.
This afternoon I am driving over the bay, on the bridge from Coronado to the courthouse downtown, Harry in the passenger seat. We have an order-shortening time, allowing us an early hearing on a Brady motion. We are going after Katias photographs. True to his word, Templeton has filed no objection.
You dont think its strange the cops never came back and asked me what I was doing that night, where I was at the time of the murders?
Cops screw up, he says. Its the order of the universe. According to Harry, They probably just forgot. They talked to you once. Maybe they just didnt go back and look at their notes, figured they had everything they needed. Dont go kicking a sleeping dog, he tells me.
This particular dog is four feet tall and the last time I looked he wasnt sleeping. Templeton didnt forget. If homicide didnt come back and ask me for an alibi, its because the Dwarf told them not to.
And why would he do that?
You tell me.
Youre getting paranoid, says Harry.
Then what was all that chatter from Templeton about the stream of men following Katia around, the fact that she was a man magnet, and oh, by the way, isnt that how you met her?
Thats just the Dwarf jerking you around. Hes trying to get under your skin, says Harry.
Then you can tell him hes succeeded.
If youre that worried, check your credit card statements, your ATM card. Chances are, if you went anywhere that night you might have used plastic to buy something. Thatll put you someplace other than Del Mar. We can send a copy of the receipt to Templeton and you can start sleeping again at night.
I have already done this and come up empty. I dont tell Harry because I have a bigger problem.
Forget about it, he says. I mean, theres no reason to worry, right?
I look over at Harry in the passenger seat. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?
What I mean to say is, you know you didnt do anything.
Is that a question or a statement?
Dont put words in my mouth. You tell me you didnt do anything. You say you talked to her once in the grocery store, and I believe you. Thats the end of it. Lets just get this thing done. Get the photos, see whats in them, and maybe we can make this whole mess go away. Besides, if you ask me, Templetons whole theory of a co-conspirator is screwy. You can take every one of his facts, turn them around, and explain them away based on the killer coming in through the back door as Katia went out through the garage.
Id agree with you except for one thing. Juries dont like scenarios that hang on good fortune and serendipity. Templetons theory that two people did it would be much easier to sell.
Harry says nothing. Silence in the car for a moment. And so youre thinking this is especially true if the second person is Katias own lawyer.
Weve been working together for too long. Youre now doing mind melds, I tell him. Let me ask you a question?
Shoot.
What would you say if I told you I met up with Katia more than one time before the murders? I am concentrating on the road, but as I say it I can tell that Harry gets whiplash turning his head to look at me.
What are you saying?
That I saw her one other time before Pike was murdered.
Aw, shit, says Harry.
I know. Dont say it. I didnt tell the cops. One of the stupider things Ive ever done.
This is like a bad dream, he says.
I glance over and Harry is bug eyed, staring out at the road as if in a trance.
Nothing happened, I say. It was in the afternoon, about a week before the murders. She called me at the office, said she was going to be in Coronado later that day. She said her friend had some business to conduct and she was going to be window-shopping. She wanted to know if I could get together with her for a drink. I checked my calendar. I had nothing up, so I told her sure, why not? We met at the Brigantine, out in front of the office, had two drinks. The conversation lasted maybe forty minutes, that was it. She left and I went home.
Why didnt you tell the police?
They didnt ask for an alibi, so I figured they werent looking for an accomplice, they were just trolling for information. They wanted to know if I was representing her, and if there was no lawyer-client relationship to get in the way, they wanted to know how I met her and what we talked about. What could I say? There was no lawyer-client relationship when we met. You can be sure theyd already talked to Katia and they knew that. I told them about the first meeting, how she got my card, and that was it. They asked me if Id talked to her or seen her since, and I said no.
Harry gives me one of his stern looks.
You dont have to say it, I was stupid. I felt sorry for her, in the country all alone. I knew she wasnt happy. When we had drinks at the Brigantine, she told me she wanted to go back to Costa Rica but the guy she was living with wouldnt let her go. I told her to call the Costa Rican consulate or the police and theyd find a way to get her home. I told her if she had problems with them to call me and Id wade in. If I told the homicide detectives this, it would have been all they needed to hang her. They would immediately assume shed found another way to get free and that she willingly turned her back on the simple legal recourse that was available to her. So I didnt tell them. So go ahead and shoot me, I tell Harry.
Find me a gun, he says.
I figured it was none of their business. If they were looking for evidence to bury her, theyd have to find it someplace else.
We rumble over the freeway for a couple of minutes in silence as Harry absorbs all of this, his head in his hand as his elbow rests against the lower sill of the window on the passenger side.
Katia didnt have a cell phone, says Harry. She had to take Pikes to call the taxi when she escaped from the house. That means theres a good chance that when she called you to set up drinks that afternoon, it was from the landline at Pikes house.
And Templeton would have the phone records, I say. I know that now. Its why hes breathing down my neck. He knows somebody at the house called the law office just a few days before the murders. He knows you didnt know her. Wed never done any legal work for Pike, so he wouldnt be calling us. So it had to be Katia who was calling and it had to be me on the other end, because he knew wed already met.
How did you pay for the drinks at the Brigantine? says Harry.
Three guesses. First two dont count, I tell him.
Credit card.
Yep. You can bet that Templetons had his investigators visiting every place Ive spent money since I met her, flashing photographs of Katia and me and asking the help if they ever saw us together.
So the cops would have already been to the Brigantine talking to the bartender and the waitresses, says Harry.
Do you want to go over and ask them? I say.
No.
It entered my mind like an icicle two nights ago as I lay in bed and thought about everything Templeton had said during our meeting. He believes I have taken Katias case for one reason, so that I can control her, keep the police away, and keep her quiet. Once she is convicted, who is going to believe her? His invitation across the desk to Harry to talk to his client was Templetons effort to save her. Hes not sure about Harry, but he has reason to believe that Im the devil.
&
nbsp; He has no doubt already seen my credit card statements and phone records. He could do that without my knowledge. Unless Im wrong, he wont wait long to get his hands on my calendar. Why he is waiting, Im not sure.
TWENTY-THREE
As Harry and I enter the courtroom this afternoon, Templeton is in his special chair that he uses only in court, perched up high at the prosecution-counsel table. He doesnt need the chair for mobility, but for height. Huddled around him are four other people, one of the homicide detectives, a woman, and two gentlemen with their backs to us. Theyre all wearing blue power suits, the men in pinstripes. There is a heavy satchel briefcase on the floor next to one of them. Unless they are carrying this for exercise, it appears to be locked and loaded, ready for action.
The Dwarfs brought the entire office, says Harry. I thought he said he wasnt going to oppose this.
The seats on this side of the railing, for the public, are empty except for two journalists. Arguments over a motion on evidence, even in a notorious murder case, never draw much of an audience. They know the defendant wont be here. Katias presence is not required. I told her I would call her at the jail the moment were finished.
Communication with Katia is becoming a problem, especially since eruption of telephone-gate at the county jails. A few weeks ago the sheriffs department was caught recording lawyer-client conversations on the jailhouse telephone system. Copies of these found their way to the DAs office on discs. Ordinarily this would be a felony under state law, but to do this you have to prove intent. The sheriff claims the lawyer-client stuff was mixed in with other telephone conversations that the department was allowed to record, a glitch in the computer-operated recording system. Except for lawyer-client communications, jail inmates have no right of privacy. Bugging cells and accidentally installing snitches to sleep in the bunk above a target inmate has always been part of the game.
Regardless of what law enforcement does to gloss over this, communicating with Katia is now a problem. Unless Harry or I hop in the car and drive twenty miles, all the way out to Santee, there is no safe method for talking to her.
Guardian of Lies: A Paul Madriani Novel Page 15
