Widows-in-Law

by Michele W. Miller

  The man smiled, half-heartedly. “I wouldn’t call this much of a holdup. If they don’t get to court by morning, then maybe it’s a holdup.”

  Lauren leaned toward the speak-hole. “There is a twenty-four-hour rule.”

  “That and a Metrocard will get you on the subway, Counselor.”

  Lauren sighed and began to walk away

  “Counselor.”

  Lauren turned back to the window.

  He pointed to his left. A few yards down, a door said authorized personnel only. He leaned forward. “That’s the clerk’s office, where they put all the forms in the right order and assign the case a docket number.”

  Lauren smiled, wondering what changed his heart. “Thanks.”

  She went to the door, knocked, and walked in. Four people worked at desks amidst a blizzard of paper. Despite the room’s disorder, the clerks seemed efficient. Lauren spoke to a middle-aged woman at the first desk who had what seemed a permanent expression of exasperation on her face.

  “We don’t have your clients’ files yet. The DA’s prep unit has to finish with the files and send them to us.” She looked at her watch. “They better hurry up, too, or the cases won’t be called tonight.”

  Lauren lowered her voice and spoke as if confiding a painful secret. It wasn’t difficult. “Emily Silverman’s my daughter. What can I do? I’m not a criminal lawyer.”

  “Oh.” The woman’s eyes softened. “Look, the ECAB room is on the second floor—that stands for Early Case Assessment Bureau—the DA’s prep unit. Technically, they don’t like it when defense attorneys show up there, but sometimes if you’re very polite, they’ll tell you what’s going on and even rush the paperwork for you. You can try. But get it done fast, honey.”

  Lauren thanked her and rushed out. She took the stairs and made her way down a hallway to the ECAB room. Inside, plastic chairs lined the wall where a sprinkling of complaining witnesses waited to meet with the staff that prepared and investigated the criminal complaints. A uniformed cop sat at an information window, his hazel eyes cynical but not unkind. She recognized the attitude of a thirty-year city employee. “What can I do for you?” he asked, gruffly.

  “Could you check on the status of Emily and Jessica Silverman? I’m their attorney and there seems to be a holdup.”

  He swiveled in his chair and shouted into the air of a large desk-filled room behind him. “Anyone got Emily and Jessica Silverman?”

  A voice shouted in response. “I had it, but Harold took it back.”

  He swiveled toward Lauren again. “Jeremy Harold is the ADA covering it.” A hint of disdain in the cop’s voice spoke volumes—the ADA’s own side didn’t like him. “Go figure why he pulled the file. Usually it’s because there’s something they screwed up or something that came up since they submitted it.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “My advice is that you march over to Eighty Centre Street, seventh floor, straight to his office, and find out what’s happening. I don’t know you, so I figure you’re new around here. My advice: put some fire under his ass.”

  Imagining missing their morning flight to Miami and fearful that the file had been pulled because they’d added a hacking charge, Lauren rushed down the stairs and through the lobby. Outside, the empty sidewalks and moonless sky took her aback. She hadn’t realized it had gotten dark. She stood in the deep shadow of the Criminal Court Building. Not a soul walked the sidewalk. No cars passed. On the far side of the pocket park, its night-black pond the size of a backyard swimming pool, stood the Family Court where she spent her weekdays. She felt as if she were glimpsing her past life from a great distance. She yearned for normality.

  She turned left under the pall cast by the Criminal Court Building. She wished the Criminal Court and brute-modern courts on the square had been built like the Federal Courthouse and New York Supreme Court, two blocks up. At least their wide stone staircases and columned facades hinted at a civilization that protected people. Lauren crossed Hogan Street, an empty lane running for the length of one block next to the criminal courthouse. Up ahead, 80 Centre Street, normally bustling with activity in its city government offices, would be virtually empty too. As Lauren walked, she tried to see around doorways for anyone hiding before she reached them. Trying to look natural, like any woman checking behind her on a dark street, she glanced backward every few steps, looking for anyone following.

  She sighed with relief when she reached 80 Centre Street’s ornate revolving door. She pushed, but it didn’t budge. A sign stood on a pedestal in the lobby just inside the door: “Nighttime Access on Baxter Street.”

  Baxter Street? That was the narrow street that ran behind the line of courthouses. It fronted a park with a garden and playground that filled with Chinatown residents and Chinese music during the day. But the street was a no-man’s-land, empty at night. Lauren groaned but quickly doubled back. Under normal circumstances, she would have been nervous walking alone on such a deserted block at night, but now her breathing shallowed and she found herself trembling. She’d had all the fear she could take for one day.

  The thought occurred to her: if Arena’s people saw her entering the district attorney’s office, they might think she was cooperating with the DA against them. Lauren’s throat and jaw tightened. They might shoot her at any time. She glanced behind her, quickly. No one.

  But just as she turned her head to look forward again, a shadow moved at the periphery of her vision, in a doorway across the street. Her heart hitched.

  She picked up her pace, straining to hear if there were footsteps behind her. Only the click of her own heels echoed off the dark buildings. She didn’t know whether to run or try to act as if she hadn’t seen. She looked back across the narrow street. The shadow moved again, separated from the building. A man crossed the street toward her.

  She took off, hearing the squeak of sneaker rubber behind her now. She didn’t look back. She sprinted, focusing on the building that housed the district attorney’s office. The entrance would be just around the corner, a half block away. Lauren picked up speed, sure she could make it, even in heels.

  She heard and felt the man right behind her. A hand grabbed her. She flailed her arm backward and twisted to the left to break his grip. Her right fist shot out, aimed for where his face would be.

  Her fist slammed into his nose with a burst of power born of years of weightlifting, boxing classes, and adrenaline. She felt bone break under her knuckles. He let out a grunt and released her. She screamed, terrorized to see Carl again. But in her moment of opportunity, she pushed away from him using his body weight to launch herself backward into a pivot. Then she broke into a run.

  She heard Carl run a few steps after her, calling her name. But twenty strides and she was around the corner and in the revolving door of the district attorney’s office—with no idea how she would ever get out again.

  CHAPTER 33

  A security guard manned a beat-up desk. He looked up, seeming to assess her in her lawyer’s suit, her face probably flushed and panicky.

  “Everything all right, Counselor?”

  Lauren’s heart beat fiercely as she forced herself to walk toward him at normal speed across an ornate lobby with intricately carved vaulted ceilings. She calmed her breathing the best she could. “I got spooked out there, I guess. It’s so dark, and a man surprised me. He stepped out of a doorway and asked for money.”

  “Do you want me to call the police? That’s not the same as begging—scaring people.”

  Her breathing slowed down. “No.”

  He turned a ledger book toward her. “Going to the DA’s?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She signed in and showed him ID.

  He chucked his chin toward the back of the tall lobby. “That way.”

  She walked past the elevator banks to a corner of the lobby, out of earshot of the guard. Her heart still pounding, she dug her phone from her bag along
with the piece of paper with Lucho’s number. She had to make sure Arena didn’t get the wrong idea from what just happened outside, or about her visit to the district attorney. She kept her eyes peeled on the elevators to make sure she didn’t miss ADA Harold if he left for the courtroom.

  Before hitting the phone’s call button, she considered whether she should instead use this opportunity to ask for help. After all, she was in the DA’s office. But she dismissed the idea. She couldn’t do that, especially not while Jessica and Emily were in jail. If she raised one iota of suggestion that the supposed burglary had been connected to illegal gambling and murder, she wouldn’t be able to pry Jessica and Emily out of jail. The DA would argue for high bail to give him time to investigate the true circumstances of the “break-in” and, add to that, the hacking. Then he might use the criminal charges and the bail as bargaining chips to make them cooperate, maybe without protection. No, there would be no help for them here.

  She pressed the call button.

  “Who is this?” A woman answered after a single ring.

  “Lauren.”

  “Oh.” She sounded interested, obviously knew her name. “Do you have something to tell Jorge?”

  “Is he there?”

  “No. You tell me.”

  “I’m working on things like I promised, but my daughter got herself into some trouble. Maybe you already know. I’m at the DA’s office, I’m a lawyer. You guys know that. So don’t get the wrong idea, please. I want the two days Lucho promised me.”

  “Okay …” The woman sounded bewildered.

  “Are you authorized to say that? I don’t know, maybe that’s a stupid question. If you aren’t, are you going to tell me?” Lauren muttered almost to herself, “This is crazy. I don’t even know who I’m speaking to.”

  “I am authorized. You have nothing to worry about.”

  The call disconnected. Lauren hung up. That had to be good enough. She walked to the elevators and rode to the seventh floor in search of Jeremy Harold.

  ***

  The elevator let out on a small waiting area with worn upholstered chairs and one gray metal desk, New York City government décor. Lauren rang a night bell next to a door and waited, prepared to try a longer, more annoying ring if the first one failed.

  A man in a dark suit and bow tie looked out, his face gaunt, nearly anorexic. “Yes?”

  “Are you Jeremy Harold?”

  “Yes, who are you?”

  “I’m Lauren Davis. I’m on the Silverman case. I understand you have it.”

  He opened the door for her and turned away, apparently meaning for her to follow. He looked back at intervals as he walked down the hall. “It will be ready in a few minutes. You didn’t have to come here.”

  “You’re required to get them to a judge within twenty-four hours of arrest. I believe we’ve passed that.”

  “File a writ of habeas corpus if it suits you—the judges never grant them.” He looked back again. “Anyway, something came up. It was in the defendants’ interest that I follow up.”

  Lauren followed Harold into a small, windowless office, annoyed at his tone, but more worried that they’d added charges. “What came up?”

  “We’re trying to speak to the complainant.”

  “Does that mean Steve Cohen called?”

  “Yes. He spoke to one of our case investigators by phone. I’ve been trying to reach him back to ask him to come in to speak to me, but he’s out of town.”

  “Then someone from your office confirmed there was no burglary.”

  Harold moved behind his neat desk, a picture of a plain woman and child on one corner of it. “Our policy is that we will not accept a complaining witness’ withdrawal of the complaint unless we see them in person. Otherwise, it would be far too easy to frighten witnesses and stymie our prosecutions.”

  “Harold,” she leaned over his desk and said his name with the familiarity of a first name. He looked annoyed. She picked up the photograph of his family. “Listen to me, Harold, this is not a domestic violence case or extortion. This is a woman and a child with no previous record, who entered with a key for one final visit to the dead father’s office to take home the family photos from his desk.”

  He grabbed the picture and replaced it. “Ms. Davis, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, there are no children in Criminal Court. If they’re old enough to do the crime, they’re old enough to do the time. I will not seek dismissal. And in anticipation of your next question, we will oppose transfer of Emily Silverman’s case to Family Court. Now if you will excuse me, I will complete the paperwork and get it to ECAB. You can expect the case to be called within the next couple of hours after the support staff finishes with it.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I kid you not. I have not seen the complainant, bail will be set, and I will seek an indictment within the allotted time.”

  “Okay.” Lauren forced herself to keep her mouth shut, knowing it was futile to argue with him. But she would get the case thrown out if it killed her, and she’d rip Harold to shreds in court while she was at it. Of course, she couldn’t discount the power of Harold’s pettiness or his home-court advantage, but at least Steve had called, and the computer hacking had flown under police radar.

  When Lauren reached the lobby, a court officer with gun in holster was about to push through a revolving door to leave.

  “Officer,” she called to him.

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “If you’re going back to One Hundred Centre, could I tag along?”

  He smiled. “Sure. Be my guest. It’s way too lonely out there for you to walk alone.”

  Lauren looked around as they walked Hogan then turned up Centre Street. She saw no one. Perhaps that was due to her armed escort, but she hoped it meant Arena had pulled the troops back.

  Once inside, she thanked the officer and stopped at the lobby concession stand. She waited behind a Jheri-curled pimp who looked like a throwback to the seventies, obviously there to post bail. She hadn’t known guys like that still existed. He pocketed his change and turned from the counter. His hot dog already midbite, he winked at Lauren with his mouth full before walking away.

  She stepped up and bought half a dozen microwaved beef patties, potato chips, candy bars, and sodas before heading down to the bullpens to see her kid.

  ***

  At a small hospital on Gold Street, Carl sat with his head back against an orange vinyl seat. An ice pack soothed the throbbing pain of his nose and covered his eyes, turning the florescent room blessedly dark. He had a bitch of a headache, and the ice itself was uncomfortably cold, but he needed to keep the swelling down as much as possible.

  Carl had caught a cab from Centre Street for the five-minute drive to the hospital. Without an open store or restaurant in sight to ask for napkins, he had bled all over himself, destroying his favorite denim shirt and coating the front of his leather jacket. He couldn’t help but be peeved at Lauren, even though it wasn’t her fault. When she’d hit him, she’d been terrified. That was what got to him more than anything. It made him feel such a burning desire to save her, it was as if a hand were squeezing his heart and wouldn’t let go—especially now that he knew he couldn’t help her. Carl breathed deep through his mouth, longing for nasal passages. Damn, that woman could throw a punch.

  He hadn’t even begun to come up with an explanation to tell Rick and everyone else for his raccoon black eyes and nose swelled beyond recognition. He couldn’t fabricate an incident of physical violence like a bar fight or make the story job-related. Everyone knew fights weren’t his style and, if he claimed it had happened on the job, that would only add to the lies he couldn’t explain away if discovered. It was amazing how the first untruth—even a lie of omission—could lead you into a bottomless pit of lies. Carl wished it
could all just stop already, but he had to think of another lie by morning.

  Carl fought with his impulse to get up and walk out of the hospital without waiting to get his nose knocked back into shape. Carl had listened to a dozen names called and cracked his eyes open long enough to see people who’d arrived after him going inside. He’d seen the triage nurse a long time ago, and she’d obviously deemed him among the less important cases. On top of everything, he would be exhausted tomorrow. He hoped he’d be able to keep his wits about him. Tomorrow would be busy as hell.

  Things were heating up on the case, and he had to concentrate. The Arena bust wasn’t going to happen the way the ASAC had planned when he placed Carl undercover. He wasn’t going to agent bettors for Arena and Jordan. The weapons deal had trumped everything. The Bureau and ATF would try to bust Arena when he gave the money to the Tong. It was Carl’s job to find out where and when the money exchange was supposed to happen. One moment of sloppiness on his part could cost his team the bust. He’d already done all the screwing up he could afford on one case.

  Ironically, the key challenge for Carl would be to stay away from Lauren. He wasn’t crazy, and he knew he’d already gone too far. He’d jeopardized his career and the entire operation trying to help her, and he’d failed completely at that. Now, he told himself repeatedly, he had to stay as far away from her as possible. He didn’t have another career lined up if he screwed this one up. He liked her, but he liked his life too.

  Of course, it might be too late for him. In the end, he could only wait and see whether Lauren got busted and dropped his name. Hopefully, for her sake and his, Lauren would stay out of the crossfire. She was a strong woman with strong survival instincts. The throbbing of his entire face proved that. And her survival instincts might be their best shot. If they were lucky, Lauren had gotten the message loud and clear to get out of Dodge and lay low while she still had the chance.

  ***

  At 10:00 p.m. Emily, Jessica, and Lauren sat on a courtroom pew set aside for waiting prisoners. Handcuffed, Emily and Jessica stared from deeply circled eyes, their mouths hard-set with fatigue and fear. After watching half a dozen cases, they were the only prisoners left in the courtroom aside from the addict currently before the judge.