An Eye For Justice Read online

  I looked around the court, seeking a sympathetic face, but there were none, then Timmins was pushing again. ‘Mr. Calver, we’re not here to try the case today, just deal with bail, if you could address that.’

  ‘Your honour, I would be happy to surrender my passport, wear a tag, reside anywhere the court directs or report to a police or court official on a regular basis if it will get me bail. I need to be out to clear my name. If I don’t make bail, I can’t fight the charges.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr. Calver,’ Timmins said. ‘The evidence against you is compelling, you have no discernible ties to the community here and you’re clearly a flight risk. I won’t deny bail but I will set it at one million dollars cash and bond.’

  I stood in a daze, barely listening. Even if I had access to my funds in the UK I couldn’t raise that kind of money – nowhere near, even for a bond. I half listened to Timmins as he finished up, thinking it couldn’t get any worse, but then it did. He mentioned the name of a place I had heard of. I was to be remanded to Rikers, the notorious island prison. All I could think about was a movie I’d recently watched on cable called the Shawshank Redemption.

  Chapter 4

  Courtney Pascal walked down

  Dalston High Street, East London, past the junction and on until she reached the offices of Jonas Calver Associates. They looked even more forlorn than usual she thought as she pushed her way in through the street door and into the small reception area. Emma, typing away, looked up, a brief shadow crossing her face when she saw who it was. They didn’t get on too well; she thought Pascal was weird and rude, and Pascal thought she was condescending and patronizing. On the few occasions when they did speak, usually when Pascal was carrying out investigative work for Calver, they tended to be stilted and formal with each other, neither ready to let their guard down. But this time Pascal had brought a peace offering along; a large blue Café Nero takeout cup of coffee. She placed it down on the desk in front of Emma. ’Thought you could use some,’ she said. ‘Seeing as you’re on your lonesome.’

  Emma looked up, ready to push her away with a sarcastic quip, but this time she didn’t seem to have the energy. She carefully took the lid off the coffee, and took a sip. For a long moment she just looked dazed, looking at nothing, then she murmured, so quiet Pascal almost didn’t hear, ‘Helena’s dead. I can’t believe it.’ She looked up at Pascal, an expression of desolation on her face. ‘And what’s going to happen to all this?’ she whispered, gesturing round the office. She looked down, fighting back tears.

  Pascal sighed, then slid into the seat opposite and said, gently, ‘I saw the news, Emma. Calver on his way to the clink, and I know its scary, but we’re going to sort it out, trust me. So, tell me what’s happened – everything.’

  Emma sniffed and took another sip of the coffee. That seemed to convince her. She nodded, and then slowly began to talk.

  * * * *

  Rikers jail sits on a tear drop shaped island of over 400 acres in the East river between the New York city boroughs of Queens and the Bronx, a stones throw away from the runways of La Guardia. It holds around 11,000 inmates, sometimes considerably more in peak times, either awaiting trial or serving sentences of less than a year.

  As our bus crossed the bridge from Queens I watched the huge penal colony materialize out of the ether to dominate the horizon, in the background airplanes took off and landed and barges and boats meandered up and down the east river from Long Island sound.

  I sat trussed up like a Christmas turkey; hands, ankles and waist chained and then attached to another inmate who constantly fidgeted and shook like he was having a fit. As we approached the complex I could feel the fear in the pit of my stomach threatening to overwhelm me the closer we got.

  What the hell do you do when you’re faced with something so outside your own sphere of experience, that you have no frame of reference for it? I guess you panic, and you run scared. But I knew if I did that I wouldn’t last a day. I wanted to vomit, but my stomach was empty. I knew one thing though - to show fear would be fatal.

  It’s the unknown that really scares us. I knew I had to get through that first day unscathed. I guessed we’d be given a load of written rules, but it was those other, unwritten ones that would be critical. The key would be to try and quickly work out what they were.

  Then we were moving, like a snake, all chained together, led down the steps onto the tarmac, then into a building, all around noise, commotion, clanging doors and shouts.

  * * * *

  In the end it was tedium interspersed with bouts of extreme fear; waiting and waiting and waiting, then slowly being dragged through their bureaucratic process. I had my picture taken again, height and weight measured then a urine sample taken; I declined the optional AIDS test. The worst was the search. Strip, turn your back and squat.

  And then it was over. I was handed a thin grey blanket, two small white sheets, a small towel, a bar of prison-manufactured soap, a floppy plastic toothbrush, and some toilet paper. Then they led me to a single cell, which was a relief, pushed me in and shut the door. In twenty four hours I had gone from being a moderately successful lawyer with a life and a future to being a jailed con facing a murder charge. In the end, despite it all, the fear and despair, and the constant shouting and screaming outside my cell, I was so dog tired that I fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  * * * *

  Solly sat in the anonymous looking black hire car parked across the street from the offices of Jonas Calver Associates. He’d been watching the building, bathed in light from the street lamp, for nearly an hour, his eyes crawling over every brick, doorway, window aperture and drain pipe. Now the preternaturally wiry looking ex-ranger checked his watch again; just about 3 a m, the witching hour, and time to move. It took the ex-pat freelance cat burglar all of 3 minutes to gain entry, scaling the side of the building, moving up the drainpipe like a monkey, then in through a skylight, dropping down silently onto the office floor, clad all in black, flashlight held between his teeth.

  First to filing cabinets; three lined up in what he assumed was Calver’s office, then a thick blue file marked “Hannah Cohen”. He pulled it out, rifling through, thin circle of light flickering over the pages.

  A minute later he had it: Sunnybrook Nursing Home, Barking, East London. He took his phone out and texted the address to Schmidt who was currently inbound to Heathrow, then he began to laboriously copy each page of the file.

  * * * *

  I woke to night sounds, a low-level layer of noise, muffled shouts, moans in the dark. As my eyes opened that familiar wearying corrosive fear returned, sitting like a brick of ice in my gut. I looked around in the half light; the cell was tiny, about 8 foot by 11, with bed and toilet, and it stank.

  I lay for a moment, my mind floating, unconsciously searching for something positive to think about, to give me a lift. I thought about trying to contact Carmen, but how the hell could she help? Then I realized I didn’t even know whether I could make phone calls out of Rikers. I didn’t have her number anyway, nor access to any funds. I had to get out, or get someone on the outside to help me find out what had happened.

  Then I thought about Pascal. We hadn’t talked in ages, but I knew she fit the bill, if I could get a hold of her. It was a long shot. I thought some and realised I could remember her UK landline number, if she hadn’t moved or changed it.

  As I pulled her number up from memory, I realized above the noise outside that someone was trying to talk to me, from the cell next door. ‘You dead in there? Talk to me, man. You the English guy, right? Lawyer. Clipped your client?’

  My first thought was keep my mouth shut, but then I thought that was crazy, and dissing somebody was probably not a good move.

  ‘News travels fast,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Believe it. I’m Jared,’ he said.

  I guessed he was black, and he sounded awful young. ‘Jonas,’ I said.

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘Say, Jared. How do I make a phone cal
l out of here?’

  ‘You got funds in commissary?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Call collect. Phones at the corner of the cell block but you’ll have to queue, and watch out. Don’t get in any beefs.’

  ‘Thanks, man. When can I call?’

  ‘After breakfast.’

  * * * *

  Breakfast was pretty disgusting; brown bread with red jelly on it, carton of milk and some gritty cereal, but I was hungry and wolfed it down, barely tasting it.

  Then I was out queuing for the phone. I was nervous, but stayed calm, eyes down, constantly moving. What I saw when I infrequently looked up was mainly black and Hispanic guys moving around, with a few whites mingled in.

  I joined the queue and waited. I recognized the guy in front of me as the head-case I had been shackled to on the bus. He looked even worse now, muttering to himself and still shaking. I nodded but he seemed not see me, off in a world of his own - in a way I envied him. When it was his turn, instead of taking the phone, he just wandered off. I watched him for a moment before the guy behind me pushed me hard in the back with his knuckle.

  I turned to say something, but had to look up as the guy towered over me. He had obviously pushed in because he hadn’t been there before. He was Hispanic, heavily muscled with strikingly vivid tattoos covering every inch of his bare arms, and with some black inking around his eyes like tear drops. The eyes themselves were black and flat, and there was a thin knowing smile on his face, because he knew I was scared. I’d guess everybody he ever met was scared.

  ‘Sorry—’ I began. The usual timid ingrained reaction of the middle class Englishman abroad, but now suddenly there was a female corrections officer there as well who I hadn’t notice before. But now I did as she was incongruously pretty; curvaceous body just discernible under her black uniform, dirty blonde hair compressed under her cap and strikingly blue eyes.

  ‘Back off, Delgado,’ she said mildly. ‘Let the man make his phone call.’

  ‘Of course, officer McClellan’ he said with exaggerated courtesy. He stepped back, turning his attention to me. ‘Don’t worry, Chiquita, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other later,’ he said, running his tongue suggestively around his lips.

  A couple of guys behind him sniggered; I shivered inside. In a kind of panic I grabbed the phone, but then I couldn’t remember the number. I had to get a grip. I took a couple of deep breaths, very conscious of Delgado, a few steps away watching me. Then the phone number slowly materialized from memory.

  When I connected, her familiar voice came through loud and clear. ‘What the fuck have you got yourself into this time, Calver?’ She said, and the sense of relief I felt almost made my knees buckle. I was choking up, unable to utter a word.

  ‘You there, Calver?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I managed to croak.

  ‘Look, I’ve talked to Emma and she’s told me every—’

  ‘Stop!’ I said, waking up quick. I wasn’t going to get fucked over again. ‘Walls have ears.’

  ‘Understood,’ she said, immediately.

  Then there was silence. Now I had her on the phone, I couldn’t think of what to say, and time was running. One thing was clear: our client Hannah had to be in danger.

  ‘You remember that place of safety order we got, couple of years back for the elderly aunt?’ I said, hoping she’d pick it up that there hadn’t been any such case.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, slowly, dragging the word out, as her mind worked on it. I knew she’d get it as she was bright as hell.

  ‘Well, you need to get another one of those place of safety orders, right now.’

  There was a pause whilst she digested what I was saying.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Good. Now, next bits important. Hannah’s court claim has gotta somehow be linked to what is happening to me. Now, due to a procedural fuck up I didn’t know about, her case is starting here Monday morning. If no one turns up at court from our side, they’ll chuck it out, dismiss it with costs, and we can’t allow that to happen,’ I said, voice cracking with tension.

  ‘Easy,’ Pascal murmured.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, swallowing hard. ‘We need to try and sort something out for that, but also all our statements and other evidence was stolen from my room, night of the murder. Thats not critical but can you, and Emma, if she is still on side, try and get Hannah to do another statement - see if she’s remembered anything more that might help.’

  I looked over at the clock and guessed my time was just about up. ‘And Pascal, I need you to start digging into her past - there’s something there. Got to be, maybe way back, when it all started, 1942/43. And when you’re done in London, get on a plane and get the fuck over here, ‘cause I really don’t know if I can make it,’ I said, my voice catching on the last word and tailing off to nothing.

  There was silence over the line as I tried to collect myself together. Then Pascal said, ‘stay strong, Calver. I’m coming.’

  Those last few simple words gave me huge boost, because now I knew she’d come, but then Delgado was jabbing my shoulder. Time to go. ‘I’ll try and call again at 4.30 pm your time,’ I said quickly.

  As the phone clicked thousands of miles away across the Atlantic I turned back to Delgado. The smile was gone and now there was a kind of calculating look on his face that in a way was worse. I turned on my heel and walked away towards my cell and I could feel his eyes boring into my back. Then a slight young black guy was lightly punching me on the shoulder.

  ‘Jared,’ he said. It was the guy from the cell next door. I was still a little shook up and preoccupied from my run in at the phones, but I nodded and looked him over. He seemed friendly, with an open, guileless face.

  He said, ‘I don’t want to worry you, man, but that guy, Delgado. He a captain in the Bloods, you know what I’m saying. You don’t wanna be messin’ with him, not if you want ta git outta here alive.’

  * * * *

  An hour later I was sat on a bunk bed. I’d been assessed low risk and they’d moved me into general population, so now I was housed in one of the 60 bed dorms. I looked up.

  ‘You got a visitor,’ the guard said.

  ‘Who?’

  ’Search me, fella.’

  I followed him off the landing, down some stairs, along a corridor, up some more stairs and into the attorney visiting area where they stuck me in a room to wait. It was one of those chicken hutch interview rooms, one door, bare walls, single table riveted to the floor with a chair each side. A few minutes later a young woman came in; she didn’t speak, just slid into the seat opposite and studied me with a kind of playful half smile on her face.

  I’d had a long and frightening introduction to Rikers and my patience and manners were just about all used up. I glared at her. ‘So who the fuck are you?’ I said. ‘The prison diversity officer?’

  My comment seemed to amuse her. She flashed a quick smile. There was something strangely familiar about her face but I couldn’t place it.

  ‘Not quite. I’m Morganna. Morganna Fedler. Brad’s little sister. Thought you could do with some help,’ she said.

  Brad was a London based US attorney I had got friendly with a couple of years back when we had co-defended in an insider trading case. It was him who had persuaded me to take the New York bar exams, which I had passed the year before. Now I could see the resemblance. I studied her wordlessly; she calmly returned my gaze. She was compact and self contained, I guessed 23 or 24 years old, pretty with dark brown hair like Brad, but hers was worn long in a cascade over an elegant shoulder encased in a crisp white blouse.

  ‘Morganna,’ I said, trying out the name. ‘Le Morte D’Arthur; Morgan Le Fay, sometimes known as Morganna?’

  ‘Very good, Mr Calver, but Brad tells me your more into Alice in Wonderland than the Tales of King Arthur. Useful in here I’d guess, when you need to retreat into fantasy,’ she said, looking around.

  ‘Yeah, well, if memory serves, wasn’t Morganna the wicke
d sister?’

  ‘It’s only a legend, Mr Calver.’

  I liked the warmth I could see in her eyes, something she shared with her brother. ‘Call me Jonas,’ I said, ‘and thanks for coming. Sorry to be short but as you can imagine, I’m not in a good place, in more ways than one. You mentioned help. How?’

  ‘I’m an attorney too, just got my plate, but,’ she said with another quick smile, ‘I only

  do civil law, no crime, so far.’

  I dug back in my memory, thinking about what Brad had told me about his family background. Although he now worked for one of the big international law firms in London, he’d told me his father ran a small law firm out in Queens. He’d worked there when he was a teenager, every summer holiday, but he’d never mentioned a sister, but then we’d never been that close.

  ‘And,’ she added, looking sheepish. ‘Brad doesn’t know I’m here.’

  I watched her, trying to work out whether that was good or bad - it didn’t sound good.

  She continued, talking rapidly, ‘you see, Brad spoke about you and the bar exams last time he was back from London, and when I saw you on the news last night, I phoned him and said we should help, but he told me not to get involved. He said we couldn’t know. You might be guilty.’

  ‘Maybe he’s right,’ I said. ‘You don’t know me at all.’

  ‘I don’t believe you did it. C’mon,’ she said, like she was joshing me, merriment in her eyes. But then she was serious again, ‘but even if you did, you’re still entitled to a defense - every attorney knows that.’

  The idealism of the newly qualified lawyer - you couldn’t beat it. I looked at the clock. I needed to use whatever time we had left to get things moving on the outside, before I got swallowed back up in the hell waiting for me on the block.

  I studied the girl carefully, assessing and wondering if she could handle it - end of the day, there was no one else. I said, ‘How d’you fancy being lead counsel on a major international lawsuit against K Corp, starting Monday morning in the Southern District Court?’