Frame-Up (32 page)

The entire room was in a cautiously jubilant mood — even the professor. The gentleman had been caged. The local Amsterdam, police, acting together with members of Interpol, were holding him in custody under maximum security.

The raid on the coffeehouse had been carefully arranged by the U.S. attorney and Billy Coyne with the willing, in fact, eager cooperation of the Amsterdam and Interpol authorities, who recognized an opportunity when it dropped into their laps. The “gentleman” and his scourge of praying mantises were as well known to them as he was anonymous in the United States. The indictment obtained by
the U.S. attorney through the testimony of Professor Samnov was the basis for beginning extradition proceedings.

Billy had been on the other end of the cell phone connection I kept open during my conversation in the coffeehouse. When I hit the numbered key on the cell phone, Billy gave the word to the combined Amsterdam and Interpol officers to launch the raid.

Billy was, typically, a ball of curiosity for details.

“What the hell was that loud noise? It sounded like you dropped your teeth.”

I explained that I seriously doubted that the gentleman would just walk in and sit down at the table as ordered. On the other hand, I was sure he'd show up. He wouldn't risk losing the painting. That's why I had to be sure the man I was speaking to was the gentleman himself.

“When I complimented him and Professor Samnov on speaking English without an accent, I got an answer. He accepted the compliment, and even explained it as an international education. The fact is — and Professor Samnov, please forgive me — you have a Russian accent that you could cut with a knife. Linguistics is not your forte. The real so-called gentleman would have known that.”

Billy, always the realist, put my thin theory to the test. “Suppose he had just decided to accept a compliment? Maybe he even thought that he and the professor had no accent. Maybe he'd never heard the professor speak English.”

“All possible. That's why I put it to the real test. That clunk you heard was a ring the size of pipe bowl. It was a mass of silver in the shape of a wolf. I took it off the hand of the assassin, Lupov, in New Hampshire. I dropped it on the table to see his reaction. Absolutely none. It could, in fact, have been my teeth as far as he was concerned.

“Then I ‘accidentally' sent it rolling down the floor. The old man in work clothes at the other table fixed on it like the Hope Diamond. I was certain that he recognized it. The stunned look on his face told me he knew where it came from. I was sure he was the so-called gentleman, but Professor Samnov can give a positive identification at the extradition hearing.”

My next move was to pick up Terry at Judy Olanski's and drive her home to Winthrop. She looked a little frazzled herself, which, considering the more unusual aspects of our dating history, is to say that she was bearing up amazingly well.

I left her with a kiss and a promise that somewhere in our future there would be a date of the type that normal people enjoy. I'm not sure she believed it, but she seemed pleased with the prospect.

Before we went our separate ways from the gathering at the U. S. attorney's office, Mr. Devlin and I got a chance to huddle on a game plan. He told me that Judge Gafni, the assigned judge in the trial of Peter Santangelo, had called a pretrial conference for ten o'clock the following morning. We both predicted that the focus of the conference would be to set a trial date, with Judge Gafni probably pushing both sides for the earliest date that both sides could manage.

So far, our entire defense amounted to putting Peter on the stand to deny everything with a sincere look on his face, and Mr. Devlin's disemboweling the credibility of Three-finger Simone, the prosecution's witness who claimed that Peter had hired him to accomplish the bombing of John McKedrick.

That may sound like more than nothing, but that's just what it was — barely more than nothing, particularly having a defendant who was the son of the man the jury knew as the Godfather.

I had a burning curiosity about John McKedrick's doings the week before that Friday bombing. Terry was of little help since the relationship between her and John had been, thank God, far more superficial than I had first imagined.

I decided, with reluctance, to try a tender source. I called John's parents at their new home. Their phone number had been changed, and when I reached John's father at the new number, he gave me directions to their new home with a lot less enthusiasm than I remembered in the past.

Their old address was in a working-class neighborhood in
Southie. The new address was several notches more upscale in a professional section of Brookline. It was not Beacon Hill, but it was a definite upgrade.

John's mother and father invited me into their living room. In all the years I'd known them, I had never once sat in their living room. We'd always gathered over coffee or beer at the kitchen table.

After condolences were offered and received, I got down to business. “Did you have a chance to see John that week before the ‘accident.' ”

I noticed people still felt more comfortable with that word. John's mother started to speak, but his father took the lead.

“No. John called to say he was very busy that week. He usually came to dinner on Wednesdays, but not that week.”

“Did he say what he was busy with?”

Again his mother opened her mouth, but the words came from his father.

“No. Just work.”

“Other than busy, did he seem unusual in any way?”

They looked at each other. His mother got a word in. “Like how, Michael?”

“Anything at all unusual. Nervous, worried, rushed?”

His father took back the floor. “John was always rushed.”

I was sorry I'd thrown that last word in. It gave him an easy out. And so it went. We sipped tea — which in itself was a strange shift — while I threw pitches at which neither of them seemed inclined to swing.

I was finally willing to admit to myself that I was drilling a dry well. I stood up to leave. At that point, I decided to ignore sensibilities and salvage something out of the trip.

“I can't help noticing that you've moved to a much nicer neighborhood. If you don't mind my asking, did John leave you money in his will?”

As soon as the words were out, I sensed an even tighter stiffening. The temperature went from a slight chill to frost warnings. The question was so indelicate that I hated myself for asking it, but I
reminded myself that the rest of our client's life was hanging on a threadbare defense.

They locked on each other's eyes. John's mother withdrew into a concrete shell, and his father barely got out the word. “Yes.”

I wondered about the amount, but clearly it was substantial, and asking the exact dollar figure would be less likely to get me an amount than a clipped change of subject.

So that was it. I took my leave without kisses or handshakes, and went home for what, under the circumstances, passed for a night's sleep.

The next morning, Mr. Devlin and I walked into Judge Gafni's chambers for the pretrial at ten a.m. The First Lady of Prosecution, Angela Lamb, was already there and seated in her smartly tailored, dark pin-stripe pantsuit.

We took two of the other chairs in front of the judge, and moments later, Billy Coyne walked in. He passed between us and the desk with his back to the judge. As he passed Mr. Devlin, he dropped the unopened envelope with the letter to the witness, Simone, from Tony Aiello onto Mr. Devlin's lap and mouthed the words, “I can't.”

We both understood. It could be anything from a bribe to intimidation of a witness, and Billy would be the unwitting aider and abettor if he delivered it. The whole show escaped the notice of Angela Lamb, who was beaming her most confident smile at the judge.

Judge Gafni, facing a full day's docket, cut directly to the core. “Counsel, we're here to set a trial date. I'll just say this. It's not even general knowledge that the defendant is still alive after an attempt on his life his first night in prison. Every minute he spends in lockup is a test of the security of the system. I want this trial to begin as soon as possible. Miss Lamb?”

“We could begin tomorrow, Your Honor. We've been ready since the indictment came down.”

I suppose that that could have been said without smarminess — but not by Ms. Lamb.

Mr. Devlin spoke quietly and sincerely. “Judge Gafni, I don't
think in forty years at the bar I've ever delayed the court's proceedings.”

“That is not only your reputation, but also my experience, Mr. Devlin.”

“Thank you, Judge. With that as a prologue, I'm going to ask the court for three weeks. This is a far more complicated case than it seems on the surface. Our interest in Peter Santangelo's life is also paramount. But I also have to be concerned with where he'll spend the rest of his life after the trial. May I say on my honor that we need three weeks to accomplish justice here.”

The Judge nodded at Angela.

“Judge, I've heard arguments based on law, on precedents, and on facts. I have never heard a credible legal argument based on ‘honor.' ”

Judge Gafni turned his chair to face Angela directly.

“That's a pity, Miss Lamb. I wish that I could credit the bar with making more arguments on the honor and worthiness of its members. Because I'll tell you this from the heart. The honor and the word of a lawyer who's earned my respect means more to me than all of the precedent you can pile up on that desk. This case is set for trial three weeks from next Thursday. Thank you, Counsel.”

My first port of call the next morning was the Suffolk County Probate Clerk's office to check on John's bequest to his parents. It was not one of my usual haunts, but I wasn't a total stranger to its civil servants.

There were other clerks at the counter, but I waited until Pat McCarthy was free to chat about the Bruins's recent trade for a center, the Red Sox's chance of acquiring a reliever, and whether or not I might see John's will, which I assumed was at least in the process of being probated since his parents seemed to be already living on his bequest.

Pat, ever the pessimist, just shook his head about the Bruins's trade, predicted a dry winter for the Sox, and checked his computer regarding John's will. It seems that John left no will. I found it amazing that John, a lawyer, had left an estate of many millions of dollars from his scam on Tony Aiello, but no will. Not impossible, but still amazing.

I was back in the office that afternoon catching up on calls. I was interrupted by a call from John's parents. His father, as usual, was taking the lead, but they were both on the line, and they both sounded close to panic.

As before, they gave precious little information, but they practically pleaded with me to come back to the house. I agreed to go right over.

I knew something had happened to change the dynamic when they led me past the living room and directly to the kitchen table.
They were clearly shaken and ready to ask for help. Mr. McKedrick led off, but this time, they both seemed willing to loosen up. “Michael, I'm sorry. The way we treated you the last time—”

“Don't worry about it. I'll help you any way I can.”

They looked at each other as if neither of them knew how to start.

“Start anywhere. What happened?”

Mr. McKedrick held his wife's hand and spoke for them both. “Last night we had a phone call. A man said he worked with John. He had a heavy accent.”

“A Russian accent?”

“Yes. It could have been. He said his name was Sergei Markov.”

The mere sound of that name drove an icicle into my heart.

“What did he want?”

“He said that John took money that belonged to him. A great deal of money. He thinks John gave it to us. He's demanding that we give it back to him. He's talking about seventy million dollars. Dear God. Where would we get such an amount? Where would John get such an amount?”

Ah, dear people, if only you knew that your little boy, Johnny, was working a hardball hustle in a league that would make your nose bleed.

I guess that would have been unkind. I softened it by finessing the question. “Let me be honest. I'm going to help you. In fact, I may be the only one on God's earth who can help you. I know more about this than you do, but I need a few more pieces. For example — and here's where you get to be totally honest — how much did John leave you?”

Mrs. McKedrick started to speak, but her husband put his hand over hers and broke in. “Five hundred thousand—”

“Whoa.” I cut him off in mid-figure.

“I'm going to say this as gently as I can. Just don't let the gentleness suggest a lack of urgency. This Markov who called you is the most passionless killer you could ever conceive. It's likely that he's coming here to take your money and kill you. If I involve myself in this, I add my name to his kill list. If I get one more whiff of you two
playing dodgeball with my questions, I'll be out of here. That didn't come out quite as gently as I intended, but do you both get my drift?”

Judging from the size and clear focus of their eyes, they took my meaning.

“Again, how much did you get from John?”

Mr. McKedrick volunteered what for the first time sounded like a straight answer. “Five hundred thousand dollars, Michael.”

“Mr. McKedrick, you didn't buy this house for five hundred thousand dollars.”

“No, no. We had some savings, and we took a mortgage for the other three hundred thousand. John has been wanting us to move for years, so—”

“I understand. But Markov won't. Did John tell you about any other money before he died?”

“No, he didn't”

The flow and directness told me I was getting truthful answers.

“All right. How did Markov leave it with you?”