The Missing Piece (31 page)

*   *   *

McQueen usually rushed down to his courtroom after signing in at the fifth-floor security desk. Out of sight, out of mind was his theory. If the captain didn't see him, he wouldn't reassign him to a post where he actually would need to work. But this morning, McQueen lingered. He could see the banker's lamp burning like a bright oblong through the frosted glass of the captain's door. Diagonally to the right, the door to the operations office was fastened back. The office was empty, so McQueen slipped in and grabbed the key to the plenum.

McQueen quickly walked past the security desk to the inner circular corridor. An elevator dinged, and he held his breath as the door opened on a messenger with a hand delivery destined for one of the chambers. McQueen ducked into the A stairwell. He took the stairs silently, landing on the balls of his feet and pressing his hand against his belt to prevent his equipment from jingling. He stopped at the fourth floor and listened carefully. Not a footstep above or below. Then he eased down to the 3M level, unlocked the door to the plenum, and closed himself inside. He flipped the light switch and saw the dim bulbs curve into the darkness. The air smelled less musty, the layers of dust didn't look as thick. But the difference was only in his perception. Last time, he was here on Gary's orders; now, he was here on his own conviction.

He swept the flashlight from side to side as he swung over and bent under the ducts. Occasionally, he opened the drawer of an old desk or lifted the seat of an old chair. But that was just habit. Because he knew where he would find the piece. He felt exactly where it would be.

The plenum turned, and he hit another light switch. Halfway along the next arc was the empty wall where he had kicked aside the pile of broken chair legs and found the rat. He could see that the legs had been gathered together and leaned upright against the wall in a neat conical pattern. A tingle crawled down his spine, then broke into an involuntary shiver. But this wasn't a shiver of fear. It was a shiver of anticipation. He played the flashlight beam and could see something round and dull gray through the gaps in the chair legs. He measured the length of the legs against his memory of the urn. They were long enough to hide the urn inside.

He stepped close and toed at one of the legs. It moved easily, so he worked his toe behind it and flicked his foot. The chair legs tumbled like bowling pins.

The urn stood against the wall. It was the size and shape he remembered, the long narrow neck, the tonguelike spout, the spherical bottom. But it was dull gray rather than a shiny silver. The figures were blurry rather than cut in sharp relief. And it stood not on the flanged base that he remembered but on a bed of fur.

McQueen lifted the urn. The base peeled away from the fur, which slowly wriggled, then stretched, then rose. It was the rat.

The rat reared on its hind legs. It hissed. It scratched the air. McQueen reacted with a swift kick. His toe caught the rat squarely under the front legs, lifting it off the floor and dashing it against the wall.

 

CHAPTER 36

McQueen spun the padlock and pressed his forehead against the cold metal of his locker door. Holy fuckin' shit, he said to himself, I just locked a five-million-dollar piece of silver in my locker. He needed to call Gary ASAP.

The locker room door opened, and footsteps and a gust of voices swept in. McQueen pushed himself off his locker. Four, five, eight court officers filed in and formed a semicircle in the area behind him. Captain Kearney followed, dragging two plump green garbage bags.

“Join us, Michael,” he said, “this involves you, as well.”

McQueen inserted himself into the semicircle, peeking between a couple of taller heads. Kearney rarely descended to the locker room, where his brown suit and priestly manner were at odds with the blue uniforms and crass language. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet. On either side of him, the garbage bags slowly settled with the pull of gravity.

“Today, this morning,” he said, “the protestors from the park will march into the courthouse and into Judge Conover's courtroom. They have the permission of the administrative judge and they are to behave in accordance with an agreement worked out with their lawyers. They will enter the courtroom and sit in the gallery. They will not speak or disrupt the proceedings in any way.

“Though we expect a peaceful and silent demonstration, it is still incumbent upon us to provide security in a way that we can quickly react should the need arise. These bags contain clothes from the St. James Mission. You are to dress in these clothes. After you dress in these clothes, you are to infiltrate the protest in the park. Leave by the rear entrance and walk to the park via Worth Street. Walk singly, not even in pairs. Do not acknowledge each other, but be aware of where you all are. The march will begin in an organized fashion on the other side of Centre. Fold yourselves in among the protestors. Keep your spacing. All the protestors, as well as yourselves, will go through the mags. In the courtroom, there will be a crew of three officers. They will know who you are and that you will be randomly dispersed among the crowd. They might seek you out with their eyes, but don't acknowledge them in any way. Any questions?”

No one said a word.

“One more thing,” continued Kearney. “The trial in front of Judge Conover is the same trial where our own Gary Martin was shot. Keep that in mind.”

*   *   *

Foxx called the courtroom to order, then drifted to a spot in the well where he could face the judge and still eyeball the lawyers in quarter view.

Linda switched on her banker's lamp.

“Is there anything before I rule on the pretrial motions?” she said.

“There is, Your Honor.” Arthur Braman stood. “My firm submitted an order to show cause on Friday. We have not heard whether it's been signed.”

“An order to show cause in this case?” said Linda. “On Friday?”

“That's correct,” said Braman.

“I signed one order to show cause on Friday afternoon. But not in this case. I would have noticed that. What time did you submit it?”

“Early afternoon, I'm told,” said Braman.

“Where?”

“Through the proper channels,” said Braman. Proper channels meant that the order would be screened by a back office clerk, then sent to chambers for the judge to sign.

Linda leaned back and caught the eye of her court clerk. The clerk immediately tapped his computer keyboard, then climbed the bench.

“Computer shows the order to show cause was submitted Friday at two thirty-five,” he said.

“Excuse me,” Linda told the lawyers.

She went into the robing room and called chambers. Mark answered.

“Do you know anything about an order to show cause in the Roman silver case? Computer shows it came in at two thirty-five Friday.”

“I'll look around,” Mark.

“Do,” said Linda.

She went back to the bench.

“The order never reached chambers,” she said. “We are looking for it, and when we find it I'll consider it. Meanwhile, I will issue the rulings.”

“But, Your Honor,” said Braman, “you must consider the order to show cause before you issue your rulings. Otherwise the order is moot.”

Linda gazed down severely at Braman.

“Explain,” she said.

“The order asks that you disqualify yourself.”

“On what ground?” said Linda.

“I prefer to have the papers speak for themselves.”

“Do you have copies?”

“My associate handled the matter. He's been waiting on a call from chambers since Friday. He's en route now.”

“Mr. Braman, you are here, I am here, opposing counsel are here. What are your grounds for my disqualification?”

“That you have prejudged the case,” said Braman. “And that you are in possession of inadmissible evidence.”

“I have prejudged the case?” said Linda. “Because I was the law clerk to the judge who had it the first time? And what if he were still on the bench? Would you have made the same motion to disqualify him?”

“I would need to examine the circumstances,” said Braman.

“Right,” said Linda. “And what is the nature of my inadmissible evidence?”

“This is why you need to see the order itself. The supporting papers amply justify disqualification.”

“Mr. Braman, you didn't bring copies, so you are unprepared. Your associate is on the way, but he is not here. We will continue to look for the original. In the meantime, the trial will start.”

“But, Your Honor, the order asks for a stay of the trial pending your decision on disqualification.”

Both Pinter and Cokeley shot to their feet.

“Easy, counsel.” Linda waved her hand, telling them to sit down. “Mr. Braman, I can't imagine your papers setting forth any valid reason for disqualification, let alone a stay of the trial. Nice try, but we are moving on.”

“I object,” said Braman.

“No kidding,” said Linda.

Braman sat down.

“Now for my rulings on the pretrial issues,” said Linda. “First, Croatia is permitted to present the evidence of the new witness, Colonel Orkan Stjepanovic, in place of the testimony of Anton Fleiss without the need for a pretrial deposition. Since Colonel Stjepanovic was with Anton Fleiss during the alleged unearthing of the treasure, his testimony will be substantially the same.

“Second, Hungary may present art historical evidence and chemical soil analyses without any eyewitness testimony. However, the letter Hungary intends to present requires qualifying testimony from an eyewitness, and for that I don't see how it can be admitted now that Grotzky is dead.”

“I have a subpoena out for another witness,” said Pinter. “A custodian who works in this building. I met him many years ago and filed his resident alien application, but have seen little of him since.”

“Can I say I am somewhat suspicious of this witness,” said Braman. “We should at least get a chance to examine him before he takes the stand.”

“He's not under my control,” said Pinter, “and my process server has not been able to serve him.”

“Can't he serve him here?” said Linda.

“He seems to be in the wind,” said Pinter.

“What will he testify to?” said Cokeley.

“He was a neighbor of the Szabo family,” said Pinter. “He was much younger than the two younger sons, but would spend time with the mother. I believe he was in the house the day she died. I believe he saw her writing the letter. I also believe he witnessed her murder by a group of former Yugoslav soldiers led by Colonel Stjepanovic.”

“That's absurd,” said Cokeley.

“And how do you know this?” said Linda.

“A story he told me many years ago,” said Pinter. “The story made no sense to me at the time. Now, with what I've learned since, it does.”

“He must have been very young,” said Linda.

“He was,” said Pinter. “But sometimes the most accurate memories are the ones from childhood.”

“And sometimes they are completely false,” said Cokeley.

“The weight of the evidence would be for the jury to decide,” said Pinter.

The door of the courtroom opened, and Ivan walked in holding a piece of paper. He stopped at the rail. Linda caught Foxx's eye and lifted her chin. Foxx took the paper from Ivan and brought it to the bench.

“The subpoena has been served,” said Linda. She looked at Ivan. “Mr. Zoltar, you know this means you are to testify in this trial. The subpoena cannot be ignored.”

“I know,” said Ivan.

“In addition to that, I am going to direct that all the lawyers question you before you come to court,” said Linda. “This way, they will hear your testimony beforehand. Do you understand?”

“I do,” said Ivan.

“Good.” Linda handed the subpoena to Foxx, who walked Ivan out of the courtroom.

“Anything else?” said Linda.

“I want to say on the record that I take exception to all of your rulings,” said Braman.

“Of course, Mr. Braman,” said Linda. “I would expect no less.”

 

CHAPTER 37

McQueen, being McQueen, took his damn time walking from the locker room to the park. He was the last of the eight officers to head out, and by the time he crossed Worth Street the seventh officer was fifty yards ahead of him, shambling along in striped pirate pants and a knockoff Brooklyn Nets jersey. The getup McQueen had grabbed from the plastic bag included oversized jeans held up by a rope, a stiff wool poncho that reeked of mildew, and a mismatched pair of high-top sneakers. He worked his hand under the poncho and pulled out his cell phone. There was no guarantee Gary would answer, not the way he sounded when last they'd spoken. But four rings in, Gary picked up. His “hello” didn't exactly sound sprightly, but it was a definite improvement.

“Hey, it's Mike. Guess what I'm doing? Heading to Thomas Paine Park dressed like a bum.”

“Really?” said Gary. “And why am I interested?”

“Because I'm going undercover with a bunch of protestors marching into Judge Conover's courtroom.”

“During the trial?” said Gary.

“You got that right.”

“Who's protesting what?”

“Bunch of homeless. They have a case before her. They think she should have decided their case before starting this one. Obviously, they don't know how the courthouse works.”

“And what the hell are you going to do?”

“Keep the peace. Make sure nothing happens. There are eight of us, plus three in the courtroom.”

“Have fun,” said Gary.

“There is something else,” said McQueen. “I found it.”

“Say again.”

“I found it.”

“Found what?”

“What are you? On drugs? I found the urn, the missing piece, whatever the hell you call it.”