An Eye For Justice Read online

  Angel turned his head and trained his one good grey eye on Browder. ‘I have read the transcripts of today’s proceedings in the Cohen civil claim. How would you characterize events?’ he asked, voice quiet and precise.

  Browder swallowed, intimidated by Angel, as he always was. ‘Sir, the Cohen woman’s evidence thus far is, at best, neutral. Uncorroborated fantasy. But, no matter. Tomorrow, when court resumes, I intend to eviscerate her with my cross examination. We can freely attack her strikingly sudden recollection of alleged events she had forgotten about for nigh on seventy years, and now suddenly and conveniently remembers just in time for trial.’

  Angel smiled wolfishly, his one good eye boring in on Browder again. ‘I am impressed by your confidence, Browder and I am sure you will be most effective in your destruction of the witnesses credibility,’ he said. ‘But, I intend to give evidence. I will not permit the Jewess to blacken my name and get away with it.’

  ‘Sir. I really don’t think—’

  ‘That’s right, Browder, you don’t think, except in your own narrow and ploddingly legalistic way,’ Angel said, cutting him off mid-stream. ‘You may leave now, Browder. I have important matters to discuss with Michael and John.’

  Browder nodded and departed, truth be known, highly relieved to get out.

  Angel turned to Schmidt. ‘Situation report?’ he said. ‘Particularly with regard to the killing of Helena Palmer and the trial of the lawyer, Calver.’

  Schmidt allowed a rare smile to cross his face. Pride in reporting to the boss was the closest he got to a pleasurable experience outside of raping and killing. ‘Games won, sir. Contained on all fronts,’ he said, voice clipped and firm. He continued, ‘I believe Fossey may have spoken to Calver’s defense team, but it wont help them none. We could take Fossey out, but I don’t think we need to. And another linked death is probably one too many, even for NYPD,’ he said with a smile. ‘Fossey’s way too scared to cross us or even dream of testifying, whatever they could offer him, and what can he say anyway? He turned a camera off and turned it on again. Other than that, he saw nothing about which he could give evidence.’

  ‘Good. I agree with your analysis, Schmidt. Go on.’

  ‘So, sir, Calver’s dead and buried. We can forget about him. He’s going back to Jail for life, soon as the jury deliver our verdict. On the Cohen civil claim, I agree that Charlie should be able to rip her head off on the stand. But if not, if you are to give evidence, I don’t see how she can win. And she loses the case, all her allegations go out the window.’

  ‘Again, Schmidt, your analysis is faultless,’ Angel said, watching Schmidt carefully, a questioning look in his eye. ‘Something though still troubles you, Schmidt. What is it?’

  The old man was still capable of surprising Schmidt. That he could still at such an advanced age pick up on something as subtle as Schmidt’s faint feelings of unease at a potential threat out there was evidence of significant undimmed powers. ‘Sir. O’Leary’s cellphone is missing. It wasn’t found at his home and my contacts in NYPD tell me it hasn’t been recovered. Signals say it was last used at his home around an hour before he died, and then it disappears, and its been dead since.’

  ‘You must find it, Schmidt,’ Angel said, voice like a whip-crack

  ‘I’m on it. We’re regularly calling the number and have triangulation ready if anyone picks up. And I’ve got guys on the street. It’ll turn up. And when it does, we’ll be there.’

  Angel sat back and closed his eye for a moment. The only sound that could be heard was of faint music seeping out of Michaels earbuds. ‘You think, what, Schmidt? An insurance policy perhaps?’ Angel said.

  Schmidt nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Find it.’

  Schmidt nodded, got up and left. Michael hadn’t said a word throughout and was still listening to his music.

  * * * *

  Christoff smiled brightly at Hannah. ‘Come on, you deserve a stiff Scotch after what you’ve been through today,’ he said. They were sat in the cavernous living space in the loft apartment and it was around 7.30 pm. Hannah took a seat on the couch whilst Christoff dug out the Scotch and a couple of tumblers, and went out to the kitchen for some ice and soda. As he did so Hannah reached for one of the art books on the coffee table to leaf through the glossy photographs of missing and lost works.

  Ever since the earlier testimony about Rudi’s arrival from Germany with a mysterious painting, Christoff had started to look on the internet for missing works of art, but as Hannah didn’t like looking at computer screens he had also gone to the local library and got out a handful of large art books for her to look at. They were hoping these might jog her memory if she saw something. The trouble had been that Hannah had no recollection of what the painting looked like, until that days shattering testimony when she had seen it for the first time in seventy years, albeit in her minds eye. It was the only time that Hannah had seen it, when it had been unfurled and studied by August Matthes just before the killings.

  Christoff dropped ice cubes into the tumblers, poured in a liberal amount of scotch in each and then added a soupcon of soda. Then his phone rang and he ambled away, speaking, moving to stand at the huge windows to look out on the city. As the call finished a few minutes later, Christoff wandered back to the couch, and started when he saw Hannah’s face. She seemed transfixed, looking down at something in the large art book that lay open on her lap.

  ‘What is it, Hannah?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer, like she hadn’t heard him.

  Christoff got up and walked over behind the couch to look down over her shoulder at the large color photograph of a painting. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The image depicted was of an artist walking down a road, caught between two trees, with cornfields as a backdrop, all gold, yellows, blues and greens, and the identity of the artist was immediately obvious from the style. Christoff read the legend underneath the picture which ran, “Painter on the Road to Tarascon by Vincent Van Gogh 1888.” Hannah slowly lifted her head, and turned to look back up at Christoff, and said, ‘that’s it. That’s the picture grandpa had.’

  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Christoff said. ‘It must have been a print.’

  Hannah shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  Christoff wandered back to his chair, deep in thought. He sat down and took a long sip of scotch. After a minute he seemed to rouse himself, muttering, ‘well then. We better have a look see.’ He turned to his laptop and began running a Google search.

  Hannah sat quietly by his side and sipped her scotch.

  * * * *

  Cara couldn’t sleep. Her new pajama’s were stuck to her and the bed sheets seemed to be trying to act like a snake, twisting around her and trying to squeeze the life out of her, and now she could hardly breathe. She unraveled the sheets again and rolled over onto her other side to see if that would make sleeping any easier.

  But she did like her new bedroom, even if she had to share it with a load of new soft toys, now staring back at her from the edge of the bed. And she didn’t think Rupert was too keen on them either. The moth-eaten teddy had always been there for her, ever since she could first remember anything. Now she cuddled him tightly, singing softly to him as her mind wandered. She knew her father was gone, but she still felt uneasy, as if she were somehow to blame for everything that had happened.

  ‘Why can’t I sleep?’ she wondered, rolling Rupert over and trying to use him as a pillow. A moment later she felt something hard, sticking out of Rupert into the side of her head. ‘What could it be?’ she wondered, lifting up the dog-eared teddy and feeling around his fur. There was definitely something there. She got out of bed and tiptoed over to the light switch, flicked it on and scampered back to bed, jumping under the covers.

  She slid the short zipper down the side of Rupert and felt around inside his tummy. Her eyes widened when her hand felt the shape of something large and rectangular. She pulled it out and he
ld it up. It was Daddy’s smart phone.

  As she studied it she heard footsteps outside her door. For some reason she didn’t understand, she quickly hid the phone under her pillow. Then Morganna was poking her head around the edge of the door. ‘Lights out, young lady. It’s gone nine,’ she said, mock severe.

  Cara smiled. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Night, night.’

  ‘Night,’ Morganna said, flicking off the light and closing the door.

  As the room descended into darkness Cara finally drifted into a deep sleep, forgetting all about the phone hidden under her pillow.

  * * * *

  Southern District Court

  Day 11

  Browder looked back over his shoulder from his seat at the defendants table and frowned as David Milken and John Schmidt entered the courtroom. They hadn’t told him they were coming, probably guessing he’d have tried to blow them off. They really didn’t seem to get it, or they did, and they just didn’t give a fuck. Was the presence of a certifiable psychopath like Schmidt glaring at the jury really likely to help Angel’s case? Or maybe they were just so confident, it didn’t matter.

  Milken junior nodded and moved into the public gallery, but Schmidt made his way over and took the seat next to Browder, handing him a couple of sheets of folded paper from his jacket. ‘This should help,’ he said. ‘Its a rundown on the Plaintiff’s sidekick, Christoff Wisliceny.’

  Schmidt stood up to leave and Browder let out a sigh of relief, but then the fat, squat gargoyle turned back, leaned down and fixed Browder with a chilling smile. He said, ‘make sure you do your job, Charlie. Cause I’d hate to have to come back and straighten you out. You wouldn’t like it.’

  Then he walked away. Browder’s heart was beating loud and his hand shook as he turned the papers over and scanned them. But then his spirits rose a jot as he took in the contents; there might be something there he could use. Then the judge was edging his way along the bench to his seat and the court was being called to attention. Friedman nodded at Browder, and said, ‘cross examination, Mr. Browder?’

  ‘Yes indeed, your honour,’ Browder replied, rising to his feet and turning to face a calm and relaxed looking Hannah. ‘Good morning, Miss Cohen,’ he said, friendly conversational tone. Hannah nodded back.

  ‘Could you identify the gentlemen who has been accompanying you to court each day, and is currently sitting beside Miss Fedler at the Plaintiff’s table?’ Browder asked, gesturing over at Christoff, who looked surprised and uncomfortable at being singled out.

  Hannah looked nonplussed by the question for a second, but then replied, ‘his name is Christoff Wisliceny, and he’s a friend who is supporting me.’

  ‘And when you say supporting you, does this extend to helping you with your memory?’ Browder asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Yes. I mean, no,’ Hannah struggled. ‘He helps me to relax when I’m away from here, calms me so the memory comes easier.’

  ‘I see,’ Browder said, his look suggesting he didn’t see at all. ‘And so tell me, Miss Cohen, just how does Mr Wisliceny relax and calm you, as you put it, so the memory comes?’

  ‘Well,’ Hannah said, looking over at Morganna and Christoff helplessly, and then looking down in her lap. ‘He. He is a calm person. He talks to me, and this helps me…’ she said, her voice tailing off uncertainly.

  At the Plaintiff’s table, Morganna turned to look at Christoff. He shrugged and looked away uncomfortably. Morganna knew now something had been going on between Hannah and Christoff to do with Hannah’s memory. But how the hell had Browder picked up on it, and she hadn’t? Maybe Browder wasn’t such a klutz after all, and maybe her inexperience was starting to tell. She should have queried Hannah’s sudden flood of memory.

  But she had another problem, an odd problem, and that was that Hannah was way too honest. And that was likely now going to cost them, if Browder could tease something out and then go in for the kill. Morganna knew she would have to try and help Hannah, but her inexperience meant that she didn’t really know how.

  Browder smiled a thin smile as he regarded Hannah. ‘And what does he say to you, when he talks to you, that is so helpful in terms of your memory?’ Browder asked, skillfully honing in on the nub of the issue.

  ‘Your honour,’ Morganna said, finally realizing she needed to do something to try and protect Hannah. ‘Counsel is browbeating the witness. She’s answered the question, and he should move along,’ she said feebly, wishing she could think of something better to say.

  ‘On the contrary, Miss Fedler,’ judge Friedman said. ‘You opened the door when you asked Miss Cohen about how she had suddenly remembered these events, and Mr Browder is perfectly entitled to pursue it. And of course, the witness has not answered the question.’

  Morganna sank back into her chair, stung.

  ‘Miss Cohen?’ Browder prompted Hannah.

  ‘He would just talk, Mr Browder, gently, taking me back, asking questions,’ she answered with a slight edge to her voice.

  ‘You mean he coached you?’ Browder said, subtly upping the ante, and the pressure on the witness.

  ‘No. He didn’t coach—’

  ‘You know, don’t you,’ Browder broke in on Hannah, ‘Mr. Wisliceny worked for British Intelligence, MI5 I believe, an organization well versed in techniques of auto-suggestion, interrogation— ’

  ‘Your honour,’ Morganna was on her feet again. ‘I really must—’

  ‘Sit down, Miss Fedler,’ Friedman roared. ‘Counsel will approach,’ he added, quieter, as he switched his mike off, and leant down to speak to the approaching attorneys. He said, ‘I will not have you turn my court into a circus, Miss Fedler. If you wish to make an objection then I would expect it to be properly founded. Mr. Browder’s line of questioning is perfectly proper and within the rules. And I’ll say it again. You opened the door, Miss Fedler, and Mr. Browder has walked through it. If you come into my court and don’t have the requisite experience to prosecute your case, you will be found out. Now, proceed with your questioning Mr. Browder.’

  As Morganna desultorily walked back to her table she knew she’d blown it. Browder had engineered a situation where he’d get a free run at Hannah, with Morganna effectively blocked off from objecting, and protecting Hannah, unless she could come up with perfectly reasoned objections. And there was fat chance of that with her lack of courtroom experience. So now it was down to Hannah.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Browder,’ Hannah said, pre-empting the next question on Browder’s lips. ‘I did know that Mr. Wisliceny had previously worked for British Intelligence. What of it?’

  ‘Well, you see, I’m interested, Miss Cohen, as I am sure the jury are,’ Browder said, silkily. ‘In just what occurred during these gentle talks you had with Mr. Wisliceny. Take us through an example, if you will, say from the night before your final testimony. What happened?’

  For a long moment Hannah looked down in her lap, her brow furrowed in concentration, then she looked up and over at Christoff, a faint apologetic smile on her face. Then she said, ‘Christoff – Mr. Wisliceny, briefly used some light hypnosis techniques on me to help me remember those events.’

  Her words seemed to release pent-up tension in the courtroom, a rising hubbub of noisy chatter. Browder smiled as the jury moved around and murmured to each other in a questioning tone, until Friedman called the court to order. Morganna seemed frozen rigid, staring down at her yellow legal pad, wishing she were somewhere else.

  * * * *

  Friedman fixed Morganna with a baleful stare. ‘Did you know about this, Miss Fedler?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely not, your honour,’ Morganna answered reflexively, realizing as the words left her mouth that it was absolutely the wrong thing to say, even if it was true. Another demonstration of her woeful lack of experience she thought bitterly. She should never have agreed to take the case. It was fine taking days and days of unobjectionable unopposed testimony, but as soon as she met any kind of challenge, she was exposed. She felt lik
e a fraud and wished she could crawl away into a dark corner and hide.

  ‘Your honour,’ Browder said, rising to his feet again, triumphant look on his face. ‘I would like you to strike all the Plaintiff’s hypnosis induced testimony from the record as being inadmissible. In particular, that testimony running from the opening of the cattle wagon doors, up to the time of the witnesses arrival in the UK.’

  Friedman considered Morganna. ‘Miss Fedler?’ he asked her, aware she was now completely at sea.

  Morganna turned and looked over at Hannah, now sitting with her head bowed, eyes hooded. She suddenly looked very old and small, this extraordinary woman who at every turn in her life seemed to have stood up and fought, whatever the odds. And now because of her own attorneys deluded arrogance and inexperience, she was going to lose again. Beaten by the man who in all likelihood had murdered her entire family and stolen all they had. Morganna felt a ripple of shame that she was even thinking of cutting and running at the first sign of trouble, just as so many others had done in the early part of Hannah’s life when the Nazi’s had come. She knew one thing for sure though: if Hannah were the attorney, she would never give in. Then Morganna thought about Calver, a street fighting lawyer who knew a trick or two. And then she thought about her father, and her brother, all lawyers who said it wasn’t always what you knew; sometimes you just had to fight and trust in the stars.

  Morganna rose to her feet. ‘Your honour. I don’t agree with Mr. Browder’s analysis. Perhaps I might argue the point in chambers, in the absence of the jury?’

  Friedman studied her, weighing it, and the thought of being appealed if he acted too hastily. Browder looked on, still supremely confident. ‘By all means, Miss Fedler,’ Friedman said. Then turning to the jury he added, ‘I’m going to hear some very brief legal argument, that shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. Don’t go away.’

  * * * *

  ‘Such testimony is inherently unreliable, Miss Fedler, and has repeatedly been excluded as being inadmissible,’ Judge Friedman said. ‘Why should I make an exception in this case?’