Judge & Jury - James Patterson [24]
The café door opened. Two men stepped in. One was tall, with ice-blue eyes and long blond locks flowing over his black leather jacket. The other was short and dark, Middle Eastern-looking, wearing a green military jacket over camouflage trousers. The two men took a seat at the table next to Nordeshenko’s. The Israeli never even looked up.
“It’s good to see you, Remi.”
Nordeshenko smiled. Remi was his Russian nickname. From back in the army, in Chechnya. A version of Remlikov, his real name. Nordeshenko hadn’t used it in fifteen years.
“So look what the wind dragged in.” The Israeli finally folded down his newspaper. “Or maybe the sanitation trucks.”
“Always the compliments, Remi.”
Reichardt, the blond with the scar under his right eye, was South African. Nordeshenko had worked with him many times. He had been a mercenary in Western Africa for fifteen years and had learned his trade well. He had been taught how to inflict terrible pain when most boys were learning grammar and mathematics.
Nezzi, the Syrian, he had gotten to know while on duty in Chechnya. Nezzi had once participated in a terror raid against the Russians in which a lot of schoolchildren got killed. Nezzi had blown up buildings, shot Russian emissaries, whatever it took. He could construct a bomb from materials one could easily find in a hardware store. Nezzi had no qualms about anything, no ideologies. In this age of fanatics, it made him a dying breed. Refreshing in a way.
“So tell us, Remi”—the South African shifted in his chair—“you didn’t bring us out here to watch Albanian football, did you?”
“No.” Nordeshenko tossed the newspaper over on their table. Facing them was the courtroom sketch of Dominic Cavello—the same one he had left in the judge’s bed just a few hours before.
“Cavello.” Nezzi wrinkled his brow. “He’s on trial, no? You want us to do a job on him while he’s in jail? We could do that, I suppose.”
“Have a drink,” Nordeshenko said, signaling the waiter.
“I’ll have one after,” the South African said. “And as you know, our Muslim pal here lives the rigorous life of the Koran.”
Nordeshenko smiled. “All right.” He lifted the newspaper one more time. On the other side was another courtroom sketch, one Nordeshenko had cut out of the paper from the trial’s very first day.
Both killers stared at it. Slowly the message started to sink in.
“You want that drink now?” Nordeshenko asked.
Reichardt’s look said, Lunacy. “This is America, Remi, not Chechnya.”
“What better place to break new ground?”
“Ouzo,” Reichardt called to the waiter.
“Three,” said Nezzi, shrugging.
The drinks came, and over the shouts for the football game, the men slugged them down, wiping their chins.
The South African finally started to laugh. “You know it’s true what they say about you, Remi: you’d be fucking dangerous if you ever got mad.”
“Shall I take that as a yes, you’re in?” Nordeshenko asked them.
“Of course we’re in, Remi. It’s the only game in town.”
“Three more,” Nordeshenko called to the waiter in Russian.
Then he picked up the paper, the sketch of the jury disappearing under his arm. They wanted a trial, these stupid bastards, they were going to get one.
They just didn’t know the meaning of the trial that was in store for them.
Chapter 24
NO ONE WAS ON the witness stand in the courtroom that morning. The press was cleared. The jury was being kept in the jury room. Judge Seiderman stepped in from her chambers and sent a fiery look hurtling toward the defendant in the second row. “Mr. Cavello, I want to see you and both counsels in my chambers, now.”
As the judge was leaving the bench, she caught my eye. “Agent Pellisante, I’d like you to join us as well.”
Our group made its way through the wooden door on the right side of the courtroom to the judge’s quarters. Judge Seiderman took a seat behind her desk, glaring. I’d never seen her so angry.
And she was glaring directly at the defendant.
“Maybe