Judge & Jury Page 3

  “Well, aren’t we all nice ’n’ cozy,” Cowboy crowed, tilting back his chair.

  The dealer flopped three cards: a six, an ace, and a nine. That gave Nordeshenko aces, almost surely the high hand. He bet $3,000.

  Julie hesitated, tapping her polished nails on the table. “Oh, what the hell.” She finally smiled. “It’s only the rent money, right?”

  “Well, the rent just got raised a little, darlin’,” Cowboy said, pushing in another $5,000 in chips.

  Nordeshenko looked him in the eye. This asshole was making it very difficult. What could he possibly have? He had watched him chasing cards all night.

  “What’s your ticket say, Ivan?” Cowboy fiddled with his chips. “You still on this train, or time to get off?”

  “Maybe one more station.” Nordeshenko shrugged, looking toward Julie.

  “All in,” she said, flipping her cards and pushing the balance of her chips into the pot.

  Four spades. Nordeshenko had been right. He had read her trying to make a flush. He still had high hand. And the Cowboy was bluffing.

  The dealer turned over a queen of diamonds. Nordeshenko didn’t even flinch. Now he had aces and queens.

  Julie winced. She hadn’t made her flush.

  “Well, what’ya say we just put a little more coal in the burner and see what the river brings?” Cowboy cackled loudly, pushing the rest of his chips into the center—$10,000.

  Murmurs went up from the people watching. It was clear this would be the final hand. The winner would take the entire $30,000 buy-in.

  Cowboy stared at him, not smiling now. “You stickin’ around, Ivan, or what?”

  “Miraslav,” Nordeshenko said.

  Cowboy took off his shades. “Huh?”

  “My name is Miraslav,” Nordeshenko said, meeting the bet.

  The dealer turned over his last card, the river. A deuce of hearts.

  Julie groaned.

  Nordeshenko knew his aces and queens should be a winner. He couldn’t even imagine what the asshole Cowboy had. He counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills and tossed them outside the pot as a side bet.

  Then, amazingly, Cowboy countered with a $5,000 raise of his own. Nordeshenko was stunned.

  “Ivan, still with us?” Cowboy tilted back in his chair, clucking unpleasantly.

  Nordeshenko reached in his jacket, counted out $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills, and laid them in the center of the table. This was no longer just an amusing diversion.

  “Aces and queens.” He flipped over his hole cards.

  “Oooh.” Cowboy blinked, as if stunned.

  But then he grinned. “This is gonna hurt, Ivan.”

  He flipped over his hole cards. Two more deuces. The last card had given him three. Nordeshenko felt as if he’d fallen off a cliff. The moron had been pushing the pot the whole way with just a pair of twos.

  Cowboy leaped up, ooo-eeing like a donkey, raking in his chips. Nordeshenko thought he’d like to wipe the grin off the fool’s face. But just as quickly, the irrational urge subsided.

  Not tonight. He had work to do in the morning. Important work. Whatever he had lost tonight was just a fraction of his fee.

  “You know what they say, Ivan,” Cowboy said, stacking his winnings, “sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. No hard feelings,” he said, stretching out his hand.

  Nordeshenko stood up and took it. The imbecile was right about one thing: he’d been lucky tonight. Luckier than he would ever know.

  The Israeli was going to let him live.

  Chapter 7

  IT WAS AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK that night when I finally made it back to Casa Pellisante.

  Home for me was the same rent-controlled apartment in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan on Forty-ninth and Ninth I’d lived in for the past twelve years. I had a view of the Empire State Building from my study window and could kick back on the roof after work with a cocktail, looking out on the red sunsets over Jersey City. On weekends, I could step out the front door right into the Feast of St. Ignatius or a West Indian parade, or grab a beer at an Irish bar sitting next to some Westie I once put away.

  I also had Ellen Jaffe there.

  Ellen was a hotshot anesthesiologist over at St. Vincent’s, with wavy auburn hair, a small button nose, and long, slim runner’s legs that were a joy to behold. We’d met at a clambake thrown by a friend of mine and been together for the past two years.

  Ellen was pretty, smart as a whip, and just as dedicated to her career as I was to mine. That was a problem. I worked days—and half the nights, lately, preparing the case. She was taking doctoral classes at Cornell Medical and doing her hospital rotations at night. We used to spend entire weekends together in bed. Now we could barely find a night to be in the same room and watch TV.

  She said I was fixated on Cavello, and she was probably right. I shot back that she must be having an affair with Dr. Diprovan—Diprovan being the solution of choice when putting people under these days.

  Whatever it was, it was killing me how things were sliding downhill between us. But you either fight for it or you don’t, and lately, neither of us was fighting a lot for anything.

  So I stopped at Pietro’s on the way home and picked up an order of the best amatriciana in New York—Ellen’s favorite. She didn’t work Monday nights. Let’s not call it a party, but it would be the first quality time we’d spent with each other in at least a week.

  Add to that a bouquet of sunflowers from the Korean grocer up the block. I had also left Ellen a message on the machine to set the table.

  I turned the key in the front door and saw the table in the dining alcove set for one.

  “Buonasera, signorita.”

  “Nick?” I heard Ellen call from the bedroom.

  She came out of the bedroom in her navy Burberry windbreaker and running shoes, knotting her long brown hair. Not exactly the fantasy I had in mind. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I was going to leave a note. Benson just called. They’re on overload tonight. They need me in.”

  “Diprovan again.” I sniffed, trying to hide my disappointment, placing the food and flowers on the kitchen counter. Ellen’s cat, Popeye, brushed against my leg. “Hey, Pops.”

  “I can’t help it, Nick.” Ellen’s eyes went to the flowers. She smiled, making the correct connection to a meadow in the Chianti District outside of Siena, an amorous urge we couldn’t hold back a couple of summers ago.

  “Jeez, what’d you get fired or something?”

  “Just a little carried away, I guess.”

  “No.” She shook her head and sighed as if to say, Nothing’s going right for us, lately. “Not carried away. I’m sorry, Nicky. They’re waiting on me. I can’t even put these in a vase.”

  “No sweat.” I shrugged. “Actually, they were for me.”

  Ellen had these red glasses on that I found sexy as hell for some reason. Her small breasts peeked from under a tight-fitting top. I found myself getting aroused. Foolish. Maybe it was just this momentary feeling that I was free from the anticipation of the case. Or the sense that I had to do something . . . for us. I don’t even know. As she tossed a few things in her purse, I put my hands on her shoulders.

  “Nick, I can’t. I’m AWOL.” She tensed against me. “I gotta go. Hey, I almost forgot. How’d it go today?”

  “Well.” I nodded. “We got a decent jury. Everybody’s ready. Let’s just hope Cavello and his lawyers don’t pull any fast ones.”

  “Nick, you’ve done everything humanly possible, so stop killing yourself. Manny would be proud.” She gave me a soft kiss on the cheek, not what I had in mind, but it made me smile.

  “Tell Diprovan hello.”

  “Nick . . .” Ellen shook her head, unamused. She turned back in the doorway. “I’m sorry about the dinner. It was a nice thought.” Then she looked at the sunflowers on the counter. “You’re such a romantic.”

  Chapter 8

  FOR A WHILE I just stood there. Popeye, my new dinner partner, purred again
st my leg.

  I guess, like some spurned high school kid, I was hoping that Ellen might have second thoughts and come back. I had this feeling that the weight of our relationship was suddenly hinging on a hope no stronger than that.

  But there was no sound on the stairs. No saving key in the door. I was thirty-eight, head of a major anticrime task force, a big shot in the FBI, and here I was scooping out a container of pasta meant for two—a stranger in my own home.

  The silence was suddenly orchestral.

  I went into the bedroom and took off my tie and jacket, then checked in the study for a fax. There was a long brick wall covered with bookshelves. Most of the books were from my days at school, and there were a few of Ellen’s medical texts. The desk was piled high with briefs from Cavello’s trial. On the wall there was a large framed black-and-orange banner:

  PRINCETON 1989 IVY LEAGUE FOOTBALL CHAMPS

  I had bones that still ached just thinking of those days.

  I took the pasta and some wine into the living room and sat there with my feet propped up on an old steamer trunk that acted as a coffee table. I picked up the book I’d been reading, Clinton’s My Life, and found the page where I’d left off, on the Camp David Middle East peace talks. I thought about turning on the Knicks game. After a few minutes I lifted my eyes without reading a single page.

  Did I love her? Was this going to work? Ellen was terrific, but right now we were just going in different directions. And this trial wasn’t going to help.

  Are you going to fight for this, Nicky?

  I reached for Popeye. “C’mon, you look like you could use a date.”

  I grabbed my old college alto sax from the corner and, with Popeye in hand, went up to the roof. This was where I worked it out sometimes.

  It was a cold, clear night. The stars were out over Manhattan. The Empire State Building was lit up red, white, and blue. Across the river, Jersey City might’ve been Paris, it so dazzled with lights. So I sat there, a few days before the most important trial of my life, Ellen’s cat purring at my feet, and played.

  Clarence Clemons’s riff from Springsteen’s “Jungleland.” A clunky version of Coltrane’s “Blue Train.” I came to the conclusion that there was a hole in my life, and no matter how long I put Cavello away for, I wasn’t going to fill it.

  You either fight for it or you don’t, Nick. You fought for everything. So why won’t you fight for Ellen Jaffe?

  Chapter 9

  I TOOK MY PLACE in the front of the courtroom on Monday morning. My blood was pounding. It always did on the first day of a trial, and this one was huge.

  The lawyers for both sides filled up the first two rows of the courtroom. Joel Goldenberger was the government’s lead prosecutor. He was younger than he looked, maybe thirty-three, tall, self-assured, with light, bushy hair and an agreeable smile. But inside he was a fighter, a real believer. Everyone was talking about him as a future star in the Justice Department. He had already won three well-publicized Wall Street trials.

  On the other side sat Hy Kaskel, paging through his notes. The Ferret stood no taller than five five in lifts, with short boxer’s arms, but he resembled his nickname in every way when it came to discrediting a witness. Today he wore a dark navy pinstripe suit and striped club tie, a pair of fancy gold cuff links peeking through the sleeves.

  In the front row of the gallery I saw Cavello’s family. A plump, pleasant-looking woman in a plain but tasteful suit, needlepointing away. And a grown daughter, with wavy, long blond hair, sitting loyally by her mom. Security at the courthouse was tighter than I’d ever seen it before. Hell, I was probably responsible for half of the fuss. Every bag was being opened, every juror’s pass double-checked, every press credential checked back against a photo ID. Armed cops were manning the barricades all over Foley Square.

  Cavello was being brought through an underground passageway from the Manhattan County Jail two blocks away, where he was being held in his own wing on a maximum security floor. From there, he was transported to the seventh floor in a guarded elevator.

  I only wished we had sequestered the jury. This was the biggest organized crime trial in years. But the judge wanted to make a name for herself. Miriam Seiderman had her eye on the state supreme court. She had assurances from the lawyers, from the defendant himself. She wanted the trial conducted in the open light of day.

  The door finally opened near the rear. A buzz of anticipation rippled through the air.

  Two burly-looking marshals led the defendant inside. Cavello’s hands were cuffed in front of him. He was dressed in a brown checked sports jacket and a restrained olive tie, his graying hair nicely trimmed. He didn’t look like the animal everyone was expecting. More like a normal, everyday citizen you might see riding next to you on the train.

  Cavello took a look around and nodded, as if impressed with the crowded room. The marshals took him to a chair next to his lawyer. They freed his hands. Kaskel leaned over and whispered something in Cavello’s ear that made the defendant smile. Our gazes met for a second. His eyes lit up, and he smiled again as if to say, Good to see you here, Nicky. You really think you can beat me?

  Sharon Ann Moran, the judge’s clerk, stood. “All rise.”

  Through the side door, Judge Seiderman entered the room. She was a smallish, attractive woman with graying hair, a pleasant face, and a tastefully short skirt beneath her judge’s cloak. This was the biggest case of her life, too. She took her seat behind the bench and motioned everyone down.

  “Mr. Goldenberger, is the government ready?”

  “We are, Your Honor.” The prosecutor stood and nodded.

  “Mr. Kaskel?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. The defendant is ready too, and eager to prove his innocence.” The Ferret arched his eyebrows. He looked like he was itching for a fight.

  “Then, Ms. Moran”—the judge nodded to her clerk, who headed over to the jury room—“you can bring in the jury now.”

  Chapter 10

  ANDIE DEGRASSE was fifteen minutes late that morning. That morning of all mornings. How could it have happened? Well, easy . . .

  First, Jarrod couldn’t find his math book. Then the IRT was backed up, signal switches down. Then, when she finally reached the City Hall station, the two blocks to the courthouse were barricaded off, all because of this damn trial.

  It took her fifteen minutes just to get herself through security. A heavyset female guard in a blue blazer went through her purse like it had al Qaeda emblazoned on the buckle. They checked her cell phone like it was a WMD. Finally, Andie said, “You know that big Mafia trial up on the seventh floor?” The security guard nodded. “Well, it’s not starting without me.”

  By the time she had burst through the jury-room doors, everybody was sitting around the large conference table, looking nervous and tense.

  “Sorry.” Andie sighed loudly, acknowledging a few familiar faces. “You don’t even want to know.”

  “Ms. DeGrasse,” Sharon Ann announced, checking off names, “it’s really good you could make time for us in your busy schedule.”

  Already in trouble. Andie sat down sheepishly. She found herself next to Rosella, the Hispanic woman she had been next to during jury selection.

  “That leaves only Mr. O’Flynn.” Sharon Ann looked at the list, unamused.

  A couple of men were reading or doing crosswords. Two of the women had brought paperback novels. There were bagels and muffins and coffee on the table, courtesy of the judge.

  “Here,” Rosella said, passing her the tray.

  “Thanks.” Andie smiled, delighted to shift the attention off herself. She took a muffin in a napkin. “No latte, I see.”

  There were a few chuckles. She looked toward Sharon Ann for at least a hint of a smile. The clerk was as tight as a drum this morning.

  The door swung open, and in burst John O’Flynn, red-faced and sweating profusely. “Jeez, guys, it’s like a jungle out there, a zoo. The L.I.E. at rush hour. Unbelievable.”

&n
bsp; “O’Flynn,” Sharon Ann confirmed derisively, “I was starting to think I was going to have to put out an APB on you. Nine-thirty tomorrow, Mr. O’Flynn.” Sharon Ann tapped her pencil.

  “Aye, aye, ma’am.” O’Flynn saluted. He plopped himself on a chair next to Andie.

  “Nine-thirty tomorrow?” Hector, a cable guy, groaned. “You mean this trial’s gonna last that long?”

  “Eight weeks, Mr. Ramirez,” Sharon Ann replied. “Something better you have to do for the next two months?”

  “Yeah, maybe earn a living,” the cable guy replied glumly.

  Sharon Ann went to the door. “I’m going to check on how things are going. I want to remind you to observe the judge’s instructions not to talk about the case.”

  “Sure.” Everybody nodded. It took about two seconds after the door had shut for that to change.

  “This Cavello guy”—Winston, the mechanic, still in his work clothes, looked around at the others—“I was reading up on him. Sounds like a pretty creepy dude.”

  “Murder, extortion, cramming body parts into the trunks of cars. It has a way of blocking the digestion,” chortled Marc, the crime novelist.

  Rosella put down her yarn. “My huzban’s a little scared. He said, ‘Whazzamatter, Rosie, you can’t get yourself on a nice traffic dispute for a few days? You gotta get on with this wacko mobster?’”

  “Hang on,” Andie interrupted, “you heard the judge. We don’t actually know he’s wacko yet. We have to wait until we hear the evidence to determine he’s wacko.”

  A few people laughed.

  “More to the point”—Andie looked around the table—“what about the fact that these mob guys know all our names and where we live?” A few jurors nodded, each with the same look of concern.

  The door to the courtroom opened. There was a hush. Andie had the feeling everybody’s eyes were warning her.

  Then Sharon Ann was standing there, her narrow gaze centered directly on Andie. “In my office,” she said. Her “office” was one of the two bathrooms, which the other day had been designated for private conversations.