by Tom Straw
Wild shook her head. “It’s an epic fail.”
“And their version of this? Total bullshit!” Soledad’s voice echoed in the cavernous lobby, turning heads.
Macie draped a comforting arm around Soledad. “What’s wrong with this picture? I’m calming down a social worker.”
Bright light flooded the glass wall across the atrium near First Avenue. TV vans were setting up live shots for breaking news on the Buzz Killer. The two defenders took that as a sign to go inside and check on the condition of their client.
“Unfortunately the survival prognosis for this is so individualized, I can’t give you a definitive answer.” But Dr. Edda, who met Wild and Soledad in the second-floor prison ward, did give them something to cling to, adding, “The good news is that they found him when they did.”
Still trying to keep a lid on her emotions, which was plenty hard with the slack form of Jackson Hall stretched out and tubed-up in the room behind the doc, Macie diverted herself by latching on to the job she pledged to do on his behalf. She tried to construct a medical timeline. “Let me ask you about that. What would you say was the duration from the initial time of his . . . suspension . . . to his discovery.”
“Oh, you’re going to put me on the spot. OK, let’s see . . .” The doctor tapped her lips with a forefinger then said, “Given his small frame, and that his was what we call an incomplete hanging—meaning a portion of his body touched the ground—I’m going on a limb for you and say two to three minutes.”
Soledad chimed in, “Wouldn’t he have suffocated by then?”
“Actually, his airway was never compromised. The way the ligature was placed caused a vascular restriction, meaning of his carotid, not the trachea. What does that mean? It means he was still able to breathe, but blood flow to the brain was cut off. It’s not uncommon. You see this a lot in manual strangulations, especially in martial arts. After thirty seconds the victim loses consciousness. Death usually comes in one to three minutes. Again, individualized. I’m saying high end of that window based on Mr. Hall’s size and the fact that the ligature wasn’t bearing his full weight.”
“When you examined him, did you see any signs of a struggle?”
“He’s got a contusion on the back of his head which appears a few days old, from the coloration. There are also marks on his knuckles and arms.”
“He got in a fight yesterday,” offered Wild. “Some inmates came after him.”
“Could be residual from that. Some of them appear older. Same as the head wound.”
Once more Macie fretted that Hall actually got that goose egg fighting Pinto. She tabled that to ask the hard question. “You said his prognosis is individualized. But what’s your guess? I won’t hold you to it.”
“All right, let’s talk it through. He’s comatose, and I have put him on hypothermia therapy. That’s a cooling helmet he’s got on,” she said, hitching a thumb toward the bed. “And he’s also under a chilling blanket. We keep him down to ninety-four degrees, which reduces the production of neurotransmitters and free radicals—the bad boys who can cause damage to the brain when it’s been oxygen deprived.”
“You think he’ll live?” asked Soledad.
“It so varies. I’m sorry I can’t be more definite. I’ve seen them come out in days or weeks. I’ve seen them shut down and slip away.”
“And what about if he lives?”
“You mean brain function? What’s our theme here?”
Macie nodded and said, “It varies,” then swiped the wetness off her cheek. Before she left, the lawyer cast a look at her comatose client and tried to convince herself that advising him to turn down the plea deal had nothing to do with this.
♢ ♢ ♢
After a brooding night of Google and Chipotle, learning all she could about cerebral hypoxia and ischemic neuron death, Wild began the next day holding two things in her bleeding heart: that Jackson Hall would survive, and that by doing so, he would live to see her clear him of his murder charge. After all, if he could fight for his life, Macie would do no less.
Substituting activity for pessimism over Glasgow Coma Scores and functional disability, she drove across the Queensboro Bridge to interview Rúben Pinto’s ex-girlfriend. It wasn’t Wild’s investigator who had located her, but her Aussie paralegal. Tiger had burned midnight oil poring over the murder victim’s old case files from when he had been a prior Manhattan Center client. A 2015 Criminal Justice Agency bail intake form, the questionnaire the CJA uses to assess flight risk by itemizing a defendant’s roots in the community, listed his address then as a shared residence in Astoria with Cilla Dougherty, a performance artist.
Macie found a parking spot two blocks away near the Kaufman movie studios and backtracked through a neighborhood of immaculately kept three-story row houses sitting atop one-car garages. The composition of the area was Greek with some Middle Eastern, and, judging from the busy Sarajevo Café, Bosnian and Herzegovinian too. Dougherty’s apartment was on the first floor of a duplex wedged between a tan stucco warehouse and a driving school. When she mounted the front steps, Wild heard broken glass being swept. It stopped as soon as she knocked. In her periphery, drapes moved in the window beside her, followed by a young woman’s voice through the closed door. “Who’s there?” Macie announced herself, locks snapped, and the door opened. Cilla Dougherty’s eyes were red from crying. In her free hand, she held a dustpan full of shattered coffee mugs. She tried to smile but didn’t quite make it and asked to see some ID to confirm Wild was the lawyer Tiger had called about.
For a split second, when she entered the place, Macie wondered if all the breakage and disarray she saw might have been some extreme performance art project. But the shelves, violently cleared of dishes, the desk drawers upended onto the floor, and the sofa cushions slashed and leaking stuffing, could only mean one thing. “I called the police. They left just before you got here,” said Cilla, emptying her dustpan with a crash into the kitchen garbage can she had moved to the living room. “I’d offer you coffee, but . . .” Her sentence choked into a sob, and she fanned the air, signaling, “just a sec.”
In her kitchen, she righted two chairs and they sat. Dougherty seemed relieved to have the company, and wanted—or needed—to talk. She said she had come home late after a friend’s gallery opening and after-party over in Park Slope to find her front door gaping and her home trashed. The police said things like this were usually revenge from an old boyfriend or somebody looking for something. Or a bit of both, thought Wild, given Pinto’s career choice. And then, as if reading her, Cilla gave voice to it. “I thought the craziness would stop when Rú and I split.”
Wild had years of experience talking to people at their worst moments, so she wasn’t shy about making the segue, albeit gently. “My paralegal said when he called you this morning that you had heard about Rúben.”
Cilla nodded, strong but grim. “So sad. He and I were over. Guess we broke up, what, six months ago. Officially. But it crashed and burned before that. Still . . .” She let out a long breath.
After a respectful interval, Macie asked, “What can you tell me about him?”
“Oh, God.”
“Listen if this is too hard for you . . .” Wild touched her forearm.
“No, it’s just, where to start.”
“How about with how you met?” Macie really wanted specifics, especially about enemies, jobs he’d pulled, all that. But first she wanted to keep things open-ended to make Cilla comfortable, to see what came out on its own.
“We met at Nightcap, down on the Lower East Side. He had me on sight. Cute, funny, worked out. Danced. Kind of rough around the edges. You know, the fixer-upper who gets you hot? The chemistry was amazing. I brought him here that night. Saw a lot of each other over two months, and then he spent more and more time here. Before we both knew it, he had sorta moved in.”
“How long was he here?”
“A month too long. I was so ready.”
“May I ask why? I
s that too personal?”
After a contemplative beat, she said, “It’s all personal. But I’ll tell you. I couldn’t deal with his ‘lifestyle.’ He told me he was in estate liquidation.” The young woman laughed for the first time. “Actually not so far from the truth when you think about it. Anyway, that was good enough for me. But then it became more clear. The hours he kept, the people he dealt with. He never went to work-work. But the sex was good, the mystery of it was kind of a turn-on. You know?”
“Sure.”
“But then he started bringing stuff to stash here. I called him on it. I said, ‘No way I’m getting busted for stolen property.’ So he got it all out. Eventually.”
Wild gestured to the ruin. “Did he get it all out? Was there something here somebody wanted?”
“The fuck I know.” Cilla surveyed the chaos and added, “If anything was here, those assholes sure would have gotten it.”
Time to slide into notes. Macie got out her pen. “Do you remember any of the items Rúben brought to stash here?”
“Of what I saw that wasn’t boxed or in a duffel? Artwork—expensive stuff too. Originals—and I’m an art major, I’d know. Jewelry, small statues, rare coins, stuff like that.”
All portable and all high-end. Right in keeping with Hall’s description of the elite crew working luxury apartments. “Can you tell me about any people in his ‘lifestyle’ who may have been a problem? Anyone he had hassles with or threatened him?”
“No threats that I know of. But, fuck me. The people. That was another issue. Rú started partying here and having some of his pals hang out when I came home. Not savory types either.” Macie began to get the picture of Cilla Dougherty as a young woman who enjoyed toying with the dangerous side until the fantasy got too real. She didn’t figure her to be involved in his killing, but she may have met someone who was.
“Any stand out as somebody who gave you a bad feeling?”
“I don’t even have to think. Spatone.”
“Is that a first or last?”
“Never knew. Rúben always just called him by the one name. Like Adele, right?” Macie spelled it phonetically to check later and asked how Pinto knew him. “They were cellmates for a while up in Fishkill.”
“Did they get along?”
“I mean they bitched at each other, then made up a lot. But Rúben and Spatone had an ugly fight. A blowout that kind of tore it.”
“What was it about?”
“About Rú not getting him aboard the new crew he was working. Spatone said he was ungrateful and an asshole.”
“What about that crew? Did you ever meet the leader, or did Rúben ever mention his name?”
“No. He didn’t like to talk about him. Rú said he was a shit. Control freak. ‘Do this, do that, follow my rules.’”
“Did he ever mention Jackson Hall?”
“Him, I liked. Rúben said he was the only one he could trust.” Then added, “Which would be too weird if he killed him.”
Cilla looked used up, so Macie thanked her for her time. At the door she paused, though, as another question came to her. “When was the last time you saw Rúben?”
“Four days ago. I asked him to spend the night.” When she saw Macie’s reaction she said, “What can I say? Chemistry.”
♢ ♢ ♢
The time crunch resigned her to skip lunch and feast on whatever random nut block Nature Valley offered in the break room, but Wild arrived back at the MCPD to find that Tiger had anticipated all that. Her default California Club from Pret a Manger sat on a napkin beside a cold can of Diet Coke at the head of the conference table. The paralegal shrugged it off. “It’s what happens when you hire someone with a background in the hospitality industry.”
“Hospitality happens,” she said, snapping open her soda.
He volleyed back, “Do remember this at review time.”
The rest of her team entered with takeout and took their usual places in the bull pen. With two quick bites to fuel her for now, Macie jumped right in while the others ate. “First off, what’s the latest on Jackson Hall’s condition?”
“Same,” said Soledad. She gestured down the table to the summer intern. “Chip’s on phone duty to Bellevue, checking in every two hours. Mr. Hall is still comatose, still on targeted temperature therapy. No improvement, but no complications or setbacks either.”
“The ICU duty nurse is good people,” added Chip, his accent sounding more Mayberry than Manhattan. “She promised to call if there’s any change and told me not to worry about being a pest.”
“Be a pest,” said Wild, who then turned back to the social worker. “Please tell me you ripped DOC a new one.”
“Oh, yes. I threatened filing for a DOJ civil rights investigation, and that got Deputy Warden Bohannon called in to give up a few more details. Like a shiv attempt yesterday. A CO intercepted an inmate coming up behind Mr. Hall holding a wooden crucifix with a nail duct-taped to the end.”
“No blasphemy there,” said Tiger. Nobody laughed, including him.
“What about the hanging?” asked Macie. “How’d it go unseen?”
“The DW says he’s mystified. I said, ‘What about cams?’ He said it all happened in a blind spot.”
Macie gave a slow shake of her head. “Doesn’t pass the smell test for me.” Conspiracy theories were as common as bedbugs but she couldn’t call herself thorough and ignore the possibility that a guard or guards—for whatever reason—looked the other way and let this happen. Or did it themselves. If that were the case, finding out who—and why—could open up a lead to Pinto’s real killer. She turned to Tiger. “Let’s move forward and get DOJ in on this. Draw the papers for me, and we’ll file to formally request an investigation.”
“You go,” said Soledad.
And then Wild shared the shitty truth of her urgency. “The fact is, this case dies if Jackson Hall does. We have to push to stay ahead of that. We do whatever it takes. Is everyone here with me on that?” They all nodded assent. “Good. Because we have plenty of obstacles.” That led her to tell them about the brick wall she’d hit trying to get inside Pinto’s building, then describe her alibi interview with the manager of the Stealer’s Wheel. “Good alibi, poor witness.” For reasons she couldn’t express, even to herself, she decided not to share her overlap with the VICE Media documentarian, Gunnar Cody. Maybe later. Maybe not.
Wild moved on to Pinto’s ex, Cilla Dougherty, with her break-in, and its timing, not lost on anyone. Unsure whether to spell Pinto’s ex-con pal Spatone or Spetone, she printed it up on the Case Board both ways with a slash. Chip Ross raised a polite finger and she gave him a go-ahead nod. “Can’t we just check DOC records to find out Rúben Pinto’s cellmates at Fishkill?”
“Don’t you hate it when the interns start thinking?” said Macie with a grin. “Do that. Jonathan will show you how.”
Monheit startled at the sound of his name. But, mark the date and time, within the hour Jonathan Monheit finally coughed up a lead. He and the L-1 intern got a hit from the Department of Corrections on an Amador James Spatone, who did two years at the medium security prison at Fishkill, New York, concurrent with a stretch done by Rúben Pinto. The team investigator contacted Spatone’s parole caseworker, who said the ex-con was operating his own business as a personal trainer on the Upper West Side.
That’s how Macie ended up parking in the lucky spot she found on Columbus Avenue after work that evening. Not to grab a nice meal on the sidewalk patio of Isabella’s. Maybe later. She was in the neighborhood for an up-close interview with the owner-operator of Tone with Spatone.
New York is a city sculpted by sound as much as sight, and the whisper of a jet far above the clouds was the only intrusion except for fading taxi horns as she left Columbus Avenue behind. With each step into the residential block of West Seventy-Eighth Street, Macie progressed into a refuge of calm. It was as if every sycamore growing out of its sidewalk planter marked another buffer against urban noise. Toward the Amsterdam end
of the block, Wild arrived at the address Monheit scored from DOC. A laminated sign, the kind made at Staples, was attached by twisty ties to an iron railing. It announced the name of the business in some ornate font above a smiling picture of Amador Spatone. Wild took out her cell, snapped a documentary photo, then descended the steps to the sublevel patio. There was another plastic sign on the wooden door in the archway beneath the stoop. This was definitely a small operation. Spatone had converted his apartment into his business. She had decided not to call ahead but the lights were on inside and she could hear music. She gave the illuminated button a solid push.
She waited, listening, hearing only the mega bass thump of a Drake-Rihanna track. Unsure of the bell, she gave the door some sharp knocks. While she waited some more, Wild noticed an index card with small handwriting on it thumbtacked to the door frame. It was dark under the arch so she tapped her flashlight app and bent forward to read the note. It said, “If I don’t answer I’m with a client. Please call ba—” An arm came from behind Macie and locked around her neck.
C H A P T E R • 7
* * *
The grab was as powerful as it was sudden, jerking her backward against the man’s body. Wild tried to scream but his choke hold smothered her voice. She dropped her phone and brought both hands up to pry at his arm. Strong as Macie was, her clawing was useless against the hard muscle and iron lock he had on her. Unable to move her head to either side, she couldn’t even bite, and all the exertion did was rob her of more oxygen.
He walked Macie rearward, dragging her in the darkness across the little subterranean porch, unfazed by her flailing, even when she kicked over a trash can, scattering debris with a crash onto the flagstones. He firmed his grip on her with a monstrous grunt then backed her up the steps to the sidewalk. She bucked and twisted uselessly. At the top step, he shifted weight to make the turn and she managed to get a tiny gulp of air, enough to smell body odor and stale tobacco before he brute-clamped the crook of his arm to her throat again. In a panic, powerless against him, losing consciousness, Wild searched the street for help. She spotted a couple, hand in hand, silhouetted by lights and traffic on Amsterdam. But they had their backs to her and were too far to hear her even if she could cry out. But she tried anyway. Her scream died in her throat.
