Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) Page 12

  What was playing out before the ITT was a lesson in the ineffectiveness of simple questions posed to a recalcitrant witness. Trial rights set forth in the U.S. Constitution were not applicable to the ITT proceedings, so Duvall didn’t have the option of staying silent based upon the Fifth Amendment right against self -incrimination.

  Duvall was happy to talk. Problem was, he wasn’t talking about anything helpful and his comments typically weren’t responsive to the questions that were asked.

  Judge O’Connor nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Fairfax. The question that is pending to the witness, posed by defense counsel Brier, is ‘You’ve never been to a Maximov training camp, have you?’” The judge’s sharp eyes focused on the prosecutors. “Counselors, present your arguments. On behalf of the court, I admonish you to be brief.”

  “The question is irrelevant, leading, and pointless,” Daniel Beaumont, the lead prosecutor from France argued, in perfect English, the official language of the proceedings. For those who couldn’t speak English, translation was provided through earpieces. “Presence at a Maximov training camp is not a prerequisite for working with the organization. The insinuation defense counsel is making is preposterous. We know Duvall was operating on behalf of Maximov-in-Exile, whether he went to one of their training camps or not.”

  “You know that,” Brier retorted, his tone indignant and loud as he turned from the microphone to face the prosecution podium and the lawyers gathered there. “We know no such thing, because the French teams have not produced their investigative materials. If these ITT proceedings are designed to determine who is truly behind the terrorist acts that are at issue, we must have access to your investigative materials.”

  “That issue has been decided by the court.” Beaumont’s face was mottled. He was almost yelling.

  “I’m just trying to establish a fact,” Brier said.

  “Which you may do without asking leading questions,” Beaumont retorted, his tone imperious and high-handed.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do, or how to ask my questions,” Brier snapped. “There is no rule against leading questions in ITT proceedings. As a matter of fact, the Rules of Practice and Procedure explicitly permit leading questions.”

  The resonating sound of a wooden gavel snapping hard onto marble silenced the bickering attorneys. “Counsel, you must address the court,” said Judge Jean-Paul Ducaisse, the chief judge from France, and the wielder of the gavel. In ITT proceedings, the lead judge from the forum country was the decision maker for evidentiary and procedural questions. “Stop arguing amongst yourselves.”

  “Your honors.” The lead prosecutor from the United States, Benjamin McGavin, was short, chunky, and soft-spoken. He reached for the microphone and pulled it down so that his voice would carry through it. “While there is no rule against leading questions in ITT proceedings, the taking of evidence should have some basic decorum. Questions as conclusory as those asked by defense counsel are a waste of time. We’re midway through the week that was allocated to the French proceedings and not nearly halfway through the business of the court for France.”

  An instant message blipped on Sam’s iPad as she stood at the podium for Amicus counsel, ready to break into the argument if needed. The IM said, I’ve got access to the French investigative materials if you want it. All their backup. Z.

  No doubt Z was Zeus, and his capability of sending a private instant message to an iPad that was supposedly purposed only for ITT files and ITT communications was something new and disturbing. But what was more disturbing was the content of his message.

  Without turning to look back at him, she reached for the iPad, moved her cursor to the reply option, and typed quickly, Seriously? B.R. hacked into the French investigative files? That’s a felony. And by the way, how the hell did you manage that? She pressed enter, zinging her IM to him.

  “Objection sustained,” Judge Ducaisse said. “Rephrase your question, Mr. Brier.”

  “Your honor,” Brier interjected, “I’d like to point out to the court that the ruling is not consistent with the ITT Rules of Practice and Procedure. Rule 12.2 (a)(2) provides that leading questions are permissible for securing background information.”

  Zeus’s responsive IM appeared on her screen. Don’t ask how. Just know I have it. And it isn’t a felony if you don’t get caught. Trees falling in woods. Silent, unless someone is there. Yours if you want it.

  Samantha tore her eyes from Zeus’s instant message in time to see Judge Ducaisse give Brier a curt nod. “Objection noted. Rephrase your question, counsel.”

  “I’d also like to point out that this proceeding is rapidly devolving into a travesty of justice,” Brier said, “becoming closer to the witch hunt label the press is—”

  Another gavel snap silenced Brier. “You may save your argument, and your opinion of this proceeding, for closing argument in Brussels. For now, we are in examination mode. Do you have any other question of Mr. Duvall?”

  “No, your honor.”

  “Any other questions from the defense teams?” Judge Ducaisse asked.

  “No, your honor,” the lead defense attorney from France said. “The prosecution has proved nothing through the witness. No further questions are necessary.”

  After the lead defense attorneys from Colombia and the U.K. indicated they had no questions, Judge Ducaisse said, “Amicus teams?”

  As usual, the Amicus teams from the other countries waived their questions. Samantha was the only Amicus counsel at the podium, even though France, England, and Columbia each had their own teams. No one but the U.S. team was willing to take the lead this early in the proceedings and given that Eric’s death by cyanide was now public, she couldn’t say that she blamed them for hanging back. There was plenty enough work to do in the background.

  Zeus’s cavalier admission that he had hacked into the files, and his offer of them to her, raised a sea of professional and ethical questions. It would have been damn nice to have the French materials before examining Duvall, but she couldn’t very well use something that had not been ruled into evidence to formulate her questions.

  Could she?

  She’d work her mind around that dilemma later. She shook her head, clearing her thoughts as she leaned into the podium and looked into Alain Duvall’s dark brown eyes, consciously softening her expression to one that imparted a message of interest and receptiveness.

  You can talk to me.

  Chapter Ten

  “Mr. Duvall, I have just a few questions for you.” Samantha focused on Duvall with tunnel vision, as though he was the only person in the room. “First, would you tell me why you have the tattoo that is on your neck?”

  Since his neck was covered with multiple symbols and words, she lifted her chin and gestured with her finger on her own neck to the tender area over her vocal cards.

  As his eyes followed her gesture with a leer that almost sickened her, she clarified, “I’m referring to the tattoo that is to the right of the swastika. The one that says ‘Je Suis Maximov.’ Am I reading that correctly?”

  Duvall gave her a nod. In English, he replied, “Yes. You’ve read it accurately. Je. Suis Maximov. I am Maximov.” His dark eyes held hers with a mix of venom and scorn.

  The preposterousness of such a bald claim could have been humorous, but for the fact that around the world there were many men and women who had the same tattoo on their necks, in precisely the same spot. The universal claim was translated into multiple languages on untold millions of people in search of a cause.

  German—Ich bin Maximov.

  Spanish—Soy Maximov.

  Italian—Sono Maximov.

  English—I am Maximov.

  Like peace signs and smiley faces, the statement had become ubiquitous. Unlike peace signs and smiley faces, the popularity of the sentiment that it stood for—anarchy at all costs—was not uplifting. Rather, it had turned the civilized world into a victim, because it wasn’t just inscribed on necks and left there.

  It
was painted in blood at crime scenes. Social media statements of credit for bombings contained the battle cry. While mourners wept for the loss of loved ones, the world of people who claimed to be Maximov tattooed that identity on their skin to celebrate the anarchy they created.

  I am Maximov.

  A drumbeat of hatred and death, the oft-repeated statement was an epidemic, perpetuated and spread by social media outlets. It was robbing the world of peace and hope. It was no wonder the world was desperate for this ITT proceeding to end the existence of Maximov.

  But there needs to be concrete evidence that Maximov was involved. Something more than supposition by the French investigative team and the bold claim of a thug.

  “You do not mean that literally, do you?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “What is the name on your birth certificate?”

  “My birth certificate is in evidence.” He pursed his lips together and furrowed his brow. Sarcasm flooded his eyes. “Surely you can read it.”

  A prosecutor stood up. “Your honors, if it would save time, we will stipulate that this man is not Andre Maximov. The witness is correct. His birth certificate is in the record and the name on it is Alain Duvall.”

  “Why is that tattooed on your neck?”

  He shrugged. “I believe in the Maximov cause.”

  “What is it?”

  He shook his head, arched an eyebrow, and snickered. “What do you mean? Don’t you know it?”

  She smiled gently at him, trying to give the impression that she appreciated his great wit and her lifelong goal was to have a meaningful conversation with him. She wanted him to believe that she was enjoying her time with him. “I’m pretty sure I do, but I want to know your understanding of it.”

  “The Maximov-in-Exile organization is led by Andre Maximov. It was originally formed to seek revenge for the destruction of Praptan, Chalinda as a result of the meltdown at the Chalinda Nuclear Power Plant. It now serves as a tool against government oppression.”

  Well, at least he knew that much. “When did the meltdown occur?”

  Silence.

  She shrugged. “I forget dates as well. Does 1991 sound correct to you?” She chose a date before the twenty-three year old was born. Not knowing whether he was a history buff, she was gambling on the premise that dates before his birth blended together into ancient history.

  He nodded. “If you say so.”

  “It isn’t for me to say. We need your testimony, Mr. Duvall.” She put on her best trust me face, and said, “I need to know if 1991 sounds correct to you. Did the nuclear disaster at the Chalinda Nuclear Power Plant occur in 1991?”

  The nuclear disaster occurred in 1986. Samantha was trying to establish that Duvall had no idea of when the event occurred. Behind her, from the direction of where the teams from France were sitting, she heard a lawyer groan, no doubt a prosecutor. There was nothing objectionable in her question though, so the restless lawyer remained silent.

  “I’m not sure of the exact date,” Duvall answered. Well, he may have been caught red-handed, but he wasn’t a total fool.

  An IM appeared on her screen from Abe, her second chair counsel. Together she and Abe had developed her questions for Duvall, and he was prompting her with a reminder. Looks like a good time to try the cause/contact/connection questions. Now, rather than later.

  She gave a slight nod over her left shoulder, in Abe’s direction. She agreed with him. “Why do you believe in the Maximov cause?”

  Before answering, Duvall sneered. The right side of his upper lip drew up so high, Sam could see his slightly yellowed teeth. “Because governments are oppressive tools of the rich.”

  “Who is your contact in the Maximov organization?”

  “He has no name.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I’ve never seen him. No one ever sees the leaders. Surely you know that.”

  Well, that was the rumor. Someone had to see the leaders. “Mr. Duvall, has defense counsel informed you that if you give this court helpful information your sentence will be mitigated?”

  “Yes.”

  Samantha leaned forward on the podium, capturing his gaze. “Would you like to tell the court the identity of the people with whom you worked in the metro bombings?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to tell the court how you came into possession of Euros with which you paid for the Goma-2 ECO?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to tell me how the killing of innocent people, people who are simply using the metro station to go about their normal business, relates to the Maximov cause?”

  “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Can you?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Then do it.”

  Duvall smiled, with a gleam of humor in his eyes. “No.”

  Judge O’Connor leaned forward in his seat. His eyes were trained on Samantha in a manner that indicated his focused attention was on her. He gave her a slow headshake, but he remained silent. She could guess what the headshake meant and she bet she was going to hear it from him later. She refocused on Duvall.

  “If you’re convicted, your sentence in Ultimate Exile is potentially for a fixed term of 100 years. For each piece of helpful information you provide to the court, years will be subtracted. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand that because you have provided no helpful information,” she paused, “so far your sentence—from which there is no appeal and no possibility for release—remains at 100 years?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will ask you one more time. Would you please explain how the metro bombing that you orchestrated relates to the Maximov cause?”

  “No.”

  Two U.S. marshals entered the room through a door behind the judges. Their faces grim, they stepped up to the dais. One walked to Judge Ducaisse, another to Judge Devlin. A few words were exchanged.

  Judge Ducaisse slammed the gavel on marble. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

  With a flurry of black robes, the judges exited the courtroom. Sam turned from the podium and walked straight to the gallery, in the direction of Zeus. He stood and walked into the aisle, meeting her at the railing, his dark eyes dead serious.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance. “You cannot be breaking into the investigative records of foreign countries,” she said in a low voice so no one overheard her. “You were here for yesterday’s ruling. You know the judges have not ordered the production of those records to the ITT. If the French think the Americans are breaking into their records, they’ll—”

  He shook his head, his eyes dark and cold. “The French will never know, unless you tell them. And even then, I’ll deny it.”

  “You’ll lie?”

  “No. I’m getting the job done and I’m not using the data for anything other than accomplishing my objective. As with all Black Raven jobs, it boils down to a simple choice. We can play by the rules others have created, and possibly fail.” Disdain flashed in his eyes, but otherwise his expression gave no indication of how little he thought of the failure option. “Or we can create our own rules and pull in as much data as possible, analyze it, and use it if we need to. The data’s there for the taking—”

  “Only by world-class cyber-theft.”

  He shrugged. “It isn’t as complicated as you think. In protecting the Amicus team, and in the search for Maximov, I choose to create a world with my own rules.”

  “It isn’t a matter of choice for me. I’m working in parameters where ethics and integrity dictate my actions, and last I checked…” She drew a deep breath. “Lying isn’t a permissible option.”

  A slight eyebrow arch and a twitch at the left corner of his mouth let her knew what he thought of ethics and integrity. “In my world,” he said, his eyes scanning the room before his gaze returned to hers, “ethics and integrity mean get the job done.”

 
; “We’re not operating in your world, and the ITT isn’t operating with the convenience of such a result-oriented approach.”

  “So you say.”

  “Countries have agreed upon the procedure the ITT has implemented, and—”

  “We can continue the discussion later.”

  “Don’t interrupt me. And it’s an argument, not a discussion,” she said.

  The cold look in his eyes shifted to something different. He touched his hand to his ear, listened for a second, before refocusing his attention on her. “Right now we’ve got bigger problems.”

  Heart in her throat, she braced for more bad news. “What?”

  “Judge Devlin’s wife was murdered. Earlier today. Someone left a note with her body claiming to be Maximov. They’re demanding that ITT proceedings be stopped.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she said, struggling against the breath-stealing panic that stole her voice.

  “News just broke, right as the marshals came into the room.”

  Her gut twisted with fear. “They’re going after our families?”

  Zeus’s curt nod sent shock waves down her spine. “We’re stepping up security at your grandfather’s house. And working with the security team that provides protection for your fiancé, as well as the family members of your team. Anyone else?”

  Fiancé?

  It took her a second to realize he was talking about Justin. Who was not yet her fiancé, but that didn’t matter for this purpose. The media had painted him as almost at the on-bended-knee stage with her, which was accurate. Some reports indicated he had already proposed, and they were waiting until after the ITT proceedings to announce their engagement. Neither of them had attempted to dispel the reports. If a terrorist wanted to kill someone close to her, second to her grandfather, Justin was as close as anyone.

  “No,” she said. “That’s it.”

  Judge Ducaisse stepped back into the proceedings and slammed his gavel down for attention.

  Sam turned from Zeus and rejoined Abe and Charles at the table, standing at attention while the room quieted. Without the other judges of the ITT panel flanking him, Judge Ducaisse seemed, somehow, diminished in power—a lone, middle-aged man in a black robe with a worried expression on his face. The chatter in the room ebbed slower than usual, because the bad news was being disseminated in emails and instant messages. Some of the lawyers were already on their phones.