The Defense: A Novel by Steve Cavanagh Read Free Book Online Page A

the grandest courtroom in the building. Four large arched windows on the left-hand wall revealed a familiar skyline. The marble floor seemed to sip at the pale morning sun. Newly installed pine benches made up the public gallery. Two judges had threatened to quit if they didn’t get the new benches because the old theater-style seats had become infested with fleas over the years—no doubt due to the type of clientele that the criminal court attracted. When the infestation spread to the judges, replacement seating suddenly became a priority.
    There were around twenty-five rows of benches, which were split into two sections on either side of the central aisle. A rail separated the gallery from the legal tables: prosecution table on the left and defense on the right. Both tables faced the judge. The prosecution table sat empty. A small clump of gallery seats behind the defense table had been saved for Volchek and his entourage. I heard my name being whispered by a few people as I made my way to the defense table. At the back of the court, the judge’s leather seat waited behind a mahogany judicial bench. About fifteen feet in front of the prosecution table stood the witness box. Three steps led up to a small half door in the otherwise solid oak box that contained a single, straight-backed steel chair with a worn, upholstered seat. Directly opposite the witness box and ten feet to the right of the defense table was the jury stand with twelve empty chairs. The jury stand faced both the witness box and the windows behind it. A thought occurred to me as I took my seat.
    “Is jury selection complete?” I asked Arturas.
    “Yes, but…”
    Before Arturas could answer, Miriam Sullivan, acting district attorney for New York County, walked into court sixteen flanked by an entourage of assistant DAs and paralegals, who were quickly followed by another three guys in dark suits. From the way they moved and looked, I guessed the stragglers were FBI.
    I’d followed this case in the papers like every other New Yorker. A man in his forties with links to an Italian crime family had been found shot in his apartment two years ago. An unidentified man was arrested at the scene: the man I now knew to be Little Benny. Benny got caught red-handed with the murder weapon and the body. Filling in the blanks that Volchek had left, I guessed that the FBI had been watching Volchek for years and they stepped in to make a deal with Benny. They wanted to go light on the trigger man and get to the real boss. After Volchek got arrested, the Times reported that the judge set bail at five million dollars. Volchek paid that sum in cash within a half hour.
    The murder didn’t cross state lines and wasn’t, as far as I could tell, drug related, so the NYPD and the district attorney’s office held on to the case. The feds would hold the witness so they could keep an eye on proceedings. I remembered an unusual feature of the case, something that had grated on me from the first time I read the reports in the papers. There was only one charge—murder. Volchek hadn’t been indicted for drug running or racketeering or any of the usual organized crime charges. He faced a single charge of first-degree murder.
    The prosecution team heaved cardboard boxes full of files onto their table, grabbed extra seats, and built a fortress of paper on their desk. Psychological tactics for the jury —look at all the evidence we have against this guy. The state had an army of the top prosecutors, who’d had months to prepare a watertight case, and an unlimited budget.
    Miriam looked cool and professional, every inch the seasoned litigator. She wore a black suit with a skirt. She wasn’t classically beautiful, and I’d heard her described as having quite plain features. But her demeanor changed when she came to court; her eyes took on an intensity that was almost hypnotic. Throw in the legs, the shapely figure, and it was a good visual package for the jury. Not that she needed