James Patterson - Judge & Jury

Dead man walking, Ralphie.

The prosecutor brought the witness back."So to the best of your knowledge, Mr. Denunziatta, Mr. Cavello knew about Mr. Greenblatt's murder before it took place?"

"'Course he knew about the murder, Mr. Goldenberger. Jimmy wouldn't tie his shoelaces without the Boss's say-so. Everybody knew that. Cavello ordered the hit."

MIRIAM SEIDERMAN HAD SEEN the monstrous look, too. It almost brought the proceedings to a halt, as all eyes went to Cavello.

Up to now the mob boss had been on his best behavior, but she knew he was tethered by a slender thread. The first two witnesses had been damaging. She could read the jury on that. Only a complete fool would think Cavello had nothing to do with Greenblatt's murder.

Yet he just sat there, like he had it all planned out. His life was going down the tubes, and he was above it all: You can't hold me here. I'm stronger than you. I'm stronger than the whole system. You can't judge me. It made her shiver.

After trial that day, she met her husband for dinner with a client. Ben was a partner at Rifkin, Sayles, one of the biggest law firms in the city. She listened, tried to laugh. The client, Howard Goldblum, was one of the most successful real estate developers in the city.

But inside, she was scared. She kept reliving the trial. It kept reverberating through her. Something about that man. That he couldn't be controlled by any system.

She and Ben got home around ten. The alarm was on. The housekeeper had gone for the night. She double-bolted the front door and went upstairs.

She knew she should tell Ben about today. But it was silly, and she wasn't a silly person. She'd been on a hundred trials. She'd seen plenty of brazen criminals who thought they were bigger than life itself. Why was this one different? He wasn't! To hell with him.

She watched Ben disappear into his walk-in closet to get undressed, then into the bathroom. She heard him brushing his teeth. She went over to their bed. She pulled off the pillows one by one. Then she stripped down the duvet.

Miriam Seiderman felt her heart slam to a stop.

"Ben! Ben, come out here, quick! Ben! "

Her husband ran into the room, his toothbrush in hand."What is it?"

Under the covers there was a newspaper, folded open to page two. The headline read, GANGSTER STOPS TRIAL DEAD.

She was staring at Dominic Cavello. An artist's sketch. The very moment in the courtroom that had stayed with her all evening.

That look.

She turned to Ben."Did you put that here?"

Her husband shook his head and picked up the Daily News. "Of course not, no."

A chill started to creep down Miriam Seiderman's spine. The house had been locked, the alarms set. Her housekeeper, Edith, had left at four.

What the hell was going on? This was this evening's paper.

Someone had gotten in here tonight!

AROUND THAT TIME, in a dimly lit Albanian café in Astoria, Queens, Nordeshenko sat reading a newspaper of his own.

A few customers were at the bar. A soccer game was playing on the satellite, piped in from the home country, and the local boys were drinking and cheering, occasionally shouting in dialect at the screen.

The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko's. The Israeli never even looked up.

"It's good to see you, Remi."

Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn't used it in fifteen years.

"So look what the wind dragged in." The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper."Or maybe the sanitation trucks."

"Always the compliments, Remi."

Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.

Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.

"So tell us, Remi"-the South African shifted in his chair-“you didn't bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?"

"No." Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello-the same one he had left in the judge's bed just a few hours before.

"Cavello." Nezzi wrinkled his brow."He's on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he's in jail? We could do that, I suppose."

"Have a drink," Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.

"I'll have one after, " the South African said."And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the Koran."

Nordeshenko smiled."All right." He lifted the newspaper one more time. On the other side was another courtroom sketch, one Nordeshenko had cut out of the paper from the trial's very first day.

Both killers stared at it. Slowly the message started to sink in.

"You want that drink now?" Nordeshenko asked.

Reichardt's look said, Lunacy. "This is America, Remi, not Chechnya."

"What better place to break new ground?"

"Ouzo," Reichardt called to the waiter.

"Three," said Nezzi, shrugging.

The drinks came, and over the shouts for the football game, the men slugged them down, wiping their chins.

The South African finally started to laugh."You know it's true what they say about you, Remi: you'd be fucking dangerous if you ever got mad."

"Shall I take that as a yes, you're in?" Nordeshenko asked them.

"Of course we're in, Remi. It's the only game in town."

"Three more," Nordeshenko called to the waiter in Russian.

Then he picked up the paper, the sketch of the jury disappearing under his arm. They wanted a trial, these stupid bastards, they were going to get one.

They just didn't know the meaning of the trial that was in store for them.

NO ONE WAS ON the witness stand in the courtroom that morning. The press was cleared. The jury was being kept in the jury room. Judge Seiderman stepped in from her chambers and sent a fiery look hurtling toward the defendant in the second row."Mr. Cavello, I want to see you and both counsels in my chambers, now. "

As the judge was leaving the bench, she caught my eye."Agent Pellisante, I'd like you to join us as well."

Our group made its way through the wooden door on the right side of the courtroom to the judge's quarters. Judge Seiderman took a seat behind her desk, glaring. I'd never seen her so angry.

And she was glaring directly at the defendant.

"Maybe I didn't quite get this across to you, Mr. Cavello, but if you think I will ever bow to intimidation or your mob-scare tactics, you have picked the wrong judge and this is the wrong courtroom. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly clear, Your Honor." Cavello stood, staring right back at her.

"But what I particularly don't take to"-Judge Seiderman raised herself up-“is a defendant who thinks he's big enough to toy and interfere with the criminal justice system."