I was thinking this looked like a pretty decent pool of jurors. A couple of them were downright entertaining.
There was a Verizon guy with a New England accent who said he had three town houses in Brooklyn he'd fixed up and that he was bagging the phone company job anyway, so he could care less how long the trial ran.
And a crime novelist who someone in the jury pool recognized. In fact, she was actually reading his book.
Then the woman in the third row. The actress and single mom. She was feisty and cute, with thick brown hair with reddish streaks in it. There was some writing on her T-shirt-DONOTDISTURB. Kind of funny.
Once or twice, Cavello glanced back at me. But most of the time he just sat there, hands joined, staring straight ahead.
A couple of times, our eyes met.How ya doin', Nicky, his smile seemed to say, like he didn't have a worry in the world, a guy about to go away for life.
Every once in a while he huddled with his attorney, Hy Kaskel.The Ferret, he was called. Not just because he made a living representing these bums, but because he was short and barrel-chested, with a hanging nose, a pointy chin, and thick, bushy eyebrows you could brush your shoes with.
Kaskel was a showman, though, among the best there was at his job. The Ferret had gotten two mistrials and an acquittal in his last three mob trials. He and his team just sat there sizing up each juror on a large poster board, taking notes. The Verizon guy. The MBA. The author.
I glanced up at the actress again. I was pretty sure she thought she was out of here. But sometimes that's what you need on a jury, someone who can cut through the bullshit, break the ice.
"Ladies and gentlemen." Sharon Ann Moran, the judge's clerk, got everyone's attention. The defense and the prosecution had finalized their selections.
I was thinking, just give me twelve jurors smart enough to see through the bluster and bullshit, twelve jurors who won't be intimidated.
One by one, the judge announced the names. Twelve jurors and six alternates. She told them to come up and take a seat in the jury box.
The crime writer was in. Shocked. So was the Verizon guy. And the Hispanic housekeeper, the one who was knitting for her granddaughter.
But the biggest surprise was the actress.She was in, too! I never saw anyone so stunned. I think everyone in the courtroom was holding back a smile.
"Ms. DeGrasse, Juror Number Eleven, you can take a seat in the jury box," the judge told her, amused herself."You got the part, dear."
Chapter 5
THE GLASS ELEVATOR of the Marriott Marquis rose higher and higher above Times Square. Richard Nordeshenko watched the glittery bustle of the street grow distant and small below.Good riddance.
"First time to the Marriott, Mr. Kaminsky?" a chatty, red-capped bellhop asked as the elevator rushed them to the forty-second floor.
"Yes," Nordeshenko lied.
Truth was, he had made the rounds of all the fancy hotels near Times Square. The area held a particular attraction for him. Not the lights or the nocturnal amusements, in which he took no part.It was the crowds. In the event something went wrong, all he had to do was duck into the throng any time of day or night.
" Kiev, right?" The bellhop grinned at him. It wasn't a question, more like a statement of fact."You're from the Ukraine, right? Your accent. It's sort of a game with me. Twenty floors, that's usually all I need."
"Sorry." Nordeshenko shook his head."Czech." Inside, he was angry with himself. The chatty bellhop had nailed him. Maybe it was just the jet lag, but he had let down his guard.
The elevator opened, and the bellhop motioned Nordeshenko down the hall."Close." He smiled, with a shrug of apology."But-what is it you say here?-no cigar."
He'd been traveling for eighteen hours straight, stopping in Amsterdam on a Dutch passport, then in Miami on a business visa to the States. On the flight, he had put on Chopin and Thelonious Monk to relax, and had beaten a chess program on his computer on level eight. That made the voyage bearable.
That and the comfort of the first-class seats on Dominic Cavello's account.
"Room 4223 has a wonderful view of Times Square, Mr. Kaminsky." The bellhop opened the door to his room."We got the View restaurant and lounge. Your gourmet Renaissance restaurant on the mezzanine. My name's Otis, by the way, if you need anything during your stay."
"Thank you, Otis." Nordeshenko smiled. He pulled out a bill. He pressed it into the bellhop's hand. Otis had fingered him, reminded him he could not be too careful.
"Thankyou. " The bellhop's eyes lit up."Any sort of entertainment you need, you just let me know. The bar upstairs stays active until about two. I know some places that open up after that, if that's what you like. The city that never sleeps, right?"
"Velk´y jablko." Nordeshenko replied in perfect Czech.
"Vel-k´y jab-lko?" The bellhop squinted.
"The Big Apple." Nordeshenko winked.
Otis laughed and pointed at him, closing the door. Nordeshenko laid his briefcase on the bed. He took out his computer. He had people to contact and things to set up. In the morning it would be all work.
But in the meantime, the bellhop wasn't too far off about something else.
He did have his own brand of entertainment planned for tonight.
Tonight, he was going to play poker-with Dominic Cavello's money.
Chapter 6
"YOUR ANTE." The dealer nodded toward him, and Nordeshenko tossed a fresh hundred-dollar chip into the center of the table.
He was in a fashionable poker club in a town house on the upper East Side. The large room had a high, coffered ceiling and tall palladian windows with embroidered gold drapes drawn. All types seemed to be there. Attractive women in evening gowns, amusing themselves at the small-stakes table. The usual gambler types in dark glasses who seemed to be playing for everything they were worth.
It was well after one in the morning, and the four tables were still going strong.
Nordeshenko sipped a Stoli martini as the dealer dealt him two downward cards. He was playing in what they called a freeze-out. A $3,000 buy-in had bought him $10,000 in chips. Winner takes all.
At ten o'clock there had been eight around the table. Now it was down to three: Nordeshenko; Julie, an attractive woman with straight blond hair in a tight-fitting pantsuit; and someone Nordeshenko had nicknamed"Cowboy," an annoying, finger-tapping fool in a Western hat and aviator shades who, hearing Nordeshenko's accent, insisted on calling him Ivan.
Nordeshenko had been patiently waiting to find himself alone with him in a hand all night.
He peeked at his hole cards. An ace and a queen, on suit. He felt his blood perk up a bit. When the betting came to him, he tossed in a $500 chip.
Before, when Nordeshenko had come to New York, he would go to a Russian club in Brooklyn and play chess, sometimes for a thousand dollars a game. He could hold his own, but he soon developed a bit of a reputation, and that brought attention to him-and attention was always unwanted. Now poker was his thing.
Julie, who had the fewest chips at the table and was playing cautiously, called, but Cowboy, rubbing his palms together, pushed a stack of ten greens to the center of the table."Sorry, sweet pea, but these cards just won't let me sit still."
Nordeshenko held an image of what it might be like to spear this buffoon through the windpipe, which he could do with a sharp thrust of his hand. He thought about raising back, the cards warranted it, but elected, as did the blonde, just to call.