Rough Justice Page 2

  “If you guess so.”

  “I’m still ahead of the game,” the guard said. He wasn’t stupid, goddamnit. He’d learned a lot about stocks since the Steere trial started. “It closed at thirty yesterday.”

  “What was it this morning? Did it dip?”

  “No, sir.” The guard had checked with his brother-in-law, who found out from the computer. Frank didn’t know much about computers and felt too old to learn.

  Steere kept reading.

  “Well, uh, should I sell it, Mr. Steere?”

  “I don’t know. I guess you should.” Steere’s eyes stopped at mid-column. “Then again, I guess you shouldn’t. What do you guess, Frank?”

  “I usually guess what you guess,” the guard said, trying to make a joke, though he felt sick inside. It was so quiet he could hear his stomach groan.

  Steere turned the page.

  Frank shifted his feet.

  Steere skimmed the quotes.

  “Mr. Steere,” Frank said, “should I hold potash or sell it?”

  Steere’s attention never left the newspaper. “I don’t know if I’d hold it. It failed to make a new high. Made an attempt, but failed.”

  “How bad is that?” Frank’s dentures stuck to his lips. “I mean, is that bad? It sounds bad.”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how you feel at strike two.”

  Frank laughed, but it came out like he was choking.

  From behind the paper, Steere said, “The phone, slugger. Bring me the fucking phone.”

  “What are you wearing?” Steere said into the flip phone. He was kidding, but there was a stiffening between his legs just the same. He’d been in jail almost a year.

  “I’m in a meeting,” she said in her professional voice, loud enough for the people around her to hear. She was a star and she knew it. Steere imagined her in the meeting, every inch the career woman, at least on the outside.

  “You still have that bra, the black one with the lace?”

  “I can’t talk now, really. The gang’s all here. Movers and shakers, even a city editor. Right, Marc?” she called out. “Call me back when you have your schedule. Gotta go.” In the background Steere heard hearty masculine laughter.

  “Wait. I need you to do something. Get to the file and destroy it.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Richter knows.”

  “That’s interesting,” she said, her tone even. Steere knew she wouldn’t get rattled, whether an editor or a row of priests sat in front of her. She was the only woman he knew who kept her wits about her, and that was why Steere wanted her. Well, one of the reasons.

  “Richter knows I killed him intentionally, nothing else. Drop everything. Get the file. Today.”

  “In a blizzard?” she asked lightly. “I’d rethink that. Maybe next week. You choose the restaurant. My secretary will make the reservations.”

  “Not next week. Now. I’m not taking any chances.”

  “But we may need that information.”

  “Don’t fuck me. Do it.” Steere punched the END button, edgy and still hard.

  Next Steere punched in the number of a man he introduced as his driver, Bobby Bogosian. The title was left over from the days Bobby drove Steere around in a dented brown Eldorado with the cash that would launch an empire stuffed in his pocket. Steere would go from rowhouse to rowhouse in the city’s poorest sections, offering the elderly $30,000 — cash money, on the spot, no strings — for their homes. He could rent the houses for many times that and he made money if only 10 percent of the pensioners took the deal. Plenty more did.

  Steere would tell them he was solving a problem for them as he sat in their cramped living rooms with the curtains drawn. Their couches were worn and saggy, with thick roped fringe at the bottom, and Steere sat on more springs than he could count. Still, he felt neither contempt nor affection for these couples, no matter how toothless, poorly dressed, or just plain stupid they were. They reminded him of his foster parents, and instead of running away from them, he played the role of their perfect son.

  In house after house, Steere smiled and showed the face of a bright, earnest young man trying to make his way in the world. He leaned forward on his knees as he spoke, dressed in a department-store suit and tie, and honeyed his voice. They’d call him a “go-getter,” a “self-starter.” Steere would remind them of the kind of young man they thought didn’t exist anymore and who really didn’t, except in an imagination spun with nostalgia, as substantial as cotton candy.

  As Steere spoke, the old couples would relax in their ratty armchairs and confide in him, their eyes glassy with fear. In these city neighborhoods, whites were afraid of blacks and blacks were afraid of whites. Blacks and whites were afraid of Hispanics, Jamaicans, and Vietnamese. Everybody was afraid of drugs and gangs, and whatever their fear, Steere played on it. Because he understood their problems, they believed he could solve them. On the spot, here’s the cash, no strings. Bobby Bogosian would stand silently behind the couch until the homeowner took Steere’s ballpoint in a bony hand and affixed a shaky signature to the dotted line.

  “Yo.” Bogosian answered the beep quick as a Doberman at heel. “What up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Center City.”

  “My lawyer, Marta Richter, just left the courthouse. Keep an eye on her,” Steere said, without further explanation. He never told Bogosian more than he needed to know and didn’t want to know more about Bogosian than he had to. Steere didn’t even know where Bogosian lived and heard only through the grapevine that Bobby’s probation officer had taken off his ankle cuff.

  “Got it,” Bobby said.

  “She’s gonna be busy until the jury gets back. Make sure she doesn’t do anything or go anywhere.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing major. I need her until the trial’s over.”

  “What about after?”

  “Then I don’t need her anymore. Understood?”

  “Sure.”

  Steere pressed the END button with satisfaction. He felt back in control. He had unleashed Bogosian, and the man would do the job. The best thing about Bogosian was that he didn’t think. Steere pushed his button and the man took off like a missile sensing heat. Locking on target, exploding like a natural force.

  Steere tucked the flip phone into his pocket, closed his eyes, and sat still on the hard bench. He’d learned the stillness as a kid when he got whacked for moving, and it stood him in good stead. Steere imagined himself as he always did, like a pole at the top of the world, the pivot for the globe whirling dizzy beneath. He remained motionless as the walls of his cell spun off and flew into the ether. Around him it grew dark, cool, soundless. He listened in the silence, waiting for the rhythm of his breathing. The beat of his heart, the bubbling of his blood. Then Steere slipped inside his own mind.

  He considered the situation. He’d made a mistake with Marta, but had recovered and was back on plan. He’d just sent out protections and was hiding his distance, as Sun-Tzu would have put it. Be near but appear far, the Chinese general wrote. Sun-Tzu, an expert in military strategy, was one of the few men Steere admired, and when Steere read Sun-Tzu’s book, he realized he was already doing the things Sun-Tzu had written. Steere had already bought the key properties in the city when he read in Sun-Tzu: Occupy first what they care about. And he had vanquished all his enemies except the mayor when he read: Both sides stalk each other over several years to contend for victory in a single day. That quote had stayed with him, and Steere had built his strategy for defeating the mayor around it.

  Steere smiled inwardly. Sun-Tzu talked about the nature of victory, and Steere understood the nature of victory as if he had written the book himself. He understood that victory required more than aggression, more than conflict. Victory required violence. The clean, deadly violence of financial destruction and domination, like the detonation of a distant bomb with an explosion watched on videotape, and the in
timate, hot violence of murder. Shooting a struggling man on a sticky night, while his heels kicked futilely against the asphalt. Killing him while you stood close enough to whisper in his ear, smell the stink on the back of his neck, and feel the heat from his skin. Making him take the bullet while he wept for his life.

  Steere hadn’t known if he could really do it or how he would feel after the fact. He had been surprised in both respects. Murder had come more easily than he expected, and after it was done he didn’t feel thrilled or aroused. On the contrary, after killing the man Steere thought, That was a snap. And if he had been curious about the extent of his powers, Steere had learned they extended even further than he’d thought. He had murdered and would go free, so there was no limit to what he could do. No boundary imposed by self, man, or law. Steere had become invincible.

  Sun-Tzu said, Undefeatability lies with ourselves; defeatability lies with the enemy. Steere knew instinctively that his new enemy, Marta Richter, could never achieve victory over him, even though she was free to move and he was confined to a prison cell. She knew how to win a courtroom battle, waged according to evidentiary rules and legal precedent, using words as weapons and lawyers as soldiers. It was no contest. Not even a fair fight. A box cutter against a Glock.

  Because Elliot Steere knew how to win a war.

  3

  Heart pounding, Marta pushed her way through the reporters clogging the courthouse’s hallway and lobby, only to find that outside the Criminal Justice Center they were as thick as the driving snow. They mobbed her as soon as she pushed her way through the courthouse’s revolving door. “No comment,” she shouted, blinking against the snowflakes and blinding TV lights.

  Gonzo print reporters ran alongside Marta in the snow, grasping steno pads and hand-held dicta-phones, wearing baseball caps against the storm. “Marta, will they find him innocent?” “Marta, how long will they be out?” “Will Steere sell his properties to the city if he’s convicted?”

  “No comment!” Marta snapped, charging to the street.

  “Aw, come on, Marta!” TV reporters in orange-face makeup hurried in front of her, scurrying under colorful golf umbrellas held by interns. Their cameramen and technicians aimed videocams and TV lights as they ran backward in front of her, a practiced art. “Marta, will the deliberations be suspended because of the storm?” “Ms. Richter, will Steere be found innocent?” “What’s next for you, Marta?” “Got a book in the works?”

  Marta didn’t stop to kiss up or propagandize. Didn’t even break stride. Let them print what they wanted; her spinning days were over and she didn’t have any time to lose. She elbowed her way out of the throng, and they didn’t follow because the assistant district attorney, Tom Moran, emerged from the courthouse.

  “The gag order’s still in place,” Marta heard Moran say, and felt her gut twist. The D.A. had been right all along. Steere was a cold-blooded murderer. Now Marta had to prove it. But how? The bravado she’d shown in the interview room had vanished, scattered by frigid blasts of snow and reality. What was she going to do? Get back to the office. Get her bearings. Go!

  Marta hurried to the corner to catch a cab, pushing the sleeve of her trench coat aside to check her watch. Three-fifteen. How much time did she have? Until noon tomorrow? She reached the corner of Market Street, where the traffic was heaviest, and tried to hail a cab. Snow flew in her eyes. The storm was worse than she’d thought.

  Snow fell in thick wet flakes, blanketing everything in sight. Office buildings, subway canopies, and parked cars were already frosted white, their outlines indistinct. Icicles like pointy daggers jabbed from the power lines. The stoplight in front of City Hall was frozen red, confounding the already congested traffic. The sky was overcast. Soon it would be dark.

  Marta wheeled around at a loud screeching behind her. A shopkeeper was pulling a corrugated security gate over a glass storefront. The other stores were already closed, their lights out. Commuters flooded the sidewalk to the subway stairs, leaving work early. Philadelphia was shutting down, freezing solid. What was she going to do? She had only one night and it was in the middle of a fucking blizzard.

  Marta waved harder in the gray shadow of City Hall. Traffic accelerated as it turned the corner around the Victorian building and jockeyed for the fast lane to the parkways out of the city. Cars spewed clouds of steamy exhaust, and a minivan angling for the lead sprayed snow on Marta’s pumps. She spotted a cab and waved at it, but it drove by, occupied. Marta was struck by a memory appearing from nowhere.

  Hey! She’s standing at a curb. Waving. Cars speed by. Wind blows her hair. It’s cold by the road. Winter in Maine. Hey, mister. Please stop!

  BEEP! blared a bus, almost upon her. Marta, startled, jumped back to the curb as its massive wheels churned by, dropping caked snow from its treads. BEEP!

  “You okay, miss?” asked a voice Marta only half heard as she spotted another cab halfway up the street. The cab’s roof light glowed yellow. It was empty!

  Marta dodged passersby and dashed to the cab, her briefcase and bag under her arm. Snow wet her face and eyes but she blinked it away. The cab crawled toward her up the street, its headlights shining dimly through the snow. Marta waved like a fool. As the two converged she thought she saw a shadowy figure in the backseat. Damn. The windows were too dark for her to see inside. Marta reached the yellow cab and pounded on the back window.

  “Hey, hey!” she shouted, battering the pane with her fist. “I need this cab!” An old man in the backseat recoiled from the window in astonishment, and Marta became vaguely aware that she was acting crazy, feeling crazy. Bollixed up by what she had to do and how little time she had to do it in. Marta tore open the back door of the cab. “I need a ride uptown! It’s an emergency!”

  “No!” the old man wailed. He sunk deep into the backseat, his eyes widening behind his glasses. The cab fishtailed to a stop.

  “Yo, lady!” the driver shouted, twisting angrily around. On his dashboard was a deodorizer shaped like a king’s crown. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

  “This is an emergency,” Marta said. “I need a ride uptown.”

  “Get out of my cab! I already got a fare!”

  “Let me share the ride. I’ll pay you fifty dollars.”

  “Are you crazy?” bellowed the cabdriver.

  “Make it a hundred! We got a deal?” Marta thrust a foot into the back of the cab, but the old man edged away in terror and the driver fended her off with a hairy hand.

  “Stop that! Get out of my cab!”

  “Two hundred! We’ll ride together, you drop me off. Uptown for two hundred dollars!”

  “GET OUT, LADY! You’re a fuckin’ PSYCHO!”

  “No, wait!” Marta yelled, but the cab lurched ahead and the door banged shut, knocking her bag and briefcase to the snowy street. Marta fished them out of the snow and brushed them off. Fuck! She needed to get to the office somehow. Maybe she could call the cab service. Marta tore into her purse for her cell phone and punched its tiny ON button. Nothing. The battery had run out. Marta was about to hurl the phone across Market Street when she saw another cab coming her way. Was it empty?

  She tucked her stuff under her arm and ran for it.

  Across the street, a large man in a black leather duster was watching. He was hatless despite the freezing temperatures, leaning against the fake Greek facade of Hecht’s department store. Marta didn’t notice him. She wouldn’t have recognized him even if she had, for Bobby Bogosian wasn’t someone Elliot Steere would ever introduce to her.

  4

  Christopher Graham was tall and brawny, with big-boned features and a gray-flecked beard trimmed just short of the collar of his flannel shirt. He stood at the window of the large, modern jury room in the Criminal Justice Center, resting his callused hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and watching the snowstorm. The jurors in the Steere case had been told a storm was predicted, though they weren’t allowed to watch the news because of the sequestration; no TV, newspapers, o
r radios for two months. The jurors complained about it all the time, except for Christopher. He didn’t miss his VCR, he missed the horses whose shoes he reset and the money he’d make. The last thing he missed was his wife, Lainie.

  “Okay, settle down, everybody. Settle down,” Ralph Merry called out. He was a bluff, king-sized man who called himself an “ad exec,” although the jurors sensed correctly that Ralph was never any type of “exec,” but some sort of advertising salesman, his life fueled by scrambling and Scotch. Ralph waved the others into their order in accustomed chairs around the rectangular table. “First order of business,” Ralph said, “is we elect a foreman.”

  Christopher tried to ignore Ralph in favor of the snow flying past the window. He’d known it was going to snow even without the TV news. He’d smelled it in the air this morning when they came from the hotel and he’d seen it in the grayness of the sky, or what was left of the sky once the skyscrapers got through with it. Out where Christopher belonged, the horses would’ve known it was about to snow, too. They didn’t need weather radar and whatnot.

  “Ain’t you gonna be the foreman, Ralph?” asked Nick Tullio. Nick was the last juror empaneled, an aged Italian from South Philly. Nick had a wiggly neck wattle and a chest so spiny he looked more soup chicken than grown man. A tailor all his working life, Nick wore a suit and tie all the time, so he was curiously overdressed for every occasion. His thumb had gotten chewed up in a sewing machine accident, and Nick kept it tucked out of sight, which served only to draw attention to it. “You should be the foreman. Don’t you want to?” Nick asked Ralph.

  “Sure, but we gotta vote on it,” Ralph said.

  Nick looked sheepish. “Okay. Sorry. What do I know? I never did this before.” He hated this whole thing. He wished the lawyers had never picked him in the first place. Nick couldn’t believe it when they got through all the other people to choose him. Now it was time to decide if Mr. Steere was guilty. What should he do? How should he vote? Nick wished his wife, Antoinetta, was here.