Killer Ambition

82

The next three days were the most hectic I’d ever had. Declan and Bailey and I worked nonstop. But on Tuesday morning, as I drove up Broadway to the courthouse in the already warm early morning sunshine, I was energized and ready for battle.

The minute I got to my office, I called Tricia and told her we’d need to see the judge in chambers before we began. Then I went to Declan’s office.

He was reviewing his notes from our past three days. “Got a minute?” I asked.

When he looked up, I saw there were dark circles under his eyes-which were red. But he looked pumped. That pretty much summed us all up at this point, I thought.

“Of course. What’s up?”

I stepped in and closed the door. “I didn’t want to do it, but I have no choice. I have to put Parkova on the stand, and if we lose, I’ll be fired for it. If you’re sitting next to me when she takes the stand, you’ll get blamed for being in on it. You’ll be fired too, or at the very least, you’ll get stuck out in the hinterlands trying misdemeanors for the rest of your career. I can’t let you take that risk. It’s not fair. So I don’t want you to come to court with me this morning. If you’re not there, I can claim you didn’t know anything about it-”

Declan held up his hand. “Save your breath, Rachel. I’m not hiding in my office. I totally agree with everything you’ve done and I’m not going to pretend otherwise. I just hope that if I get to keep my job, I’ll have the smarts to do the same thing under the circumstances.” He paused and gave me a little smile. “Though I can’t say I ever want to be in the same circumstances.”

I smiled briefly. “I can’t say I blame you.” I looked him in the eye. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

This kid had the heart of a lion. It’d kill me if he had to pay the price just because I’d put my own neck on the line. But I couldn’t stop him. It was his choice to make and I had to honor it. I went back to my office and sat down to finish my cup of coffee-not that I needed the caffeine-but Bailey called and told me to meet her in front of the courtroom right away. “I can’t handle any bad news-” I began.

“Just get here.”

I hurried out, and when I approached the courtroom, I saw a familiar figure seated on the bench near the doors. “Janice!” Brian’s aunt was clutching the arm of a nice-looking man in glasses and a well-cut beige suit with one hand and a colorful-looking book with the other. We exchanged greetings, and though hers was warm, her strained expression told me what this trip was costing her.

“I…want to apologize for not being able to get here sooner,” she said. “Bailey tells me it’s too late for me to testify.”

I confirmed that it was. Rebuttal is confined to the points raised by the defense. Terry hadn’t made a big issue of the screenplay theft or gone into anything about Brian that Janice might’ve been able to speak to, so I couldn’t justify putting her on the stand. “It is, but I’m glad you’re here. I’ll go arrange for you to get a seat.” Especially now, at the end of the case, there was heavy competition for space in the gallery. I looked at the man she was holding on to and introduced myself. “Would you like a seat also?” I had a feeling Janice wouldn’t be going anywhere without him.

“I’m so sorry,” Janice said. “Rachel, this is my agent, Elden Brademeyer.”

We shook, and he confirmed that he’d very much appreciate it if I could find him a seat. I saw Terry march toward the courtroom and glance at us as she opened the door.

“I’d better get inside-”

“I’ll take care of the seating,” Bailey said. “You go ahead.”

I set up at counsel table, and two minutes later the judge called us all into chambers. Wagmeister was running late, so it was just me and Terry. I told the judge about the new information we’d obtained over the weekend and intended to present in rebuttal. The battle in chambers was heated. Terry fought hard to keep it out. But Judge Osterman shut her down. “No, the evidence is relevant and admissible. And it’s very clear that the prosecution had no way of finding it any sooner. Motion to exclude is denied. And I assume you’re also moving for mistrial?” Terry confirmed she was. “That will be denied as well. If you need time to prepare for cross, let me know and I’ll consider it.” Before we left chambers, Terry asked for time to speak to Ian in lockup. The judge frowned. “You may, but make it fast. I’m taking the bench in fifteen minutes.”

Terry emerged after ten minutes. I expected to see her go and talk to Russell. But as I watched her out of the corner of my eye, she didn’t so much as glance in his direction. I huddled with Bailey.

“Notice she didn’t say a word to Russell?” I asked. “I have to believe he already knows what we’ve got. Otherwise, she’d be over there telling him about it.”

Bailey nodded. “If only to warn him. So I guess you were right. Russell knew. He’s been covering for that asshole the whole time.” She shook her head. “But somehow…I don’t know.”

I nodded. I didn’t want to believe it either.

When the door to lockup opened, Terry stood and noticed me looking at her. A very slight, almost imperceptible smile crossed her face. It was so brief, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d seen it.

It was a very different Ian Powers who emerged this time. No more bright smiles, no more waves to his loyal fans. White-faced, eyes hooded, he walked stiffly to his seat and kept his back to the crowded gallery.

When the judge took the bench, Declan declared he had no further questions for Barry Feinstein after all, and Terry declined further cross. The jury looked tired and unhappy about having to come back after a three-day weekend. I’d have to cut to the chase fast.

I started with Parkova. When Tricia asked her to state her name, she said, “M. Parkova.” Tricia raised an eyebrow but recorded the name without further comment. Parkova sat, scowled at the packed gallery, took one glance at the jury, then pushed her glasses up her nose and turned to me, stone-faced.

I started with her federal hacking conviction, established that she’d served her time, then quickly got to the point. I had her describe how she’d located the original e-mail and how it had been intercepted by Ian’s computer on the way to Russell.

Then I put the original e-mail up on the monitor.

We don’t want money. All we want is for you to make a DVD admitting that you stole Tommy Maher’s screenplay for “Wonderland Warriors.” Bring it to God’s Seat on Boney Mountain at 7:30. If you do not comply within twenty-four hours, we will tell every media outlet about what you and Ian Powers did to Brittany Caren.

The jury stirred, confused but interested. A wave of whispers spread across the gallery like rustling leaves.

“This was the original e-mail that was sent to Russell, correct?”

“Yes.”

Here in court, Parkova’s terse style was a blessing.

“But it was intercepted along the way by Ian’s computer, correct?”

“By his server, yes.”

“And did that original e-mail go through to Russell Antonovich’s e-mail?”

“No.”

“What happened to it?”

“E-mail was altered before it reached Antonovich.”

“Can you tell who may have done that?”

“I cannot, no. Someone with access to Ian Powers’s server, or computer.”

Parkova explained about the man in the middle attack, and how Ian’s server was placed in a position to intercept all of Russell’s e-mail.

“So when the e-mails intended for Mr. Antonovich passed through Ian Powers’s server, did that give Ian Powers the chance to alter them before they got to Mr. Antonovich?”

“Yes. Whoever controls Ian Powers’s computer can decide whether to let Antonovich e-mails go through or change them…or delete them.”

“And in this case, the original ransom note that passed through Ian Powers’s server was altered?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing further.”

I’d deliberately left the original ransom note up on the monitor throughout my questioning where the jury could read and reread it. I expected Terry to take it down when she started cross. But for some reason, she didn’t.

Terry bounced Parkova around a little about her felony conviction and shady past, then took aim at the most damaging part of her testimony.

“Now, being an expert hacker yourself, not to mention a convicted felon, you could have altered that e-mail yourself, couldn’t you?”

“Yes. But why would I do this?”

“To curry favor with the police? I imagine you could use a favor or two from them.”

“I need nothing from police.”

“You’re on parole, aren’t you?”

“Yes. So?”

“So, you still need to make nice with the police, don’t you?”

“Make nice? I don’t know what you mean by this. I do this job because I get paid. Just like you.”

Surprisingly, I saw Judge Osterman suppress a smile at that.

“So you wanted to give the prosecution what they needed so you’d get paid, isn’t that right?”

“No. They have to pay me no matter what. Doesn’t matter. I find, I don’t find. Still, I get paid.”

Stymied on that front, Terry went for the jugular. “But you still could have altered that e-mail yourself. Isn’t it true, Ms. Parkova, that the jury has to take your word for it? The word of a convicted felon?”

Someone else might’ve been offended. Parkova just looked annoyed. “Don’t have to take my word. Easy to check. Just go look at computer.” Parkova shook her head, her expression a mixture of disdain and irritation. “And how would I know to write such a thing? I know nothing of this case.” Parkova added in a voice laced with boredom, “I don’t know why this original e-mail is such big deal anyway.” She gestured to the monitor, which still showed the original e-mail.

“Well, someone in law enforcement could’ve told you to write that, couldn’t they?”

Parkova frowned. “They could tell me to do this, yes. But why they want me to write this? Better I write a confession, no?”

The answer drew titters from the audience and a few smiles from the jury. Terry went on a little longer, but sparring with Parkova was like hitting a tennis ball into a rubber backboard. Every question Terry lobbed bounced right back with equal force. I’d planned to get into the issue of Parkova’s ability to fabricate the original on redirect, but now I didn’t have to. Parkova had made all the points for me. And besides, the issue would be resolved-or not-when I called my next witness.

Finally, Terry gave up and released Parkova. But as I stood to announce my next witness, suddenly a strangled yelp burst from the gallery.

Russell was standing, his eyes fixed on the monitor. “No! It can’t be!” He was shaking, and his voice trembled. “I don’t believe it! It can’t be!” The agony in his voice was raw and painful, like the grinding of a rusty hinge. He turned toward Ian, whose back was to the gallery, his expression a mixture of wounded shock and anger. “How could you?! How could you do this?!” Ian never turned around. Raynie let out a wail of anguish. “You bastard!” she cried out, then put her head down and sobbed. A woman sitting next to her put an arm around her shoulders. Suddenly, Russell bolted from the courtroom. A few reporters jumped up to follow him.

Caught off guard, even Judge Osterman was rendered momentarily speechless by the outbursts. Now, the entire gallery erupted in a loud buzz as the impact of Parkova’s testimony-and Russell’s reaction-set in. No one knew exactly what the original ransom note meant, but it was clear that Ian had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden. And Russell’s reaction told them it had something to do with Hayley’s murder.

Bailey and I exchanged a look. Russell’s reaction told us something too: he hadn’t been covering for Ian after all. He’d truly believed in Ian’s innocence until Parkova’s testimony sank in. Bailey mouthed, “Told you so.” I nodded. For once, I was glad to be wrong.

Judge Osterman banged his gavel and shouted, “Come to order!” But the gallery wouldn’t be tamed. The buzz continued to build in wave after wave. The judge banged his gavel another three times, but it wasn’t until he shouted, “I’ll have you all thrown out!” that the crowd finally settled. When a semblance of peace was restored, the judge glared at the gallery. “I won’t warn you again. This is a court of law, not your living room!” Then he turned to the jury. “I am ordering you to disregard those outbursts. They are not evidence and they are not competent proof of anything. You are to completely dismiss it from your minds. Do you understand?”

The jury nodded. “Yes,” they said in unison.

“Sidebar, Your Honor!” Terry demanded with barely controlled fury.

But the judge refused. “I’ll deem you to have made a motion for mistrial, Counsel. You can put all of your thoughts on the record later. For now, your motion is denied. People? Please proceed.”

I stood up slowly, but my pulse ratcheted up into high gear. No matter how a civilian witness behaves before walking into court, there is no predicting what will happen once they get there. I’ve seen strong ones fall apart like a cheap suit, and I’ve seen timid ones come through like Braveheart. So the moments before a witness begins to testify are always nerve-racking ones. But I had good reason to be nervous this time: the entire case hinged on the testimony we were about to take. I took a deep breath and said as calmly as possible, “The People call Brittany Caren.”

The response in the courtroom was visceral and immediate. “What?” someone whispered loudly in the back of the courtroom, as another said, “Brittany?” and “Did you hear that?” Again, a loud buzz rolled through the gallery as reporters and spectators reacted to the name.

Judge Osterman banged his gavel. This time he made the threat more immediate. “The next sound I hear from anyone, anyone at all, I’m clearing the courtroom and that person will be held in contempt! Do I make myself clear?”

The audience immediately fell silent. No one wanted to miss this show. Into the sudden hush walked Brittany Caren. Ashen-faced, wearing little if any makeup, and dressed simply in a pale yellow summer shift and an off-white cardigan that was draped loosely over her shoulders, she came up the aisle leaning on the arm of a goateed and mustached man in his forties.

I snuck a look at the jury. They were straightening up in their seats, watching intently as Brittany approached. Bailey opened the swinging gate that separated the lawyers, judge, and jury from the spectators and escorted Brittany to the base of the steps at the witness stand. Brittany took the oath and I helped her get seated, then adjusted the microphone. I looked her in the eye and whispered, “Okay?” She said, “Yes,” and glanced at the man who’d escorted her. I nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

I stepped back to the lectern. “Your Honor, Ms. Caren is here today courtesy of her therapist, Dr. Shepherd.” I indicated the man, whose goatee and glasses gave him the prototypical look of a shrink. “I ask that he be allowed to remain and sit with me at counsel table. Since the only relevant information he has is privileged, he can’t be called as a witness.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” the judge said.

I knew Terry certainly did, but she couldn’t say so. There was no legal reason to exclude him. And objecting to this shaky girl’s lifeline would not endear Terry to the jury.

I began by having Brittany briefly describe her early work as a child actress, and how that led to her getting the leading role in Circle of Friends.

“How old were you when you got that part?”

“Twelve.”

“Did you know the writers on that show?”

“Yes, of course. We saw them at lunch, at table reads…yes.”

“Was Tommy Maher one of those writers?”

“Yes.”

“Was Russell Antonovich one of those writers also?”

“Yes.”

“Did Tommy have a dispute with Russell Antonovich?”

“Yes.”

“When did that argument arise?”

Brittany frowned. “I believe the show was in its second season.”

“Did you witness the argument?”

“Everyone on the lot witnessed the argument-it went on and on. Tommy accused Russell of stealing his screenplay.”

“And did he claim that screenplay was the basis for Wonderland Warriors, the film that became Russell’s first big hit?”

“Yes.”

“You say the argument went on and on. Did Tommy make his accusation more than once?”

“He made it a hundred times. But Russell always denied it. Tommy kept trying to tell everyone that Russell was a thief, that he’d find a way to prove it.”

“And did he?”

“Not that I ever knew. Tommy always wrote his scripts by hand. I know because it always took him longer to get scripts done for the show. So I assume he wrote the screenplay by hand too.”

Terry barked, “Objection! Speculation!”

Brittany jumped in her seat.

“Sustained. Ms. Caren, you cannot assume when you testify. If you did not personally observe something, then you can’t speculate about what you believe. Okay?”

Brittany nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”

I continued. “Now as far as you know, Tommy threatened to find a way to prove it, but he never did?”

“Not as far as I know, no.”

“At the time Tommy was making these accusations, was the film deal for Wonderland Warriors being negotiated?”

“Objection. Again, calls for speculation.”

“It doesn’t, Your Honor. I’ll lay the foundation.”

The judge nodded. “Please do.”

“Were you involved in discussions regarding your possible role in Wonderland Warriors?”

“Yes. But the talks were tentative because they hadn’t closed the deal with Russell and Ian yet.”

“And at the time you were involved in those negotiations, was Tommy making his accusations about Russell stealing his screenplay?”

“Yes.”

“If Tommy did come up with proof that Russell had stolen the screenplay, would that cause a big problem for the studio that produced it?”

Again, Terry objected, but I pointed out that since Brittany had been in the business most of her life, she knew enough to testify on the subject.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said. “The jury can decide what weight to give her opinion.”

“You can answer, Brittany,” I said. “If Tommy came up with proof the screenplay had been stolen, would that cause problems for the defendant, Ian Powers, and Russell Antonovich?”

“Yes, big problems. Because Tommy could sue for a share of the profits, and he could tie them up in lawsuits forever. And of course it would make Russell and Ian look really bad-possibly be the end of their careers, at least as filmmakers.”

“So could Tommy’s complaint that Russell stole the script stop the studio from going through with the deal?”

“It definitely could. They wouldn’t want the headache.”

“How long did this argument between Tommy and Russell go on for?”

“About a month, maybe a little more.”

“Did the argument ever get physical?”

“Once. It was toward the end. They got into another one of their fights and Tommy socked Russell, knocked him down. It was pretty gnarly. After that, they put Tommy at the far end of the lot to keep him away from Russell.”

“But they didn’t send him home?”

“No. Everyone knew they weren’t going to let Tommy come back next season, but I guess the studio didn’t want to make more trouble for themselves by breaking his contract.”

I waited for an objection, but this time it didn’t come. I moved on to the heart of the matter.

“Did Tommy eventually get sent home?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“About a week and a half after he punched Russell. It was the day after the holiday party.”

“And do you know why he got sent home at that time?”

“Yes.” Brittany teared up and bowed her head as her shoulders began to shake. I brought her a box of Kleenex. She wiped her eyes, then lifted her head. With a voice choked with emotion, she said, “Because of me.”