Judge & Jury Page 2

  Nordeshenko smiled. He understood what the boy was feeling. He had studied how to seize the advantage his whole life. Chess was hard. Solitary. Like playing an instrument. Scales, drills, practice. Until every eventuality became absorbed, memorized. Until you didn’t have to think.

  A little like learning to kill a man with your bare hands.

  But poker, poker was liberating. Alive. Unlike in chess, you never played the same way twice. You broke the rules. It required an unusual combination: discipline and risk.

  Suddenly, the chime of Nordeshenko’s mobile phone cut in. He was expecting the call. “We’ll pick it up in a moment,” Nordeshenko said to Pavel.

  “But, Father,” the boy whined, disappointed.

  “In a moment,” Nordeshenko said again, picking up his son by the armpits, spanking him lightly on his way. “I have to take this call. Not another word.”

  “Okay.”

  Nordeshenko walked out to the terrace overlooking the sea and flipped open the phone. Only a handful of people in the world had this number. He settled into a chaise.

  “This is Nordeshenko.”

  “I’m calling for Dominic Cavello,” the caller said. “He has a job for you.”

  “Dominic Cavello? Cavello is in jail and awaiting trial,” Nordeshenko said. “And I have many jobs to consider.”

  “Not like this one,” the caller said. “The Godfather has requested only you. Name your price.”

  Chapter 2

  New York City. Four months later.

  ALL ANDIE DEGRASSE KNEW was that the large, wood-paneled room was crowded as shit—with lawyers, marshals, reporters—and that she’d never been anywhere she wanted to get the hell out of more.

  But it was the same for the other fifty-odd people in the jury pool, Andie was quite sure.

  Jury duty—those words were like influenza to her. Cold sore. She had been told to report at 9:00 a.m. to the federal courthouse in Foley Square. There she filled out the forms, polished her excuses, and killed an hour leafing through Parenting magazine.

  Then, at about eleven thirty, her name was called by a bailiff, and she was herded into a line of other unfortunate people with unsure, disappointed faces and up to the large courtroom on the seventh floor.

  She looked around, trying to size up the rest of the fidgeting, kibitzing group squeezed into the bull pen. This was definitely not where she wanted to be.

  The scene was like a snapshot taken on the number 4 Lexington Avenue train. People in work uniforms—electricians, mechanics—blacks, Hispanics, a Hasid in a skullcap, each trying to convince the person on either side that he or she didn’t belong there. A couple of well-to-do types in business suits were punching their BlackBerries, demonstrating in the clearest possible way that they had something far more important to do with their time.

  Those were the ones Andie had to worry about, and she regarded them warily—the prospective jurors who had their time-tested, A-number-1 alibis honed and ready to go. Bosses’ letters. Partners’ meetings. Travel schedules, deals going down. A cruise to Bermuda that was already fully paid.

  Of course, Andie hadn’t exactly come empty-handed.

  She had put on her tight red T-shirt with the words DO NOT DISTURB emblazoned across the chest. It was the tackiest thing she owned, but we weren’t talking fashionista here.

  We were talking adios—excused. Even if it was on the grounds of being thought an airhead or a bimbo.

  Then there was the single-mother thing. That was legit. Jarrod was nine, and he was her best buddy as well as her biggest handful these days. Who would pick him up from school, answer his questions, help him with his homework, if she couldn’t be there for him?

  Finally, there were her auditions. Her agent at William Morris had scheduled two for this week alone.

  To amuse herself, Andie counted the faces of people who looked intelligent and open-minded and didn’t seem to be conveying they had somewhere else to go. She stopped when she got to twenty. That felt good. They only needed twelve, right?

  Next to her, a heavyset Hispanic woman knitting a pink baby’s sweater leaned over. “Sorry, but jou know what kinda trial dis is?”

  “No.” Andie shrugged, glancing around at the security. “But from the looks of it, it’s something big. You see those guys? They’re reporters. And did you notice the barricades outside and those cops milling around? More uniforms in this place than in an NYPD Blue wardrobe closet.”

  The woman smiled. “Rosella,” she said amiably.

  “I’m Andie,” Andie said, extending her hand.

  “So, Andie, how jou get on dis jury, anyway, jou know?”

  Andie squinted at her as if she hadn’t heard right. “You want to get picked?”

  “Sure. My huzban say you get forty dollars a day, plus train fare. The woman I work for, she pay me whichever way. So why not take the cash?”

  Andie smiled and shrugged wistfully. “Why not?”

  The judge’s clerk came in, a woman with black glasses and a pinched, officious face, like an old-time schoolmarm. “All rise for Judge Miriam Seiderman.”

  Everyone pushed themselves out of their seats.

  “So, Rosella, you want to know how to get on this thing?” Andie leaned over and whispered to her neighbor as an attractive woman of around fifty, with touches of gray in her hair, entered the courtroom and stepped up to the bench.

  “Sure.”

  “Just watch.” Andie nudged her. “Whatever I do, do the opposite.”

  Chapter 3

  JUDGE SEIDERMAN STARTED OUT by asking each of them a few questions. Name and address. What you did for a living. Whether you were single or married, and if you were, if you had kids. Highest level of education. What newspapers and magazines you read. If anyone in your family ever worked for the government or for the police.

  Andie glanced at the clock. This was going to take hours.

  A few of them got excused immediately. One woman announced she was a lawyer. The judge asked her to come up to the side of the bench. They chatted a few seconds, and she let her go. Another man complained that he’d just served on a jury up in Westchester. He’d only finished up last week. He got a pink slip, too.

  Some other guy who was actually half cute announced he was a crime novelist. In fact, another woman in the jury pool held up his book. She was reading it! After he finished up, Andie heard him snicker, “I don’t have a prayer of ending up on this thing.”

  Then, Judge Seiderman nodded Andie’s way.

  “Andie DeGrasse,” Andie replied. “I live at 855 West One eighty-third Street, in the Bronx. I’m an actress.”

  A few people looked back at her. They always did. “Well, I try to be,” she said, qualifying. “Mostly I do proofreading for The Westsider. It’s a community newspaper in upper Manhattan. And regarding the other question, I was, Your Honor, for five years.”

  “Was what, Ms. DeGrasse?” The judge peered over her glasses.

  “Married. The nuclear option, if you know what I mean.” A couple of people chuckled. “Except for my son. Jarrod. He’s nine. He’s basically a full-time occupation for me now.”

  “Please continue, Ms. DeGrasse,” the judge said.

  “Let’s see. I went to St. John’s for a couple of years.” What Andie really wanted to convey was, You know, Your Honor, I dropped out in the fourth grade, and I don’t even know what exculpatory evidence means.

  “And let’s see, I read Vogue and Cosmo and, oh yeah, Mensa. Charter member. I definitely try and keep up with that one.”

  A few more chuckles rippled around the courtroom. Keep it going, she said to herself. Push out the chest. You’re almost off this thing.

  “And regarding the police”—she thought for a second—“none in the family. But I dated a few.”

  Judge Seiderman smiled, shaking her head. “Just one more question. Do you have any reason or experience that would prejudice you against Italian Americans? Or render you unable to reach an impartial verdict if you served on this trial?”

  “Well, I once played a role in The Sopranos,” she replied. “It was the one when Tony whacks that guy up at Meadow’s school. I was in the club.”

  “The club?” Judge Seiderman blinked back, starting to grow short.

  “The Bada Bing, Your Honor.” Andie shrugged sheepishly. “I was dancing on one of the poles.”

  “That was you?” a Latino guy cracked from the first row. Now a lot of people were laughing around the courtroom.

  “Thank you, Ms. DeGrasse.” Judge Seiderman suppressed a smile. “We’ll all be sure to check out the reruns when they come around.”

  The judge moved on to Rosella. Andie was feeling pretty confident she had done her job. She felt a little guilty, but she just couldn’t be on this jury.

  Now, Rosella was perfect. A juror’s dream. She’d cleaned house for the same woman for twenty years. She’d just become an American citizen. She wanted to serve because it was her duty. She was knitting a sweater for her granddaughter. Oh, you’re a lock. Andie grinned to herself. Rosella hit every question out of the park. She was like a juror commercial!

  At last the judge said she had just one question for the jury at large. Andie’s eye checked the clock. One fifteen. If she was lucky, she could still catch the Broadway number 1 and pick Jarrod up at school on time.

  Judge Seiderman leaned toward them. “Do any of you know the name, or have you been associated with in any way, Dominic Cavello?”

  Andie turned toward the stolid, gray-haired man seated in the third row of the courtroom. So that’s who that was. A few people murmured. She glanced at Rosella, a little sympathetic now.

  These people were in for one scary ride.

  Chapter 4

  I WAS SITTING in the second row, not fa
r from the judge, during the jury questioning. Security marshals lined the walls, ready to go into action if Cavello so much as scratched his nose. Most of the marshals knew I was the one who had taken Cavello down and that this case was personal for me.

  It was driving me crazy waiting to have the opening arguments begin, to have the first witness take the stand.

  We got Miriam Seiderman as the judge. I’d had her on trials twice before, and she always seemed to bend for the defendants. But she was thorough, fair, ran a tight court. We could have done a lot worse.

  I was thinking this looked like a pretty decent pool of jurors. A couple of them were downright entertaining.

  There was a Verizon guy with a New England accent who said he had three town houses in Brooklyn he’d fixed up and that he was bagging the phone company job anyway, so he could care less how long the trial ran.

  And a crime novelist who someone in the jury pool recognized. In fact, she was actually reading his book.

  Then the woman in the third row. The actress and single mom. She was feisty and cute, with thick brown hair with reddish streaks in it. There was some writing on her T-shirt—DO NOT DISTURB. Kind of funny.

  Once or twice, Cavello glanced back at me. But most of the time he just sat there, hands joined, staring straight ahead.

  A couple of times, our eyes met. How ya doin’, Nicky, his smile seemed to say, like he didn’t have a worry in the world, a guy about to go away for life.

  Every once in a while he huddled with his attorney, Hy Kaskel. The Ferret, he was called. Not just because he made a living representing these bums, but because he was short and barrel-chested, with a hanging nose, a pointy chin, and thick, bushy eyebrows you could brush your shoes with.

  Kaskel was a showman, though, among the best there was at his job. The Ferret had gotten two mistrials and an acquittal in his last three mob trials. He and his team just sat there sizing up each juror on a large poster board, taking notes. The Verizon guy. The MBA. The author.

  I glanced up at the actress again. I was pretty sure she thought she was out of here. But sometimes that’s what you need on a jury, someone who can cut through the bullshit, break the ice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Sharon Ann Moran, the judge’s clerk, got everyone’s attention. The defense and the prosecution had finalized their selections.

  I was thinking, just give me twelve jurors smart enough to see through the bluster and bullshit, twelve jurors who won’t be intimidated.

  One by one, the judge announced the names. Twelve jurors and six alternates. She told them to come up and take a seat in the jury box.

  The crime writer was in. Shocked. So was the Verizon guy. And the Hispanic housekeeper, the one who was knitting for her granddaughter.

  But the biggest surprise was the actress. She was in, too! I never saw anyone so stunned. I think everyone in the courtroom was holding back a smile.

  “Ms. DeGrasse, Juror Number Eleven, you can take a seat in the jury box,” the judge told her, amused herself. “You got the part, dear.”

  Chapter 5

  THE GLASS ELEVATOR of the Marriott Marquis rose higher and higher above Times Square. Richard Nordeshenko watched the glittery bustle of the street grow distant and small below. Good riddance.

  “First time to the Marriott, Mr. Kaminsky?” a chatty, red-capped bellhop asked as the elevator rushed them to the forty-second floor.

  “Yes,” Nordeshenko lied.

  Truth was, he had made the rounds of all the fancy hotels near Times Square. The area held a particular attraction for him. Not the lights or the nocturnal amusements, in which he took no part. It was the crowds. In the event something went wrong, all he had to do was duck into the throng any time of day or night.

  “Kiev, right?” The bellhop grinned at him. It wasn’t a question, more like a statement of fact. “You’re from the Ukraine, right? Your accent. It’s sort of a game with me. Twenty floors, that’s usually all I need.”

  “Sorry.” Nordeshenko shook his head. “Czech.” Inside, he was angry with himself. The chatty bellhop had nailed him. Maybe it was just the jet lag, but he had let down his guard.

  The elevator opened, and the bellhop motioned Nordeshenko down the hall. “Close.” He smiled, with a shrug of apology. “But—what is it you say here?—no cigar.”

  He’d been traveling for eighteen hours straight, stopping in Amsterdam on a Dutch passport, then in Miami on a business visa to the States. On the flight, he had put on Chopin and Thelonious Monk to relax, and had beaten a chess program on his computer on level eight. That made the voyage bearable.

  That and the comfort of the first-class seats on Dominic Cavello’s account.

  “Room 4223 has a wonderful view of Times Square, Mr. Kaminsky.” The bellhop opened the door to his room. “We got the View restaurant and lounge. Your gourmet Renaissance restaurant on the mezzanine. My name’s Otis, by the way, if you need anything during your stay.”

  “Thank you, Otis.” Nordeshenko smiled. He pulled out a bill. He pressed it into the bellhop’s hand. Otis had fingered him, reminded him he could not be too careful.

  “Thank you.” The bellhop’s eyes lit up. “Any sort of entertainment you need, you just let me know. The bar upstairs stays active until about two. I know some places that open up after that, if that’s what you like. The city that never sleeps, right?”

  “Velk´y jablko.” Nordeshenko replied in perfect Czech.

  “Vel-k´y jab-lko?” The bellhop squinted.

  “The Big Apple.” Nordeshenko winked.

  Otis laughed and pointed at him, closing the door. Nordeshenko laid his briefcase on the bed. He took out his computer. He had people to contact and things to set up. In the morning it would be all work.

  But in the meantime, the bellhop wasn’t too far off about something else.

  He did have his own brand of entertainment planned for tonight.

  Tonight, he was going to play poker—with Dominic Cavello’s money.

  Chapter 6

  “YOUR ANTE.” The dealer nodded toward him, and Nordeshenko tossed a fresh hundred-dollar chip into the center of the table.

  He was in a fashionable poker club in a town house on the upper East Side. The large room had a high, coffered ceiling and tall palladian windows with embroidered gold drapes drawn. All types seemed to be there. Attractive women in evening gowns, amusing themselves at the small-stakes table. The usual gambler types in dark glasses who seemed to be playing for everything they were worth.

  It was well after one in the morning, and the four tables were still going strong.

  Nordeshenko sipped a Stoli martini as the dealer dealt him two downward cards. He was playing in what they called a freeze-out. A $3,000 buy-in had bought him $10,000 in chips. Winner takes all.

  At ten o’clock there had been eight around the table. Now it was down to three: Nordeshenko; Julie, an attractive woman with straight blond hair in a tight-fitting pantsuit; and someone Nordeshenko had nicknamed “Cowboy,” an annoying, finger-tapping fool in a Western hat and aviator shades who, hearing Nordeshenko’s accent, insisted on calling him Ivan.

  Nordeshenko had been patiently waiting to find himself alone with him in a hand all night.

  He peeked at his hole cards. An ace and a queen, on suit. He felt his blood perk up a bit. When the betting came to him, he tossed in a $500 chip.

  Before, when Nordeshenko had come to New York, he would go to a Russian club in Brooklyn and play chess, sometimes for a thousand dollars a game. He could hold his own, but he soon developed a bit of a reputation, and that brought attention to him—and attention was always unwanted. Now poker was his thing.

  Julie, who had the fewest chips at the table and was playing cautiously, called, but Cowboy, rubbing his palms together, pushed a stack of ten greens to the center of the table. “Sorry, sweet pea, but these cards just won’t let me sit still.”

  Nordeshenko held an image of what it might be like to spear this buffoon through the windpipe, which he could do with a sharp thrust of his hand. He thought about raising back, the cards warranted it, but elected, as did the blonde, just to call.