Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
Judge & Jury (15 page)
A couple months back, I had written to her to let her know I’d left the Bureau and started teaching again. I just stood there with my hands in my coat and shrugged. “The highs aren’t quite the same as my old job. So far, no one’s shooting at me, though.”
Andie smiled again. “How about I give you a choice, Nick? You can take the trash down behind the staircase on your way out. Or, if you want, you can come in.”
“I’d like to,” I said.
“You’d like to
which?
”
I stayed where I was. “You know, the retrial’s starting. Jury selection’s coming up. Next week.”
“I read the papers,” Andie said.
“I’m still a witness. The case is strong. They’re going to put him away this time.”
She stared at me awhile. Her mouth was full and her eyes sharp. Brown. “That’s what you came by to tell me?”
“No.” What promises could I make that I hadn’t already broken? We’d never caught the men who killed her son. We had nothing to tie it to Cavello. “I thought maybe you’d want to come to the trial with me.”
She took a step back. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can be close to that man.”
“I understand.” I lifted the trash bag out of her hand. I guess that was a decision. She smiled as if she could see right through me.
“Still the public servant, huh, Nick?”
I gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Evolving.”
She smiled.
“Hey, Pellisante,” she called, catching me halfway down the stairs. “Next time, you really should think about coming in.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I was at my desk. In my office. At home.
I was doing what I always did on the days I didn’t teach. What I’d been doing every free day for the past five months: sifting through every piece of information I could find on the case. Every document. Every sliver of evidence.
Looking for some way I could tie the bus blast to Dominic Cavello.
If anyone saw my study, my disheveled desk, they’d probably think they’d stepped into the lair of some obsessive, pathological nutcase. Good God, I had photos taped everywhere. The blast site. The van. The juror bus. Thick binders of FBI reports on the explosive device stacked high. Interviews with people on the street who might’ve seen the two men in work clothes running away.
More than once I thought I had caught a break. Like when the stolen New Jersey plates led back to some horse trainer in Freehold who had links to the Lucchese crime family. But that turned out to be coincidence. None of it led anywhere. None of it directly tied to Dominic Cavello or his people.
I was sipping my morning coffee, having to admit that my mind was drifting back to Andie DeGrasse, when the phone rang.
“Pellisante,” I answered.
It was Ray Hughes, the agent who’d taken my place at C-10. “Nick”—he sounded happy to catch me—“any chance you’re free?”
Sometimes we’d have lunch, and Ray would pick my brain, or I’d pick his. I figured all he wanted was to go over my testimony for the upcoming trial. “I’d hate to miss out on
Ellen,
Ray, but I think I could find my way down to see you.”
“Not here. There’s a government jet waiting for us. At Teterboro.”
If Ray wanted to grab my interest, he had it. The offer of a crummy sandwich at his desk in the Javits Building would have done the trick, too.
“A plane to take us where, Ray?”
The acting head of the Organized Crime Unit paused. “Marion.”
I stood up quickly from my desk, coffee spilling over my work notes.
Marion was the federal prison where Cavello was being held.
ABOUT FOUR HOURS LATER, the government Lockheed touched down at the airport in Carbondale, Illinois. A car was waiting for us and drove us to Marion Federal Prison. Marion was a vast, depressing-looking redbrick fortress stuck in the middle of a marshland in rural southern Illinois. It was also one of the most secure federal prisons in the United States. Although Cavello had yet to be convicted, after what happened in New York, the government wasn’t taking any chances.
Warden Richard Bennifer was waiting for us. He escorted us out to the special control units, where Cavello was being held. The only visiting station was a glass-paneled room, with a guard standing by with a Taser and a surveillance camera running at all times. The prisoners here were lifers, level sixes, lost to the outside world for all time. I rejoiced. I was looking forward to seeing Cavello spend the rest of his life in a place like this.
Ray Hughes and Joel Goldenberger remained outside and watched through the one-way glass.
Cavello was already sitting there when I came in. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, his feet chained together. He was gaunter and older than when I’d seen him last, and a thin, gray growth clung to his jawline.
He’d been informed the government was here to see him, but the government was here to see him a lot. When he saw it was me he did a double take. Then came a wistful smile, as if he had just found an old friend.
“Nicky!” He tilted back his chair. “Is it a holiday or something? Who’s minding the class?”
I sat down across from him, behind the protected glass, and didn’t laugh. “Hi, Dom. How’s the jaw?”
“Still hurts.” He laughed. “Still think of you every time I brush my teeth.”
Then he twisted around to the guard behind him. “You watch this guy. Last time he came to see me in jail, I had to take my meals through a straw for months.” He wheezed a laugh. “This is the guy that should be in here,
not me.
Anyway, you’re lookin’ fit, Nicky. Playin’ any golf? Retirement looks like it agrees with you.”
“They let me come back, Dom, just for a day.” I smiled thinly. “To deliver some news.”
“News, huh? Good, I don’t get much news in here. Jeez, Nick, they got some special downward career spiral planned out for you. You’re a messenger boy now. Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I like the company. It’s just that, you look a little peaked, eh? Must be that kid, huh? Tell me, how’re you sleeping these days?”
I balled my fists tightly. I knew he was trying to make me react again. But this time I just let him go. “I’m going to be sleeping just fine, Dom.”
“And how’s that gal doing? You know, the pretty one who was on that bus. I heard she pulled through. I tried to send a little money to some kind of fund.” He shrugged. “But my lawyer told me that when they heard it was from me, they sent the check back. Imagine. And for once I was just trying to do something nice. How’s that for sour apples?
“Anyway, Mr. Messenger Boy, I’m doing all the talking. What kind of news you got for me? I’m all ears.”
“We thought you’d want to know. The government’s going to be adding two new indictments against you.”
“Two
more?
” He sighed theatrically. “Who can keep track?”
“These you will, Dom. They’re for the murders of Special Agents Manny Oliva and Ed Sinclair.”
Cavello furrowed his brow. “I’m trying to think, do I know them?”
“We have the murder weapon, Dom. A couple of clammers uncovered it. After all these months, there it was, buried in the sand. Ballistics confirmed it. It’s the gun that killed the two agents. You’re going down for it, Dom. It’s a match.”
The jocular grin slowly started to fade from Cavello’s face, replaced by a look of serious concern. This was a capital offense, and the murder weapon sealed it. “Clammers, huh? Imagine that. You look like you won the lottery, Pellisante. You wanna let me in on the joke?”
“The joke is I’m going to see you at trial next week, you piece of shit. And here’s some other news. It’s going to take place at Fort Dix army base in New Jersey. The trial will be closed to the public. Totally secure.
“The jury will be secret and sequestered on the base. This time, you won’t be able to get to anyone. We’ve got you, Dom. U.S. Attorney Goldenberger is waiting outside with the indictments now.”
It was my turn to smile. A smile I’d waited more than two years to give him. “How’s that for sour apples, Dom?”
Cavello just stared back at me. He scratched his chin. “An army base, huh? Fort Dix. Isn’t that where all the explosives are, Nicky boy? Could be a real blast!”
RICHARD NORDESHENKO STEPPED UP to the immigration booth marked V
ISITORS
at JFK. He pushed his passport and visa through the slot.
“Kollich.” The black, heavyset immigration agent leafed through his documents. He typed in the name. “Can I ask you to please place your index finger on the pad?”
Nordeshenko complied. He wasn’t worried. This time he was Estonian. His name was Stephan Kollich. Pharmaceuticals. As the agent went through his passport, he would find that the travel-weary businessman had been to the United States many times.
The past five months had been trying ones for Nordeshenko. Pavel had been sick. At first it was thought to be the flu. Then it was diagnosed as diabetes, type one. After months of treatment, they finally had it under control. Then Nordeshenko’s leg began to worsen. His old Chechen wound, the shrapnel finally taking its toll. These long trips killed him. He shifted uncomfortably. He even had to wear special shoes.
Now he had to do this Cavello job all over again. And he’d done so well the first time.
“Business or pleasure, Mr. Kollich?” the immigration officer asked, double-checking the face in the documents against Nordeshenko’s.
“Business is my pleasure,” Nordeshenko replied. The officer smiled.
This time it promised to be messy. He would have to put himself on the line, use all the skills he had learned. He already had his plan in motion. Reichardt, the South African, was already here in New York.
Preparation was Nordeshenko’s trademark—what he had made his reputation on. And never once had he taken a job that he did not complete.
The immigration agent picked up his stamp. “How long will you be staying in the United States, Mr. Kollich?”
“Only a few days.” That was the one thing he would say that was definitely not a lie.
The agent stamped his passport. He folded the documents together and pushed them back through the slot with a nod.
“Welcome to the United States, Mr. Kollich.”
“I’VE GOT NEWS,” I said to Andie DeGrasse over the phone.
I wanted to tell her about my visit to Cavello, the new indictments. I wanted to keep the hope alive that if we’d found something on Manny and Ed after all this time, there had to be something out there on the bus explosion. At least that’s how I was rationalizing it. The truth was, I’d been thinking about her a lot over the past few days. The truth was, I wanted to see her again.
“You like paella, Pellisante?” asked Andie after I’d given her my news.
“I like paella, sure,” I said. On weekends with Ellen, I wasn’t above rolling up my sleeves and putting dinner together myself. “In fact, I’d go to heaven for a good paella.”
“Then how does tomorrow sound? Around seven? I want to hear about your meeting with Cavello blow by blow.”
“Tomorrow sounds good,” I said, surprised at the dinner invitation.
“And, Pellisante,” Andie said, “prepare to die and go to heaven. My paella’s that good.”
I hung up, and couldn’t stop the smile that was creeping over my face. The first one in quite some time, actually.
THAT NIGHT I COULDN’T SLEEP. Part of it was Andie, I know. Part was the exhilaration of seeing Cavello out in Marion.
For so long I was sure he was going to get away with the murders of my two close friends. Today had changed all that. On the jet back from Marion I had called Manny’s and Ed’s wives. I told them that they would see the bastard finally put on trial for the murders of their husbands.
I was wired—awakened! For the first time in months. I was free from the guilt and shame I’d been trapped in since the jury stepped on that bus. It’s out there, I told myself, a connection to the explosion. I just had to think outside the box.
That’s when it hit me. It was as if the alarm clock had gone off—my brain a little bleary from
ER
reruns at 2:00 a.m. I leaped out of bed and headed into my office, unstacking one of those towers of FBI documents piled high on my desk.
You’re looking in the wrong place, Nick.
The IED. The improvised explosive device. The bomb. That was the key.
I yanked out the FBI forensic report on the explosives. I pretty much had the damn thing memorized by then anyway. The van had been packed with more than thirty pounds of C-4. Enough to do the job ten times over. Getting their hands on that much plastic wasn’t like shopping for dry tarp at the local hardware store.
You just have to think of it as antiterror, Nick.
Not anticrime.
My C-10 buddies had gone over every turncoat and informer on the list, and couldn’t scare up a lead pointing to the kind of people Cavello might normally call on for a job like this. It needed coordination much more sophisticated than anything he’d tried before. The technology had first been used by the Chechens.
Why not the Russian mob?
Somewhere in this pile, my Homeland Security contacts had given me books of known bad guys who were thought to be in the country at the time of the bombing.
So I started over again. Leafing through pages of blank faces and names. Andie claimed she’d seen a man with long blond hair under his cap, running away. So why not? What if the hit was set up by the Russian mob?
Sergei Ogilov was still the Boss of Bosses in Brighton Beach. He wasn’t exactly a golfing buddy of mine—I’d put a number of his men away, or had them deported. But he’d probably talk to me.
A long shot maybe, but sometimes they come in.
Like Dominic Cavello’s gun had washed to shore.
MONICA ANN ROMANO was in the middle of the best sex she’d ever had. Not that the list of her lovers was very long. It certainly wasn’t. The man she’d met while having an after-work drink with friends was taking her from behind. He was very good, from her perspective anyway. Not like the boring accountants and law clerks she’d been with before, who only lasted a couple of minutes and were as nervous and inexperienced as she was.