James Patterson - Judge & Jury

Each juror had been given a number. They all took a seat. Every eye seemed to be glancing at the gaunt, gray-haired man who sat with his legs crossed in front of them. Then they looked away, as if afraid to let their eyes linger too long. That's Cavello, their faces said.

I turned back to Andie, who only moments before had watched as the bastard was led in. Cavello's handcuffs were removed. He took a look around the courtroom. Cavello seemed to find Andie immediately, as if he knew she would be there. He paused and gave her a slight, respectful nod.

But her gaze didn't waver. It seemed to be telling him, You can't hurt me anymore. She wasn't going to give him the thrill of seeing her look scared. She clenched her palms against the railing. Finally she looked away. When she lifted her eyes again, they landed on mine. She gave me a thin smile. I'm okay; I'm good. He's going down.

"I also doubt there's a person among you who truly wants to be here," Judge Barnett went on."Some of you may feel you don't belong here. Some might even be afraid. But, be assured, if called, it is your legal and moral duty to serve on the trial. And twelve of you are going to serve-with six more as alternates. What is my duty is to remove whatever fear and discomfort many of you may be feeling, given the defendant's last trial.

"Therefore, your names and addresses, anything about your family or what you do, will not be released-not even to the members of this court. Those selected will spend the next six to eight weeks confined to the Fort Dix army base in New Jersey, where this trial will take place.

"I know no one is eager to give up their lives and remain separated from family and loved ones for that amount of time. But the defendant must be tried-that is all our duties. A jury will be decided upon-and he will be tried. Anyone who refuses to do his or her duty will be held in contempt of court."

The judge nodded to the clerk."Now, is there anyone in this room who, due to some commitment or handicap, feels he or she cannot faithfully execute this duty?"

Virtually every hand in the room shot into the air at once.

A ripple of muffled laughter snaked around the courtroom. Even Cavello looked at the show of hands and smiled.

One by one, jurors were called up to the bench. Single mothers. Small-business owners. People pleading that they had paid for vacations or were holding doctors' notes. A couple of lawyers argued they should be excused.

But Judge Barnett didn't buckle. He excused a handful, and they left the courtroom, discreetly pumping a fist or grinning widely. Others glumly went back to their seats.

Finally, about a hundred and fifty people remained, most looking not very pleased.

Cavello never even glanced at them. He kept drumming his fingers against the table, staring straight ahead. I kept thinking of the words he had uttered to me as they pulled me away from his jail cell the day of the juror bus blast.

Me, I'm gonna sleep like a baby tonight… First day in a month I don't have to worry about a trial.

"Mr. Goldenberger, Mr. Kaskel," the judge addressed the attorneys,"I'm sure you have some questions you'd like to put to these good people."

RICHARD NORDESHENKO HAD FILED unnoticed into the courthouse. It hadn't been difficult to obtain a standard juror's notice from Reichardt, then doctor the date and name to fit his need. He got in line with the other dour-looking jurors. Then, like every job he had ever done, he walked in through the front door.

For a while, Nordeshenko sat eyeing a magazine in the crowded jury room, listening to people's numbers being called. Many of them were nervously muttering what-ifs about getting selected for the Cavello trial. Everyone he listened to seemed to feel they had a foolproof excuse.

Nordeshenko quietly chuckled to himself. None of them would need an excuse.

At 10:15 a.m. he checked his watch. Nezzi would be driving the stolen catering van into the underground garage. Nezzi was the best in the world at this. Still, you never knew what could happen on a job, especially one as complex as this.

Last night, Nordeshenko had written a long letter to his wife and son. He had left it in his hotel room, in the event he did not make it back.

In the letter he admitted he was not exactly the good man they may have always thought he was, and that the things they may be hearing about him were probably true. He wrote that it saddened him that he had had to hide so much from them over the years. But in each life, he added, one is never all bad or all good. What was good about his life was the two of them. He wrote that he loved them both very much, and trying to close with a joke, he told his son that he too had grown to prefer poker over chess.

He signed the letter, from your loving husband and father, Kolya Remlikov.

Nordeshenko's real name.

A name neither of them knew.

At precisely 11:40 a.m., Nordeshenko put down his magazine and made his way outside and up to the third floor. It was mostly court and administrative offices. He found the men's bathroom along the elevator bank and ducked inside. A heavyset black man with a large mole on his cheek was finishing up washing his hands. Nordeshenko ran the water, waiting for him to leave.

When the black man departed, Nordeshenko removed the top to the trash receptacle, dug his hand through the balled-up paper towels, and removed the carefully wrapped bundle that he knew was there. Just as Reichardt had said it would be.

Nordeshenko went into a stall and unwrapped the bundle: a Heckler and Koch 9mm pistol, his gun of choice. He checked the magazine and, seeing that it was fully loaded, tightly screwed on the suppressor.

He knew the judge was a stickler for regimen. He always let out his court a few minutes before 12:30 p.m. for lunch. The story went that no lawyer arguing before Barnett wanted to be in the middle of a key point around that time.

Only a few minutes more.

From his pocket, Nordeshenko took out a tiny cell phone. He had checked one at security, just like everyone else, but kept the second hidden away. No messages. That meant Nezzi was gone and everything was set now.

He checked the code that would get things started. All that was left to do was to hit Send.

Nordeshenko left the stall and took a last look at himself in the mirror. His heartbeat started to quicken. Remi, be calm. You know how people will react. You know human nature better than anyone. The element of surprise is with you. Just like it has a dozen times before, everything will go your way.

With his newly dyed hair, the fake beard, and glasses, the thought passed through him that in the next few minutes he might die as he always feared: unrecognized. With someone else's name. The prints would have to be matched, and even then, the trail was blank. Just a sergeant in the Russian army, a deserter. It might be weeks, months, before anyone even knew he was dead.

Of course, and Nordeshenko smiled to himself at this, he might live, too. He cocked the Heckler and stuffed it inside his pocket.

It was like pushing all your money into the center of the table. In this case, a 2.5-million-dollar fee.

You never knew for sure until you turned over the last card.

DOMINIC CAVELLO WAS eyeing the courtroom clock too, trying to block out the idle chatter, which he knew, in just moments, would have very little to do with the rest of his life. That was when Judge Barnett would lean into the microphone, no matter who was speaking, and ask if this was a good time to take a break.

And then, as if on cue, at 12:24 p.m. the judge cut in on the prosecutor's questioning."Mr. Goldenberger…"