Naive

by Charles Royce

  “Excuse me, what is going on?” Jenna asks the cab driver. “I thought I said don’t take the highway all the way up.”

  “We’re on 8th Ave.” The driver is on the phone with his dispatch. “Sorry, ma’am. Apparently, some kid just got run over in the street a few blocks from here.”

  ✽✽✽

  “I like this getting ready together in the morning thing.” Shawn tightens his tie. “We never get to do this.”

  “Eh.” Her unenthusiastic responses are a running joke between them. She finishes straightening her hair, lays the flat iron on the floating teak vanity and sees her husband in the mirror heading in her direction.

  Shawn grabs his wife by the waist and pulls her toward him.

  “I love my wife,” he says, then pushes her away from him as he backward-dances out of the bathroom.

  “You better,” she says, as she grabs her lipstick.

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I have a giant life insurance policy,” she says louder.

  Nothing.

  Haylee finishes putting on her lipstick and places it on the countertop. She peers through the door to the bedroom. Shawn is sitting on the bed watching the large television hanging on the wall.

  “Come on baby, that was funny … Micah? Lennox? The life insurance policy? Too soon?” She walks toward him.

  “Shhh, shh, shh.” He grabs the remote and turns up the volume. The ticker at the bottom of the big screen reads HEROIN OVERDOSE?

  “Eye-witnesses close to the scene described the man as ‘half-naked, pale, and foaming at the mouth,’ and have questioned if the young man struck by this Manhattan taxi cab just minutes ago may have been in the middle of an overdose,” a voice-over reads as footage shows a shaky Facebook live video zooming in on the man’s face. The ticker quickly changes to RAW FOOTAGE.

  “Jesus,” Haylee says.

  “Sources have confirmed that the young man is twenty-four-year-old New York native Frank Jabali, a computer programmer who lives on the Lower East Side. He was rushed to a nearby hospital and is reportedly still alive. We will continue to update you on this tragic and …”

  “Holy shit.” He turns off the television and grabs his briefcase. He pulls out a folder, then another. He opens the second. He scans each one of the pages until he comes across a witness interview transcript for Frank Jabali.

  That’s him! he thinks. Frank Jabali, or Frank J. as Micah called him, one of Lennox’s sponsees who might have been the last to see Lennox alive.

  He tucks the paper in his lips, while he shoves the folders back in his briefcase. He takes the paper out of his mouth and kisses his wife.

  “Gotta go.” He shuts the door in an anxious exit.

  Haylee stands there.

  “Oh, okay,” she says.

  C h a p t e r 2 9

  “Oh, oh, it’s right up here,” she says to the driver.

  Jenna’s cab approaches Élan’s current office, a modest building compared to the new headquarters, at the corner of 45th Street and 12th Avenue, right on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. She texts her former boss, James West.

  Almost there.

  She pays for the cab with her phone. $67.50? she thinks, then remembers she’s been in the taxi for almost an hour.

  She enters the giant lobby, which is fully enveloped in early golden daylight. The entire fortress is glass, from the front and side windows to the plexiglass furniture. The transparent landscape serves to highlight a large linear structure of dark, bent-plywood slats which curve like an ocean wave from the 30-foot ceiling down to the reception desk.

  Remembering how much she used to admire the cold beauty of her former workplace, Jenna walks toward the front desk, noticing the reverberation of her metal heels on the marble floor. She readjusts her walk to compensate, but realizes she’s simply added a prissy note to her loud pace.

  Slut-clacking, that’s a new one.

  God, this place, she thinks, knowing how much money was poured into this building not eight years ago only to be usurped by the new one being built across town. She continues to walk, a little nervous about being here, a little grateful that she does not have to be here every day.

  A simple row of thin brass pendants illuminates two beautiful young women directly below. Jenna recognizes one of them but cannot remember her name.

  “Jenna! So good to see you,” the familiar one says.

  Good to see you, too, nameless person I used to see every day, Jenna thinks.

  “Good to see you too,” she says.

  “Mr. West is expecting you. Here’s your security badge. Through security and up … well, you remember.”

  “I do,” Jenna says with a half-smirk. She looks at the security area. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

  ✽✽✽

  ((Ding.))

  She exits the elevator on the thirty-first floor, flashes her badge at the executive receptionist, a dapper young fellow who winks and waves her through. She walks past her former desk, hoping not to be recognized. Distant memories flash by as she makes her way to the corner office. She can almost hear Lennox screaming at her after he found out she was leaving, coworkers whispering the words traitor and bitch in those final two weeks.

  She approaches James West’s assistant, whom she recognizes. They used to work together, him as West’s assistant, and her as Lennox’s assistant. They were in constant communication. An older man with a crewcut and week-old scruff, Kimberly Nicholson, or Kimbo to most who know him, is considered loyal to his boss, almost to a fault. Being an assistant herself, privy to her boss’s business and personal lives, Jenna knows he knows what’s going on.

  He is typing on his computer. Probably messaging West, she thinks.

  “Mr. West is expecting you.” Kimbo gives a friendly wink.

  “Jenna? Is that you?” James West says from behind the half-open door. “Get in here!”

  There we go, Jenna thinks as she enters, breathing a sigh of relief at his familiar tone.

  “Close the door, would you?” he says.

  And there we went, she thinks. Jenna is now uneasy.

  “Packing up already?” She glances at the boxes on the floor.

  “Yeah.” He acknowledges the mess. “Jenna, we don’t have much time. The police detective in charge of Lennox’s murder case is on his way, so I’m just gonna get right to the point.” Mr. West motions for her to sit down. She remains standing. “I know you must still be quite shaken about Lennox. But for the record, we had nothing to do with his horrific death. You understand that, don’t you?”

  She fumbles with a response. Is he fishing for information that she might share with the police? Is he winking at the fact that they both know there’s something else going on, and that she should also act just as dumb as he is?

  “I do, Mr. West.” She decides to play his ambiguous game. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but rest assured I know you had nothing to do with Lennox’s murder.”

  “Sir, Detective Bronson Penance is here to see you,” his assistant says over his phone’s speaker.

  “One moment,” Mr. West responds to Kimbo, then looks at Jenna. “Sorry, I thought we would have had more time. I’m going to be blunt here. I know that you helped Lennox with certain, let’s say, transactional dealings. And I think you might know where these transactions have been collected, so to speak. Now, as you can tell by the commotion here, our company is in a bit of transition, and I need your help. I’m going to ask you a question, and trust me, you’ll want to answer it truthfully.”

  Jenna tries not to swallow. “I’m listening.”

  “Do you know where Lennox hid this account, and most importantly how to access it fully?”

  Jenna knows where the account is, and is fairly certain she knows how to access it. The files and account numbers and passwords are all safely tucked away from this ridiculous company.

  “Sir, I can with one hundred percent certainty tell you that I have no idea what you’re talking abo
ut. My job was to input numbers and to not ask questions. So I did input the numbers, and I didn’t ask questions. Period. End of the road.”

  James West laughs. He’s always loved the way Jenna speaks. “Thank you, I just wanted to make sure, in person, you know, so I could see your face.”

  “Oh, absolutely.” She musters as much confidence as she can while trying to understand the importance of his seeing her face. “Sorry I was so late.”

  “And please refer to the nondisclosure agreement you signed when you left us, just to make sure we’re on the same page. I wouldn’t want you to lose anything else you hold dear.”

  She feels another gulp begin to form in the back of her throat. She knows Mr. West can read fear, and she wants to reassure him that she knows nothing.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Is that all?”

  “Yes.” He motions through the window to Kimbo.

  Jenna turns to leave, while Detective Penance enters.

  “Oh, after you.” Detective Penance motions for her to pass.

  “Thank you.” Jenna leaves with her head down, as if she’d just been punched in the gut. She waves a defeated goodbye to Kimbo as she passes him.

  “Detective, so nice to meet you in person,” Mr. West says, with a half smile.

  “We have a warrant for your servers, so my guys have begun that little process.” Detective Penance jumps right in, hoping to elicit a response he can use. “Quite the past few weeks for your company, don’t you think?”

  “Stocks go up, stocks go down. We’ve seen worse.”

  “Ahh, yes. And the murder of one of your consultants in Union Square. Oh, and yet another employee right in his home.”

  “This city can be quite random, can’t it?”

  “Too much random might be considered by some to be a pattern.” Detective Penance picks up an ebony-and-ivory elephant trinket off Mr. West’s console table. He has remained standing, continuing to pace the room.

  Mr. West says nothing.

  “What can you tell me about Lennox Holcomb?” Detective Penance asks. “What exactly did he do for you here?”

  “As vice president of finance, he was in charge of all aspects of accounting, payroll, financial reporting, overseeing transactions related to general ledger—” Mr. West stops himself after he realizes he is simply orating the job description. “You know, stuff like that.”

  “As I mentioned, we are seizing your servers, sir.” Detective Penance looks at James West. “Seems a tiny little hard drive is missing from our evidence room, so we have decided to see what’s in the motherboard, so to speak.”

  “Great, have a look. We’ll get anything you need, Detective. Lennox was a good man and didn’t deserve what he got.”

  Bronson Penance is a seasoned detective and takes note of West’s phrasing. He walks toward the window. “Quite the monstrosity, isn’t it?” Detective Penance is looking north across the skyline at the mostly completed new building, the one to house Élan’s growing empire. “Building a high rise, consistently outperforming Cooper Harlow, hiring and hiring and hiring … with all that money, I bet you can find someone who knows the system, who can break into an evidence room with no one noticing and disappear something like it was never there.”

  Mr. West sits back in his chair and places his arms behind his neck.

  “Well, we noticed, Mr. West,” says Detective Penance. “We may not have proof yet, but we noticed.”

  “Detective, I appreciate you coming by. If there’s anything else you need, do let us know.”

  Detective Penance walks toward the door and picks up an African box from the console. “Souvenirs are always great reminders, don’t you think?”

  He sets the box down next to a wooden elephant and leaves.

  C h a p t e r 3 0

  “Thank you for the reminders. I’m actually in a cab pulling up now, talk to you soon.”

  Shawn ends his call with his lead paralegal, who has not only found out which hospital Frank Jabali was taken to, but has also gone through all the highlights of the witness statements of both of Lennox’s sponsees, Frank Jabali and Talbot Lexington. The paralegal even texted photos of both of them. Shawn wants to be prepared just in case he is able to talk to either in person, with no ethical repercussions.

  After paying his fare and walking down the block that houses St. Catherine's West, he finally finds the emergency room's modest side entrance off of 60th Street between Amsterdam and 9th. Ominous blue-and-white–striped ambulances line the curb just outside. He enters through the metal and glass doors and is hit with a smelly mix of urine and mildew. He walks past the waiting area of blue pleather chairs and approaches the desk to the right. A security guard, dressed in what looks like a police-issued black-and-white uniform, is peering at Shawn with inquiring eyes.

  Shawn looks at the receptionist lady, then at the police officer, unsure of whom to direct his inquiry. He decides to split the difference.

  “Yes, I believe Frank Jabali was just admitted here?” Shawn asks, looking first to the lady, then to the officer.

  “And you are?” asks the lady.

  “His lawyer, a lawyer,” he says.

  “His lawyer, a lawyer, there’s a big difference,” the hospital admissions girl says.

  “Careful how you answer that, not that either makes a difference,” says a woman’s voice from the direction of the blue pleather chairs.

  He turns and recognizes the face.

  “Astrid Lerner,” he says.

  Shawn is comfortable with the fact that they both had the same idea. After all, this particular witness was to offer testimony for both the defense and the prosecution.

  “Shawn Connelly. Your reputation precedes you.”

  She lifts her arm off the black plastic armrest and outstretches her hand. He walks toward her, takes her hand to shake it. He tries to let go, but she holds on.

  “Come sit down,” she says, pulling his arm and sliding herself to the next seat in the row of welded-together aquamarine chairs.

  He sits down. They let go of each other’s hands and look straight ahead.

  “Shawn Connelly.” She breaks the long pause. “Harvard. Second in your class. Had your pick of New York City’s top defense firms. Settled on Lyte & Morgan. Established. Good ol’ boys. Wouldn’t have been my first pick, but I get it. Paid your dues. Became one of the most sought after up-and-coming criminal defense attorneys in the city.”

  “Astrid Lerner. Elaine Holcomb’s bitch.”

  Astrid’s eyes flinch but she is undistracted. “Shawn Connelly. Most recently second chair to the highly publicized trial of our good mayor’s son, who had allegedly killed his housekeeper late at night in a drug-induced frenzy. Legend has it that you were the one who sussed out the housekeeper’s background of mixing pills before bedtime. And get this. You argued that the murder was not about your client’s drug use at all, no no no no … but a self-defense reaction to a housekeeper’s midnight delusions brought on by her own drug abuse.”

  Shawn remains quiet, relishing this walk down memory lane.

  “Now, normally,” Astrid continues, “normally this type of Hail Mary reasonable doubt introduction would be considered nonsense by any regular jury. But not yours. You knew you had collected some stupid, gullible sons of bitches in the twelve. You somehow not only turned the verdict into a full acquittal by the end, but also turned yourself into a hero at your firm. Hell, this entire city.”

  “What are you doing here, Astrid?”

  “I’m here to talk to Frank’s family, so maybe I can see him, make sure he’s okay. He’s one of our star character witnesses. I’m sure you’ve read his statement.”

  “I read it. He loved Lennox. We all did.”

  “And his encounters with Micah, did you read that part?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “Are we talking about this? If we are, then murder 2? And manslaughter 1 and 2? And criminally negligent homicide? Are you for real?” Shawn
’s voice rises for the first time since they began talking.

  “Your client did this. I don’t care how clever you’ve been in the past, but clever doesn’t acquit psycho.”

  “Pay attention, Ms. Lerner. Even your own detective knows Micah didn’t do this. Someone else did. The same person who almost killed this young man you’re waiting to see. A hundred bucks his toxicology report will come back positive for some sort of poison that someone other than my client used to spike this poor boy’s heroin, and you may need to, God forbid, add someone else to your suspect list. If you continue to pursue Micah and only Micah with as much vigor as Elaine Holcomb wants you to, you’ll not only end up ruining your reputation, but you’ll allow the real killer to remain at large. Stop this, Astrid, while you still can. You continue, and you’ll lose.”

  “You’re the blind one, Mr. Connelly. Your client may not be as close a friend to you as his husband was, but your prejudice has nonetheless pulled the wool right over your eyes. Time to wipe the tears and focus on what is clearly in front of you. Your client did this, start to finish. The drugs have nothing to do with it. Try, just try, looking at it from every angle like we are.”

  “Filling Elaine’s shoes by jumping right in bed with her. Wow.” He gets up and walks toward the exit. “Talking is pointless. See you in court.”

  “We never talked.”

  Shawn walks out onto 60th Street and begins to look for a taxi. A gush of cold air sweeps over him, and he redirects his face to ease the brunt. He sees a young man walking around the southwest corner of Amsterdam. He is dressed in dark jeans tucked into black boots, a long T-shirt sneaking past the bottom of his vintage navy peacoat. Over the young man’s scarf, Shawn can make out most of the face enough to recognize Talbot Lexington, Lennox’s other sponsee.

  “Talbot!” Shawn yells and makes his way toward him.

  Talbot stops in his tracks, contemplates bolting on the spot.

  “I’m a friend of Lennox’s.” Shawn slows down and stops about 25 feet from Talbot.

  “Lenny is dead, motherfucker.”