The Missing Piece (26 page)

“Pinter needs me to testify because his other witness is dead. If I refuse, he will bring my wife to the authorities.”

“Your wife?”

“Ex-wife. Pinter arranged the marriage so I could stay in America.”

Jessima laughed. “The government has more important things to do than deport someone like you. You work, pay taxes. You add value to society, not look for handouts.”

“Good of you to say,” said Ivan. “But it's not the government I fear. Those men from that day, they will be at the trial, too.”

 

CHAPTER 29

Foxx shoved the ottoman under Linda's desk so she could keep her feet elevated while she worked. The outer door opened, and Karen called “hello” from the anteroom before crossing the doorway to hang up her jacket in the closet.

“I'll check back periodically,” said Foxx.

“Thanks,” said Linda. She pushed back from the desk, testing how far she could roll before her feet slipped off the ottoman.

“You have nothing scheduled in the courtroom, right?”

“Once I postpone the settlement conference, I won't. I'll wait for Mark to handle that.”

“Good. You stay here. Lunch, too.”

“I'll order in.”

“And I'll tell Karen to keep the door locked at all times.” Foxx read the look on Linda's face. “Don't worry. I won't tell her why.”

Karen balked when Foxx told her about locking the door. They never locked the door, so she would need to remember her key when she used the ladies' room, or filed papers in the clerk's office, or collected hand deliveries at the security desk. Foxx leveled his baleful stare, and she agreed that keeping the door locked was a good idea.

Jessima's supply closet was a few paces away from Linda's chambers. Foxx glided close. He listened, then knocked. No answer. He listened again and, detecting no presence inside, headed down the corridor. Foxx knew Jessima's schedule because he observed and then cobbled his observations into a comprehensive picture of the courthouse. Jessima cycled through every chambers on the fifth and sixth floors twice each day. In the mornings, she emptied the trash. In the afternoons, she dusted and polished. Her cleaning cart always marked her location.

Foxx covered the fifth floor, then climbed up to six and covered that floor, too. Jessima's cleaning cart was nowhere in sight. Interesting? Yes. Coincidental? Maybe. Sinister? Well, someone involved in an attack on a pregnant judge might stay home from work the next day.

*   *   *

“That officer was here,” said Karen. “The one with the eyes. Foxx. He said the captain wanted the door locked.”

“Why?” said Mark.

For the second time since Mark sat down, Linda called for him from her desk.

“Her again,” whispered Karen.

“I heard her the first time,” Mark snapped, then shouted that he'd be a second before lowering his voice to Karen. “Does the captain think something could happen to her?”

“He didn't say,” said Karen.

“Whatever,” said Mark. He got up and went into Linda's office.

“I want to postpone today's conference till Monday,” said Linda. “Give them all a good long time to think about settling.”

“Okay,” said Mark. Something about her looked different, and it took him a moment to realize that she was slouched in her chair, which made her appear smaller. “You want me to call the lawyers?”

“I want you to organize a conference call, and when you have all three on the line, send it in to me.”

“I usually ask one of the lawyers to organize the call.”

“I want this one organized from here.”

“But…”

“I have my reasons,” said Linda.

Mark went back to the anteroom.

“She sounds like she's in a good mood,” said Karen.

“So am I,” said Mark.

“No kidding,” said Karen.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Karen opened a steno pad. “Give me the numbers,” she said. “I'll organize the call.”

Mark read off the phone numbers, then said, “Look, Karen, I'm sorry. I'm just worried about something today.”

“What?”

“I'll tell you later,” he said.

It took Karen some time to organize the conference call. Billy Cokeley was en route from White Plains and needed his cell phone patched in. Arthur Braman was in the men's room. Robert Pinter's call went into voicemail, which referred to an alternate number that, luckily, he answered.

“Hold for Judge Conover,” said Karen when she had all three. And then she said to Mark, “Tell her it's ready.”

Mark went into Linda's office. She told him to sit and hit the speaker button.

“Thank you all and sorry for the short notice,” she said. “But I'm postponing today's conference till Monday morning. Frankly, I'm not ready to rule on the pretrial motions and I believe you could use more time to consider Lord Leinster's offer.”

The lawyers were silent.

“Has there been any movement on that?” said Linda.

“Robert Pinter, Your Honor. Not on my end.”

“This is Bill Cokeley, Judge. The ministry of culture has settlement authority, and I have not been able to speak to the minister. But she will arrive at JFK later today.”

“And you will speak to her?”

“I will,” said Cokeley, “and to be candid, for whatever it's worth.”

“Do your best. Mr. Braman, anything from you?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“All right. Monday morning. Nine thirty. Let me know if you resolve any part of this.”

*   *   *

Jessima eyed Foxx over the door chain, one hand clutching her bathrobe collar tight to her throat. Foxx could feel a lick of dry heat from the steam radiator, smell a mix of onions and human sleep.

“Yes?” she said.

He knew that she didn't recognize him out of context and out of uniform, so he held up his shield for her to see, then let it dangle from the lanyard around his neck. She closed the door, slipped the chain, opened up again, and turned sideways to admit him. She still held her bathrobe collar closed. Beyond her, standing beside an open sofa bed with rumpled sheets, Ivan pulled a T-shirt over a surprisingly well-muscled torso.

“Do court officers spy on absent workers?” he said. “We called in sick.”

“I'm not spying,” said Foxx. “I have a few questions.”

“We don't want your questions,” said Ivan.

“The questions are not for you.” Foxx turned to Jessima. “A few minutes, and I'll be gone.”

In two quick strides, Ivan inserted himself between them.

“Don't,” said Foxx.

“It's all right,” Jessima told Ivan.

Ivan backed off, but not very far.

“Last week,” said Foxx, “Judge Conover threw away a pregnancy test stick in her chambers. Did you see it?”

Jessima looked at Ivan, then back at Foxx and nodded carefully.

“I found it in her trash basket,” she said.

“What did you do with it?”

“I took it to someone.”

“Who?”

“Damien Wheatley,” said Jessima. “He collects information around the courthouse.”

“What does he do with the information?”

“Uses it. Sells it.”

“And you find him this information?”

Jessima moved to the edge of the sofa bed and slowly sat down. Ivan sat down beside her.

“Does he give you money?”

“Sometimes. But not this time. He told me he tried to sell the information, but couldn't.”

“To who?” said Foxx.

“He didn't tell me.”

“What does he look like?”

“He has dreadlocks,” said Jessima. “Usually dresses in suits like he's a lawyer. Lately worked on the protest in the park. He found homeless people to hold signs.”

*   *   *

Foxx climbed out of the subway station at the bottom of Foley Square to find many more protestors and much more activity than earlier that morning. Scores of protestors marched in a circle with their signs raised over their heads. Satellite trucks lined Lafayette Street for the entire length of the park. TV correspondents took up positions on the sidewalk, doing stand-ups in front of cameras.

Foxx spotted a tent with a hand-lettered sign above the entrance flap that read
ADMIN
. The protestors started to chant something about “good homes for good souls.” Foxx couldn't make out every word, but he definitely did not hear the name
Conover
. Maybe it was too tough to rhyme.

As Foxx reached the admin tent, the flap parted and Hannigan emerged. He walked quickly, flanked by two men with the stereotypical look of storefront lawyers. Beards, ponytails, spectacles, corduroy suits. One shouted directly into Hannigan's ear as they brushed past.

“You've been discovered. This is your chance.”

They headed toward a makeshift podium balanced on a bench. Hannigan climbed up, grabbed the legal pad, and tapped the microphone until the chanting stopped.

“There are two courthouses inside that building across the street,” Hannigan said. “One courthouse is for the wealthy and the powerful. They send finely dressed lawyers to plead their cases in front of welcoming judges. These lawyers and judges have a silent understanding. They are all part of the same team dedicated to one goal—to preserve, protect, and defend those who hold the financial, political, and social power in this city. The other courthouse is for the poor and oppressed. In other words, for the people just like us. For us, the judges are not so welcoming. The justice they dispense is neither swift nor just.

“Sure, some crumbs may fall from the table when it means nothing to them or they want to appear compassionate or concerned in front of their liberal friends. But if you go against the system, as we are going against the system, if you try to right a wrong, as we are trying to right a wrong, or if you are trying to obtain a decent human living environment, as we are trying to obtain a decent human living environment, we see how slow and unfair justice can be.

“We are in a unique position to shine a light that exposes the two courthouses in that building. Our judge, Judge Conover, has had our case for seventeen days. That is seventeen days that we have been on the streets. I'm sure that doesn't sound like a long time to her. I'm sure she'll get to it when she gets to it. But now we have another complication. A big case has stolen her attention. It is a squabble over the ownership of an ancient Roman treasure. Do any of you own an ancient Roman treasure?”

Hannigan cupped a hand to his ear, and the crowd shouted, “No!”

“Neither do I. Do any of you care about an ancient Roman treasure?”

Again, he cupped a hand and again the crowd shouted, “No!”

“Neither do I. But we should care because on Monday, Judge Conover is starting a trial in that case. And unless she finds the time to decide our case before then, our case will be delayed even longer.”

Hannigan kept speaking, but Foxx stopped listening. In his mind, it was the same orchestrated prattle spoken in public forums since the days of the Romans. Eventually, Hannigan piped down. There were some songs, some chants. And then Hannigan jumped off the bench and walked with his lawyers back to the admin tent. Foxx followed at a distance. When the lawyers departed without Hannigan, Foxx lifted the flap and ducked inside.

Hannigan looked up from a folding table where he scribbled on a legal pad. He still had the leprechaunish aspect of a prominent forehead and a red beard that Foxx remembered from high school.

“That was something else,” he said. “Damn, that felt good. Are you here to help?”

“No,” said Foxx. “I'm looking for Damien Wheatley.”

“Don't know him,” said Hannigan. He started scribbling again, his eyes narrowing in concentration and forcing Foxx from his consciousness.

Foxx slammed the table hard enough that the plastic top cracked.

“Hey, what the … Who the hell are you?”

Foxx whipped out his court officer shield, then stuck it back in his shirt.

“You want to try that again?”

“All right, all right,” said Hannigan. “Damien helped me with the protest. He recruited people, set up the tents. But he left here two days ago, and I haven't seen him since.”

“What about last week?” said Foxx. “Did he try to sell you information?”

“What kind?”

“About Judge Conover?”

“He said he had something,” said Hannigan.

“Did he tell you what it was?”

“That would have been giving it to me, not selling it to me. Anyway, I refused.”

“Because you're so upstanding?” said Foxx.

“No, because this isn't about Judge Conover.”

Foxx grabbed Hannigan's shirt and pulled him over the table.

“This is most definitely about Judge Conover because the information he wanted to sell you was very personal.”

“I told you, he didn't tell me what it was.”

Foxx pushed him back onto his chair.

“The info was that she is pregnant.”

“Why would I be interested in that?” said Hannigan.

“Because no one else knows she is pregnant,” said Foxx. “Not even her husband. And the reason I'm interested is because she was mugged last night by someone who knew she was pregnant. Beat her down, kicked her repeatedly in the stomach.”

“I wouldn't get involved in something like that,” said Hannigan.

“Why? Because you're such a nice fuckin' guy?”

“No, because like I told you, I'm not after Judge Conover personally,” said Hannigan. “Look, I know her track record. She clerked for one of the most conservative judges on the Manhattan bench. She'll likely dismiss my case the way her old boss would have. I expect to lose, but I'm playing a long game here. Get a decision. Appeal it to the AD, where the judges are more remote and more liberal.”