by Adam Mitzner
By 5:30, the only thing preventing me from leaving is my concern that Stuart will have a heart attack if I arrive home before eight o’clock two days in a row. So I sit in my office, still with my door shut, and play on the Internet. I decide to hide out here until at least seven. That way, I’ll still make it home before Jacob goes to bed.
My cell phone jolts me back to the world of the living. I grab it out of my purse as if it’s going to explode if I don’t get to it in time. Still, I’m too late. The caller didn’t let the phone ring long enough for me to answer and didn’t leave a voice-mail message. No matter, it looks like a wrong number anyway. The caller ID indicates an 801 area code, which I recall from a case that I had years ago as being somewhere in Utah.
I sit at my desk with my iPhone in hand, trying to will it to ring again. If only I would get a text message. Anything to tell me that I’m not alone in feeling the way I do.
But when I lay the device on my desk again, it stays silent and black.
Less than an hour later, there’s a knock on my door. I call out “Come in!” It’s my boss, Lauren Wright, on the other side. She smiles at me, flashing her perfect teeth, and then moves ever so slightly to the side, revealing that she’s not alone. Her husband stands beside her.
As man and wife, Lauren and her husband, Richard Trofino, are a study in contrasts. Lauren is tall and thin, with the look of a former ballerina, and her fair skin and red hair conjure the image of the all-American girl. By contrast, Richard’s olive complexion tells you that his family tree is 100 percent Italian. Even in his finely tailored suit, his powerful appendages and thick neck make him look like a wrestler. Although he’s barely taller than his wife, Richard conveys an intimidating presence—tempered by the fact that he’s also extremely handsome.
He smiles at me in a way that’s too familiar for my liking, especially in front of his wife. When I turn to gauge Lauren’s reaction, she immediately breaks eye contact.
“Richard and I have a dinner tonight, and he surprised me by making a visit here before we head uptown,” Lauren says by way of explaining her husband’s presence in our office, which is rarer than a blue moon.
“We’re dining with Ella Broden and her boyfriend,” Richard says.
I look past Richard to Lauren, who’s still standing at the threshold to my office. If looks could kill, I’m not sure which one of the three of us would be dead the quickest.
“Dana,” Lauren says, “could I talk to you for a second? It’s about the Dallenbach case.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she turns and walks out of my office, undoubtedly expecting me to follow. I look at Richard, who doesn’t seem the least bit inclined to move. I suppose that’s because Richard’s reached a point in his life where he doesn’t move for anyone. Everyone in his world either needs something from him or is afraid to cross him, and so he does what he pleases. In this instance, that apparently means he’s not going to budge.
I, of course, do not have that luxury. When my boss tells me to come, I do.
In the hallway, I see Lauren fifteen feet ahead, just entering her office. I give chase, passing the secretary we share, Rita DeSapio, without saying a word. The usual protocol is to ask her permission before entering her boss’s domain.
Lauren has left her door open, but when I enter I close it behind me. Anticipating my arrival, Lauren hasn’t gone behind her desk. Instead, she stands right in front of me.
Neither of us says anything at first. I’m silent because I know that I’m not here to discuss Roger Dallenbach, a run-of-the-mill wife beater. Even though I’ve only been in Special Vics for nine months, this is the second time we’ve started a file with Dallenbach’s name on it. The first case we dropped because his wife refused to press charges. A month later, the cops were back at the Dallenbach home, and this time the missus was down two teeth. Once again, she blamed the door rather than her husband. It’s likely he’ll go unpunished for this assault too.
The reason I’m actually here is because Lauren wanted to separate me from her husband.
“When is the Dallenbach trial set?” Lauren asks, just as the silence begins to get truly awkward.
“The pretrial conference is in two weeks,” I say. “No trial date has been set yet.”
More silence hangs between us. “Okay. Thanks,” she finally says.
Without saying another word, Lauren turns and hurries out of her office. I have little doubt she’s gone to retrieve her husband—and get him out of the building as quickly as she can.
5.
ELLA BRODEN
Lauren and Richard are already seated when Gabriel and I arrive at Sant Ambroeus, an upscale Italian restaurant that has been a mainstay of the Upper East Side since I was a kid. I instinctively check my phone to make sure we’re not late, but we’re right on time.
Even though I was only teasing Gabriel the other night when I told him that this was an audition for him, he’s clearly nervous. So much so that he asked me to meet him at work so we could arrive together. When I entered his office, he looked like he was about to face a firing squad.
“It’s just dinner,” I said. “Besides, you carry a gun.”
“Very funny. Is what I’m wearing okay?”
“Sure. It’s the same thing you wear every day—gray pants, black shirt. Do you even have a change of clothes here?”
Gabriel gives me a sidelong glance when we first encounter our dining companions, undoubtedly because they’re more dressed up than either of us. Yet, like Gabriel and me, they’re also wearing their work uniforms. For Lauren, that means a dark blue business suit with a hint of a white blouse sticking out. Richard’s suit is impeccable, dark blue and likely bespoke. The last button on his sleeve is undone, and his tie is knotted into a perfect dimple. I’m the most underdressed of the quartet—blue jeans and a cable-knit black sweater—befitting my status as a mostly unemployed artist.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I say.
Lauren stands and kisses me on the cheek. “We haven’t even ordered drinks yet.”
Lauren’s fifty-two, maybe fifty-three, but most people are surprised when they learn that, assuming she’s a decade younger. She certainly has the energy of a much younger woman, and the fact that her skin, hair, eyes, and smile all shine also contributes to the idea that she’s not even approaching middle age.
Richard remains seated, but adds, “You came just in time. We were in the midst of a spirited debate: is it a bottle-of-wine kind of night or individual cocktails? Spoiler alert: my position is both.”
Lauren is circumspect about her private life. That can be an occupational hazard for prosecutors, who seek to keep work and home as separate as possible. Among the few things I know about Richard, beyond what’s been in the media for public consumption, is that Lauren thinks he drinks too much.
“I’d prefer wine,” I say.
Lauren nods, as if to thank me for taking her side.
“I’m Gabriel Velasquez,” Gabriel says, extending his hand to Richard.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, realizing my faux pas. “Gabriel, this is Richard Trofino.”
As the men shake hands across the table, I say to Lauren, “I’d introduce him to you too, but I know you’ve worked together before.”
“Indeed we have,” Lauren says, “but this is our first social engagement. So very pleased to see you in this setting as well, Gabriel.”
“Are you a lawyer too?” Richard asks Gabriel.
I’m surprised Lauren hasn’t shared this minimal bit of intelligence with her husband.
“No . . . I’m a cop, actually. The order side of the law-and-order equation.”
“Good man,” Richard says. “I hate when I’m surrounded by lawyers. Being married to one is quite enough.”
Gabriel smiles awkwardly, the way you do when a comment isn’t really directed at you.
Gabriel doesn’t inquire about Richard’s occupation. Like everyone else in New York City, he knows th
at Richard Trofino owns one of New York’s largest construction companies. That point was driven home during our short walk from the subway to the restaurant, when we must have passed three buildings with Trofino Construction emblazoned on the scaffolding. He also knows Richard’s reputation as a man who often is on the wrong side of the law, but who is also so good at blurring that line that he’s never been charged with a crime. And if the world of construction weren’t rough-and-tumble enough, Richard added political kingmaker to his résumé by personally bankrolling the mayor’s long-shot victory in the last election.
When I first told Gabriel that Lauren was married to that Richard Trofino, he voiced the same type of surprise I’d heard from others. Lauren herself has said more than once that they make an unlikely pair. Privately, she’s told me that, despite Richard’s take-no-prisoners business reputation, he is a different person with her.
A well-dressed man approaches and introduces himself as the sommelier. The wine list, a leather-bound volume, has been sitting open in front of Richard since we arrived.
“We’re going to have a bottle of the 2014 Cakebread,” Richard announces without consulting anyone else at the table.
“Excellent choice,” the sommelier says, which seems to please Richard.
As the sommelier turns to walk away, Richard calls out to him. “You know something? I’m going to start with a Johnnie Walker Blue.”
A waiter appears a minute later with the scotch. Richard is already halfway through his drink when the sommelier returns, a bottle of wine in hand. He pours a taste for Richard, who swirls it in his glass before taking a sip.
“Excellent,” he declares.
“The waiter will be over in a moment to take your orders,” the sommelier says.
“My friend,” Richard says, “when the waiter comes back, make sure he’s carrying another glass of the Blue.”
Lauren looks at Richard, murder clearly on her mind. He is either oblivious to his wife’s disdain or ignores it. His smile remains fixed, causing her abruptly to break eye contact with her husband. Turning to me, she says, “How’s the singing going?”
I’m hesitant when people ask about my new career. I tend to expect a bit of snark, but there’s none of that in Lauren’s question. She’s sincere in her interest, and I know she only wants me to be happy.
“Good. Slow . . . but good. At least I’m getting paid, so that’s a step in the right direction. Plus I’m doing a fair amount of songwriting, and that’s both rewarding and therapeutic.”
“That’s great. So, when can I―do you say to singers ‘see you’ or ‘hear you’?”
“Either applies, and maybe soon. I finally broke down and allowed Gabriel to come. And you’re the next person on that list.”
“She was truly amazing,” Gabriel says.
I feel myself blushing at his compliment. I decide to change the subject before Gabriel starts providing details about my life as Cassidy. Other than Gabriel and my shrink, no one knows that I perform under an alias. Even though Lauren will likely be the next person I let in on that secret, I’m not ready to do so just yet.
“Enough about me,” I say. “Tell me about the office.”
She considers the question for a moment and then says, “Here’s something. I got a notice the other day that Donald Chesterman was just released. Remember him?”
“Jesus,” I say. “That’s a name I never wanted to hear again.”
I turn to Gabriel. “Donald Chesterman is the devil incarnate. Raped his kids and his wife. His was the first major case I handled in Special Vics, back when I was a real newbie. I was technically second-seating Lauren, but she let me handle the key witnesses. A real baptism by fire. Three or four days into the trial, Chesterman took a plea.” Turning back to Lauren, I say, “I thought he got fifteen years.”
“Me too, actually. So when I got the notice of his release, I checked the file. The deal was from a B to a C felony, so the prison term was three and a half to fifteen. He apparently was a model prisoner, so he got out in eight.”
The thought of Donald Chesterman on the loose is enough to weaken my appetite.
“On a hopefully happier note,” Lauren says, “I’ve wanted to share something, but it cannot leave this table. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, obviously intrigued.
“I’m thinking about challenging McKenney for DA.”
“Really?” I say. I realize the moment the words escape me that Lauren was undoubtedly hoping for something more supportive.
She chuckles. “Yes, really. It’s something Richard has been suggesting for some time. I’ve always rejected it, but now might be the time for me to take the plunge.”
Lauren always seemed disdainful of office politics, so the idea that she’d consider undertaking the soul-sucking commitment of a citywide race seems out of character. On the other hand, she’d make a spectacular DA. I know that she doesn’t think much of the way McKenney is handling his duties. On top of which, she’s a candidate made in heaven with her quick wit, good looks, and proven track record as a crime fighter. Not to mention that Richard’s money would buy a hell of a lot of attack ads.
“I think that’s amazing,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can keep it quiet for a little, until I make the announcement,” she says. “And then, after I’m elected, you can take over the Special Victims Bureau.”
I turn to catch Gabriel’s eye, where I’m met by a dead-on I-told-you-so expression. He’s confirming that he knew tonight’s dinner was a job interview in disguise, even though he, like I, thought it was for the number-two spot.
6.
DANA GOODWIN
“Do you have any idea where my phone is?” I call out to Stuart.
Stuart pokes his head back in the bedroom. With a quizzical expression he says, “Is this a trick question?”
“What?”
“Isn’t it in your hand?” he says hesitantly.
“No,” I say, now annoyed. “That’s my BlackBerry. I’m looking for my iPhone.”
ADAs are the only people on earth who still use BlackBerrys. When the company filed for Chapter 11 a few years back, I thought the practice would end, but it’s still the only device on which we’re allowed to conduct business. The security features are apparently better than on a smartphone.
“Sorry. No, I haven’t seen it,” he says. “Maybe it’s in Jacob’s room.”
That’s a veiled jab. I spent the evening sleeping beside my son, leaving Stuart alone in our bed. It’s something I do when I can’t sleep, which is more often than not, unfortunately.
I return to the e-mail that I was reading on my BlackBerry. It’s from the District Attorney. The big boss never—and I mean never—contacts me directly. If he has something of importance to say to the Special Victims Bureau, he reaches out to Lauren.
Nonetheless, today the e-mail is to me. His message is succinct: Come to my office as soon as you get in.
No one else is on the distribution list. Not unless they were bcc’d.
I forward the mail to Lauren, adding, “I just got this from Drake McKenney. Any idea what it’s about? Will you be there too?”
I continue to get dressed, periodically gazing down at my BlackBerry, which is lying faceup on my bed. No response from Lauren.
Not that I’m surprised.
“Did you find your phone?” Stuart asks when I enter the kitchen. Jacob is beside him, munching on buttered toast. Stuart has a can of Diet Coke in front of him to satisfy his caffeine fix—he never acquired a taste for coffee.
“No. I remember taking it out yesterday and putting it on my desk. I’m guessing I just never put it back in my purse.”
“Maybe it was the surprise of Richard Trofino showing up.”
Stuart has met Lauren’s husband twice. Once at a dinner party we hosted, and last Labor Day weekend, when Lauren and Richard invited us to their house in East Hampton. In that limited time together, Stuart developed a full-on man-crush
for Richard.
I had told Stuart about Richard’s appearance at my office and about his and Lauren’s dinner plans with Ella Broden. I hoped it would soften the blow for what I expect to be coming shortly. Slapping a job posting for my position on my desk would have been less conspicuous than Lauren and her husband dining with my much-beloved, and currently unemployed, predecessor. Of course, Stuart lacked the facts necessary to understand that Richard’s appearance in my office, yesterday of all days, meant that my career in Special Vics was likely coming to an end very soon.
“It truly wasn’t that exciting,” I say. “I really hope that my phone is in the office, though. I don’t have time to wait in line at the Apple store. I’ve got a meeting with the DA first thing this morning, and I imagine whatever we’re talking about is going to occupy the rest of my day too.”
I look at my son, who has as much butter on his face as the toast. I lean over to kiss Jacob on the head, and then Stuart on the lips.
“I love you both,” I say and then race out the door.
Google Maps will tell you that I can make it from my house to One Hogan Place in forty-four minutes. It’s wrong, as it almost always takes me at least an hour. More when there are subway problems, which is most every day.
One Hogan Place—building and address—are named for Frank Hogan, who served as Manhattan DA for almost thirty years and was known as Mr. Integrity. That descriptor wouldn’t be applied to the current officeholder, unless it was meant ironically.
Manhattan District Attorney Drake McKenney is much more of a politician than a prosecutor. He practiced criminal law as an ADA for four years, but that was more than twenty-five years before he sought the top spot at the office. It’s well known that he ran for DA because the job was open, not out of any desire to further the mission of the office. Now he makes all decisions with an eye toward how it will play when he runs for mayor in three years.
