cheeks.
Without another word Aleks climbed the steps, opened the door, and closed it behind him.
TWENTY-SIX
The courtroom on the first floor was ornate and ceremonial, frequently used in high-profile, media-intense cases. In contrast to the courtrooms on the third floor – four courts reserved for a “Murderer’s Row” of judges, senior, well-regarded justices who treated the spaces as something of a judicial status symbol – courtroom 109 seated more than 150 people in its gallery, and was used when press and security demanded it, when the system needed to flex.
There were two judges who presided over homicide cases in the division, each called a “part.” There was Judge Margaret Allingham’s part. Judge Allingham was a hardliner, born and raised in the South Bronx, the daughter of a former FBI agent. It was rumored that Iron Meg Allingham kept a six-inch sap under her robe. The other was Judge Martin Gregg’s part. If you were unprepared or unfamiliar in any way with the incredibly complex details of criminal court procedure, you did not want to be up before Judge Martin Gregg, especially on a nice day, a day when he could be out golfing.
God help you if you showed up late in courtroom 109.
Michael Roman was late. He was about to be even later.
As he approached the door to the courtroom he took out his cellphone to turn it off. It beeped in his hand. There was only one message, a text from Falynn Harris. The time code on it was five minutes earlier. All it said was:
I can’t do it. I’m sorry.
“Oh, Christ,” Michael said. “Oh no no no.”
Michael stepped into the small vestibule, scrolled through the phone numbers on his phone, dialed Falynn’s cellphone, got her voicemail. He then called her foster home. After two rings, a woman answered. It was Deena Trent, Falynn’s foster mother.
“Mrs Trent, this is Michael Roman. May I speak to Falynn?”
Michael heard a quick intake of breath. Then, “You’re the lawyer.”
It was not a question. “Yes,” Michael said. “And if I could just speak -”
“She’s gone.”
Michael was certain he misunderstood. “Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?”
“I mean she’s gone. She took her suitcase and she’s gone.”
“She didn’t say anything?”
“Just a note telling me she was never coming back.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She’s scared maybe. Those boys – the ones responsible for killing her father – maybe she’s scared of them.”
Michael was incredulous. “Nothing is going to happen to her, Mrs Trent. I could have the police there in two minutes. You have to tell me where she went. She’ll be safe.”
“I don’t think you heard me. I don’t know where she went.”
“What about her friends? Can you call one of her friends?”
Deena Trent laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Her friends? You’ve met her. You think she has any friends? This is the fourth time she’s up and gone, you know.”
“Mrs Trent I’m sure she’s -”
“And to tell you the truth, this is a lot more than I bargained for when I signed on for this. I thought I was just taking in a teenage girl who needed a home. I don’t need this. She’s not my kin. And, between you and me, the money isn’t all that good.”
What a delightful woman, Michael thought. He made a mental note to look into her qualifications as a state- subsidized foster home. “Look,” he began, his head spinning with the afternoon’s ramifications from this, “if you hear from her -”
But the line was already dead. Michael stared at the phone for a long time. He tried to remember what his life was like just a few hours earlier, just that morning before the phone rang and it was Max Priest on the other end, Max Priest calling to tell him that Viktor Harkov had been murdered.
Now his one and only witness was missing.
Do you promise? Falynn had asked.
Yes, he had replied.
He had to plow ahead. He would find her, change her mind. He could not let the court know the state no longer had a witness. He was afraid that without Falynn, there was too much of a chance that Ghegan would walk. No one on the jury had to know.
Not yet.
As Michael walked to the prosecutor’s table, he tried to keep the news off his face.
“Mr Roman,” Judge Gregg said. “Nice to see you. Problems?”
Michael walked around the table. He set down his briefcase. “No your honor. I’m sorry I’m late.”
Michael had never been late to Judge Gregg’s courtroom. He had never been late to any courtroom.
“Is the state ready to begin, Mr Roman?”
The state is not ready, Michael wanted to say. The state is worried. Not about the case, your honor, but about the fact that Michael Roman, Esquire, defender of the rights of the citizens of this fair state, champion of the downtrodden, speaker for the voiceless victim, has broken the law. Now a man is dead and the proverbial chickens are coming home to roost. What’s worse is that the state itself may soon be coming after the upstanding Mr Roman, pillar of the aforementioned community. Add to that the fact that the lead witness in the current matter before the court has just taken a powder. Oh, yeah. We’re in fighting shape. Never better.
“We are, your honor.”
Judge Gregg nodded to his bailiff, who opened the door leading to the jury room. One by one, the twelve jurors filed through the door, followed by the four alternates.
Michael glanced first at John Feretti, who was resplendent in a bespoke navy-blue three-piece suit. The two men nodded at each other. Michael then glanced at Patrick Ghegan, the defendant. Ghegan wore a long-sleeve white shirt. Michael noticed that the creases from where the shirt had been folded were still in the arms. Ghegan was cleanshaven, combed, angelic, with his hands folded on the table. He did not look at Michael.
Once the jury was seated, Judge Gregg began to speak.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.”
Gregg then proceeded to give the jury their instructions, reminding them of their basic function, duties and expected conduct, and about how they were not permitted to read or view any accounts or discussions of the case reported by the newspapers or other media, including radio and television. When Gregg was satisfied he had communicated the instructions, he turned to Michael.
“Okay,” Gregg said. “Mr Roman, on behalf of the people.”
“Thank you, your honor.” Michael rose from his table, crossed the courtroom, stood in front of the jury. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.”
All twelve jurors and four alternates mumbled some version of an answer.
“Welcome back,” Michael added. He took a moment, running his gaze across the men and women before him. This was one of the most important moments in a trial, especially a homicide trial. Michael often viewed it as the first image in a film. It set the tone and tenor for everything that followed. A weak opening could usually not be overcome. “This trial is about two men. Patrick Sean Ghegan, and Colin Francis Harris. More specifically, about what Patrick Ghegan did to Colin Harris on April 24, 2007.”
Michael continued, walking the jury through the events of the crime, slowly building to the moment when Patrick Ghegan pointed his handgun – a large-caliber Colt – at Colin Harris’s head, and pulled the trigger.
As he began his summation, he walked over to the easel sitting to the left of the witness stand. On the easel was a large blow-up of a photograph of Colin and Falynn Harris, a picture taken just a few months before the
