Стюарт Вудс - Barely Legal

“I asked him whose it was.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he didn’t know.”

Again, ADA Grover let the jury see his skepticism. “He claimed he didn’t know whose envelope it was he was carrying around in his pocket?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you ask him anything else about the envelope?”

“Yes. I asked him what the white powder in the packets was.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he had no idea.”

“Let me be sure I have this perfectly clear. There was white powder in the gram bags in the envelope in the defendant’s interior breast pocket of his sports jacket, and the defendant said he didn’t know what it was?”

“That’s right.”

ADA Grover favored the jury with an incredulous shake of the head before turning to the defense table.

“Your witness.”

Herbie was momentarily taken aback. Cross-examine a key witness in a criminal case? Where one slipup could send his client straight to jail? Herbie had argued cases involving millions of dollars, but this was something else entirely.

Herbie’s adrenaline was pumping furiously, but he couldn’t let it show. He took a breath to calm himself, and stepped up to the witness stand.

Detective Kelly stared down at him, smug and superior. From what he’d seen of the lawyer so far, he didn’t expect much.

“Detective Kelly, how long have you been a police officer?”

“Eighteen years.”

“You studied at John Jay College of Criminal Justice?”

“That’s right.”

“What did you study?”

“Objection,” the prosecutor interjected. “Relevance?”

“I stipulated Detective Kelly’s qualifications subject to the right of cross-examination. I’m cross-examining him on them now.”

“Counsel is within his rights. Proceed, Mr. Fisher.”

“What did you study at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, Detective?”

Detective Kelly had his answer ready. “Criminal justice.”

His sally drew a laugh from the jurors.

Herbie didn’t crack a smile. “And what courses in criminal justice did you take?”

“All of the requirements.”

“And what grades did you get in those required courses?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“It goes to his qualifications, Your Honor.”

“Whether he passed those courses does. The grades he got in them do not.”

“And did you graduate, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Were you in the top of your class?”

“Objection.”

Judge Buckingham glared down from the bench. Herbie had virtually asked the same question he had just ruled inadmissible. “Attorneys!” he snapped. “Sidebar!”

The two attorneys joined the judge at the side of his bench, where they could speak in low tones out of earshot of the jury. The court reporter carried her typing machine over to take notes on the conversation.

When they had all assembled Judge Buckingham said, “Mr. Fisher, are you trying to annoy me?”

“No, sir.”

“You just asked the same question I ruled inadmissible.”

“I thought there was a nuance, Your Honor.”

“A nuance?” Judge Buckingham said. “It is not your place to find nuances in my rulings.”

“I meant in the question, Your Honor.”

“I know what you meant, and you know what I meant. It is not your place to get around my rulings by looking for subtle nuances in your questions. If you asked if someone fired a gun, for instance, and I ruled that inadmissible, it would not be admissible for you to ask if that person was holding a gun when it discharged.”

“As far as I know, no one has fired a gun in this case.”

Judge Buckingham’s face purpled. “Your conduct borders on contempt of court, Mr. Fisher. I was giving you a hypothetical example, as you well know. Your remark is improper, as was the asking of your question. You are hereby warned. Should it happen again, you would be in contempt of court.”

As he returned to his position at the defense table, Herbie had a smile on his lips. Judge Buckingham had given him a wonderful idea. A sidebar was the perfect way to waste time, and he didn’t have to risk contempt of court to get one. Attorneys argued their objections at the sidebar. All he had to do was provoke ADA Grover into objecting to his questions, and he could ask for a sidebar to present his argument of the objection.

Herbie was determined to have as many sidebars as possible.

The fifth time that afternoon the attorneys gathered at the side of the judge’s bench to argue an objection, a large, ham-fisted man in the back of the court got up and pushed his way out the doors. He took out his cell phone and called Tommy Taperelli.

“Hey, boss. It’s Mookie down at the courthouse.”

“Tell me you got good news,” Taperelli said.

“Yes and no.”

“Don’t piss me off. What happened? Did he take the plea?”

“He’s not here.”

“What!”

“The lawyer didn’t show up. He sent another guy in his place.”

“Who?”

“Some guy named Fisher.”

“All right, did he take the plea?”

“No. He left the room to talk to the prosecutor, but they didn’t make a deal.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah. Except the lawyer’s not very sharp. Keeps asking a bunch of dumb questions.”

“So, he’s losing.”

“Well, maybe, but he’s slow as molasses. The guy’s a fucking rain delay. He’s still on the first witness, for Christ’s sake.”

“They’re still at it?”

“They’re having a sidebar. Which isn’t as much fun as it sounds. It’s a bar with no booze. A bunch of lawyers talk in low voices so no one can hear, and the jury and the witness just sit there and nothing happens. I thought my head was going to come off. I want to go up there, grab ’em by the collar, say get your ass in gear and do your jobs, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t do that, Mookie.”

“Never fear. I’m just telling you we don’t have a verdict.”

“Well, get back in there and see what we do get.”

Taperelli hung up the phone. This was not good. Taperelli was the go-to guy, the guy who delivered. When Taperelli wanted something done, it happened. Most mob bosses were fuckups, as far as he was concerned. Most bosses dressed flashy and cheap. He dressed well. He was elite.

Taperelli had a reputation to maintain. If things went wrong, he’d lose his leverage and the others would move in, and he couldn’t afford that. Not if he wanted to keep his political connections and his ties to legitimate business.

From what Mookie had said, things were going very wrong. And worst of all, it had to be on a job for Jules Kenworth.

Taperelli took a deep breath, blew it out angrily, and reached for the phone.

Jules Kenworth stood alone in his conference room, gazing down at the huge mahogany table at which he held sway over not just board members but executives, investors, politicians, and would-be bigwigs of all stripes. Kenworth was a mogul’s mogul, often imitated, never equaled. He ruled his empire with an iron hand, and had no patience for anyone not on board with his latest venture. His business was real estate. His default mode was acquisition and construction.

The centerpiece of the table was, as always, his current project, in this case the forty-six-story luxury office building he planned for Lower Manhattan. The meticulous scale model, an engineering marvel in its own right, was a beauteous thing to behold.

The phone on the conference table rang. The call must be important or his secretary would not have put it through.

Kenworth picked up the phone. “Yes?” he snapped.