Latte Trouble cm-3

by Клео Коул

  The bridge, largely unknown to most New Yorkers, stretched more than a mile across the East River. As we drove across the fast-moving water, a deafening roar sounded around us and the silver wings and fuselage of a United Airlines plane appeared over our heads. It rapidly descended, flying so low its roaring engines rattled our car windows and I could almost make out passengers in their upright and locked positions. For a moment, my heart stopped—I was certain I was witnessing a passenger airplane crash. Then I noticed the pier on our right displaying a huge sign directing pilots to LaGuardia’s runway 13-31. Seconds later, the jet smoothly touched down.

  I sighed and sat back. Outside the car’s tinted windows, the sunlight played on the rippling waters of the East River. The route over the bridge was a lonely one, patrolled by officers in cars and on foot. Along the way, posted signs warned passengers that firearms, cameras, and photographic devices, tape recorders, beepers and cell phones, and a host of other items were not permitted inside the prison and would be confiscated; that proper identification would be required; and that all visitors were subject to a physical search before entering the sprawling island compound.

  During the drive from Manhattan to Queens, I read to Madame from some papers the lawyer had provided, learning the information myself as I read. Apparently the island was named after the Rikers family, who’d sold the giant piece of rock rising from the East River to New York City in the 1880s. The city initially used the land as a dump. Over the next forty-plus years, the size of the land mass quadrupled, a result of the thousands of tons of refuse deposited there. By 1935, the dump was closed and the garbage barges halted as the first jail opened. The Rikers Island Correctional Facility is now one of the largest prisons in the world, comprised of ten jails spread across an area half the size of Central Park. There are nine jails for men and one for women, and the entire place has a daytime population of close to twenty-thousand people including prisoners, employees, and visitors.

  Two-thirds of the inmates were in the same boat as Tucker—detainees who were legally innocent and waiting for their cases to crawl through the criminal justice system, stuck there because they could not produce bail, or bail was denied them by a judge because of various circumstances. The other third of the inmates on Rikers had been convicted and sentenced already and were waiting for an empty bed in an upstate prison. A smattering—all with sentences under twelve months—actually served out their entire incarceration on the island.

  With its own schools, clinics, chapels, grocery stores, barbershops, a bakery, a bus depot, even a ball park and running track, Rikers essentially has become a small town.

  After driving through the security gates, we were stopped by a pair of armed guards who recorded our names and asked us the nature of our business. I showed them the official letter from the Deputy Commissioner of Corrections, and we were directed to the Control Building. On the way, the town car nosed its way through a quiet and seemingly deserted two-lane street that was lined by ultra-modern modular buildings erected between aging jails of brick and mortar built half a century ago. Everywhere I looked, fences loomed, twelve-foot-high steel mesh walls tipped by razor-wire.

  At the Control Building we were compelled to pass through metal detectors, then I slid the official pass from the Deputy Commissioner of Corrections under a thick, bulletproof Plexiglas window to a bored-looking desk sergeant. He checked our identification—my New York State driver’s license, Madame’s United States passport—and we were handed off to two female prison guards. They took us to another area, scanned us again, this time with metal-detecting rods and a relatively new machine called an Ionscan, which was capable, we were told, of detecting drug residue in much the same way an airport scanner can detect the residue of explosive materials. One of the chat-tier female guards told us the year before over three hundred visitors were arrested on Rikers for attempting to smuggle contraband in to prisoners—drugs, weapons, bullets, etc.

  Finally, we were frisked. The women worked silently and efficiently without meeting our eyes. We were asked to empty our pockets and purses, and our cell phones were confiscated, to be returned at the end of our visit. A few minutes later, another armed guard presented us with plastic identification cards.

  “Don’t lose these,” he warned. “You will be subject to arrest if you do not display these badges at all times.”

  I didn’t doubt it.

  Our pass from the Deputy Commissioner must have put us on some kind of VIP track, because we were immediately taken outside by a young Hispanic guard and escorted across the street and down the block to a modern modular building.

  I expected the kind of thing you see in the movies—a long table with chairs, bulletproof glass separating you from the prisoner on the other side, a telephone on the table, through which you talk to your loved one. Instead we were placed inside a small windowless room—a cell, really—with a heavy steel door, fluorescent lights, and insulated brick walls thickly slathered with institutional green paint. Madame and I sat on green plastic chairs until the door opened a few minutes later.

  We looked up as Tucker entered, a burly uniformed guard twice his size leading the lanky young playwright and actor by his thin arm. I rose to give my friend a hug, but the look of pain and embarrassment on Tucker’s face gave me pause.

  “Lift up your arms,” rumbled the guard.

  Only then did I notice Tuck’s hands were folded behind his back—and handcuffed. The guard drew a key from his belt, removed the cuffs. Then he acknowledged our presence for the first time.

  “Thirty minutes,” he said. “If you need me sooner, bang on the door.”

  The guard turned on his heels and left. The door slammed with a loud clang. Tucker, pale and thinner than I’d ever seen him, rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had chaffed them. His beautiful mop of floppy brown hair was gone—replaced by a crewcut. He looked like a shorn sheep, but despite his obvious torment, Tucker stared at us through grateful eyes.

  “God…Clare, Madame…thank you…for…” His voice broke as he sat in the green plastic chair beside me, and I took him in my arms. He sobbed, his shoulders heaving.

  “I’ll get you out of here, Tucker. I swear…”

  Tucker wiped his cheeks with his hands, nodded, but his face was a mask of doubt and confusion. “How did this happen?” he moaned.

  Madame leaned forward, “Are you getting good legal council?”

  “The lawyer…Mr. Tanner…he’s doing his best. Says that since the second poisoning wasn’t fatal, he can probably get the charges reduced to reckless endangerment. Mr. Tanner interviewed Jeff Lugar—”

  I sat up. “What?”

  Jeff Lugar was the second victim—the tan, buffed boy-toy who’d been Ricky’s date and finished off the poisoned latte. I’d been desperate for news about his condition. But after the initial stories reporting the poisoning, the ongoing details of the case had disappeared from the news cycle. In a city as big and rich in crazy front page headlines as New York, even a fatal poisoning at a chic event could become old news in forty-eight hours. The last report on Lugar’s condition listed him as “critical” and I had assumed he was in a coma or otherwise unable to give a statement. Obviously, I was wrong.

  “Tucker, are you saying your lawyer talked to him?” I asked.

  “Yes…or someone from Mr. Tanner’s office did, anyway.”

  “What did he say?”

  Tucker shrugged. “Not much. All I know is that from Lugar’s version of the events, Mr. Tanner says he can prove Jeff was not the intended victim and that his poisoning was just an unfortunate consequence of the crime…”.

  I sat in silence, mulling over the possibility of getting to Lugar myself.

  “How are you otherwise?” Madame asked in the meantime, patting Tucker’s hand.

  “I think they may move me soon,” he said with a barely suppressed shudder. “Mr. Tanner is trying to get a psychiatric evaluation for me, which means I would be moved to a medical facility like Bellevue
, but the judge is resisting…”.

  His voice trailed off and he stared at the wall. Of course I understood Tucker’s concern. Out of solitary confinement, or “suicide watch,” he would be placed with the general population, mixing with hardened criminals—some already convicted of heinous crimes. A sheep to snarling wolves.

  “It won’t come to that,” I said firmly. “We’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  “But if we don’t manage that trick, I have a few suggestions for surviving this place unscathed,” said Madame. “I’ve learned these tricks from my own experiences.”

  Both Tucker and I stared at her in amazement. “Are you telling us you’ve been in jail?” asked Tucker.

  Madame nodded. “I was imprisoned within this very compound, many years ago,” she declared.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s not important,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history…”

  We both urged Madame to give us details, but she simply refused to elaborate, and her stern expression told us to drop the subject. Of course, we did—one does not “press” Madame.

  Eventually, Tucker changed the subject, asking about the coffeehouse, about Esther and Moira. Finally, Madame faced Tucker, took his right hand in hers and looked into his eyes. “I know imprisonment feels like the end of your life, but don’t you ever give up hope. Don’t look anyone in the eye or they’ll take it as a challenge. But don’t look away, either, or they will think you are weak.”

  Tucker nodded with each suggestion.

  “Keep to yourself, but do not spurn friendship if it is offered. Deal carefully with the guards. If you get too close to them, the inmates will think you’re a stool pigeon.”

  In all the years I’d known Madame, I’d never once heard the words “stool pigeon” (one of my dear old dad’s typical terms) come out of her mouth. And as shocked as I was to hear prison advice issued from a woman in floor-length Fen outerwear, I had to admit her suggestions seemed sound.

  “Don’t be anyone’s fool, Tucker,” she continued. “But do not assume everyone around you is a criminal or out to harm you simply because they are locked up in here. Most of these inmates are in the same situation you find yourself—blameless, but too impoverished to get bail. They await justice with the hope the system will eventually exonerate them.”

  Misty eyed, Tucker opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the heavy door swinging open.

  “Time’s up,” said the guard.

  We offered Tucker a final hug, and watched unhappily as the guard cuffed him and led him away. The woman who brought us to this windowless room appeared in the door a moment later, then guided us back to the Control Building where we checked out and were given back our cell phones and other personals.

  Outside, Madame waved to Mr. Raj, who was parked in the visitor’s area. As the Lincoln pulled up to us, Madame sighed deeply. “Oh, Clare, I feel so badly for the boy. I do wish there was something more we could do.”

  “There is,” I replied.

  Twenty

  Madame and I were both so intimidated by the quiet, ordered oppressiveness of Rikers Island that I don’t think we dared breathe normally until we’d crossed the bridge back over the East River and merged with the normal flow of traffic on the Grand Central Parkway.

  For once, I felt happy to be stuck in the noisy chaos of pre-rush hour and I gazed out the window, watching an airplane wing its way over Rikers before making a banking approach to one of LaGuardia’s runways. I wondered how it would feel to be trapped inside that prison and hear—hour after hour, day in and day out—the whine of airplanes filled with happy, free people going about their lives just over your head.

  “Where would you like to go, Mrs. Dubois?” asked Mr. Raj.

  Madame offered him a blank stare. “Very good question.”

  I cursed. “I’m so stupid. I should have asked Tucker where Jeff Lugar is being treated. That’s the kind of information that’s difficult to pry out of hospital administrators.”

  Madame leaned forward. “Just make it Manhattan, for now,” she told Mr. Raj, who nodded and continued heading for the Queensboro Bridge.

  “Have you a clue where he is, Clare?” Madame asked.

  “I believe at least one ambulance came from St. Vincent’s,” I said.

  Madame nodded. “That’s a start, my dear.” She fumbled in her tiny purse until she located her cell. “Now relax while I make a few inquiries.”

  Madame dialed her cell, then spoke. “Dr. McTavish, please. It’s Mrs. Dubois calling.”

  The good doctor immediately took the call. No surprise, since Madame had been seeing the man off and on for quite some time now. Well over seventy, Dr. McTavish bore a passing resemblance to Sean Connery. Like the actor who played 007, the esteemed oncologist from St. Vincent’s cut an imposing figure even at his advanced age. Unlike Mr. Connery, however, Dr. McTavish had retained most of his iron gray hair.

  Madame murmured something sweet to the doctor and the years seemed to melt away from her face as she listened to his response. A few minutes later, she was closing the cell phone and declaring, “It pays to have connections within the healthcare community.”

  I would have barked, “Spill,” but because this was Madame, I politely asked, “What did you discover?”

  Madame’s eyes brightened—clearly all this detective stuff was up her proverbially dark alley. “Mr. Jeffrey Lugar was brought to St. Vincent’s for triage the night of the incident. After he was diagnosed with cyanide poisoning and his condition had been stabilized, he was transferred to the poison treatment center at Bellevue Hospital for long-term care.”

  Madame leaned over the front seat, touched Mr. Raj’s arm. “We’d like to go to Bellevue Hospital. That’s on—”

  “First Avenue at Twenty-seventh Street. I am quite familiar with the institution, Mrs. Dubois,” he replied with a smile.

  “Thank you, Mr. Raj.”

  Madame faced me. “I do hope we can help poor Tucker. He must feel so alone, abandoned, and isolated.”

  “He knows we’re trying to help, that he’s not completely alone,” I replied.

  Madame nodded. “Loneliness is a terrible thing. Perhaps the most terrible thing. I could face poverty, illness, even death with courage. But not loneliness and isolation…I need people in my life, Clare.”

  “Is that why you received Lottie Harmon so graciously when she returned to New York?”

  “That’s one reason, of course. But in the past I’d always enjoyed Lottie’s company. Unfortunately, the years have changed her.”

  “Changed her? How?”

  “She’s just not the same carefree person anymore. Now she’s always on edge, you know?”

  “What do you mean, on edge? Can you be more specific?”

  “Well, let me see…” Madame pursed her lips in thought. “Her laugh, for instance. It’s so strained. It actually makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. It never used to. And the sidelong glances filled with concern. She’s very fussy now…a worry wart. Yet she was once so lighthearted, so free and easy. She’s just not comfortable in her own skin anymore—it was a trait I’d always admired about her, but now it’s vanished.”

  “I know what you mean. She’s too self-conscious. And her manner seems affected—not insincere, so much as strained. Like her laugh—too loud, too strident. Like she’s covering up for something.”

  Madame nodded. “The poise she had. The self-assurance. It’s gone…But I suppose life can do that to a person.”

  “What in life, do you think?”

  Madame frowned. “A tragedy, perhaps…or a succession of romantic or other disappointments…” Madame’s voice faded. She seemed lost in thought. “I wish I could tell you more,” she finally concluded.

  It was my turn to frown. “We’ve run out of clues, I think. Even this visit to Jeff Lugar—it’s an act of desperation. I couldn’t tell you what I hope to accomplish.”

  “Well, don’t fret
, my dear. It’s the decent thing to do,” she pointed out. “That man was poisoned in our coffeehouse. The least we could do is pay him a visit. If we don’t learn anything from Mr. Lugar, we’ll try other avenues.”

  “Well, whatever happens, I want you to give the good Dr. McTavish my thanks.”

  “He was happy to help. He wasn’t aware Jeff Lugar had even been at St. Vincent’s or he would have snooped on our behalf much sooner…He as much as said so.”

  I decided to risk Madame’s disapproving stare and pry. “Now that we’ve mentioned him, how are things between the good doctor and yourself?”

  It was, of course, a big mistake to bring up romance because Madame turned the question back to me so fast I actually felt a little dizzy—or maybe it was car sickness.

  “We were speaking, I believe, about how Lottie Harmon has changed,” Madame said stiffly. “And since we are on the subject of change, what do you think of Matteo’s efforts to remake himself?”

  “His newfound entrepreneurial spirit, you mean?”

  “I mean the way he looks at you, Clare. Don’t you see how differently he treats you?”

  “No, actually,” I replied, recalling the mysterious lipstick I found on his collar. I sighed, wondering how my relationship with my ex-husband had suddenly become the topic of conversation.

  “You must admit that Matteo has taken a new interest in the business.”

  I nodded, conceding to myself that he’d also taken a new interest in me, at least until something better—something named Breanne—showed up again.

  Madame fixed her determined eyes on me. “And I believe he’s also shown a new deference and concern for his…family.”

  I sighed. “I admit that Matteo has dropped hints that he’d like to…see more of Joy.”

  “And you, my dear.”

  “He may want that, but it’s not something I think is wise for either of us,” I replied diplomatically, hoping I’d led Madame to a soft landing.

  “But you still love him,” Madame shot back—an assertion, not a question. I met Madame’s expectant gaze.