James Patterson - Judge & Jury

When I looked up, Andie was facing me."Don't take offense, Nick. But why do you keep coming around here? What is it you want to say?"

I was at a loss."I don't know."

"You want to say it hurts? I know it hurts." Her eyes were glistening now."You want to say you wish you could've done something?"

"I don't know what I want to say, Andie. But I know I wanted to come and see you."

And I wanted to just reach out and hold her, too. I don't think I ever wanted to take someone in my arms as much as I wanted her. And I think, maybe, she wanted it, too. She was just leaning there, palms against the counter.

Finally, Andie smiled."Car's still running, huh?"

I nodded. In the past minute or so, the temperature had risen about a hundred degrees in the kitchen."Don't take this wrong, but I think I'm gonna pass on that coffee."

"Hey." Andie sighed."Whatever."

I found my jacket on the chair where I'd left it, and Andie walked me to the door."Everything was great," I said,"as advertised." I took her hand and held it for a second.

"It's because I feel good around you. That's why I came. You make me laugh. No one's made me laugh in months."

"You know, you've got a nice smile, Nick, when you let it out. Anyone ever tell you that?"

I turned to leave."Not in a while."

She closed the door behind me. There was a part of me that wanted to say, screwit, Nick, and turn around. And I knew if I did, she would still be there. I could almost feel her standing on the other side of the door.

Then I heard Andie's voice."What's done is done, Nick. You can't make the world come out right just because you want it that way."

I turned and pressed my palm against the door."I can try."

RICHARD NORDESHENKO KEPT his face still as he squeezed his hole cards up from the table. A pair of threes. The player across from him, in a black shirt and cashmere jacket, and with an attractive male companion looking over his shoulder, tossed $2,000 into the pot. Another player after him raised.

Nordeshenko decided to play. He was ahead tonight. Decidedly. Tomorrow his work began. He would make this his last hand, win or lose.

The dealer flipped over three cards: a two, a nine of clubs, and a four. No improvement, it would seem-for anyone. Cashmere Blazer winked to his boyfriend. He'd been pushing pots all night."Four thousand." Nordeshenko read him for four clubs, trying to make his flush.

To his surprise, the other player behind him raised, too. He was heavyset and quiet, wore dark shades, hard to read. Despite his large hands he nimbly shuffled his chips."Four thousand more," he said, leveling off two stacks of black chips into the pot.

The right bet, Nordeshenko thought. Drive the third player out-in this case, him. But Nordeshenko wasn't going to be driven out. He had a feeling. Things had been going his way all night."I'm in." He stacked a tower of eight black chips and pushed them in.

The dealer flipped over another four. Now there was a pair on the board. The guy chasing the flush checked. The heavyset player was betting now. Another four thousand. Nordeshenko raised him. To his surprise, Cashmere Blazer stayed along.

Now there was more than $40,000 in the pot.

The dealer flipped over the last card. The six of spades. Nordeshenko couldn't see how it helped anyone, but he recalled when he'd been in this exact spot before. His adrenaline was racing.

The man with the boyfriend puffed out his cheeks."Eight thousand!" The few spectators murmured. What the hell was he doing? He'd been pumping the pot all night. Now he was throwing good money after bad.

The heavyset player shuffled his chips. Nordeshenko thought maybe he did have a pair in the hole. A higher pair. Clearly, he read his hand for the best at the table."Eight thousand." He nodded, making two even stacks of eight black chips."And eight more."

Now the murmurs became gasps. Nordeshenko made a steeple with his fingers in front of his mouth, then let out a deep breath. Clearly, the heavyset man expected him to fold. And 90 percent of the time, he would've done just that. He was up enough. Why give everything back?

But tonight, he felt this power. Soon he'd put his life on the line. All the money in the world might be meaningless then. That gave him freedom. Besides, he was almost certain he had read the table perfectly.

"Shall we make it interesting?" he asked."Here is your eight thousand." He looked at Cashmere Blazer."And yours," he said, nodding to the man in shades, evening out a second column of black chips. Then he made a show of doubling the entire stack."And sixteen thousand more."

This time there wasn't a gasp-only a hush. A hundred thousand dollars sat in the center of the table!

Nerves were what separated you under fire. Nerves, and the ability to read one thing. Smell it. That's what made him the best at what he did. Nordeshenko stared at the man in shades. Indecision? Fear?

Cashmere Blazer sagged back, clearly feeling like an idiot. Better to toss in his cards now without showing them and not be thought a total fool."Adios," he said.

‘You're bluffing," the heavyset guy said, swallowing, his eyes X-raying Nordeshenko through his shades.

Nordeshenko shrugged."Play and see." He was sure all the man had to do was push in the balance of his chips and he would take the hand.

"Yours." He grunted, flipping his cards upright. A pair of sixes.

Nordeshenko flipped over his lower pair."You were right."

Shouts went up. The dealer pushed the mountain of chips his way. He had won more than $70,000!

Moreover, he had read every indication, every mannerism, correctly. That was a good sign. For tomorrow.

Tomorrow was when the real game began.

AT 10:00 A.M., Dominic Cavello was brought handcuffed into Judge Robert Barnett's courtroom.

Four U.S. marshals surrounded him. Several others were spread out at intervals along the perimeter of the room. This was a pretrial hearing, back at Foley Square. Cavello's lawyers had made a motion to suppress all evidence related to the murders of Manny Oliva and Ed Sinclair. They wanted a hearing to determine whether the evidence should be allowed, but I knew the judge would see their request for what it was-a stalling tactic.

Cavello acted his usual cocky self as he was led into the spacious room. He chirped hello to Joel Goldenberger across the way-asked how he was doing, along with the wife and kids. He made a comment to one of the guards about the Mets, how they'd finally put a real team together this year. When he spotted me in the rear, he winked, as though we were old friends. He conveyed the image of a guy about to beat some minor traffic violation, not a person on leave from the isolation unit at Marion who might very well be headed back there for the rest of his life.

The door to the courtroom opened. Judge Barnett stepped in. Barnett was supposed to be a no-nonsense guy. He had been an offensive lineman while at Syracuse and served as a fighter pilot in Vietnam. He didn't give a shit about the press, or free access, or Cavello's lawyers' theatrics. The judge had presided over a couple of Homeland Security cases after 9/11 and imposed the maximum sentence permitted by law on every one. We couldn't have gotten a better judge for this.

He quickly signaled everybody to sit down."I've studied the motions," he said, adjusting thick black reading glasses,"and I find no merit in the defense's motion to delay this trial any longer. Mr. Cavello. "

"Your Honor." The defendant stood up slowly, showing no reaction to the decision.

"You'll be answering the United States government's charges beginning Monday morning, ten a.m. You are entitled, by law, to be present at the selection of your own jury, which will take place in this courtroom. But these proceedings will be conducted totally in secret. No names will be divulged once they are selected. At that point they will be transferred to the Fort Dix army base in New Jersey, where, as you already know, your trial will take place. You will be restrained there as well, as will the jury. The entire trial will be conducted behind closed doors.