The Missing Piece (3 page)

Now she was working with one eye on the clock, hitting the wrong keys and missing the space bar. And where was the judge, she wondered.

Finally, she fixed the last typo and printed the decision. As she was tapping the edges together, the phone rang. The robing room number showed on the screen.

“It's me,” said the judge. “I was delayed, so I came straight to the robing room.”

“No problem. I just finished some final edits on the decision.”

“Okay,” said the judge, drawing out the two syllables as if thinking.

“Don't worry, there are no substantive changes.”

“Well, come down. We still have a few minutes before we begin.”

*   *   *

Paul Douglas Leonard White, the fourteenth Earl of Leinster, leaned toward the deeply recessed courtroom window. The title was honorific—the ancient Kingdom of Leinster had not existed as a sovereign realm in hundreds of years—but the family fortune was authentic. One day Leinster would own that fortune outright, but currently the holdings were in trust, an embarrassment for a forty-five-year-old scion but a precaution taken by the late thirteenth earl, who believed, with good reason, that his son was too flighty for the responsibility.

Leinster pulled out from the recess at the sound of the courtroom door squeaking open. His lawyer, Arthur Braman, walked in swinging a large briefcase. A young associate followed, dragging a larger briefcase on a flimsy wheeled contraption that made scuffing sounds on the cork floor. Leinster and Braman locked eyes for a moment, then Leinster leaned back into the recess to look down on Worth Street. One lane was blocked by wooden horses wrapped with bright orange tape, the other was covered by huge metal construction plates that went
clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk
whenever a car or truck drove over them. Leinster winced. That sound was in his head now, and he knew that no matter how hard he tried to shut it out of his mind, the
clunk-clunk, clunk-clunk
would drive him mad.

The time was 9:25 by Leinster's pocket watch. Only five minutes to go before court began, and as Braman and his associate carefully deployed file folders and legal pads on their portion of the large wooden counsels' table, the lawyers for Croatia and Hungary chatted amiably with the lawyer for the auction house. Leinster shook his head, annoyed at how opposing lawyers could be so friendly and cordial before the bell rang. And it was not only American lawyers who behaved like such chameleons. His solicitors back home acted the same way, as well.

“My lord.” Braman was at his elbow. He was as diminutive and, in his own style, as dapper as Leinster, with large pleasant features, hair thick enough to mask a comb-over, and a voice that remained smoothly unruffled even in the most heated legal exchanges.

“Mr. Braman.”

“How was your flight?”

“Comfortable,” said Leinster. Another truck passed over the construction plate, and Leinster tried his best to shut the sound from his mind. “What precisely are we here for this morning?”

“The trial will actually start this afternoon,” said Braman. “But last week we all made pretrial motions, which the judge will rule on this morning. These rulings may sound esoteric to you, but they will tell us what evidence the judge will allow us to present and what he will exclude.”

“You will explain all this to me, I trust.”

“Of course,” said Braman. “For now, just keep in mind that the more evidence the judge excludes, the better for us.”

“You mean me,” said Leinster. “The better for me. I am the one invested in this treasure. You will collect your fee regardless.”

With a graceful nod, Braman melted away. Down below, a city bus passed.
Clunk-clunk … clunk-clunk.

If Leinster had known it would have taken this long, if he had known it would have been this difficult and this complicated, he never would have embarked on this quest. Eleven years had passed since James Thatcher-Wood, his solicitor and confidant, came to him with news of a “find” on the Syrian antiquities market: an exquisitely wrought silver urn dating to the fourth century Roman Empire.

“The word is,” Thatcher-Wood told him, “it is part of a larger treasure. If you can assemble the entire hoard, the aggregate value would be staggering.”

Leinster purchased the urn for one million American dollars. Almost immediately, rumors began circulating about a large silver platter fashioned by the same silversmith. Thatcher-Wood created a trust to act as the strawman in that purchase. Out of available cash, but deliriously interested in pursuing the rest of the treasure, Leinster lined up three investors to bankroll his scheme. The thirteenth earl was still alive at the time and would have approved of neither the deal nor his son's choice of business partners. But, six years, twelve strawmen, and twelve million invested American dollars later, Leinster had assembled a fourteen-piece collection known as the Salvus Treasure.

The entire treasure had an estimated value of seventy million dollars. The plan was to flip it to a museum or a private collection, then divide the profit. But any hope of a sale collapsed when a well-known art historian published an article hinting that the Syrian export licenses, the sole documentation attesting to the treasure's provenance, may have been forged. Prospective purchasers backed off, and the investors turned threatening. Thatcher-Wood offered an alternative plan: a New York auction house was willing to sell the treasure. It was only later, too late in Leinster's opinion, that the contours of this arrangement became evident. First, the auction house would send the treasure on a world tour to drum up interest. Then, as its due diligence, it would notify every government presently existing within the boundaries of the fourth century Roman Empire of the impending auction. Croatia filed a lawsuit to stop the sale, Hungary and Syria joined in, and this interminable litigation followed. The last time Leinster had met with his investors, one jumped across the table and began to choke him. The other two pulled him off, though only reluctantly in Leinster's recollection. Hence Leinster's objection to Braman's use of the royal “we.”

Leinster slammed his fist against the window frame. Every time he thought of Thatcher-Wood and this bloody lawsuit he wanted to scream. Arthur Braman was a calm, confident master at the top of his game. If anything else were at stake—a piece of real estate, a bank account, one of his several divorces—Leinster would believe that victory was at hand. But he had encountered so many pitfalls trying to extricate himself from this infernal treasure that he was convinced something else would go wrong.

*   *   *

Each courtroom at 60 Centre Street had a robing room, a small adjunct located directly behind the bench where the judge could relax, confer with lawyers, and, as the name implied, slip into or out of his or her robe. Linda left chambers with the freshened decision in a file folder and took a set of internal stairs down to the third floor. On the 3M level, she passed the jury room, empty now but not this afternoon. Half a floor down, she landed at the robing room door. The stage entrance, she liked to call it.

Judge Johnstone already had donned his robe, and as Linda opened the door, she caught him pacing with his hands locked behind his back.

“That it?” he said.

Linda nodded and handed over the decision. The judge flipped through the pages with eyes that obviously took in nothing, then lay the decision on the desk. He forced a smile.

“I appreciate all the work you did on this,” he said. “But I had an epiphany this morning.”

“What kind of epiphany?” said Linda.

“I want to go the other way.”

“The other way?”

“With this decision.”

“You can't be serious,” said Linda.

“I'm perfectly serious,” said the judge.

“But after all our … why?”

“Think of the jury. Laypeople without any sense of the law, inundated with highly technical expert opinions and extremely confusing factual evidence.”

“That's the jury system,” said Linda. “The lawyers could have asked for a bench trial. They didn't.”

“That doesn't mean I need to go along with them. I'm the judge. I'm responsible for this trial.”

“You can't disband the jury,” said Linda.

“No, but I can make the trial less complicated.”

“You're going to exclude all the evidence that you carefully explained was relevant?” said Linda.

“I didn't explain it yet,” said the judge. “Not on the record.”

“But you said it to me. All that talk about your special case.”

“I've rethought it.”

“I don't understand.”

“Here.” The judge worked his hand through a slit in his robe and handed Linda a coffee shop napkin covered with notes too messy to read.

“But the evidence is what makes this case so interesting,” she said. “Excluding all this basically does away with the trial.”

“No, it simplifies the trial. And the simpler the trial, the better my chance to settle it.”

“How can you settle a trial that involves a unique treasure?” said Linda. “It's not a pedestrian knockdown.”

“Because it's not about the treasure,” said the judge. “It's not even about national pride. It's about money. Everything is about money, and this is a holdup. If Leinster wants to throw each of the plaintiffs a few million, they'll go away.”

“Not if he thinks he's going to win,” said Linda.

“He has a smart lawyer. These rulings leave the outcome just enough doubt that he can't take the chance.”

“And what about bringing in that treasure piece as a court exhibit?” said Linda. “You and I agreed how important that was.”

Judge Johnstone took back the napkin and squinted at his notes.

“We did, didn't we?” he said. “Whose motion was that?”

“The auction house,” said Linda. “They didn't want the responsibility or the expense.”

“I suppose I can stick with that.” The judge folded the napkin. “Does that make you happy?”

“Not really,” said Linda.

*   *   *

Foxx immediately took in the necessary information as he strolled into the courtroom: six lawyers and a guy dressed like a refugee from Carnaby Street.

“Where's Gary?” asked the court clerk as Foxx drew up. The clerk's desk was perfectly neat, and the bank of file cabinets behind it was totally devoid of any coffee-making paraphernalia.

“Pearl Street,” said Foxx. “You got me. Kearney's orders. Who's the dandy?”

“Lord Leinster. You know anything about the trial?”

“Only that it involves a Roman silver treasure and that one piece could be visiting us this afternoon.” Foxx eyed Leinster. “When was the last time you saw spats?”

“
My Fair Lady
?” said the clerk.

Foxx laughed.

Behind the robing room door, sharp voices suddenly volleyed and then went silent.

“What's going on in there?” said Foxx.

“Lovers' quarrel.” The clerk stood up and told the lawyers to take their places at counsels' table. Then he turned to Foxx. “Tell him we're ready.”

Foxx knocked and cracked the door at the same time. Judge Johnstone and his law clerk seemed to be facing off across the desk, the judge with his arms akimbo and the law clerk ripping a thin sheaf of paper in long, slow tears. Foxx had seen Judge Johnstone often, but never the law clerk because he would have remembered the strawberry blond hair, the graceful sway of her back, and her shapely legs. Give McQueen credit, he was right on this one.

“Everyone's ready, Judge,” he said.

“Where is Gary?”

“Reassigned. I'm here for now. Name is Foxx.”

“I see. Foxx, huh?” The judge glanced at Linda. “Then let's go.”

The judge mounted the bench with a swirl of robe while Linda drifted into the clerk's box. Rather than sit, she stood behind the chair, gripping the backrest in a way that told Foxx she had been on the losing end of whatever he had overheard.

The judge pulled the cord on the banker's lamp and adjusted the height of the microphone.

“I have before me four pretrial motions,” he said. “I have considered these motions with one principle in mind. The sole issue in this trial is where the treasure was unearthed. That is the lodestar at which I aim my rulings.”

The six lawyers all leaned forward, pens poised above legal pads. In the gallery, Leinster sat in the first row, his arms folded and his legs crossed, one foot bobbing rhythmically.

“First,” said the judge, “Croatia will not be allowed to call Anton Fleiss as a witness because his testimony on the unearthing of the treasure would be hearsay. Croatia has until nine thirty tomorrow morning to identify a different eyewitness to the unearthing. If not, the trial will proceed. If so, the court will conduct an immediate hearing on the admissibility of the new evidence.”

The lawyers scribbled on their legal pads.

“Next,” said the judge, “Hungary will not be allowed to introduce any art historical evidence. Although the evidence may be intellectually interesting and the subject of much discussion among art historians, it does not address the question of where the treasure was last unearthed.

“At this juncture, Hungary may not introduce evidence of the chemical analysis of the soil encrusted on the surface of the cauldron. This is because the chemical composition of the soil, while consistent with the chemical composition of the soil in the area around Polgardi, Hungary, also is consistent with soil in other areas of Eastern Europe. However, I will revisit this issue if Hungary produces an eyewitness to the unearthing. Although there is no potential eyewitness on the witness list submitted by Hungary, I will allow Hungary to identify such a witness by nine thirty tomorrow morning, under the same conditions as previously directed for Croatia.

“Third, because Syria recently discontinued its claim against Lord Leinster, the validity of the export licenses for all fourteen pieces of the treasure is no longer an issue. Therefore, the court will exclude all evidence of the alleged forgeries.