IN HIS HOUSE on Yehuda Street in Haifa, high above the sky-blue Mediterranean, Richard Nordeshenko tried the King's Indian Defense. The pawn break, Kasparov's famous attack. From there Kasparov had dismantled Tukmakov in the Russian Championship in 1981.
Across from Nordeshenko a young boy countered by matching the pawn. His father nodded, pleased with the move."And why does the pawn create such an advantage?" Nordeshenko asked.
"Because it blocks freeing up of your queenside rook," the boy answered quickly."And the advance of your pawn to a queen. Correct?"
"Correct." Nordeshenko beamed at his son."And when did the queen first acquire the powers that it holds today?"
"Around fifteen hundred," his son answered."In Europe. Up until then it merely moved two spaces, up and down. But…"
"Bravo, Pavel!"
Affectionately, he mussed his son's blond hair. For an eleven-year-old, Pavel was learning quickly.
The boy glanced silently over the board, then moved his rook. Nordeshenko saw what his son was up to. He had once been in the third tier of Glasskov's chess academy in Kiev. Still, he pretended to ignore it and pushed forward his attack on the opposite side, exposing a pawn.
"You're letting me win, Father," the boy declared, refusing to take it."Besides, you said just one game. Then you would teach me…"
"Teachyou? " Nordeshenko teased him, knowing precisely what he meant."You can teachme. "
"Not chess, Father." The boy looked up."Poker."
"Ah,poker? " Nordeshenko feigned surprise."To play poker, Pavel, you must have something to bet."
"I have something," the boy insisted."I have six dollars in coins. I've been saving up. And over a hundred soccer cards. Perfect condition."
Nordeshenko smiled. He understood what the boy was feeling. He had studied how to seize the advantage his whole life. Chess was hard. Solitary. Like playing an instrument. Scales, drills, practice. Until every eventuality became absorbed, memorized. Until you didn't have to think.
A little like learning to kill a man with your bare hands.
But poker, poker was liberating.Alive. Unlike in chess, you never played the same way twice. You broke the rules. It required an unusual combination: discipline and risk.
Suddenly, the chime of Nordeshenko's mobile phone cut in. He was expecting the call."We'll pick it up in a moment," Nordeshenko said to Pavel.
"But, Father," the boy whined, disappointed.
"In a moment," Nordeshenko said again, picking up his son by the armpits, spanking him lightly on his way."I have to take this call. Not another word."
"Okay."
Nordeshenko walked out to the terrace overlooking the sea and flipped open the phone. Only a handful of people in the world had this number. He settled into a chaise.
"This is Nordeshenko."
"I'm calling for Dominic Cavello," the caller said."He has a job for you."
"Dominic Cavello? Cavello is in jail and awaiting trial," Nordeshenko said."And I have many jobs to consider."
"Not like this one," the caller said."The Godfather has requested only you. Name your price."
New York City. Four months later.
ALL ANDIE DEGRASSE KNEW was that the large, wood-paneled room was crowded as shit-with lawyers, marshals, reporters-and that she'd never been anywhere she wanted to get the hell out of more.
But it was the same for the other fifty-odd people in the jury pool, Andie was quite sure.
Jury duty -those words were like influenza to her. Cold sore. She had been told to report at 9:00 a.m. to the federal courthouse in Foley Square. There she filled out the forms, polished her excuses, and killed an hour leafing throughParenting magazine.
Then, at about eleven thirty, her name was called by a bailiff, and she was herded into a line of other unfortunate people with unsure, disappointed faces and up to the large courtroom on the seventh floor.
She looked around, trying to size up the rest of the fidgeting, kibitzing group squeezed into the bull pen. This was definitely not where she wanted to be.
The scene was like a snapshot taken on the number 4 Lexington Avenue train. People in work uniforms-electricians, mechanics-blacks, Hispanics, a Hasid in a skullcap, each trying to convince the person on either side that he or she didn't belong there. A couple of well-to-do types in business suits were punching their BlackBerries, demonstrating in the clearest possible way that they had something far more important to do with their time.
Those were the ones Andie had to worry about, and she regarded them warily-the prospective jurors who had their time-tested, A-number-1 alibis honed and ready to go. Bosses' letters. Partners' meetings. Travel schedules, deals going down. A cruise to Bermuda that was already fully paid.
Of course, Andie hadn't exactly come empty-handed.
She had put on her tight red T-shirt with the words DONOTDISTURBemblazoned across the chest. It was the tackiest thing she owned, but we weren't talkingfashionista here.
We were talkingadios -excused. Even if it was on the grounds of being thought an airhead or a bimbo.
Then there was the single-mother thing. That was legit. Jarrod was nine, and he was her best buddy as well as her biggest handful these days. Who would pick him up from school, answer his questions, help him with his homework, if she couldn't be there for him?
Finally, there were her auditions. Her agent at William Morris had scheduled two for this week alone.
To amuse herself, Andie counted the faces of people who looked intelligent and open-minded and didn't seem to be conveying they had somewhere else to go. She stopped when she got to twenty. That felt good. They only needed twelve, right?
Next to her, a heavyset Hispanic woman knitting a pink baby's sweater leaned over."Sorry, but jou know what kinda trial dis is?"
"No." Andie shrugged, glancing around at the security."But from the looks of it, it's something big. You see those guys? They're reporters. And did you notice the barricades outside and those cops milling around? More uniforms in this place than in an NYPD Blue wardrobe closet."
The woman smiled."Rosella," she said amiably.
"I'm Andie," Andie said, extending her hand.
"So, Andie, how jou geton dis jury, anyway, jou know?"
Andie squinted at her as if she hadn't heard right."Youwant to get picked?"
"Sure. My huzban say you get forty dollars a day, plus train fare. The woman I work for, she pay me whichever way. So why not take the cash?"
Andie smiled and shrugged wistfully."Why not?"
The judge's clerk came in, a woman with black glasses and a pinched, officious face, like an old-time schoolmarm."All rise for Judge Miriam Seiderman."
Everyone pushed themselves out of their seats.
"So, Rosella, you want to know how to geton this thing?" Andie leaned over and whispered to her neighbor as an attractive woman of around fifty, with touches of gray in her hair, entered the courtroom and stepped up to the bench.
"Sure."
"Just watch." Andie nudged her."Whatever I do, do the opposite."
JUDGE SEIDERMAN STARTED OUT by asking each of them a few questions. Name and address. What you did for a living. Whether you were single or married, and if you were, if you had kids. Highest level of education. What newspapers and magazines you read. If anyone in your family ever worked for the government or for the police.
Andie glanced at the clock. This was going to take hours.
A few of them got excused immediately. One woman announced she was a lawyer. The judge asked her to come up to the side of the bench. They chatted a few seconds, and she let her go. Another man complained that he'd just served on a jury up in Westchester. He'd only finished up last week. He got a pink slip, too.
Some other guy who was actually half cute announced he was a crime novelist. In fact, another woman in the jury pool held up his book. She was reading it! After he finished up, Andie heard him snicker,"I don't have a prayer of ending up on this thing."
Then, Judge Seiderman nodded Andie's way.
"Andie DeGrasse," Andie replied."I live at 855 West One eighty-third Street, in the Bronx. I'm an actress."
A few people looked back at her. They always did."Well, I try to be," she said, qualifying."Mostly I do proofreading forThe Westsider. It's a community newspaper in upper Manhattan. And regarding the other question, Iwas, Your Honor, for five years."
"Was what, Ms. DeGrasse?" The judge peered over her glasses.
"Married.The nuclear option, if you know what I mean." A couple of people chuckled."Except for my son. Jarrod. He's nine. He's basically a full-time occupation for me now."
"Please continue, Ms. DeGrasse," the judge said.
"Let's see. I went to St. John's for a couple of years." What Andie really wanted to convey was, You know, Your Honor, I dropped out in the fourth grade, and I don't even know what exculpatory evidencemeans.
"And let's see, I read Vogue andCosmo and, oh yeah,Mensa. Charter member. I definitely try and keep up with that one."
A few more chuckles rippled around the courtroom.Keep it going, she said to herself. Push out the chest. You're almost off this thing.
"And regarding the police"-she thought for a second-“none in the family. But I dated a few."
Judge Seiderman smiled, shaking her head."Just one more question. Do you have any reason or experience that would prejudice you against Italian Americans? Or render you unable to reach an impartial verdict if you served on this trial?"
"Well, I once played a role inThe Sopranos, " she replied."It was the one when Tony whacks that guy up at Meadow's school. I was in the club."
"The club?" Judge Seiderman blinked back, starting to grow short.
"The Bada Bing, Your Honor." Andie shrugged sheepishly."I was dancing on one of the poles."
"That wasyou? " a Latino guy cracked from the first row. Now a lot of people were laughing around the courtroom.
"Thank you, Ms. DeGrasse." Judge Seiderman suppressed a smile."We'll all be sure to check out the reruns when they come around."
The judge moved on to Rosella. Andie was feeling pretty confident she had done her job. She felt a little guilty, but she justcouldn't be on this jury.
Now, Rosella was perfect. A juror's dream. She'd cleaned house for the same woman for twenty years. She'd just become an American citizen. She wanted to serve because it was her duty. She was knitting a sweater for her granddaughter.Oh, you're alock. Andie grinned to herself. Rosella hit every question out of the park. She was like a juror commercial!
At last the judge said she had just one question for the jury at large. Andie's eye checked the clock. One fifteen. If she was lucky, she could still catch the Broadway number 1 and pick Jarrod up at school on time.
Judge Seiderman leaned toward them."Do any of you know the name, or have you been associated with in any way, Dominic Cavello?"
Andie turned toward the stolid, gray-haired man seated in the third row of the courtroom.So that's who that was. A few people murmured. She glanced at Rosella, a little sympathetic now.
These people were in for one scary ride.
I WAS SITTING in the second row, not far from the judge, during the jury questioning. Security marshals lined the walls, ready to go into action if Cavello so much as scratched his nose. Most of the marshals knew I was the one who had taken Cavello down and that this case was personal for me.
It was driving me crazy waiting to have the opening arguments begin, to have the first witness take the stand.
We got Miriam Seiderman as the judge. I'd had her on trials twice before, and she always seemed to bend for the defendants. But she was thorough, fair, ran a tight court. We could have done a lot worse.
I was thinking this looked like a pretty decent pool of jurors. A couple of them were downright entertaining.
There was a Verizon guy with a New England accent who said he had three town houses in Brooklyn he'd fixed up and that he was bagging the phone company job anyway, so he could care less how long the trial ran.
And a crime novelist who someone in the jury pool recognized. In fact, she was actually reading his book.
Then the woman in the third row. The actress and single mom. She was feisty and cute, with thick brown hair with reddish streaks in it. There was some writing on her T-shirt-DONOTDISTURB. Kind of funny.
Once or twice, Cavello glanced back at me. But most of the time he just sat there, hands joined, staring straight ahead.
A couple of times, our eyes met.How ya doin', Nicky, his smile seemed to say, like he didn't have a worry in the world, a guy about to go away for life.
Every once in a while he huddled with his attorney, Hy Kaskel.The Ferret, he was called. Not just because he made a living representing these bums, but because he was short and barrel-chested, with a hanging nose, a pointy chin, and thick, bushy eyebrows you could brush your shoes with.
Kaskel was a showman, though, among the best there was at his job. The Ferret had gotten two mistrials and an acquittal in his last three mob trials. He and his team just sat there sizing up each juror on a large poster board, taking notes. The Verizon guy. The MBA. The author.
I glanced up at the actress again. I was pretty sure she thought she was out of here. But sometimes that's what you need on a jury, someone who can cut through the bullshit, break the ice.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Sharon Ann Moran, the judge's clerk, got everyone's attention. The defense and the prosecution had finalized their selections.
I was thinking, just give me twelve jurors smart enough to see through the bluster and bullshit, twelve jurors who won't be intimidated.
One by one, the judge announced the names. Twelve jurors and six alternates. She told them to come up and take a seat in the jury box.
The crime writer was in. Shocked. So was the Verizon guy. And the Hispanic housekeeper, the one who was knitting for her granddaughter.
But the biggest surprise was the actress.She was in, too! I never saw anyone so stunned. I think everyone in the courtroom was holding back a smile.
"Ms. DeGrasse, Juror Number Eleven, you can take a seat in the jury box," the judge told her, amused herself."You got the part, dear."
THE GLASS ELEVATOR of the Marriott Marquis rose higher and higher above Times Square. Richard Nordeshenko watched the glittery bustle of the street grow distant and small below.Good riddance.
"First time to the Marriott, Mr. Kaminsky?" a chatty, red-capped bellhop asked as the elevator rushed them to the forty-second floor.
"Yes," Nordeshenko lied.
Truth was, he had made the rounds of all the fancy hotels near Times Square. The area held a particular attraction for him. Not the lights or the nocturnal amusements, in which he took no part.It was the crowds. In the event something went wrong, all he had to do was duck into the throng any time of day or night.
" Kiev, right?" The bellhop grinned at him. It wasn't a question, more like a statement of fact."You're from the Ukraine, right? Your accent. It's sort of a game with me. Twenty floors, that's usually all I need."
"Sorry." Nordeshenko shook his head."Czech." Inside, he was angry with himself. The chatty bellhop had nailed him. Maybe it was just the jet lag, but he had let down his guard.
The elevator opened, and the bellhop motioned Nordeshenko down the hall."Close." He smiled, with a shrug of apology."But-what is it you say here?-no cigar."
He'd been traveling for eighteen hours straight, stopping in Amsterdam on a Dutch passport, then in Miami on a business visa to the States. On the flight, he had put on Chopin and Thelonious Monk to relax, and had beaten a chess program on his computer on level eight. That made the voyage bearable.
That and the comfort of the first-class seats on Dominic Cavello's account.
"Room 4223 has a wonderful view of Times Square, Mr. Kaminsky." The bellhop opened the door to his room."We got the View restaurant and lounge. Your gourmet Renaissance restaurant on the mezzanine. My name's Otis, by the way, if you need anything during your stay."
"Thank you, Otis." Nordeshenko smiled. He pulled out a bill. He pressed it into the bellhop's hand. Otis had fingered him, reminded him he could not be too careful.
"Thankyou. " The bellhop's eyes lit up."Any sort of entertainment you need, you just let me know. The bar upstairs stays active until about two. I know some places that open up after that, if that's what you like. The city that never sleeps, right?"
"Velk´y jablko." Nordeshenko replied in perfect Czech.
"Vel-k´y jab-lko?" The bellhop squinted.
"The Big Apple." Nordeshenko winked.
Otis laughed and pointed at him, closing the door. Nordeshenko laid his briefcase on the bed. He took out his computer. He had people to contact and things to set up. In the morning it would be all work.
But in the meantime, the bellhop wasn't too far off about something else.
He did have his own brand of entertainment planned for tonight.
Tonight, he was going to play poker-with Dominic Cavello's money.
"YOUR ANTE." The dealer nodded toward him, and Nordeshenko tossed a fresh hundred-dollar chip into the center of the table.
He was in a fashionable poker club in a town house on the upper East Side. The large room had a high, coffered ceiling and tall palladian windows with embroidered gold drapes drawn. All types seemed to be there. Attractive women in evening gowns, amusing themselves at the small-stakes table. The usual gambler types in dark glasses who seemed to be playing for everything they were worth.
It was well after one in the morning, and the four tables were still going strong.
Nordeshenko sipped a Stoli martini as the dealer dealt him two downward cards. He was playing in what they called a freeze-out. A $3,000 buy-in had bought him $10,000 in chips. Winner takes all.
At ten o'clock there had been eight around the table. Now it was down to three: Nordeshenko; Julie, an attractive woman with straight blond hair in a tight-fitting pantsuit; and someone Nordeshenko had nicknamed"Cowboy," an annoying, finger-tapping fool in a Western hat and aviator shades who, hearing Nordeshenko's accent, insisted on calling him Ivan.
Nordeshenko had been patiently waiting to find himself alone with him in a hand all night.
He peeked at his hole cards. An ace and a queen, on suit. He felt his blood perk up a bit. When the betting came to him, he tossed in a $500 chip.
Before, when Nordeshenko had come to New York, he would go to a Russian club in Brooklyn and play chess, sometimes for a thousand dollars a game. He could hold his own, but he soon developed a bit of a reputation, and that brought attention to him-and attention was always unwanted. Now poker was his thing.
Julie, who had the fewest chips at the table and was playing cautiously, called, but Cowboy, rubbing his palms together, pushed a stack of ten greens to the center of the table."Sorry, sweet pea, but these cards just won't let me sit still."
Nordeshenko held an image of what it might be like to spear this buffoon through the windpipe, which he could do with a sharp thrust of his hand. He thought about raising back, the cards warranted it, but elected, as did the blonde, just to call.
"Well, aren't we all nice 'n' cozy," Cowboy crowed, tilting back his chair.
The dealer flopped three cards: a six, an ace, and a nine. That gave Nordeshenko aces, almost surely the high hand. He bet $3,000.
Julie hesitated, tapping her polished nails on the table."Oh, what the hell." She finally smiled."It's only the rent money, right?"
"Well, the rent just got raised a little, darlin'," Cowboy said, pushing in another $5,000 in chips.
Nordeshenko looked him in the eye. This asshole was making it very difficult.What could he possibly have? He had watched him chasing cards all night.
"What'syour ticket say, Ivan?" Cowboy fiddled with his chips."You still on this train, or time to get off?"
"Maybe one more station." Nordeshenko shrugged, looking toward Julie.
"All in," she said, flipping her cards and pushing the balance of her chips into the pot.
Four spades. Nordeshenko had been right. He had read her trying to make a flush. He still had high hand. And the Cowboy was bluffing.
The dealer turned over a queen of diamonds. Nordeshenko didn't even flinch. Now he had aces and queens.
Julie winced. She hadn't made her flush.
"Well, what'ya say we just put a little more coal in the burner and see what the river brings?" Cowboy cackled loudly, pushing the rest of his chips into the center-$10,000.
Murmurs went up from the people watching. It was clear this would be the final hand. The winner would take the entire $30,000 buy-in.
Cowboy stared at him, not smiling now."You stickin' around, Ivan, or what?"
"Miraslav," Nordeshenko said.
Cowboy took off his shades."Huh?"
"My name is Miraslav," Nordeshenko said, meeting the bet.
The dealer turned over his last card, the river. A deuce of hearts.
Julie groaned.
Nordeshenko knew his aces and queens should be a winner. He couldn't even imagine what the asshole Cowboy had. He counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills and tossed them outside the pot as a side bet.
Then, amazingly, Cowboy countered with a $5,000 raise of his own. Nordeshenko was stunned.
"Ivan, still with us?" Cowboy tilted back in his chair, clucking unpleasantly.
Nordeshenko reached in his jacket, counted out $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills, and laid them in the center of the table. This was no longer just an amusing diversion.
"Aces and queens." He flipped over his hole cards.
"Oooh." Cowboy blinked, as if stunned.
But then he grinned."This is gonna hurt, Ivan."
He flipped over his hole cards. Two more deuces. The last card had given him three. Nordeshenko felt as if he'd fallen off a cliff. The moron had been pushing the pot the whole way with just a pair of twos.
Cowboy leaped up, ooo-eeing like a donkey, raking in his chips. Nordeshenko thought he'd like to wipe the grin off the fool's face. But just as quickly, the irrational urge subsided.
Not tonight. He had work to do in the morning. Important work. Whatever he had lost tonight was just a fraction of his fee.
"You know what they say, Ivan," Cowboy said, stacking his winnings,"sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. No hard feelings," he said, stretching out his hand.
Nordeshenko stood up and took it. The imbecile was right about one thing: he'd been lucky tonight. Luckier than he would ever know.
The Israeli was going to let him live.
IT WAS AFTER EIGHT O'CLOCK that night when I finally made it back to Casa Pellisante.
Home for me was the same rent-controlled apartment in the Hell's Kitchen section of Manhattan on Forty-ninth and Ninth I'd lived in for the past twelve years. I had a view of the Empire State Building from my study window and could kick back on the roof after work with a cocktail, looking out on the red sunsets over Jersey City. On weekends, I could step out the front door right into the Feast of St. Ignatius or a West Indian parade, or grab a beer at an Irish bar sitting next to some Westie I once put away.
I also had Ellen Jaffe there.
Ellen was a hotshot anesthesiologist over at St. Vincent's, with wavy auburn hair, a small button nose, and long, slim runner's legs that were a joy to behold. We'd met at a clambake thrown by a friend of mine and been together for the past two years.
Ellen was pretty, smart as a whip, and just as dedicated to her career as I was to mine. That was a problem. I worked days-and half the nights, lately, preparing the case. She was taking doctoral classes at Cornell Medical and doing her hospital rotations at night. We used to spend entire weekends together in bed. Now we could barely find a night to be in the same room and watch TV.
She said I was fixated on Cavello, and she was probably right. I shot back that she must be having an affair with Dr. Diprovan-Diprovan being the solution of choice when putting people under these days.
Whatever it was, it was killing me how things were sliding downhill between us. But you either fight for it or you don't, and lately, neither of us was fighting a lot for anything.
So I stopped at Pietro's on the way home and picked up an order of the bestamatriciana in New York -Ellen's favorite. She didn't work Monday nights. Let's not call it a party, but it would be the first quality time we'd spent with each other in at least a week.
Add to that a bouquet of sunflowers from the Korean grocer up the block. I had also left Ellen a message on the machine to set the table.
I turned the key in the front door and saw the table in the dining alcove set for one.
"Buonasera, signorita."
"Nick?" I heard Ellen call from the bedroom.
She came out of the bedroom in her navy Burberry windbreaker and running shoes, knotting her long brown hair. Not exactly the fantasy I had in mind."I'm sorry, Nicky. I was going to leave a note. Benson just called. They're on overload tonight. They need me in."
"Diprovan again." I sniffed, trying to hide my disappointment, placing the food and flowers on the kitchen counter. Ellen's cat, Popeye, brushed against my leg."Hey, Pops."
"I can't help it, Nick." Ellen's eyes went to the flowers. She smiled, making the correct connection to a meadow in the Chianti District outside of Siena, an amorous urge we couldn't hold back a couple of summers ago.
"Jeez, what'd you get fired or something?"
"Just a little carried away, I guess."
"No." She shook her head and sighed as if to say,Nothing's going right for us, lately."Not carried away. I'm sorry, Nicky. They're waiting on me. I can't even put these in a vase."
"No sweat." I shrugged."Actually, they were for me."
Ellen had these red glasses on that I found sexy as hell for some reason. Her small breasts peeked from under a tight-fitting top. I found myself getting aroused. Foolish. Maybe it was just this momentary feeling that I was free from the anticipation of the case. Or the sense that I had to do something… for us. I don't even know. As she tossed a few things in her purse, I put my hands on her shoulders.
"Nick, Ican't. I'm AWOL." She tensed against me."I gotta go. Hey, I almost forgot. How'd it go today?"
"Well." I nodded."We got a decent jury. Everybody's ready. Let's just hope Cavello and his lawyers don't pull any fast ones."
"Nick, you've done everything humanly possible, so stop killing yourself. Manny would be proud." She gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, not what I had in mind, but it made me smile.
"Tell Diprovan hello."
"Nick…" Ellen shook her head, unamused. She turned back in the doorway."I'm sorry about the dinner. It was a nice thought." Then she looked at the sunflowers on the counter."You're such a romantic."
FOR A WHILE I just stood there. Popeye, my new dinner partner, purred against my leg.
I guess, like some spurned high school kid, I was hoping that Ellen might have second thoughts and come back. I had this feeling that the weight of our relationship was suddenly hinging on a hope no stronger than that.
But there was no sound on the stairs. No saving key in the door. I was thirty-eight, head of a major anticrime task force, a big shot in the FBI, and here I was scooping out a container of pasta meant for two-a stranger in my own home.
The silence was suddenly orchestral.
I went into the bedroom and took off my tie and jacket, then checked in the study for a fax. There was a long brick wall covered with bookshelves. Most of the books were from my days at school, and there were a few of Ellen's medical texts. The desk was piled high with briefs from Cavello's trial. On the wall there was a large framed black-and-orange banner:
PRINCETON 1989 IVY LEAGUE FOOTBALL CHAMPS
I had bones that still ached just thinking of those days.
I took the pasta and some wine into the living room and sat there with my feet propped up on an old steamer trunk that acted as a coffee table. I picked up the book I'd been reading, Clinton'sMy Life, and found the page where I'd left off, on the Camp David Middle East peace talks. I thought about turning on the Knicks game. After a few minutes I lifted my eyes without reading a single page.
Did I love her? Was this going to work? Ellen was terrific, but right now we were just going in different directions. And this trial wasn't going to help.
Are you going to fight for this, Nicky?
I reached for Popeye."C'mon, you look like you could use a date."
I grabbed my old college alto sax from the corner and, with Popeye in hand, went up to the roof. This was where I worked it out sometimes.
It was a cold, clear night. The stars were out over Manhattan. The Empire State Building was lit up red, white, and blue. Across the river, Jersey City might've been Paris, it so dazzled with lights. So I sat there, a few days before the most important trial of my life, Ellen's cat purring at my feet, and played.
Clarence Clemons's riff from Springsteen's"Jungleland." A clunky version of Coltrane's"Blue Train." I came to the conclusion that there was a hole in my life, and no matter how long I put Cavello away for, I wasn't going to fill it.
You either fight for it or you don't, Nick. You fought for everything. So why won't you fight for Ellen Jaffe?
I TOOK MY PLACE in the front of the courtroom on Monday morning. My blood was pounding. It always did on the first day of a trial, and this one washuge.
The lawyers for both sides filled up the first two rows of the courtroom. Joel Goldenberger was the government's lead prosecutor. He was younger than he looked, maybe thirty-three, tall, self-assured, with light, bushy hair and an agreeable smile. But inside he was a fighter, a real believer. Everyone was talking about him as a future star in the Justice Department. He had already won three well-publicized Wall Street trials.
On the other side sat Hy Kaskel, paging through his notes. The Ferret stood no taller than five five in lifts, with short boxer's arms, but he resembled his nickname in every way when it came to discrediting a witness. Today he wore a dark navy pinstripe suit and striped club tie, a pair of fancy gold cuff links peeking through the sleeves.
In the front row of the gallery I saw Cavello's family. A plump, pleasant-looking woman in a plain but tasteful suit, needlepointing away. And a grown daughter, with wavy, long blond hair, sitting loyally by her mom. Security at the courthouse was tighter than I'd ever seen it before. Hell, I was probably responsible for half of the fuss. Every bag was being opened, every juror's pass double-checked, every press credential checked back against a photo ID. Armed cops were manning the barricades all over Foley Square.
Cavello was being brought through an underground passageway from the Manhattan County Jail two blocks away, where he was being held in his own wing on a maximum security floor. From there, he was transported to the seventh floor in a guarded elevator.
I only wished we had sequestered the jury. This was the biggest organized crime trial in years. But the judge wanted to make a name for herself. Miriam Seiderman had her eye on the state supreme court. She had assurances from the lawyers, from the defendant himself. She wanted the trial conducted in the open light of day.
The door finally opened near the rear. A buzz of anticipation rippled through the air.
Two burly-looking marshals led the defendant inside. Cavello's hands were cuffed in front of him. He was dressed in a brown checked sports jacket and a restrained olive tie, his graying hair nicely trimmed. He didn't look like the animal everyone was expecting. More like a normal, everyday citizen you might see riding next to you on the train.
Cavello took a look around and nodded, as if impressed with the crowded room. The marshals took him to a chair next to his lawyer. They freed his hands. Kaskel leaned over and whispered something in Cavello's ear that made the defendant smile. Our gazes met for a second. His eyes lit up, and he smiled again as if to say,Good to see you here, Nicky. You really think you can beat me?
Sharon Ann Moran, the judge's clerk, stood."All rise."
Through the side door, Judge Seiderman entered the room. She was a smallish, attractive woman with graying hair, a pleasant face, and a tastefully short skirt beneath her judge's cloak. This was the biggest case of her life, too. She took her seat behind the bench and motioned everyone down.
"Mr. Goldenberger, is the government ready?"
"We are, Your Honor." The prosecutor stood and nodded.
"Mr. Kaskel?"
"Yes, Your Honor. The defendant is ready too, and eager to prove his innocence." The Ferret arched his eyebrows. He looked like he was itching for a fight.
"Then, Ms. Moran"-the judge nodded to her clerk, who headed over to the jury room-“you can bring in the jury now."
ANDIE DEGRASSE was fifteen minutes late that morning. That morning of all mornings. How could it have happened? Well, easy…
First, Jarrod couldn't find his math book. Then the IRT was backed up, signal switches down. Then, when she finally reached the City Hall station, the two blocks to the courthouse were barricaded off, all because of this damn trial.
It took her fifteen minutes just to get herself through security. A heavyset female guard in a blue blazer went through her purse like it had al Qaeda emblazoned on the buckle. They checked her cell phone like it was a WMD. Finally, Andie said,"You know that big Mafia trial up on the seventh floor?" The security guard nodded."Well, it's not starting without me."
By the time she had burst through the jury-room doors, everybody was sitting around the large conference table, looking nervous and tense.
"Sorry." Andie sighed loudly, acknowledging a few familiar faces."You don't even want to know."
"Ms. DeGrasse," Sharon Ann announced, checking off names,"it's really good you could make time for us in your busy schedule."
Already in trouble. Andie sat down sheepishly. She found herself next to Rosella, the Hispanic woman she had been next to during jury selection.
"That leaves only Mr. O'Flynn." Sharon Ann looked at the list, unamused.
A couple of men were reading or doing crosswords. Two of the women had brought paperback novels. There were bagels and muffins and coffee on the table, courtesy of the judge.
"Here," Rosella said, passing her the tray.
"Thanks." Andie smiled, delighted to shift the attention off herself. She took a muffin in a napkin."No latte, I see."
There were a few chuckles. She looked toward Sharon Ann for at least a hint of a smile. The clerk was as tight as a drum this morning.
The door swung open, and in burst John O'Flynn, red-faced and sweating profusely."Jeez, guys, it's like a jungle out there, a zoo. The L.I.E. at rush hour. Unbelievable."
"O'Flynn," Sharon Ann confirmed derisively,"I was starting to think I was going to have to put out an APB on you. Nine-thirty tomorrow, Mr. O'Flynn." Sharon Ann tapped her pencil.
"Aye, aye, ma'am." O'Flynn saluted. He plopped himself on a chair next to Andie.
"Nine-thirty tomorrow?" Hector, a cable guy, groaned."You mean this trial's gonna last that long?"
"Eight weeks, Mr. Ramirez," Sharon Ann replied."Something better you have to do for the next two months?"
"Yeah, maybe earn a living," the cable guy replied glumly.
Sharon Ann went to the door."I'm going to check on how things are going. I want to remind you to observe the judge's instructions not to talk about the case."
"Sure." Everybody nodded. It took about two seconds after the door had shut for that to change.
"This Cavello guy"-Winston, the mechanic, still in his work clothes, looked around at the others-“I was reading up on him. Sounds like a pretty creepy dude."
"Murder, extortion, cramming body parts into the trunks of cars. It has a way of blocking the digestion," chortled Marc, the crime novelist.
Rosella put down her yarn."My huzban's a little scared. He said, ‘Whazzamatter, Rosie, you can't get yourself on a nice traffic dispute for a few days? You gotta get on with this wacko mobster?'"
"Hang on," Andie interrupted,"you heard the judge. We don't actually know he's wacko yet. We have to wait until we hear theevidence to determine he's wacko."
A few people laughed.
"More to the point"-Andie looked around the table-“what about the fact that these mob guys know all our names and where we live?" A few jurors nodded, each with the same look of concern.
The door to the courtroom opened. There was a hush. Andie had the feeling everybody's eyes were warning her.
Then Sharon Ann was standing there, her narrow gaze centered directly on Andie."In my office," she said. Her"office" was one of the two bathrooms, which the other day had been designated for private conversations.
"Huh?"
"In my office, Ms. DeGrasse," Sharon Ann ordered her.
Slowly Andie rose and, with a roll of the eyes, followed the dour court clerk into the cramped bathroom.
"Don't think I don't know what you're up to, Ms. DeGrasse," Sharon Ann snapped as soon as the door had closed.
"W-what I'm up to?" Andie stammered."I didn't say anything that everyone in that room hasn't already thought to themselves."
Even her sister, Rita. It had been the first thing out of her mouth.Doesn't it make you a little worried? I mean, they know you, Andie. It's Dominic Cavello. They know where you live. You didn't need to be a mother to be worried. Justhuman. The whole selection process had been right out in the open."Listen, Sharon Ann, I…"
"You've wanted off this thing from the very beginning." Sharon Ann cut her off."I'm not havinganyone poisoning this jury. You got your wish-you're history, lady."
ANDIE RETOOK HER SEAT back in the jury room, blushing, a little embarrassed and hurt. A few minutes later the door to the courtroom opened again, and she found out just what the judge's clerk meant.
Sharon Ann stuck her head in."We're not quite ready yet." Then she pointed a finger toward Andie, motioning her up."Ms. DeGrasse…"
A flutter of nerves went down Andie's spine.
"Can you come with me, please? And you can bring your things."
Andie slowly got up, flashing a resigned look around the table. She was gone!
She followed Sharon Ann into the courtroom, which, to her surprise, was hushed and packed. And all eyes seemed to be centered on her. She felt really embarrassed now, like she was being publicly marched into the boss's office and fired-just for speaking her mind.
Sharon Ann led her through a side door in the courtroom behind the judge's bench. A marshal was guarding the hallway. Sharon Ann motioned flatly."Go in. She's waiting for you."
Andie stepped inside the large, book-lined room. Judge Seiderman looked up from behind a desk covered with papers.
"Ms. DeGrasse." She peered over her reading glasses."It's come to my attention you seem to have a bit of nervous stomach of the mouth."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You have trouble keeping your mouth shut, don't you?" The judge looked at her sternly."It might've been amusing during jury selection, but now… We're about to start an important trial, not a theatrical audition. I can't afford any troublemakers on this jury."
Andie stood her ground."If you're talking about what I said in there, I actually thought it was a pretty legitimate question."
"What,Ms. DeGrasse?" Judge Seiderman looked up impatiently.
"Everyone heard our names during selection. And where we live. If we're married or not. Or have any kids. Anyone in their right mind would be concerned. Certainly, people have raised questions."
"People?" The judge arched her brows.
"I don't know. My sister. My mother. When I told them I was on this case. That can't exactly be a shock to you."
"Why we opted for how we conduct this trial is the court's business, Ms. DeGrasse. All you have to know is that if we thought there was the slightest danger to the jury, I assure you it would be our first concern." Judge Seiderman sat back. She took out an official slip and reached for a pen."You've wanted off this trial from the beginning, haven't you?"
"I guess. Maybe last week, but…"
"But what? I'm about to give you your wish."
Andie's heartbeat accelerated. Last week she would've killed to hear those words. But over the weekend she'd begun to have a change of heart. She started to see this as a chance to do something decent, something good. She hadn't done a whole lot before to help people. Never served in the armed forces or the peace corps. Never volunteered for much in the community. Basically, she'd had Jarrod-that was it. And over the weekend, it all kind of settled on her.
"It's true. I did feel that way," Andie said."But if it's all the same, I came here this morning to serve."
The judge stopped writing. She gazed up at Andie, a little surprised by what she'd heard.
"You think you can be a positive force on this jury, Ms. DeGrasse? And not cause any trouble?"
Andie nodded."Yes, if you let me get back in there, I think I can."
Christ, Andie, all you had to do was keep your mouth shut, and you'd be gone.
Judge Seiderman put down her pen. She took a long, evaluating look at Andie."Okay, why not? It's your right to serve." The judge summoned her clerk."Ms. Moran, would you mind showing Juror Number Eleven back to the jury room."
"Thank you, Your Honor." Andie smiled.
Heading back to the courtroom, Sharon Ann held the door."Well, I'm certainly surprised you're still on this jury."
"Yeah." Andie shook her head in disbelief."That makes two of us."
"ON THE MORNING of August sixth, 1993," U.S. Attorney Joel Goldenberger began,"Samuel Greenblatt, a happily married sixty-two-year-old building contractor, was brutally murdered outside his home in Union, New Jersey." The prosecutor pointed to a photographic enlargement resting on an easel. It depicted a smiling, slightly balding man with his wife at his sixtieth birthday party.
The jury stared at the face.
"A car pulled up as Greenblatt left for the office that morning. Two men in caps and sunglasses jumped out and shot him,multiple times, as he stepped onto the street. The victim looked at his killers and muttered, ‘Why?' Then he called out, ‘Frannie,' the name of his wife of thirty-seven years. Then, to make sure they had finished the job, one of them stood over Mr. Greenblatt's dying body and calmly put two more rounds into his head. After the gunmen drove away, the first one to find the body was his youngest son, a senior at Rutgers. Members of the jury, you're going to be hearing a lot about Samuel Greenblatt during this trial."
One of Goldenberger's assistants passed out graphic police photographs showing the victim's bloodied corpse. One or two women in the jury box squirmed and shook their heads."Now, no one is claiming Sam Greenblatt was an angel. In fact, he had assisted the Guarino crime family on several union-tampering construction jobs. He had secured bogus contracts for the family through the Local 407, a contracting union the family controlled.
"But what the governmentis saying," the prosecutor continued, gripping the sides of his table,"and what will be repeatedly backed up by the words of several key witnesses, is that the defendant, Dominic Cavello, gave the direct order for Mr. Greenblatt's execution. That the very killers were chosen by Mr. Cavello and rewarded by him-with money and promotions in the organization to which they all belonged. And what was the motive for this killing? Why did Mr. Greenblatt need to be eliminated? Because Mr. Cavello and his cronies believed they were the subject of a state law enforcement investigation, an assumption that turned out to be false. They simplythought Mr. Greenblatt could do them harm."
The prosecutor stepped away. He placed his hands on the jury box."But the killing didn't end there. Contrary to the movies, mob hits don't always go according to plan. What you're going to hear is that this murder spawned a series of killings,three, in fact-all ordered by Mr. Cavello with the goal of covering up the first one.
"You're going to hear of union tampering and construction fraud. Of extortion. Loan-sharking. You're going to hear, above all, that Mr. Cavello was the boss of the Guarino crime family. The Boss of Bosses, in fact, using the Colombian and Russian crime syndicates to do his dirty work, a man whose principal business was to enrich himself at the misery and misfortune of any who stumbled into his way. The testimony you will hear will not be hearsay, as the defense would like you to believe, but facts from people who knew Mr. Cavello personally, who participated in these crimes. The defense will surely tell you that these people are not exactly innocents themselves. And they're right. They are criminals, coconspirators, killers. By all accounts, ladies and gentlemen, these are bad guys. The defense will say that it is their job to lie and deceive.
"But make no mistake," Goldenberger said as he looked each member of the jury in the eyes,"in their stories you will hear the truth. It will be the preponderance of evidence and detail, all backing each other up, that will convince you that Mr. Cavello was the man giving the orders. You will hear the words he used, hear his reactions. And, under the law, that makes him as guilty of the crimes as if he pulled the triggers himself. I hope you will see Mr. Cavello for what he is, ladies and gentlemen: a vicious, cold-blooded killer."
LOUIS MACHIA, the prosecution's first witness, stepped up to the stand and was sworn in. Machia had been a loyal soldier in Cavello's crime family. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick black hair, and was wearing a gray golf shirt.
With a pleasant smile, he looked around the courtroom at the jurors and the press. Never once did his gaze drift anywhere near Cavello.
"Good morning, Mr. Machia," U.S. Attorney Joel Goldenberger said as he stood up.
"Morning, Mr. Goldenberger."
"Can you tell us your current address, Mr. Machia?" the prosecutor asked.
"My current address is a federal prison. I'm afraid I can't divulge which one."
"A federal prison?" The prosecutor nodded."So, for the sake of the jury, you've been convicted of a crime?"
"Many crimes. Under the terms of my 509 agreement, I admitted to all sorts of them."
"Can you describe these crimes for us? What you pleaded guilty to?"
"Allof them?" The gangster chuckled."That would take a lot of time."
Several people in the courtroom laughed out loud. The jury, too. Even Judge Seiderman put a hand in front of her face to conceal a smile.
"How about we start with just the major ones, Mr. Machia?" Joel Goldenberger grinned as well."The highlights, if you will."
"Thehighlights…" Machia bunched his lips."Well… murder.Two murders, actually. Attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, breaking and entering, loan-sharking, drug trafficking, auto theft…"
"That'll do, Mr. Machia. You're right, there is a lot to choose from. So it's fair to say you've been breaking the law for a long time?"
"Pretty much since I learned to use a fork." Louis Machia nodded thoughtfully.
"And these crimes," the prosecutor said,"these are all things you've planned and executed entirely on your own?"
"Sometimes, Mr. Goldenberger, if I catch your drift. Other times I was told to do them."
"Told?"
"Ordered, Mr. Goldenberger." The gangster took a swig of water."By the family."
"Thefamily. " Goldenberger stepped toward the witness."Is it safe to say that for the past twenty years or so you've been a member of an organized crime family?"
"Very safe, Mr. Goldenberger. I was a soldier. In the Guarino family."
"The Guarino crime family. Your Honor, with your permission, I'd like to show an exhibit to the jury."
One of the assistant prosecutors put a large poster board covered with small photographs on an easel in front of the jury. It showed a pyramid-like family tree of about fifty faces. On the bottom,soldiers; on the level above that,captains; and on the highest tier were the leaders. That's where Cavello's face was displayed, above the headingBoss.
"This is a current depiction of the Guarino crime family, is it not, Mr. Machia?"
The witness nodded."Yes. At the time of my convictions."
"And that's your face there, is it not, to the left, among those listed as soldiers?"
He smiled affably."It's an old picture. Not my best. But yes, that's me."
"Sorry, Mr. Machia, next time we'll be sure to update it. What I want to know is if you werealways a soldier in this family, Mr. Machia, or did you have to work your way up the ranks?"
"Everybody's got to work their way up. I got in by my uncle Richie. I started doing little jobs. Picking up some cash, stealing a car. A B and E."
"By ‘B and E,' you mean ‘breaking and entering'? A burglary?"
"Yes, that's right, Mr. Goldenberger. Maybe knocking someone's head clear, so they'd see the light."
Again, a few snickers trickled through the courtroom.
"And then you graduated," Goldenberger pressed on."I mean, from petty stuff, like knocking people's heads clear, to some of the more serious crimes you've admitted to. Murder, attempted murder, drug trafficking…"
"I graduated." Machia nodded."Only thing Iever graduated," he said with a crooked smile.
"Please just answer what the government asks you, Mr. Machia," said the judge, leaning over.
"Thank you, Your Honor." The prosecutor went back to his notes."So I want to get back to the way in which you were promoted, Mr. Machia. From an associate to a soldier. If I'm not mistaken, I believe it's called beingmade, right?"
"You mean like the ceremony? It was at Melucchi's on Flatbush Avenue. In the back. They have a private room there. I never even knew. They asked me to drive one of the captains. Frankie Stamps. We called him that because there were two Frankies, and Frankie Stamps was into mail fraud. I figured it was just a meeting. Every one of the captains was there. Mr. Cavello, too."
"By Mr. Cavello, you mean Dominic Cavello? The defendant? He was there? At that meeting?"
"Sure he was there. He was the Boss."
"We'll get back to that later," the prosecutor said, letting the wordboss resonate over the courtroom."But I'm actually more interested in what got you to that ceremony."
"What got me to the ceremony?" Machia shrugged."It was a Lincoln, I think."
This time, full-out laughter spread throughout the courtroom.
"I meant, what did you do to make yourself worthy, Mr. Machia?" The prosecutor pushed through the laughter."In order to be promoted."
"Oh, that." Machia sat back and reached for his water. He took a long drink."I killed Sam Greenblatt in front of his house."
A HUSH SETTLED over the courtroom. Everybody felt it. Andie DeGrasse couldn't believe what she'd just heard.
One minute this guy's making a joke, a regular guy. Then he admits to blowing someone away. She'd never heard anyone speak so casually about killing someone. Like he had to run an errand and pick up something at the store.
"You're admitting you killed Mr. Greenblatt in front of his home?" Joel Goldenberger looked just as shocked as everyone else.
"I already admitted that, Mr. Goldenberger. To the police and to the FBI. I wasn't exactly proud of it, but that's how you get ahead in this game."
The prosecutor stepped back, letting the full effect of Machia's testimony settle in. Andie recalled the crime pictures, the bloody scene."Can you describe for the jury how that particular job came to be?"
"All right." The witness took a deep breath."I worked for Ralphie D."
"Ralphie D.," the prosecutor interrupted."You mean Ralph Denunziatta, right?" He pointed to a round, heavy face higher up in the family tree."He was a lieutenant in the Guarino crime family?"
"That's him." Machia nodded."We called him Ralphie D. because-"
"We got it, Mr. Machia. Because there was another Ralphie."
"RalphieF. "
"Ralphie Fraoli." The prosecutor pointed to another face on the other side of the board.
Machia scratched his head."To tell you the truth, Mr. Goldenberger, I never actually knew what Ralphie F.'s last name was."
The laughter grew heavier now. This would be good comedy if it wasn't so deadly serious.
"So your boss, Ralph Denunziatta, contacted you?"
"He said the family needed this thing done. For the Boss."
"And by ‘this thing done,' it was understood he meant a job, a hit? It meant you had to kill someone?"
"It was understood what he meant, Mr. Goldenberger."
"And by the Boss"-the prosecutor faced the witness again-“you took that to mean…?"
"Dominic Cavello." He pointed in the direction of the defendant."They said a favor had to be done. There was this guy in New Jersey who was causing problems. Not a protected guy, just a regular civilian."
"And how did you feel about taking care of this, Mr. Machia? You knew that it meant killing somebody."
"I knew what it entailed, Mr. Goldenberger." Machia glanced over toward the jury. For a second, Andie's blood ran cold. She felt his eyes were fixed on her."Ralphie told me how they had it all planned out. It would be a cinch. So I mean, I got this friend of mine to steal a car."
"By your friend, you're referring to Steven Mannarino?" asked the prosecutor. He stepped back to his table and held up a large picture of a chubby, grinning kid with bushy hair in a Giants football jersey, maybe eighteen.
"Yeah, Stevie." Machia nodded."We'd known each other since we were kids."
"So Mr. Mannarino was to steal the car?"
"And some plates. It was decided the easiest place to hit the guy would be at his house when he came out for work in the morning. What do they call that kind of street that ends in a circle?"
"A cul-de-sac," the prosecutor said.
"Yeah, cul-de-sac. We had several cars around, patrolling the area. Checking for cops. Tommy Moose was in one-Tommy Mussina. Ralphie reported directly to him. We did a dry run two days before. We tailed the mark. This Jewish guy. He kissed his wife good-bye at the door. Seemed like an all-right guy."
"But you were willing to go through with it anyway?" the prosecutor asked.
Machia shrugged, taking a long sip from his water bottle."Not like you have a lot of choice, Mr. Goldenberger. I seen guys put away for turning down a job. You don't go through with it, you could be next. Besides…"
"Besideswhat, Mr. Machia?" the prosecutor urged him on.
"It was a favor for the Boss, Mr. Goldenberger. You don't turn that down."
"And how did you know this, sir?"
"Ralphie said it was for the Electrician."
"And by ‘the Electrician,' he meantwho, Mr. Machia?"
"Objection!" Cavello's attorney stood up with a scowl. Andie looked at O'Flynn; they already had a name for the lawyer in the jury room.The Eyebrow.
"Sorry, Your Honor," the prosecutor apologized."So by ‘the Electrician,' Mr. Machia, youunderstood that Ralphie D. meantwho? "
"Dominic Cavello. The Electrician, that was his name. Ralphie worked for Tommy. Tommy worked for the Boss."
The prosecutor nodded, clearly pleased."So you knew this hit was for the Boss, meaning Mr. Cavello, wholly because Ralphie D.said this to you?"
"That,and the other thing." Machia shrugged.
"What other thing, Mr. Machia?" The prosecutor turned, his voice rising.
There was a pause. Louis Machia settled back in his chair. For the first time, Cavello's eyes lifted toward the witness. Machia took a couple gulps of water. Then he put the bottle down.
"Those cars I spoke of, Mr. Goldenberger, driving around. Dominic Cavello was in one, too."
THEY BROKE FOR LUNCH, and Andie spent it outside in Foley Square. It was cold, but still pretty nice for November. She ate a tuna wrap on a ledge, going over some proofreading for the neighborhood newspaper she worked for part-time. She made an entry in her trial notebook, too-and underlined it:Cavello was there!
At two o'clock, they all filed back in. Louis Machia was still on the stand.
"I want to pick up where we left off, Mr. Machia." The prosecutor stepped back up to the stand."What happened after Samuel Greenblatt's murder?"
"After the murder?" The witness thought a moment."I was promoted, Mr. Goldenberger. I was made a soldier, like you said."
"I think that was several weeks afterward," the prosecutor corrected him."Maybe a month?"
"Twenty-seven days." Machia smiled."To be exact."
There were a few more chuckles from the gallery. From Goldenberger, too."Clearly, that was an important day in your life, Mr. Machia. But I was referring more to the daysimmediately after Sam Greenblatt's murder."
"Oh, that." Machia shook his head as if he'd been thwacked in the face. He took a sip from his water bottle again."We ditched the car. We were all supposed to meet up at Ralphie D.'s diner later, in Brooklyn."
"And did that go smoothly, Mr. Machia?"
"Thatpart, Mr. Goldenberger, yeah. We left the car at Newark Airport. Stevie tossed the plates into a marsh off of I-95. We were all high fives and celebrating. Good things were going to happen."
"But that wasn't the case, was it? What did happen?"
The dark-haired mobster chortled disgustedly, shaking his head."I guess after we shot Mr. Greenblatt and pulled away from his house, someone, one of his neighbors maybe, must've got a glimpse at the plates."
"Someone spotted you? And how did you end up realizing that?" the young prosecutor pressed.
"'Cause later that night, around seven, the cops came to my house. I wasn't there, but my wife and kids were. They asked to see her car."
"Hercar?" The prosecutor looked confused."Why would they ask to see your wife's car, Mr. Machia?" It was clear Goldenberger knew the answer but was adroitly leading the whole courtroom there.
"Apparently, the plates the neighbor had picked up as we drove away were registered toher. "
There was an audible gasp throughout the courtroom.
"Your wife,Mr. Machia? You previously told us Steven Mannarino was supposed to steal plates for the hit."
"I guess he did." Machia scratched his head."From my house."
Andie glanced toward O'Flynn, down the row. They both double-blinked, as if making sure they had heard right.
JOEL GOLDENBERGER'S EYES were wide."This is your best pal, Mr. Machia. You're telling me he stole the plates for this hit fromyou? "
"I said we had known each other since we were kids, Mr. Goldenberger. He was my oldest, not my best, friend, and he wasn't the smartest guy."
Snickers of disbelief erupted. Andie glanced up and could see Judge Seiderman hiding a smile again. Finally, when the courtroom calmed down, the prosecutor shook his head."So, Mr. Machia, go on."
"After my wife called me, I called Stevie up and said, ‘Stevie, what are you, fucking nuts?'Sorry, Your Honor. Anyway, what he told me was that his mom had found the stolen plates and threw them out and he'd panicked. He only lived down the block, so he knew our place like his own. I guess he found my wife's plates in a box on the side of our house and figured, who would ever know?"
There was a stunned silence for a few seconds-the sound of total disbelief. Then the prosecutor continued."So what happened when the cops came to your house?"
"My wife told them someone must've jumped the fence and stolen them."
"Your wife's a pretty quick thinker, Mr. Machia."
"Yeah, and she was pretty damn pissed, too." He shook his head and smiled.
This time, no one could hold back. Andie figured everyone had the same image: the gangster's wife coming after him with a frying pan. She put a hand over her face and averted her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Cavello. He was smiling, too.
"And so the cops were satisfied with that explanation? That someone else must've taken the plates?"
"I don't know if you would call itsatisfied. I had a record. It wasn't exactly hard to pin me as someone who hung around the family."
"This couldn't have gone over very well with Ralphie D."
"I would call that an understatement, Mr. Goldenberger. Everybody was pissed as hell. I met up with Stevie later that night, and he was saying stuff like ‘I know I screwed up, but if something comes from this, I'm not going alone.' Crazy stuff. Stuff he knew better than to say. He was just worked up."
"And how did you respond?" the prosecutor asked.
"I kept saying, ‘Christ, Stevie, you can't say things like that. People are gonna hear.' But he was nervous. He knew he screwed up. I never saw Stevie act like that."
"So what did you do?"
"Me?Truth was, Mr. Goldenberger, I had my own situation to worry about. I told Ralphie, don't listen to the guy. He won't do anything stupid. He's just freaked out, that's all."
"You told Ralphie about Stevie?"
"I had to, Mr. Goldenberger. If he got nabbed and started to talk, he could bring us all down. But I needed to get myself an alibi, too. I had this knee thing in those days. I needed surgery. So I went right into Kings County Hospital up to this doctor I knew, thatwe knew-he owed us some money-and I told him, you cut me open right now and the tab is clean. But I need the records to say I've been in here since this morning."
"Let me get this straight, Mr. Machia. You got a doctor to falsely admit you into a hospital to provide an alibi for killing Samuel Greenblatt?"
"Yes."
"And he agreed?"
"Well, I had a gun to his head, Mr. Goldenberger."
Andie couldn't believe it. The laughter got wild.
"So, getting back to Stevie Mannarino, Mr. Machia, your lifelong pal." The prosecutor took a few steps toward the witness."You told Ralphie D. you would cover for him. What'd Ralphie say?"
"He said not to worry. He'd talk it over with the Boss. He said they'd get him somewhere where he could lie low for a while, 'til it all blew over. He told me just to focus on myself, get better. I was in this leg brace. Truth was, I was a little nervous I was never coming out of that hospital myself, if you know what I mean."
"So what happened?" Goldenberger went over and picked up Steven Mannarino's picture. He held it there for the jury to fix on."Tell the court, Mr. Machia, what became of your pal?"
"I don't know." Louis Machia shrugged. He reached for the water bottle and cleared his throat."I never saw Stevie again."
IT WAS ALMOST FOUR. Judge Seiderman looked around the courtroom. She stopped the questioning."Mr. Goldenberger, I think that's a good spot to leave off for today."
She cautioned the jury not to discuss the case or read the papers. Then they all filed back into the jury room. A few of them hurried off for trains, saying hasty good-byes.
Andie packed up her bag and put on her sweater."See you tomorrow, everyone. I have to pick up my kid. Anyone taking the IRT?"
A woman named Jennifer said she was, and together they hurried over to Chambers Street and hopped the Broadway number 1 uptown. Jennifer, who sold advertising in the city, got off at 79th, and Andie continued on uptown, to the walk-up brownstone on West 183rd Street overlooking the George Washington Bridge, where she and Jarrod had lived for the past four years.
Andie got out at the 181st Street station and walked down a couple of blocks to 178th to pick up Jarrod at Sandra's. Sandra's son, Eddie, was in Jarrod's fourth-grade class at Elementary School 115.
"Hey, Ms.Law and Order, " Sandra said, laughing as she opened the door."You get a part?"
"I got a sentence." Andie rolled her eyes."Eight weeks."
"Yikes!" Sandra exclaimed."I got 'em to do their homework, at least part of it. They're in Edward's room. PlayingDesert Ambush. " The two women stuck their heads in.
"Mom," Jarrod crowed,"check it out. We're on level six."
"Well, I'm afraid we're going to have to level six it out of here. Mom's beat."
Out on Broadway, she and Jarrod headed back to their apartment. Dinner was in their future, and she didn't feel like cooking.
"So, what are we up for, mister? Nachos? Deli? I got forty bucks from the U.S. government that says dinner's on me."
"They gave you forty bucks?" Jarrod seemed impressed."So, what's the trial about, Mom? Anything cool?"
"I shouldn't say, but it's about this Mafia guy. We heard these lawyers talk. Just like onLaw and Order. And I got to meet the judge. In her office."
Jarrod came to a stop just in front of their building. He cried out,"Mom!"
Their car was parked on the street, a ten-year-old orange Volvo wagon. Sluggo, they called it, because it didn't go very fast and looked like it had taken quite a few punches. They kept it on the street. The local cops always cut them slack.
Someone had smashed the entire front windshield in.
"Oh my God," Andie gasped. She hurried up to the station wagon in disbelief.
Shards of splintered glass were all over the pavement. Who would do such a thing? She'd kept it on the street for years. Everyone on the block knew it. Nothing like this had ever happened. She placed a hand on Jarrod's shoulder.
Then Andie felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach. She thought of Cavello sitting there in the courtroom with his calm, indifferent stare. Like he had it all under control. And the stories Louis Machia had told. He had murdered for Cavello. Something like this was child's play to the mob, wasn't it?
"Mom, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, Jarrod." She pulled him close.
But he didn't believe her any more than she believed herself. All they would have to do is follow you home.
Maybe they had.
RICHARD NORDESHENKO HAD a very good plan, which was why he was sitting in a fashionable bistro on the upper East Side, watching an attractive, middle-aged woman from the relative safety of the bar.
There were three others with the woman at her table, talking and laughing. The place was jammed with an affluent, successful-looking crowd. The two men with her wore nicely tailored suits, expensive dress shirts, gold cuff links. She seemed to know the other woman in her party quite well. The conversation was lively, familiar. The wine flowed. How nice for all of them.
Nordeshenko had followed the woman home from court that day. To her lovely town house in Murray Hill. After she went inside, he stopped on the street directly in front of the red wooden door. No guards. That's how they did things here. And the lock was a Weiser; it would be no problem. He saw the wires from a security system connected to the phone line. That was no problem, either.
"Mr. Kaminsky." The pretty hostess at the restaurant stepped up to him and smiled."Your table is ready now."
She seated him precisely where he had requested: at the adjoining table to the woman he had followed. It didn't bother him to be so close. She wouldn't know him; she would never see his face again. He had done this kind of thing countless times.
In the beginning, it was the Spetsnaz Brigade, special forces, in Chechnya. There he had learned how to kill with precision and without any remorse. His first real job had been a local bureaucrat in Grozny who had stolen several pensions. A real pig. Some of the victims had approached him to get even, and they paid him a sum he would not have earned in six months of waiting around to get blown up by the Chechen rebels. He was ridding the world of filthy scum. He could easily justify that. So he killed the bureaucrat with a firebomb placed in his speedboat.
Next, it was a policeman in Tashkent who was blackmailing prostitutes. He'd gotten a royal fee for that. Then a mobster in Moscow. A real big shot; impossible to get close to. He'd had to detonate an entire building, but it was just part of the job.
Then he started offering his services to whoever would pay his price. It was the time of perestroika, capitalism. And he was just a businessman. He'd hit the big time.
He stared at the fashionable woman again. Too bad. She seemed successful, and even likable. He knew exactly how it would go from here. It would begin with something small. Amessage, something that would fester in her mind. Soon, she'd be shitting bricks.
There would be no trial.
The woman shifted in her chair, and a blue cashmere sweater draped over the back fell onto the floor.
A waiter moved in, but Nordeshenko beat him to it. He reached down and picked it up.
"Thank you so much." The woman smiled warmly at him. Their eyes met. Nordeshenko made no move to avoid them. In a different world, she was probably someone to admire and respect. But this was his world now.
He handed back the beautiful sweater."My pleasure." He nodded slightly in return.
And it was. He had looked into the eyes of many of his victims before he acted.
Your life is about to become hell, Miriam Seiderman.
"MR. MACHIA, MY NAME is Hy Kaskel," the Eyebrow said as he stepped away from his chair the following morning."I'm going to be asking you some questions on behalf of my client, Mr. Dominic Cavello."
Andie DeGrasse opened her notepad to a new page, sketching in a caricature of the defense attorney, his eyebrows flashing. She had decided to keep what had happened yesterday afternoon to herself. What could she prove? At this point she didn't want another scene with Sharon Ann about"poisoning the jury."
"I'm familiar with your client, Mr. Kaskel," Louis Machia replied.
"Good." The diminutive defense attorney nodded."If you please, will you tell the jury just how you know him?"
"I'm just acquainted, Mr. Kaskel. I've been around a table with him a few times. He was there the night I got made."
"Around a table." Cavello's attorney theatrically mimicked him."Do you consider yourself a close friend of Mr. Cavello's? Has he, say, invited you out to dinner?"
"Actually Ihave gone out to dinner with your client, Mr. Kaskel." The witness grinned."It was after Frank Angelotti's funeral. A lot of us went out. But as for the other stuff, no. I was just a soldier. That's not the way it worked."
"So you've never heard Mr. Cavello give any orders on behalf of the Guarino crime family? He never said to you, for instance, ‘I need a favor from you, Mr. Machia,' or ‘I want Samuel Greenblatt killed'?"
"No, Mr. Kaskel, not quite that way."
"That was left to other people to explain to you. Like Ralphie D., whom you mentioned, or this other Tommy character… the one with the funny name?"
"Tommy Moose."
"TommyMoose. " The defense attorney nodded."Sorry."
"That's all right, Mr. Kaskel. We all have funny names."
Peals of laughter erupted through the courtroom.
"Yes, Mr. Machia," the defense attorney said,"but what I was driving at is, you never actually heard my client suggest it would be a good thing if this Sam Greenblatt was killed, did you?"
"No, not directly."
"You heard that from Ralphie D., who, you say, spotted him driving around somewhere in New Jersey in a car."
"It wasn'tsomewhere in New Jersey. It was down the block from where Mr. Greenblatt was killed."
"Byyou, Mr. Machia, just to be clear."
"Yes, sir." The witness nodded."By me."
Kaskel scratched his chin."Now, you describe yourself as a longtime member of the Guarino crime family, isn't that right? And you've admitted to doing a lot of bad things on behalf of that family."
"Yes," the witness answered."To both."
"Like… killing people or trafficking in drugs, isn't that right?"
"That's correct."
"What kinds of drugs did you traffic in, Mr. Machia?"
Machia shrugged."Marijuana. Ecstasy, heroin, cocaine. You name it."
"Hmmph," the lawyer snickered to the jury,"you're quite the entrepreneur, aren't you? You've owned a gun, haven't you, Mr. Machia?"
"Yes, sir. I've always had a gun."
"Ever use your gun or threaten the life of someone in connection to those drugs, Mr. Machia?"
"Yes, sir, I have."
"Evertake any of those drugs yourself, Mr. Machia?" Cavello's lawyer pressed.
"Yes, I've taken drugs."
"So you're an admitted drug user, a car thief, a burglar, a knee breaker, and oh, yes,a killer, Mr. Machia. Tell me, in the course of your longtime crime dealings, did you ever have the occasion to lie?"
"Lie?" The witness chuckled."Of course I lied. I lied all the time."
"By all the time, you mean… once a month? Once a week? Every day, perhaps?"
"We always lied, Mr. Kaskel. That was what we did."
"Why?"
"Why would we lie? To keep out of trouble. To avoid getting caught."
"Ever lie to the cops, Mr. Machia?"
"Sure, I lied to the police."
"To the FBI?"
"Yes." The witness swallowed."When I was first arrested, I lied to the FBI."
"What about your wife, Mr. Machia? Or, say, your mother? Ever lie to them?"
Louis Machia nodded."I guess in the course of my life I've lied to just about everyone."
"So let's face it, Mr. Machia, what you are is a habitual liar. Basically, you've lied to everyone you know. The people you work with, the police, the FBI, your wife. Even the woman who bore you. Let me ask you, Mr. Machia, is there anything you wouldn't lie about?"
"Yes." Louis Machia straightened up."This."
"This?" Kaskel mocked him sarcastically."Bythis, I assume you mean your testimony?"
"Yes, sir," the witness said.
"The government's promised you a sweet deal, haven't they? If you tell them what they want to hear."
"If I admit to my crimes and tell the truth." The witness shrugged."They said they would take that into account."
"By that, you mean reduce your sentence, correct?"
"Yes."
"Maybe even to ‘time served,'" the Eyebrow said, wide-eyed,"is that not correct?"
"It's possible." The witness nodded.
"So tell us," Kaskel said,"why should this jury believe you now, when in practically every other instance of your life, you've admitted you habitually lied in order to save your own skin?"
"Because," said the witness, smiling,"it makes no sense for me to lie now."
"It makes no sense?" Kaskel scratched his chin again."Why?"
"Because if they catch me in a lie I stay in prison. All I have to do to get my sentence reduced is tell the truth. How 'bout that, Mr. Kaskel?"
THEY BROKE FOR LUNCH. Andie went out with O'Flynn and Marc, the crime writer, to Chinatown, a short walk from the courthouse in Foley Square.
For a while, as they picked at appetizers, they exchanged stories. Andie told them about Jarrod, about what it was like raising a kid in the city by herself. O'Flynn asked what it was like to work onThe Sopranos, and Andie admitted she'd sort of stretched that a little bit:"I was an extra. I exaggerated to get off the trial."
"Jeez." O'Flynn stared at her glassily."Y'just broke my heart."
"John's been rewinding through five years of reruns trying to pick you out in the Bada Bing." Marc grinned, picking up a piece of bean curd with his chopsticks.
"So what about you?" Andie turned to Marc."What kind of stuff do you write?"
Marc seemed like a cool guy to her. He had longish, curly blond hair, a bit like Matthew McConaughey, and always wore jeans with his navy blazer and open-necked shirt.
"Couple of okay mystery novels-one was nominated for an Edgar Award. I did some CSI and NYPD Blue scripts."
"So, like, you're famous," said Andie.
"Iknow a few famous writers," he said, grinning."Am I making you nervous?"
"Yeah, I can hardly hold my chopsticks." Andie smiled."Look at them shake."
"So I gotta ask you guys." O'Flynn lowered his voice."I know we're not supposed to talk, but this Machia guy, what'd we make of him?"
"We make him to be one coldhearted sonovabitch," Marc said."But he does know how to get a laugh."
"Heis a sonovabitch," Andie agreed,"but when he was talking about his friend, I don't know, I felt a different side of him starting to come through."
"I guess what I was really asking"-O'Flynn leaned in close-“is, do we believe him? In spite of all the shit he's done."
Andie looked at Marc. Machia was a murderer and a thug. He'd probably done a hundred horrible things he'd never owned up to. But that bit about telling the truth hit home, how he had nothing to gain from lying now.
The writer shrugged."Yeah, I believe him."
They both looked at Andie."Yeah, I believe him, too."
WHEN THE JURY CAME BACK from lunch, a behemoth of a man took the witness stand. He was probably three hundred pounds, and he was one of the least healthy-looking people I'd ever seen.
"Can you state your name," Joel Goldenberger stood up and asked,"and where you currently reside?"
"My name is Ralph Denunziatta," the heavyset man said,"and I currently reside in a federal penitentiary."
Suddenly there was an ear-splitting boom that seemed to shake the entire building.
Everybody jumped or covered their heads. It was under-the-table time. There were several loud cries. One of the marshals made a move toward Cavello. No one knew what was happening yet. I stood up and was about to jump over the railing to protect the judge.
Then the noise came again. From the street. Maybe a demolition explosion, or a truck backfire. Everyone looked around as the nervous gasps in the courtroom diffused.
The only one who hadn't moved was Cavello. He just sat there, looking around, concealing an amused grin."Don't look atme, " he said, and nearly everybody in the courtroom laughed.
The trial resumed. Denunziatta was about fifty, with a couple of double chins and grayish thinning hair; he spoke in a soft tone. Like Machia, I'd gotten to know him well. I was the one who had arrested him. I actually liked Ralphie, if you could like a guy who wouldn't shrug to see you dead.
Joel Goldenberger stepped up to the stand."Mr. Denunziatta, would you state your position in organized crime?"
"I was a captain in the Guarino crime family." He spoke in a hushed tone, eyes averted.
"Ralphie D.?" the U.S. prosecutor asked.
The witness nodded."Yes. That would be me."
"You have a college degree, don't you, Mr. Denunziatta?" the prosecutor continued.
"Yes, sir, I do. In business. From LIU."
"But you never got a regular job? You chose to dedicate yourself to a life of crime?"
"That's correct." Denunziatta nodded again. Ralphie's father was one of Cavello's henchmen when Ralphie was growing up."My father wanted me to become a stockbroker or get a law degree. But things were changing. The family was in some legitimate businesses-restaurants, nightclubs, food distribution-so I got involved with them. I thought I could avoid things, you know, the things everyone talks about-the violence, the dirty work."
"But you couldn't, Mr. Denunziatta, could you?" Joel Goldenberger asked.
"No, sir." The witness shook his head."I couldn't."
"And one of those things you couldn't avoid was involvement in the murder of Sam Greenblatt?"
"Yes," he said, locking his thumbs.
"And you pleaded guilty to playing a part in that crime, is that not correct?"
"That's correct," the witness said."I pleaded guilty to murder in the second degree."
"Why, Mr. Denunziatta? Can you describe your actual involvement in Mr. Greenblatt's death?"
He cleared his throat."Thomas Mussina came to me. He was a captain then. He reported directly to Dominic Cavello. He knew some people who worked for me owed the family a favor. Jimmy Cabrule-he had gambling debts. Also Louis Machia-he was looking to be made. He figured this was an opportunity."
"By ‘opportunity,'" the prosecutor stated,"you mean that if Mr. Machia participated in killing Mr. Greenblatt, he would be rewarded with being formally inducted into the family? Is that correct?"
"That's correct, Mr. Goldenberger."
"So, go on, Mr. Denunziatta. Did Mr. Cabrule and Louis Machia carry out this hit?"
"Yes, they did. In front of Greenblatt's home in Jersey. On the sixth of August, 1993."
"You seem to know the date well, Mr. Denunziatta. Were you there?"
"I was in the area," Denunziatta replied.
"In the area…?" Goldenberger cocked his head.
"I was in a car driving around the neighborhood, maybe two blocks away. I heard the shots. I saw Louis and Jimmy C. speed by. Louie's friend Stevie Mannarino was driving the vehicle."
"Was anyoneelse driving around the neighborhood, Mr. Denunziatta? At the time Mr. Greenblatt was murdered?"
"Yes, sir." The gangster nodded."Tommy Moose was driving around. In a gray Lincoln."
"Okay, Thomas Mussina was there. In a Lincoln. Was there anyone else in this car with Mr. Mussina?" the prosecutor asked.
"Yes, there was." Ralphie sucked in a breath."Dominic Cavello was in the car."
"How could you be so sure, Mr. Denunziatta, that it was Mr. Cavello in the car with Thomas Mussina?"
"Because they stopped and waved to me. A few blocks from the hit."
"But it didn't surprise you, did it, Mr. Denunziatta? To see him, the Electrician, there?"
"No, sir," the witness said.
"And can you tell the jury why?"
"Because Tommy told me they were going to be there the night before. He and Mr. Cavello. He said Mr. Cavello wanted to make sure everything was done just right."
Denunziatta looked up, as if drawn almost magnetically toward the defendant.
Cavello met his gaze with the most chilling, mirthless smile. It had finality to it. Everybody saw it. It was as if the temperature in the courtroom had dropped twenty degrees in a few seconds.
Go ahead, Ralphie, Cavello's smile seemed to say.Do what you have to do. When this has all played out, I'll find you.
Dead man walking, Ralphie.
The prosecutor brought the witness back."So to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Denunziatta, Mr. Cavello knew about Mr. Greenblatt's murder before it took place?"
"'Course he knew about the murder, Mr. Goldenberger. Jimmy wouldn't tie his shoelaces without the Boss's say-so. Everybody knew that.Cavello ordered the hit."
MIRIAM SEIDERMAN HAD SEEN the monstrous look, too. It almost brought the proceedings to a halt, as all eyes went to Cavello.
Up to now the mob boss had been on his best behavior, but she knew he was tethered by a slender thread. The first two witnesses had been damaging. She could read the jury on that. Only a complete fool would think Cavello had nothing to do with Greenblatt's murder.
Yet he just sat there, like he had it all planned out. His life was going down the tubes, and he was above it all:You can't hold me here. I'm stronger than you. I'm stronger than the whole system. You can't judge me. It made her shiver.
After trial that day, she met her husband for dinner with a client. Ben was a partner at Rifkin, Sayles, one of the biggest law firms in the city. She listened, tried to laugh. The client, Howard Goldblum, was one of the most successful real estate developers in the city.
But inside, she was scared. She kept reliving the trial. It kept reverberating through her. Something about that man. That he couldn't be controlled by any system.
She and Ben got home around ten. The alarm was on. The housekeeper had gone for the night. She double-bolted the front door and went upstairs.
She knew she should tell Ben about today. But it was silly, and she wasn't a silly person. She'd been on a hundred trials. She'd seen plenty of brazen criminals who thought they were bigger than life itself. Why was this one different?He wasn't! To hell with him.
She watched Ben disappear into his walk-in closet to get undressed, then into the bathroom. She heard him brushing his teeth. She went over to their bed. She pulled off the pillows one by one. Then she stripped down the duvet.
Miriam Seiderman felt her heart slam to a stop.
"Ben! Ben, come out here, quick!Ben! "
Her husband ran into the room, his toothbrush in hand."What is it?"
Under the covers there was a newspaper, folded open to page two. The headline read, GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
She was staring at Dominic Cavello. An artist's sketch. The very moment in the courtroom that had stayed with her all evening.
That look.
She turned to Ben."Did you put that here?"
Her husband shook his head and picked up theDaily News."Of course not, no."
A chill started to creep down Miriam Seiderman's spine. The house had been locked, the alarms set. Her housekeeper, Edith, had left at four.
What the hell was going on? This was this evening's paper.
Someone had gotten in here tonight!
AROUND THAT TIME, in a dimly lit Albanian café in Astoria, Queens, Nordeshenko sat reading a newspaper of his own.
A few customers were at the bar. A soccer game was playing on the satellite, piped in from the home country, and the local boys were drinking and cheering, occasionally shouting in dialect at the screen.
The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko's. The Israeli never even looked up.
"It's good to see you, Remi."
Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn't used it in fifteen years.
"So look what the wind dragged in." The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper."Or maybe the sanitation trucks."
"Always the compliments, Remi."
Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.
Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.
"So tell us, Remi"-the South African shifted in his chair-“you didn't bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?"
"No." Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello-the same one he had left in the judge's bed just a few hours before.
"Cavello." Nezzi wrinkled his brow."He's on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he's in jail? We could do that, I suppose."
"Have a drink," Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.
"I'll have oneafter, " the South African said."And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the Koran."
Nordeshenko smiled."All right." He lifted the newspaper one more time. On the other side was another courtroom sketch, one Nordeshenko had cut out of the paper from the trial's very first day.
Both killers stared at it. Slowly the message started to sink in.
"You want that drink now?" Nordeshenko asked.
Reichardt's look said,Lunacy."This is America, Remi, not Chechnya."
"What better place to break new ground?"
"Ouzo," Reichardt called to the waiter.
"Three," said Nezzi, shrugging.
The drinks came, and over the shouts for the football game, the men slugged them down, wiping their chins.
The South African finally started to laugh."You know it's true what they say about you, Remi: you'd be fucking dangerous if you ever got mad."
"Shall I take that as a yes, you're in?" Nordeshenko asked them.
"Of course we're in, Remi. It's the only game in town."
"Three more," Nordeshenko called to the waiter in Russian.
Then he picked up the paper, the sketch of the jury disappearing under his arm. They wanted a trial, these stupid bastards, they were going to get one.
They just didn't know the meaning of thetrial that was in store for them.
NO ONE WAS ON the witness stand in the courtroom that morning. The press was cleared. The jury was being kept in the jury room. Judge Seiderman stepped in from her chambers and sent a fiery look hurtling toward the defendant in the second row."Mr. Cavello, I want to see you and both counsels in my chambers,now. "
As the judge was leaving the bench, she caught my eye."Agent Pellisante, I'd like you to join us as well."
Our group made its way through the wooden door on the right side of the courtroom to the judge's quarters. Judge Seiderman took a seat behind her desk, glaring. I'd never seen her so angry.
And she was glaring directly at the defendant.
"Maybe I didn't quite get this across to you, Mr. Cavello, but if you think I will ever bow to intimidation or your mob-scare tactics, you have picked the wrong judge and this is the wrong courtroom. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Your Honor." Cavello stood, staring right back at her.
"But what I particularly don't take to"-Judge Seiderman raised herself up-“is a defendant who thinks he's big enough to toy and interfere with the criminal justice system."
"Can Your Honor explain what it is you're talking about?" Kaskel asked, obviously confused.
"Your client knows precisely what I'm talking about, Mr. Kaskel," the judge replied, her gaze never wavering from Cavello's chuckling eyes.
She reached into a drawer, pulled out the copy of theDaily News, and threw it down on her desk. Facing up was a sketch of Cavello's courtroom look at Ralphie yesterday. GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.
"This was in my bed last night.In my bed, Mr. Cavello! Under my covers. The evening edition broke around seven. My house was completely locked up and alarmed. No one had been inside since four that afternoon. You have an educated guess as to how this got there, Mr. Cavello?"
"I'm not an expert on these things, Your Honor." Dominic Cavello shrugged smugly."But maybe that's something you ought to take up with your alarm company. Or your husband. Me, I got a pretty good excuse. I was in that prison over there."
"I told you"-Miriam Seiderman removed her glasses-“these proceedings will not be disrupted by intimidation."
I had to give her credit. The judge was going toe to toe with Cavello. She wasn't backing down."This court has given you every opportunity to have this trial conducted in the open, Mr. Cavello."
"This court is making assumptions that it cannot possibly back up, Your Honor," Hy Kaskel said."Mr. Cavello has conducted himself by every rule and stipulation both sides agreed to in the pretrial hearings. You can't point the finger at him."
"I am pointing the finger, Mr. Kaskel. And if it's shown in any way that this is tied back to your client…"
"It's okay, Hy." Dominic Cavello restrained his lawyer."I understand how the judge must feel. She has to do what she has to do. It's just that I have friends who feel a certain way as well, and the problem is, they have to do what they think is right, too."
"What did I just hear?" The judge's gaze was electric, drilling in on Cavello's eyes.
"I tried to tell you from the beginning, Your Honor," Cavello said,"we're never going to see the end of this trial. What can I tell you? That's just the way it is."
I couldn't believe what I had just heard. Even for a bull like Cavello, to direct such a bold threat at the court was extraordinary.
"Agent in Charge Pellisante," the judge said, never flinching.
"Yes, Your Honor."
"I'm calling a recess for the day. I want the jury sent home. In the meantime, I'll decide how this proceeding is conducted from here on in."
I felt I had to voice my opinion."The jury should be sequestered, Your Honor. We can no longer take responsibility for their safety. Or even your own. We've mapped out various locations. I can have protective custody in motion as soon as you give the word."
"Nick," Cavello clucked, turning my way,"it's a big city. Hey, maybe you ought to be watching your back, too."
I stepped forward to take a slug at him-but someone behind me, this big, burly marshal, held me back.
"Do it, Agent Pellisante." The judge nodded."Set the wheels in motion. Sequester the jury."
AROUND NINE THIRTY that night, Andie was folding towels in Jarrod's bathroom. Her darling son was in his pj's, sitting up in bed with a schoolbook open on his lap, but he was staring off into space.
"Mom, what's a promontory?" he called to her.
Andie came out and sat on the edge of his bed.
"It's like a piece of land that juts out into the ocean."
"Then what's a peninsula?" he asked next, flipping the textbook page.
Andie shrugged."I guess it's a larger piece of land that juts out into the ocean."
That day, for the first time in a week, she had picked him up from school. The judge had excused them all before noon, and the rumor mills were buzzing. The newspapers and TV commentators were saying threats had been made. Maybe against some of the jurors.
Andie had asked for some time with the judge and finally mentioned how she had found her windshield smashed in two nights before. Judge Seiderman told her it probably wasn't related. But that wasn't exactly making her feel safe and secure right now.
"So, then isn't every piece of land in the world kind of a peninsula?" Jarrod shrugged."I mean, look at Florida. Or Africa and South America. Doesn't everything stick out into the ocean at some point, Mom?"
"I guess." Andie tucked in his blanket and sat brushing back his soft, light-brown hair.
"Hey," he said, squirming,"I'm not a baby."
"You're my baby, always will be. Sorry, but that's the deal."
Andie's hand stopped abruptly at the sound of the doorbell.
Jarrod sat back up. They both looked at the clock. It was after ten."Who could that be, Mom?"
"I don't know. But one thing I do know, Einstein." She took the book from him."It's lights out." She bent and gave him a kiss.
"'Night, Mom."
Andie went into the hall to answer the bell. She turned the lock and cracked open the front door slightly.
She did a double take.
It was that FBI guy she'd noticed in the courtroom, the nice-looking one. And there was a uniformed police officer with him. No-twopolice officers, a man and a woman.
What were they doing here at ten o'clock?
HE HELD UP his FBI shield for her to see."I'm sorry to surprise you, Ms. DeGrasse. May I come in? It's important."
Andie opened the door. The FBI guy was dressed nicely, in an olive raincoat over a brown sports jacket, with a deep-blue shirt and a tie. Her mind flashed to how she must look-in a bright-pink DKNY sweatshirt, with a towel draped over her shoulder."I wasn't expecting anyone."
"We're sorry to bust in on you like this. I'm Nicholas Pellisante. I'm a special agent in charge of the FBI's Organized Crime Unit. I'm heading up the Cavello investigation."
"I've seen you in court," Andie said. Then, warily,"Isn't there some kind of rule that we're not supposed to be talking to each other?"
"Under normal circumstances, yes." The FBI guy nodded.
"Normal circumstances? I'm not following you. What's happening?"
"The trial procedures are being changed. As a matter of safety, the judge feels-and I agree-it may be prudent for the members of the jury to be removed from their daily lives."
"Our daily lives?" Andie blinked. What did that mean? She ran a hand through her messy hair.
"The judge would like the jury sequestered. I don't want you to be alarmed. There's no specific threat. It's just for your protection."
"Myprotection? "
"Yours and your son's," the agent said.
Now Andiewas alarmed."You're saying there have been threats?" Her mind flashed to the windshield of her car."This is about what happened the other night."
"I'm not saying that," the agent said."There's an officer outside who can assist you."
"Assist us with what, Agent Pellisante?" A tremor galloped down her spine."I have a nine-year-old in here. What do I do with him while I'm being protected? Pack him off to boarding school?"
"Look, I know how this sounds, and I know how short notice it is. We'll make provisions that you get to see your son regularly, for the balance of the trial."
"The balance of the trial!" Suddenly the magnitude of this smacked Andie face-on."We're only in the first week. This isn't exactly what I signed up for, Agent Pellisante."
The FBI guy looked sympathetic, but also helpless to do anything."I'm afraid it's not a matter of choice."
Her blood was pulsing. She could have gotten off this trial just the other day."When?" Andie looked up at him. Then she realized what he had meant by theofficer waiting outside.
"I'm afraid, right now. What I have to ask you to do now is to go pack some things."
"You're kidding!" Andie stared at him, glassy-eyed."My son's in bed in the other room. What am I supposed to do with him? This is crazy."
"Is there someone who can take him for tonight? Somebody nearby?"
"I have a sister in Queens. It's after ten o'clock. What do you want me to do, put him in a cab?"
"You can bring him along," the FBI guy finally said."Just for this evening, though. You'll have to make provisions for him tomorrow."
"Bring him along." Andie smirked sardonically.“Where?"
"I can't tell you that, Ms. DeGrasse. Not far. And you will be able to see him from time to time. I promise you that."
"You're serious." Andie ran a hand through her hair again.
At that moment, she saw Jarrod standing in the hall in his pj's."What's goin' on, Mom?"
Andie went to him and put an arm around his shoulders."This man is from the trial. He's with the FBI. He's telling me we have to leave. We have to go someplace. Now. Tonight."
"Why?" Jarrod asked, not understanding."Tonight? Where?"
The FBI guy kneeled down."We have to do this in order to let your mom do a brave thing. You'd want her to do that, wouldn't you? You'd do something brave, wouldn't you, to protect your mom?"
"Yeah." Jarrod nodded."Sure I would."
"Good." He squeezed the boy's shoulder."I'm Nick. What's your name?"
"Jarrod."
"It won't be so bad." He smiled. He winked back at Andie."You ever ridden in a police car, Jarrod?"
WHEN I FINALLY MADE IT home, it was after two.
It wasn't easy rousting people out of their homes late at night, scaring the living shit out of them, being unable to level with them. The jurors were all taken in unmarked cars to a motel across the Holland Tunnel in Jersey City. Eight U.S. marshals had them under guard there for the night.
I was exhausted, and I felt like crap for disrupting their lives. But as I turned the key to my apartment at that predawn hour I knewI'd sleep a whole lot sounder for having done it, having moved them.
Stepping into the apartment, I was surprised to find the lights on. At first I figured Ellen was on call.What else was new?
Then, Popeye didn't come to greet me like he always did. And he wasn't on the couch where he usually slept.
Something was wrong, wasn't it?
It took a second. Then I flashed to the threat Cavello had made against me in the courtroom earlier. I drew my gun.
Holy shit! Jesus, no. I started toward the bedroom."Ellen! Are you in there? Ellen?"
The hall closet was wide open, and I noticed a few coats were missing.Hers. And two suitcases that we usually had stuffed on the top shelf were gone, too. A couple of photos were missing from the console. Her family and stuff.
"Ellen!"
The bedroom lights were on, shining brightly and hard on my eyes. The bed hadn't been slept in. A tray of her scents and body sprays had been cleared out too.
I had this sinking, helpless feeling, like everything was spiraling out of control. I couldn't believe this was happening."Ellen… Ellen?" I called for her again.
Then I spotted a note on the bed, on my pillow. It was written on her medical stationery.
My heart sank as I read the first line.
My big, strong Nick. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to write…
I SAT DOWN on the edge of the bed, the pillows arranged the way she always liked them, her scent still hanging in the air.
I know this will hurt you. But I just need to be on my own for a while. We both know what was great about each other just isn't there much right now.
Hopefully, this will make you smile: I promise, there isn't anyone else, just this aching feeling that we're not giving each other what we want or need. And right now, I think I need to look into myself awhile and find out what it is I want someone to give me. You are the best, Nick. You are smart and reliable, and sensitive and strong. You're such a good man. And you know what else you're the best at-I don't have to elaborate!!!
You will make some girl a loving partner in life. I'm just not sure it's me. I need this space, Nick. We both need it! If we're honest, as we've always been with each other.
So please don't call me for a day or two. Don't ask me to come back (if you even want me to). Don't look for me. Don't be the cop, Nicky. I need the strength to do this. I'm at a friend's. Popeye is with me. He's already told me I'm a stupid jerk. (You're always the stud, Nick, even with the guys!)
I do truly love you, Nick. Who wouldn't?
I put down the note. There was a PS. Okay, I lied just a little. Taking the medical boards was harder.
I picked up a photo of us on my night table taken up in Vermont, skiing.Goddamnit, Ellen, we could have worked it out. We could have talked at least.
I made a move for the phone. I went to dial her cell; then I caught myself and stopped midnumber.
She was right. Lay off, Nick. Give her what she asked for. We both knew it.What was great about each other just isn't there much right now…
I took off my tie and tossed my jacket on the bed. Then I just leaned back on the pillow and closed my eyes.
I wanted to feel crushed, empty. I wanted to go pour myself a scotch or kick a chair like I was supposed to do when things like this happened.
But I couldn't. I couldn't!
Ellen was right. What was great about each other just isn't much there right now.
Ellen was right about a lot of things.
A BIG BLUE BUS was waiting for the jury in front of the Garden State Inn at 8:00 a.m.
Three court marshals, with their handguns showing, loaded them on. Another heavily armed marshal was waiting inside. Then three police cars pulled up, lights whirring. Their escort. An FBI man was checking names off a roster.
And this was supposed to fill us with a sense of ease, Andie thought as she climbed onboard.I don't think so.
Her sister, Rita, had been driven down earlier in a court-assigned car to pick up Jarrod and take him to school. He'd stay with her and his uncle Ray until this mess was over with. Andie was amazed at how well he had handled himself last night. He never let on that he was afraid or even put out. But this morning, he didn't want to leave her, and finally he cried like a little boy.Her little boy, her Jarrod.
"You have to do your job, and I have to do mine," she said as she hugged him close and put him into Rita's car, holding back a flood of emotions."And remember… Florida 's a promontory, right?"
" Peninsula ," he corrected her. She waved as they drove away. One thing for sure-he'd have a helluva story to share in school that day.
Rosella plopped herself next to Andie on the bus. All of their nervous, harried faces said this was a whole lot more than anyone had ever bargained for.
"My huzban, he's very upset at what's goin' on. He tells me, the hell with the forty dollars, Rosie, get jourself off that trial. What about jou? Jou must be goin' crazy with jour son?"
"Jarrod's a trouper," Andie said, half believing it."He'll get by." She turned around to O'Flynn and Hector."It's the rest of you guys I'm worried about."
There was a lot of bickering, even before the bus left the motel. Understandable. Hector was insisting this was against the law. That they had to give you a chance to get off now. That they couldn't just hold you against your will. A few people argued with him that that wasn't true.
"It's like the Patriot Act." Marc rolled his eyes."It's for our own protection."
The bus doors finally closed. The police cars in front began to pull out, lights flashing. The driver started the engine, and the big bus rolled forward slowly.
Andie pressed her cheek to the glass, the sight of the dreary motel, her new home for the next several weeks, drifting away.
She missed justknowing she would see Jarrod that night."I don't think Sam Greenblatt exactly signed up for it either," she finally said to herself.
I WAS BEAT, bleary-eyed. I'd barely gotten three hours' sleep the night before. I tried to push the situation with Ellen out of my mind as I sat in court that morning. Cavello was flanked closely by two security people now. One more scene in there, and he was gone.
Joel Goldenberger stepped up to the witness stand."Good morning, Mr. Denunziatta. I'd like to pick up where we left off the other day." He had papers in his hand.
"You testified that you'd been present in the general area at the time Sam Greenblatt was killed," the prosecutor started in,"and that you spotted Thomas Mussina driving around. With someone else in the car. Would you remind the jury who that other person was, Mr. Denunziatta?"
"It was Dominic Cavello," Denunziatta stated.
"Good." Goldenberger nodded and turned a page."Now, what I want to move on to are the events that took place subsequent to that. Would you say that you and your colleagues were satisfied with how the job was done?"
"I guess at first we were satisfied." Ralphie shrugged."I mean, we did the job, everyone got away, no one got hurt."
"Other than Mr. Greenblatt, of course."
"Other than Mr. Greenblatt, naturally." The witness nodded with a contrite smile."It was maybe the day after that, as I recall, that things started to fall apart."
"What kinds of things are you speaking of, Mr. Denunziatta?"
"This guy that was involved in the hit, Stevie…"
"Steven Mannarino," Joel Goldenberger explained.
"Yeah. The kid screwed up. It seemed he didn't find clean plates for the getaway car like he was instructed. So he had to scramble." He cleared his throat."Apparently he located a set in Louis Machia's yard."
"In the yard of his friend, who had just participated in the killing, right?"
"Yes." Denunziatta rolled his eyes.
"So how would you describe Stevie?" the prosecutor asked."Was he an experienced guy in this sort of stuff?"
The witness shrugged."He was a good kid from the neighborhood. I think he had asthma or something. He just wanted to be around."
"Be around?"
"He just wanted to be in the club. He wasn't the smartest kid, but Louie liked him. So we let him run errands. The kid would've done anything to get on the inside."
"And this was his chance, wasn't it? His big audition?"
"If it had gone well, who knows?"
"So what happened to Stevie, Mr. Denunziatta? After it came out how he had messed up?"
"At first, Louis wanted to handle it himself. The cops came to his house that night, after someone spotted the plates. But Louie had his own issues to worry about, and Stevie was going around making a lot of noise, like he wanted us to take care of him and get him out of the area. Away from the cops. No one had actually seen him at the scene, but he was scared."
"So what did you do for Stevie, Mr. Denunziatta?"
"I told him I would work it out. I met with Tommy Moose. And Mr. Cavello. We took a walk at the Kings County Mall. I said we needed to get this kid out of town. My uncle Richie had a place in the Poconos. He could've hid out there. Tommy agreed that it seemed like a reasonable plan."
Goldenberger nodded."So that's where Stevie went then, after the Greenblatt hit?"
"Not exactly," Denunziatta said, and cleared his throat.
"Why? You were in charge of the hit. The person you reported to agreed. No one could pin that the guy was involved, right? Why didn't Stevie end up in the Poconos?"
"Because Dominic Cavello didn't go along with that," Ralph Denunziatta said, looking down.
"He didn't go along with it?"
"No." Denunziatta shrugged."The Boss said Stevie's gotta go."
"Stevie's gotta go," Joel Goldenberger said. He took a step or two toward the witness."He said it just like that, Mr. Denunziatta? Those words? ‘Stevie's gotta go'?"
"No, not those exact words." Ralphie shifted in his seat. He cleared his throat, twice."As I recall, his exact words were, ‘Cut the fat fuck up and stuff him in a can for all I care. The kid has got to go.'"
"‘CUT THE FAT FUCK UPand stuff him in a can for all I care. The kid has got to go.'"
The prosecutor paused to let the effect of the words fall on the jury. Everyone in the courtroom seemed stunned.
"You heard Dominic Cavello say those words? Give you a direct order to kill Steven Mannarino?"
The witness swallowed uncomfortably and shot a quick glance toward the defendant."Yes."
A heavy silence settled over the courtroom. All the while, Cavello just sat there with his elbows on the table and his fingers folded together, staring straight ahead as if he hadn't even heard a word. It was like none of this even mattered.
"And Thomas Mussina," the prosecutor prodded,"he agreed with this?"
"What could he do? The Boss had given a direct order."
"So whatdid you do, Mr. Denunziatta? You promised Stevie you'd take care of him, right?"
"I did." The witness reached for some water."I think he was staying at his sister's. I had someone get in touch with him and tell him to pack a bag and meet us at Vesuvio's, this place we all knew in Bay Ridge. I told him he couldn't say a word to anyone about where he was going. Even to his mother."
"Go on."
"So we met him there. I got Larry Conigliero and Louis DeMeo. Stevie got out of his car with this dumb little travel bag. He asked how long he'd have to be away, and I told him maybe a couple of weeks or so, until it all died down."
"You were lying to him, right? You had no intention of helping him get away?"
"That's correct." Ralphie nodded, taking a swig of water.
"So what happened, Mr. Denunziatta, after Mr. Mannarino got in that car?"
"They drove away. They took him to Larry's garage. They told him they wanted to pick up some tapes there or something, for the drive. Larry told me Stevie never had a clue. He turned around and shot him in the backseat. Then they had to cut him up, like Mr. Cavello said. They wanted to follow his orders just in case. Then they drove him to the Poconos. He's still there today, for all I know."
"So you reported back to Mr. Cavello," Joel Goldenberger said,"that the murder he ordered was done."
"I reported back to Tommy."
"And shortly after that, you became a captain yourself?"
"Yes." He nodded."After about two months."
"And did Mr. Cavello say anything about why you had been made a captain in such a short time?"
The witness stared across the room. Toward Cavello."He made a joke that I wouldn't be buying any property in the Poconos anytime soon."
Even now, Cavello seemed to find the line amusing.
"Thank you, Mr. Denunziatta." The prosecutor closed his notes and went to his seat."One more thing." He turned back."Did Louis Machia ever find out what became of his buddy?"
Ralphie lowered his eyes."No, Mr. Goldenberger, Louie never knew what happened to Stevie."
ANDIE TRIED TO RELAX in her motel room that night, but it wasn't happening.
She found Denunziatta's testimony that day pretty unsettling. The more she heard, the more she was developing an intense hatred for Dominic Cavello, even though she knew she was supposed to remain objective. She lay on her bed, leafing through aVanity Fair, but her thoughts went to Stevie, the trusting wannabe, with his toothbrush and a change of shorts in his little travel bag, thinking he was going to the Poconos to lie low.Cut the fat fuck up and stuff him in a can for all I care.
She was feeling so alone. Some detective show was playing low in the background on the TV. She reached for the phone and dialed Jarrod at her sister's.
"Hey, hon," Andie said, brightening already.
"Hey, Mom!" Jarrod answered. It was great just to hear his voice. Talking to Jarrod always cheered her up. They were buddies.
"How's it going, guy? Auntie Rita treating you okay? Shefeeding you?"
"Yeah. Everyone's real nice here. The food is great."
"So it's not so bad after all, staying with your cousins?"
"I guess. It's just that…" Jarrod's voice grew soft."Why do you have to be there, Mom?"
"Because they're making us stay out here so we can really concentrate on the case. So no one will interrupt us."
"People at school are saying it's so this Mafia guy doesn't come after us. Try to hurt us."
Andie sat up and flicked the TV off."Well the people at school are wrong, Jarrod. No one's coming after us." It was one thing ifshe had to be out here, totally separated and alone. It was another thing for her nine-year-old to be sucked into this.
She tried to lift his spirits."Anyway, how many kids get to ride in a police car with a real FBI honcho?"
"Yeah, I guess. That was cool."
There was silence between them for a few seconds.
"Guess what?" she said."I spoke with the powers that be. They said you can come down here for the night next Tuesday-for your birthday. I hear there's some pretty good Italian food out here in Jersey."
That did the trick. Jarrod was over the moon."Can I stay over?"
"Yep, Jar, I cleared that, too. They even said they'd ride you back to school in a police car in the morning."
"That sounds great! I miss you, Mom."
"Me too, Jarrod. I miss you more." Andie moved the phone away a little and covered her mouth. She knew her voice was about to crack, and she didn't want Jarrod to hear that.
I miss you more than you'll ever know.
WE BROUGHT IN three more strong witnesses on Friday and Monday. Each built up the case against Dominic Cavello; each dug the blade in deeper and deeper.
One was Thomas Mussina, the famous Tommy Moose, Ralphie D.'s boss. He was currently in the Witness Protection Program.
Mussina backed up everything that Machia and Ralphie had previously testified: that Cavello had given the direct order to murder Sam Greenblatt; that Tommy was actually driving him around, in his gray Lincoln, just blocks from the scene; that after they heard the shots and saw their guys speeding away, all Cavello did was wipe his hands and say,"So that's done. How 'bout some eggs?"
Mussina also corroborated Denunziatta's story about what happened to Stevie. He used the exact same words:"Stevie's gotta go."
Then he told the jury about a dancer, Gloria, who worked at a fancy strip club Cavello owned in Rockland County, New York. Gloria bragged to one of the other girls that she had squirreled away thirty thousand dollars in cash. Her"I-70 fund," she called it. One day she was going to take her daughter and just drive west, start a new life.
Tommy Mussina told the jury,"When Mr. Cavello heard this he got mad as hell. He thought this chick was stealing from him. So he sent a couple of guys to her apartment. They screwed her, strangled her, and tossed the body in a Dumpster. Luckily the kid was at school."
"They found the money?" Goldenberger asked.
"Yeah." Mussina nodded."Stuffed inside a suitcase in a closet. Thirty grand, just like Gloria had said. They brought it back to Mr. Cavello."
"Why?"
"He wanted it." Mussina shrugged."He laughed, said, ‘What was once Caesar's belongs to Caesar.' I was there."
Vintage Cavello. Coldhearted and unnecessary. Over-the-top cruel.
"So in the end," the prosecutor said, shaking his head sadly,"did the money turn out to be stolen after all?"
"Nah. She saved it up just like she'd said. Mr. Cavello ended up giving it back to the family as a fund for Gloria's kid. He got a good laugh out of that one. It was the girl's own dough."
AFTER MUSSINA'S TESTIMONY, the jury members filed into the jury room for lunch. No one seemed particularly hungry."You see that asshole sitting there?" Hector shook his head angrily."He barely moves a muscle. Like he's got the world under control. Evenus. "
"Well, he won't have it under control much longer if I have anything to do with it." Rosella crossed herself."God rest his soul.In hell. "
Andie sat down. She glanced at Marc. The writer was just leaning on the windowsill, staring out at lower Manhattan.
"That poor dancer. Some getaway fund, huh? I have a little boy. That could've been me at another time in my life," Andie said.
Marc nodded sympathetically."Whichclub was it you said you danced at?"
"Very funny." Andie scrunched up her face. But at least the joke broke the tension. One by one, people began to smile and sit down. They passed out plates.
"After this is over we should all meet. I know this farm in the Poconos," John O'Flynn said, piling cold cuts onto his bread.
Winston, the mechanic, laughed."Yeah, just watch out for all the large mounds of dirt."
Lorraine let one of her loud, high-pitched giggles go. That set everybody off. It was amazing that after all the grisly testimony they could just kick back and laugh.
" Lorraine," Andie said,"I have a dare for you. We all put ten bucks into a kitty, and the next time the Eyebrow makes one of those ridiculous statements about Cavello being a good citizen, you let rip one of your laughs."
"That would be priceless." O'Flynn cackled."I'm in. I think even Judge Seiderman would get a charge out of it."
Lorraine must've liked the image, because she let another one loose. Shrill and penetrating. Everybody laughed even louder than the first time.
Andie had to admit that over the past week she had gotten close to these people. Maybe it was the nature of what they were doing. Sharing the same room, hearing the same sick, unsettling testimony.
She looked around the room."Listen, it's my kid's birthday tomorrow. I arranged for him to come back with us and spend the night. What do you guys say about soda and cake in my room after dinner?"
"Hey, a party," O'Flynn said, nodding for all of them.
"We'll get party hats and noisemakers!" Rosella exclaimed."Like New Year's Eve. Be a birthday he'll never forget."
"Courtesy of the United States government," Marc said."They owe us something after all this, right? What's the little guy's name?"
"Jarrod." Andie smiled."That's great. Thank you, guys. There's just oneother thing. I kinda promised you'd all bring presents."
I WATCHED THE JURY file back in for the afternoon session. Minutes later, another star witness was on the stand. He was an ex-mobster named Joseph Zaro, a former union official in the Local 407. The 407 was the contracting union Cavello controlled in New Jersey.
Zaro explained how for years contractors were squeezed for payoffs to get building contracts. How it literally took a hundred thousand dollars in a suitcase dropped at union headquarters if you even wanted workers to show up for the job. Or, if a contractor wanted a mix of union and nonunion labor to save money, that cost you 20 percent of the savings up front.
For years, we knew it was the biggest racket going in New Jersey, and that Cavello was literally skimming millions off the top. We just couldn't catch him.
"How many contracts did you rig for Mr. Cavello?" Joel Goldenberger asked Zaro.
"Dozens. Hundreds?" The witness shrugged."And there were two other guys like me doing the exact same job."
"The exact same job? Meaning extortion?" Joel Goldenberger pressed him.
The witness shrugged again as if it was the most natural thing in the world."Yeah."
"And what would happen," the prosecutor asked,"if the contractor refused to pay?"
"Then they wouldn't get no labor, Mr. Goldenberger."
"And if they still refused to pay? Or if they used outside workers?"
"You meanoutside our union? " the witness asked.
"Yes."
Zaro looked around blankly for a second; then he scratched his head."You understand, we were talking Dominic Cavello here, Mr. Goldenberger. I don't think I ever recall that happening."
A few people around the courtroom laughed.
Goldenberger smiled, too."So this was basically a monopoly? Mr. Cavello over there could dictate terms to the entire construction business?"
"There wasn't a building went up in north Jersey, and parts of New York, that Dominic Cavello didn't get a piece of." The witness laughed out loud.
Even Cavello seemed to curl a smile at that one. As if he was proud of his business acumen. We had him dead to rights. Murder. Union tampering. Fraud. You could read it on every face in the courtroom. You could even read it on Cavello's face, beneath the cold stare that seemed to say,This doesn't bother me at all.
Now the prosecution had one final witness, one who could testify about an even uglier side of Cavello. One who could drive the nail into his coffin for good.
Me.
I TOOK THE STAND the next afternoon.
"Please state your name." Joel Goldenberger stood up and faced me."And what your association is with this trial."
"Nicholas Pellisante," I said."I'm an SAC in the New York office of the FBI. I'm the head of a unit known as C-10. We oversee organized crime."
"Thank you. And in your role as head of this unit, Agent Pellisante, you are the senior law enforcement agent on the investigation into Dominic Cavello, is that correct?"
"That's correct." I nodded."Other than the assistant director and the director."
"The assistant director and the director?" Goldenberger cocked his head."You mean of the New York office?"
"No, Mr. Goldenberger." I paused, then moistened my lips with a sip of water."Of the entire FBI."
Goldenberger looked impressed."Those are pretty good credentials, Special Agent Pellisante. Now, you haven't always held this position, have you, sir?"
"No. Before that I was an agent on the task force for five years. Prior to that I taught a class in criminal anthropology at Columbia. I also worked at the Justice Department in DC for three years. And before that I was in law school."
"And you hold a law degree from where, Mr. Pellisante?"
I played along because this was designed to set me up as even more impressive to the jury. I took another sip of water." Columbia."
"So you've been investigating organized crime for how many years?"
"Eleven. Five as a special agent. Six as the special agent in charge."
"So it's fair to say, in the course of your experience, you've come across some pretty bad people, isn't that right?"
"The absolute worst. The Colombian drug cartels, Cosa Nostra, the Russian mob. I think I've looked into some of the most corrupt and violent organizations on the planet. My specialty, I guess."
Goldenberger smiled politely."And in the course of these investigations, how would the defendant, Dominic Cavello, rank in terms of your experience?"
"Rank?"
"In terms of the criminal behavior you've investigated."
I cleared my throat."Mr. Cavello is the most ruthless and cold-blooded killer we've ever looked into. He'spersonally ordered the deaths of over thirty people we can directly tie him to. He is an evil human being."
"Objection!" Hy Kaskel shot up. I expected that."The defendant is not being charged with any of these alleged homicides. The government's investigations and pet theories are not of interest to this court."
"Correction, Your Honor." Joel Goldenberger waved."The government will rephrase. I guess what I'm asking is, does your experience with this man go beyond just your investigation? You've had personal experience, haven't you, Agent Pellisante? You've seen Mr. Cavello's brutality firsthand?"
"Yes." My gaze shifted to Cavello. I wanted him to feel my eyes. I'd waited a long time to say these next words.
"I've personally witnessed Mr. Cavello commit murder.Twice. "
I'D ASSEMBLED HUNDREDS of wiretaps and recorded conversations as part of my testimony, but we just started withmy story, what I had seen myself.
"Would you describe for this court the events surrounding Dominic Cavello's arrest?" Goldenberger asked me.
I glanced toward Manny Oliva's wife, Carol, who was sitting in the first row. I was glad she was here for this.
"We had been told that Cavello was going to attend his niece's wedding at the South Fork Club in Montauk on July 23, 2004. We had multiple warrants outstanding."
"You had tried to arrest Mr. Cavello before?"
"Yes. Cavello had gone underground, though. He was a threat to leave the country."
"So you staked out the wedding on this tip. Can you describe for the court some of the other agents who assisted you there?"
"Sure." I swallowed back some emotion. I talked about Manny first."Manny Oliva was my ASAC at C-10 for three years. I took him right out of Quantico. I brought him up through the ranks. He and his wife had just had twin girls."
"And Edward C. Sinclair, he was with you there as well?"
"Ed Sinclair was as exemplary a special agent as we had in the unit," I said. I nodded to his wife, Maryanne, and his son, Bart, in the seats next to Carol Oliva.
"So can you paint the picture for the jury, Agent Pellisante?" Joel Goldenberger placed a blown-up aerial photograph of the scene on an easel across from the jury box."Agents Oliva and Sinclair are where in the stakeout?"
I walked over and took a pointer."They were on the beach, outside the club grounds, blocking any escape." I described how Cavello had disguised himself as an old man in a wheelchair. How, as my special agents moved in, he jumped out of the chair, trying to escape. How he shot one of my agents who was posing as a waiter, Steve Taylor.
"He ran down toward the beach. Manny and Ed were in position.Here. I radioed ahead that he was headed toward them."
"Can you describe what happened next? I know this is difficult for you, Agent Pellisante, and for the family members of the agents who are present in the courtroom."
"I heard a volley of shots." I clenched my teeth."I counted five-two quick ones, then three in rapid succession. I ran down from my position over the dunes and saw the bodies in the sand."
There wasn't a sound in the courtroom. I looked away from the easel, and every eye was focused on me.
"Then what did you do?" Goldenberger asked.
"I went over to the bodies." I cleared my throat."Manny was dead. He'd been shot in the head. Ed was hit in the chest and neck. He was bleeding profusely. I could see he was dying."
"And did you see Dominic Cavello?"
"He was running down the beach, trying to get away. He'd been hit in the shoulder. I could make out what looked to be a gun. He was headed toward a helicopter on a promontory. I radioed for help, and we called in a helicopter from a Coast Guard cruiser offshore to block Cavello's escape.
"Then I went after him and fired my weapon, hitting him in the thigh. In the time I was calling for help he must've hurled the gun into the ocean."
"So you never found a weapon?"
"No." I shook my head."We never did."
"But you have no doubt who killed your agents, do you?"
"None whatsoever." I shook my head. I looked squarely at the defendant."Dominic Cavello. There was no one else near Ed and Manny when I heard those shots. And the bullet they removed from Cavello's shoulder was from Ed's gun."
"Just to be perfectly clear"-the prosecutor turned and raised his voice-“do you see the man you chased on the dunes that day? The man you saw running away from the dead agents' bodies?"
"That's him," I said, gesturing toward the second row."Dominic Cavello."
For the entire trial Cavello had gazed stoically ahead, but now he was focused on me.
And I found out why.
Suddenly Cavello leaped out of his chair. He pulled himself up on the table like some enraged madman. His face was red, the veins in his neck about to explode.
"Fuck you, Pellisante! You son of a whore! You lying piece of shit!"
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was total bedlam.
"Lying bastards!" Cavello bellowed in a hoarse, crazed voice. He slammed his fist on the table, sending papers and documents flying.
"And fuck you to this court!" He glared at the judge."You have no hold on me. You think you have, because you've bribed a few of my old enemies to carry your lunch pails. But you don't have shit.I have you! "
The marshals sprang into action. Two of them jumped in and grabbed Cavello by the torso, wrestling him to the ground. People were screaming. A few ran out the exits.
Cavello fought like a berserk animal."You don't have me, Pellisante! I haveyou! "
A third guard jumped into the fray, and finally they forced the mobster to the floor. Two of them held him down while the third squeezed a set of cuffs over his wrists. He was still shouting at the top of his lungs.
"This court is a joke! A mockery! You'll never convict me no matter how many traitors and wiretaps you have. It's too bad, Nicky-about your friends!But whoever killed those scum, I would kiss them on the lips."
"Get him out of here," Judge Seiderman called out from the bench, trying to regain control."Mr. Cavello, you have lost your privilege to sit in on this trial. You are in contempt. You are barred from this courtroom. Jurors, you will go back into the jury room immediately. Bailiff!"
Pandemonium continued in the courtroom. The jurors looked shell-shocked. Members of the press were already running out of the gallery to call their newspapers.
"Take me out of here! Bar me!" Cavello twisted his face toward the judge."I don't want to be here any fuckin' longer!" His voice bellowed throughout the courtroom."Your court is a joke!"
Blood trickled from Cavello's mouth. His formerly neatly groomed hair was tousled and wild. The guards lifted him up and tried to drag him through the side door. They had gotten one leg through when he wildly jerked around, and I saw something I could hardly believe.
The bastard was smiling.
THE JURORS WERE STILL buzzing about what had happened. Shocked. Blown away. The court officials had rushed them all into the jury room. No one could recall ever seeing anything like Cavello's blowup in the courtroom.
"The asshole just made it easy for us." Hector shook his head. Everyone seemed to agree.
Maybe it just got to him, Andie thought.His case was shot to hell. He cracked.
The jury was going to be leaving the courthouse earlier than planned, and Andie hoped Jarrod was already here waiting for her and his special birthday celebration. They were quickly herded into the elevator to go downstairs, where the blue bus would be waiting.
As the elevator hit the lobby, Andie tried to regroup. Jarrod was here! In his Stephon Marbury number 3. Rita was waiting with him in the lobby. As soon as Jarrod saw his mother, he ran up and jumped into her arms.
"Happy birthday, honey!" It was wonderful just to see his happy face and give him a big birthday hug and kiss. Cavello, what had happened in there, didn't matter anymore.
"What's going on, Mom?"
Andie squeezed him double-tight."Don't worry about it, sweetie."
The bus was waiting right there on the street. Andie and Jarrod climbed on first and made their way into one of the rear seats. Hector and Rosella, who sometimes spoke to each other in Spanish, sat in front of them. O'Flynn squeezed into the row behind them with a rolled-upSports Illustrated in his fist.
"So tell me about school," Andie said.
"Nah." He grinned broadly."It's my birthday, Mom. No school today, okay?"
"Yeah, okay."
They wanted to get them away from the courthouse as quickly as possible, and that was all right with her. A marshal jumped on, counted heads, winking because there was one more than usual. He slapped the side of the bus, sending it on its way with an"Okay!" The driver started the engine.
Andie looked back at the courthouse. Standing outside the side entrance was the FBI guy, Pellisante. He had set up the whole thing when she came to him with the idea for Jarrod's birthday party.
Thank you. Andie waved at him through the glass. An appreciative, one-finger wave.
He waved back.
Two police cars led the way as the bus pulled out from the curb onto Worth Street. It was a twenty-five-minute trip through the Holland Tunnel back to the motel. A few of the jurors looked around at Andie, wondering when they could break the surprise and sing"Happy Birthday" for this nice-looking boy.
"Hey, Jarrod." O'Flynn leaned over, staring at his Stephon Marbury jersey."You like the Knicks?"
"I like 'em. I likeHalo more."
"Halo?" It was a popular battle video game. Pretty violent and graphic. O'Flynn grinned at Andie."Your mom lets you playHalo, huh?"
"His mom does no such thing," Andie said."His aunt, though, that's another story, for another time."
A few of them laughed.
The bus pulled ahead to the corner of Church and stopped at a red light.
Andie looked out the window. She was thinking about the party and when to spring it on Jarrod that everyone knew this was his birthday. She figured they'd wait until they got close to the tunnel, build a little suspense. Rosella had made a colorful banner.HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JARROD.This was going to be so great.
She saw a gray side-paneled van pull up right next to them. APEX ELECTRICALSYSTEMS. ASTORIA, QUEENS.
Jarrod said,"So, what'ya got planned, Mom? Youalways have a plan."
She was about to give him an answer when she noticed something a little strange.
The driver of the van had jumped out. He was dressed in a navy work uniform, had a baseball cap pulled over his face, long blond hair peeking through. What made it doubly strange was when the guy in the passenger's seat jumped out too.
They both started to run.
Across the busy intersection. Away from the van. When they reached the other curb, they glanced back. Not at the van.
At them!At the bus.
"Mom? Are you listening to what I'm saying? Earth to my mother. Hel-lo."
And suddenly she knew! Stabs of terror ripped at her chest.
"Get out of here fast!" Andie screamed to the driver."Drive away. Now!"
But the light was still red. And they were locked in traffic. Besides, everyone was talking among themselves and not seeing. Jarrod looked up at her strangely and squinted."Mom?"
"Oh, Jesus." Andie shuddered, unable to take her eyes off the van. She put her arms around Jarrod. She hugged him close to her chest. Something terrible was about to happen.
"Oh my God. No!"
"Mom?"
I THINK BACK sometimes to that moment-to the very heartbeat before something terrible happened. Something I couldn't stop.
What if I could just reach out my hand and turn back the hands of time? Hold on to the moment for one more second? See what I should have seen?
I would see that smile. Not Andie DeGrasse's, sitting next to her son on the bus as they drove off.
Cavello's smile. In the courtroom, just moments before.
I would know exactly what it meant.
I had followed the jury out of the courthouse and stayed there, watching the bus as it pulled away from the curb.
With Ellen gone, my life was falling apart a bit. So it made me feel good to help the two of them, DeGrasse and her little boy. It made me feel that in all this craziness, I had done something for a change that put some life back. I watched her wave at me, that happy smile. I waved back.Happy birthday, kid.
And then the world fell apart! Theirs, and mine.
The gray van pulling up next to the bus at the red light. Then two men, in work clothes, suddenly running out.
Running away.
It took a second for it all to register, even for someone trained to see the worst in any situation. Then all of a sudden it was as clear as day. The whole horrible picture.
I heard myself yelling,"Get out of there now!" I started running toward the bus through traffic."Get out of that bus!"
Then the van exploded, and the entire street just lit up in this brilliant flash. The recoil threw me back into a mailbox. Intense heat from a block away slammed into my face.
Oh, God, no! No!
All I could do was watch helplessly as the juror bus was engulfed in flames. Then it exploded.
I fumbled for my radio, connected back to the security team at the courthouse."This is Pellisante. We've got a full-scale nine-one-one. The juror bus just blew up! Corner of Worth and Church. Repeat, the juror bus just exploded! We need full medical support out there now!"
Then I ran toward the bus at full speed.
It was bad. Very bad. Flames raged out of the hulk of the van. Dense gray smoke billowed over the street. People everywhere around me were screaming. Passersby, injured by the blast, were lying dazed on the street. A taxi lay upended and in flames.
I did a quick scan for the two men in work clothes. They were gone, melted into the bedlam. Dear God, the juror bus was no more than a charred, burning carcass. The entire left side was just a fiery, jagged hole.
I ran to the entrance. The blast had blown it wide open. The heat coming off arm rails felt like a thousand degrees.
Everything was covered in flaming char. The bus driver was dead. Not just dead, decapitated. Oh, God. One of the passengers, an elderly woman who I could picture sitting in the back row in court, had been flung over the driver's back and smashed into the front window. I didn't remember who she was-which juror?
"FBI," I screamed into the thick, diesel-smelling smoke."Can anyone hear me in there?"
I waited for voices.There had to be voices. C'mon! Moaning, shouting, screams for help, some evidence of life.
I shielded myself from the flames as I listened for somebody, anybody.
Nothing came back, no sound. That's what I'll always remember. That's what will always haunt me.The silence.
IT FELT AS THOUGH my heart didn't move a beat. I just stood there listening, praying.Somebody say something back to me. Shout! Scream for help!
All I heard was the crackle of flames, and all I saw was the dark gray smoke mushrooming through the bus. The scene was as still and desolate as a bloody battlefield after the fighting was done.
I covered my face with my hand and pushed my way down the aisle. Madness, but I had to do it. It was impossible to see. Somebody, a small woman, had been hurled against a side window and was twisted into a grotesque position. Others had died right in their seats. Clothing was burned off.
I recognized some of the faces. The writer was dead. So was the kindly-looking Hispanic woman who always knitted. Both had been roasted in their seats. Then I saw the red-haired guy who worked for Verizon, O'Flynn.
"Can anyone hear me?" I shouted. Only silence came back from the passengers.
I heard sirens outside. Emergency vehicles had arrived on the scene. Someone else, a policeman, stepped onboard."Jesus, God." He winced."Is anyone alive?"
"I don't think so."
I tripped over some kind of mound. It turned out to be the body of the Jamaican mechanic, his clothes charred, his body crisp.
The thick, acrid smoke was starting to get to me. I coughed, pulled up my shirt, and covered my nose and mouth with folds of cloth.
"We better wait for the emergency people," the cop called to me. He was right. There were noxious fumes and fire everywhere. The damned thing could go up at any time. I tried to see the back of the bus. There were no signs of life there either.
Then I heard something. A groan-more like a whimper.Someone alive?
"FBI," I shouted, fighting against the fumes. The smoke was blinding."Where are you? Are you all right?"
I heard the voice again, just a murmur.
"I'm coming."
Then I saw him. On the floor. It was the boy! He was in the fetal position underneath a seat."Jarrod!" I bent down-I remembered his name."Jarrod!"
I put my face down to his, as close as I could get. The floor was hot, steaming.
My stomach fell. The little boy was dead. His pink skin was black with horrible burns. I wanted to retch. I couldn't help bringing up the image of his face just seconds before in the window as his mother waved to me."I'm sorry, little guy."
Then I heard it again. The whimper, soft and faint. Someone was alive.
I pushed over twisted metal and bodies to the very back of the bus. Vinyl seats and plastic panels were melting in flaming strips. The smoke clung to my skin, like scalding rubber.
I heard it close."Jarrod… Jarrod."
It was Andie DeGrasse. She was pinned beneath a metal support beam. Her hair was black. Her face was covered with blood. Her lips quivered."Jarrod… Jarrod." She kept calling for her son.
"Help is here," I said, bending to her.
She was the only one alive.
RICHARD NORDESHENKO HEARD the tremendous blast. At precisely 2:03 p.m., from three blocks away. He felt the ground beneath him shudder, the earth slide. It was done.
He had instructed his limo to wait while he went inside an electronics store and purchased a gift for his son. World Championship Poker.
Nordeshenko had heard similar explosions before. Thedouble concussion. The ground shaking. Like an earthquake, actually. The store clerk looked confused. Nordeshenko knew what had happened. Nezzi had taken no chances. There was enough C- 4 in that van to do the job three times over.
Nordeshenko tucked the package under his arm and left the store. He looked forward to getting home. He had a few gifts for his son: an iPod and the new computer poker program that he knew would delight the boy. And earrings for his wife from New York 's Diamond District.
His work here was over, and it couldn't have gone any better.
He had already received a message about his Swiss account. More than two million dollars. There were still a few more payments that had to be made. But he had earned every penny. He would take it easy for a while when he returned home.
"What the hell was that?" the limo driver said, looking back toward Foley Square as Nordeshenko climbed back in the car.
"I don't know. Some kind of explosion. Maybe a fuel line." The scent of gasoline and cordite hung in the air.
They heard sirens. Two police cars rushed past them toward the courthouse, lights flashing.
"Something's happened!" the driver exclaimed, turning on the news."This is not good."
Nordeshenko looked back and saw a cloud of black smoke rise up above the buildings, coming from directly behind them.
He placed the gift for his son in his traveling case. Two rings came from his cell phone-Reichardt and Nezzi were safely away now.
"Let's go," he said to the driver."We'll listen on the way. I have a plane to catch."
SHE OPENED HER EYES very slowly.
She felt no pain. Just woozy and unreal. She was here-but she wasn't. A leaden pressure was in her chest. Where was she? What had happened? Tubes were coming out of her, attached everywhere. She tried to move but couldn't.
Nothing. No power over her own body. Was she paralyzed? How had it happened?
Then Andie began to panic. Something very heavy and bulky was blocking her throat. Making her gag. She couldn't speak because of the obstruction.
A nurse came in. Just the look on the nurse's face told her.Something terrible has happened. What?
"Andie. Don't try to talk, sweetheart. There's a tube down your throat to help you breathe. You're in Bellevue Hospital. You've been in surgery. You're going to be okay."
Andie made herself nod, eyes flicking wildly around the room. Thehospital room.
Then it started to come back to her.
The jurors' bus. She had been on the bus. A gray van had pulled up…
That's when the panic started to grip her chest again. Her eyes darted anxiously toward the nurse.What happened next? She tried to speak again, but could only cough and gag. Her fingers found the nurse's hand somehow. She managed to grab two fingers. She held on as tight as she could.
My son… Where is Jarrod?
"Please." The nurse squeezed back."Try and stay calm now, Andie."
She knew something horrible had happened, something unbelievable. She tried to sound out Jarrod's name, but her air passage was blocked. And her mouth was as dry as sandpaper.Please, please, my son.
But something was forcing her to close her eyes, and Andie couldn't fight it.
WHEN SHE OPENED HER EYES again, someone else was standing there. She blinked sleepily.FBI. The one with the smile.
But he wasn't smiling now. Actually, he looked terrible.
Memories of what had happened began flashing in her mind. The bus stopped at a red light. Then the van. The two men running away. She had reached out and tugged Jarrod close to her.
Jarrod?
Her eyes went back to the FBI man. She tried to scream out her son's name.Please, don't you understand? Can't you read it in my eyes?
He just looked at her and shook his head."I'm sorry."
Sorry? she repeated to herself. It took a moment to register.What is he saying? Sorry for what?
She felt him place his fingers lightly on her hand. Then a squeeze. His touch told her everything.
It was rushing back at her now. Her panic when she saw the men running from the van. The terrible explosion. Then she was thrown back. She remembered calling Jarrod's name over and over.
Her body spasmed in shock now.
Andie felt something burn a path down her cheek.This can't be real. This can't have happened.
The FBI man wiped away her tear.
She still hadn't been told what happened. They didn't have to tell her now. She knew. She could see it in his eyes.
Oh, my poor Jarrod.
Tears began streaming down Andie's cheeks, and she had the feeling that they would never stop.
THEY DON'T USUALLY ALLOW anyone inside the cell blocks at this time of night, even law enforcement. Tonight, I was on my own.
"Nick, it's late," said Trevor Ellis, who was in charge of the sixth-floor cell block, where witnesses and defendants were held in the Manhattan County Jail. We passed through the electronic doors together. Only the night crew was around.
There was a guard at the desk, checking monitors. Trevor nodded for him to take a break."I'm okay with Agent Pellisante here. Get some coffee."
"It's official business," I told Trevor. We walked some more, then stopped at the end of the corridor. Cavello's cell was cordoned off, at the very end of the long wing.
"You're sure you want to do this?" Ellis looked at me.
Nineteen people had died this afternoon. Seventeen jurors.My jurors. One victim was a kid on his tenth birthday. Some things you just have to do-regardless of the risk or the consequences.
"Official business," I repeated.
"Yeah," he said."You give him some official business for me."
Cavello's electronic cell door clicked open.
He was lying on a cot with his knees drawn up and an arm crooked behind his head. His eyes widened when he saw who it was.
"Nicky," he said, barely hiding that same mocking grin I had seen so often in the courtroom."Jesus, I just heard. What a mess!" He slowly raised himself up off the cot."I want to tell you how sorry I…"
I slugged him in the face, and he went down.
"Jeez, Nicky." Cavello grunted, rubbing his jaw. He reached for the metal cot post and pulled himself back up, grinning."Y'know, I heard of hung juries before, but this one takes on a whole new meaning."
I hit him again. Harder. Cavello slammed back against the concrete wall. He still stared at me with a sort of laughing arrogance, an animal savagery behind his eyes."Your fault, Nicky. What'd you expect? I was gonna roll over and die? Youknew that. You know me, like nobody else does." He wiped away a trickle of blood with the back of his hand.
I went over and yanked him off the floor by his collar. He was still wearing the same shirt he had on in the courtroom that day.
"You may think you've won, you piece of shit, but I'm gonna dedicate my life to you going down. Nineteen people died. One of them was a ten-year-old kid."
"There was a kid on that bus?" Cavello said, showing mock surprise."Jesus, Pellisante, you oughta know better than that."
I punched him with everything I had. Cavello crashed into the cell wall again. I couldn't control myself. I'd never hated one person so much.
I heard Trevor Ellis behind me."Okay, Nick, that's enough."
I ignored him. I pulled Cavello up again and threw him to the other side of the cell. He went into a metal sink and fell to the floor. I went and pulled him up again. There was blood all over his shirt."They were just doing their duty," I screamed in his face.
"Go on," Cavello mocked."Hit me. It doesn't hurt. But you got it wrong. I told you. No court can hold me. You say I'm going down." He spat out a glob of blood."Maybe. But it won't be from you. You see those cameras up there? They got every second of this. You're through. I won't go down. Butyou will, Nicky Smiles."
I hit him again, and Cavello spun backward against the concrete wall. Trevor Ellis and a cell-block guard rushed in behind me. One of them pinned my arms while the other got between me and Cavello. He struggled to his feet again. He was wobbly, holding his side.
"Look at you." Cavello started to laugh."You thinkyou gotme? You're the one who's through. You're the one gonna be seeing that kid every day for the rest of your life. Me, I'll sleep like a baby tonight."
Trevor and the guard yanked me out of the cell, but Cavello called after me. His words and laughter echoed down the hall.
"Like a baby, Pellisante. You hear that? First day in a month, I don't have to worry about a goddamn trial."