“Even if I could get bail set,” Healy had said, “where would you get the money? It would have to be cash.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Forget it. He’s remanded.”
“What’s the charge?”
“125-27.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She was raped.”
“Raped? They were going out.”
“This is a tough one, Matt. I’m sorry. Come in to see me on Monday morning.”
“I’m in the middle of a trial.”
“I know. That’s one of the things we have to discuss.”
On Monday he would have to sum up in Morales, also a rape/murder, also 125.27 of the Penal Laws, murder one, the death sentence on the table. That’s one of the things we have to discuss? What did that mean? The ringing of his cell phone startled him. He looked at the screen. It was Debra.
“Hello.”
“Matt? It’s Debra.”
“I know.”
“What’s going on? My phone was off. It was the middle of the night when you called.”
“Michael’s been arrested.”
“There’s a message from him too. I called but his phone must be off. Arrested for what?”
Matt remained silent, his heart heavy, for the first time in fifteen years feeling sympathy for his ex-wife.
“For what, Matt,” Debra said. “What’s going on?”
“They say he killed Yasmine,” Matt said.
Debra said nothing. Seconds passed in which the line was so quiet Matt thought they had been disconnected.
“Debra?” he said. “Are you there?”
Nothing.
“Debra?”
More nothing.
Then finally he heard her say, softly, as if she were speaking to herself, “I’m coming home.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Where is Michael now?” she asked.
“He’s being booked downtown. He’ll go to Rikers on Monday.”
“Are you representing him?”
“You know I can’t do that. I got him a lawyer.”
“Who?”
“Jade Lee. You don’t know her.”
“Yes I do. You went out with her.”
“That’s not relevant right now.”
“I’m coming home,” Debra said, her voice back to normal, or close to it. Normal for her meaning authoritarian, decisive, but, for the moment, without the tinge of disdain for lower creatures that had crept into it since her marriage.
“I’ll call you when I know the flight details.”
Click. She hung up.
Matt fell asleep on his couch. His last thought was of Debra. It’s not every day you hear your son’s been charged with murder. What had she been thinking in that long silence?
Chapter 5
Manhattan,
Sunday, February 1, 2009,
1:00PM
Matt spotted Jade Lee as she came around the corner of the subway entrance. Her long wool overcoat was flared at the bottom and unbuttoned, revealing a stylish navy blue suit and those long graceful legs. A scarlet silk scarf mingled at her collar with her lustrous black hair. Her body was long and regal as she walked toward him across Union Square Park. He rose from his bench and waved as she came nearer. Her face looked grim, but nothing, he thought, surprising himself, could detract from her beauty. The grim set of her features, indeed, only added to it, made it more interesting. A quick smile crossed her face when she saw him, her high cheekbones widening for a split second, accentuating the exotic slant of her eyes, her teeth even and pretty. As beautiful as everything else about her was, it was the sight of these teeth that penetrated his being without warning, turning his heart a few degrees on its axis. The smiles they had exchanged when they ran into each other over the past five years had been fake. This one, brief as it was, was real, and, as a result, it brought back memories he thought he had successfully repressed. Such a small thing, a real smile.
She sat next to him on the slatted park bench, her briefcase on her lap, her breath steaming in the cold gray winter air.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Matt answered.
“How long has it been?” Jade asked.
“Judge Harris’ retirement dinner.”
“Two years.”
“You look great,” Matt said.
“Thank you. Matt…”
“You look like you’ve got bad news.”
“I do. Or maybe it’s not. I’ve been fired.”
Matt paused for a second before speaking. “By Michael, or by his mother?”
“By both, I guess. I just got back from the Tombs. I wanted to hear it from Michael.”
Matt was expecting this. Debra and Basil had returned from Europe on Saturday afternoon. Debra called him while the plane was taxiing at JFK. He told her what he knew about the case. He had visited Michael at the Tombs that morning, just missing Jade, who had been there an hour earlier to handle the arraignment, an open-court affair where Matt decided it was best if he didn’t show his face. He went again this morning, Sunday. On the way out he saw Debra and Basil and a distinguished-looking, gray-haired man in an expensive overcoat, carrying a briefcase, getting out of a limousine in front of 100 Center Street. He called Jade but he got her voice mail. When she returned his call at noon, she told him to meet her at Union Square Park, an old meeting place of theirs, at one.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I got a call from Everett Stryker last night,” Jade said.
“The Wall Street guy.”
“Yes. The white collar guy.”
“That must have been him I saw going into the Tombs this morning.”
“He told me I was discharged. He was going to the appellate division this morning and the Court of Appeals if necessary. And then federal court.”
“If necessary,” Matt said.
“Right, he was preparing a writ,” Jade replied, “while I was at my son’s basketball game.”
“That’s where you were yesterday?”
“And then dinner. He was suspended from the team. It was his first game back.”
“How’d he do?”
“In the game?”
“Yes.”
“He scored five off the bench.”
“Foul trouble?”
Jade smiled at this. Another real smile. When he and Jade were dating, she had gone with Matt to one of Michael’s soccer games, and he had gone with her to one of Antonio’s CYO basketball games. Antonio, a gangly six-foot-three twelve-year-old, arms and legs going in four different directions, determined but rudderless, had gotten quickly into foul trouble, once sending three kids—all five-four or less—sprawling to the floor while trying to force his way through a pick.
“Three in ten minutes,” she said.
Matt smiled too, remembering his high school playing days. He had been a bit of a hacker himself. More than a bit. But not like Antonio, whose motives were pure, but technique bad. Scoring on the sixteen-year-old Matt DeMarco was unthinkable, and so he fouled.
“It’s not good news,” Matt said, returning to the present, turning to face Jade, looking into her eyes and then down at her hands clasping her briefcase. “Stryker represents stock swindlers. I doubt he’s ever tried a murder case.”
“I should have pushed for bail, like he’s doing.”
“It’s a waste of time, all for show—and money—he probably had ten kids working all night on the papers. The grand jury will indict tomorrow or Tuesday and Michael will be out on bail the next day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. He’ll soon be back in his mother’s arms.”
“One more
thing,” Jade said, “and I’ll let you go.”
“What?”
“I got a call this morning from Ken Leyner. He was supposed to go to the Tombs today to do the GSR. He said Stryker called him and cancelled it.”
Matt thought this over. Though Stryker was not known as a street crime guy, he was smart and he had brilliant associates who would thoroughly analyze every issue. He would not lose the chance to do the gunshot residue test unless he did not want to know the results.
“Michael must have handled the Beretta,” he said.
“He told me he didn’t.”
“He must have. There’s no other reason why Stryker would cancel the test.”
Matt caught Jade’s eye again as he said this, tacitly confirming to her that, yes, he believed his son was a liar. He thought back to Friday night, the unbelievably loud volume of Michael’s music that lasted about five minutes. Maybe Ali, the short one with the hooked nose, had gotten Michael to fire the gun out the window while Adnan was in the bathroom. This will be fun, Michael. Come on, try it, there’s nothing but woods out there. The ultimate set up.
“Manhattan Homicide hasn’t done one,” Jade said, “if that’s any consolation, and I hear there were no prints.”
“I figured Adnan or Ali wiped the gun down,” Matt replied. “And the GSR is a pain in the ass. I’ve never liked it. You’ve seen it. Two elements, three elements. Inadvertent transfer. Were the hands bagged? Why not? Blah, blah. It’s red meat for defense lawyers. They probably think they have enough and don’t want to complicate things with an inconclusive test.”
“I agree, but I think Michael was telling me the truth.”
Matt shook his head. He hadn’t known his son to be a liar. If anything he seemed to enjoy hurting people—strike that, hurting Matt—with jabs of honesty that stung all the more because they were so dispassionately delivered. An asshole, but not a liar. Until now.
“Matt?” Jade said.
“Yes?”
“He’s angry.”
Matt nodded. No shit, he thought.
“I don’t think it’s completely at you.”
“Jade…”
“I have a son, too. There’s something…”
“Something what?”
“Something torturing him.”
“Like what?” Just like his mother, Matt thought, making excuses for him, the man-child. It must be a female thing.
“I don’t know,” Jade replied. “I saw the boy in him at the arraignment. He didn’t do this crime.”
“That I agree with.”
“I’m sorry to be butting in like this.”
“You’re not butting in. You’re trying to help.” Who else would do that? Try to help? Matt thought, suddenly very near, uncomfortably near, to a truth about himself, his life, that he had been avoiding for a long time. He looked into Jade’s eyes for a second, thanking her with his own, softened now by this truth, and then down at her beautifully sculpted hands, ivory-yellow, the nails a deep brilliant crimson, resting on the briefcase on her lap.
“I owe you for your time,” he said, looking up. “Send me a bill.”
“No, Matt. I really appreciate that you thought of me. It was only a few hours.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll buy you dinner.”
“No, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“We’ll go Dutch.”
“Sure, call me.”
While they were talking, a flock of pigeons, a hundred or so strong, had gathered on the asphalt walkway nearby. After Jade left, Matt sat and watched an old black guy feed them peanuts from a five-gallon spackle container on the bench next to him. In the man’s lap was a faded paperback copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, with the same yellow cover as the one Matt had on a shelf in his apartment. Matt sat, mesmerized, watching. As he had been mesmerized by Jade’s hands.
Basil al-Hassan, swiftly crossing the Atlantic in his private jet, had come to the rescue. Everett Stryker, the super lawyer with a firm of three hundred attorneys at his beck and call, had been hired, and was issuing orders; his retainer probably 500K. He had only been half joking when he told Jade that Michael would soon be back in his mother’s arms. They were too close, those two. And they had defeated him. When Michael was a boy, Matt, recently separated from Debra, had lived close to Union Square, on 17th Street. He had a dog, a mutt with a mangled eye, named Popeye, that he and Michael took to the dog run in the park, which Matt could see from where he sat. Popeye got old and sick, and Matt had to put him down. Michael was sixteen at the time and barely noticed. Michael.
Matt rose to leave, and as he did he saw the black man raise his right hand, index finger extended, pointing at him. It was a slow but surprisingly commanding gesture: stop, it said, hold on a second.
“Yes?” Matt said, staring into a pair of tired, yellowed eyes.
“Have you read Marcus Aurelius?” the man asked.
Matt noticed for the first time that the man’s wrinkled brown hands, his pant legs, and his battered work shoes were covered with white paint or, more precisely, white paste—spackle. He had been working and was finished for the day, or taking a lunch break.
“Yes, I have,” Matt answered.
“You should read him again. You don’t want your anger to turn to despair, or self-pity.” The old man nodded, dismissing Matt, and reached into his bucket, coming out with a handful of peanuts. These he flung at the pigeons, watching passively as they scrambled for them, many of them devouring them shells and all.
Chapter 6
Locust Valley,
Wednesday, February 25, 2009,
1:00AM
Bob Davila and Nick Loh sat in their unmarked car looking at the shadowy outline of the mansion located at 211 Piping Rock Road in Locust Valley. From their vantage point, a knoll on the grounds of the Piping Rock Country Club golf course across the street, they had an unobstructed view of the large house’s winding driveway leading on a graceful curved incline to its front entrance on the left and a detached five-car garage on the right. The fountain in the middle of the rolling, snow-covered front lawn, with three dolphins suspended in mid-jump above it, was not spewing water. It was the dead of a late February night, and 20 degrees Fahrenheit.
On the console between them were two large empty thermoses that, three hours ago, were filled with hot coffee. Taped to the dashboard were three-by-five color photographs of two young Arab men, one bald with heavy-lidded eyes, the other with a thick head of wiry hair and a hooked nose. Suspect 1 was written across the bottom of the first picture in black marking ink, and Suspect 2 on the second. In the detectives’ jacket pockets, clipped to their NYPD ID cards, were light-blue plastic cards, with photos, that identified them as UNIIIC Special Investigators.
Shielded by a stand of tall pine trees, they could not be seen from the house, although the dark night was their best cover. In an hour they would be relieved. In the passenger seat Loh held a pair of expensive digital night vision binoculars in his gloved hands. The Cantonese-American detective had just scanned the house and grounds.
“You love playing with those things,” Davila said.
“They’re very cool,” Loh replied.
“I know. Too bad there’s never anything to see.” The house was completely dark, as it had been since midnight.
“We’re committed, Bob.”
“Right, we’ll be promoted. I’m having my doubts.”
It was Davila who had been offered the assignment and who had talked their commanding officer into offering it to Loh as well, and Loh into accepting it. Now, after three weeks of stakeouts as part of an eight-person rotating team, he was sorry he had. Suspect 1 and Suspect 2 had not left the house, not even to take out the garbage. They were in there because occasionally someo
ne would get lucky and spot one or the other of them in a window with the binoculars. Groceries were delivered, but not the mail.
“Observe and communicate. What kind of bullshit is that?” Davila continued.
“It must be a Dutch thing,” Loh replied, “or U.N. speak.”
“We never should have got involved with the U.N.”
“You mean this assignment, or back in 1947?” Loh said.
“1947. They hate us.”
“The world loves us now, Bob. All we had to do was elect a handsome young black guy as president.”
“Fuckin’ U.N.”
“You’re working for the U.N. right now.”
“No I’m not, I’m working for the NYPD, on special assignment to the U.N.”
Smiling, Loh picked up the binoculars and scanned the house and grounds.
“It sounds glamorous, doesn’t it?” he said, returning the glasses to his lap. “Too bad they won’t tell us what we’re working on.”
“Right. What the fuck is Monteverde? Fuck-nuts mentioned it a couple of times yesterday, like it was the Vatican or the Holy Grail.” Fuck-nuts was how Davila referred to U.N. Deputy Director of Investigations, the Dutchman Ehrhard Fuchs.
“You’re very Christian-centered, Bob.”
“What the fuck are you? I thought you were a Catholic.”
“I am, but there are other religions, other holy places.”
“Not for me,” Davila said, looking at his watch, thinking, 45 minutes. After these ten-to-two shifts he usually stopped by The Roost, a bar on Glen Cove Avenue where a waitress he knew was getting off work.
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