Sunrise Highway

by Peter Blauner

  SEPTEMBER

  2017

  The courtroom used for arraignments in Central Islip was packed as Lourdes was led in.

  At first she tried to tell herself that it was crowded because of the sweeps the night before, which had the holding pens bursting with homeless women and streetwalkers too insane or desperately drug-addicted to have enough sense to sell their goods online instead of outside. At least two rows were taken up by fed-up relatives or restive pimps or johns who’d been shamed into showing up with cash bail.

  But everyone else was clearly there for Lourdes. It was like a nightmare version of the old TV show her father used to talk about: This Is Your Life.

  Mitchell was in the front row, looking slightly shell-shocked and even more pale-faced than usual. Aunt Soledad, from Brooklyn Narcotics, vice president of the NYPD Hispanic Women’s Society, was beside him wearing a suit jacket and white blouse, instead of her customary Hawaiian shirt. Lourdes’s captain from Queens Homicide, Rashid Ali, was in the pew behind them, and just across the aisle were functionaries from One Police Plaza, including a deputy inspector she’d met at a promotion ceremony a couple of years ago and a sergeant from the public information office, both out of uniform. There to observe and report back to the commissioner, while avoiding making a statement of support for an officer accused of transporting drugs in another jurisdiction.

  Sullivan and B.B. were nowhere to be seen. But Rattigan was here, in his checked shirt and aviator glasses. And just to remove any doubt that she was well and truly screwed, the back rows were jammed with media people taking notes and staring at her like some weird zoo exhibit. The cops from out here had obviously leaked this and bloggers were probably already posting notices about her disgrace.

  “Ms. Robles, how do you plead?”

  She looked up after the preamble, still dazed from a mostly sleepless night. The Honorable Thomas Danziger was presiding, a gawky high-voiced man with the appearance of an aging farm boy. Everything was in the wrong place. She should have been on the prosecutor’s side of the courtroom, where the two officers who’d arrested her were sitting behind an assistant district attorney. Some dog-faced mope should have been where she was standing, hands crossed behind her back, with a lawyer she’d never met from the Detectives’ Endowment Association there to speak for her. How could it be the People versus Lourdes Robles? She was supposed to be on the side of the People.

  “Ms. Robles?” the judge prompted her again.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked slightly surprised, perhaps even disappointed as he looked over at the prosecutor. “Bail, Mr. Harris? What say we?”

  The assistant district attorney, a balding, potato-shaped man who looked too experienced to be handling arraignments, put aside the papers he’d been shuffling.

  “Your Honor, we’re opposed to any bail,” he said loudly. “The charges in this case could not be more serious. The defendant was pulled over for driving erratically. Officers then detected a strong odor of marijuana coming from inside the vehicle. On cursory visual inspection conducted from outside the car, they spotted a bag that appeared to contain drugs near the driver’s feet. Initial lab analysis revealed it to contain a mixture of heroin and fentanyl totaling more than eight ounces.”

  “They flaked me,” Lourdes whispered to her attorney, Anthony Brigati, who looked more like a mob capo than a police lawyer in his pinstripes. “Assholes…”

  He put a hand up, silencing her, as murmurs rose from the spectator gallery and knees knocked wood as people crossed their legs.

  “Under the state penal code, that amount brings us to criminal possession of a controlled substance in the first degree, which is an A-1 felony,” Harris said. “And we may be adding trafficking charges, pending further investigation.”

  Lourdes shook her head in disbelief at the justice seal above the judge’s head, struggling to keep her mouth shut. She knew there was little chance she could end up getting convicted. But her body was reacting like she’d just received the maximum sentence: stomach groaning, mouth going dry, pores secreting clammy sweat.

  “As Your Honor knows, we’re dealing with an opioid epidemic on this part of Long Island,” the prosecutor continued. “And most of those drugs come from the city. The defendant is a nonresident with no ties to our community, facing serious time. She has the motive and means to flee. We’re asking you to remand her directly to a county facility, to be held until trial.”

  Without even turning around, Lourdes could tell how different factions were reacting. Mitchell was looking over his shoulder at the doors, as if he longed to flee. Soledad was probably ready to launch herself over the balustrade and smash the prosecutor to the floor with a flying tackle. And the media people were writing down every word.

  “Your Honor, all due respect, but this is absurd,” said her lawyer, Brigati, with a trace of a Long Island-by-way-of-Brooklyn accent. “Number one, this wasn’t even her regular vehicle…”

  “We’re not trying the case here,” Harris interrupted. “We’re setting bail.”

  “And number two,” Brigati bulled past him, “Detective Robles is a fourteen-year veteran of the New York City Police Department with numerous commendations and many ties to the local law enforcement community. We’re confident that these charges will be ultimately dismissed and her reputation will be restored…”

  Restored? The word landed on her like a freight elevator. Had her reputation been lost already?

  “We’re asking that she be released on recognizance,” Brigati said, turning to glare at Harris the prosecutor. “And we’re expecting a full apology from the Suffolk County PD and the district attorney’s office for besmirching the detective’s good name.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Harris looked past him and shook his head. “We’ve convicted other NYPD officers for drunk driving and even robbery in this courthouse. A badge isn’t always a shield.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that.” Brigati half smiled. “Judge, this accusation would be laughed out of court in any of the five boroughs. Detective Robles is obviously the victim of a vendetta of some kind.”

  Lourdes stared at her lawyer, aware of a sudden hush behind her. Whatever trouble she was already in had just been made worse by this posturing and dick-waggling.

  “We’re very confident that these charges will stand up.” Harris winced like a bad breakfast was repeating on him. “And since Mr. Brigati brought up these so-called ties Ms. Robles has, here are the facts: Detective Robles has a mixed service record. In addition to her commendations, she was disciplined several years ago for her role in an incident where she stood by while another officer berated a cab driver with racial epithets.”

  Bonehead Erik Heinz, her one-time partner at the seven-eight squad, had embarrassed both of them by getting caught on video screaming slurs at an Arab driver who’d cut them off in traffic. The video had gone viral and Lourdes, who’d made the mistake of keeping her mouth shut during the tirade, had found herself on extended assignment watching monitors in housing project basements as punishment.

  Harris went in for the kill: “It may also interest the court to know that she is the daughter of Rafael Robles, a well-known drug dealer from Brooklyn, currently serving a life sentence for murder in Attica. We believe she was selling these drugs to help pay for lawyers appealing his sentence…”

  Lourdes found herself paralyzed, as raw and exposed as a toddler falling face-first on pavement with no chance to put her hands out. This was the silent scream before the pain arrived. The openmouthed horror of anticipation. The skin had been scraped off and the nerves were out in the open and ready to transmit. This was going to hurt. For a long time. And maybe leave a scar.

  “All right, enough.” The judge put a hand up.

  The whispers and scribbling from the gallery felt like infections spreading through her bloodstream.

  “Mr. Harris.” The judge looked at the prosecutor. “I appreciate your dilemma in bringing yet ano
ther city police officer into this courthouse. I applaud the integrity of your office and the depth of your preparation on such short notice.”

  Lourdes shook off the cobwebs and glanced over her shoulder, wondering who could have tipped them off about her father. They couldn’t just have started randomly searching for people named Robles in the state prison system.

  The absence of Sullivan and B.B. was weighing on her more heavily by the second. Had one or both lost faith in her? Or did it mean that something even worse was coming?

  “These charges, if proven, would be a gross violation of the oath Ms. Robles swore as a police officer,” the judge said, getting caught up in the sound of his own voice. “On the other hand, denying bail altogether seems like a drastic measure.”

  In other words, he was worried about creating an obvious issue for a future appeal.

  “So I’m inclined to go the route of King Solomon and split the baby evenly,” the judge said. “I’m setting the amount at fifty thousand dollars, cash bail only.”

  Lourdes heard a whistle from the back of the courtroom.

  “Holy sh—” someone started to say before the court officers hushed him.

  She felt warm air on the back of her neck as if the spectators had given off a collective whoosh.

  “Your Honor…” Brigati took a moment to catch his wind. “Wow. Cash bail? Don’t you think that’s…? Where are we supposed to get that kind of money on short notice?”

  The judge gaveled him into silence. “Mr. Brigati, we’ve already established that we’re not trying this case today. Your client can either post bond or get used to eating the bologna sandwiches we serve at our facilities. If she has dietary restrictions, she can tell the sheriff’s office.”

  People were moving around behind her, pushing past one another in the aisles, grumbling excuse me’s and goddamns like they were fleeing the scene of a disaster, their heels on the granite floor tapping out the Morse code urgency of her situation.

  The deputy inspector and press officer were probably already out in the hall, calling the commissioner’s office at One Police Plaza. Within the hour, she’d be on modified assignment, if not officially suspended. And even with her aunt rallying the Hispanic Society, Mitchell putting the arm on his relatives, and B.B. passing the hat in Homicide, there was no way any of them could scrape together fifty grand on short notice. Or even come up with ten percent to give a bail bonds company in the unlikely event they could find one to put up the rest in cash.

  She was sunk. Her joints going rigid, her shoulders turning inward. Like she was preparing to curl into the fetal position to endure the ferocious beatdown she was sure to get as soon as word got around the county lockup that there was a police officer among the prisoners.

  Her chin came down with the weight of her shame. Your father’s daughter, after all. She saw her own lawyer brush off his lapels and start to edge away a little in his Bruno Magli wing tips. Like he was already on the hunt for better prospects. Then he looked toward the back of the courtroom, waved, and smiled.

  She turned to see what he was looking at and her heart shot up into her throat. Kevin Sullivan was standing up in the back row. Somehow she hadn’t seen him until now, or perhaps, in his semi-mystical trance-inducing way, he hadn’t allowed himself to be seen.

  He walked slowly and a little stiffly toward the well of the courtroom, like the Golem in one of those old silent movies Mitchell liked to make her watch on TCM. Her protector, appearing like she’d conjured him. In his right hand was a worn and torn leather briefcase, as weathered and pockmarked as his face.

  My man. She had to consciously restrain herself from vaulting over the balustrade and throwing her arms around him. Instead she discreetly rubbed a knuckle into the corner of her eye, noticing that the court officers who would normally never allow unsanctioned personnel to traverse the well made no effort to get in his way. He reached across the barrier to put a hand on her lawyer’s shoulder and then spoke a few quiet words in his ear.

  Brigati turned and gave the judge and bailiff a quick thumbs-up. Lourdes turned to mouth “thank you” but Sullivan was already on his way out, having left the briefcase on her side of the barrier.

  33

  MAY

  2003

  The party to celebrate Joey’s long-awaited promotion to chief of the department was at Legends, and it looked like half the Island had shown up to kiss the ring.

  There were cops, lawyers, judges, legislators, Chamber of Commerce glad-handers, insurance agents, investment brokers, waste management consultants, homebuilders’ association reps, Knights of Columbus, Rotary Club members, and pretty much every other variety of power groupie you could find on Long Island. All looking to “strengthen the relationship” and make their little deposit at the Favor Bank, in the hope it might pay off later. The head of the state investigations commission had stopped by, and so had various members of the defense bar, eager to make sure the arrangements still stood for getting their business cards distributed to potential clients. And of course, the union grifters were out in force to get their spoons in the soup while it was still warm.

  There was money to be made here, if you weren’t a complete idiot, and not just from the higher salaries. Every time you made a collar for a DWI or a DV, and the sap began to wail about “where am I going to find a good lawyer?” any cop in this department with half a brain would have a card in his pocket with the name and number of a local barrister who could be counted on to kick back a hundred dollars of his fee to the arresting officer. Now that Joey was chief, some of that would be coming his way. Or maybe some enterprising officer would do what he did and earn a little pin money by passing along some license plate information to the local wise guys or tipping them off about an upcoming State Liquor Authority raid at one of their bars along the North Shore that served underage kids. At least twenty-five percent of that would be his now.

  This was his coronation and rightful reward. This was what he’d worked for and rightfully deserved. He sat swollen with pride at a banquette in the back, drinking Moët Chandon instead of Coors tonight, accepting congratulations, as Kenny approached with Steve Snyder, the county executive, and Snyder’s new tanned and redheaded second wife.

  “Look at this kid.” Snyder grinned with his big white teeth, a halo of salon-style gray-white hair setting off his own phony tan. “Can you believe this, Kenny?”

  Kenny shook his head, as if there were no words. Joey raised a glass and smiled back at the county executive, who had officially approved his promotion and let it go through.

  “Sit down, Steve. And tell your beautiful wife to park herself on the other side of me.”

  They did as they were told. Snyder had been on and off Joey’s radar screen for about twenty years. A small man trying to turn himself into a big man. Always presenting himself as a concerned good-government type at Town Board meetings and high school graduations, talking about the nobility of public service and how it was just as important to attend to the potholes on people’s streets as it was to make speeches in Washington while he was raising money to run for Congress. Always had a hand in your pocket at campaign time. No one got a serious meeting or a real job around here unless they’d paid up ahead of time.

  As Snyder and his wife slid in on either side of him, Joey let the back of his hand graze the wife’s bare knee, as if by accident. He noted that she did not draw away immediately.

  “Tell me something, Kenny.” The county executive looked up. “Does he deserve this?”

  Kenny laughed and put his hands up. “Hey, I’m just the DA. I don’t appoint police chiefs.”

  “Come on,” Snyder said in that braying coercive way that politicians had when they’d been overserved. “Tell me why we let this go through. We could’ve stopped it.”

  “What can I tell you?” Kenny tried to play along as the good sport. “The man paid his dues.”

  Joey rested his hand on the wife’s knee more firmly now.

  “What el
se?” said Snyder. “Why did you recommend him personally?”

  “Chief Tolliver is a dedicated officer who has given his all to this job,” Kenny said. “And he understands the system in a way that few others do.”

  Saying the words dutifully, instead of convincingly now. That was all right, Joey thought. Better to be feared than loved. People remembered their fear better anyway.

  “What else?” Snyder rocked against Joey, trying to enjoy himself in a drunken way even as the champagne on his breath smelled like horse shit. “Remind me what this sonovabitch did to deserve his shot.”

  “He turned the vote out.” Kenny nodded. “Every time.”

  “That’s right.” Snyder raised his champagne flute in tribute. “Every campaign, I know I can count on Joey Tolliver to knock on doors, get on the phone, and make sure our support from the rank and file of this department never slips below eighty percent.”

  “I look out for people who look out for people.” Joey raised his own glass and clinked it against Snyder’s in a perfunctory way. “Kenny knows that. Right?”

  “Indeed, I do.” Kenny glanced over his shoulder and waved to Brendan O’Mara, who’d just walked in. “Chief Tolliver never forgets where he came from or how he got to where he is.”

  “The greatest story ever told.” Joey took a sip while under the table his other hand slid a couple of inches up the wife’s thigh, his knuckles just brushing the hem of her short skirt.

  She was trying to look him in the eye, either to warn him to stop or to let him know she was getting off on him having the nerve to do this in front of her husband.

  In the meantime, Beth was off talking to a bunch of other cop wives in the corner, none of them with any idea of what really went on in the world.

  “Hey.” Snyder leaned close on the other side. “Pretty soon we could be taking this act to Washington,” he said in a husky whisper. “I won’t forget the people who made our towns safe again.”

  Joey squeezed the wife’s leg, daring her to react and force her husband to do something.