by David DeLee
“Had he ever hit you before?” Levy asked.
“No. Never. Ben’s the gentlest man I know. He doesn’t even raise his voice.”
“What happened next?” Flynn asked.
“Ben went back into the living room. I was furious and stupid. He was pouring himself another drink and I slapped the drink from his hand. It spilled all over the carpet. He screamed at me, ‘Look what you did.’ I stepped back. I must have tripped. He didn’t hit me again, I swear. But he was standing over me…”
“With the bottle raised in his hand,” Levy said.
“He had it in his hand. Yes. And then Rebecca came running over and…”
“And the police arrived?” Levy asked.
“Yes. He wouldn’t have hit me with the bottle. I know it.”
“How can you be so sure?” Flynn asked, coming over to join them.
“Because this isn’t him.” She drank more water. Her hands still shook but less noticeably now. “It’s this shooting. Ben’s not violent. He’s not even a drinker. Not even beer. We only keep booze around for parties or when people come over. He only drinks like a couple of times a year.”
“Until now,” Flynn said.
“Since Monday,” she confirmed. “He hasn’t stopped. I’d go to bed and he’d be out here staring at the TV or nothing at all. Drinking. I’d find him right there in that chair the next morning. Still with a glass in his hand.”
“We’re doing everything we can to get to the bottom of what happened,” Levy said.
Karen’s voice grew sharp. “Are you? He never should have been arrested. Ben’s a good man. A good cop. This whole thing…it’s humiliating, and so wrong.”
Flynn put the broom and the dust pan back into the closet. “I know this is hard, Mrs. Stokes. And I won’t lie to you. Politics is playing a part in all this. There is a very real public safety concern. You’ve seen the news. The riots that have been going on....”
“People are getting hurt,” Levy said.
“So what?” she snapped. “A bunch of animals out there looting and burning cars and stores. They do that at the drop of a hat. My Ben’s got to pay the price? Rebecca and I have to pay the price? There’s been news trucks out in the street since Monday, reporters knocking on the door at all hours of the day and night. It’s okay to turn our lives upside down, because my husband did his job?”
“Of course, it’s not right,” Levy said.
“Ben’s already been tried and convicted in the media. How can he ever get a fair trial? He’s gotten death threats. We had to shut off the house phone. Someone even left a flaming bag of dog shit on the stoop.”
She looked pleadingly at Levy and Flynn. “The grand jury’s already in session. It’s not been three days. I’ve been a cop’s wife long enough to know. When did anything in the criminal justice system work that fast?”
Neither Levy nor Flynn had an answer for her. As the silence grew longer and deafening, Levy cleared her throat. “One of the reasons we came out here was to tell you, to tell Ben, the young man who’d come forward, who said he saw what happened. He’s recanted his story. He wasn’t there that night. He didn’t see anything.” When Karen didn’t reply, Levy said, “That’s good news.”
“What’s going to happen to Ben now? Because of this?” she vaguely waved at her bruised face.
“That’s up to you,” Flynn said.
“What do you mean?”
“He assaulted you. You can press charges.”
“Press charges? Are you crazy? Don’t you think Ben’s been through enough?”
From behind the closed bedroom door, Rebecca called out for her mother. Karen stood up. The bruise under her eye was darkening. Even without that, she appeared on the verge of exhaustion. Levy figured Ben wasn’t the only one not sleeping.
“If you’ll excuse me. My daughter needs me.”
Levy got up, too.
“And I’d like you to leave now.”
“Of course,” Levy said.
Together the three of them walked through the living room. At the foyer, Levy stopped. “We really are sorry all this is happening.”
Karen paused at the door to her daughter’s room. “When I first met Ben, I thought it was so cool he was a cop. I was proud of him. Proud of the work he did. After ten years I don’t feel that way anymore. Now all I think about is how ungrateful people are. How the police go out there and get spit on, get rocks thrown at them. They’re nothing but targets.”
“Mom!”
Karen said, “I used to think whenever Ben was at work, I’d get the call. You know the one, telling me he was dead. Killed in the line of duty. I used to think that was the worst possible thing that could ever happen.”
She shook her head. “Now I know it’s not. This is.”
Rose M. Singer Center – Visitor’s Center
Rikers Island, Queens
Wednesday, November 29th 7:47 p.m.
AFTER LEAVING STATEN ISLAND, Flynn dropped Levy off at the Seventh in plenty of time for her ‘hot date.’ He then headed to a twenty-four-hour deli over on Grand Street for a tuna melt and a Coke before making the drive out to Riker’s Island.
His day had started before dawn and had been a rollercoaster of highs and low. Physically and emotionally drained after what had happened with Stokes, he looked forward to this visit in the same way he would a root canal.
Once over the bridge, he parked and was escorted through the cold, gray corridors of the Singer Center, the jail that housed upward of two thousand female inmates. He was taken to the visitor’s center, a large, brightly-lit cafeteria-style room. Spaced through the room were a dozen square tables with attached stools. Each a single, molded unit bolted to the floor. The walls were painted a soft beige color and trimmed with pine. The doors and window frames were painted turquoise. Behind the wire-embedded glass sat a watchful DOC guard.
Small dome cameras in the ceiling kept an electronic eye on the room as well.
Because she was the wife of a cop, Jillian Flynn had been granted protective custody status. She was also a cop killer. Both were reasons to keep her out of gen pop. Initially she’d been granted bail. Free to work with her defense team as they attempted to mount a defense against an iron-clad case. But after getting flak from the media, the DA had petitioned the court, citing the seriousness of the charge—murder—and the depraved way it was carried out—she’d shot Sergeant Thomas McNulty in the balls—they’d successfully gotten the bail revoked.
Jillian was taken from her home in handcuffs a second time. Again, Hailey had been there to see it. All of it left Flynn in a state of confusion, hating the woman he’d once loved and unsure how best to protect his daughter.
The loud buzz of a door unlocking filled the empty space.
After Staten Island, his nerves were frayed, like guitar strings strung to the breaking point.
A heavy iron bolt clanged open. The creak of hinges opening was like fingernails on a chalkboard. Flynn looked up from his folded hands, where he’d been nervously circling his thumbs, one around the other.
A female CO came in with Jillian. She held his wife’s arm gently, guiding her to the table where Flynn sat. He instinctively stood up.
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” the guard said.
Jillian wore a baggy gray jumpsuit. DOC was stitched in white letters over her left breast. The color wasn’t a good look for her. He guessed it wasn’t a good look on anyone. She sat down.
“You cut your hair,” Flynn said.
She’d always worn her hair long. Now she had it cut in a tight pixie-bob. She touched her hand to it, at the back of her neck. Self-conscious. It hadn’t been done as a fashion statement. “My attorney suggested it. They said short hair would be more…practical in here.”
Flynn nodded. Safer, too. Long hair could be grabbed, pulled.
Strands of gray hair ran through the cut locks. Her nails were cut short and had no polish. Something Jillian would never have allowed on the outside. Her cheeks
were drawn, and heavy shadows rimmed her eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t sleeping well. And she’d lost weight.
“You look tired, Frank.”
He forced a smile. “It’s been a tough couple of days.”
As soon as he uttered the words, he wished he could pull them back. What right did he have to complain? She was in jail.
“I saw the news,” she said. “Cops killing unarmed kids. Cops getting killed. All the rioting. I actually might be better off in here.”
What should he say? Give her words of encouragement. He didn’t know, so he said nothing at all.
“I also saw Studio Live. I’m sorry that awful man brought all this up.” She looked around the empty room. One guard watched them from a small office. The female CO stood with her back to the door they had come through. Far enough away she couldn’t eavesdrop.
“It is what it is.” Flynn shrugged. “How are you doing, Jillian? Really.”
“Food’s bad. Can’t say much for the company, either. I might form a book club.”
“But you’re okay?” he asked, realizing he really was concerned.
“What do you think, Frank? I’m in fucking jail, in a cell the size of our bathroom at home. Twenty-three hours a day.”
She pressed her lips together so her mouth made a flat line. It was her attempt to stem the tide of tears that threatened to flow. He wanted to apologize to her, but he didn’t. It was her actions that put her here. She’s the one had an affair, who killed a man in a jealous rage.
“You’re still working with that…that woman?” she asked.
“Detective Levy. Not still, but yes, we’re working together again.”
“I don’t like her.”
“She arrested you, Jillian. I wouldn’t expect you would.”
“Did you know about her past?” She leaned forward, as if she were gossiping with her girlfriends over bunch or at the nail salon. “That she was a porn star?”
Flynn changed the subject. “What’s going on with your case? Has your lawyer been out to see you?”
“Do you even fucking care?”
Flynn sighed, wondering again why he even agreed to see her.
“We’re developing a strategy,” she said. “He wants to talk to Hailey.”
“Well, he can’t.”
“Frank, he has to. It’s critical to my defense.”
“What defense?” Flynn lowered his voice. “You shot a man to death, Jillian. In the balls.”
“For sleeping with my underage daughter,” she hissed, as if he needed the reminder. “He deserved it, and worse.”
Flynn couldn’t argue with that. If he’d known what was going on, there’d have been a good chance he’d have shot the bastard himself. But Goodall was right. He’d been clueless.
“My lawyer’s calling it extenuating circumstances. He said we’ve got a good chance at an emotional distress defense.”
“The prosecution’s calling you a jealous lover. They’ll argue you killed McNulty because he dumped you for Hailey.”
“That’s why my attorney needs to talk to her. Hailey can set the record straight.”
Jillian reached out and put her hands over his.
Flynn immediately pulled away. He sat back. He read the hurt in Jillian’s eyes. He didn’t care.
“No contact,” the CO called over.
“Hailey thinks she was in love with McNulty,” Flynn said. “She was sixteen. She’s confused.”
“Which is why I did what I did, Frank. To stop Tom from hurting our little girl.”
“You’re saying you did it to protect her?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re delusional.”
“It’ll work, Frank. My attorney promises. If Hailey helps.”
“Helps? Helps how? You want her to lie for you?”
“No. To help me,” she pleaded. “Frank, please. You don’t know how horrible this place is. I can’t spend another minute in here.”
He knew exactly how bad it was inside. He’d put hundreds of people in there. Still he didn’t tell her what he was really thinking. You should’ve thought about that before you blew McNulty’s nut sack off.
“I won’t let her lie for you,” Flynn said. “To perjure herself out of some misguided sense of guilt you put in her head.”
“If she doesn’t,” Jillian glanced at the guard and lowered her voice. “I’ll end up in here forever.”
Flynn lowered his voice, too. “And she gets caught lying for you under oath, arrested for perjury, what then?”
“She won’t,” Jillian said. “Besides, she’s a minor. And it’ll only be a first offense. That’s what my lawyer said.”
“You’re unbelievable. You’d risk your own daughter going to jail to save your own skin.” Flynn stood up. “What happened to you? How did I ever love you?”
“Fuck you, Frank.”
He took a step back, shaking his head. “Forget it. It’s not gonna happen. I forbid it.”
“You can’t.”
“I can and I will.” He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “But don’t worry, Jillian. You won’t be in here forever. Convicted women murderers go upstate to the Bedford Correctional Facility. You’ve always wanted to live in Westchester County.”
He banged on the wire-embedded glass in the door. With a final look at his wife, he said, “We’re done here.”
In the parking lot outside, Flynn leaned against his car and drew a series of deep breaths. The November air was cold and seared his lungs. His exhaled breath fogged the air. Still he remained there until he calmed himself down. If he drove home now he knew he’d be a road rage incident waiting to happen. Instead, he stood and stared at the yellow lights in the windows dotting the jail walls.
His heart ached for Jillian and for Hailey, but also for himself.
When the cold winter air succeeded in chilling him to the bone, Flynn turned and pulled the car handle open. He paused looking over the passage of water at the glow of lights of LaGuardia Airport. He watched as small dots of light in the sky grew larger in the night sky, planes approaching the airport. He could hear the roar of planes taking off, suddenly wishing he was on one of them, being taken away from here, to go…anywhere.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Shit.” He dug it out. The way the second half of his day had gone, it could only be bad news.
On the display, he saw it was an incoming text from the 313 area code. Detroit. Gillot. The message read:
Just emailed U more information about H and W.
Happy hunting.
Too wrung out to think of anything to say, Flynn responded with a simple thks.
He found the new file in his email account and forwarded it to Danny Toro and Joe Lovato without opening it or even a salutation other than FYI.
It was all he had left to give.
Balvanera Restaurant
152 Stanton Street
Lower East Side, Manhattan
Wednesday, November 29th 8:10 p.m.
LEVY SAT ON THE padded bench side of a table for two near the back of the Argentinian restaurant. Across from her were large windows overlooking Suffolk Street. The place was small, but comfortable. Long and narrow, the walls were white painted brick and the hard wood floor was polished to a glossy mirror shine. The cooking aromas coming from the kitchen were to die for, and Levy’s belly grumbled in anticipation of the dining experience to come.
Only six blocks from the precinct, Levy had walked the distance. Even though the night was cold, she needed the fresh air to clear her head after what had happened in Staten Island. The exercise wouldn’t kill her either.
Chad Jennings, her date for the evening, had texted earlier to say he was running late. So she sat with a glass of wine, her cheeks red from the invigorating walk, and waited, tried to enjoy the ambiance of the restaurant, but her thoughts kept returning to Karen Stokes and her daughter. Their tear-stained faces and Karen’s jittery hands. The whole experience left Levy in a
dour mood, feeling depressed.
She never wanted to be one of those cops that let the job get in the way of her social life, so she welcomed Chad’s delay, giving her the time she needed to compartmentalize her feelings and rally for her date. For Chad’s sake. And for hers.
They hadn’t gotten to know each other well yet. He traveled extensively for work and her schedule made making plans difficult at best. She’d bumped into him about a year ago at a crowded Starbucks on Saturday. She’d knocked his latte from his hand, spilling it on him and the floor. After insisting on buying him a new one, they got to talking.
Chad was a CPA with a degree in accounting from the Wharton School of Business in Pennsylvania. And he was former FBI. When he discovered how much money his skill set as a forensic accountant could get him in the private sector, he’d jumped ship and began to consult for a number of Fortune 100 companies. Doing the same thing he did as an FBI agent, only now for ten times the money, he’d told her. He’d called her a few days later, and over the next few months they’d enjoyed a few dinner dates, took in a couple of movies, a Broadway play, and two Met games.
She liked him despite his poor taste in baseball teams and thought he felt the same.
Only ten minutes late, he strolled through the half-empty restaurant tall and confident, shedding his gray overcoat as he approached. He carried a brown Coach briefcase and wore a gray suit that he looked very good in. He folded the coat over twice and put it on the bench seat next to her as he leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said sitting down, standing the briefcase on the floor under the table. He ordered a glass of merlot for himself and a second drink for her.
She smiled. “Gave me a chance to decompress.”
