An Eye For Justice Read online

  As Morganna moved falteringly into her speech she happened to look up at old Glory on the flag pole, and then at the embossed seal of the eagle on the wall behind Friedman’s chair. She felt a tiny frisson of excitement ripple through her as she experienced the moment. For christsakes she thought, isn’t this where she had always wanted to be? Out here showing the two men in her family and all the other lawyers out there that she was just as good as they were. Hell, that she was better? She looked back at the jurors and mentally squared her shoulders. She looked down at the notes for her speech, and then she walked away from them, starting to speak as she moved.

  ‘Hannah Cohen, as she then was, was just fourteen years old when the events you are about to hear about took place,’ she said, voice firm and clear. ‘They revolve around a priceless family heirloom. A beautiful gold and diamond encrusted pendant with matching brooch. It went missing in 1943 in circumstances that will probably form the basis of the main dispute you will hear over the coming days. Hannah did not see these family jewels again until about three years ago, when they were identified as being in the possession of the Kurrilick Corporation and its founding family, the defendants in this case.

  ‘They will say many things to convince you that they acquired these jewels fairly and legally and that they are the rightful owners. They will say that Hannah never owned them, that she is too late to claim them, and that K Corp founder, Angel Milken legally purchased them from a reputable dealer in Munich in 1953.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that’s going to be for you to decide. That’s your job. All I’ll ask of you is that you listen carefully to Hannah - its an extraordinary story - and then you decide. Thank you.’

  As Morganna sat down and looked at her watch she wondered where the day had gone? Then Friedman was adjourning overnight.

  * * * *

  Browder had to bust a gut getting from the courtroom to the 58th floor of the K building, so he was sweating buckets by the time he arrived. David Milken was waiting for him in the penthouse, drink in hand, soft rock playing quietly in the background.

  ‘How d’t go, Charlie?’ Milken asked, voice low key, but with an undercurrent.

  ‘Pretty good, boss,’ Browder said, taking a handkerchief out and mopping his brow. He moved into the room and subsided into a deep leather chair. ‘Plaintiff attorney’s a rookie from Queens, for Christ sake. What can I tell you? I don’t anticipate any problems.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you said there’d be no court case, and what have we got? I don’t like the odds, Charlie. Tell me this is going to go away.’

  ‘Its going to go away, boss, but it may take a bit longer than we planned.’

  ‘But now we’ve got a trial, Charlie, and that’s a trial that’s open to the public and the media. Why don’t we just offer them more money? You know what I’ve got riding on this.’

  ‘Boss the next mayoral race is three years away. Even if we have a trial it will be finished long before you would even have to declare. As to offering them more money, that’s no longer an option. Seems the death of her daughter, Helena, has hardened the plaintiff’s position. I’m told there has to be an apology as part of any settlement. And that’s non negotiable.’

  As Lynyrd Syknyrd’s southern anthem, “Sweet Home Alabama” came on the audio, Milken upped the volume, and then he was on his feet, air guitar in hand as he went through some moves. Browder, face expressionless, rose and walked to the drinks cabinet and mixed himself a large scotch, and then stood for a moment, looking anywhere but at Milken. After a few moments Milken smiled and moved back to his chair and lowered the volume. ‘Its been kid gloves so far, Charlie,’ Milken said. ‘I’ve held Dad and Schmidt back and let you make the running, but maybe its time to get tough?’

  Browder watched Milken, marveling at the mans characterization of the death of Helena and imprisonment of Jonas Calver for her murder as somehow being the result of handling it with kid gloves. He was only guessing of course, given the lengths they went to to keep him, as their legal counsel, out of the loop, cocooned and quarantined from anything remotely unsavory, but he still had a pretty good idea about what had been going on.

  ‘Boss, why not wait until she takes the stand; see what happens? This woman’s eighty seven years old with a bad memory. Let me rip her apart on my cross, discredit her on the stand, and it’ll be game over.’ Browder said.

  Milken watched him. ‘We can do that, Charlie, but its always good to have an edge, an insurance policy, right? Calver’s pulling strings, still, even in Rikers, and that’s with a murder trial hanging over his head. And then what happens if he gets bail? We can’t have that, Charlie. If I’m going to make a run for the biggest prize the city’s got to offer, then nothing is going to get in my way. So all this, this bullshit, needs to disappear, right?’

  Browder watched Milken, so like his father in many ways, especially the messianic zeal with which he approached the big projects.

  ‘Sure boss, sure,’ Browder said, rising to his feet, picking up his case and making for the door.

  Chapter 8

  Hannah and Christoff stood at the rail of the mighty vessel, looking down, watching the dirty grey green waters swirl and boil against the wall of the dock as the massive container ship slowly edged its way out of Southampton harbour. They had been lucky to bag the last shared cabin on the freighter bound for New York. It was a less well known form of transport used by the more adventurous traveler, a trip across the Atlantic on a cargo vessel, especially good if you wanted to avoid prying eyes that might be watching the airports.

  It would result in Hannah arriving in New York just in time to testify in the trial for the return of her family heirloom. Meantime she could travel safely ensconced in the bowels of the mighty ship as it slowly made its way across the Atlantic.

  Christoff had already noticed an uptick in Hannah’s mood. Some of her grief for Helena seemed to have passed, and her eyes looked bright and clear. Now as she turned from the rail into the wind and her hair blew up violently off her head, she grasped Christoff’s hands and let out a whoop of joy. He smiled indulgently, then cupped his hands to her ear and shouted above the wind that it might be a good idea to get inside and have some hot coffee, or something stronger. She nodded, but he guessed she would far rather stay out in the wind and watch the sights. He shouted he would go and make some drinks and left her standing at the rail watching the boats bobbing on the waves and the steadily receding shoreline.

  Later she came in and sat with him in the cabin. It was surprisingly luxurious, but then it should be, given the prices they had been charged. But then price wasn’t the selling point; the selling point for these journeys was romance and adventure.

  * * * *

  Pascal sat in the coffee bar opposite the hotel. She was sipping an espresso. It was gone 8.30 pm and she’d been there over an hour watching, but nothing was happening. Time to go. She checked her phone screen one last time, then looked up and stiffened. O’Leary was coming out of the hotel, looking harassed and moving fast. She chucked a bill on the counter and followed. She kept her eyes on his back someway up ahead as he forged his way through the early evening crowds. After a couple of minutes he turned into a smart looking bar set back off the pavement.

  She stood across the street looking in at the well lit interior. The place was busy, probably mostly office workers taking a drink before the commute home. O’Leary was sat in a booth on his own. Pascal checked her reflection in the shop window; she was wearing shades and a beanie hat, and not much of her face was visible. With the crowd in there, there was no way O’Leary would recognize her.

  She crossed the street and slipped inside, head down moving smoothly, then up onto a stool at the bar diagonally across from O’Leary’s booth. She ordered a Jack Daniels and hunched over, elbows on the counter, watching him in the mirror reflecting back at her over the bar.

  He seemed pensive, maybe worried, staring down into a double scotch. Then his phone lit up on the tab
le; he grabbed it up and clamped it to his ear. Looked like he was waiting for the call, then it was a lot of nodding, like he was talking to someone in authority. The call finished and he immediately sunk his drink and signaled the waiter for another; he checked his watch.

  Pascal sipped her drink, intermittently scanning the crowd in the mirror and then coming back to O’Leary. As the minutes stretched out her eyes on the mirror scanned up the bar at the other punters sitting on stools either side of her, and about half way up she met the eyes of a man who immediately looked away. She’d clocked him as he had come in about a minute after her, and thought nothing of it, but now she felt that intuitive flicker, an alarm bell ringing. He was clean cut and well dressed and she smelt cop, but that couldn’t be right.

  But then her attention was caught by the door opening behind her. She looked up in the mirror into the eyes of John Schmidt, K Corp head of security, or Mr. Smith, as he’d called himself at the Sunnybrook Care Home, when they’d last met. He was accompanied by the spotter guy from JFK, looking like back up muscle. Pascal was glad she’d kept her shades on, shielding her eyes from Schmidt’s searching glance. She hunkered down low on the bar making herself look as small as possible. Schmidt made straight for O’Leary’s booth where he took a seat opposite, the other guy sliding into the seat alongside O’Leary, his eyes constantly scanning the bar.

  To start with the conversation in the booth looked like some old friends having a drink, smiles all round, but then it changed, subtly at first, with O’Leary starting to shake his head in the negative. Then he seemed to listen a bit, and then it got darker, like he was pleading, his body language all supplication, and then finally a resigned kind of slow nodding of his head. Then he just sat silent, looking like a spaced out refugee from a war zone. As Schmidt spoke Pascal could feel the malevolence of the guy radiating out all the way up to the bar. Now Schmidt was leaning forward talking fast, his huge out of proportion hands making quick slashing motions as he emphasized each point. Then O’Leary was getting up out of the booth, looking spooked, moving quickly away, almost stumbling in his anxiety to get out of the bar.

  Pascal leaned back on her stool and stretched, eyes staying on Schmidt who was now talking on he phone. Then there was another guy coming in, looking around, then approaching Schmidt’s booth - she guessed the bar must be some kind of secret meeting place for Schmidt. The new guy looked middle eastern, tall with a finely sculpted goatee on his chin, dressed in expensive suit and silk tie. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him right now.

  This time the meet seemed more positive with a reasonable level of mutual trust going on, but an edgy wariness as well. A moment later, yet another entrant to the party; this time a stunning blonde in evening dress, Pascal tagged as a high class hooker. There was some bawdy style laughter as Schmidt made some introductions and then he and his back-up muscle got up and left, leaving the Arab guy canoodling with the hooker.

  Pascal watched for a bit but guessed they would soon decamp to a bedroom somewhere. She got up off her stool and turned to leave, but her way was blocked by the guy who had been watching her. He flashed a badge and said, ‘Detective Daly, NYPD. You going somewhere, Pascal?’

  How the fuck did he know her name she wondered. She covered her surprise with a bland expression whilst she studied him, recognition slowly dawning. He’d been sitting behind the prosecutor at Calver’s hearing. Instant assessment: he was a hard-ass pin up boy in love with the power of the badge. Now he was trying to crowd her, edging into her space, but she stood her ground, watching and waiting, the punters around them jabbering and drinking, unaware of the stand-off.

  He said, ‘interfering in a police investigation is a crime. So is operating as a private investigator without a licence.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you, officer. I’m a tourist having a quiet drink in a bar.’

  ‘Wrong answer. John O’Leary’s a state witness in the murder trial of Jonas Calver, who you work for. You followed O’Leary in here and you watched him until he left. In my book that’s interference with a state witness.’

  She knew she better row back, because if this got out of hand it could hurt Calver. ‘I’m not operating as a private investigator,’ she said. ‘I have not questioned Mr. O’Leary about anything. And the best of luck if you want to try and prove otherwise.’

  They watched each other warily; checkmate. Pascal continued to study him, assessing and calculating, an idea slowly forming. ‘Look, Daly, if you’ve been sent down here to warn me off, fine, message received. But now you’re here, how about doing some real detective work?’

  He said nothing, just watched her with those slaty cops eyes. So she ploughed on. ‘You questioned Calver, so you’ll know who he’s been pointing the finger at. And I’m damn sure you also know who that rather unpleasant guy with O’Leary was just now. You know, the squat guy with the aura you could launch a space rocket off. So K Corp’s enforcer is meeting with the head of security of the hotel where the murder took place. That looks like conspiracy to me. So how about joining up the dots, detective?’

  Daly’s hard-ass expression didn’t change. ‘You’ve been warned, Pascal,’ he said. You step out of line, a millimeter, I’ll be there, and I’ll bury you.’ He kept his eyes on her, cold and hard. Then he said, ‘have a nice evening,’ as he moved off.

  She watched him go, wondering; had she just planted a seed, or made another enemy.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later she sat in her cubby hole at the consulate staring at her desk-top screen, ploughing through watch lists. Dead end. Then onto the database of foreign persons of interest. She knew she’d seen the Arab guy somewhere before.

  She got up and walked around the pokey office, stretching and yawning. She went out and got a coffee from the vending machine, and wandered back, enjoying the quietness and being on her own. There were still lots of people working in the building, but down here you wouldn’t know it.

  She sat down in Rob’s chair and idly glanced at the pile of papers and reports scattered over his desk. Then she looked at his desk top computer. She tapped the keyboard and the screen came alive. Looked like Rob was in the middle of drafting a weekly digest of intel from the last seven days. It was pretty comprehensive already, stretching over 70 pages. Just to pass the time she started to scroll through; it contained all sorts of snippets of information lifted from myriad sources; mainstream newspapers, TV channels, trade journals, blogs, extremist feeds and more. And it was all skillfully melded together into a taught, sharp narrative. It was hard to do that kind of unglamorous intelligence work well, but Rob clearly had a knack for it.

  She sipped her coffee, slowly scrolling away, and then on page 58 of the report there he was, the guy from the bar. She almost missed him because he was in a group. It was a small story with a photograph about the visit of General Khalid bin Ali bin Abdullah al-Faisal, from Saudi Arabia, arriving with a small entourage. The general was billed as a senior director in the defence procurement department, but Pascal knew from her work in London he was in fact director general of their security service, Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah. The man from the bar was in a group of four standing behind the general, all dressed down and inconspicuous. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She’d seen him before about three years earlier at a meeting, a kind of security conference about intelligence sharing, at the Saudi embassy in London, and he had been standing at the back of the room watching. She’d immediately tagged him as being the only real intelligence guy in the room. The rest of it was just high class window dressing for the media, desperate for a story showing there really was intelligence sharing between allies.

  She read Rob’s brief narrative which tagged the guy as a low level diplomat, the usual euphemism for an intelligence guy. Rob drew no conclusions from the general’s visit which appeared to be entirely routine. The Saudi press release merely said he was there for some high level meetings with his US counterparts, and that was it. Pascal wondered. She s
at for a long time staring into space, then she reached in her pocket and took out the card Bob Jeffreys had given her. She tapped it against her teeth, mulling, then she reached for her phone.

  Bob was on a hot date - hard to imagine - but he’d see her for a coffee, same place, Starbucks, at noon next day.

  * * * *

  I was back in the attorney visiting area, in the chicken hutch, waiting, stomach making unpleasant gurgling noises from the breakfast I’d just wolfed down. I knew it was pointless asking who my visitor was. Maybe it was Morganna with some good news. It wasn’t. It was Assistant DA Stahl and Detective Daly.

  Stahl was wearing an expensive suit to go with his even more expensive dental work. Daly was in a cheap blue job with a natty striped tie.

  ‘Since you’re the attorney of record, Calver, I gotta speak to you, so here we are,’ Stahl said, looking around distastefully.

  ‘Well I must be important, Stahl, to get you out here – or maybe its your boss cracking the whip? Media coverage is not always good, is it? And he’s told you to handle it, right?’

  I watched Stahl. Not much of a flicker, but it was there, and Daly was smiling. Stahl hadn’t wanted to come, but Daly had.

  ‘Okay, guys, lets make things easy, shall we?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’

  Stahl looked at Daly.

  ‘And hey, how about some coffee? Or even tea. Us English, we always work better on a nice cuppa.’

  ‘Tea’s for faggots,’ Daly said. ‘So I’m guessing you’re having a ball in here, right, Calver?’

  Stahl watched me for a second, gauging things, then nodded at Daly. ‘See what you can rustle up, detective.’

  ‘Yeah, Daly, and make mine Earl Grey, two sugars, easy on the milk.’

  ‘Fuck you, Calver,’ Daly said, but he did Stahl’s bidding, banging the door as he went out.

  ‘Okay, Calver. Two things: first, we’ve managed to locate the CCTV file and it will be made available to you along with the tie,’ he said. That stumped me. Way too easy.