Unlucky in Law (20 page)

“What's this got to do with my sister—
who was murdered
?”

“How did Stefan Wyatt find out the location of your father's grave?”

“I don't know.”

Stefan shook his head and sighed. The judge frowned at him.

“You told him where your father was buried, didn't you?” Nina asked.

“No,” Zhukovsky said.

“You gave him the five hundred dollars that was found in his pocket, didn't you?”

“No.”

“Tell the truth, you lyin' sack of shit!” Stefan shouted from the counsel table, slamming his hand down. Next thing Nina knew, Salas, up to now a picture of proper judicial decorum, ordered the jury to be gone and lost his cool. The yelling took some time. His deep bellows, unleashed, scared the court silent. Stefan balled up into a corner of the table, cowed. Alex Zhukovsky shrank back from the judge's dais, hoping to evade the hurricane.

When the judge had blown enough air to clear the Salinas fog all the way back to the coast, a mid-afternoon break was called.

When Alex Zhukovsky returned, Nina watched one of the young women on the jury come alive to glower at him. Wearing a sympathetic expression, she then turned her attention toward Stefan. So maybe Nina's earlier strategy had paid off. Something about the witness irked this girl, or something about the client engaged her. Either way, it made Nina happy. She had gotten through to the jury. Did they finally understand that Zhukovsky had hired Stefan to bring him the medal? Maybe. Nina sure hoped so.

“Back on the record,” the judge said.

“Can I add something to my previous testimony?” Alex Zhukovsky said. “I remembered something during the break.” He grinned.

“I object to that,” Nina said, perturbed. What was with this incongruous grin? “There's no question pending.”

Jaime spoke to the judge, but dithering, plainly wanting something beneficial to the prosecution to emerge from Zhukovsky's testimony, but uncertain about what to expect. The courtroom scraped and scuffled while the judge considered. Finally, the judge said sternly, “Do you remember the question that you wish to answer again?”

“Yes,” Zhukovsky said. “Mr. Sandoval asked me if my sister ever mentioned the name of Stefan Wyatt.”

“Objection!” Nina said. “That has been asked and answered.”

The judge sent out the jury again, who must have been tired of all the back and forth, adjourning court for five minutes. The lawyers followed him and the clerk back into chambers. After a brief, furious fracas, during which time Nina resorted to every trick, every blackmail, every shaky legal antic she could muster, they all returned, the judge red-faced, Nina breathing fast, Jaime triumphant with glee. The jurors fell into their chairs. Four o'clock, the wall clock read. Nina couldn't recall a longer day in her life. She took her place facing Alex Zhukovsky.

“You may supplement your answer to the question,” said Judge Salas.

The clerk read it: “‘Did your sister ever mention the names Stef Wyatt or Stefan Wyatt to you?'”

“Yes.”

“You may cross-examine on that point.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Nina said, hoping to disguise her fury, but aware that her neck wore its signaling red flag of mortification. She pulled up her collar. “Mr. Zhukovsky, why did you testify earlier that your sister did not mention that name to you?”

“I forgot she mentioned it.”

“Did you ever tell the District Attorney's office what you have just testified?”

“No. I remembered during the break. My testimony today—being here—brought it back.”

“An hour ago your sister had no connection you knew about with the defendant, and now all of a sudden she does?” She let a smidgeon of her contempt leak into the question.

“I'm sorry,” Zhukovsky said, hanging his head. “It wasn't very important at the time.”

Right. He's accused of killing your sister, and you casually forgot to mention a crucial fact about that for four months. Well, screw you, Nina tried to convey with her shoulders and the twist of her mouth, you unprincipled creep. “All right, exactly what did your sister say about the defendant?” she asked politely.

“That she knew a guy who did odd jobs. She named him.”

This brutal attack on Stefan Wyatt killed all action in the court.

Odd jobs, Nina thought, stunned at this turn of events and the strangeness of Zhukovsky's statement. Well, digging up graves certainly qualified!

“When did your sister say this?” she asked.

Zhukovsky told the court that the conversation had taken place at the end of the first day of the conference.

“What else did she tell you?”

“Nothing. That's why I forgot it until now. But she did say that.”

Everyone understood by now. He had linked Stefan with his dead sister, defendant with victim.

Head turned away from the jury, Nina took four quick breaths and gathered all her composure. “So, Mr. Zhukovsky, is it your belief that it was Christina Zhukovsky who hired Stefan Wyatt to dig up your father's bones? Why would she do that?”

He shook his head. “I don't know. Maybe for the medal.”

“Isn't it true that your testimony that your sister mentioned the defendant's name is perjured testimony?”

“No.”

“Isn't it true that you just thought this up on the break because it casts suspicion away from you and no one can refute it?”

“I had forgotten.”

Sadistically wishing she could kick him, she enjoyed the way his knuckles tightened at the question, and a moist sheen of additional testimony sprang up to speak on his balding forehead. She waited until she could sound patient, solemn, reliable. As opposed to him. “For five months you didn't remember your sister mentioned the name of the man you seem to think killed her?” she asked.

“I forgot.” He finally seemed to have registered how absurd he sounded, and appeared as disturbed as the jury at the notion.

“You know very well that your testimony is the first link anyone has given between the defendant and your sister, don't you? You know how helpful this is to the prosecution? But you don't mention it for five—”

“Objection!” the prosecutor had finally jumped to his feet.

In a move calculated to coincide with what she was sensing from the jury, Nina openly let her disgust with the witness show. She paced up and down in front of the witness box, clenching and unclenching her fists. She felt the eyes of the courtroom following her, and welcomed their notice.

“She's badgering the witness,” Jaime said. He saw what Nina was doing but didn't know how to stop her. He also seemed very aware of the mood in the courtroom, which could generally be described as pissed. Juries hated being confused.

“Sustained.”

“Mr. Zhukovsky, why didn't you testify about this on direct examination?”

“I was nervous.”

“What made you nervous? Your intent to commit perjury?”

“Objection,” Sandoval said. “Your Honor . . .”

“Withdrawn.” Nina thought a moment, and just when Alex was beginning to compose himself, said, “So you are saying your sister, Christina, might have hired this defendant to dig up that medal?”

The outlines of Alex's mistake became instantly clear to everyone. He had wanted to connect Christina and Stefan. Jaime Sandoval had begged for a connection, and had in fact looked pleased for that one moment, when the connection caught. But now, if the jury believed Christina had hired Stefan, Stefan might no longer be convicted of the independent felony charge of grand theft for taking the medal, because the defense would explain that Christina had hired Stefan to bring their father's medal to her, making what first appeared to be a theft no longer a theft.

The prosecutor had carefully explained that Stefan could be put in prison for life just for stealing the medal, because it was his third felony conviction and California had a third-strike rule. Now, if Stefan didn't get convicted for murder, he might actually go free.

Along with all the courtroom, Jaime was figuring this out, too. He was not pleased.

“Believe me,” Alex Zhukovsky blurted, taking a last stab toward credibility. “Christina wouldn't want that medal any more than I did.”

Nina objected, trying to stop him, but he talked over her, his voice rising to overcome hers. “I expect they got to talking and she mentioned it for some reason, then Wyatt killed her and stole it meaning to sell it. Thinking he'd be rich, from killing my sister. Getting maybe five thousand crummy dollars! Killing her for that!”

The whole time he ranted, Nina shouted for him to stop, but he kept on until he had finished. “Mr. Zhukovsky, you would say anything to convict Stefan Wyatt, wouldn't you?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Mr. Zhukovsky!” the judge said.

“Sorry! Sorry!”

“Mr. Zhukovsky, even considering the fact that you've demonstrated a faulty memory, let me ask you one final question,” Nina said, adamant, knowing Jaime was ready to object, but hoping he wasn't quick enough. “Who is the one person in this courtroom with an irrefutable connection both to the victim, Christina, who was your sister, and to the man lying in that grave, who was your father, Constantin Zhukovsky?”

His face popped, his eyes bulged, his arm muscles contracted, his body appeared ready to leap forward. Why, he was so upset, his body told them all, he could strangle her.

“No more questions,” Nina said serenely. She sailed over to the defense table and sat down.

“Wow,” Paul said.

“I warned you about him,” Klaus said.

She gulped water, overwhelmed, and leaned on her elbows, facing the table so that no one could see her face.

Stefan said nothing.

Klaus's thin fingers wound like a bony claw around her arm. He cleared his throat, which took a very long time.

“A difficult cross-exam, Miss Reilly,” he said finally, giving her arm a squeeze. “Yet you exposed that prevaricating blockhead.”

“Did I?” She remembered the fight, the clanging of the bell, the mouth guard in her mouth, the shouts from the audience. She just couldn't recall the referee raising her hand in the air, declaring a clear victory.

He slapped his knee. “Controlled, reactive, and powerful,” he said. “Masterful.”

16

Tuesday 9/23

N
INA DROVE
K
LAUS BACK TO
C
ARMEL, THEN DROVE OVER TO THE
main library in Monterey. The time had come. One of the characters in this case claimed to be a page to the last tsar of Russia, and what she could remember about the Romanovs from a paper she wrote in high school might fill a paragraph.

The librarian stacked books in front of her, an intimidating pile which she opened one after another. She read. She studied pictures. If she had been at home alone, she would have cried.

The Romanovs ruled Russia for three hundred years, until 1918, when Nicholas II gave up power, and even gave up the rights of succession for his son. The last tsar had failed as a leader, spending too much time leading his troops into massacres, and leaving his German wife in charge of the country. She, Alexandra, had fallen under the sinister influence of a shaman-healer, Rasputin, and all the country despised the situation. Insulted, and empowered by Nicholas's frequent, lengthy absences, in the end, rebels forced Nicholas to release his family's ancient iron grip on the leadership of Russia.

The entire family and some of their retainers were sent into exile, eventually landing in Ekaterinburg. For months they lived an abnormally tranquil existence there, although terror was never far beneath the surface.

And then came their final day at Ekaterinburg, starting with a menacing request: because of unrest in the town, the Romanov family needed to go into hiding in the basement. They were given just over one half hour to dress for the occasion. A boy, his family—four beautiful sisters, a long-suffering mother, a loving father—and a few devoted servants did as they were told.

Alexis Romanov, the tsarevitch, son of the last Romanov ruler of Russia, fourteen years old, described over and over again as a physically fragile hemophiliac, had been learning to play the balalaika. Because of his ill health, his father Nicholas carried him downstairs. His older sister, Anastasia, only seventeen years old, clutched her King Charles spaniel, Jemmy. His mother, Alexandra, suffering from back pain, asked for chairs and they were brought. She and her ailing son sat in the chairs. Her husband and four daughters surrounded her. They were told to line up for a group photograph.

Instead, their Bolshevik executioners filled the room. The fusillade began. First a Colt took down Nicholas II, the last tsar, who was still shouting, “What? What?” at the words read by the leader of the death squad. His wife, trying to make the sign of the cross, died instantly, along with their oldest daughter, Olga, who was taken down by a single shot to the head.

The tsarevitch, Alexis, along with his other sisters and assorted consorts, remained alive as the bullets flew. Marie, Tatiana, and their sister, Anastasia, crouched in front of the wall, arms up, defensive. Alexis, on the floor, grabbed for his dead father's shirt.

Later, the bodies were hauled on a cart, headed for an old mine shaft near an area called “Four Brothers” because of the large pines ringing the area. Eighteen pounds of diamonds which had acted as armor were recovered from the corpses. The Romanovs had realized the seriousness of the invitation to the basement. The gems sewn into their clothing, which protected some of them from the barrage of bullets, at least forestalling their final moments, had also been intended to provide them a future.

In the 1990s, when the bodies were uncovered in that mine shaft in the pine forest, two were missing. One of the scientists involved could not say if it was Marie or Anastasia who was missing, but he could say definitely that Alexis was not among those buried that cold morning. Yurovsky, a man who was present at the executions, wrote that two of the bodies were burned instead.

No sign of the burned bodies was ever found. Did those two Romanovs die? Or did they live?

And what appeared to be an ending was in fact the beginning of a new story. Thus began the resurrection of a new generation of monarchist Romanovs: the pretenders.

Even Nina had heard of one of the dozens of women who claimed to be Anastasia. From 1920 until 1984, when DNA tests disproved her claim, a Polish woman named Franziska Schanzkowska claimed to be the tsar's youngest daughter. Even today, the question of who might be the legitimate heir to the Russian empire was a matter of spirited debate. Grand Duke George, grandson of a cousin of Nicholas II, was a claimant, as was his mother, the Grand Duchess Maria Vladimirovna.

A man in Canada claimed to be the tsarevitch. A man in Finland did, too. One who had been imprisoned in a gulag in Siberia had a really good story. Dozens of wannabe Alexis Nicholaevich Romanovs sneaked into the news on a regular basis.

Some claimed there was no legitimate heir. But a yearning grew up in the hearts of many Russians, after the fall of Communism, for the old days and the old ways, and the stories of the pretenders continued.

Did Constantin Zhukovsky know something about the death of the Romanovs? If he did, what in the world did it have to do with the death of his daughter, and her burial in his grave? Did he have some link to a survivor of the carnage at Ekaterinburg?

Nina called Ginger, then Paul to tell him what she had found out, and what she now suspected. Why were the bones of Constantin Zhukovsky stolen? Because someone—Christina? Alex? Sergey?—someone thought Constantin Zhukovsky's heritage was suspect, or useful, and needed the bones to prove it.

Paul had to keep it brief on his cell phone. He was heading north along the coast, in hot pursuit of his suspect.

Up the angular silhouette of California they flew, Paul, in his treasured red Mustang, tailing Alex Zhukovsky. Paul knew his car wasn't ideal for blending in, but figured he could make up for his conspicuousness with his skill. He didn't know what to make of what Nina told him about executions nearly a hundred years before. He tossed the information in with the rest of the wet, involuted salad of facts in his mind.

Dusk brought out the commuters with their cruise controls. The self-absorbed faces all around Paul didn't seem to notice the sand dunes, the glimpses of the Pacific on his left, the seductive air. Zhukovsky, a couple of cars ahead, driving a white Cadillac Coupe de Ville, wove relentlessly through the traffic.

In addition to her unusually moving lecture about the Romanovs, Nina had said, “I don't think I've ever seen anyone with a guiltier conscience than Alex Zhukovsky. He lied on the stand, and, you know what? I think he feels bad about it. Watch him tonight, Paul.” So of course, after a quick drink at Alfredo's, the professor headed out of town for points unknown. Paul did have his portable cooler with a quart of orange Gatorade so he wouldn't perish, but he hadn't had time to find Wish. So he listened to Diana Krall's new jazz CD, opened the windows, and tried to enjoy the ride.

At Santa Cruz, Zhukovsky turned onto Highway 17, which meant a trip over the mountains toward San Jose and the San Francisco peninsula. Paul called Nina again on his cell phone and reported in, asking if she needed him to bring home anything from Alaska, in case Zhukovsky kept going, but Nina just said to stay with him. They took the curves fast, but Zhukovsky never made any elusive maneuvers, he just drove grimly on.

Paul merged through one of those exchanges concocted by a psycho highway engineer, ending up eventually on Highway 85. He then turned onto 280 north, in the midst of the great nondescript metropolis of San Jose, and began feeling an itching deep in his pineal gland, or whatever that thing was deep in his head that sometimes told him he was being watched. A brand-new Infiniti passed on the right, and the driver, a round-headed guy with a blond brush cut wearing dark-tinted driving glasses, gave him a hard stare.

Paul steered straight but his heart lurched from lane to lane. He had seen that round head before, in a back row of Courtroom 2. The guy had been leaning back with his eyes half closed as Paul passed him, just before the Wyatt trial opened. He had also seen him every day in court, and seen him get up and leave suddenly after Susan Misumi's testimony, and again today after Alex's. He had thought the guy was a reporter.

Very interesting. And . . .

He had seen this same car on Highway 1 and again on 17. The Infiniti pulled ahead, mean and matte, a black light-sucker. A rich gangsta car, Paul thought, and this thought got stronger as he watched it pull back into the left lane, one car behind Zhukovsky.

So now Paul was the tail on a tail. Excellent development. Endless possibilities.

The shadow-caravan whipped past tech heaven along Sand Hill Road and the rural wealth hidden alongside Woodside Road, continuing up and around the dry hillsides, rushing along at eighty miles an hour toward the city by the bay.

Denser housing appeared to the left and right of the scenic highway, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, and the blue sky dimmed as Paul entered San Francisco's outer reaches. Zhukovsky appeared to know the way. He swerved left onto Nineteenth Avenue, keeping a steady pace. They passed Stonestown and San Francisco State University in the usual heavy traffic punctuated by red lights at each and every corner, and entered the Sunset District. Paul could swear the Infiniti driver had not realized Paul was three cars back. Luckily the black car had strange taillights, easy to pick out.

Paul didn't watch for Zhukovsky anymore. The Infiniti driver would do that for him.

The black tree limbs in Golden Gate Park coiled over them like hanging snakes as they cut through. They forked left again onto Twenty-fifth Avenue and rode over a few city hills, past slightly decrepit rows of forties town houses to the lights of Geary Avenue in the Outer Richmond district.

The Infiniti nudged into a minuscule space between two narrow driveways. Paul had to pass it, but the roundhead was busy backing up, no problem.

Paul turned left and saw a big church across Geary with an enormous gold onion dome, an Orthodox cathedral, a beauty. It was a landmark he had passed on his way to the ocean many times.

He circled the block and located Zhukovsky's Caddy, but found no sign of him. He parked and walked cautiously back toward Geary, digital camera hanging from his wrist, open and ready to shoot. A couple of girls with dyed black hair wearing tiny plaid kilts walked by arm in arm, laughing. Fog misted the neon signs. This part of town had so many Russian emigrants he could see as much Cyrillic lettering as Roman on the bakeries and coffee places, but the Russians must have been home cooking their dinners because few people were out.

Nobody loitered outside in front of the cathedral, and the big golden doors were locked. Paul zipped his leather jacket and put the camera in a pocket. He started walking the perimeter and passed several gates, all locked. There were more, smaller onion-domed wings, each with its own entry, each locked. The left side of the cathedral connected to a walled school yard.

As Paul turned the corner toward the back of the church, never leaving the shadows, he saw the Infiniti driver lurking against the back fence, and moved smoothly back and out of range.

He flipped open his phone, noting the time was only seven-thirty, and told Nina he had a plethora of riches—several leads, all interesting, to follow when Zhukovsky came out.

“What's he doing in there?” she asked, very reasonably.

“I don't know.”

“He's not hiding. You're sure . . .”

“He went straight there. But there's no service.”

“It's a Russian Orthodox church?”

“Yeah. More exactly, the denomination is the Russian Church of America. This place has been around a long time. It's called Holy Virgin Cathedral.”

“So he's seeing a priest,” Nina said as if to herself. “Feeling guilty about all those lies he told us today. The man who is following—any ideas?”

“You ready for a guess? I think he's Russian. I think he might possibly be Christina's old boyfriend, Sergey Krilov. Fits the description of somebody I heard was at the convention. He's been watching the trial. Hang on.” The front door of the church opened. A priest came out, elderly, black beard, black robes, looking both ways. Paul shrank into his hidey-hole and flipped off the phone. The priest disappeared and then came back, gesturing with his hand toward someone inside.

Zhukovsky came out. The priest took both his hands in his own and shook them gently, nodded his head a few times, then went back inside and shut the doors. The priest had a funny walk, which reminded Paul of an R. Crumb truckin' cartoon, stomach and legs leading the way.

Zhukovsky went to the light and waited for the green, and Paul caught a glimpse of blond hair down the street. He punched buttons on his phone.

“Where'd you go?” Nina said.

“Zhukovsky's leaving. The Infiniti driver's staying put, but watching. The priest is back in the church. Who do I follow?”

“The Infiniti,” she said instantly, and Paul thought, good girl.

“Right.” He shut down the phone cover and watched Zhukovsky crossing, the Infiniti driver just a gleam down the street, not moving. Zhukovsky climbed into his car and drove off.

The Infiniti driver waited a minute or two, then came out and moved back toward the church, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, head down. He paused at the main entry, tried the door—locked tight. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he lit up and took a contemplative puff. His pants were too tight, shoes too pointed, hair too groomed—in a thousand ways he made clear that he was foreign. Straight outta Moskva, Paul thought.

Paul followed him to the Infiniti and saw him safely inside, then skulked rapidly back to the Mustang.

Which had two slashed tires, a bashed-in passenger-side window, a stolen CD player, which still must have been hoarding the precious new CD, a gaping glove compartment, and a short note in Cyrillic scrawled on a Post-it, stuck to the dashboard. Paul had a pretty good idea what it said.

He ran back. The Russian was just turning back onto Twenty-fifth. His windows were open, and a singer crooned. He had good taste in music. He liked Diana Krall, too.