angry withdrawal of their normal source, Ivanov had no choice.
Standing side by side in the hotel corridor, they looked like father and son. The man was past forty, with the thin face of a penitent and a pair of narrow eyes that never stopped moving. “You the Russian?” he asked.
Ivanov said he was and pulled the door open, allowing them to enter. The boy wore a red raincoat and matching boots. He was probably twelve or thirteen but small for his age. He had been shaved and scraped to make him look ten, but Nico would be neither fooled nor pleased. Ivanov sighed. “Okay,” he said.
The man took the boy by the elbows and set him in the chair closest to the door. He took off the boots and then stood him on the carpet. Starting at the bottom, he unfastened the six black clasps holding the coat closed. He folded the coat and laid it on the seat of the chair and put the boots on top.
The boy now wore nothing but a rhinestone dog collar and a pair of black vinyl underpants. Ivanov inclined his head toward the adjoining door in the far wall and then walked soundlessly across the room and knocked. After a guttural sound from within, he opened the door and ushered the boy inside and closed the door.
The man stood with his hands in his pockets until Ivanov pulled out a roll of bills and began to count. “Anything he breaks, he pays for,” the man said.
Ivanov kept counting.
“I heard some ugly shit,” the guy said.
Ivanov continued to count.
10
Wednesday, October 18
8:34 a.m.
M ikhail Ivanov stood in the doorway and watched the flesh peddler. He’d pushed the elevator button three times now, and still it hadn’t arrived. He kept glancing from Ivanov to the boy and back. He whispered something to the boy but got no response.
From inside the suite, the sound of the shower hissed in Mikhail Ivanov’s ears. He wondered how many showers it would take before he himself felt clean again. Before the stench of perversity managed to work its way out his pores, so he could wash it down the drain once and for all. He sighed.
A muted ding announced that, at last, the elevator car arrived. The flesh peddler stepped inside. The boy hesitated, looked back down the hall at Ivanov. His small face was knotted like a fist. A hand reached out and pulled him out of sight.
Ivanov turned away. He closed the door and walked back into the suite. His stomach churned. Standing in the middle of the room, he breathed deeply and thought of his house in Nice. Of the bright blue Mediterranean visible from every window. Of the smells of sand and sea. And of how, before long, he would be free of all this.
Wednesday, October 18
1:24 p.m.
W arren Klein started with an artist’s rendering of Fairmont Hospital, one of those idyllic air-brushed liknesses that appear prior to construction and make the viewer feel as if, illness notwithstanding, he’d like to move right in.
“This is what the public was promised,” Klein intoned. “A modern state-of-the-art facility of which the community could be proud. A facility whose pediatric surgical expertise could be expected to be a model for future facilities nationwide.”
Elkins began to rise. Judge Howell waved him back into his seat.
Klein used an old-fashioned pointer to indicate a section of text at the bottom of the page. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I call your attention to this section of promotional copy at the bottom of the picture.” He turned toward the black glass jury box. “You have been provided with a copy marked PEOPLE ’ S EXHIBIT ELEVEN .”
The sounds of the jury shifting in their seats and the rustling of paper filled the air in the nearly silent courtroom. Klein waited for a moment and then began to read. “The design of Fairmont Hospital will include next-generation construction criteria virtually guaranteed to prevent collapse or serious damage in the event of seismic activity.”
Klein let the tip of the pointer fall to the floor with a click. “Ladies and
Standing side by side in the hotel corridor, they looked like father and son. The man was past forty, with the thin face of a penitent and a pair of narrow eyes that never stopped moving. “You the Russian?” he asked.
Ivanov said he was and pulled the door open, allowing them to enter. The boy wore a red raincoat and matching boots. He was probably twelve or thirteen but small for his age. He had been shaved and scraped to make him look ten, but Nico would be neither fooled nor pleased. Ivanov sighed. “Okay,” he said.
The man took the boy by the elbows and set him in the chair closest to the door. He took off the boots and then stood him on the carpet. Starting at the bottom, he unfastened the six black clasps holding the coat closed. He folded the coat and laid it on the seat of the chair and put the boots on top.
The boy now wore nothing but a rhinestone dog collar and a pair of black vinyl underpants. Ivanov inclined his head toward the adjoining door in the far wall and then walked soundlessly across the room and knocked. After a guttural sound from within, he opened the door and ushered the boy inside and closed the door.
The man stood with his hands in his pockets until Ivanov pulled out a roll of bills and began to count. “Anything he breaks, he pays for,” the man said.
Ivanov kept counting.
“I heard some ugly shit,” the guy said.
Ivanov continued to count.
10
Wednesday, October 18
8:34 a.m.
M ikhail Ivanov stood in the doorway and watched the flesh peddler. He’d pushed the elevator button three times now, and still it hadn’t arrived. He kept glancing from Ivanov to the boy and back. He whispered something to the boy but got no response.
From inside the suite, the sound of the shower hissed in Mikhail Ivanov’s ears. He wondered how many showers it would take before he himself felt clean again. Before the stench of perversity managed to work its way out his pores, so he could wash it down the drain once and for all. He sighed.
A muted ding announced that, at last, the elevator car arrived. The flesh peddler stepped inside. The boy hesitated, looked back down the hall at Ivanov. His small face was knotted like a fist. A hand reached out and pulled him out of sight.
Ivanov turned away. He closed the door and walked back into the suite. His stomach churned. Standing in the middle of the room, he breathed deeply and thought of his house in Nice. Of the bright blue Mediterranean visible from every window. Of the smells of sand and sea. And of how, before long, he would be free of all this.
Wednesday, October 18
1:24 p.m.
W arren Klein started with an artist’s rendering of Fairmont Hospital, one of those idyllic air-brushed liknesses that appear prior to construction and make the viewer feel as if, illness notwithstanding, he’d like to move right in.
“This is what the public was promised,” Klein intoned. “A modern state-of-the-art facility of which the community could be proud. A facility whose pediatric surgical expertise could be expected to be a model for future facilities nationwide.”
Elkins began to rise. Judge Howell waved him back into his seat.
Klein used an old-fashioned pointer to indicate a section of text at the bottom of the page. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I call your attention to this section of promotional copy at the bottom of the picture.” He turned toward the black glass jury box. “You have been provided with a copy marked PEOPLE ’ S EXHIBIT ELEVEN .”
The sounds of the jury shifting in their seats and the rustling of paper filled the air in the nearly silent courtroom. Klein waited for a moment and then began to read. “The design of Fairmont Hospital will include next-generation construction criteria virtually guaranteed to prevent collapse or serious damage in the event of seismic activity.”
Klein let the tip of the pointer fall to the floor with a click. “Ladies and
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