Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (4 page)

The couple halted and turned. “Yes?”

He moved closer. In his upturned left hand was a slip of paper. “I’m looking for Ninety-two Sutton Terrace.”

The man pointed toward the river. “Sutton Terrace is around that corner, but as far as I know, there’s no ninety-two.”

Vekt had closed the gap between them. He brandished the scrap of paper, and then his right hand was out with a slim-barreled
black handgun and his left arm was tight around the woman’s waist.

“Okay—the rules are: one, be quiet; two, open the briefcase and put your wallet in it. And if you happen to have a gun, remember
that I can shoot her before you could even aim at me.”

Staring, rigid, the man complied. Gargling noises came from the woman’s throat. Vekt jabbed the gun into the back of her armpit
and whispered fiercely. “Shut—up!”

He turned back to the man. “Now, your watch, with all its attachments.” Into the briefcase went the Patek Philippe with its
heavy gold chain and fob and Phi Beta Kappa key. “The wedding band too.” It was of textured gold and about half an inch wide.

Vekt turned to the woman, keeping the gun in place. “Now your stuff—into the briefcase. First the purse.”

“There’s no—”

“Quiet. The purse.” Her husband held out the briefcase; she dropped in the small cream leather bag with its mother-of-pearl
clasp. “Your jewelry. All of it.”

She started with the bracelet, using her teeth to undo the difficult catch. The earrings were next, then the solitaire, followed
by a diamond wedding band that Vekt hadn’t noticed.

He took the briefcase with his left hand. “Now, if you make any noise before I’m out of sight, I’ll be back here before anyone
else has time to show up. In which case you won’t live to tell them anything.” Shifting his gaze back and forth between them,
he walked backward, aiming the gun.

He was ready to turn and run when a glint flashed in his left eye. It came from the base of the woman’s throat.

Vekt dashed forward, grabbing at her neck for the thin gold chain with its small disk pendant.

“You stupid bitch—I said all of it!”

“NO!” she shrieked, flailing at him. “Not this! My baby! You can’t take it! You can’t have her!” She scratched his eyelids
with one hand and pulled his greasy blond hair with the other.

He shoved the gun between her breasts and pulled the trigger. The husband was clawing at him; he shot without aiming and flew
off down the street just as the first window opened in an adjacent building. He had not taken the chain.

____

V
EKT FLUSHED THE
toilet, huffing with relief, and jumped into the shower, making the water as hot as he could stand it. He soaped himself
until he was coated with white, and then rinsed for ten minutes, gradually changing the mix until it ran ice cold.

Wrapped in a huge, thick, white towel, he strode with damp footsteps into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Heineken from
the refrigerator. But he put it back without opening it; his gut feeling told him that this was more than a beer occasion.
He poured three ounces of Glenlivet over two chunky ice cubes in a thick tumbler and carried it into the living room, ready
to assess the evening’s proceeds.

Vekt began with high hopes and ended with exultation. Cash: $1,145 in the wallet, $312 in the purse. Credit cards: five, including
two platinums. Jewelry: the best, and plain design, easy to dump. Except the watch: an intricate antique; he’d have to hold
it for a while. Maybe even wear it; he could afford a three-piece suit. Except the earrings too, damn it. The name of a well-known
brand of costume jewelry was stamped on the back. The bitch!

____

V
EKT’S FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD
fence was in a good mood. “These two”—the diamond rings—“let’s say five thousand.”

“Seven.”

“Fifty-five hundred.”

“They’re at least twenty-five retail.”

“Six.”

“Done. How about the gold stuff?”

“The bracelet—mmmm—four hundred. This ring’s a problem—it has initials inside.”

“So remove them.”

“I will, but it ain’t easy. And it leaves scars—reduces the resale value. Seventy-five.”

“Come on, Lou, it’s a five-hundred-dollar ring.”

“One hundred’s the best I can do. Better than you’ll get elsewhere.”

Vekt conceded. He coaxed Lou out of fifty for each of the credit cards and for the leather briefcase. He was now clean of
almost all the evidence. The purse and its trivial contents had been thrown down a sewer; the gun and the blond wig went with
it. Only the antique watch remained, in the movable heel of a brown leather boot, lined up in a closet with all his other
footwear.

____

V
EKT WAS STARTLED
by a hand touching his left forearm. His eyes and mind had been wandering around the courtroom, from the gold chains around
the neck of a pudgy middle-aged juryman to the reporter who had all her parts in the right place under clothes that showed
them off.

He turned toward his attorney after a second nudge. “You must, I repeat, must, pay attention,” the man growled. “If a witness
says anything that you can challenge, write it down—push the paper to where I can see it from the corner of my eye.”

It was still a mystery to Vekt how he had lucked out with this lawyer. Wilson Herrera was nationally known for his high acquittal
rate and his six-figure fees. “Every attorney gets to do court appointments once in a while” was all he’d said in explanation.

The prosecutor’s six-foot-two-inch frame, with its hint of a paunch, moved agilely in its charcoal-gray vested suit as he
faced the witness over rimless granny glasses. Vekt took a perverse comfort from Luther Johnson’s dark brown skin. Only two
of the jurors were black. Maybe the other ten wouldn’t buy it from one of them.

____

“D
ETECTIVE
S
WAYZE
. T
ELL
us why you decided to arrest Harold Vekt for the murder of Annabelle Jagoda.”

“Her husband, Morris Jagoda, identified him in a lineup.”

“And why did you include Mr. Vekt in the lineup to begin with?”

“Mr. Jagoda had identified his picture.”

Vekt watched Herrera write, with a silver-plated Parker pen,
pic
→
l’up
.

“Is this the picture?”

The detective studied the stiff 4 x 6 paper. “Yes.”

“What was the source of the picture?”

“Police files.” Herrera underlined his cryptic notation.

“Describe the person as you see him in the picture.”

“Long, narrow face, short, light brown hair, narrow eyes close together, sharp, straight nose, down-curved lips, small ears
close to the head.”

“Do you see the person in this courtroom?”

“Yes. The defendant.” He pointed to Vekt with a jabbing motion. Johnson glared at Harold, then with deliberation shifted his
gaze to the jury.

“Pass the witness.”

Herrera rose. “Detective Swayze, did Mr. Jagoda provide a description of the person who had robbed him and shot his wife?”

“Yes.”

The lawyer held out a page. “Does this statement include that description?”

Swayze scanned the printed sheet. “Yes.”

“Please read the outlined phrase.”

Swayze cleared his throat. “‘Shoulder-length blond hair.’”

It was Herrera’s turn to look pointedly from the defendant to the jury. “Detective, you say Mr. Jagoda selected Mr. Vekt’s
picture and then identified him in a lineup. Was anyone else whose picture he was shown included in the lineup?”

“Uhh—no—the others were cops or civilian employees of the precinct.”

“When Mr. Jagoda was viewing the lineup, what did you say to him?”

“I asked him to ID the perpetrator.”

“To be more specific, did you say, ‘Is the person who shot your wife among them?’ or did you ask, ‘Which of these people did
it?’”

Swayze looked perplexed, then shrugged and shook his head. “I really don’t remember.” Herrera opened his mouth, then waggled
his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

“Now, Detective, after Mr. Vekt was arrested, was a search of his apartment conducted?”

“Yes.”

“Who conducted it?”

“I and my partner—Louis Walters—and two uniforms. Uniformed police officers.”

“Describe the search—how thorough was it?”

“We looked in every closet, every drawer, every pocket, every cushion, every shoe, every food container. The toilet tank,
the freezer.”

“In other words, every possible place of concealment?”

“That’s right.”

“And what, if anything, did you find related to the robbery?”

“More than eight thousand dollars in cash.”

“Just cash? No jewelry? No papers from Mr. Jagoda’s briefcase, or the briefcase itself?”

“No. But Vekt could have easily—”

“Buts are not allowed, Detective. Was there anything at all that identified any part of the cash as having belonged to the
Jagodas?”

“Why would a guy like Vekt have so much cash around unless—?”

“Please answer the question. Could you single out any of the cash as being proceeds of the robbery?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

Johnson jumped up. “Redirect, Your Honor.” The judge nodded.

“Considering the hair discrepancy, why did you accept Mr. Jagoda’s identification of this picture and of Mr. Vekt in the lineup?”

“We had cautioned Mr. Jagoda to pay more attention to the permanent than to the changeable characteristics. He looked at this
picture for a long time, turned the page, and then, suddenly, turned it back, saying—”

“Objection. Mr. Jagoda is the best source of what he himself said.”

“Sustained. Mr. Johnson, you may pursue this when Mr. Jagoda is on the stand.”

____

V
EKT LOOKED AT
the ceiling as Morris Jagoda entered the courtroom and walked stiffly toward the stand. Herrera jabbed his thigh. “The jury
is watching you!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Luther Johnson’s body language managed to suggest deference and compassion as he began to question Jagoda. “I know, sir, that
this is extremely painful for you. But it’s necessary if justice is to be done. Please tell us what occurred on the night
of March twenty-first last year.”

Jagoda licked his lips. He rested his right hand on the ledge that held the microphone; his left arm hung at his side, bent
slightly at an unchanging angle.

“We were on our way home from dinner, walking along Fifty-sixth Street. Someone called out to us, asked for directions. Then
he pulled a gun and grabbed hold of Annabelle and demanded our valuables. We gave them to him—he instructed us to put everything
in my briefcase—and he ran off. But he must have caught sight of the chain Annabelle was wearing with our daughter’s pendant
on it. He became enraged and ran back and grabbed for it. Annabelle became hysterical and tried to fight him off. He shot
her, directly into the heart.”

“Objection. Mr. Jagoda is not qualified to describe the course of the bullet.”

Judge Patrick Quinn raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well—it hardly matters. The medical examiner has already testified to that
fact.” Herrera shrugged. The judge signaled Johnson to continue.

“Why did your wife, after surrendering all her other jewelry, resist his taking this item?”

Jagoda’s eyes lost their focus. He seemed to have left the courtroom emotionally. The judge said, “Mr. Jagoda?”

“Yes—sorry.

“Felicity was our only child. We were nearly forty when she was born—our last chance. She was bright, lively, loving. Not
the prettiest little girl in the world, but the most interesting, delightful, creative personality. For her third birthday
we gave her a little round gold pendant, engraved with her initials intertwined with ours, as though we were all holding hands.

“A few months later she became ill. She died of leukemia two months before her sixth birthday, after a great deal of suffering.
She was brave too—did I say that? Annabelle put on the pendant and never took it off. She slept with it, she bathed with it.
In the end, she defended it with her life, as though it were Felicity herself.”

So that’s what set the bitch off,
Vekt thought. He scanned the jury out of the corner of his eye and squirmed.

Johnson waited a few seconds in the silent courtroom, then placed himself between the defense and prosecution tables. “Mr.
Jagoda, did you get a good look at the person who shot your wife?”

“Yes. He is that man”—pointing—“in the light blue shirt and dark blue jacket.”

“Please note that the witness has pointed out the defendant, Harold Vekt.” Harold began to open his mouth but was glared down
by Herrera.

“Would you tell us, Mr. Jagoda, if the defendant’s appearance differs in any significant way from what it was at the time
of the crime.”

“His hair is different. It was blond, and much longer.”

“Then how can you be certain it was he?”

“When I first saw his picture at the police station, there was something about it, but I passed it up because of the hair.
But then I remembered that I’d been told to pay more attention to the permanent features than the changeable ones. And I suddenly
recalled that as my wife pulled the robber’s hair it had appeared to shift slightly, backward from the hairline.

“The eyes and mouth, the shape of the chin were exactly as I remembered them.”

“One more question, sir. For how long a time would you estimate you had an opportunity to observe the defendant’s face and
become familiar with it?”

“I can’t tell you in minutes or seconds. For as long as it took him to ask for an address, and for me to answer him; and for
him to threaten us with his gun and demand our valuables, and for each of us to remove our valuables and put them in the briefcase,
and for him to back away several feet and run forward again.”

“I appreciate that you can’t know the exact time lapse. But between two minutes and half an hour, which is closer?”

“Two minutes.”

“How about between two minutes and fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen. Definitely.”