An Eye For Justice Page 9

  Stahl watched, looking for the faintest reaction. He didn’t get it. He continued, ‘secondly, its incumbent on us – and you – to explore whether there’s scope for an early disposition of this case. See if we can avoid a trial and save the tax payer a ton of money.’

  ‘You want a deal?’ I said.

  ‘No. But we are prepared to let you plead to lesser charges in exchange for a guilty plea.’

  They wanted a deal. This was one of the parts of the US system I didn’t like; the plea bargain. We had something similar in the UK but it was nothing like as unfair. US justice fostered a system that frequently forced completely innocent defendants to plead guilty to crimes they had not committed, because the risk of rolling the dice, going to trial, and losing, was simply too great. It was blatantly unfair and disproportionately affected the poor who couldn’t afford expensive lawyers to fight their cases.

  But I wasn’t going to play the game as there was no way I was going to plead to anything. But I needed to gauge how bad they wanted a deal, because that might hint at some vulnerability in their case. Then again the sudden and miraculous appearance of the missing CCTV militated against that, but what did I know.

  ‘So what are you offering me,’ I said, looking up as Daly banged his way back in carrying three coffees. He slapped mine down, spilling half of it.

  ‘Sex game gone bad, second degree murder, fifteen years to life. You’ll be out sooner than you can write your memoirs. Hell, we’ll even look to getting you repatriated to a UK jail if you want,’ Stahl said, taking a tentative sip of his coffee.

  Then again, maybe they just wanted to get shot of me. You couldn’t blame them really. Bit of media pressure; victim and alleged perp both British citizens, so why not ship the whole mess back to the UK and let them sort it out, and pay the freight. But just maybe it meant there was a weakness in the case. ‘So where would I do my time?’ I said, probing, seeing if I could shake anything loose.

  Stahl looked at Daly, thinking they were getting somewhere. ‘I’m sure we can work something out. A nice federal facility in upstate New York with the gentlest of regimes, and all kitted out for nice white folks like you, Calver. How about that? What d’you think, Daly?’ Stahl said, with a wink at his underling.

  ‘Be just like Sunday school, boss,’ Daly chipped in, but I got the impression he was gritting his teeth. I guessed he’d far rather go for murder one and a big trial.

  ‘So what’s it to be, Calver?

  I adopted a meditative expression as if considering his offer carefully and then said slowly, enunciating each word carefully, ‘no fucking way.’

  ‘You sure about that, Calver?’ Stahl said.

  ‘Damn tootin’ right I am.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be your funeral.’

  Stahl got up, buttoning his jacket. ‘You change your mind, Calver, here’s my card,’ he said, placing it on the table. Then, as if as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and by the way. We’re ready for trial as well, so we can agree a start date for Monday morning. The court have okayed it so we don’t have to go back to see the judge tomorrow.’

  That got me. If they were saying they were ready for trial and they had given up the CCTV so easily, maybe I’d completely misread them. After all, the prosecution routinely offered to take a plea to lesser charges to save the people the costs of a trial so why did it have to mean anything? This seemed to be borne out by the fact that Stahl didn’t push it. They knew I was done talking and I knew they hadn’t tried very hard to make me talk, just enough to satisfy protocol. Stahl gave me a brief, barren look, then knocked on the door and called the guard to take me back to my cell. Then they both nodded to me and left. Maybe Stahl was a lot cleverer than I was. I guess we’d find out at trial.

  Chapter 9

  Southern District Court

  Day 3

  ‘Your honour, the defense reserve their opening statement until the start of their case,’ Browder said. Then he sat down with a half smile on his face, turning slightly in his chair so he could watch Morganna. He knew she would have been expecting him to take up some time with his speech, but now he’d thrown her on the back foot again, hustling her, forcing her to call her first witness before she was ready.

  She cursed under her breath, pondering. Why was Browder reserving, foregoing the advantage of making a speech straight after her opening? The ploy left her feeling insecure again, questioning whether she had missed something. She tapped her ballpoint pen against her teeth, thinking hard. Then she half guessed it. Browder still didn’t really know what Hannah was going to say, if she ever turned up, so he was playing it safe. When he found out, then he’d make his speech.

  She sensed Friedman fidgeting. As she looked up, he said, ‘Miss Fedler?’

  ‘Yes your honour. Call Doctor Efraim Borkowski,’ she said. She heard the usher echo her call outside and then the court doors were opening. She watched Borkowski move across the courtroom and into the witness box. He was a small man with thick black hair, a bushy beard and glasses. He wore a kind of grey green, tweed three piece suit, and stretched across his waistcoat was a gold watch chain. Other than the one longish evening phone call, Morganna had not spoken to him face to face.

  ‘Doctor Borkowski, could you state your full name for the record and then detail your qualifications and experience for the court, please?’ Morganna asked, smiling politely at her witness.

  He didn’t smile back. He didn’t look at Morganna, but turned to the jury and said, ‘my name is Efraim Borkowski and I am visiting emeritus professor of Jewish European history at New York University. I have worked with the Justice Departments office of Special Investigations, now known as the Human Rights and Special Prosecutions Section, and I have also worked at the US Holocaust Memorial Museum and the Berlin Documents Centre, and I am currently also serving as a director of the Museum of Jewish heritage here in New York City.’

  ‘That’s quite a resume doctor—’

  ‘Professor, please,’ he interrupted her.

  ‘Professor. Now, have you had occasion to speak with the plaintiff in this case, Hannah Cohen?’

  ‘Yes I have, extensively, as well as via email.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your honour,’ Browder interjected lazily from his chair. ‘This is a claim for restitution of some jewellery, nothing more. Now I’m sure professor Borkowski could keep us all spellbound for hours with his historical knowledge, but what possible relevance could it have to this case?’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree, Mr Browder,’ Friedman said, turning to look at Morganna.

  ‘Your honour, please give us some leeway. Plaintiff is currently on her way here and the jury will hear from her extensively. But, she is eighty seven years old and with the best will in the world cannot remember all the background and context, and she will find testifying here extremely trying. We have called professor Borkowski here, essentially to fill in the historical gaps, to give the jury the backstory if you like, without which they may struggle to understand the environment in which these events took place,’ Morganna said, pausing to draw breath. She knew she was gabbling, her mouth running away with it through nerves.

  She took another breath.’ Furthermore, your honour,’ she said, slower, more measured, ‘we shall be asking professor Borkowski to authenticate or cast a professional opinion on certain artifacts or articles of historical evidence we intend to adduce.’

  Morganna held her breath as she watched Friedman cogitating; if he blew them out, she’d lose half her case. He pursed his lips. ‘I’ll allow it,’ he said grudgingly, ‘for now, but if I feel your straying into anything that is not within the narrow parameters of this case, I’ll call a halt, is that understood, Miss Fedler?’

  ‘Absolutely, your honour,’ Morganna said, offering up a little prayer to the God of trial lawyers. She was learning, but it was hard and slow.

  * * * *

  ‘So what you got for me?’ Bob Jeffreys said, sipping black coffee and focusing all his attention on hi
s cellphone. They were sat back in the window seats in Starbucks, midday sun streaming down, Pascal watching the teeming Manhattan streets, wondering how to play it with Jeffreys.

  Look, Bob,’ she said, ‘I been thinking, maybe you could help me out with some information I need. Low level run of the mill stuff you’d have easy access to. And some of it’s old, going way back. In exchange we could trade, and I could do some freelancing for you.’

  Bob didn’t say anything, almost as if he hadn’t heard her, or maybe he was just playing stupid, hard to get. She’d try another way. She held her phone out with a picture of the guy from the bar. Jeffreys glanced, poker faced. ‘Yeah, who is he?’ he said.

  ‘Names Saad Al-Masrahi. Of Al Mukhabarat Al A’amah fame.’

  ‘And?

  ‘Saw him last night, here in the city.’

  ’So?’ Jeffreys said, still concentrating on his phone screen, but adding, ‘we know that crew came in with General Khalid from Saudi Arabia. All cleared and squeaky clean.’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s got some interesting friends…..,’ she said, and left it hanging there, hoping he would bite.

  ‘Yeah? And who might they be?’ he said, still studying his phone screen.

  Pascal leaned over and took a surreptitious glance. Looked like a steamy exchange of sexual banter with someone. ‘Bob,’ she said, ‘are you listening to me?’

  He looked up from his phone screen, face flushed red. ‘So what have you got?’ he said again, as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

  Pascal held her temper in check and ploughed on. ‘This Al-Masrahi guy met the head of security for the Kurrilick Corporation, guy called John Schmidt. Deep discussion ensued, then a high class hooker appeared. Looked like Schmidt was pimping for him, providing a special gift for the end of the evening.’

  ‘You gotta picture of her?’ Jeffries said, licking his lips.

  ‘No, Bob, I don’t have a picture of her,’ Pascal said, patience finally exhausted. ‘Look, if I’m keeping you from something, maybe we can do this another time. You know, like when you’re not trying to have phone sex?’

  Jeffreys watched her for a moment, slowly divining that she wasn’t kidding. He sighed and put his phone down. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just letting off steam. We all need to do that sometimes. That’s my way.’

  ‘Hey, no problem.’ Pascal said. ‘I’ve been there. Fact I know a guy who builds model airplanes for the same reason. It takes all sorts, Bob. Don’t worry about it.’ She sipped more coffee, glancing sideways at him, hoping she hadn’t embarrassed him, but he looked fine. She ploughed on, ‘so why would a Saudi secret service guy be hobnobbing with K Corp’s head of security, who by the way, is one awesomely frightening looking motherfucker?’

  ‘K Corp, eh?’ Jeffrey’s mused. ‘Never come across them in an intelligence context. CEO, what’s his name?’

  ‘David Milken.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the guy. They say he’s going to run for mayor, so I doubt they’re gonna do anything to screw that up,’ Jeffreys said. ‘I’ll have a look, can’t hurt. But, hey, no promises.’

  ‘Well, look, Bob, if you’re taking a look at K Corp, maybe you can have a look at the founder, Angel Milken, David’s father, as well?’ she said, hoping he wasn’t going to think she was being too pushy, trying to work too much out of the connection before she’d brought anything to the table. But then again, if she didn’t ask?

  ‘I’d be particularly interested in anything from the war years and how he entered the USA. The British have no record of him anywhere?’

  ‘This for your guy Calver, is it, Courtney? He must be some tough monkey, roughing it out on Rikers,’ Jeffreys said.

  ‘Calver’s fine – in the courtroom,’ she said, before adding, quietly, ‘anywhere else he’s a fucking disaster.’

  ‘I should get him outta there kiddo - and quick,’ Jeffreys said, getting up to go. ‘And I’ll get back to you on the other stuff.’

  ‘Good enough. I’ll be waiting,’ she said.

  * * * *

  Southern District Court

  ‘Now, professor Borkowski,’ Morganna said, handing him a document, ‘can you tell the court what this is?’

  ‘I surely can,’ Borkowski said. ‘Its an extract from De Telegraaf, a Dutch newspaper, dated June 20th 1938, with a certified English translation.’

  ‘Yes it is, and I’m introducing this as Exhibit HC1, your honour,’ Morganna said as the usher distributed copies to the jury and judge. ‘Professor, tell the court, in essence about the little story depicted in the extract.’

  ‘Yes,’ Borkowski said, perching some bifocals on the end of his nose. ‘Its what nowadays we might call a human interest story, and it concerns the Cohen family, then living in an area of Amsterdam called Jodenhoek, or the Jewish quarter. The story tells of a local girl, Hannah Cohen, saving the life of a five year old boy, by grabbing him and pulling him out of the canal. The child’s mother, a member of a prominent diamond dealing family, as a mark of her undying gratitude for saving the life of her son, gave to Hannah Cohen’s parents, for Hannah, a magnificent gold and diamond encrusted pendant with matching brooch. And there in the article is a picture of little Hannah, holding the pendant and brooch.’

  ‘That’s right, professor,’ Morganna said. ‘Now, we shall be hearing from another expert about the jewellery shown in the picture, but in the meantime, professor, perhaps you might put this story into its historical context for the jury - what does it tell us?’

  Morganna could sense both Browder and Friedman getting impatient with the generalized testimony and she knew it wouldn’t be long before one of them objected. ‘As briefly as you can please, professor,’ Morganna added with a smile at Friedman.

  Borkowski took the bifocals off the end of his nose and leaned back in his chair. ‘Prior to the war more than half of Holland’s 140,000 registered Jews lived in Amsterdam, and Jodenhoek was the epicenter of that, until the Nazi’s marched in, in May 1940. By the end of the war virtually all of Jodenhoek’s Jews had gone. ‘From the article we see that the Cohen’s appear to have been a normal lower middle class Jewish family who were art conservators, the father, David working at one of the local museums, having taken over that job from his father, Isaac. They also appear to have done some art dealing.’

  ‘Thank you professor. Now we shall hear from Hannah, that the family were deported from their home in April 1943, although unfortunately at this stage it is unclear what happened to them after that. Again looking at historical context, can you tell us what happened to the majority of Jews who were deported at that time from Jodenhoek?’

  ‘Yes. There is a clear historical record. Almost all Jews from there were moved first to Westerbork, a transit camp in North east Holland. From there commencing in July 1942 we know that there were some 93 transports mostly to Auschwitz and Sobibor death camps.’

  ‘Your honour,’ Browder said, rising to his feet. ‘Again, might I ask, what is the relevance of any of this to the simple issue facing the court?’

  Friedman looked about ready to concur. He said, ‘unless you’ve got an answer to that, Miss Fedler, I’m—’

  ‘Thank you your honour,’ Morganna said, breaking in, light smile covering her gritted teeth as she tried to think of a way to keep Borkowski on the stand. She would have to go for a half way house. ‘Your honour, I am in some difficulty in the absence of my client, and without clear instructions, so perhaps I will finish here with professor Borkowski for now, on the proviso - I understand he intends to remain here to observe proceedings - that I may recall him later if necessary.’

  Friedman smiled at her meek acquiescence. ‘By all means, Miss Fedler. Mr. Browder, cross examination?’

  ‘Yes, thank you your honour’, Browder said, rising to his feet to start his cross examination. ‘Professor Borkowski. As far as you are aware, does Hannah Cohen have a tattooed number anywhere on her body? As I am sure you know, that was the traditional identification method used by the concentrat
ion camp authorities for inmates.’

  ‘No she does not, but—’

  ‘Thank you, professor,’ Browder said, cutting him off. ‘In the historical record is there any mention of a fourteen year child named Hannah Cohen escaping from the two concentration camps mentioned by you?’

  ‘Again, no, but—’

  ‘Thank you professor,’ Browder said, brutally chopping him off again. He turned to the judge, ‘I have no more questions your honour,’ he said.

  Morganna sat for a moment, wondering whether she should re-examine Borkowski, give him a chance to flesh out the answers Browder had just chopped the ends off. But then again, maybe better to leave off now. She looked up at the clock, 3.50 p m. ‘Your honour, I have no more questions for this witness right now, but as mentioned before, I may wish to recall him at a later date.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Fedler,’ Friedman said. ‘Given the time, we’ll adjourn now for the weekend, back here Monday morning at 10 am, folks,’ he said looking at the jury. ‘I take it,’ he said, turning back to Morganna, ‘you will be ready to call your next witness then?’

  ‘Yes, your honour,’ Morganna said, fingers crossed behind her back.

  ‘And who might that be, if I might ask?’ Friedman said.

  ‘Hannah Palmer, nee Cohen,’ she replied, hoping to hell she could rely on Pascal’s garbled phone message that Hannah was on her way, whatever that might mean. If Hannah arrived maybe her money would too and they could get Calver out on bail. Then he could give her some help, ‘cause boy did she need it.

  * * * *

  Hannah came into the cabin, cheeks red from the wind outside, eyes alive and dancing. Their room was spacious with a small dining area to the side with a table in the centre of it and chairs each side, set on blue vinyl flooring. Then there was a larger living and sleeping area alongside, with bunk beds against the wall and a old battered leather settee in the middle, and at shoulder height, a couple of smallish portholes out of which all you could see was the grey green sea stretching away for miles.