The Best American Mystery Stories 2010

Phyllis Cohen Designer Justice from The Prosecution Rests

Never long on patience, Harold Vekt was beginning to think about giving up. His feet hurt and his beer-laden bladder was trying to get his attention.

His luck, he decided, stank. Forty minutes had passed since he’d positioned himself behind the hedges leading to the elaborate teak-and-glass entryway of the Waterside Club, on the edge of the river that divided the city. Every departing couple had been ushered into a taxi hailed by one of the plushly uniformed doormen, or into a limo that glided up to the entrance at just the right moment.

Half of the women wore furs, although the night was mild. Many of the men, and some of the women, carried leather briefcases. All were well dressed and well groomed. Jewelry with possibilities showed on all the women and many of the men.

Didn’t any of them live within walking distance?

He was about to take a chance on assuaging his bladder in the hedges when the door opened once again and a baritone voice declared, “No thank you, Antonio. It’s a fine evening. We’ll walk home.” Vekt gritted his teeth and zipped up.

The couple appeared to be in their late forties, a few years younger than Harold’s mother. Though with their easy-street life, he thought, they could look like that and be much older. The woman’s hair was honey gold and sleekly coifed. She wore a beige fur jacket over an amber silk dress, oval earrings of gold rimmed with tiny diamonds, a thick gold bracelet, and a ring that was simple in style but held a diamond of several carats. The man, in a three-piece gray suit, wore a gold pocket watch and carried a tan leather briefcase of the old-fashioned envelope style, with a flap and two buckled straps.

The man and woman walked up First Avenue, busy and well lit, and turned east on Fifty-sixth Street. Vekt stayed three-quarters of a block behind them. They crossed Sutton Place; here no one else was about, and the bare but thickly branched trees dimmed the street lighting. Vekt grasped the weapon in the pocket of his gray hooded jacket and increased his pace until he was about twenty feet from them. “Excuse me, sir.”

The couple halted and turned. “Yes?”

He moved closer. In his upturned left hand was a slip of paper. “I’m looking for ninety-two Sutton Terrace.”

The man pointed toward the river. “Sutton Terrace is around that corner, but as far as I know, there’s no ninety-two.”

Vekt had closed the gap between them. He brandished the scrap of paper, and then his right hand was out with a slim-barreled black handgun and his left arm was tight around the woman’s waist.

“Okay — the rules are: one, be quiet; two, open the briefcase and put your wallet in it. And if you happen to have a gun, remember that I can shoot her before you could even aim at me.”

Staring, rigid, the man complied. Gargling noises came from the woman’s throat. Vekt jabbed the gun into the back of her armpit and whispered fiercely. “Shut — up!”

He turned back to the man. “Now, your watch, with all its attachments.” Into the briefcase went the Patek Philippe with its heavy gold chain and fob and Phi Beta Kappa key. “The wedding band too.” It was of textured gold and about half an inch wide.

Vekt turned to the woman, keeping the gun in place. “Now your stuff — into the briefcase. First the purse.”

“There’s no—”

“Quiet. The purse.” Her husband held out the briefcase; she dropped in the small cream leather bag with its mother-of-pearl clasp. “Your jewelry. All of it.”

She started with the bracelet, using her teeth to undo the difficult catch. The earrings were next, then the solitaire, followed by a diamond wedding band that Vekt hadn’t noticed.

He took the briefcase with his left hand. “Now, if you make any noise before I’m out of sight, I’ll be back here before anyone else has time to show up. In which case you won’t live to tell them anything.” Shifting his gaze back and forth between them, he walked backward, aiming the gun.

He was ready to turn and run when a glint flashed in his left eye. It came from the base of the woman’s throat.

Vekt dashed forward, grabbing at her neck for the thin gold chain with its small disc pendant.

“You stupid bitch — I said all of it!”

“NO!” she shrieked, flailing at him. “Not this! My baby! You can’t take it! You can’t have her!” She scratched his eyelids with one hand and pulled his greasy blond hair with the other.

He shoved the gun between her breasts and pulled the trigger. The husband was clawing at him; he shot without aiming and flew off down the street just as the first window opened in an adjacent building. He had not taken the chain.

Vekt flushed the toilet, huffing with relief, and jumped into the shower, making the water as hot as he could stand it. He soaped himself until he was coated with white, and then rinsed for ten minutes, gradually changing the mix until it ran ice cold.

Wrapped in a huge, thick, white towel, he strode with damp footsteps into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Heineken from the refrigerator. But he put it back without opening it; his gut feeling told him that this was more than a beer occasion. He poured three ounces of Glenlivet over two chunky ice cubes in a thick tumbler and carried it into the living room, ready to assess the evening’s proceeds.

Vekt began with high hopes and ended with exultation. Cash: $1,145 in wallet, $312 in the purse. Credit cards: five, including two platinums. Jewelry: the best, and plain design, easy to dump. Except the watch: an intricate antique; he’d have to hold it for a while. Maybe even wear it; he could afford a three-piece suit. Except the earrings too, damn it. The name of a well-known brand of costume jewelry was stamped on the back. The bitch!

Vekt’s friendly neighborhood fence was in a good mood. “These two” — the diamond rings — “let’s say five thousand.”

“Seven.”

“Fifty-five hundred.”

“They’re at least twenty-live retail.”

“Six.”

“Done. How about the gold stuff?”

“The bracelet — mmmm — four hundred. This ring’s a problem — it has initials inside.”

“So remove them.”

“I will, but it ain’t easy. And it leaves scars — reduces the resale value. Seventy-five.”

“Come on, Lou, it’s a five-hundred-dollar ring.”

“One hundred’s the best I can do. Better than you’ll get elsewhere.”

Vekt conceded. He coaxed Lou out of fifty for each of the credit cards and for the leather briefcase. He was now clean of almost all the evidence. The purse and its trivial contents had been thrown down a sewer; the gun and the blond wig went with it. Only the antique watch remained, in the movable heel of a brown leather boot, lined up in a closet with all his other footwear.

Vekt was startled by a hand touching his left forearm. His eyes and mind had been wandering around the courtroom, from the gold chains around the neck of a pudgy middle-aged juryman to the reporter who had all her parts in the right place under clothes that showed them off.

He turned toward his attorney after a second nudge. “You must, I repeat, must, pay attention,” the man growled. “If a witness says anything that you can challenge, write it down — push the paper to where I can see it from the corner of my eye.”

It was still a mystery to Vekt how he had lucked out with this lawyer. Wilson Herrera was nationally known for his high acquittal rate and his six-figure fees. “Every attorney gets to do court appointments once in a while,” was all he’d said in explanation.

The prosecutor’s six-foot-two-inch frame, with its hint of a paunch, moved agilely in its charcoal-gray vested suit as he faced the witness over rimless granny glasses. Vekt took a perverse comfort from Luther Johnson’s dark brown skin. Only two of the jurors were black. Maybe the other ten wouldn’t buy it from one of them.

“Detective Swayze. Tell us why you decided to arrest Harold Vekt for the murder of Annabelle Jagoda.”

“Her husband, Morris Jagoda, identified him in a lineup.”

“And why did you include Mr. Vekt in the lineup to begin with?”

“Mr. Jagoda had identified his picture.”

Vekt watched Herrera write, with a silver-plated Parker pen, picàl’up.

“Is this the picture?”

The detective studied the stiff four-by-six paper. “Yes.”

“What was the source of the picture?”

“Police files.” Herrera underlined his cryptic notation.

“Describe the person as you see him in the picture.”

“Long, narrow face, short, light brown hair, narrow eyes close together, sharp, straight nose, down-curved lips, small ears close to the head.”

“Do you see the person in this courtroom?”

“Yes. The defendant.” He pointed to Vekt with a jabbing motion. Johnson glared at Harold, then with deliberation shifted his gaze to the jury.

“Pass the witness.”

Herrera rose. “Detective Swayze, did Mr. Jagoda provide a description of the person who had robbed him and shot his wife?”

“Yes.”

The lawyer held out a page. “Does this statement include that description?”

Swayze scanned the printed sheet. “Yes.”

“Please read the outlined phrase.”

Swayze cleared his throat. “Shoulder-length blond hair.”

It was Herrera’s turn to look pointedly from the defendant to the jury. “Detective, you say Mr. Jagoda selected Mr. Vekt’s picture and then identified him in a lineup. Was anyone else whose picture he was shown included in the lineup?”

“Uhh — no — the others were cops or civilian employees of the precinct.”

“When Mr. Jagoda was viewing the lineup, what did you say to him?”

“I asked him to ID the perpetrator.”

“To be more specific, did you say, ‘Is the person who shot your wife among them?’ or did you ask, ‘Which of these people did it?’” Swayze looked perplexed, then shrugged and shook his head. “I really don’t remember.” Herrera opened his mouth, then waggled his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

“Now, Detective, after Mr. Vekt was arrested, was a search of his apartment conducted?”

“Yes.”

“Who conducted it?”

“I and my partner — Louis Walters — and two uniforms. Uniformed police officers.”

“Describe the search — how thorough was it?”

“We looked in every closet, every drawer, every pocket, every cushion, every shoe, every food container. The toilet tank, the freezer.”

“In other words, every possible place of concealment?”

“That’s right.”

“And what, if anything, did you find related to the robbery?”

“More than eight thousand dollars in cash.”

“Just cash? No jewelry? No papers from Mr. Jagoda’s briefcase, or the briefcase itself?”

“No. But Vekt could have easily—”

“Buts are not allowed, Detective. Was there anything at all that identified any part of the cash as having belonged to the Jagodas?”

“Why would a guy like Vekt have so much cash around unless—?”

“Please answer the question. Could you single out any of the cash as being proceeds of the robbery?”

“No.”

“No further questions.”

Johnson jumped up. “Redirect, Your Honor.” The judge nodded.

“Considering the hair discrepancy, why did you accept Mr. Jagoda’s identification of this picture and of Mr. Vekt in the lineup?”

“We had cautioned Mr. Jagoda to pay more attention to the permanent than to the changeable characteristics. He looked at this picture for a long time, turned the page, and then, suddenly, turned it back, saying—”

“Objection. Mr. Jagoda is the best source of what he himself said.”

“Sustained. Mr. Johnson, you may pursue this when Mr. Jagoda is on the stand.”

Vekt looked at the ceiling as Morris Jagoda entered the courtroom and walked stiffly toward the stand. Herrera jabbed his thigh. “The jury is watching you!” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Luther Johnson’s body language managed to suggest deference and compassion as he began to question Jagoda. “I know, sir, that this is extremely painful for you. But it’s necessary if justice is to be done. Please tell us what occurred on the night of March twenty-first last year.”

Jagoda licked his lips. He rested his right hand on the ledge that held the microphone; his left arm hung at his side, bent slightly at an unchanging angle.

“We were on our way home from dinner, walking along Fifty-sixth Street. Someone called out to us, asked for directions. Then he pulled a gun and grabbed hold of Annabelle and demanded our valuables. We gave them to him — he instructed us to put everything in my briefcase — and he ran off. But he must have caught sight of the chain Annabelle was wearing with our daughter’s pendant on it. He became enraged and ran back and grabbed for it. Annabelle became hysterical and tried to fight him off. He shot her, directly into the heart.”

“Objection. Mr. Jagoda is not qualified to describe the course of the bullet.”

Judge Patrick Quinn raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well — it hardly matters. The medical examiner has already testified to that fact.” Herrera shrugged. The judge signaled Johnson to continue.

“Why did your wife, after surrendering all her other jewelry, resist his taking this item?”

Jagoda’s eyes lost their focus. He seemed to have left the courtroom emotionally. The judge said, “Mr. Jagoda?”

“Yes — sorry.

“Felicity was our only child. We were nearly forty when she was born — our last chance. She was bright, lively, loving. Not the prettiest little girl in the world, but the most interesting, delightful, creative personality. For her third birthday we gave her a little round gold pendant, engraved with her initials intertwined with ours as though we were all holding hands.

“A few months later she became ill. She died of leukemia two months before her sixth birthday, after a great deal of suffering. She was brave too — did I say that? Annabelle put on the pendant and never took it off. She slept with it, she bathed with it. In the end, she defended it with her life, as though it were Felicity herself.”

So that’s what set the bitch off, Vekt thought. He scanned the jury out of the corner of his eye and squirmed.

Johnson waited a few seconds in the silent courtroom, then placed himself between the defense and prosecution tables. “Mr. Jagoda, did you get a good look at the person who shot your wife?”

“Yes. He is that man” — pointing — “in the light blue shirt and dark bluejacket.”

“Please note that the witness has pointed out the defendant, Harold Vekt.” Harold began to open his mouth but was glared down by Herrera.

“Would you tell us, Mr. Jagoda, if the defendant’s appearance differs in any significant way from what it was at the time of the crime.”

“His hair is different. It was blond, and much longer.”

“Then how can you be certain it was he?”

“When I first saw his picture at the police station, there was something about it, but I passed it up because of the hair. But then I remembered that I’d been told to pay more attention to the permanent features than the changeable ones. And I suddenly recalled that as my wife pulled the robber’s hair it had appeared to shift slightly, backward from the hairline.

“The eyes and mouth, the shape of the chin were exactly as I remembered them.”

“One more question, sir. For how long a time would you estimate you had an opportunity to observe the defendant’s face and become familiar with it?”

“I can’t tell you in minutes or seconds. For as long as it took him to ask for an address, and for me to answer him; and for him to threaten us with his gun and demand our valuables, and for each of us to remove our valuables and put them in the briefcase, and for him to back away several feet and run forward again.”

“I appreciate that you can’t know the exact time lapse. But between two minutes and half an hour, which is closer?”

“Two minutes.”

“I low about between two minutes and fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen. Definitely.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jagoda. Pass the witness.”

Herrera, four inches shorter and considerably bulkier than the prosecutor, rose from his chair but stayed behind the table. “Mr. Jagoda, may I offer my sincere condolences for your losses.” Jagoda’s expression did not change. “But you must appreciate that describing the tragic nature of a crime does not provide evidence that any specific person committed it.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Save it for the summation, Mr. Herrera.”

“Sorry. Mr. Jagoda, you estimated the time you and the robber were in each other’s presence as between two and fifteen minutes, closer to fifteen. During how much of that time were you actually looking at his face?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let’s start with the time before he pulled the gun. When he asked directions and you answered him. Were you looking at his face throughout that time?”

“Well — I suppose so. What else would I have looked at?”

Vekt scribbled something. Herrera threw it a stony glance and took an audible breath before continuing.

“Was he, for example, holding anything in his hand?”

Jagoda hesitated. “Ye-es. A bit of paper. I assumed the address he wanted was on it.”

“You assumed — so you didn’t actually see it?”

“I tried to, but it was out of reach.”

“You tried to. So then, for part of that time, were you not looking at the paper rather than at the man’s face?”

Jagoda was silent.

“Please answer.”

“I would have to say yes.”

“Now — let’s get to the rest of the time, after the gun was displayed. How did you react when you first saw the gun?”

“I was horrified — paralyzed.”

“Where were your eyes? What were you looking at?”

Jagoda sighed and closed his eyes. “The gun, mostly.”

“And when you were putting your valuables into the briefcase, what were you looking at?”

“The items I was handling, and the gun, and his face.”

“When he turned his attention to your wife, what were you looking at?”

“Primarily the gun. It was jabbed into her side. I was terrified that it would go off.”

“So, would it not be accurate to say that for most of the duration of this event you were looking at the gun, not at the perpetrator’s face?”

Jagoda’s gaze left the attorney’s face and swept out a semicircle across the floor, coming to rest on a far wall. Barely audible, he said, “Perhaps. I can’t be sure.”

Herrera nodded gently, as though he and the witness had arrived at an understanding. Then he moved a few steps closer to him. “Now, sir, is it correct to say that you identified the defendant first from pictures shown you by the police, and then from a lineup of six people?”

“Yes.”

“What did Detective Swayze say to you as you prepared to view the lineup?”

“Objection. Your Honor, you’ve already ruled that the speaker is the best source—”

“In this instance,” Herrera interrupted with a touch of indignation, “the speaker has already said he doesn’t remember.”

Judge Quinn looked from Herrera to Johnson to Jagoda, then pursed his lips and said, “Overruled. The witness may answer.”

Jagoda nodded. “He instructed me to view each of the men carefully and select the assailant.”

“‘Select the assailant.’ Were those his exact words?”

“I don’t believe so, but—”

“Let me put it another way. Did he say, in effect, ‘Is it one of them?’ or did he say ‘Which of them is it?’”

“The latter is closer.”

“Let’s clarify that. He asked not if one of them did it, he asked which of them did it. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Mr. Jagoda, you said that shortly after your first sight of Mr. Vekt’s picture you suddenly remembered that the robber’s hair had seemed to shift as your wife pulled it. Why did you not say this in your first statement to the police, when you described the person as having shoulder-length blond hair?”

“I didn’t remember it at the time. You must realize, I was in a state of shock.”

“Yes,” Herrera said softly, “tell us about that.” Vekt looked up at him, puzzled.

Jagoda, focused inward, continued. “The police had found me sitting on the ground, in a complete daze, with Annabelle in my arms. I didn’t realize that I had also been shot. They took me to the emergency room, where my arm was treated, then to the intensive-care unit to see her.

“As we entered I heard a doctor say to the detectives, ‘She’s still alive, barely. Frankly, with that wound, we don’t know why.’

“I looked through a glass partition at a mass of technology: tubes, machines, all attached to this papier-mâché creature; yellowish-gray skin, concave cheeks — surely not my Annabelle.”

Vekt stared at Herrera. Why was he permitting, even encouraging, this ploy for sympathy?

He drew a huge question mark on the yellow pad, but Herrera either failed or chose not to see it.

“The doctor was explaining to me,” Jagoda was saying, “that all of her functions were being mechanically supported, but his words floated by me, carrying their meaning away. The electronic beeps speeded up, and there was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing, but then the sound changed to an unmodulated signal, and everyone suddenly stopped moving. The doctor looked at his watch and” — Jagoda inhaled deeply — “pronounced Annabelle dead, at two-forty-six a.m.”

“Very soon afterward, the police took my statement. So you can see why I might have left something out.”

Herrera sighed, as though moved. “So what you mean to tell us, Mr. Jagoda, is that because of trauma you had forgotten about seeing the hairline shift, but that on a later occasion you suddenly recalled it?”

“Yes.”

Two correction officers escorted Vekt to the defense table at 10:15 a.m.; everyone else, except the judge, was in place.

Herrera looked at him. Vekt straightened his tie. “How are you?” the lawyer asked.

“Slept lousy. That tear-jerking stuff — the jury ate it up. How come you let him go on like that?”

“Because it makes a very bad impression if you negate the victim’s suffering.” Vekt raised his eyebrows. “And,” Herrera continued coldly, “we shall probably make use of it later in the trial.”

Vekt opened his mouth, but just then Judge Quinn entered. “Remain seated, please. Mr. Johnson, have you any more witnesses?” “One bit of redirect for Mr. Jagoda, Your Honor.”

Morris Jagoda seemed to have lost weight since just the day before. Johnson asked him one question. “What was there about Mr. Vekt’s picture that drew your attention to it despite the fact that the hair looked different?”

“The eyes and the shape of the mouth are rather unusual.”

Vekt reflexively touched the betraying features. Herrera also had one more question for Jagoda: “What time was it when this person first approached you?”

“I can’t say exactly. But we’d left the restaurant at about ten-oh-five and walked slowly, because Annabelle was wearing high heels. Probably ten-twenty or so.”

“Ten-twenty. Thank you, Mr. Jagoda.”

Vekt followed Jagoda’s stiff descent from the witness chair and saw him take a seat at the end of the first row, next to a couple in their fifties who’d been there every day of the trial.

“What’s he doing there?” he hissed. “I thought he wasn’t allowed in.”

“That was before he testified. Now it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!”

Herrera’s cheek muscles twitched. “His wife was murdered.”

“Yeah.”

The first witness for the defense was Harold’s mother. “Mrs. Vekt, where, to your knowledge, was your son on the evening of March twenty-first?”

“He came to my place for dinner.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Yonkers.”

“Do you remember what time he left?”

“About ten minutes to ten.”

“How do you know that?”

“We watched Celebrity Poker for a while, and he helped me unload the dishwasher. Then he had to rush off to make sure of catching the ten o’clock bus.”

“And that bus arrives in the city about what time?”

“Maybe ten to eleven, if the traffic’s light.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vekt. Pass the witness.”

Johnson positioned himself about six feet from the witness stand. “Mrs. Vekt, how often does your son visit you?”

“Two or three times a month.”

“How is it, then, that you remember this one instance so clearly?”

“It was the last time before he was arrested.” Johnson blinked and turned his back to her momentarily.

“Mrs. Vekt, do you love your son?”

“You bet I do. He’s a great kid.” Harold smiled, hoping she wouldn’t mention the gifts he’d given her.

“Wouldn’t you, then, lie in order to keep your son out of prison?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please respond with yes or no.”

“Objection,” called Herrera, but Theresa Vekt spoke over him.

“I can’t say yes or no. A person can’t answer that sort of question unless they really need to decide about doing it. But I don’t need to because I’m telling the truth.”

“Right on, Mom,” Harold mumbled, eliciting another squelching glance from Herrera.

“Sustained,” the judge said, finally. He looked at Johnson. “Anything further?”

“No,” the prosecutor grunted.

“Call your next witness, Mr. Herrera.”

“Please call. .” Herrera said before he noticed that Harold was beckoning him. “Just a moment, please.” He sat down, and Vekt leaned over to speak into his right ear.

“Put me on the stand. I’ll knock ’em dead, the way Mom just did.”

Herrera winced. He glanced around at the nearest spectators, then placed his mouth next to Harold’s left ear and shielded it with his cupped right hand. “I thought we’d settled this. You have a legal right to testify, and if you are adamant I can’t stop you. But in my experienced professional opinion, it would be extremely unwise — in fact, disastrous. So much so that I am unwilling to stake my reputation on it, and if you insist, I will apply to the judge to withdraw as your counsel. He might not consent, but the fact that I’ve asked will not do you any good.”

The lawyer rose without waiting for a reply. Vekt stared at his back, no longer uncertain if Herrera knew he was guilty.

“Please call Dr. Madeline Smithers.”

“Objection! We see no legitimate purpose—”

“You certainly understand the significance of—”

“Let’s not have cross-talk between the attorneys. Come.” Johnson and Herrera leaned across the bench. Vekt strained to hear the whispers.

Herrera: “... acknowledged expert...”

Johnson: “... no relevance...”

Herrera: “... solely on... severely stressed witness.”

Judge Quinn: “Gentlemen, lower your voices.” The discussion continued inaudibly for about ninety seconds, and then the judge waved the attorneys away.

“The witness may be called. But, Mr. Herrera — and you too, Mr. Johnson — she may be questioned only regarding her own expert knowledge, and not about the specifics of this case. Is that understood?”

The attorneys, each looking dissatisfied, mumbled, “Yes.”

Madeline Smithers differed from most witnesses in not swiveling her gaze furtively from defendant to prosecutor to jury as she entered the courtroom with brisk, sure steps. She took the oath firmly and swept the back of her taupe wool skirt free of wrinkles as she seated herself in an erect posture. She was slender, with smoothly gloomed, graying dark hair and a long, oval face. Vekt’s assessing eyes found only a plain gold wedding band and a hint of gold watch under the left sleeve of her suit jacket.

Herrera was standing between the defense table and the jury box. “Please state for the record your full name, title if any, city of residence, and place of employment.”

“I am Madeline Curry Smithers, PhD. I reside in Chicago and am a full professor in the Psychology Department at West Chicago University.”

“Please describe the area of psychology in which you specialize.”

“For the past seventeen years my associates and I have been engaged in experimental investigation of perception and memory, in particular, the accuracy of eyewitness description and identification.”

“In general terms, what have been your findings?”

“Unfortunately, inaccuracies and erroneous identifications have proven to be very common.”

“Objection. What does ‘very common’ mean?”

“There will be more specific testimony.”

“Overruled, provisionally.”

Herrera turned back to the witness. “In your expert opinion, Dr. Smithers, what are the causes of eyewitness inaccuracies?”

“There are many influences on what we believe we remember. The wording of the questioning, for instance, can be crucial.”

“Please give us an example.”

“When a witness is asked to identify someone from among a group — either by photograph or in person — the police sometimes ask, ‘Which of them is it?’ rather than ‘Is the person you saw among them?’ Witnesses then tend to assume that one of the choices must be correct, and select the one closest to their recollection, however remote the resemblance.

“A witness may also sense, through subtle — usually unintentional — tonal and behavioral cues, which choice the questioner would prefer and respond accordingly.”

“Doctor, can a traumatized person be suddenly ‘jogged’ into remembering what he previously did not?”

“Sometimes; however, trauma obstructs observation, and what is not initially perceived cannot be recalled. Our findings contradict the common assumption that everything we are in a position to observe is stored in our minds and available for retrieval. Perception tends to be very piecemeal; we construct whole memories by using these pieces as raw material and filling in the logical gaps. Such sudden ‘remembering,’ therefore, is often resolution of uncertainty rather than accurate recall.”

“Regarding this transition from uncertainty to spurious certainty—”

“Objection to the word ‘spurious.’ Implies that such remembering is always inaccurate.”

Quinn looked skeptically from Johnson to Herrera, then said, less than forcefully, “Sustained.”

“In that case,” Herrera intoned, “I ask you if indeed such memory recovery is always spurious.”

“Not one hundred percent, but often enough so that one should be wary about relying on it.”

“Objection! It’s up to the jury to decide what testimony to rely on.”

“Sustained. Strike everything after the word ‘percent.’”

Herrera blinked and turned back to the witness. “Please tell us in what way, if any, accuracy of observation is affected if there’s a gun involved in the traumatic incident.”

“The tendency is for one’s eyes to remain riveted on the gun, largely screening out everything else.”

“Including faces?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Herrera returned to the table and scanned a printed sheet. He rattled the page briefly, and Vekt’s half-closed eyes snapped open.

“Dr. Smithers, have any of your studies involved the procedure known as a police lineup?”

“Yes. I’ve run two such studies, one with college students as subjects, the other using the general population. Identical studies, with closely matching results, have been carried out at several other universities.

“In each trial an incident was staged, and witnesses were later asked to identify the ‘perpetrator’ by choosing among six people in a lineup. In sixty-seven percent of the trials the wrong person was selected, whether or not the right one was among the six.

“Witnesses tend to select someone they’ve seen before in any context if that is the only familiar face. In one study, a man who had come into the room to empty wastebaskets just before a staged assault was lined up with five men who had not been present at all. Fifty-eight percent of the witnesses identified him as the one who had punched the ‘victim’ in the jaw.”

Herrera allowed a silence of several seconds before asking, “Is this type of erroneous identification — that is, of persons who have been seen in other contexts — always of someone who has been seen in person?”

“Not at all. It may also result from a television or newspaper sighting, or from having been shown a photograph by the police.”

“From having been shown a photograph by the police,” Herrera echoed.

“Yes. Especially if no one else whose picture the witness was shown is included in the lineup.” Herrera nodded.

“Please keep in mind,” Smithers continued, “that such witnesses are not deliberately lying. They firmly believe that they are recalling what they actually saw.”

Herrera impaled a juror in the back row with his eyes. “They firmly believe what is not in fact true. That is just what makes this especially dangerous and frightening.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Please don’t editorialize, Mr. Herrera.”

“Sorry.”

Vekt smirked.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The foreman’s long narrow body, in jeans and a green sweater, seemed to uncoil rather than just stand up. “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

Vekt’s left leg began to tremble. The judge instructed him to rise; Herrera rose with him.

“Read your verdict, please.”

The foreman, not smiling, said, “On every count, we find the defendant not guilty.”

“WHEEE-OOOO!” Harold took great gulps of breath and seized his lawyer by the upper arms. “Great job, Herrera. Great job!” The attorney remained expressionless.

“The defendant is free to go,” Judge Quinn announced. Harold snorted with pleasure as he saw the prosecutor and his assistant looking at each other disgustedly. Morris Jagoda sat with his head in his hands.

Vekt reached out to shake Herrera’s hand, but the attorney was bending down to retrieve his briefcase from under the table. He removed a small manila envelope.

“I was instructed to give you this in the event you were acquitted. I have no idea what’s in it, or from whom it originated. I don’t want to know.” Herrera swept his papers off the table into the briefcase, clicked shut its combination lock, and stalked out of the courtroom. Harold stared after him briefly, then shrugged and turned his attention to the envelope.

It was six-by-eight; nothing was printed or written on the outside. Its metal tab closing was reinforced with two strips of transparent tape.

“What’s that?” Theresa Vekt had come up behind her son.

“I don’t know — something from the lawyer.”

“Not a bill?”

“Nah — the court’s paying him. I’ll look at it later.” His implication that it was none of her business was accepted matter-of-factly. “How about celebrating at Dinky Jones’s?”

The dimly lit wood-paneled tavern had survived through all the years of change in Harold’s childhood neighborhood. They sat on stools at the far end of the bar and had a couple of beers each, talking little except for toasts to each other and Herrera and Smithers and the jury. Then Harold took his mother to the Yonkers bus, promising to come for dinner in a couple of days.

Back in his flat, he put the thick envelope on the coffee table and studied it, pressing it between his palms. Fetching a steak knife from the kitchen, he cautiously slit the seal and peered in, then eased out the contents: two tape-bound stacks of currency and a folded sheet of white paper. He flipped his thumb through the bills; they appeared to be all twenties. Then he unfolded the paper.

Mr. Vekt—

I have need of a person with your skills and stamina to do a job of work for me. Of several people considered, you appear to be the best qualified.

The job is a onetime errand, whose nature you will learn at the appropriate time. It is essential, and in your best interests, that you say nothing to anyone about this, starting right now.

If you wish to accept, please come to 774 West 32nd Street at 9:30 on Friday night. The building has several entrances: use the door at the far end, closest to the river. It will be unlocked from 9:25 to 9:35. You will be met and given further instructions. Please do not bring your own weapon.

Enclosed is an advance payment of one-tenth of your fee. The rest, if you earn it, will also come in small bills. Should you decide against taking the job. you may keep this money. The only thing that will be expected in return is silence.

The message was unsigned, but the stiff formality of its wording had a certain familiarity. Vekt wondered if Herrera himself had written it.

One hundred and twenty-five twenty-dollar bills. Times two. Five thousand dollars. One-tenth. He didn’t care who. His career as a mugger, supplemented by occasional legitimate odd jobs when he was up against it, would scarcely produce that much in two years. It was creepy, but he could take care of himself. He knew it, and the guy, whoever he was, that wanted to hire him knew it too.

Light rain filmed Vekt’s face as he walked west. Unexpectedly, the wait for the downtown bus had been only three or four minutes, and he reached his destination at 9:15. On the designated door the numbers 774 were formed out of bright blue plastic tape.

Vekt tugged on the unyielding vertical door handle, then knocked, futilely. The appointed time, apparently, was firm. Shivering from the dampness, he hugged himself and stamped his feet, glancing at his watch with increasing frequency.

Just as 9:25 popped in, Vekt heard a metallic scrape. He tried the handle again; this time only the door’s great weight held it back. Slowly, he was able to pull it open.

Inside, there was total darkness. “Hey! You there?” Though he’d spoken softly, his voice reverberated. Suddenly there was blinding light, as multiple fluorescent bars fluttered on. He squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked several times before adjusting to the brightness.

He was facing a long, narrow corridor with whitewashed concrete walls. Blue tape arrows pointed down the center of the white floor. Vekt could not see where they ended.

“Anyone here?” He was louder this time, and so was the responding silence. Harold felt his scalp clench. His palm itched for a gun, but his only choices now were to accept the circumstances or forgo any possibility of earning a quick $45,000.

He proceeded warily about sixty feet along the blue trail, which made a left turn and an almost immediate right. A strip of blue disappeared under a battleship-gray door, which pushed open easily into a small bare rectangular room. The arrows continued at a diagonal. The head of the last one was angled toward a doorway in the corner.

“Son-of-a-bitch! What kind of stupid game is this?” Vekt aimed a punching shove at the narrow door, but it gave so easily that he lost his balance and stumbled through it into an unlit area. The lights in the room he’d just left cut off. With a loud clang, the door closed behind him.

“What the fuck is this?” He groped at the door, could not budge it, could find no knob or handle. “Turn the goddamn lights on!” He pounded on the door with both fists.

Suddenly the darkness was a bit less than total. He turned to see a small pool of light coming from a naked twenty-five-watt bulb hanging by its wire about six feet above the floor. Directly beneath it was a small square table, and on the table was a sheet of paper. He crossed the murky space and gingerly picked up the page, printed in the same typeface as the letter that had directed him here.

There was no signature.

Harold Vekt commenced his accommodation to his fate by vomiting into the storm drain.