by Tom Straw
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Buzz Killer
Tom Straw
***
BUZZ KILLER
Copyright © 2017 by Tom Straw
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—spoken, written, photocopy, printed, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise through any means not yet known or yet in use—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Cover by Steve Cooley
Interior Design by QA Productions
Author photo © Jill Krementz
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. No legal or moral allegation is made as to the actual or potential activities of any organization, institution, or government nor to any individual, living or dead.
***
For Jennifer.
It’s still a lovely ride.
***
“To live well is to live unnoticed.”
— Ovid
“We’re no longer in the Cold War. Eavesdropping on friends is unacceptable.” — Vladimir Putin
C H A P T E R • 1
* * *
Text message and e-mail exchange, 7:12 p.m. – 12:06 a.m.:
Michael Jerome
Macie, where are you right now? V imp
Macie Wild
UnionSq. Just deposed lvry cab drvr who picked client from robbery lineup. PS dude’s vizn so bad couldn’t find sig line on sworn stmt. Haha. Zup?
Michael Jerome
Caught a case here in night court. Def says knows you. Jackson Hall. He’s coming up for arraignment but wants to talk with you first.
Macie Wild
I rcll. Sorry he’s back in the system. Told me all done w burglary last time.
Michael Jerome
He’s down for homicide. How fast can you get here?
Macie Wild
!!… Near sub now. I’ll hop a train and be there in 10.
Macie Wild
T—Chng pln. Cncl my lect at John Jay tnt. Seeing Jackson Hall at arrgmt now.
Tiger Foley
Will do. I’ll tee-up your docs. Watch your e-mail.
* * *
To: Macie Wild
Re: Jackson Hall / attchs
[Client/JH046/parole_compliance_docs.pdf (225.4kb)]
Macie, for your ref, attaching pdf of Mr. Hall’s parole files from his prior convictions, including job history, community service, etc., for his Criminal Justice Agency bail docs.
Tiger Foley, Certified Paralegal
Office of Macie Wild, Attorney at Law
Manhattan Center for Public Defense
New York, NY 10007
This e-mail and attachments contain legally privileged information. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any disclosure or use of this information is prohibited. - Manhattan Center for Public Defense Inc.
* * *
Text message exchange, 12:06 a.m.:
Michael Jerome
Len, sorry for the late hour. Macie and I are at impasse and need a referee.
Len Asher
Colbert’s a rerun, anyway. What going on?
Michael Jerome
We’re pre-arraignment, w clock ticking, so briefly: Client about to eat a Murder-1. I spent all night hammering out a dispo offer w DA. M-2, 25yrs, no parole.
Macie Wild
For the recd, not much into determining life/dth in txt msgs.
Michael Jerome
We’re crunched. And It’s a fair deal.
Macie Wild
I know this def. Says he’s innocent. I believe him.
Michael Jerome
He’s boned. If this goes to trial and craters—it’s a life sentence.
Macie Wild
We’re bargaining years of a man’s life. We’re supposed 2B lawyers, not auctioneers.
Michael Jerome
Or gamblers. BTW, odds are better at Foxwoods. –Shit. We’re up soon. Need a Yoda moment, boss.
Len Asher
As always, it’s up to the client. It may be the last time for years his opinion matters on anything. Go back in, make your cases, then may God help him. . . . And whomever he chooses.
C H A P T E R • 2
* * *
Macie Wild froze in place beside her ’08 Corolla on the scarred blacktop of the Rikers Island parking lot and stared, fixated, at pure beauty. On the near bank of the East River, on the freedom side of the chain-link and concertina, a great blue heron stood motionless, spindles-deep in the estuary, waiting, patient, staring into the murk lapping the rocks behind it. A light morning breeze rustled a few showgirl wing feathers but the bird’s focus never left the shallows. Looking every bit to her like a regal visitor from prehistory, the bill at the end of the long neck remained inches above the surface, poised to strike as if time itself paused before a lightning move would let fly the yellow dagger. Until then the hunter would see and not be seen.
It was Macie who blinked. She popped the trunk and leaned inside to ditch anything sharp, metal, or controversial. It took five seconds. She had learned years ago to start carrying her keys, fountain pen, Shuffle, L-shaped metal ruler, and telescoping pointer in a nylon zippered file, a Levenger special. She plucked it from her briefcase, added her cell phone, then, out of habit, gripped the bare finger of her left hand for the diamond ring that was no longer a security concern. After patting herself down, Macie zipped the case and shut the trunk.
When it slammed, a sudden spread of wide, blue-gray plumage took flight with two glistening streams dotting the water beneath dangling legs. She watched it flap above the tanks of the waste treatment plant on the opposite shore and then continue west, becoming an eye test the closer it got to Wards Island. She lost sight of the bird when it bisected the only Manhattan skyscraper visible from where she stood, the controversial new condominium tower recently built on West Fifty-Seventh. Between the coils of razor wire, Macie could make out the top ten of its eighty-eight floors. She turned toward the jail complex and wondered if the inmates had a view of the tallest residential building in the Western Hemisphere, with a penthouse that went for ninety-five-mil, something even Manhattan’s own wealthiest couldn’t afford. Maybe, she thought, people had it wrong. Maybe New York was actually a Tale of Three Cities.
♢ ♢ ♢
Insid
e the Otis Bantum center the sensation of entering another world gripped her, same as always. Not just the assault of raw human noise, of stadium-decibel chatter of hundreds of voices echoing off linoleum and brick. Or even the smell of disinfectant, institutional cooking, and stale sweat. It was the soul X-ray. All the eyes that found hers and wouldn’t let go. The passing inmates gazing through the ballistic glass with curiosity, or worse. And the corrections officers, tracking her, either in smug dismissal or unmasked contempt. Because she was a defense lawyer, a coddler of the lowlifes who fucked each other up and fucked up their days. Even the COs she had regular dealings with—otherwise nice guys, professionals making the most of a hard job—held a line of brisk cordiality behind an invisible, but palpable, shield. It made her wonder who was really imprisoned here.
Signed in, searched, wanded, and hand stamped, Wild affixed her visitor badge. The officer gave her the silent four-finger beckon and she stepped alone into the security pass-through. As the metal lock of the door behind her shot closed and she waited for the one ahead of her to roll open, Macie did what she always did in this suspension of time: She paused to quiet her brain and remind herself why she was here. For justice. Justice for her client. And, yes, justice for the victim.
♢ ♢ ♢
When they brought Jackson Hall to her, he looked the same as he did on the outside. Like whatever he wore was too big for him. Five seven and 130 made everything swim on his small frame, even the orange jumpsuit that had now become a cultural meme for everyone except the McDonald’s Hamburglar, who still did stripes. Hall settled quickly into his chair opposite her with a nod and the half smile he always sported, as if he just remembered a dirty joke and was deciding whether to share it. But that morning it didn’t seem so much amusement as a prison face, a dash of cockiness to give the bigger inmates reason to think twice before challenging him. They picked up their phones and began.
“Any word on bail yet? I don’t think I can do this.” No hello, no thanks for coming. Just a get me out.
“We’re on it. Unfortunately this time it’s a murder case, and—”
“’Cept I didn’t do it. And it don’t help the fucking Post’s put my picture on page one and gave me that goddamn nickname.” The New York tabloids had tagged Jackson Hall with some nasty ones back in 2010 when he got busted for a string of apartment B&Es on the Lower East Side. His MO was to hit lobbies, pretending to be delivering Chinese takeout, and rob units that didn’t answer his buzz. Headline punsters ran his mug shot under banners like “Buzzer Bandit,” “Buzz-ted,” and one gold-medal groaner, “The Embuzzler.” This new charge for murdering his burglary partner earned Hall a headline upgrade, and, on a slow news day, every newsstand screamed it: “Buzz Killer!”
“After the grand jury meets, I’ll try again at your arraignment on the indictment.” Macie knew even a lenient judge would choke on his record of two prior bail skips and three failures to appear. But no sense picking that scab just then. She tried her most consoling smile and asked, “They treating you all right so far?”
“This morning in commissary lineup one of the bangers came at me with a box cutter. Some kid trying to make a name, slashing me.” He traced a line from his ear to his cheek. His face wasn’t cut but raw skin curled off his knuckles and his fingers were fat with swelling from defending himself.
“That can’t happen.”
“Did happen. Some other fool sucker punched me from behind last night. Check it out.” He turned away from the window and parted hairs at the back of his head to show her a goose egg with a nasty cut. “See what headlines get you?” When he sat back down, Macie studied the specks of gray dusting the forty-six-year-old’s sideburns. She would still bet on him, even up against someone half his age. “It’s not just the headline. I’m the cocksucker who broke The Code and offed his partner. I’m a walking target in here.”
Wild shook her head. “Not gonna be. Deputy Warden Bohannon is supposed to be in charge of security in this unit. I’m going to spoil his day, soon as we finish.”
“Go ahead, but they’re already on it. The COs said they’re going to transfer my ass to West Complex. That’s where they isolate guys with diseases. Oh, and that old French dude who banged the hotel maid.” Then he realized his audience. “My bad.” And then he smiled in full for the first time. “Thanks for coming in like this.”
In fact Macie could have done a video conference from Manhattan but didn’t for good reasons. First, vid-confs are limited to thirty minutes; an in-person guaranteed them two hours. And second, ever since the Nassau County prosecutor attempted in vain to introduce his recording of a privileged jailhouse phone conversation between a prisoner and his lawyer, she had been wary about electronic privacy. Of course, out of practicality, she still used phones and video, but sparingly, and never for an initial debrief. The night before she’d only had five minutes with Hall in the glass conference booth in Arraignment Part Three. For something this critical, this in-depth, Macie wanted proximity and direct eye contact—even through a bulletproof partition on a jail phone that also gave her pause about privacy. Wild opened his file and took out one of her DOC-compliant pencils—no metal, no eraser. “I want you to tell me what happened, Mr. Hall. Everything.”
“I didn’t kill him’s what happened. I might cop to some break-ins, but I didn’t kill anybody.”
She had to wonder how many times over the decades those exact words had been spoken over that very phone from that side of the window. But all she said was, “Walk me through it.”
“Rúben and me worked some gigs here and there together. Made us some good money and all was rufus between us, you understand? Then I hear he’s dead, and I get popped. It’s bullshit.” He finished with a strong nod, like that would be that. She looked over her list of questions, knowing that couldn’t be that.
“You always worked alone before. When did you start working with this other man, Rúben Pinto?”
The thief’s eyes darted away from hers and he shifted in his chair. Macie knew her visual cues, and a whiff of evasiveness had slipped by Jackson Hall’s jailhouse swagger. “We really have to get into all this?”
“Jackson, you know I do. And you know why.” Macie held her pencil over a blank page and waited until resignation overtook reticence.
“Met Pinto a couple months ago fishing up at the East Harlem pier. We’d see each other and just nod, but I could tell from his vibe he’d stacked time. So over weeks we get talking and, sure enough, Rúben did a stretch at Fishkill, and when I told him I did my bit upstate at Bare Hill, he said he figured. One thing leads to another, and one day he shows up without a pole and wants to take a walk. Says he’s been working a gig with a guy that’s looking for a third man, and if I wanted in.”
Macie jotted key words, listening without judgment as her client described how, not even a year out of prison, he’d bought his ticket back. “You know, I’ve been running clean since my release,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But life costing what it costs and a new girlfriend costing what she costs . . .” He chuckled but she held her listening pose. “Anyway, six days a week raking up turds at the doggy drop-off wasn’t cutting it for me, so I said, yeah, let’s talk. So done and done.”
But not for the attorney. “When you say crew. Banks? Retail? Jewelry stores?”
“Who you talking to?” That chuckle again. Raspy, just like his speaking voice, it betrayed cigarettes and cheap wine. “You’ll never see me do a stickup. This gig was my thing, housebreaking. But varsity level, an elite operation. Pinto was right. Said his crew chief knew his shit. Did he ever. Man had skills. Not sure where he got them, he’s not much of a talker. Strange dude, in fact. But he knows where to hit and when to hit. And no buzzing to get in. These were luxury pads, man. Doorman, concierge, perfumy hallways, and best of all, boss always knew what apartments would be empty.”
“Once again,” she said, “your thing.”
“No people, no confrontation, no mess. You got it.”
/> “OK, I have to ask. This step-up for you.” She found the word on her notepad. “This ‘elite’ crew. Tell me more about the elite part.”
“I just did.”
“But sounds like somebody had information.”
“Uh-huh. And skills, like I said. The know-how and the tools to get into these places—and out again—like ghosts.”
“Undetected?”
“Still undetected. Even now.”
“I’d like the name of this crew chief.”
“No.”
“He’s involved. He could be a suspect.”
Hall shook his head emphatically. “Not going there.” Then he held the phone away and swiveled, shouting to the rest of the prisoners in the conference cubicles and to the hallway behind him, “Hear that, y’all? You listening? Man honors The Code here! Not giving up my crime bros!”
While he continued his loud talk, Macie decided to come back to this when he wasn’t new to the fight. “Just tell me this. Was there anyone else on your crew?”
“No. Just me, Pinto, and the chief.”
“And I assume it was lucrative?”
“Like it made my other jobs look amateur.”
Still looking to explore the motives inside the crew, she asked, “And how did the split go?”
“Fifty-fifty. Chief got half and Pinto and me split the other. Cool with me. It was a good take. Plus, like the chief told us, it was his gear and his expertise. No complaints here.”
“What about Rúben?” He hesitated. Another tell. She used a technique that worked a lot. She ignored the silence and repeated the question as if for the first time. “What about Rúben?”
