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, screw it, 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."
Chapter 58
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.
Chapter 59
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.
"And, Mr. Cavello." The judge stared down at him sternly.
"Yes?"
"I'm warning you only once. Any disruptions--and I mean if you as much as tip over a glass of water unexpectedly-- and you will be watching your own proceedings on Court TV. Is that understood?"
"I wouldn't dream of it, Your Honor," Cavello said.
"I didn't ask you that, Mr. Cavello." The judge's voice stiffened. "I asked you if it was understood."
"Of course." Cavello bowed respectfully. "Perfectly, Your Honor."
Chapter 60
THE TELEPHONE WAS RINGING, and Monica Ann Romano froze where she was sitting on the living room couch. She di
dn't want to answer it.
She already knew who it was. Who else would be calling this late on a Sunday night? She had a crazy thought that maybe if she ignored the ring, he would go away. Everything would go back to how it had been before she had the best sex of her life.
She just sat looking at the phone, letting it ring.
"Would you answer it, please!" She and her mother were watching TV, and the ringing was blocking out the sound.
Finally Monica stood up and wrapped the cord out into the hallway. She noticed her hands shaking. "Hullo."
"Hello, luv." The voice on the other end made her blood freeze.
How had she ever gotten herself into this mess? How had she been so pathetically stupid as to think he'd be interested in her? She should go to the police. She should hang up on him and call them now. They would understand; they would still trust her at her job. And if it wasn't for her mother, she had told herself over and over, she would. She would!
"What do you want?" she answered curtly.
"You used to like hearing my voice, Monica," the caller said. "I'm feeling hurt. What do I want? I want the same thing you do, Monica. I want you and your mother to live a long, healthy life."
"Don't play with me," Monica spat out. "Just tell me what you want me to do."
"All right," he said. He seemed to be enjoying himself. "How about we meet for coffee tomorrow morning before you go to work? The café right across the square, where we met that other time. Say, eight thirty sharp. I'll fill you in on what happens from there."
"This is it," Monica said, her stomach knotting. "You promise, just this one thing."
"Be a good little girl, and you'll never hear my voice again. But Monica," Karl said in the sort of voice you'd use to reprove a child, "don't get any ideas. I'll do what I said I would. I promise. In fact, if I wasn't so trusting you'll be a good girl, I could do it right now. Come back in the living room. Come."
Monica ran back into the room where her mother was watching TV.
A light shone on the window. Headlights. Then a car horn, three sharp blasts. She began to shake so hard she thought she could hear every bone in her body rattle.
Chapter 61
THAT MONDAY MORNING was the tightest security I'd ever seen for a trial. Godfather, Part II.
It was more like a show of force by law enforcement. Dozens of cops, some in armor and riot gear, holding automatic weapons, manned barricades all over Foley Square. The line of prospective jurors stretched out the door, with policemen going up and down, checking IDs, opening bags, leading bomb-sniffing dogs. About a dozen TV vans were lined up and down Worth Street
.
Everything was by the book, exactly how I would have done it. Still, with several trials running concurrently, all the lawyers, witnesses, jurors, and staff, there were a thousand things that could go wrong.
Instinctively, I checked the courthouse security room, which was situated on the ground floor. Security staffers were watching monitors of all floors. Entrances, elevators, the basement garage, and the corridor where Cavello was to be transferred to and from the Manhattan County Jail. I tried to tell myself that nothing was going to happen, that everything was going to go off as planned.
I was headed back up to the courtroom, passing by the lobby, when I heard my name shouted. "Nick! Nick!"
It was Andie, restrained by two guards. She was waving. "Nick, they won't let me in!"
I walked over to the entrance. "It's okay," I said to the guard. I flashed my ID. "I'll take responsibility. She's with me."
I pulled her through the jostling crowd. "You were right. I had to be here, Nick. I couldn't stay away. For Jarrod, if not me."
"You don't have to explain, Andie. Just come."
I led her into one of the elevators, pushed the button for the eighth floor. There were a few others on board-- a couple of attorneys, a court stenographer. The ride seemed interminable. I squeezed her hand. "Hmmm," she said. Just that.
When the doors finally opened on eight, I pulled Andie to the side and waited for the other people to clear. Then I gave her the hug I wanted to give her the other night. I almost kissed her, too. It took guts to be here. To show her face. But I could feel her heart beating against me. "It's okay, Andie. I'm glad you're here."
I showed my ID to a guard stationed outside the courtroom and escorted her inside. The room was still nearly empty. A couple of marshals chatting, a young assistant district attorney laying out jury forms along the lawyers' row.
Andie looked anxious suddenly. "Now that I'm here, I don't know if I can do this."
"We'll stay over here," I said, placing her in the back row of the gallery. "When he comes in, we'll be together. Maybe we'll wave."
"Yeah, or give him the finger."
I squeezed her hand. "Nothing bad is going to happen. The evidence is even more solid than before. He's gonna arrive soon, and we're going to choose twelve people. Then we're going to put him away until the day he dies."
Chapter 62
MONICA ANN ROMANO SUSPECTED what was in the small bundle she was carrying, and it made her want to throw up.
She had taken it from the man she once trusted. Now she walked nervously across the square, showing her federal ID and passing by the guarded police barricades to the courthouse. It was the most nerve-racking thing she had ever done in her life. By a lot.
Finally, she stood in the courthouse employee line. Every bag was being opened. Even the lawyers' and their staffs'. Monica knew who was in the courthouse that day: Dominic Cavello.
"Big doings today, hon," chirped Mike, a lobby guard with a large handlebar mustache, who pulled her through the maze of people and over to the authorized personnel line.
"Uh-huh." Monica nodded nervously. She smiled hello to a couple of familiar faces.
The guy in front of her, a lawyer with a beard and long hair, opened his case. Monica was next. Pablo, who always teased her about the Mets, caught her eye and smiled. Her heart was beating savagely. She felt the weight of the bundle pressing down on her. What if they looked inside?
The lawyer in front of her closed his case, passing through. Now it was just her and Pablo. Could he hear her heart pounding? Holding her breath, Monica stepped into the gate.
"How's the weekend, hon?" The guard took a perfunctory peek inside her handbag. "You catch those Mets?"
"Sure I did." Monica nodded, closing her eyes, expecting a loud beep to go off. Her life to be over.
It didn't. Nothing happened. She stepped through. Just like every other day. A tremor of relief went through her. Thank God.
"See you at lunch," Pablo said. She started to hurry away. Then she heard him call, "Hey, Monica."
Monica Ann Romano froze, and she turned around slowly.
The guard flashed her a wink. "I like your hat."
Chapter 63
THE LAWYERS WERE IN the courtroom. Cavello, too. Judge Barnett gazed out at the nervous group of prospective jurors who had cautiously filed in. "I doubt there's a person in this room who doesn't know why we're here," he said.
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 wen
t 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.