Dead Even Page 9

  The uniformed man led Jared to an unmarked door in the back, which opened into a private room. Inside, centered around a marble fireplace, were a sofa and two antique chairs. In one of the chairs sat a tall, elegant man with an angular face, wearing a hand-tailored black blazer. His slightly graying blond hair was brushed back from his forehead, and although it was impossible to tell by looking at him, one of his legs was imperceptibly shorter than the other. The disproportion was caused by an old football injury that he wore as a badge of honor. Indeed, for him it wasn’t just a football injury. It was a Princeton football injury. And in his mind, that made all the difference.

  Hearing them approach, he stood and extended a well-manicured hand. “So nice to finally meet you, Mr. Lynch,” he said.

  “Do you mind telling me what this is about?” Jared asked.

  The man ignored him. “My name is Oscar Rafferty. Won’t you please sit down?” He gestured to the sofa, then turned to the attendant. “That’ll be it, George, thank you.” The smooth graciousness of Rafferty’s voice suggested that he was a man who was accustomed to having things go his way.

  Jared assumed the same when he noticed the signature gold B on the black buttons of Rafferty’s Brioni blazer. Even Thomas Wayne didn’t wear two-thousand-dollar Brioni jackets. So for Jared, Rafferty’s buttons meant one thing: This wasn’t going to be a typical client meeting.

  Cautiously taking a seat on the sofa, Jared picked up a matchbook from a bowl on the coffee table between them.

  “I understand you’re from Highland Park,” Rafferty said in an engaging tone. “Do you know the Pritchard family, Judge Henry Pritchard? Both his sons are clients of mine. One’s a playwright, the other’s a producer—which means he does much of nothing.”

  Confused by Rafferty’s attempt to find common ground, Jared said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but is there something I can help you with, Mr. Rafferty?”

  Suddenly, Rafferty’s expression changed. He didn’t like being cut short. “Actually, there is, Jared. And since I’m the one who’ll be paying Tony Kozlow’s legal fees, I thought we should get together. There are a few pieces of information you’re still missing.”

  “Well, if it’s about the case, I want you to know that, regrettably, I have to withdraw as counsel. I just found out my wife is the prosecutor on the other side.”

  “That’s all right. We don’t mind.”

  “But I do,” Jared said. “That’s why I’m stepping down. If you want, though, I’m happy to recommend someone else at the firm to take over the case.”

  Rafferty’s eyes grew dark as he looked disapprovingly at Jared. “I don’t think you understand,” he said. “You’re not stepping down. You’re our lawyer on this.”

  “Oh, I am?”

  “Yes. You are,” Rafferty said coldly. “Like it or not, Jared, we have to win this case. And while you’re obviously impressed with your own overinflated, career-climbing résumé, you really have only one thing to offer us—you’re married to the prosecutor. You therefore know how she thinks, how she approaches a problem, and most important, how to exploit her weaknesses. To be blunt, you know how to beat her.”

  “But I’m not taking the case,” Jared insisted.

  “Jared, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. Our friend Anthony Kozlow cannot be found guilty. And if you’re hoping to continue with your sexual exploits on the kitchen counter, you’ll make sure he’s not.”

  “How do you know we—”

  “Pay close attention,” Rafferty said calmly. “We’ll all be happier if you win the case.”

  “All be happier? What the hell does that mean?”

  Without answering, Rafferty handed Jared a large manila envelope. When Jared opened it, he saw a stack of two dozen black-and-white photographs. All of them of Sara.

  “That’s Sara on her way to the office,” Rafferty said as Jared looked at a clear outdoor shot. “And that’s her coming home.” The photos showed most of the places that Sara had been in the past twenty-four hours. When Jared got to a shot of Sara waiting near the edge of the subway platform, Rafferty added, “That’s when she was coming home late after last night’s arraignment. I guess she was anxious to get home, because she kept sticking her head over the edge, looking to see if the train was coming. That’s not a safe thing to do, Jared. One little push is all it takes.”

  Staring straight down at the pictures, Jared felt nauseated. The drumbeats of the African music seemed to be blaring from all directions. The photos of Sara blurred in a rush of dizziness. Closing his eyes, he struggled to pull himself together. Eventually he looked up at Rafferty. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I want you to win,” Rafferty said. “That’s all.”

  “And if I don’t?” Jared asked.

  Without saying a word, Rafferty picked up the photographs and put them back in the envelope.

  “Answer me,” Jared insisted. “What if I don’t?”

  Rafferty resealed the envelope. “Jared, I think you know the answer to that.” He let his words sink in. “Now listen to what I’m about to say, because I know what you’re thinking. If you go to the police, or any other law enforcement body, I promise you, you’ll be haunted by that decision for the rest of your life. Silence is golden—if you tell anyone, including your wife, we’ll kill her. The moment you open your mouth, she’s dead. I’ll have Kozlow standing on her throat faster than you can put down the telephone,” Rafferty warned. “Naturally, I know it won’t come to that—you’re an intelligent lawyer, Jared. For the next few weeks, all we ask is that you do your job. Prepare for trial, be the good defense attorney, and deliver a win. That’s what it has to be—no settlements allowed. Make it disappear or get me a win. You do that, and we’re out of your life. No headache, no trouble. Am I making myself clear?”

  Slowly, Jared nodded, his eyes locked on the crimson tapestry that covered the floor.

  “I’ll take that awkward silence as a yes,” Rafferty said. “Which means Kozlow will be at your office first thing tomorrow morning. Enjoy what’s left of your day.”

  Rafferty stood up and escorted Jared to the front entrance of the club. Outside, a private car was waiting for him. As Jared got in the car, Rafferty said, “Good-bye, Jared.” Jared barely registered the remark. It wasn’t until the door slammed shut that the full weight of the moment hit him. Sitting alone in the back of the car, Jared replayed the scene in his head. He pictured Rafferty and the photo of Sara standing on the edge of the subway platform. And then he pictured Kozlow. Oh, God, Jared thought, undoing his tie and gasping for air. What the hell have I gotten us into?

  Chapter 6

  “HELLO, I’M LOOKING FOR CLAIRE DONIGER,” SARA said, reading the name off her legal pad.

  “This is she,” Doniger sang in a voice that was eager to please from years of cocktail parties and hoarse from years of cigarette smoking.

  “Hi, Ms. Doniger, this is Sara Tate from the district attorney’s office. I spoke to you yesterday about your burglary.”

  “Yes, of course,” Doniger said. “How are you?”

  “Everything is fine here. We’re moving forward on your case, and I was just wondering if we could go through the story one more time.”

  “Well, I just don’t know what there is to tell. I was dead asleep, and at about three-thirty in the morning, I heard my doorbell ring. So I got up to answer it. When I looked through the peephole, I saw a police officer. And when I opened the door, he was standing there with a young man who he said just robbed my house. I was naturally shaken, and I said there must be a mistake. Then he held out my watch and my sterling golf ball and asked me if they were mine.”

  “And were they yours?” Sara asked, writing notes on a legal pad.

  “Without question. I recognized them that instant. The watch was a 1956 Ebel that my father bought as a twenty-fifth-anniversary gift for my mother—they stopped making the platinum version that same year. And the golf ball was a thank-you gift from my breast
cancer organization—I did some fund-raising work for their celebrity golf tournament. My name is etched into the bottom of it. Apparently, the young man had just stolen them, and the officer caught him as he was walking up our block.”

  Remembering Conrad’s advice to ignore the complaint report and to always ask broad, open-ended questions, Sara asked, “How did the officer know to pick up Mr. Kozlow?”

  “That’s his name? Kozlow?” Doniger asked.

  “That’s him—our favorite criminal,” Sara joked, hoping to keep Doniger upbeat and talkative. “Now how did the officer know to pick him up?”

  “Well, from what the officer told me, he received a radio message that someone had seen a prowler leave my house.”

  “Do you know who made that initial call to the police?”

  “My neighbor from across the street. Patty Harrison. Her brownstone faces mine. She told me she couldn’t sleep, so she was up having a late-night snack. Or so she says.”

  “Do you have any reason to doubt her?”

  “She’s a little busybody. Knows everyone’s business. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was staring out her window just to see who on the block was coming home late. Anyway, she apparently saw the man leave my house. She thought he looked suspicious, so she called the police and gave them a description. Luckily, the officer was walking up Madison, so he just turned the corner and picked him up. Incredible, if you ask me.”

  “It definitely was,” Sara agreed. Looking over her notes, she tried to picture all of the events, frame by frame. Slowly, her mind played through each individual fact, searching for any detail she might have missed. Eventually she asked, “Ms. Doniger, does your house have an alarm system?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your house. Does it have an alarm system?”

  “Yes, it does. But I must’ve forgotten to turn it on that night, because it didn’t go off.”

  “And were there any other visible signs of entry? Any broken windows? Any other entrances he could’ve gotten through besides the front door?”

  “Not that I can think of. No,” Doniger said. “And I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m late for a meeting with some friends. Can we finish this another time?”

  “Actually, I think that about covers it,” Sara said. “Hopefully, we can go over this one more time before the grand jury meets on Monday.”

  “Yes. Certainly,” Doniger said. “We can talk about it later.”

  When Sara hung up the phone, she made a few more notes to herself on the legal pad.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Guff warned as he walked into the office.

  “Do what?”

  “Take notes like that. You’re never supposed to take notes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because in New York, any prior recorded information from someone that you intend to call as a witness must be turned over to the defense before the trial. So you’re better off not writing anything down.”

  “Are you telling me that if my witness changes her story between now and the trial, the defense can use these notes to make us look like fools in court?”

  “That’s the law,” Guff said. He tossed a file folder on Sara’s desk. “By the way, I got the information you wanted about the other new ADAs.” As Sara opened the folder, Guff explained, “There were eighteen other ADAs who started the same day as you. So far, every single one of them has managed to get themselves at least a couple of cases. I split them up by category.”

  Reading through the list, Sara saw that everyone had a minimum of three misdemeanor cases. In addition, nine of her colleagues had felony cases, and two were assisting on homicides. “Damn,” Sara said. “Why is everyone in New York so competitive?”

  “Nature of the game, baby. In this city, the moment you think about doing something, there are already five hundred people waiting in line for it.” Guff waved his arms through the air in a wide circular motion. “This may look stupid, but right now, there are at least a dozen other people in this town doing the exact same thing. Original thoughts don’t exist in New York. That’s the beauty of the ambitious beast.”

  “And it’s about to take a bite out of my butt.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised. When the cutbacks were announced, every slacker in this office started looking productive.”

  “Then maybe I should turn it up even more. Maybe I can get some more cases.”

  “It’s not how many you have, it’s how many you win,” Guff said. “And considering you already have five, I wouldn’t take any more.”

  “But I’m going to plead out two of those.…”

  “Sara, what do you think’s more impressive: handling a dozen cases and being overwhelmed, or handling five cases professionally and by the book?”

  “In this city? I’ll go with the twelve.”

  “C’mon, you know that’s not true.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “You’re tempted to grab more cases. I understand. But trust me, the more balls you try and juggle, the more likely you’re going to drop them all. Plead out the losers, stick with your good cases, and win whatever you keep. That’s the way to get noticed.”

  “So if it looks like we have a chance, we go for the win, and if it looks like we’re in trouble, we cop the plea.”

  “That’s the Colonel’s secret recipe,” Guff said. “Follow that and you’ll never lose.”

  As a staff member in the DA’s public-information office, Lenore Lasner spent most of her time talking to reporters and private citizens about the inner workings of the office. They asked her about the outcomes of certain cases. They asked her about the qualifications of certain judges. And every once in a while, they asked her about a particular assistant district attorney.

  “Sara Tate, Sara Tate,” Lenore said as she scrolled through the directory. “I don’t think I have her here.”

  “She just started on Monday,” the man said as he leaned against the counter and stared at Lenore’s long, manicured fingernails. He had a deep voice that weighed heavily in the air and sunken cheeks that made him look sickly.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Lenore asked. She turned to the back of the directory, where a single sheet of paper was stapled to the inside back cover. “Tate, Tate, Tate,” she said as her fingernail ran down the list. “Here she is.”

  “Very pretty nails,” the man said.

  “Thank you,” Lenore said with a slight blush. “Now, what do you need to know about ADA Tate?”

  “I just want to know where her office is.”

  “We’re actually not supposed to give out that information. I can give you her phone number, though.”

  “That’d be great. And if I could bother you for some paper and a pen to write with…”

  “I have that right here.” As Lenore turned around to get a notepad from her desk, the man looked down at the directory. Next to Sara’s name was her phone number, and next to that were her address and room number: 80 Centre Street. Room 727.

  “Y’know what? I just remembered I have her phone number,” the man said. “I’ll give her a call later.”

  “Are you sure?” Lenore asked as she returned to the counter.

  “Positive,” the man said. “I know exactly where it is.”

  “Are you okay?” Kathleen asked the moment Jared returned to the office. He looked terrible, his complexion ashen.

  “I’m fine,” he answered. “My lunch didn’t agree with me.” After entering his office, Jared closed the door behind him, collapsed in his chair, hit the do-not-disturb button on his phone, and put his head down on his desk. Who could he call? He wanted to tell the police. Or the feds. His brother knew someone in the FBI. But he couldn’t get Rafferty’s warning out of his head. And more than anything else, he couldn’t stop thinking about Sara. No matter the threat, no matter the moral consequences, he knew he’d do anything—anything at all—to protect his wife. For Sara’s own safety, he had to tell her. As he picked up the phone, though, h
e realized how impossible it’d be to keep Sara quiet. The moment she found out, she’d go right to her friends in the DA’s office. And if she confronted Rafferty, it would only make things worse. For both of them. More important, Rafferty might already be listening. That’s impossible, Jared argued with himself—it’s too soon. With the right equipment, however, they could do it without ever entering the office. Putting down the receiver, Jared was frozen. He couldn’t win.

  Then he grabbed the phone, and before he could talk himself out of it, dialed Sara’s number. He had to tell her.

  “ADA Tate’s office,” Guff answered. “Can I help you?”

  “This is Jared—Sara’s husband. Is she around?”

  “Hey, Jared. Sorry, she’s out of the office. Can I take a message?”

  “Can you please tell her to call me as soon as she gets in? It’s an emergency.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Just tell her that I want to talk to her. It’s important.” As Jared hung up the phone, there was a loud knock on his door. Before he could say “I’m busy,” the door opened and Marty Lubetsky walked in.

  “Where’ve you been all day?” Lubetsky asked. “I’ve been leaving messages since this morning.”

  “Sorry about that. I’ve been swamped.”

  “So I hear. I just got a call from Oscar Rafferty.”

  “You know him?” Jared asked.

  “As much as you can know someone in a three-minute phone conversation. He called and told me that he’s retained you for an acquaintance of his.”

  “Why’d he call you?”

  “To make sure you’d have enough time to work on the case. To be honest, I thought you put him up to it. He knew I was your supervisor and said the only reason he came to us was because of your good reputation. He said that if things work out with this case, he might throw all of his business our way. And it sounds like he has a good deal of potential business.”