Infamy (17 page)

“Lies. Just like all the rest of what they said. Lies.”

“And what about the alleged telephone call Bryers and Fitzsimmons testified to?”

“Never happened.”

“Nothing about needing to keep Mueller quiet?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you know Mr. Mueller?”

“I read about him in the newspapers after he murdered Colonel Swindells, just like everyone else. But I've never met the man, or seen him until a few days ago in court.”

“What about the allegations that he was hired by Fitzsimmons
to murder the colonel, presumably at your behest, to prevent Swindells from revealing the true nature of MIRAGE?”

“I think Mueller's a very disturbed young man,” Constantine said. “It's a shame that someone like Fitzsimmons would use a former soldier with mental health issues for his own devious gains.”

“But what could he hope to gain by the death of Colonel Swindells?” Arnold asked, perplexed.

This was the trickiest part of his testimony, but as Arnold had said, what they couldn't explain away, they'd obfuscate. “I don't really know what game Fitzsimmons was playing,” Constantine said. “The man is obviously capable of anything, including murdering an innocent woman to get at me. But everyone knows that I am friends with the president, and I have to think that somehow this was an attempt to get at the administration by attacking me.”

“And the blackmail attempt over your wife's affair with Mr. Bryers?”

Constantine shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe Fitzsimmons picked up on that and was working a side deal to make money with Bryers. Or maybe it was just part of a plan to bring me down, embarrass me, and at the same time discredit the president's foreign policy in Iraq and his dealing with ISIS. I just
don't know. But what I do know is that the president has a lot of enemies, including this district attorney.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Karp said, rising to address to the court. “Counsel is trying to elicit opinions from the defendant that are based on rank speculation. He and the defendant have done violence to the basic rules of evidence.”

“Sustained,” Dermondy ruled. “Be careful, Mr. Arnold, you're on thin ice. Please proceed.”

Arnold nodded and continued. “The jury also heard testimony from the prosecution witnesses about a telephone call Bryers allegedly overheard between yourself and someone in the White House?”

“Never happened. At least not what he said. I talk to the president fairly often.”

“You didn't call someone a bitch? Or ask who conducted a raid in Syria?”

“I don't refer to people in the White House as bitches. Nor do I get involved in foreign policy.”

“Did you make a remark about this purported raid ‘fucking up' MIRAGE?”

“I did not.”

“Mr. Constantine, were you ever aware of some alleged conspiracy called MIRAGE between Well-Con Industries and what
could best be described as criminals from Russia, Syria, and Iran?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And no playing footsie with ISIS?”

Constantine rolled his eyes. “Who'd ever even dream up such a fantasy? No, there were no dealings between Well-Con and any of those people.”

Arnold wandered over to the evidence table and picked up one of the exhibits. “Mr. Constantine, you said you're aware of something called MIRAGE. Can you tell us what you meant by that?”

“Yes. As you know, Well-Con Industries has operations all over the world, one of which includes oil refineries in Iraq that we operate in conjunction with Iraqi Oil. Or I should say
operated
until ISIS took over that part of the country. They murdered a number of our people and have forced others to work for them.”

“And what does that have to do with MIRAGE?”

“About a year ago, I was asked to speak to the president's national security adviser, Sylvia Hamm, regarding U.S. operations against ISIS.”

“And why would Ms. Hamm want to talk to you about a national security issue?”

Constantine frowned. “I have to be a little careful here, as I was asked during that initial conversation to keep the details confidential, since they involved the U.S. military. But in general it was something of a courtesy call. ISIS was selling oil on the black market to fund its operations, and the president was considering ordering air strikes against the refineries and transportation under ISIS control. Ms. Hamm was essentially informing me that some Well-Con operations would be among the targets. She called it Operation MIRAGE.”

“And what was your reaction?”

Constantine laughed grimly. “Well, no businessman wants to hear that he's about to have tens of millions of dollars in equipment and product destroyed,” he said, then allowed his face to grow hard. “But some of the people who worked for me were murdered by ISIS. If that's what it took to fry those bloody bastards and put an end to their reign of terror, then I was all for it.”

“And what has been the result of Operation MIRAGE? At least those details you can share with us.”

“Essentially, Well-Con Industries' oil refineries and transportation no longer exist in northern Iraq.”

“And this damaged you financially?”

“As I said, tens of millions of dollars, as well as thousands of
jobs for our Iraqi employees. We've started a fund to try to help them until we can rebuild, though we've lost touch with many of them, who are feared dead.”

Arnold held up the exhibit. “I have here People's Exhibit 60, a photograph purportedly taken by your wife, Clare, using her cell phone and sent to Mr. Bryers, on the day she was murdered. As the prosecution's handwriting expert testified, it's from a page in one of your journals. But let me backtrack a moment . . . tell the jury about your journals.”

Constantine nodded and turned to the jury. “I said that I had a happy childhood, and that's true. But it was also often a lonely one. My father was frequently absent, and Mom had a lot on her plate. Because we were wealthy and lived on a large estate in Mount Vernon, I didn't have a lot of playmates. But I liked to read and I guess that led to writing my journals, which I did and still do nearly every day. It was a way to pass the time. I even dreamed of being an author at one point.”

“What would you journal about?”

Constantine shrugged. “Same sort of things anybody would, I guess. When I was young it could be about a new puppy or a girl I liked. Sometimes I wrote about missing my father or a vacation we took. As I got older, and into my career, I wrote about some of my business ventures as well . . . private thoughts, sort
of a chronicle of my day . . . though such things might be interspersed with something I was doing with Clare and Tommy.”

“Okay, let's talk about People's Exhibit 60 and walk through it sentence by sentence. First, what did you mean by ‘MIRAGE is moving forward at last'?”

“I think it's pretty clear. The air strikes had begun.”

“What about ‘All the players have been replaced. Just movable pieces'?”

“We had a way to contact our people on the ground and, without being specific, warn those we trusted to leave the area. ISIS replaced them with others to keep the refineries and trucks going.”

“And that's what you meant by ‘the refineries are back at full capacity and deliveries are being made'?”

“Yes. ISIS had quite a black-market oil operation going.”

“Do you know who they were selling to?”

Constantine shrugged. “I can guess, but I have no firsthand knowledge.”

“What about ‘one problem has been eliminated but another remains. She's the weak link and has to go'? Explain these statements, please.”

Constantine grimaced. “This is where I have to be careful, as I may have been speaking out of turn regarding in
ternational affairs that are none of my business. But my understanding was that two of my competitors, one of them a woman CEO of another oil company, were opposed to the air strikes and tried to bring heat on the White House to stop them. I was asked to reach out to both of them, which I did; one agreed to the president's plan, the other—the woman—remained opposed.”

“What did you mean by she has to go?”

“That I intended to speak to the owner of the company, an old friend of mine, and ask him to intercede.”

“Nothing about a Russian bitch?”

Constantine smiled. “I don't know any Russian bitches.”

“One last question, Mr. Constantine. What happened to the journal that page was taken from?”

“I don't know,” Constantine replied. “It's gone. Because of what happened to Clare, I didn't notice it for some time, but when I went to look for it, it was missing from its place on my bookshelf. I suspect that Mr. Fitzsimmons didn't want the entire story told.”

“Thank you, Mr. Constantine,” Arnold said. “No further questions.”

Judge Dermondy looked at his watch. “Very well. We are ap
proaching noon, so I'm going to recess for our lunch break. We'll reconvene at one fifteen this afternoon.”

Constantine looked over at Karp, expecting some anxiety since in his mind he had convincingly won the day. But Karp was smiling at him, sending a chill down his spine.

20

A
S
K
ARP WALKED INTO THE
waiting area outside his office, his receptionist, Darla Milquetost, nodded toward the conference room. “They're all in there,” she said. “I have to say that one man looks a lot like you. Are you related?”

“Thanks, Darla,” Karp replied, and opened the door.

Clay Fulton stood leaning against a wall talking to Kenny Katz, Espey Jaxon, and the tall man Darla had referred to who, in actuality, was his cousin, Ivgeny Karchovski. Except for the patch over one of his eyes and scars on the side of his face he'd received as a colonel in the Russian army fighting in Afghanistan, there was a strong family resemblance. They kept the relationship on the down-low, seeing as how Karchovski was a Russian
gangster in Brooklyn, though he sometimes helped Jaxon's group of antiterrorism agents. But the respect was mutual.

A woman was seated at the table reading a copy of the
New York Post
with the front page headline blaring: CONSTANTINE THREATENS KARP WITH LAWSUIT! Nadya Malovo looked up when Karp entered the room and smiled as she put the newspaper down. “Butch, darling, is so good to see you,” she purred in heavily accented English.

“Good morning, Nadya. How was the show last night?” As always, Karp was impressed by the woman's beauty and animal magnetism. She had cat-like jade-green eyes set in an oval face.
Beautiful and deadly
, he thought.
A cold-blooded killer with the body and face of an angel. And yet on several occasions she'd shown that somewhere inside the assassin a conscience existed.

“It was good,” Malovo replied. “This Hamilton was an interesting man in American history, no? I am not so sure about the hip-hop songs, it was difficult for me to follow, or black actors playing the main characters, who were white in real life, no?”

“Actually, yes to both,” Karp said. “As one of our Founding Fathers, Hamilton was a real champion of the U.S. Constitution and a strong central government. He created our financial system and, as a matter of fact, founded that newspaper you're reading.”

Malovo glanced down at the
Post.
“Ah, yes, the newspaper,”
she said. “Apparently, you have failed to strike fear in the hearts of the opposition, and even the journalists are saying the defendant will walk away from this.”

“We got them right where we want them, overconfident and careless,” Karp replied. “Arrogance comes with the territory for these people. But that's where you and Espey come in, too.”

“Ah, yes, did you enjoy my performance last night?”

“It was worthy of an Oscar,” Karp replied as he sat down across the table from her. “Now let's spend a few minutes going over your testimony one last time.”

“Anything for you, Butch.”

Some forty minutes later, Karp stood up. “I think we're good,” he said, then paused before adding, “You know that after your testimony, you will be taken into custody by federal authorities to be driven to Fort Dix in New Jersey, where they'll hand you over to Russian law enforcement.”

“That was the arrangement, yes.”

Giving her a long look, Karp asked, “Why did you agree to this? Aren't you in danger going back to Russia? The only thing you asked was to meet with Ivgeny.”

The smile disappeared from Malovo's face. “Yes, I would be at risk in Russia, even though Ivgeny still has powerful friends there. But maybe I'm getting soft in my . . . middle age.” She
looked at Fulton. “Perhaps I have a few debts on my account to repay as best I can. And perhaps I have an issue with ISIS, the murderers of children and women, though I have done both and am haunted by it, and with governments that pretend to be moral and just but in actuality are in the control of entities that thrive on chaos, war, and suffering.”

Malovo stopped talking for a moment, then looked up at Iv­geny, her former lover. “And perhaps the girl in me who has been buried for so long is tired of being hunted and longs for peace.” She turned back to Karp. “You and I are through after this?”

“As long as you stay out of New York County,” Karp replied.

“Oh, but I will miss Broadway,” Malovo said with a laugh. “But it is a deal.”

“Good. I hope never to see you again and, though I shouldn't, I wish you good luck finding that peace.” Karp looked at his watch. “Time to get back to court.”

A half hour
later, with the jury seated, Constantine was recalled to the stand as Karp stood directly in front of him holding a manila folder. “Mr. Constantine, was it your testimony this morning that during your marriage to your wife, you were never physically violent with her?”

“That's correct. I never raised a hand to her.”

“So then the testimony of Mr. Bryers and Mr. Fitzsimmons that you physically abused your wife was . . .”

“Lies. All lies.”

Karp stepped forward and handed the folder to the witness. “Mr. Constantine, I'd direct your attention to the contents of this folder.”

Opening the folder, Constantine's eyes widened for a moment and his face grew grim as he leafed through several photographs. He slammed the folder shut and handed it back to Karp.

Walking over to the defense table, Karp handed the folder to Arnold. “Mr. Constantine, as you saw, the folder contains several photographs as well as a copy of a text message sent from your wife's cell phone to the cell phone of Richie Bryers. Can you identify the person in the photographs—?”

Before he could answer, Arnold jumped up. “Your Honor, I object to the contents of this folder, as well as this line of questioning. May we approach the bench?”

“Please do,” Dermondy replied.

With Karp present with him at the judge's dais and out of earshot of the jury, Arnold spoke in quiet angry tones. “Your Honor, we've never seen these photographs, which appear to show my client's wife with what looks to be bruising on her arms, breast,
and legs. Not only do we have no idea when these photographs were taken or in what context, we also object to the relevancy of this line of questioning. Mr. Constantine is not on trial here for physically assaulting his wife, or the further implication that he was involved in her death.”

“Maybe he should be,” Karp said, “though Long Island is not within my jurisdiction. However, these photographs were taken by the same cell phone our expert identified in earlier testimony. They were received by the cell phone belonging to Richie Bryers. There is also a verified copy of a text message sent and received by the same telephones immediately before the photographs were sent.”

“What about the objection on grounds of relevancy?” Dermondy asked Karp.

“Your Honor, the defendant has stated unequivocally that he has never physically abused his wife, and counsel has used that testimony to impeach the prosecution witnesses as liars,” Karp said. “These photographs and the text go toward who is being truthful.”

Dermondy nodded. “I'm going to allow it. You opened the door for this rebuttal, Mr. Arnold. Objection overruled.”

With Arnold returned to his seat, Karp again handed the
folder to Constantine and asked him to identify the person in the photographs.

“It's my wife.”

“Does she appear to have any discolorations on her arms, left breast, and legs that would indicate bruising?”

“Clare was a good athlete,” Constantine answered weakly, “but she was always running into something or hurting herself when she was working out. We used to laugh about what a klutz she was.”

“Is that a yes?” Karp asked.

Constantine's jaw tightened. “It would appear that she has bruises on her body.”

“There is also a photograph attached to a text sent by your wife to Mr. Bryers, and one return text from Mr. Bryers to your wife. It shows that it was sent a few minutes before the photographs. Would you please read the text.”

Constantine's eyes narrowed, but he looked down at the document. “ ‘This is what he did to me this time. I'm so tired of him hitting me.' ”

“And the response?”

“ ‘Leave him. Marry me. If he does this again, I'm going to the police if you won't.' ”

Karp retrieved the folder again. “Your Honor, I move that People's Exhibit 49 previously marked for identification be received in evidence.”

“Same objection made previously,” Arnold said in a perfunctory manner.

“Overruled, Mr. Arnold.”

Returning to his spot in front of the witness stand, Karp asked, “So would you care to revise your earlier statement that you didn't physically abuse your wife and that Mr. Bryers and Mr. Fitzsimmons were lying about that?”

“I do not know who did that to her.”

“So the text was not referring to you?”

“No. I told you I never hit my wife.”

“Any idea who would?”

“I don't know. Maybe Fitzsimmons. Maybe she was also having an affair with Fitzsimmons and he was hitting her.”

Karp looked at the jurors. They weren't buying it.

“So were Bryers and Fitzsimmons also lying about the telephone calls on the day Colonel Swindells was murdered?” Karp asked as he walked over to the prosecution table, where Katz handed him a document.

“Yes.”

Karp held up the document. “I have here a verified copy
of your telephone records from that day, Mr. Constantine, on which two numbers, one right after the other, have been highlighted in yellow. One of them has a New York area code; the other is a Washington, D.C., area code.” He handed the document to Constantine. “Do you recognize either of those numbers?”

Constantine looked at the document and shrugged. “Not offhand. I call a lot of people.”

“Would it surprise you that the first number, the New York area code, is the law office of Robert LeJeune, the attorney for Dean Mueller in his murder trial?”

“I know Mr. LeJeune. I've used his law office on several occasions.”

“And you happened to call him on the day Mr. Mueller was arrested for the murder of Colonel Swindells?”

“I may have.”

“So Mr. Bryers could have heard you talking to him?”

“Not in the context or with the words he claims.”

“He just happened to overhear you talking business with the attorney who would volunteer to represent Mr. Mueller?”

“It's possible.”

“Yes, possible. But is it probable? And what about the other number, the D.C. area code. Do you recognize that number?”

Constantine looked over at his attorney and then back at Karp. “I believe that number is the home residence of the president's national security adviser, Sylvia Hamm. This was about the time I was conferring regarding Operation MIRAGE.”

“So Mr. Bryers could have overheard this conversation?”

“I suppose, but once again, he's lying about what was said, or misinterpreted it.”

“You didn't refer to Ms. Hamm as a bitch?”

“Of course not.”

“Or wonder what agency raided the compound in Iraq and, using your words, quote, ‘nearly fucked up the MIRAGE deal'?”

“No. I might have said something about MIRAGE, but not in that context.”

“It is your testimony today that Mr. Fitzsimmons was lying when he said that MIRAGE had something to do with Well-Con working out a deal for black-market oil under the control of ISIS?”

“That's a lie!”

Karp walked over and leaned against the jury box rail. “Mr. Constantine, where were you in November two years ago?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, Mr. Fitzsimmons said he traveled with you to Istanbul, Tehran, and Damascus. Are you denying that?”

“It's possible. I travel a lot for business.”

“At the same time this raid occurred and the MIRAGE files were seized?”

“I was unaware of any raid or files.”

“Just a coincidence?”

“If I remember correctly, Mr. Fitzsimmons suggested the timing of that trip. Maybe he had an ulterior motive. He's former Special Forces, you know.”

“So I've heard,” Karp replied. “He's also a murderer and your right-hand man.” He pushed off the railing and went to stand directly in front of the witness, where he and Constantine glared at each other over the space of a few feet. “Mr. Constantine, your testimony is that the only knowledge you have of something known as MIRAGE is that it is a military operation to attack oil-producing facilities and oil transportation under the control of the Islamic State, otherwise known as ISIS?”

“That's correct, Karp,” Constantine shot back.

“It has nothing to do with your attempt to protect Well-Con facilities and equipment from an attack by the U.S. military and its allies, while selling oil on the black market to Syria, Russia, and Iran, in exchange for funding and arms for the Islamic State?”

“That's a lie, Karp, and you know it,” Constantine snarled.
“This is just more of your right-wing politics trying to damage the president and anyone associated with him, including me.”

“That's where you're wrong, Mr. Constantine,” Karp retorted. “This is a search for the truth about who killed Colonel Michael Swindells and why.” Karp turned to Dermondy. “Your Honor, may we approach the bench at sidebar on the record?”

The judge furrowed his brow but motioned to the sidebar next to his dais. “By all means, Mr. Karp.”

When Arnold joined him, Karp looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, defense counsel indicated that they would be presenting only one witness, the defendant. We'd like to inquire if this is still true.”

Dermondy looked at Arnold, who seemed shaken but nodded. “That's, uh . . . all we're prepared for.”

Karp nodded. “In that case, the People would like to suspend the cross-examination of the defendant to present several rebuttal witnesses, and ask that the defendant step down subject to recall.”