Condemned (7 page)

Sandro negotiated the turn into the front straight with ease. He particularly liked the Watkins Glen track. And today, it particularly liked him. In the first practice session, he had turned his personal best time, finishing second overall. Only Scott Kuhn had a better time. It was Kuhn who was in his sights now. He passed a green back marker as he exited the turn. Ahead, empty grandstands were on the left. On the right was the timing tower and the pits filled with mechanics adjusting cars, flaggers, and drivers from other races standing on the pit wall, watching the competition.

Sandro's Blue 2 was gaining speed down the front straight when someone in the timing tower began to wave a black flag in one hand, pumping a pointed finger on the other at Sandro's car.

Me? Black flagged? What the hell for?
thought Sandro. He checked his gauges quickly. Oil pressure was up. Water temperature was okay. He listened to the drone of the spinning wheels, the rattles of the body. Everything sounds okay.
Black flag?
Sandro eased back on the throttle, and moved to the outside of the track. Green 9 hurtled past on the inside of the track. Black 6 went by.
Son of a bitch!

Sandro did a full circuit on the outside edge of the course as fast as he could and entered the pit lane. Ahead, on the counter of his pit booth, he could see Tatiana Marcovich, in a red Ferrari jumpsuit Tatiana was now 26 years old, tall, her eyes dark, soulful, framed by long blonde hair pulled in a pony tail through the adjustment strap at the back of her cap.

A man in a business suit was standing just to the side of the pit booth. He smiled as he reached into his jacket and took out a credentials wallet, flashing an I.D. and badge at Sandro's approaching car.
An Agent?
Sandro murmured to himself as he stepped on the brakes.
What the hell was this about?

Tatiana stepped down from the counter. She had grown into a statuesque woman; when she wore heels, she was slightly taller than Sandro. She took off her cap, shaking out her long hair. Her face was attractive, with a warm, engaging smile, which hinted at sensuous mystery and intrigue. At the moment, she carefully studied the man with the badge. He said something to her. Sandro couldn't hear over the sound of race cars flat out down the front straight. Tatiana shrugged, turning toward Sandro, who was unhooking his 6-way safety harness. He pushed himself up out of the driver's tub.

As he stepped out of the vehicle, Sandro Luca, Trial Attorney, became oblivious to the noise from the track, the world of hurtling
voitures.
He had already shifted gears into the world of the New York justice system. His lawyer's mind now raced with questions.
Why had an Agent come to the track? What agency was he from? Was he there to bring Sandro a message, or arrest him for some bizarre reason?
What a hell of a craft he had chosen, Sandro thought as he walked toward Tatiana and the Agent. Always on guard, never knowing when some judge was going to make you go to trial, never being able to plan anything ahead, never even knowing—lawyers being an especially sweet target for prosecutors—if some jailbird was manufacturing stories about a lawyer in order to gain a sweeter deal or a lighter sentence for himself.

The Agent said something toward Sandro. He still couldn't hear. Several mechanics in their greasy jumpsuits, tools in hand, were watching the proceedings.

Sandro pulled the helmet, then the fire-proof balaclava from his head. He pointed to one ear, indicating that he couldn't hear. He pointed to the back of the pit booths.

“If you had to arrest me, couldn't you at least wait until I finished practice?” Sandro said to the Agent, half joking. “Sandro Luca,” he reached to shake the Marshal's hand. “This is Tatiana Marcovich.”

“We met,” said the Marshal. He took another moment to study this exotic woman from a world far removed from the Finger Lakes. When his eyes shifted back, he noticed Sandro studying him in turn. “Sorry to interrupt your racing, Counselor. Jim Hollingsworth. Marshal's office, Northern District. You really put the move on those cars coming into the front straight.” Sandro nodded.

“You were wonderful,” said Tatiana, smiling, linking an arm with Sandro. She spoke with a hint of Russian accent. “The Marshal says that you have a big case in the court”.

“I don't have any cases in the Northern District.”

“A Judge Ellis, Merian Ellis, Southern District, you know him, her? I can't tell if he's a boy of a girl.”

“Neither can anyone else,” said Sandro. The Marshal laughed. “Even though Judge Ellis wears earrings and long hair.”

“The way I hear it,” the Marshal shrugged innocently, “that doesn't tell much about a person from New York City.”

“You ought to come down to the big city, sometime, Marshal,” said Sandro. “It's not as bad as you've heard.”

“One of these days, maybe I will.”

Sandro first met Tatiana six years ago, when he was defending her father, Vasily, on charges that he owed the I.R.S. tax on two million dollars of undeclared income. Sandro claimed, on behalf of Marovich, that the money was not income, but rather money wired or smuggled into the United States when he emigrated from Russia. After two lengthy conferences, although the I.R.S. was pig-headed and obtuse, a Tax Court judge persuaded the attorney for the Service that the documentation of K.G.B. raids which unearthed millions of other dollars belonging to Marcovich in Russia, and Tatiana's testimony concerning Vasily's and her family's narrow escape from Russia in the middle of the night, and the K.G.B. plot to murder them—all supported Sandro's contention that Vasily did not earn the money while in the United States. Upon an agreement whereby Marcovich would make a payment of several thousand dollars for some technical impropriety in filing his tax returns, the I.R.S. agreed the case should be discontinued.

At the time of the I.R.S. case, Tatiana was in her junior year in college. More recently, when Vasily decided to open a large, sumptuous restaurant in Brooklyn's Brighton Beach area named “Vasily's,” he contacted Sandro to help with the application for a liquor and cabaret license and the other legal details that were necessary to satisfy the municipal bureaucracy of New York City. Vasily's—at least for the moment—was the newest and largest of the popular Russian Brighton Beach supper clubs. Since, during the pendency of the IRS problems, Vasily had transferred ownership of all his business interests into Tatiana's name, she was the nominal owner of the restaurant.

Their second encounter was a year and a half ago. Since then, Sandro and Tatiana had become frequent companions; dinner and theater expanded into the occasional weekend jaunt to the British Virgin Islands for sailing or Aspen for skiing. Tatiana had arranged, weeks back, for her father to take over her tasks at the restaurant so that she and Sandro could drive up to Watkins Glen to spend this race weekend together.

“What's really up?” Sandro said to the Marshall.

“Seems this Judge Ellis thinks you're supposed to be trying some case down there in front of her instead of frolicking up here in God's country.”

“Bullshit!” Sandro said angrily. “Sorry,” he said, turning to Tatiana.

Tatiana smiled, taking one of Sandro's hands in hers. “Mr. Luca still lives in a world of knights.” The emphasis she put on the ‘k', made the word two syllables.

The Marshal nodded, his ear working on understanding Tatiana's accent. “I have orders to transport you to the nearest airport and deposit you on a plane going to New York. Then I've got to call the Judge and tell her what plane you're on. I'd be very much surprised if you didn't have a Southern District Marshal meeting you on the other end.”

“Do you know what case I'm supposed to be trying, by any chance?” Sandro and Tatiana began to walk toward the area where street cars were parked. The Marshal followed.

“I think—not positive about this. It's a big drug case with jigaboos.”

“Jigaboos? I haven't' hear that word in years.”

“What are jigaboos—” Tatiana shook her head.

“It's a word for black people,” said Sandro.

“Really? I never heard this.”

“Lots of big city ways and words haven't reached up here yet, thank the Lord,” the Marshal said to Tatiana. “Where are you from? You don't sound like you're from New York.”

Tatiana glanced toward Sandro.

“You must be talking about the Hardie case,” said Sandro. “Judge Ellis relieved me from that case ten weeks ago—just so she could get the trial started.”

“You can't prove anything by me, Counselor. I'm just following orders.” Sandro stopped next to a navy blue Ferrari Testa Rossa and opened the door. The Marshal stepped back to ogle the car. “This yours, Counselor?”

Sandro nodded, releasing the cable for the luggage compartment.

“Mmm, mmmph. This sum-bitch—sorry, ma'am—”

Tatiana smiled and shrugged.

“—looks like she's doing 90 standing still, Counselor. What'll she do?”

“If there was any place to do it, 175, 180.”

“Damn.” The Marshal wagged his head rapturously.

Sandro threw his gloves into his helmet into the storage compartment. “Turn around a second,” he said to Tatiana. She raised her eyebrows, then dutifully faced the opposite direction. Standing between the open door and the interior of the car, Sandro began to remove his fire proof racing gear. “Why did she send for me?” Sandro asked the Marshal as he put on beige slacks and tasseled loafers.

“Not gospel, but I think the lawyer for your man there, what's his name, had an accident,” said the Marshal. “Can I take a look at the engine?”

“Sure,” said Sandro. “Pull the engine cable for the Marshal,” he said to Tatiana. She reached into the car and released a cable. “It's back here,” Sandro said, lifting the rear lid to reveal the flat twelve cylinders and four mean exhausts.

“Whoa.…”

“I'm going to give the Judge a call,” said Sandro. “I'm not supposed to be on that case.”

“It's okay with me Counselor, either way,” said the Marshal, leaning over, his hands behind his back, to peer into the engine compartment from a respectful distance. “Like I said, I'm just following orders. I got the phone number right here if you want. I'm supposed to call when I find you.” He handed Sandro a small slip of paper.

“Can you tell them you couldn't find me?”

The Marshal shrugged. “I wish I could, Counselor.”

“I'll give you a ride in the Ferrari.”

“Don't make me charge you with sorely tempting a government official,” the Marshal chuckled.

“Let's give them a call.” Sandro said, taking his car phone from its cradle on the console. Cars on the track were loudly zooming past the pits. “Won't be able to hear. There's a phone booth back here,” said Sandro, walking toward the back wall of the timing tower. He punched his phone code into the keypad, then the numbers from the slip of paper the Marshal had given him.

“So what if Hardie's lawyer had an accident?” Sandro murmured half aloud as he faced the phone. The phone on the other end rang, then rang again. “She put me out of the case so it could go forward! Now she wants me back in it?” Sandro listened to a few more rings, then hung up.

“How'd you do?” said the Marshal.

“Answering machine. Says to call after five. Makes no sense. After five they go home.”

“Not a very good system,” said Tatiana.

“People don't have all those answering machines up here. We answer our own phone if we're about.”

“There's no way I'm flying down to New York and leaving my car up here.”

“I can drive the car to New York if you want,” said Tatiana, a smile on her lips.

“Like I said, there's no way I'm leaving my car here and flying down to New York.”

“You don't trust me to drive your car?”

“I trust you with my life,” said Sandro.

“What about the car?”

Sandro smiled wider, knowing that Tatiana was leading him through the Jack Benny routine he had told her about. “I'm thinking, I'm thinking,” Sandro filled in. Tatiana laughed, putting her arm around Sandro. “What time is the next plane to New York, anyway?” Sandro asked the Marshal.

“Well, you're in luck there, Counselor. This isn't exactly New York City. First direct flight isn't until tomorrow morning. There's a plane that leaves here at three thirty this afternoon. Goes to Chicago, gets into New York, about seven forty five.”

“I can drive and be in New York before that.”

“There's no doubt in my mind about that, Counselor.” The Marshal wagged his head again at the Testa Rossa.

“Is there any way we can work this thing out?” Sandro asked. “How about if you don't find me until tomorrow morning?”

“I'd sure love to accommodate you, Counselor, but if someone at the office calls over here, and somebody says you've been here racing cars, and I didn't get you to New York. Well, heck, you know …”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sandro glanced at the track. The cars from the session were coming into the pits. “Get in,” he said to the Marshal, nodding toward the Ferrari. He took his helmet out of the storage compartment and handed it to the Marshal.

“You mean it,” the Marshal said, starting to slide in behind the steering wheel.

“The other side, wise guy.”

The Marshal and Tatiana both laughed. “I just wanted to sit behind the wheel a second.”

“Billy, lend me your helmet,” Sandro called to a driver near the pits. The other driver threw his helmet to Sandro.

“We'll go around once, and then you can call New York and tell them you did your mischief, you messed up our beautiful weekend.”

“Sorry, Miss,” the Marshal said to Tatiana. “Italy, right, your accent?”

“You have a great ear for accents,” Sandro smirked as he fired the engine. It snarled into life. He feathered the throttle, warming the engine as the Marshal, smiling like a kid at Christmas, donned the helmet, slid into the passenger seat, and buckled the safety belt.