murder.
As Michael turned the large photograph on the easel, he felt a slight shift in the atmosphere in the room behind him. It wasn’t anything specific, not at that moment, just a transfer of energy.
“Fuck you!” a voice yelled.
Michael spun around. The entire courtroom was looking at the back of the room. There, a red-faced young man – a man Michael knew to be Patrick Ghegan’s younger brother Liam – was being restrained by a court officer.
“Rot in hell you fucking cocksuckers!” Liam screamed. “All of you!”
As jurors and gallery members scattered, two more officers rushed forward and took Liam Ghegan to the floor. In seconds they had him cuffed. At the door he turned and yelled. “And that bitch? That little bitch? She’s fucking dead.”
That little bitch, Michael thought. He was talking about Falynn Harris. He looked around the courtroom, especially at the jury. They were, to a last person, shaken. Granted, they were all New Yorkers, and used to incidents of all kinds. But in this post-9/11 world, especially in a municipal building, nerves were constantly on edge. Michael wondered if he could get them back.
In the movies, this would be where the judge pounded his gavel, calling for order in the court. This was not the movies, and Martin Gregg was not a cinematic judge.
“Is everyone all right?” Gregg asked.
Slowly, everyone in the courtroom shook it out, returned to their seats, offered nervous conversation with their neighbors. A minute or two later, it was as if nothing had happened. But it had.
“In light of this little unscheduled Broadway matinee performance,” Judge Gregg continued. “We will recess for one hour to consider our reviews.”
Good, Michael thought. A break was what he needed. Maybe he could get them back after all. Maybe he could find Falynn.
Michael got back into his office just before three o’clock. The court usually recessed for the day at around 4:30, and Michael still had hopes of completing his opening statement. Still, if Liam Ghegan had wanted to disrupt the trial, and especially the jury’s train of thought, he had certainly accomplished that mission. Bringing the jury back into the rhythm of the state’s case was not going to be easy.
Michael began to make new notes on his statement when a shadow crossed his doorway. It was Tommy.
“You hear what happened?” Michael asked.
“I heard,” Tommy said. “Maybe in two or three more generations the Ghegans will finally be able to walk on their hind legs.”
“Was there media outside?”
“Oh yeah. Cameras got them hauling Ghegan away, screaming his ass off.”
Michael thought about this. It was never good. Even worse in this case. If Falynn saw the footage, she might disappear forever. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
He told Tommy about the text message from Falynn, as well as the conversation with Deena Trent. “See if you can find out where she might have gone.”
With any luck, Michael would complete his opening statement today, Feretti would open in the morning – and, if they found Falynn, and Michael could talk to her into it – she would be on the stand by eleven o’clock.
“You got it,” Tommy said.
“Thanks, man.”
When Tommy left, Michael stood, closed the door, took off his suit coat. He found that the tension of the day had settled into his shoulders. He did some of his stretching exercises, soon felt a little better.
He poured himself some coffee, paced his small office, trying to reengage the mindset. He had only been interrupted during an opening statement once in his career, and that had been in law school, as an exercise. He had not done well that time, but that was a long time ago. Before he was a prince at the Palace.
A few minutes later his cellphone rang. He looked at the screen.
Private number. He had to take it. It might have been Judge Gregg’s clerk telling him there was a delay, which would be the first good news he’d had all day. He flipped open the phone.
“This is Michael.”
“Mr Roman.”
A statement, not a question. It was a man’s voice. Foreign.
“Who is this?” Michael asked.
“I will tell you this soon. But first I want you to promise me that you will remain calm, no matter what occurs in the next few moments.”
Michael stood up. Something turned in his stomach, the way it used to when he had a witness on the stand, and the person’s story began to crack. Except at this moment he knew this was wrong, but he wasn’t sure how he knew.
“Who is this? What are you talking about?”
“Before I begin, I want your assurance that you will listen to what I have to say in its entirety.”
Michael would make no promises. “I’m listening.”
“My name is Aleksander,” the man said. “May I call you Michael?”
Michael remained silent.
“I will take that as a yes,” the man continued. He spoke with an accent, the unmistakable Estonian inflection Michael knew very well.
“By now I believe you have heard about the tragic murder of a man named Harkov. A lawyer like yourself.”
Michael’s stomach fell. This man was calling about Harkov. Was this a detective? No. A cop wouldn’t be playing games. A cop would be standing in this office with his handcuffs ready. Maybe this was a fed. No. Feds had an even lower tolerance for bullshit. “I heard.”
“I believe that at one time you retained his services. Am I correct in this knowledge?”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to answer my question. It is in your best interest to do so.”
Michael felt the old anger begin to boil. “What the fuck do you know about my best interest? Tell me what this is all about or I hang up the phone.”
“Ah,” the man said. “The temper.”
“The temper? What the fuck is this? Have we met?”
The man hesitated for a moment. “No, we have never met, but in the past few hours or so, I have learned a great deal about you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You have faced death,” the man said. “You have looked into Satan’s face and lived to tell. As have I.”
The man continued, but the sounds seemed to drift away. Michael didn’t hear what the man was saying, until he said:
“I am in your home. Abigail and the girls are just fine, and they will remain so, as long as you follow my instructions.”
A deadening cold radiated through Michael’s limbs, as if he had suddenly been anesthetized. What had moments ago been a dark possibility – that this man somehow knew about the illegalities of the girls’ adoption – had now blossomed into a different, more terrifying reality.
The man continued. “Do not call the police, do not call the FBI, do not contact anyone,” he said. “If you do, it will be the mistake by which all other mistakes will be measured until your last breath. Do I have your attention and your belief?”
Michael began to pace again. “Yes.”
“Good. I want you to listen to me,” the man said. “My full name is Aleksander Savisaar. I want you to call me Aleks. I am telling you this because I know you are not going to contact the authorities.”
Up came the prosecutor in Michael. Up came the heat. Before he could stop himself he said, “How do you know what I will or won’t do?”
