Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) (26 page)

Tran looked quickly down as first Malovo’s face and then Abdullah’s appeared over the railing halfway down the ship. “You, come here, where is the rest of the workers?” she shouted.

Tran shrugged without looking up. He was trying to decide whether he should run and risk raising the alarm with the two terrorists or try to bluff his way through this, when yet another female voice rang out in the dark.

“Excuse me, but I’m looking for an old friend, Omar Abdullah. I heard he might be aboard?”

Tran glanced quickly in the direction of the voice and saw Ariadne Stupenagel marching down the dock as though late for an appointment. The guard on the dock moved quickly to intercept her, forgetting about Tran for the moment.

“What’s she doing?” Tran whispered.

“Buying us time, you old idiot,” Jojola whispered back. “Now get your butt over here before they remember you.”

Thirty minutes earlier, Ariadne Stupenagel had gone for a stroll outside of her hotel. As she expected, the man who’d been tailing her followed.

She’d first noticed him the night she’d met Jaxon and Blanchett at the bar. She and Ned had closed the place down and then tottered out toward the street at three a.m. Or at least she tottered, Blanchett was moving with his usual grace.

The cowboy had appeared to down several drinks during the course of the evening, but actually had been quietly exchanging his barely tasted cocktails with hers as she drained them. She estimated she’d had four or five times as much to drink as he had, which explained the tottering.

Blanchett had escorted her to a cab and made sure she got in the backseat. As the cab pulled away, she’d looked back to wave
good night and that’s when she spotted the young black man who’d stepped out to the curb and hailed a cab of his own. She’d noticed him earlier in the bar but thought perhaps he was watching her out of lust. So it was with a prick to her pride that she saw him turn to see where Blanchett was going before he got in his cab, and she realized that her “admirer” was actually tailing her.

Wondering if she was about to become one of the kidnapping statistics, Stupenagel told her cabbie to speed up. “Turn left at the corner and stop halfway down the block.”

When they stopped, she turned in her seat to see the other cab speed around the corner. It was obvious when her pursuer saw her as the other cab suddenly slowed, but then continued down the road until it pulled over two blocks away on the opposite side of the street.

Stupenagel didn’t want the tail to know he’d been had—better to know her enemy’s face than to have to spot his replacement—so she hopped out of the cab for a moment and pretended to be trying to place a call on her cell phone. She made a big show of not getting through—stamping back and forth on the sidewalk and signaling to her cabdriver that she would just be another moment. Finally, she’d thrown her hands up in frustration and climbed back in the cab, which she directed to her hotel, certain that her tail was following.

In the days that followed, the journalist had kept her word to Jaxon and avoided confronting Abdullah. Instead, she’d gone about her business as a reporter doing a general assignment story on Islamic fundamentalism in Trinidad. Sure that her questions and statements would get back to Abdullah—she’d been around enough spies in her life to recognize when someone was listening while pretending not to—she’d kept her inquiries unspecific and avoided using Abdullah’s name.

A liberal application of booze and flirtation had developed good sources within the national security agency and so she learned that something big was afoot. The best source—a captain who’d suggested that perhaps sometime he could visit her in New York—had
called that night to say that she might want to keep her eye on the office of the Trinidad & Tobago Dairy Products company. But first she had to get rid of the tail.

No problemo
, Stupenagel thought, as her walk took her into a commercial area that was nearly devoid of other pedestrians as night overtook the city. She’d been taking care of herself in some of the roughest places in the world for years, and now chose an alley to slip down, hesitating just enough to make sure the tail saw.

Earlier that day, she’d gone to the Bank of Trinidad and purchased several rolls of Trinidad fifty-cent coins, which she’d stuffed into a sock. Finding a dark doorway in the alley, she took the sock out of her purse and waited. It wasn’t long before she heard the quick footsteps of the young man.

As he passed her hiding place, she stepped out and swung the sock expertly into the side of his head. There was a satisfying crack and stunned grunt, followed by the man’s collapse. She dragged his body out of sight behind a row of trash cans and returned to the street, leaving the sock full of coins on a windowsill, hopefully for one of Port of Spain’s many street urchins to find.

Stupenagel had arrived at the plaza in time to see Abdullah step out of his office and begin walking toward the docks. Hanging back, she’d also seen Jojola, Tran, and a young man she didn’t know following the terrorist.

Arriving at the docks, Stupenagel found a place to hide and watch the pursued and the pursuers. She’d been surprised and excited when Nadya Malovo arrived.
I’m going to get the frickin’ Pulitzer for this,
she thought. But she had to be careful and stay out of sight; she’d had run-ins with Malovo in the past and the other woman was bound to recognize her.

She was still watching when Jojola and Tran made their way to the stern of the ship, with the Indian slipping quickly aboard while Tran hesitated. Then he’d been seen by the guard whose shouts had alerted the always suspicious Malovo. When Abdullah appeared at the rail and it looked like Tran was about to get caught, Stupenagel decided to act.

Well, Stupe,
she thought as she stepped away from her hiding place and began walking toward the ship,
you’re either going to get
the Pulitzer and a Medal of Honor for this, or you’re going to get dead.

“Excuse me,” she shouted, “but I’m looking for an old friend, Omar Abdullah. I heard he might be aboard?”

Abdullah’s eyes looked like they might bug out of his head, which would have been funny in a safer situation, but at the moment it made her sick to her stomach. She saw him turn and say something to Malovo, who gave some orders before moving out of sight.

The guard had pulled his gun and had it trained on her head as she walked toward him. “Stop there,” he demanded, “and put your purse on the ground. You are my prisoner.”

“Prisoner? I beg your pardon, my name is Ariadne Stupenagel, and I’m a reporter for the
New York Guardian
,” she said. “I’m working on a story about the Islamic revolution in Trinidad and was wondering if—”

The man grabbed her by the arm and yanked her toward the ship. “Shut up! You are to go aboard now!”

“Watch it, bub,” she retorted as the guard hustled her toward the gangplank. “These are Guccis I’m wearing. They’re worth more than you make in a year, I bet, and if I break a heel, you’re getting the bill.”

After the woman was taken aboard the ship, which had then quickly left port, Yasin Salim stepped out of the shadows.

It was true that he hated the radical Islamists, but he was no friend of the West, either. He was a dedicated socialist, who worked secretly for the Russian secret service.

Salim had received no direct orders to interfere with the Americans tracking Abdullah. Just watch and report back to the Russian ambassador in Port of Spain. However, as the general strategy of Moscow was to encourage strife between the West and Islam in the Caribbean, he felt good about what he did next. He took three running steps in the direction of the harbor and then threw Tran’s cell phone as far out into the water as he could.

“T
HE
P
EOPLE CALL
F
RANK
C
ARDAMONE.”

As Karp stood in front of the prosecution desk and waited for his witness to appear, he turned toward the jury and smiled slightly to let them know he appreciated their patience. His expression didn’t change, but he was pleased to see them smile back, or nod, waiting expectantly for him to begin.

Just into the afternoon session of the first day of the Maplethorpe trial, Karp was pleased with the composition—and attentiveness—of the jury. There were seven women, five men—four black, six white, an Asian, and a Puerto Rican—sitting in the jury box with the four alternates seated alongside. But gender and race were not what had mattered to him the week before when he was selecting the jurors.

When Katz asked him what he was looking for in this particular jury, he’d replied, “
The retail shop–owner, small-business types.”
He didn’t want philosophers or advocates or “big picture” sorts of people; he needed people who got by in life by being careful with the details. They counted nickels and dimes, believed in hard work, and didn’t fall for get-rich-quick schemes.
“And they see through bullshitters the minute they walk in the door.”

Anytime somebody enters a small business in New York City,
he told Katz,
“that shopkeeper has two thoughts going through her head. ‘Is this person here to buy something, or is he going to rape, rob, and kill me?’ They’re constantly reading other people, and they know when someone is sincere, or someone is lying to them. If the defense has a righteous case, they see it, but if someone is feeding them the Big Lie, they’ll see that as well. But it’s a two-way street—we have to read them, too, and see how they’re reacting, and understand where they’re coming from. Most important, are they comfortable with me as the representative of the People?”

Karp said that the essential point was that the jurors would evaluate the demeanor of all the witnesses giving testimony. “And that’s something you cannot learn from reading the record. Appellate courts won’t see it, either. But demeanor evidence—does the witness appear to be telling the truth?—would be very important.”

The doors at the back of the courtroom opened and Detective Frank Cardamone entered. The detective reminded Karp of a terrier with his square head, craggy features, and the set of his jaw, and now he looked over the crowd in the courtroom as though he’d like to take a bite out of several of them. Especially the press.

During their strategy sessions, Karp and Katz had discussed the merits of whether to start with the concierge, Hilario “Harry” Gianneschi, or Cardamone, the detective in charge of the case. There was something to be said for either strategy, but in the end, Karp had decided on the detective.

There were facts that he wanted to establish with Cardamone that would then resonate when Gianneschi took the stand. And he thought the concierge’s testimony would have more impact when it came immediately after Carmina Salinas’s appearance.
Especially the puzzle piece that Stewbie found before he was murdered
, Karp thought.

Cardamone fit right into his plan to keep the prosecution case on a strict diet. He planned to call the detective as his sole law enforcement witness for the crime scene and subsequent investigation.

During the first trial, Stewart Reed had carefully reconstructed the crime scene and detailed the forensic evidence found there by
calling to the stand a dozen witnesses—from the first officers on the scene, to the paramedics, to each of the crime scene investigation specialists, to the detectives assigned to the case, including Cardamone. Some of them had spent less time on the stand than it had taken to call them, swear them in, and hear them recite their credentials.

It was a classic way to handle such a case. Leave no stone unturned. Assemble an army to counter the defense’s army with victory going to the last man standing.
“But it played to Leonard’s strengths and strategy,”
Karp said to Katz,
“by adding to the confusion. This is a simple, straightforward case, which we can make abundantly clear by emphasizing that this was a simple, straightforward crime scene in the eyes of a simple, straightforward detective like Frank.”

Cardamone was a twenty-three-year veteran, a no-nonsense cop whether he was on the streets or sitting on the witness stand. While some police officers and detectives made it a point of trying to “win over” a jury, sometimes with disastrous results, Cardamone played it straight. He could have been the role model for the television detective played by Jack Webb on
Dragnet
, with his just-the-facts-ma’am demeanor. And Karp thought he was perfect for this trial—clear, concise, and unflappable during cross-examination.

Karp fed Cardamone the questions and then stepped back to let the detective state the facts in his concise, unemotional style. Cardamone testified that when he arrived at the scene at the Poliziano Fiera Hotel it had already been secured by the first officers, who’d made sure that nothing was touched or changed. A crime scene photographer was already working, taking photographs “that later comported with my evaluation of the scene when I arrived.”

Karp handed Cardamone six crime scene photographs placed inside a three-ring binder. “Are People’s Exhibits One through Six, previously marked for identification, some of those photos?”

The detective leafed through the binder carefully and then nodded his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Do these photos fairly and accurately represent the scene inside the defendant’s apartment as you observed it when you first arrived there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Honor, I ask that People’s Exhibits One through Six now be admitted into evidence,” Karp said. He held up a folder of the same photographs.

“Objection,” Leonard said. “There is no reason to submit…what? Six, eight, ten photographs? Many of which depict the same thing, just at different angles, particularly of the deceased’s body. The number and graphic nature of these photographs is intended only to inflame the jury’s emotions.”

“Overruled,” Rosenmayer replied without waiting for Karp. “We’ve already been over this pretrial, Counselor, and pared the number down to this. Let’s not waste the jury’s time by arguing points that have previously been decided; your objection has already been preserved in the record, so let’s continue with no further delay.”

Couldn’t have said it better,
Karp thought as he looked back up at Cardamone. “Detective, please describe for the jury what appears in People’s Exhibit One.”

“This is a photograph of the deceased, looking at her pretty much head-on. As you can see, she is sitting in a large, floral-print chair,” the detective said.

The photograph wasn’t for the squeamish. Gail Perez sat with her legs akimbo, her arms dangling lifelessly, her head turned slightly to the left, which actually hid the large exit wound on the back left side of her skull.

“Detective, would you please describe what the deceased is wearing,” Karp said.

“Well, for starters, she has the strap of a purse around her left shoulder with the purse sitting on her lap.”

“As if she intended to leave?”

“Objection!” Leonard came out of his seat with a scowl. “Calls for speculation. Neither the district attorney nor the witness has any idea of whether Miss Perez is coming, going, or just liked to keep a grip on her purse.”

“Sustained.”

Karp nodded. “Okay, she is sitting in a chair with a purse on her lap, the strap around her shoulder.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Does she appear to be in any state of undress?”

“Objection! What does that matter and how would the witness know?”

Karp shrugged. “It matters because in his opening statement Mr. Leonard speculated that there was quote ‘a romantic reason’ for Miss Perez’s presence in the apartment. I was inquiring if the detective noted what might potentially be evidence to indicate that was true. And as to how the detective would know…I’d guess some sort of physical appearance of her clothing—buttons undone, an unclosed zipper—might lend itself to that theory.”

“Overruled.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Karp replied. “Detective, would you please answer the question. Does it appear that Miss Perez is in any state of undress that you can see?”

“No.”

“No buttons undone? No unclosed zipper? Bra remained fastened?”

“No. No. And yes.”

“Is she wearing shoes?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of shoes?”

“They appear to be…I don’t know, I guess you’d call them high heels?”

“So she isn’t sitting there, a button or two undone, her shoes kicked off…”

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

“No, she appears to be completely dressed and is wearing her shoes.”

Karp held up Exhibit 2.

“This is a photograph of the deceased from her left side,” the detective responded. “The exit wound—that large, bloody area toward the back left of her skull—can be seen.”

“And what about Exhibit Three, this photo?”

“A close-up of the side of the deceased’s face, the wound clearly visible.”

“Detective, have you seen the ballistics report for this case?”

“Yes. I’ve studied it thoroughly.”

“What can you tell us about the trajectory of the bullet?”

“The gun was discharged with the barrel inside the mouth of the deceased. The bullet traveled slightly downward from a roughly central position toward the back left side of the deceased’s head.”

“And what caliber was this gun?”

“A .45.”

“Did investigators recover the weapon?”

“Yes. According to a witness, the defendant was holding—”

“Objection! Is this witness going to be testifying for all the other witnesses, including putting words in their mouths?”

“Sustained.”

Karp shrugged. “I’ll ask that in a different way. Detective, where was the gun found when police officers took possession of it?”

“It had been placed on the kitchen counter inside the defendant’s apartment.”

“Was this any particular sort of .45?”

“Yes. A .45 caliber Peacemaker…what the general public might think of as a cowboy’s gun from the Old West.”

“The sort of gun the cowboys and sheriffs and bad guys have in their holsters in Western movies?”

“That’s correct.”

Karp held up another photograph, People’s Exhibit 4. “Would you describe what we’re seeing here?”

“Yes,” the detective responded. “This photograph was taken from behind the deceased. As you can see, there is a lot of blood that has sprayed somewhat forward and to the young woman’s left.”

“And this photograph, Exhibit Five?”

“A wall some five feet behind the deceased. The stain on the wall is from blood and brain tissue.”

“Was the bullet located?”

“Yes, it was in the wall.”

Karp allowed himself to look puzzled. “Detective, can you explain to the jury how it is that there’s blood behind, as well as slightly to the front and left of the deceased?”

“Well, yes,” Cardamone replied. “The force of the bullet blew a
hole in the back of her skull, carrying blood and other tissue with it. However, in passing from front to back it also struck major blood vessels in the back of her throat, causing the deceased to hemorrhage blood forward out of her mouth in the direction her head was turned.”

“So her head would have been turning toward the left as the gun discharged?”

“That’s correct.”

“So the gun goes into her mouth, it discharges, the bullet travels from the center toward the back left side of her skull, which it exits and enters the wall, her head jerks or turns toward the left, and blood hemorrhages out.”

“That’s pretty much it, yes.”

Karp had one more, seemingly innocuous question about a wide-angle photograph, Exhibit 6, that showed most of the death scene—Gail Perez slumped like a life-size doll in the chair, a large stain of blood to her left, an end table on her right.

“Detective, if I can ask you to turn your attention to the table next to Miss Perez,” Karp began, “it appears that there is a framed photograph on the table. Do you recall seeing it?”

As he asked his question, Karp turned so that he could see Maplethorpe’s reaction, which was to blanch and ball his hands, which had been resting on the table, into fists.

“I remember seeing it,” the detective said. “I believe that it was a photograph of the defendant when he was a boy standing with his mother.”

“Do you remember anything else about it?” Karp asked.

“Objection,” Leonard said. “I don’t see the point of this. Are we going to discuss the artwork on the walls as well?”

“Mr. Karp?” the judge asked, clearly puzzled himself.

“Just trying to be thorough, Your Honor, but I’ll move on.”

Karp turned to Cardamone and asked, “When officers responded to the scene, what was the defendant wearing?”

“He was wearing a button-down shirt and blue jeans.”

“And during a search of the apartment, did you and your fellow officers discover a smoking jacket?”

“Yes.”

“What, if anything, did you observe on the smoking jacket?”

“There were bloodstains on the right sleeve.”

“And where was this bloodstained smoking jacket found?”

“Objection! Your Honor, may we approach the bench?” Leonard asked.

“Certainly,” Rosenmayer replied without much enthusiasm, though he gestured to the area in front of him.

When Karp joined him, Leonard whispered angrily, “Mr. Karp is asking this question in order to elicit a response, the sole purpose of which is to insinuate that my client intended to hide something, when the truth of the matter is that in a state of shock, he saw the blood, was appalled, took it off, and tossed it. He wasn’t trying to hide anything, but if Mr. Karp is allowed to ask this question, that’s what it will look like.”

“If I remember correctly from the first trial, the smoking jacket landed under the bed,” the judge replied. He then turned to Karp. “So what’s your response to Mr. Leonard’s assertions?”