The Missing Piece (16 page)

“Mr. Cokeley, when will this witness arrive?” said Linda.

“End of the week.”

Linda glanced down at Bernadette, who made a subtle slicing motion across her neck.

“I am going to reserve on this issue,” she said. “Now, the decision allows the admission of Hungary's art historical evidence. Mr. Pinter, are you prepared to present this evidence?”

“I was prepared then and I am prepared now,” said Pinter.

“I have a problem,” said Braman. “I plan to call Dieter van der Weyden as a witness to dispute Hungary's art historical evidence. However, Mr. Van der Weyden has proven, let's say, difficult to corral.”

“Then I suggest you get some cowboys out to rope him right away,” said Linda. The lawyers all laughed politely. “We will have some time before we reach your case.”

“I understand,” said Braman.

“The decision also directs that Hungary be allowed to present its soil sample evidence without the need to connect it to eyewitness testimony,” said Linda. “Mr. Pinter, you are prepared to offer that evidence, I take it.”

“I am, Your Honor,” said Pinter. “And I have additional evidence to prove that the treasure was unearthed in Hungary.”

“What kind of evidence?” said Linda.

“A witness and documentary evidence,” said Pinter. “I have a witness in possession of a letter written by the mother of the man we believe found the treasure in a forest near Polgardi.”

“The quarry worker?” said Linda.

“Yes.”

“Who is the letter addressed to?”

“The woman's two younger sons.”

“And who is the witness?” said Linda. “One of the sons?”

“A neighbor,” said Pinter. “He saw the woman write the letter, which she intended to give to one of her sons, but later found the letter in his car. He has had it ever since.”

“Why didn't he return it to the woman?” said Linda “You said they were neighbors.”

“He tried, but she was dead.”

Linda leaned back in her chair. She knew about the murder of the mother, but this letter was something completely new.

“What is the content of the letter?” said Linda. “Briefly.”

“Briefly, Your Honor, the woman explains to her two younger sons how her eldest son found the treasure, tried to sell the treasure, and later was murdered for his troubles.”

“That does not sound like eyewitness testimony to me,” said Linda.

“But it is,” said Pinter. “She describes seeing the cauldron in the ground. She also describes helping her son lift it out of the ground using tools borrowed from the same neighbor. She also goes on to postulate who murdered her son and why. And let me stress that the letter was written just before she herself was murdered.”

Linda allowed Pinter's statement to settle.

“Anyone?” she said.

“This is the first time any of us have heard about the letter or the witness,” said Arthur Braman. “But just off the top of my head, I can think of numerous reasons to exclude this evidence. First, Judge Johnstone did give Hungary time to produce a witness to the unearthing. Now, assuming but not suggesting that you adopt Croatia's argument that the clock never ran on that portion of the rulings, this neighbor was not an eyewitness to the alleged unearthing.”

“This is a two-step process,” said Pinter. “The witness introduces the letter. The letter was written by someone who was present and describes the unearthing. Documentary evidence is the equivalent of testimonial evidence.”

“Let's assume that I adopt Croatia's argument,” said Linda. “What is your next basis for exclusion?”

“Authentication,” said Braman. “Who knows whether this woman even wrote it?”

“The letter is self-authenticating because the witness saw her writing it,” said Pinter.

“It's self-serving,” said Braman.

“That's not true,” said Pinter. “The letter would be self-serving only if it was written by the party in interest. This woman is not the party in interest. Hungary is. Therefore, the letter is not self-serving.”

“Then it's hearsay,” said Braman, “if he is offering it for the truth of its contents.”

“But the letter clearly falls under an exception to the hearsay rule,” said Pinter. “The letter admits to finding the treasure. The treasure is covered by Hungary's laws on antiquities, and these laws require that anyone who finds antiquities must turn them over to the government. They didn't, so this letter is an admission against interest because it basically admits that they violated Hungarian law.

“Further, the letter supports Hungary's claim that the quarry worker was murdered by soldiers from the Yugoslav army who also stole the treasure and staged its discovery at Pula.”

“This is absurd,” said Cokeley. “We thrashed this issue out last time. The Hungarian authorities ruled the quarry worker's death to be a suicide. Mr. Pinter did not even challenge that ruling on appeal.”

“That's all changed now,” said Pinter. “The Hungarian authorities have reopened their investigation and have classified the deaths of both the worker and his mother as suspicious. The letter bears this out.”

“Even more ridiculous,” said Cokeley. “How can a letter written by the mother be proof of her murder?”

“If the letter comes into evidence, it comes in for all purposes,” said Pinter. “In the letter, the mother explains to her two younger sons how and why their older brother died. She explicitly fears for her own life, as well as the lives of her sons. And, as I said, the witness will testify that the mother died in the same manner as her eldest son on the same day that she wrote the letter.”

Linda leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand and drumming the fingers of the other on the bench.

“Are you going to show us the letter?” she said.

“Of course, Your Honor.” Pinter pulled a file folder from his briefcase and fanned several copies of the letter with his thumb. He gave one copy to Foxx, who handed it up to Linda, and one each to Cokeley and Braman.

Linda rolled her chair to the side of the bench, and she and Bernadette read the letter together over the rail.

“This is a close one,” Bernadette whispered. “Reserve decision and ask for memos. We may need a couple of days on this.”

*   *   *

Face time, Mark Garber thought as he went down the back stairs. He needed face time in the courtroom. No smiles, no winks, no knowing nods. Just simple face time to show Arthur Braman that he was someone who Judge Conover relied on. He didn't need to do anything or say anything. He just needed to stand in the courtroom for a few minutes, listen to the proceedings with a somber look on his face, maybe whisper something innocuous to the judge.

Mark had walked through robing rooms thousands of times and often could sense if something important was happening in the courtroom. This was one of those times. He twisted the courtroom doorknob so the latch would not hit the striker, then pushed the door open a crack. He could see the judge sitting on the right side of the bench and reading a sheet of paper that lay on the rail. The courtroom was silent. He cracked the door another inch and saw Bernadette Symanski standing in the clerk's box and reading that same sheet of paper.

He let the door fall shut, ran through the robing room, chugged up the stairs, and burst into chambers.

“Gotta go,” Karen Pawling said into her phone and hung up.

Mark punched the back of his chair and kicked his trash basket.

“What's going on?” said Karen.

Mark gripped the windowsill behind his desk, bent over, and took very deep breaths.

“I asked her if she wanted me in the courtroom,” he said. “I thought, hey, this is a big trial with serious issues. I could help her with her bench rulings. Not that I care about that. I really wanted to be in the courtroom to put myself in a good light with the lawyers. You know, so I could find a goddam new job after she lets me go. But she tells me that she wouldn't be discussing anything substantive today, just scheduling, and that she wanted me working on motions up here. So I go down to the robing room, crack the robing room door, and you know what I see? I see that goddam Bernadette Symanski on the bench with her, whispering in her ear.”

“Mark…”

Karen took him by the hands and rubbed her thumbs against his palms. He liked that feeling, and for a moment he seemed to calm down. But then he shook free, squeezed past her, and rushed out of chambers.

 

CHAPTER 18

“How do you know what I think?” said Ivan.

They sat on the bench where Pinter and the old man had sat earlier. Ivan's mop still leaned against the wall near the courtroom door. He twisted the dust rag in his hands.

“I work for him,” said Jessima.

“You work for the courts, like I do.”

“Yes. We both work for the courts.” Jessima looped her arm around his and laced her fingers together. Ivan did not flinch, did not move, did not react in any way. “He sells information. I help him find it.”

“What kind of information?” said Ivan.

“About cases, about judges. Mostly judges. I spend a lot of time in chambers, sometimes alone, sometimes not, but always without anyone caring what I see or hear. It's like I'm invisible.”

Ivan knew how that felt.

“He pays you for what you find?” he said.

“Only if someone pays him,” said Jessima. “Last week, he told me to find something about Judge Conover.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Anything she would not want anyone to know,” said Jessima. Ivan removed his arm from hers and slid ever so slightly away.

“I like Judge Conover,” said Jessima. “She is a good lady. I wouldn't want to hurt her. But I found something and handed it over to Damien.”

“So, that's his name?”

“Yes. Damien Wheatley. I thought you knew.”

“Why? Because you think I would sell him information?”

Jessima sighed. She did not want to fight; she wanted only to explain.

“Damien told me that the person he thought was interested did not buy it.”

“Who did he try to sell it to?” said Ivan.

“The protestors in the park.”

“Them? They're just a bunch of homeless people.”

“But they have organizers,” said Jessima. “And Judge Conover has their case.”

Ivan leaned forward and pressed his fists into his eye sockets. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red from rubbing.

“How could you do such a thing?” he said.

“I do it for us,” said Jessima. “I save the money he pays me.”

Ivan stared at her and then right through her. He realized that he should be touched. He realized that with all his doubts about her, this explanation for what he saw should be exactly what he wanted to hear. She loved him, she planned for a future with him.

“You don't need to steal for him anymore,” he said. “I will take care of everything for us.”

She took back his arm, hugged it to her side, and slid close to him. He could read her mind just as surely as he could hear her breathe and feel the cushion of her hair on his square, bony shoulder. She thought he meant the lottery, and the fact that she didn't say anything to ridicule him meant something, too.

Jessima pecked his cheek. Then she got up and ran past Mike McQueen toward the rotunda gallery.

Ivan thought that McQueen would walk right over him. But the officer stopped just short and lifted one foot onto the bench to corner Ivan against the armrest. Ivan resisted the urge to rub the wet spot left by Jessima's lips.

“I need to get into the plenum,” said McQueen.

“The what?” said Ivan.

McQueen hooked a hand under Ivan's armpit and pulled him to his feet.

“Don't play dumb with me, Romeo.”

*   *   *

But McQueen could not tell whether Ivan was playing dumb or just plain dumb. He repeated the word several times, then explained that
plenum
meant a space filled with matter, but in the context of an old building it meant a storage area, and in the specific context of this courthouse it meant a hidden storage area. No hint of recognition or understanding lit Ivan's dull gray eyes. He allowed McQueen to drag him out to the circular gallery and beyond the elevator bank to the metal door labeled with a capital A. He said nothing as they climbed the stairs behind that door, up past the 2M level and then past the third floor. The A stairwell, though public, was rarely used. It ran from the basement up to the sixth floor, and on each of the landings had grimy windows that opened onto the interior light courts, an ancient architectural technique for illuminating large buildings.

“So what do you think of the trial?” said McQueen.

“What trial?”

“I don't believe this.” McQueen shook his head. “‘What trial?' Do you have any clue what goes on around you? The Roman silver case. In front of Judge Conover. You were just in the courtroom.”

“I was cleaning windows,” said Ivan.

“Cleaning windows, replacing lightbulbs. I've never seen someone so devoted to the sense of sight.”

“What do you want from me?” said Ivan.

They had reached the landing on the 3M level, and McQueen stopped at a door painted the same metallic green as all the window frames and sills in the stairwell. It was four feet tall by three feet wide and raised a foot above the landing. He jiggled the knob.

“Open it,” he said.

“No one is allowed without permission.”

“I have permission from Captain Kearney.”

“I don't have a key,” said Ivan.

“Don't lie to me, Romeo. All you custodians have keys to this door.”

Ivan seemed to weigh his choices, then fished a key ring from the pocket of his coveralls. Shaking, he tried one key after another.

“Hey, cut the crap,” McQueen said after the third key jammed halfway into the keyhole. He grabbed the ring and flipped through the keys until he found a manufacturer's stamp that matched the stamp on the lock. The key slipped easily inside.