First Chapter: The Amsterdam Laywer by Rene Appel

Translated by Josh Pachter

Up-and-coming Amsterdam lawyer David Driessen thinks he’s hit the jackpot when a wealthy client showers him with praise, glamour, and plenty of money. But David learns far too late that every gift from the shady realtor comes with a catch—and a price tag. As his gambling addiction, his constant need for cash, and his wife’s infidelities combine to drag him deeper and deeper into his client’s twisted world of money and despair, David struggles to stay ahead of it all… before his time runs out.

In The Amsterdam Lawyer, René Appel—two-time winner of the Golden Noose, the Netherlands’ equivalent of the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award—once again demonstrates the skill that led leading Dutch daily newspaper Algemeen Dagblad to proclaim him “the godfather of the Dutch psychological thriller.”

“A fascinating novel, bubbling over with greed, mistrust, and ruthlessness.” Gijs Korevaar, Algemeen Dagblad

"René Appel is a first-rate Dutch crime writer. The Amsterdam Lawyer is a compelling and twisted legal thriller, the first of what will hopefully be many of his books to appear in English." Steve Steinbock, reviewer for Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine

The Amsterdam Lawyer is translated from the Dutch by Josh Pachter.

Chapter 1

“I’d like to make sure the defendant fully understands his situation,” Judge Vreeland said.

He peered at Barry Wesseling, David Driessen’s client, who sat slouched in his chair despite David’s express instructions to maintain an engaged and interested posture. So far, the only indication that the teenager was following the proceedings at all was an occasional shake of the head at the prosecution’s accusations.

The judge turned his attention to David, who nodded to show that he at least was hanging on Vreeland’s every word. This, David knew, was what Vreeland wanted and expected. A good relationship with the presiding judge was always a step in the right direction.

“Mr. Wesseling,” Vreeland resumed, “according to your case file, at approximately ten thirty on the evening of Thursday the 27th, you entered Mr. Van Wijngaarden’s home.” Barry had repeatedly denied this—during his original questioning by the police, again before the investigating magistrate at his pre-trial hearing, and yet again here in the courtroom. “According to Mr. Van Wijngaarden’s statement, his doorbell rang, and he opened the door to find a young man on his front steps. That man roughly pushed him aside, hard enough that he fell against the wardrobe in the foyer and was knocked temporarily unconscious.”

David swiveled to look at Van Wijngaarden, who was sitting in the dead center of the courtroom’s first row of benches.

“When Mr. Van Wijngaarden regained consciousness, the intruder was gone—along with his laptop, which had been sitting on a side table in the foyer. Meanwhile, Mrs. Tienaert, who lives across the street from Mr. Van Wijngaarden and was at that moment leaving her home for the purpose of walking her dog, saw a young man rush out of the Van Wijngaarden house and run off down the street with an object approximately the size and shape of a laptop computer clutched in his arms. She immediately called 112. There was a patrol car in the vicinity, and the officers were able to apprehend a suspect. Mrs. Tienaert identified that suspect—you, Mr. Wesseling—as the young man she had seen fleeing the Van Wijngaarden home. The case seems quite clear to me, but I understand that your attorney has another version of the events to offer—as defense attorneys are often wont to do.”

Several spectators, including Van Wijngaarden himself, chuckled at this remark. David looked around the courtroom, and only now noticed the well-dressed man sitting about halfway back, motionless, staring straight ahead. There was no one on either side of him, and that seemed not to be coincidental. The man occupied not just his own seat but somehow seemed in control of the space around him as well. From a distance, he resembled David to a noticeable extent, though his hair was shorter and he wasn’t wearing glasses.

“He has listed Mrs. Tienaert as a witness for the defense,” Vreeland continued, “although she has already given testimony for the prosecution to the investigating magistrate. So, Mr. Driessen, you’re up.”

David stood and cleared his throat. “Your Honor, my client has been the victim of a series of coincidences, which unfortunately have conspired to make him seem guilty of a crime he did not in fact commit. Neither he nor I will deny that he was on the evening in question found in possession of a laptop belonging to Mr. Van Wijngaarden, and that he for that reason was arrested and charged by the police. But his explanation of how the laptop came into his possession differs significantly from the interpretation which appears in the case file you’ve referred to.”

He felt a pair of eyes boring through his legal robes and into his back and had to resist the urge to turn away from the judge. There was no need to check, though. He knew it was his almost-doppelganger who was staring at him.

He went on with his defense. According to his own statement, Van Wijngaarden hadn’t gotten a good look at his attacker. The light in the foyer had burnt out, and everything had happened so quickly. No evidence of Barry Wesseling’s presence in the house had been found. No fingerprints, nothing whatsoever.

“Now, of course you ask yourself, if my client didn’t steal the laptop, then how did it come into his possession? I refer you back to his original statement to the police. He happened to be walking down Mr. Van Wijngaarden’s street when a stranger ran up to him and thrust the stolen computer into his hands.”

David could feel the incredulity in the courtroom. But he was holding his strongest card in reserve. All he was doing now was attempting to sow the seeds of doubt.

Under Dutch law, the prosecution had to establish guilt “beyond a reasonable doubt.” But how much doubt was “reasonable”? That depended on the case, and especially on the judges. It would be easier in the U.S., where jury trials were standard. Here in Holland, though, a panel of three experienced judges heard criminal cases, and their standard of “reasonableness” was perhaps more stringent than would be expected from a dozen average citizens. Still, there were times when a one-percent doubt was doubt enough. And the creation of doubt was David’s forte.

“When the police arrested my client,” David went on, “he immediately turned the laptop over to them. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘this isn’t mine, and I don’t want it.’”

Judge Vreeland, his voice dripping irony, interrupted: “In your opinion, then, Mr. Driessen, your client was simply acting like a responsible member of society. It’s a shame that the arresting officers don’t remember his having used those words.”

“With your permission, Your Honor, I’ll remind you that neither officer denies that he said them, either. Quoting from the testimony given to the investigating magistrate, ‘Yes, he might have said that.’”

Behind him, David heard someone in the courtroom clap his hands together, twice.

Judge Vreeland scowled. This was his courtroom, and his case. “Order,” he demanded.

“Now I come to the crucial point.” David paused to glance around the room. Even Barry was finally sitting up straight. “And with this point in mind I have taken the admittedly unorthodox step of calling Mrs. Tienaert as a witness.”

Judge Vreeland and his two colleagues seemed annoyed by this turn of events. A delay in transporting Barry from the House of Detention to the courthouse had caused the proceedings to begin almost an hour later than planned, and the judges were clearly concerned that their entire day had been thrown off schedule.

Mrs. Tienaert was a small, pudgy woman, her gray hair pulled back in an old-fashioned bun. She shot a quick glance at the defendant, then turned her attention to the judges. She seemed afraid that Barry might attack her, right here in the courtroom. David could understand her nervousness, given his jailhouse conversation with his client. “If I could get my hands on that bitch,” Barry had growled, “I’d—”

Once the introductory formalities were concluded, David began his questioning. He was reasonably sure of himself. This would be a nice little performance. If only Mirjam could be here to see it, but it was at least two years since the last time she had accompanied him to court at his invitation to watch him argue a case he’d been confident he would win. She no longer seemed interested in his work. She was always busy with the children, her girlfriends, shopping, the housework…

David walked the witness through the events of the evening in question, as if they were rehearsing their lines for a TV show, from the moment she snapped the leash to her dog’s collar to the moment she’d called 112 from her cell phone. David didn’t get the impression she knew that Emiel, who did occasional legwork for him, had oh-so-casually asked around the neighborhood about her, and had learned that she was apparently rather short-sighted, especially after dusk.

“Mrs. Tienaert, you say that you saw the defendant leave Mr. Van Wijngaarden’s house with a laptop computer in his arms.”

“That’s right.”

“And you told the police that you could identify the defendant as the man you saw.”

“Yes.”

“How exactly were you able to recognize him?”

“By his face and his clothing.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“A sort of jacket, a jogger’s jacket or whatever they call it, with a hood.”

“Was he wearing the hood up or down?”

“Up, but I could still see his face.”

“What color was it?”

“The jacket? Dark. Dark blue, I think.”

“You think, but you’re not certain?”

“Well, no, not really.” Mrs. Tienaert seemed to shrink in on herself.

“And you say you were also able to identify his face.” David knew that the police had only shown her a photograph of Barry. There hadn’t been a lineup, with half a dozen men, all of roughly the same type, standing in a row and the witness hidden away behind a one-way mirror. They hadn’t seen the need in such an apparently cut-and-dried case.

“That’s right.” She glared at Barry. “You don’t forget a face like that.”

“A face like that. You know, it looks like a perfectly normal face to me, the face of a pleasant young man, but never mind that. How far away from him were you, when he came out of Mr. Van Wijngaarden’s house?”

“I don’t know. He was on the other side of the street.”

“That’s fine. With your permission”—David turned to the judges—“I’d like to try a little experiment.” He slid four large photographs from a portfolio that leaned against the defense table. Each picture showed a young man in an athletic jacket with the hood up over his head, and all four of the men were similar in appearance. David stood about twenty-five feet from Mrs. Tienaert, held up the first photo, and asked her if the person in the picture was the defendant. As he expected, she was visibly uncertain.

“I can’t really tell. The picture’s too dark.”

“Yes, but it was after dark when you claim to have seen my client come out of Mr. Van Wijngaarden’s house carrying a laptop. I’ve been there myself and checked, and there’s no streetlight near the house.”

He held up the second photo. “What about this one?”

“Well, I… I don’t… yes, that’s him.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I recognize him.”

“But this is a picture I found on the internet,” said David, “and had enlarged. I have no idea who the man is, but he’s got nothing whatsoever to do with this case.”

?

Mirjam stretched luxuriantly, like Sally the cat, arms and legs fully extended. If only she, like Sally, had someplace to dig her claws.

She rolled onto her side and ran her gaze down the length of Steven’s body. Why was sex so much better in the middle of the afternoon? Was it the excitement of having stolen an hour from Steven’s busy workday?

Whatever the reason, it was delicious to have this time together, to deliver herself so completely to her lover while the world outside ceased to exist.

Stolen moments. Fairy-tale moments.

She’d met Steven seven months ago when she’d interviewed for a job at his company, a successful advertising agency. She hadn’t gotten the job—but she’d gotten Steven. Had she seduced him, or had it been the other way around? No, they’d seduced each other.

Once, she’d teasingly wondered if the walls of his apartment were soundproof.

“Ask the neighbors,” he’d said.

Now, he turned toward her and held up the bottle of Pouilly-Fumé. “Another glass?”

She saw that he was still hard and smiled mischievously.

He repeated his question.

“No,” she said, “better not. I have to get the kids from school.”

“You think they’d notice? You’ve got mints in the car.”

“All right, fine, then.” A glass of wine after sex was like the cherry on an ice-cream sundae, a crowning touch now that they’d done everything they could think to do in bed.

Well, really, everything Steven could think of.

For just a moment, an image of David flickered through her mind, an unwelcome intrusion that almost spoiled her pleasure.

Steven sat up beside her. It had taken her a while to get used to his waterbed, to the way it magnified every movement. Now, though, it was perfect. With him, at least.

They clinked glasses and drank.

Mirjam held the wine in her mouth, letting its full flavor accumulate before she swallowed. “I’d better get in the shower.”

“It’s only a quarter to three,” Steven protested.

“I have to be there by three thirty. Last week, I was almost fifteen minutes late.”

He stroked her arm, her breast, drew a tender circle around the nipple. “Don’t you want to come before you go?”

“Eeuw,” she said, and shook her head sharply, as if to shake off the bad pun.

“I’ve got the whole afternoon,” Steven whispered. He licked her earlobe hungrily.

With difficulty, she pulled away from him. “I don’t,” she said. “Unfortunately.”

“Can’t your husband fetch the kids for once? You’re not his servant, are you?”

“No, but I’m not yours, either.”

He laughed, got out of bed and drank some wine. “Are you sure?”

?

As David approached his Alfa Romeo, a figure appeared out of nowhere, blocking his way. Like a special effect in a movie, he thought. The man was an inch taller than him, but otherwise similar in body type, maybe just a bit broader in the shoulders.

“Nice car. A little old.” The voice had a trace of an Amsterdam accent.

David recognized him at once. It was the man from the courtroom, the man with the penetrating eyes. “Still rides great,” he said.

The man stepped aside, as if granting David permission to continue on his way. “Well done in there,” he said.

“Thanks.” David took a business card from his wallet and handed it over.

Without even glancing at it, the man tucked it away in the inside pocket of his expensively tailored suit jacket. “I know who you are,” he said. “David Driessen, from Starrebeek & Starrebeek. I should introduce myself, but I don’t have a card. Hein Wesseling.” He extended a hand.

The name startled David for a second. “Wesseling?” he said. The man’s grip was strong. “Any relation?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t see a family resemblance,” said David. Hein Wesseling was still shaking his hand, and it seemed certain that the physical contact would continue until the man was ready for it to end.

“Same father, different mothers. He’s my half-brother. He’s also an idiot—all this trouble for a cheap laptop. By the time he’s twenty, he’ll have a record and have ruined his future.”

David shrugged.

“You don’t agree?” the man said.

“I do, but—”

David checked his watch. He was already running late for a meeting, but he’d texted the office before leaving the courtroom.

Hein Wesseling seemed not to notice that he was in a hurry. “You saved his ass, as they’d say in the States. The old lady completely caved, and there wasn’t anything the cops could do about it. I could see it on the judges’ faces: Barry’ll walk.”

“I hope so.”

Finally David was given his hand back. He nodded a formal goodbye, got in his car, and drove off. In the rear-view mirror, he could see Hein Wesseling watch him go.

Naturally, he’d recognized the name. Wesseling had been arrested a couple of times for major drug-trafficking offenses. Nowadays he seemed to be involved in an assortment of shady real-estate deals in Amsterdam. Not exactly a hoodlum, perhaps, but definitely playing on that side of the fence, pulling strings from somewhere in the background. Two arrests, David thought, but no convictions.

?

“How was your day?” he asked after Bas and Romy were snuggled away in their beds. He’d read Romy her usual bedtime story—she was probably too old to be read to, but she wasn’t ready to let go of that part of her nighttime ritual just yet. Sally lay in his lap, purring contentedly.

“Oh, fine. Went to my parents’. Nothing new with them.” Mirjam barely looked up from her book.

She’d seemed distant lately. Maybe that’s why she didn’t ask him about his day, or maybe she wasn’t really interested. Maybe he ought to show more interest in her, instead of relying on his usual clichéd question. A few weeks ago, he’d read an article in one of the women’s magazines she occasionally bought. “Ten Sure-Fire Ways to Keep the Home Fires Burning,” it was called. The title had caught his attention. The article talked about marriages that had lost their spark. No major problems, no irreconcilable differences, no conflict, just entropy, the inevitable dwindling of passion. Eventually, what was once new and exciting becomes ordinary—that was the article’s basic premise. Three women were interviewed. They talked frankly about the decline of their marriages. David remembered one of them saying, “He’s become my friend, my best friend—and who wants to go to bed with their best friend?”

Mirjam turned a page. When she read, she always wore a serious expression, her brow furrowed, as if she was thinking, “Say what now?” He watched her read. Maybe, if he paid enough attention, he’d be able to figure out what was bothering her. He could imagine the conversation if he just came out and asked her:

Is something wrong?

No, what could possibly be wrong?

I don’t know. I just thought maybe you had something on your mind.

No, it’s nothing. I’m just wondering if Romy’s really ready for ballet lessons.

Sure, he could ask, but he knew she’d only avoid the real issue, whatever it was.

He opened his newspaper but continued watching his wife over the top of the page.

The women in that article weren’t having affairs and didn’t seem to want them—at least, that’s what they said. But what about Mirjam?

He suddenly felt less sure of himself, less sure of her. She hadn’t been keeping up with her household responsibilities lately. Yesterday, he’d wanted to make himself a cup of coffee, but they were out of pods.

And at that moment the thought popped into his mind, as suddenly and unexpectedly as Hein Wesseling’s appearance this afternoon. A clear and unavoidable suspicion, ripe with frightening implications.

What if Mirjam…

What if Mirjam had… found someone else?

More and more, it seemed to him that her mind was elsewhere. What if it wasn’t simply that their marriage had grown stale, worth preserving only for the sake of the children? What if she’d taken a lover, someone who’d found a way to reignite Mirjam’s fire?

Shit.

She turned another page, and a faint smile danced across her lips.

He began to formulate his opening statement.

Mirjam, I think we need to talk about…

It seems to me that you…

Do you think our sex life has gotten less…

No, even if there was anything to his suspicions, she’d just deny it. It was pointless to even raise the question. She’d simply accuse him of mistrusting her.

All he had was the vaguest suspicion, fed by his perception that the intensity of their relationship had begun to fade.

Perhaps he could ask Emiel to do a bit of discrete investigation, to lay his fears to rest. This was, after all, the same type of situation he faced almost daily in his law practice, and in the final analysis it was facts, not guesswork, that mattered.

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