heard the sound of the gavel cracking through my headphones. Judge Bouchard called the court to order. He thanked the witnesses, and he adjourned the proceedings for thirty minutes.
The main hall outside the courtroom was flooded with people who couldn’t stay in their seats any longer. Friends and even strangers embraced. Press spoke into phones and recorders. Lines to the washrooms were long. No one broke the tension with conversation or laughter.
Twenty-nine minutes later the gallery was full and court was in session again.
The rooms were utterly quiet, filled with expectation. Judge Bouchard’s use of the gavel was pro forma.
The judge asked, “Mr. Petrović. Would you like to make a closing statement?”
Petrović got up, crossed the room with a heavy stride, and mounted the three steps to the dock. The overconfidence was gone, but his anger was fully present.
Without thanks to the court or any preamble, he said, “I am not a war criminal. You,” he said, pointing a finger at the rows of witnesses, “are liars. All of you are liars. I am a patriot. I am a Serbian hero, and history will remember me as such. Streets and parks and sons will be named for me. So all of you can go to hell.”
With that, he put his hand up to his mouth. I couldn’t see what he was holding, but when he tipped his head back, I gathered that he had swallowed something.
“Joe. What was that?”
“I read that he has hypertension.”
Petrović dropped something, a vial, and made an obscene gesture with his hand, waving it in a slow circle, taking in the whole room. And then he collapsed to the floor.
The bailiff moved fast. Guards left their positions at the doors. They all rushed to the dock, where Petrović slumped partially on the steps, his head on the floor.
Was this a trick?
Petrović was flung about by spasms. He writhed, grabbed at his throat, and made sounds that could only be caused by agonizing pain. I could tell from the cherry-red color of his skin, the way his open eyes bulged, that Petrović had evaded a life sentence in prison by taking cyanide—easily obtained, easily smuggled in, guaranteeing a quick but excruciating death.
Where had his self-confidence gone?
To hell. He’d known when Anna made her statement that there was no chance he’d be leaving court a free man.
Petrović’s attorneys were detained by the guards. The judge cleared the courtroom, but those of us in the observation room saw the paramedics come in. It took four of them to get Petrović onto a stretcher and out the door.
They were too late.
Slobodan Petrović was finally dead. We’d never forget him.
And, for sure, Joe and I would never forget Anna Sotovina.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our thanks to these experts who shared their time and knowledge with us during the writing of this book:
Captain Richard Conklin, BSI Commander, Stamford, Connecticut, Police Department; Phil Hoffman, attorney-at-law, partner, Pryor Cashman LLC, NYC; Michael A. Cizmar, former U.S. Marine and FBI agent, SME, CCE; Steven Cerutti, Homeland Security Investigator, New York, ret.; J. M. Sereno, investigator for the U.S. Attorney’s office, Connecticut; Lt. Patricia Correa, SFPD, ret.; and Lt. Lisa Frazer, SFPD, Airport Division.
We also wish to thank our fabulous researcher, Ingrid Taylar, West Coast, USA; John Duffy, passionate war historian; and Mary Jordan, who keeps the whole shebang in order and on time with some LOLs along the way.
Read on for a sneak preview of the next thrilling instalment in the Women’s Murder Club series
19TH CHRISTMAS
Coming October 2019
CHAPTER 1
Julian Lambert was an ex-con in his mid-thirties, sweet faced, with thinning, light-colored hair, wearing a red down jacket.
As he sat on a bench in Union Square waiting for his phone call, he took in the view of the Christmas tree at the center of the square. The tree was really something: an eighty-three-foot-tall cone of green lights with a star on top, ringed by pots of pointy red flowers, surrounded by a red-painted picket fence.
That tree was secure. It wasn’t going anywhere.
It was lunchtime, and all around him consumers hurried out of stores weighed down with shopping bags, evidence of money pissed away in an orgy of spending. Julian wondered idly how these dummies were going to pay for their commercially fabricated gifting spree. Almost catching him by surprise, Julian’s phone vibrated.
He fished it out of his pocket, connected, and said his name, and Mr. Loman, the boss, said, “Hello.”
Julian knew that he was meant only to listen, and that was fine with him. He felt both excited and soothed