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  File No. 2014-73-B

  Statement of Nadia Delova (Continuation)

  July 7, 2014

  (CONFIDENTIAL)

  Q: [By AUSA Deborah Scolino] A technician will show you how the wire and recorder work, but first I have a few more questions.

  A: [By Nadia Delova] Why am I not surprised?

  Q: How did you get to the United States?

  A: By airplane to New York.

  Q: Aeroflot 100? Moscow to JFK.

  A: I suppose, yes.

  Q: Why that flight? Why not fly Transaero nonstop to Miami?

  A: Nicolai Gorev books all the flights. I can ask him if important to you.

  Q: Ms. Delova, I think you know the answer.

  A: Nyet.

  Q: All right. Let’s keep going. Every Bar girl takes that same flight, correct?

  A: Is nice plane. Leaves in morning, ten hours later, get in around noon New York time.

  Q: Always two Bar girls on the same flight, but you never sit together. Why is that?

  A: Again, Gorev would know.

  Q: But you do not?

  A: Is the way he arranges it.

  Q: And when you get to New York, you don’t take a connecting flight to Miami, do you?

  A: Gorev has two men with van waiting outside Customs. We drive straight to Florida. No stops except for gas and food. Not even Disney World.

  Q: Why drive? You’re already at JFK. Wouldn’t a connecting flight be much easier?

  A: You ask me so many things I do not know.

  Q: No, Ms. Delova. I ask you so many things you do not answer.

  -25-

  Orange Is the New Solomon

  Victoria wore a navy-blue Zanella A-line skirt with matching Prada pumps. Steve—her life partner and law partner, as she told Elena just hours ago—wore jailhouse orange.

  He was pale and had lost weight, so he looked even skinnier than usual. She was glad to see him gobbling the pastries. Notwithstanding Steve’s early bluster about having spent a day or two behind bars for contempt, this was different. It was getting to him. Jail was no place for a civilian, and her heart ached for the man she loved.

  “Thanks, Vic.” He chomped into the banana bread. “Great surprise.”

  “You should thank Jake. It was his idea, and his pull got the contraband in.”

  Steve sipped his coffee, savoring it. Then he looked at Jake and said, “Hard night, Counselor?”

  “I’ve had worse,” Lassiter said.

  The three of them sat at a metal table in the claustrophobic lawyer’s visitation room. Walls painted puke green, the air super chilled, and, of course, that smell. Disinfectant so harsh you could taste it after it burned the inside of your nostrils and throat.

  “Jake could have been killed,” Victoria said.

  She was still waiting for Steve to say, “Thank you, Jake.” But nothing. No gratitude. Not for risking his life or even for bringing the coffee. Sometimes Steve can be such a jerk, she thought.

  “Jake really did have a hard night,” she said.

  “Okay, I get it,” Steve said, finally. “Lassiter is noble and brave and can take a punch. Where does that leave me this morning?”

  Victoria let Jake do most of the talking, even though he was barely awake. He told Steve about being picked up by the B-girls, then all hell breaking loose when he mentioned Nadia’s name at Club Anastasia. He finished with a shorthand version of his bouncing down the stairs and breaking the bouncer’s nose and maybe his jaw, too. Then the revelation that “the jeweler” mentioned by Nicolai Gorev just before he was shot was “Benny” who had hired a PI to find Nadia. Steve listened quietly, frowning when Jake mentioned picking Victoria up at the house at 4:30 a.m.

  Victoria took over then, telling Steve about the meeting at the church. Elena had promised to reach out to Nadia about coming in from the cold and helping them. If Nadia came back, Victoria would try to fix her legal problems so she could dash away on a honeymoon with her American lover.

  Everyone was quiet a moment. Somewhere, a buzzer rang, an angry discordant sound. Then a steel door clanged shut.

  “So bottom line,” Steve said, “Elena never told you where Nadia is.”

  “Not yet,” Victoria said.

  “Or how Benny the Jeweler fits into the whole deal.”

  “Says she doesn’t know, except that he gives each B-girl one diamond. And that the Gorevs treat Benny like he’s the boss. The girls think he might be the true owner of the club. That’s something to file away for later, right, Jake?”

  “It could be useful.”

  Solomon was frowning. “Don’t see how it’s significant, one way or the other.”

  “That’s why we gather facts one at a time,” Lassiter said. “It might take fact number five to make fact number two meaningful.”

  “Thanks for the arithmetic lesson, big guy.”

  Steve seems more irritable than usual today, Victoria thought.

  “Did Elena say exactly what the feds are investigating?” Steve asked. “Why did they wire Nadia?”

  “No. Only Nadia could tell us that,” Victoria said.

  “I’ll bet she knows squat,” Solomon said. “The agent who was handling her would only have told her what she needed to get from Gorev. Not the big picture.”

  “Even so, like Jake said, we gather the facts and put the puzzle together later.”

  “What it sounds like to me,” Steve said, “is that you two kids had a fun night on the town without much to show for it.”

  “That’s not fair, Steve.”

  “Wasn’t all that much fun,” Lassiter said.

  Steve gave a sly grin. “Jake and Vic’s big adventure.”

  Oh, how the man she loved exasperated her. Usually charming and witty and giving, he could be so damn irritating when he was off his game. Now he seemed jealous about their “night on the town.” Did he suspect something between them when there was nothing? Well, nothing other than her raising the Code Yellow. And the dream she would never, ever disclose to Steve.

  Lassiter said, “Solomon, I’m sure you know that a lawyer builds a case the same way a brick mason builds a wall.”

  “No, Counselor. Tell me.”

  “One brick at a time. Place the brick exactly in line with the one next to it. Smooth the mortar to the same depth each time. It takes a while to build a wall.”

  “Thanks for the lesson. I’ll call you if we need a handyman.”

  “Steve, you’re pissing me off,” Victoria said. “You could show Jake a little gratitude.”

  “No,” Lassiter said. “It’s okay. It’s the Jailhouse Blues, and I don’t mean the Lightning Johnson song. Look, I see it all the time. A guy sits in here 24-7, and the frustration builds into resentment and the resentment into anger. He strikes out at the people closest to him, the people trying to help him. I’m not taking it personally.”

  “You’re a prince, Lassiter.” Steve gave it as much sarcasm as he could muster, and sarcasm was mother’s milk to him. “But frankly, I don’t see much in the way of results.”

  “We work differently, Solomon. To you, I’m just a plodder.”

  “Plow horse, I was thinking.”

  “To me, you’re a showboater. You spike the ball after a six-yard run. You don’t even wait to score.” Lassiter got up from his chair. “Look, I’m doing the best I can, but if you have any ideas, let’s hear them.”

  “Easy. Stop looking for Nadia.”

  “Why?” Victoria asked.

  “Put yourself in her slingbacks. She shot Gorev.”

  “In self-defense. Under Stand Your Ground, she might not even have to go to trial.”

  “Who has the burden of proof in a Stand Your Ground immunity hearing?”

  “The defendant, of course. But only by a preponderance of the evidence.”

  “She’s probably ditched Gorev’s gun. Even if she still has it and can bring it in, how does she prove Gorev was wielding it?”

  “With her testimony and yours.
”

  “I see it differently, Vic. If Nadia comes back, it’s to point the finger at me. I’m the one who’s charged. The government gives her immunity on whatever crap they have that led her to wear a wire in the first place. She nails me and walks. Am I right, Lassiter?”

  “It’s possible,” he said. “But there’s no way to tell.”

  “Why should she stick her neck out for me?”

  “A chance to start over,” Victoria said. “She’s in love with an American she wants to marry. She wants to leave the B-girl world behind. What better way to begin a new life than to save an innocent man from a murder conviction?”

  “Sweet. Very sweet, Vic. But this is the real world. The woman is a scam artist. Lassiter, you know the street. Tell my honey the facts. Her theory, her psychology of the woman starting over. It’s a long shot, right?”

  “All life is a long shot.”

  “So you think you can turn this Nadia around?”

  Lassiter took a moment to answer. A look crossed his face that Victoria couldn’t decipher, but he was processing information. “It’s not like we’re gonna drag her straight off the street into the courtroom and run the risk she’ll nail you. We’ll talk to her. If she backs your story, we use her. If not, we give her a first-class ticket to wherever she wants.” Lassiter paused and looked at Victoria. “As long as that’s not obstruction of justice.”

  “More likely, you’ll do all this work and inadvertently lead her straight into the state’s hands,” Steve said. “They can’t find her, but you two will.”

  Again, quiet settled over the stinky little room. Finally, Victoria said, “Sorry, Steve. This is Jake’s call, and you can’t steamroll him. That’s why I hired him.”

  Lassiter paced around the room. It took him three steps to get from one side to the other.

  “Well, Jake . . . ?” Victoria said.

  Lassiter leaned back against the concrete wall and closed his eyes. Victoria could see the exhaustion wearing on him. He should have been home in bed. The look on his face told Victoria she wouldn’t like what he was going to say. “We’ll do it Solomon’s way. We stop looking for Nadia. If Elena calls, tell her we don’t need her friend’s testimony.”

  Now she was truly confused. Why was Lassiter backtracking? “What are you saying, Jake?”

  “We go with the empty chair defense. They’ve got their forensics, the gun, the fingerprints. We’ve got Steve who can explain the shooting. Nadia wore gloves, shot Gorev, robbed the safe, took Gorev’s gun, and fled. I spend closing argument pointing at an invisible Nadia, sitting in the empty chair. And let the chips fall.”

  Victoria was stunned. Last night, Lassiter had nearly gotten himself killed trying to find the woman, and now he rolled over because his depressed and irritable client told him to. “What’s going on, Jake?”

  “A lawyer should listen to his client as intensely as he listens to his lover. Hey, Solomon, maybe you can make that one of your rules.”

  “Please be more specific, Jake,” Victoria said.

  “You’re too close to this to be objective. That’s why it was a good idea to hire me. Or anybody, for that matter. I hear what Solomon is saying, but you don’t.”

  “Go on.”

  “Forget putting Nadia on the stand. Solomon doesn’t want us even to talk to her because he knows what she’s going to say.”

  “All we want is the truth.”

  “Sometimes the truth will not set you free. Sometimes it will send you away for life.”

  “Jake, you’re not saying . . .”

  “Like they say, love is blind. Or at least nearsighted. There can only be one reason Solomon is so sure Nadia won’t help us. She didn’t shoot Nicolai Gorev. He did.”

  “No, he didn’t! He told us . . .” Victoria whipped around and glared at Steve, but he was looking at Lassiter. Expressionless.

  “Steve, tell me the truth,” she ordered.

  Steve didn’t speak.

  Neither did Lassiter.

  The two men were locked on to each other. Neither blinked. A sense of understanding seemed to be growing, along with the silence, between them.

  “Steve! Who shot Gorev?” Victoria said.

  “Don’t answer, Solomon,” Lassiter said. “You’re doing swell.”

  Victoria was speechless. She felt as if her head was filled with sand.

  Lassiter kept his eyes on Steve. “At our first meeting, you told me you didn’t shoot Gorev. Nadia did. Thankfully, you told the same story to the cops. I’ll put you on the stand to say the same thing under oath. If you have a sudden change of heart, keep it to yourself. I can’t ethically offer testimony I know to be false. It’s one of those damn little rules I adhere to.”

  “Works for me,” Steve said. “What else you got?”

  Victoria felt dizzy. It was all she could do to listen to Lassiter, who seemed completely at ease with learning that his client was guilty of murder.

  “Like I said, we go with the empty chair. The state didn’t even try to bring Nadia to court. I’ll contrast that with the lengths we went to. On cross, I’ll get Barrios to admit I got busted up trying to find her. Hell, he wiped the blood off my shirt.”

  “You got my vote,” Steve said.

  Victoria felt her eyes filling with tears. The two men in her life were bonding over perjury. Only Lassiter had to pretend he didn’t know that it was.

  “You want to hear my closing argument?” Lassiter asked, pacing again.

  “Sure,” Steve said. “Give it a whirl.”

  “Where is the one witness who could contradict my client’s story?” Lassiter boomed in his best baritone. He paused and pointed at the chair he had vacated. “There! What? You can’t see her? Of course not. The state never brought her to you. Why? With all their resources, they could have found her, if she was just an innocent witness to a crime. There can only be one reason for that empty chair. She fled because she’s the killer. She won’t get anywhere near this courthouse because she pulled the trigger, killing Nicolai Gorev and framing my client for the murder. You saw Steve Solomon stand up, put his hand on the Bible, and swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. You heard him testify and open himself to vicious cross-examination, but you have not heard one word from any witness who can contradict him.”

  “I like it,” Steve said.

  “Great, we’re gonna go with what we’ve got. We’ve got a shot.”

  “After everything you’ve said to me about justice, you’re really okay with this, Jake?” Victoria asked.

  “Hell, yes. I think I might win this case. I might walk a killer out of court. Then I’ll wash my hands, and polish off some Jack Daniel’s, and move to Vermont.”

  That’s when Victoria began to cry a flood of tears.

  -26-

  She Wears Short-Shorts

  Victoria said she’d get home from the jail by taking one of those new car services—uberX or Lyft—so I said good-bye to the lovebirds and drove to my little coral rock house on Poinciana.

  Granny was waiting for me in the kitchen, slicing fresh kernels of corn off the cob into a pot of steaming grits. A chunk of Reggiano cheese was waiting to be grated, and some green onions would go into the pot, too. Granny had become fancier in her cooking lately.

  She took a look at my face and said, “You try to kiss a bobcat last night?”

  “Something like that, Granny.”

  “I got some witch hazel to put on those scratches. Ain’t even gonna ask what you look like under your clothes.”

  “Sorry about the suit, Granny.”

  “Always knew it was a waste of money. Like putting britches on a mule.”

  I reached for the coffeepot, and she swatted my hand away. “You need some sleep.”

  I didn’t disagree. I just ate my grits with some buttermilk biscuits that oozed with butter. I thanked Granny, went to my bedroom, and sacked out fully clothed until midafternoon. When I woke up, I felt worse than when I went to bed. Everything hurt.


  I downed six aspirin with coconut water, showered, and put on a pair of faded Penn State running shorts and an old T-shirt with the saying “I May Be Old, but I Got to See All the Cool Bands.” I was alone in the quiet house, the only noise the quiet whir of the ceiling fans. Kip was at summer football camp. Granny had either gone grocery shopping on her bicycle or fishing in the Coral Gables Waterway. She had her own spot under the bridge that connects LeJeune Road with Cocoplum Circle, and she’d likely bring back a snapper or two.

  I turned on the television and found the country music station on the satellite. Listened to Patsy Cline sing “Crazy” with that tremulous little hitch in her voice that makes you want to put your arms around her and protect her from the big, cruel world.

  I hobbled into the backyard and toppled into the hammock that hangs between two palm trees. Cloudy and steamy hot. Palm fronds hung limply like wet laundry on a line. Humid as a jock strap after an August practice. Thunder boomed in the distance.

  I grew drowsy again. I must have fallen asleep because I dreamed of a fine snow falling on a Vermont football field. I jogged across the field in a sweat suit, a whistle around my neck, shouting at my pale prep schoolers, all skinny arms and pipe stem legs.

  “Hustle! Hustle! Hustle! And for God’s sake, hit somebody!”

  Then I heard my name called.

  “Jake. Jake. Are you awake?”

  I blinked my eyes open. Victoria sat in a wooden rocking chair on the porch, ten feet from my hammock. Next to her, on a table—an old wooden wire spool Granny had sanded and painted—was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two tumblers. The bottle was full, so she must have brought it.

  “Hey,” I said, using up all my witty conversation.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Tip-top.”

  She gestured toward the booze. “Ice?”

  “Straight up is fine.”

  She poured us two tumblers, half-full. I didn’t peg Victoria for a sour mash whiskey gal. Maybe a cosmo or a margarita. Maybe a mojito with fresh-squeezed cane juice and pulverized mint leaves. But she took a long pull on the Jack Daniel’s, so I had some catching up to do. The first taste was golden heat in the throat, soothing to body and soul.