Judge & Jury - James Patterson [53]
He checked the code that would get things started. All that was left to do was to hit Send.
Nordeshenko left the stall and took a last look at himself in the mirror. His heartbeat started to quicken. Remi, be calm. You know how people will react. You know human nature better than anyone. The element of surprise is with you. Just like it has a dozen times before, everything will go your way.
With his newly dyed hair, the fake beard, and glasses, the thought passed through him that in the next few minutes he might die as he always feared: unrecognized. With someone else’s name. The prints would have to be matched, and even then, the trail was blank. Just a sergeant in the Russian army, a deserter. It might be weeks, months, before anyone even knew he was dead.
Of course, and Nordeshenko smiled to himself at this, he might live, too. He cocked the Heckler and stuffed it inside his pocket.
It was like pushing all your money into the center of the table. In this case, a 2.5-million-dollar fee.
You never knew for sure until you turned over the last card.
Chapter 65
DOMINIC CAVELLO WAS eyeing the courtroom clock too, trying to block out the idle chatter, which he knew, in just moments, would have very little to do with the rest of his life. That was when Judge Barnett would lean into the microphone, no matter who was speaking, and ask if this was a good time to take a break.
And then, as if on cue, at 12:24 p.m. the judge cut in on the prosecutor’s questioning. “Mr. Goldenberger . . .”
Cavello felt his pulse start to race. Sayonara, he snickered. Playtime’s over. Little Dom here is ready to go home.
The judge instructed the prospective jurors to reconvene at exactly two o’clock. Slowly, the jury pool began to file out. “Marshals, you may take possession of the defendant now.”
Cavello stood up. He didn’t give a shit about what was going to happen next. In fact, he’d make their job easy. “Okay, fellas.” The same two who had brought him in this morning were taking him back to jail. The broad-shouldered guy with the thick mustache held out the cuffs. “Sorry, Dom.”
Cavello put out his wrists. “Not a problem, Eddie-boy. I’m all yours.”
He knew their names. He knew a half dozen little things about them. The black guy had been a tank commander in Desert Storm. The one with the bushy mustache had a son who was being recruited by Wisconsin to play football. He snapped the shackles tightly over Cavello’s wrists.
“Jeez, guys, can’t you give an honest citizen a break? Hey, Hy,” he called out to his attorney, “you guys have a nice big steak on me. See you back here at two.”
The marshals led him out the side entrance to the elevator in the hall, on the way back to his prison cell, a couple of blocks away. He’d made the trip so many times, he could probably do it in his sleep if he had to.
“You know what the worst thing is about spending the rest of your life in jail?” He winked to the marshal with the mustache as they headed out into the hall. “The food! Especially at that pigsty, Marion. You know the only thing that keeps you going out there?” He nudged him with an elbow. “The death sentence, that’s what. The lethal injection.” Cavello laughed. “That’s the only thing that gives you any hope!”
A third guard, with a radio in one hand, was holding the doors open when they got to the elevator. He barked into the radio, “They’re on their way.” Eddie and the black guy escorted him inside.
The black marshal pushed U, for underground. He knew that if the basement was selected, the elevator wouldn’t stop at any other floor, unless it was overridden from inside. The doors closed.
Cavello turned to the black marshal, who never talked very much. “You like pizza, Bo? Black people eat pizza, don’t they?”
“Yeah, I like pizza, Dom,” the black guard growled.
“Sure, all cops like pizza.” Cavello sighed. “Hey, you know what we should do? Screw this jail thing. How ’bout we ditch this baby at the lobby and take a spin out to the old neighborhood in Brooklyn