The plea, p.28
The Plea, page 28
part #2 of Eddie Flynn Series
At least I thought it was.
Emerging from beneath Pattie’s desk, Cooch stood up, adjusted his pants, and then pointed back beneath the desk at Pattie’s computer as he whispered his instructions. Pattie nodded.
Cooch lifted a slip of paper from his jacket, removed his reading glasses from his case and put them on, then proceeded to read whatever was on the slip of paper while Pattie typed on the computer.
Pattie smiled and nodded at Cooch. He winked back at her, put a hand on her shoulder, then whispered something in her ear. She laughed. He saw me at the defense table and worked his way around the long clerk’s bench, past the prosecution table, then sat down on my right.
“All set?” I asked.
He raised his thumb.
“David, I’d like to introduce you to Cooch. He’s the latest member of your defense team.”
David got up from his seat and shook hands warmly with Cooch. As he did so, David couldn’t help but look over his new lawyer. The tie that Cooch wore was too wide to have been made this side of 1974, his shirt was yellowing slightly at the collar, but the suit fit Cooch well and was at least bought in the last ten years.
“Thank you for helping me,” said David.
“Pleasure,” said Cooch. “Eddie, can we have a moment?”
“Sure,” I said.
We took a stroll to the witness box, out of earshot.
“You’re not going to win the prelim today,” said Cooch.
“I’m not banking on it. I’ve got some ammo, but it could go either way…” I stopped talking. Cooch was shaking his head. He wasn’t referring to the evidence.
“You know who our new judge is, don’t you?” I said.
He nodded.
“Tell me it’s not Rollins,” I said.
His face creased and he nodded again, apologetically. The one thing I’d focused on in my first year in practice was learning the character of the judges. Some judges are heavier on sentencing for certain crimes. Some won’t entertain a self-defense case. Some are high on damages and some are low. Some won’t listen to a single word from a defense attorney’s mouth.
The worst of them all was Judge Rollins, a man who had just been appointed to the bench and was yet to let a defendant go out on bail for less than a five-figure bond. In the two months he’d been in office, he hadn’t dismissed a single prosecution case and gave ninety percent of the maximum sentence to every soul who was unfortunate enough to mount a defense before him.
He was building a fearsome reputation, and the word had spread fast among the defense attorneys. The result, in recent weeks, had been as the new judge had intended. Plea bargains were the order of the day. No contested charges. Every defendant pleaded guilty and the judge’s list of cases was already looking light. He’d been home early every afternoon last week, his quota for the day complete.
I needed to figure out a way to handle Rollins. If I couldn’t, the case was over before we even started.
“I’ll be back in a second. Cooch, come get me if the judge appears,” I said.
Unbuttoning my jacket, I slipped my phone from the inside pocket and began dialing before I left the courtroom.
They should’ve landed hours ago. David had tried to get ahold of the helicopter charter company that was supposed to meet Christine, Amy, and Carmel as they got off the plane, but he couldn’t get anyone in the office to answer the phone. I looked up, scanning the corridor. There was no one looking my way. Slamming my fist into the wall, I swore over and over again under my breath. I had a sensation of falling, my guts slamming into my throat, an overwhelming desire to grab on to something to stop the world from turning. Steadying myself with a palm on the door, I breathed in and out. David needed me with a cool head.
I told myself they were fine. The only thing I could do was pray that there had been some pitfall along the way—no phone signal, or maybe they lost their phones? My throat narrowed at the thought of it, and I squeezed my eyes closed in an effort to banish those thoughts.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned, a little startled.
Lester Dell held out a cell phone. With a passive look on his face, he said, “There’s a call for you. You have a major problem.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
At the corner of Dell’s eyes I detected the ghost of a smile.
I took the phone.
“Eddie,” said Christine. It felt as though I’d been hooked up to the power grid all night, and hearing her voice just pulled the plug, cut the power, and let every muscle in my body relax.
The relief lasted all of two seconds.
“Jesus Christ, what’s going on? We’ve been arrested,” said Christine.
“What?”
“They followed us from the airstrip at Remo. Two federal agents picked us up a few hours ago. The chopper took us to Grey’s Point. They must have monitored it. They were waiting for us on the road, almost ran us off the highway. This is bullshit. I thought there was a deal.”
“Hold on. Are you okay? Is Amy all right?”
“She’s pretty shook up, and so am I. They left her with Carmel when they grabbed me. I’m in a custody van, headed somewhere. I don’t know where. Can’t see out of the windows, but I think we’re headed—”
The call went dead. I turned my back to Dell, transferred the phone to my left hand, and said, “Give me a second. Stay on the line, Chrissie. Tell me if…”
Spinning on my heel, I slammed an elbow into Dell’s face, let my momentum take me full circle, and followed it up with a right cross that took him clean off his feet. Before he could react, I was on top of him, pinning his shoulders to the ground with my knees. I leaned over him and dug my fingers into his face. He bucked and kicked, but I held firm.
“You piece of shit. You had my wife picked up. My daughter was in that car. She could’ve been killed. We had a—”
Dell’s knee slammed into my back. He trapped my wrist, threw a leg over my shoulder, and pushed. As I twisted, I tried to get a hold on Dell’s ankle, my hands moving fast, scrabbling around.
But I had a better idea than simply trapping his ankle.
I let him sweep me off of him. For a guy almost twice my age, Dell’s speed surprised me, and he was up and on me in a second.
Two quick shots to my kidneys before I heard a guard hollering and Dell’s weight lifted from my chest.
“Lester Dell, federal task force commander,” he said, reaching for his badge. He held out his ID to the guard. I lifted my head and saw Big Tommy Biggs.
“That man assaulted a federal officer in the execution of his duty. You saw him. Arrest him right now,” said Dell, struggling to catch his breath.
I stretched my back, got slowly to my feet, and looked Big Tommy in the gut. His head was several feet above me. My head swam, and I half lowered myself, half fell back to the floor. I sat there, my legs stretched out in front of me, breathing hard. Craning my neck, I felt a sharp, burning pain and saw Tommy give me a nod.
“I didn’t see shit,” said Tommy, walking away.
Dell watched him go, swore, and sat down on the bench outside of court twelve.
“What do you want?” I said.
He laughed, touched his lip, and spat a little blood onto the floor. The door to the courtroom opened and a reporter stuck his head out. I waved him away with a menacing look. He closed the door.
“Your wife’s immunity agreement is in exchange for her giving evidence against Gerry Sinton and Ben Harland at their trial. In case you haven’t heard, Ben Harland is dead. Found in the East River this morning. He’s bought his ticket to immunity. Sinton is cleaning house. NYPD spoke to him this morning, and he has an alibi for the same time we know that Harland left port. Unfortunately, Sinton is only half the prize. The money is due to hit an account in Manhattan at four this afternoon in the name of Ben Harland. I’ve no idea how Sinton will access the money, but unless we catch him lifting it or transferring it to his name, we’ve got nothing on him. Could be that he’s not going after the money at all. Maybe he has enough squared away somewhere. I think this is why the final account was always in Ben Harland’s name; it’s a fail-safe position. If something goes wrong, Sinton can off Harland and lay all of the blame for the money laundering on a dead man. We have literally nothing linking the money to Gerry Sinton. So we have no choice but to go after the associates Ben Harland set up. Your wife is one of those associates.”
He coughed, spat a little more, composed himself, and leaned forward.
“The immunity agreement died with Ben Harland. But I’m going to give Christine one last shot. It’s all up to you, Eddie. David Child has lied to you. He’s a lot more involved than you think. He didn’t design that algorithm to prevent cyberattacks—he designed it to hide the money from the FBI and the Treasury Department. It’s not perfect, but it might be enough to get us a conviction. Get me my plea. He gets ten years for murder, gives evidence that Gerry Sinton ordered him to design the program to launder the money, and who knows? Maybe David will get out in five. This is your only option now. This is Christine’s only option. You’re supposed to get this boy to plead guilty, not get him off. You screw me, I screw you.”
“What about the phone I gave you? Can’t you get something from Gill’s phone that links the attempted hit on Christine to Gerry Sinton?”
“The phone was wiped remotely about an hour after you gave it to me. We’re not even sure how it was done. The FBI’s techs are scratching their heads.”
I thought of Langhiemer. If he could trace my phone in less than a minute, he could wipe a cell phone’s memory.
“Someone is framing David and helping the firm. The more I think about it, the more I see this guy being involved. I don’t know what his connection is to the firm, but he’s at the heart of this. His name is Bernard Langhiemer.”
“Who the hell is Bernard Langhiemer? Look, Eddie, this is bullshit. David killed his girlfriend. Gerry Sinton runs the firm’s wash house—that’s it. Don’t get sidetracked. This is your last chance.”
And so it came right down to it. The whole way.
David or Christine?
I couldn’t save them both. If I didn’t take this deal, the most likely outcome would be that David and Christine spent the rest of their lives in prison. The deal made sense. All I had to do was make my client plead guilty.
Slowly, I got to my feet, smoothed down my suit, and adjusted my tie.
“No deal. I told myself when I got back into practice I would do what’s right. David Child didn’t kill that girl, and I’m going to prove it.”
“Since when did you care about what’s right? You’re a defense attorney. I don’t care about charging your wife, or the other associates—I want the partners. I can’t have Ben Harland now, so I need Gerry Sinton for the whole operation.”
Dell’s phone rang.
He took the call, then hung up.
“Gerry Sinton just got into the elevator. He can’t see us together. Think about what you’re doing. Think about your wife.”
My eyes misted. I wiped them and cleared my throat.
“That’s all I ever do, Dell.”
“Be sure to tell her that. My men left Carmel and Amy where we found them. They’re out of it now. Christine’s on her way here. An hour, tops, until the custody van drops her in holding. If we don’t have a plea agreement by then, she’ll be charged with money laundering, conspiracy, fraud, everything Ben Harland avoided when he took a dip in the river. Stop friggin’ around and get me the plea. Do your goddamned job, and look after your wife,” he said. Then he got up and went back into the courtroom.
Big Tommy stood around twenty feet from me. He made sure Dell had gone, then turned away. There was nobody else in the corridor.
I took Dell’s ankle weapon from my jacket pocket, checked that the first round was chambered, tucked the Ruger LCP into the back of my pants, and followed him into court.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The tall, broad figure of Gerry Sinton framed the entrance. With my back to the still-empty judge’s bench, I stood in the central aisle, my hands in my pockets, waiting for him.
Flanked by the same squad of paralegals, Gerry strode toward me. A bright sheen of sweat covered his face. He looked like a gladiator in a three-thousand-dollar suit.
Before he took his seat in the gallery, he said, “I hope to see Christine again soon. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to discuss.”
He sat down and folded his arms. I turned and walked back to the defense table, blood roaring in my ears. I wanted to break Sinton’s neck.
Instead I sat down and opened the case files.
“David, Dell made me an offer. He says you were hired by Harland and Sinton to design the algorithm for a specific purpose: to launder their money under the guise of a security protocol. I know that’s not how it went down.”
“I didn’t know the firm’s money was dirty. The entire design is based on the premise that they are legit. If the money they brought in was dirty, then, yeah, the algo protecting the money would also clean it. But I didn’t know. I swear to you. I won’t testify that I created a program to launder money—that’s not what I did.”
“Dell’s offering ten years if you plead to this murder and testify that the firm asked you to design a digital laundry. I have to tell you, we’ve got some moves to make today, but the prosecution have a great case and we’ve pulled a really bad judge.”
I left out the part about Christine. I didn’t want to cloud the kid’s judgment. All in all, it was a great offer.
“I didn’t kill anybody. I’ve never designed anything with a criminal purpose. I won’t do it.”
If there was any doubt left, it disappeared. The guilty don’t toss away the deal of a lifetime. They grab it with both hands. Sometimes, even though it’s wrong, the innocent take the deal, too; going to trial and risking fifteen years, or pleading guilty and walking out in three; the justice game is a cold house for the innocent. I found myself admiring David; no matter what way you cut it, the kid was brave.
Dell wanted justice for Sophie’s killer. I had no doubt about that. People who go through that kind of trauma are never the same. Either they lash out at others or, like Dell, they don’t want anyone else to suffer their pain. He couldn’t let another victim lie in the dirt with their killer unpunished. Also, Dell knew that Child would never admit to a criminal intent in designing the algorithm—probably because it was the truth. Dell didn’t care—as far as he was concerned, Child was a killer and he’d given the firm the means to operate their laundry. He wanted to use David, and for that he needed to take control of his life. A guilty plea and a deal gave Dell all the control he needed to use David as a weapon against the firm. To get his weapon he was putting my wife’s life on the line.
I had to play this straight, one case at a time. Get David clear and figure out a way to bury the firm and save Christine.
“I believe you, David,” I said.
The rear doors of the courtroom opened, some hundred feet behind us. I heard another entourage entering.
“I sense a disturbance in the force,” said Cooch.
Zader hovered at the rear of the pack of assistant district attorneys, who hauled evidence boxes and folders into court. Zader looked determined. He didn’t have a phone in his hand this time. He was through playing the media for now. He needed a decision that went his way. Then he’d paste that victory over every channel, paper, blog, and magazine.
“I don’t think he’s got a sense of humor about the whole Star Wars thing,” I said.
“Good,” said Cooch.
Cooch stood and held out a hand to the DA.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Max Coucheron; call me Cooch.”
“Michael Zader,” he said, shaking Cooch’s hand.
“Oh, I know who you are. I just didn’t recognize you without the helmet.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
A hush descended on the courtroom as Judge Rollins came out of his chambers and adjusted his robes before taking his seat at the bench. There was no announcement that court was in session. Rollins had told the clerk that he didn’t want a call for silence as he came in because “the presence of my authority creates the silence.” The story spread fast, and a lot of the more senior defense attorneys made a point of loudly continuing their conversations when Rollins entered court, just to piss him off.
Not that he needed to be any more pissed off than usual.
“Now, the matter of State v. Child,” he said, surveying the courtroom and drinking in the massive media attention.
He looked at the prosecution table and nodded. “District Attorney Zader, a pleasure to have you in my courtroom.”
“Always delighted to appear on the side of justice,” said Zader.
I heard fake retching noises from some of the reporters, and a nervous, muffled round of laughter made its way around the room. Rollins ignored it completely and turned his attention to me.
He was a man close to fifty, but on the losing side. He looked to me like he was also losing the battle with his waistline. For all that extra weight, it hadn’t softened his face—he wore an angry expression below his light brown hair. He had skin the color of weak tea and dry, fat lips. Rollins had been a tax attorney before he’d applied for a judicial post. Before he became a judge, the closest he’d gotten to a criminal court was driving past the building on the way to his office.
“Mr.… er…” He said, holding out the listing notice in front of him like it was toxic.
“Flynn,” I said, making sure to stand before I addressed him.
“Flynn? I thought that Harland and Sinton were attorneys of record.”
“I am the attorney of record, and there’s been a change in second chair. Mr. Coucheron now appears,” I said.
Cooch stood and bowed with a smile.
From the distasteful look on Rollins’s face, I could tell he’d come across Cooch in his court before.
“Well, before we begin, I wanted to ask if the defendant would be willing to waive the hearing. Surely this is all just a formality, Mr. Flynn. Your client must appreciate that he wouldn’t have been arrested and charged by the police if they didn’t have enough evidence to do so.”
