Chapter 1
Seatime Marine Freight Forwarders, Inc.
The Port of Baltimore
Baltimore, Maryland
Mike Bloom frowned down at the shipping manifest in his hand. This wasn’t right.
“Yo, Bloom! Keep it moving!” Le’von Chapman bellowed to be heard over the beeping forklifts, whirring motors, and clanging doors.
Mike’s frown deepened. Chapman was a good foreman because he understood the importance of speed and efficiency. He hated slowdowns, problems, and, most of all, manifest errors.
Errors in the documentation caused Seatime Marine’s vast machinery to grind to a halt. Lost time meant lost money for the company, which angered Le’von on a personal level. It was like, Mike often thought, the corporate headquarters made Le’von write them a personal check to cover the cost of any work stoppage.
Mike worked his jaw, thinking it through, trying to decide whether to flag this issue for Le’von or load the container and make it some sap in Yemen’s problem.
Le’von decided for him.
He chugged across the warehouse floor like a train bearing down on Mike.
“Bloom! Let’s go!”
Mike waved the manifest. “There’s a problem with this load.”
Le’von stopped. Froze. Shot Mike a dirty look. “What kind of problem?”
“We did a door-to-door pick up of some teddy bears yesterday and—”
“Teddy bears? Like, for kids?”
“Yeah. LFL, headed to Yemen.”
Le’von didn’t look impressed. “You’re slowing down my floor over a less-than-full load of toys?”
“The shipper paid for full-service pick-up, crate, and ship. We just got them palletized, but this can’t be right. The stated weight of two hundred teddy bears was just a hair shy of fifty kilograms.”
“You’re slowing down my floor over fifty kilograms? Bloom, I’m not in the mood to play.” He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair.
“The pallet contents weigh one hundred and fifty-one kilograms.”
“What? That’s three times the stated weight. That can’t be right.”
“No, it can’t.” Mike did some quick mental calculations. As hard as he tried to think in metric tons and kilograms, he had to do the math the American way. “These bears should weigh a hundred and ten pounds total. That seems right, right? A little over half a pound per bear?”
“Yeah, sure. They should be light. Fake fur and stuffing.”
Mike plucked a stubby pencil from behind his ear. “And a hundred and fifty-one kilos is three hundred and thirty pounds. That’s over a pound and a half per bear.”
“I mean, sure if they’re those big ones like you win at a carnival.”
“But Recreation Group—that’s the shipper—stated the weight.”
“It’s not that big a difference, Mike. This is like a fraction of one dry container. It’s not worth the time to figure it out.”
Mike bit down on the pencil’s top, crushing the metal ferrule between his teeth. His dentist loved him.
“Mike, hello? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you. It’s a rounding error.”
“Right. Get back to work.” He wheeled around to return to his perch above the floor.
“Le’von?”
“What?”
“The bears, they’re going to Yemen.”
Le’von stopped mid-step and turned back to face Mike. He was silent for a long moment. Then he slumped his shoulders and sighed. “Open it up.”
Chapter 2
Four months later
Alpine Road, Cabin #4
Pocahontas County, West Virginia
Friday morning
Clive Bloch ended the call with his attorney and returned his cordless phone to its base. Then he performed his ritual final sweep of the modern, airy chalet-style cabin: pulling open drawers and cabinets; kneeling to check under the furniture for items that might have gone astray; and unplugging lamps and small kitchen appliances.
Satisfied that he wasn’t leaving anything behind, he scooped up his key fob and wallet from the dish on the entryway table and turned out the lights. He took a final, sentimental look around. The cabin was about to be a part of his past—as soon as the unpleasantness with the court case was behind him.
And, if Sasha was being straight with him—which she generally was—it could all be over as soon as tonight. According to her, all he had to do was enter his plea in front of the judge, who would sign off on both Clive’s plea bargain agreement and the company’s non-prosecution agreement. Then this waking nightmare would be at an end, and he would have a fresh start.
Clive was almost weak with relief at the thought. He hoisted his overnight bag over his shoulder and hummed tunelessly as he opened the front door. He stepped out onto the engineered wood deck, where he dropped the bag and bent slightly at his waist to finagle the key into the finicky front door lock.
He was making a mental note to buy a can of lubricant to oil the mechanism before he put the cabin on the market when he felt, rather than heard, a rush of movement behind him.
His first thought was bear.
He turned and spotted, not a bear, but two men climbing the stairs from the walkway. One tall, wearing a Steelers t-shirt; the other, shorter, sinewy. His strut made him seem cocky. Clive didn’t recognize the men, but, then, there was no reason why he should. The cabins were set far apart on large one-acre-plus lots; he rarely, if ever, saw his neighbors.
Clive waved. “Hi, guys.”
The shorter of the two men took a half step forward, took charge. “You Clive Bloch?”
“That’s me.”
The taller guy was antsy. He shifted his weight from one side to the other, wrung his hands together.
“Let’s go back inside,” the shorter man suggested.
Clive frowned and checked his watch. “I have an appointment in Pittsburgh—”
“Inside.”
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Clive began. Both men advanced. “Why don’t we—”
The bigger guy grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and slammed him up against the reinforced steel and oak door, knocking the air out of him—and, with it, the rest of his sentence. The keys flew out of his hand and clattered against the deck.
He reached behind Clive, yanked the door open, and then pushed him back inside the cabin. The shorter, wiry man clamped Clive’s wrists together with a strong, tight grip and shoved him up against the rough-hewn entryway wall. The big man rushed in behind them and slammed the door shut.
“You don’t understand. I need to be in court today.”
“Change of plans.”
“No!” Missing the sentencing hearing would ruin everything, all of it.
A rush of fear-fueled energy coursed through him— a hot, stabbing power he’d never felt before. He wrenched his arms free and broke away, sprinting for the door.
He was fast, but the big guy was faster. He grabbed Clive’s shirttail and dragged him away from the door.
The backward momentum pulled Clive down, and he landed on his knees. The big guy released his grip on Clive, whose head bobbled forward. His face bounced off the door.
Clutching his nose, Clive turned and, in his periphery, spotted the smaller guy hefting the already unplugged entryway lamp two-handed. He swung it like a baseball bat. And Clive’s temple was the ball.
Pain bloomed red behind his eyes. Then the world went dark.
Chapter 3
The United States District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania,
Courtroom of the Honorable Clifford J. Cook, presiding
Friday, 2:48 p.m.
The Honorable Clifford J. Cook glowered down from the bench. Then he pulled up the sleeve of his robe and pointedly checked his oversized diver’s watch.
“Ms. McCandless-Connelly, are you aware of the time?” he growled.
Sasha McCandless-Connelly’s eyes flicked up to the large gray wall clock hanging above the bench. She tried to arrange her expression into a smile. “It’s almost ten of three, Your Honor.”
“Indeed it is, counselor. And, refresh my recollection, what time was your client’s plea bargain agreement scheduled to be heard?”
She cleared her throat. “Two-thirty, Your Honor.”
“Two-thirty,” he repeated. He turned to his courtroom deputy. “Mr. Waters, does ‘almost ten of three’ come before two-thirty or after two-thirty?”
Brett Waters shot Sasha a sympathetic look then nodded at his boss. “I believe it comes after, Judge.”
“After,” the judge intoned.
The word hung ominously in the still air.
Sasha glanced at the Assistant United States Attorney shuffling his feet and staring deliberately at the floor. Poor Emerson Thorne looked more flustered than she felt. And she was the one on the hot seat.
Of course, Emerson had been practicing law for less than a year and he looked like he belonged on a high school basketball court, not in a court of law, what with his gangly limbs and shaggy hair with too-long bangs. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, she expected to see the glint of braces.
She, on the other hand, had weathered enough of Judge Cliff Cook’s foul moods to know they usually consisted of a lot of thunder, the occasional flash of lightning, but little, if any, actual impact. Plus, she’d become largely immune to judicial temper tantrums, no matter who was on the bench throwing them.
Parenting twins had that effect. Even the most ill-tempered judge was no match for a pair of cranky preschoolers who’d missed their nap or snack and were tired, hungry, or both. She resisted the urge to ask the esteemed jurist if he wanted a cheese stick.
What she really wanted to do was to ask the judge for a moment so she could step out into the hallway and check her phone again on the off chance that her boneheaded client had called, texted, or emailed her some reason for his absence. But Judge Cook had a reputation as a technology hater. He’d even banned a handful of attorneys from ever again bringing devices into his courtroom once he’d decided they were abusing the privilege. That miserable little club was one she had no interest in joining. The mere thought of trying a case without her laptop and cell phone made her queasy. It wasn’t worth the risk to raise the question.
“Mr. Thorne,” the judge began.
The AUSA cast the judge a miserable look. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“What does the government suggest we do? This is your investigation, after all. Ms. McCandless-Connelly’s client, this Mr. …” He shuffled through the papers on the ledge before him.
“Mr. Bloch,” Sasha supplied.
“Mr. Bloch has been a cooperating witness, correct?”
“Um … yes.” Emerson bobbed his head.
“And, in consideration of his cooperation, the government is recommending no prison time?”
“Yes, sir. As well as an NPA for the corporation, his employer.”
The judge’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “I don’t see a non-prosecution agreement on my calendar this afternoon, counselors.” He shot his deputy clerk a fierce look just in case it was his fault, not Sasha or Emerson’s.
“Um, no, Your Honor. The NPA with Recreation Group is contingent on Mr. Bloch entering the plea.”
“Well, Mr. Thorne, it appears Mr. Bloch has decided not to grace us with his presence. It’s this court’s option to sentence him in absentia without regard for any agreement the parties may have reached. Hmm, I suppose if I were to do that it would also obviate the need for an NPA.”
“Is it? Would it?” Emerson blanched and wheeled around to look at Sasha.
Is it? Would it?
She had no earthly idea. As she had repeatedly reminded Clive Bloch, she was a civil litigator, not a criminal defense attorney. But Clive had insisted he wanted her, not her partner Will, who specialized in the area, to represent him.
And look what it had gotten him. Now, he was going to be serving federal time if she didn’t start tap dancing. And Naya’s favorite corporate client would be prosecuted, too. If anything, Sasha was more worried about Naya’s ire than Judge Cook’s.
She blew out a long breath. “Your Honor, if I may?”
Judge Cook turned from Thorne, who appeared to be struggling to breathe, let alone speak. “By all means, Ms. McCandless-Connelly, dazzle us with your brilliance.” He fixed her with a glare.
She took a moment to remind herself: He doesn’t actually hate you. He kind of likes you. Or, at least, he respects you for turning down partnership at Prescott & Talbott. He’s enraged because he thinks he’s being disrespected. Fix that first.
“Your Honor, I want to assure the Court that Clive Bloch would never miss a court appearance without a very good reason. I spoke to him this morning, and he was planning to be here. So, I—”
“So, Mr. Bloch can’t assert the defense of lack of notice, eh? Very helpful to note, Ms. McCandless-Connelly. Do go on.”
Crud.
She gathered her thoughts. “No, sir, he would certainly not be able to avail himself of that particular defense. But, seeing as how trial in absentia would subvert notions of due justice and his constitutional right to confront his accusers, it seems the court might wish to afford Mr. Bloch some latitude. What if he’s been in a car accident or had a heart attack and is en route to the hospital, for instance?”
“I agree that trial in absentia under those circumstances would run afoul of due justice and the Constitution, Ms. McCandless-Connelly. Are you sure sentencing would, as well? Do you have a case or perhaps a rule you’d care to cite?”
“Rule 34, Your Honor?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
She kept her face blank. “I believe Rule 34 requires the presence of the defendant at the time of the plea and at sentencing, Your Honor.”
He cackled. “Ah, but doesn’t subsection (c)(1)(B) provide that the defendant has waived his right to be present when he is voluntarily absent at sentencing after having entered a plea? Remind me, Mr. Waters, we did hear Mr. Bloch plead guilty, did we not?”
“Yes, judge,” Brett replied without enthusiasm.
The judge glared at her. “I’m sure you and Recreation Group thought it was a cute trick to have Mr. Bloch enter the plea in this case, especially since The Boy Wonder over there—,” he paused here to nod curtly at the Assistant U.S. Attorney, who flushed a deep shade of red, “—agreed to payment of a fine as the sole penalty.
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