The Day After Tomorrow

94

GRANDIOSE, SHORT and red faced, with a shock of silver white hair, district Kriminal Richter Otto Gravenitz gestured toward a grouping of leather and Burmese teak chairs and bade them in German to sit down. Standing until they were seated, he crossed in front of them and sat down behind a massive rococo desk, the soles of his shoes barely reaching down to the oriental carpet beneath them. In contrast to the Spartan decor of the rest of the building, Gravenitz’s office was a rich oasis of taste, antiques and wealth. It was also a well-calculated display of power and position.

Turning to the others, Honig explained in English that because of Scholl’s prominence and the severity of the charge against him, Judge Gravenitz had chosen to conduct the deposition himself, without the presence of a state prosecutor.

“Fine,” McVey said. “Let’s get on with it.

Leaning forward, Gravenitz turned on a tape recorder “and, at three twenty-five, they got to business.

In a brief opening statement, translated into German by Remmer, McVey explained who Osborn was, how he chanced to see his father’s murderer in a Paris café and how, in the absence of police and the fear he would lose sight of him, he had followed him to a park along the Seine. There he gathered the courage to approach and question him, only to have Merriman shot to death moments later by an assailant they believed also to have been in the hire of Erwin Scholl.

Finished, McVey looked at Osborn measuredly, then gave him the floor and sat down. Remmer translated as Gravenitz swore Osborn in, then Osborn began his testimony. In it, he restated what McVey had said and then simply told the truth.

Sitting back, Gravenitz studied Osborn and at the same time listened to the translation. When Osborn finished, he glanced at Honig, then back to Osborn. “You are certain Merriman was your father’s murderer? Certain after nearly thirty years?

“Yes, sir,” Osborn said.

“You must have hated him.”

McVey shot Osborn a warning glance. Be careful, it said. He’s probing.

“You would too,” Osborn said without flinching.

“Do you know why Erwin Scholl would have wanted your father to be killed?”

“No, sir,” Osborn replied quietly and McVey breathed a sigh of relief. Osborn was doing well. “You have to remember I was a little boy. But I saw the man’s face and I never forgot it. And I never saw it again until that night in Paris. I don’t know how much more I can tell you.”

Gravenitz waited, then looked to McVey.

“Are you certain, beyond doubt, that the Erwin Scholl who is now here in Berlin is the same man who hired Albert Merriman?”

McVey stood up. “Yes, sir.”

“Why do you believe the individual who shot Herr Merriman was also employed by Herr Scholl?”

“Because Scholl’s men had tried to kill him before and because Merriman had been in hiding for a long time. They finally tracked him down.”

“And you are certain, beyond doubt, Scholl was behind it.”

This was the kind of thing McVey had tried to avoid, but Gravenitz, like respected judges everywhere, had a second sense, the same kind parents had, and it carried the same warning: Lie and you’re dead. “Can I prove it? No, sir. Not yet.”

“I see . . . ,” Gravenitz said.

Scholl was an international figure, huge and important, and Gravenitz was teetering. A thinking judge would no more casually sign an arrest warrant for Erwin Scholl than he would for the chancellor of the country, and McVey knew it. And Osborn’s deposition, strong as it was, bottom line, was in reality hearsay and nothing more. Something had to be done to push Gravenitz over or they would have to go to Scholl without a writ and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Remmer must have sensed it too because suddenly he was standing up, pushing back his chair.

“Your Honor,” he said in German. “As I understand it, one of the primary reasons you agreed to see us on such short notice was because two police officers working on the case were shot. One could have been coincidental, but two—”

“Yes, that was a strong consideration,” Gravenitz said.

“Then you would know one was a New York detective, killed right in his own home. The second, a highly respected member of the Paris police, was seriously wounded at the main rail station in Lyon, then taken to London and put in a hospital under a false name and a twenty-four-hour police guard.” Remmer paused, then continued. “A short time ago he was shot to death in that very same hospital room.”

“I’m sorry—” Gravenitz said, genuinely.

Remmer accepted his sentiment, then went on. “We have every reason to believe the man responsible was working for Scholl’s organization. We need to interrogate Herr Scholl personally, Your Honor, not talk to his lawyers. Without a writ we will never be able to do that.

Gravenitz put his palms together and sat back, then looked to McVey, who was staring right at him, waiting for his decision. Expressionless, he leaned forward and made a note on a legal pad in front of him. Then, running a hand through his silvery mane and glancing at Honig, his eyes found Remmer.

“Okay,” he said in English. “Okay.”