Dead Even

by Brad Meltzer

  “I’m not doing a photo op at Jared’s bed.”

  “Yes. You are!” Monaghan shot back. “And you want to know why? Because I say so, because I’m the boss, and because you’re going to listen.”

  “But that’s not—”

  “I don’t care what you think, Tate! I’m not risking any more bad press. You’re going to say cheese, and you’re going to scratch the mayor’s back, and hopefully, he’s going to say thank you by looking the other way when he’s slashing budgets. Otherwise, I’m going to have to revisit my list of expendable employees—where your assistant Guff is teetering on the edge.”

  “Tell the mayor I’ll do it.”

  “I already did.” Monaghan stood from his seat and pointed to his door. “Welcome to city politics,” he added. “Now get out.”

  At the office, a small group of trial assistants clustered around Guff’s desk. “If she did do it, she’s a psycho,” an assistant with horn-rimmed glasses said. “I mean, why else would you goad someone into shooting at you?”

  “Can you please leave me alone?” Guff asked, annoyed.

  “I heard she didn’t want to give Rafferty even the tiniest chance to walk free,” another assistant said. “Instead, she forced his hand and shut him down. Sounds pretty ballsy to me.”

  “I heard that was her plan all along,” an assistant with a crew cut added. “That the whole thing was a setup to kill Rafferty.”

  “It wasn’t,” Sara said, pushing her way through the assistants. “It was a last-minute emotional decision that had no basis in rational thought. I thought my husband was going to die, so I wanted immediate revenge.”

  Startled, the group didn’t move.

  Sara looked down at Guff, then back at the assistants. “Go away. Leave him alone.”

  As the group dispersed, Guff followed Sara into her office. When he saw her packing up her briefcase, he said, “They fired you?”

  “Oh, no,” Sara said. “I got relegated to a far lower circle of hell: I’m doing photo ops with the mayor.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not a bit. Monaghan chewed me out for Conrad and for wasting resources, but the mayor loves the PR potential of the story. Anyway, Jared’s the one they want in the photo—the mayor needs a good hospital bed to put his arm around.”

  “How’s Jared doing?”

  “Physically, he should be okay. The bullet just missed his spine, but it ripped open a lung. He also had some temporary paralysis in his legs, but the doctors said that was just from the shock of being shot in the back. Emotionally, though, he’s on a different track.”

  “Did he decide what he’s going to do about his firm?”

  “What’s to decide? Thomas Wayne personally called him up and told him to resign. The bastard didn’t even wait until Jared was out of the hospital.”

  “I still don’t understand why he has to resign. Can’t he just—”

  “Guff, to save the two of us, Jared told me confidential client information. More important, both clients wound up dead. The DA’s office may have a public-relations wet dream, but Wayne and Portnoy has a PR nightmare. Every client of the firm is now terrified their secrets aren’t safe.”

  “How’s Jared dealing with it?”

  “It’s still too soon to tell. He was crushed when he first found out, but I think he’s realized it had to be like this. Besides, any place that won’t even give you a week to recover isn’t the place you want to be for the rest of your life.”

  “Is that his rationalization or yours?”

  “Last year, it was mine; now it’s his. But I think he actually feels it.”

  “Great,” Guff muttered. “Then at least one good thing came of this.”

  That was all Sara needed to hear. She had avoided the subject until now, but it was time to talk about it. “Guff—”

  “We shouldn’t have done it, Sara. We were out of our league.”

  “Do you really think that? Do you really think we didn’t know what we were getting into?”

  “But Conrad—”

  “Conrad knew better than anyone. You remember what he said.”

  “Of course I remember—and thanks to this, I’ll never forget. When we suggested sending a cop, he was the one who said we should do it ourselves, that that was the only way to ensure the secret. The thing is—”

  “It doesn’t make it any easier,” Sara said.

  “It doesn’t make it any easier,” Guff agreed. Sara had hit it right on the head. Just like Conrad used to. “Listen, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put the burden on you.”

  “It’s not like that anymore—I don’t mind the burden. And in this case, I deserve it. I just want to make sure you—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get through it. Between the two of us, we’ll have plenty to keep us busy: cases to prosecute, reporters to talk to, essays to write…”

  “Essays?”

  “Sure, if I’m going to get into law school, I’m going to need some good essays.”

  Sara smiled. “You’re really applying to law school?”

  “Would this face lie?” Guff asked, squeezing his own cheeks. “That was always the plan. This just gave it more immediacy.”

  “Good for you, Guff. I think he’d really like that.”

  “Of course he would. Then he’d have another disciple to brainwash.”

  Sara laughed. They’d definitely get through it. “Speaking of disciples, O Great One, in the rush to get out of there yesterday, I never got a chance to thank you for everything you did. Without you—”

  “You wouldn’t have stolen the case? You wouldn’t have gone through this ordeal? You wouldn’t have a sofa or a cool DA’s badge?”

  “I’m serious, Alexander.”

  “Uh-oh, first-name alert! First-name alert! Incoming serious discourse!”

  “Make jokes all you want, but I really appreciate everything you did. You didn’t make me take the case—I took it to help myself. And since neither of us could’ve known that Victor set me up for it, it’s my responsibility.”

  “That’s nice, but you don’t have to—”

  “Please let me finish,” Sara said. “I promise I won’t get mushy or sentimental. From the moment I walked in here, you were my…amigo. And as someone who doesn’t get close to many people, that means a lot to me. No matter how bad things got, you were always there to help, and you always—”

  “You’re getting muuushy,” Guff sang.

  “Just take the compliment. Thank you for everything.”

  “Fine. You’re welcome. I just hope our next adventure is a bit more pedestrian. Maybe we can get a cult massacre or something calming like that.”

  “We should be so lucky.”

  “Exactly,” Guff said. “And speaking of lucky, Adam Flam wants to talk to you.”

  “Who’s Adam Flam?”

  “Head of the discipline committee. They just got out of the Victor meeting.”

  “They did? What’d they decide?”

  “Go talk to him.”

  “C’mon, Guff, just tell me.”

  “I’m not saying a word. If you want to find out, talk to him. Room 762.”

  “Fine,” Sara said, heading to the door. “But it better not be bad news.”

  “What do you mean you’re not indicting?” Sara asked as she stood in front of Flam’s desk.

  “Just what I said,” Flam replied calmly. He was a thickset man with tired eyes and a heavy Boston accent. “The committee decided there wasn’t enough evidence to indict.”

  “Not enough evidence? If there wasn’t enough evidence, why’d they put him on probation? Since the moment this thing started, Victor’s had his hand in everything we’ve done. He was the one who asked for the case, and when he got it, he was the one who made sure I took it from him.”

  “Asking for a case isn’t illegal. And last I checked, neither is putting your own name on a case folder.”

  “What about Doniger? She can testify that—”


  “Doniger doesn’t know anything. We questioned her until three in the morning, and she didn’t give us a scrap. Whatever Victor was involved in, his ties were only to Rafferty and Kozlow, both of whom, as corpses, would be terrible witnesses. It’s a simple proof issue—and until we can get that, the committee decided they didn’t want to risk morale on an unsuccessful indictment.”

  “Morale? What the hell does this have to do with morale?”

  “Everything,” Flam answered. “Victor’s one of the most respected ADAs in this office—he’s part of the institution. So before you can take him down, you better be sure you have the evidence against him. If not, you’re going to have half of the law-enforcement population screaming for your head.”

  “Are you telling me Victor’s not getting indicted because he won last year’s popularity contest?”

  “No, he’s not getting indicted because you don’t have the evidence.”

  “I have some evidence.”

  “Tate, you don’t have a case. And until you do, morality has to take a backseat to reality. Be thankful you went four-for-five and leave it at that.”

  “It’s still not right.”

  “Neither was what happened to Conrad.”

  Sara refused to reply. It was something she was going to have to get used to. “Anything else?”

  “We decided not to suspend you for goading Rafferty into shooting at you. And trust me, that was a gift—if you hadn’t riled him up, that cop might’ve never been shot.”

  “I’m not saying it was a smart move, I just didn’t want to give him another crack at exploiting the system.”

  “And what about Doniger’s gun?”

  “What about it?” Sara asked.

  “I went down to the evidence room this morning. There were six bullets in it.”

  “So?”

  “So it was supposed to be empty.”

  “What can I say? Some bluffs work, some don’t. You should just be happy the rest of us are safe.”

  “No, you should be happy our committee overlooked that one,” Flam said. “And just so there’s no confusion, Conrad was our friend, too.”

  Sara realized that even when Guff went off to law school, she wasn’t going to be alone. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Don’t thank me. From what I hear, you’re going to make a great ADA.”

  “I plan to,” Sara said.

  When she was done at Flam’s, Sara walked back up the hallway to Conrad’s office. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the last time she was there, but when she stepped inside, it already felt different. The sofa was still in the same place, the desk was still uncluttered, and the out-box still held more paperwork than the in-box, but something was clearly wrong. Despite the fact that it was filled with furniture, the room was empty.

  Sara shut her eyes. Memorizing the smells of the office, she tried to picture his face. It was easy—easier than she’d thought. But she knew that that too would fade. And this was different from Lenny Barrow. She didn’t have an old picture to fall back on. So she made one.

  Sara moved toward the sofa and opened her briefcase. Inside was her portrait of Conrad—just like the ones she had done of Jared. Pulling it out, she stared at his face. And for that moment, he was back again. She could hear him yell, and rant, and teach, and scream. It had taken her all night to get it perfect, but he deserved no less. Carefully, she set it down on his spotless desk. She’d frame it later, but for now, it belonged here. “Good-bye,” she whispered as she left the office.

  As she closed the door behind her, she turned around and read the two quotations still attached to the translucent glass: “Crimine ab uno disce omnes—From a single crime know the nation”—Virgil; and “Fame is something which must be won; honor is something which must not be lost”—Arthur Schopenhauer. She pulled the quotes from the door, being careful not to rip the tape which held them there, and headed back down the hallway.

  As soon as she reached her office, she slapped the quotes onto her own door and pressed them into place. Stepping back, she admired the new view. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was a start.

  “He wouldn’t have had it any other way,” Guff said.

  “Someone’s got to do it,” she replied. Without even opening her door, Sara walked down the hallway.

  “Where’re you going now?” Guff asked.

  “To the hospital. But before I do that, there’s someone I want to see.”

  When the elevator arrived on the sixteenth floor, Sara stepped out and walked up the well-lit hallway. Noticing the corridor’s expensive carpet and intricate moldings, she made a mental note to herself. There was no way anyone on a government salary could afford this place without outside funding. At apartment 1604, she covered the peephole and rang the bell.

  “Who is it?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Sara Tate,” she replied.

  When the door opened, Victor shot Sara a thin smirk. “Nice to see you, Ms. Tate. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I just want you to know one thing,” Sara said bluntly. “I know you set me up. And no matter how long it takes, I’m going to eventually prove it.”

  “Prove what?” Victor asked.

  Ignoring the question, she continued, “The committee may not be ready to indict, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. By the time I’m done, this suspension is going to seem like a—”

  “I’m not suspended,” Victor interjected. “I took an official leave of absence. And if what you’re doing is threatening me, you better walk away before I file my own harassment complaint. You may think you’re Super ADA just because you saved the day, but you still have a lot to learn about the game. And just so you know, I don’t sweat rookies.”

  “Keep giving me that attitude,” Sara warned, “I’m going to bury you with that cockiness. The truth isn’t hard to find—even the best ADAs can’t afford posh apartments on the Upper East Side without a little extra income.”

  “Sara, let me give you a free philosophy lesson. There’s a subtle difference between truth and fact. Fact is objectively real, while truth must conform to fact. So if you can’t find the facts, you can never prove the truth. Understand what I’m saying?”

  “There’s no such thing as a perfect crime, Victor. If I can’t prove it on this case, I’ll find another. Either way, I’m never giving up. No matter what you do, or how much voodoo philosophy you spout, I will never, ever, ever stop. I’m annoying like that.” Turning away from Victor’s door, Sara headed back toward the elevator. “Enjoy the rest of your day, asshole. All the rest of them are mine.”

  Stopping by the nurse’s station before she entered Jared’s room, Sara asked, “How’s he doing?”

  “Just great,” a short, bespectacled nurse answered. “With some love and a little physical therapy, he’ll be back on his feet in a few weeks. He seems to perk up when he’s getting attention.”

  “He’s been whining to you, hasn’t he? He’s horrible when he’s sick.”

  “All men are crybabies,” the nurse said. “He hasn’t been that bad, though. He’s saving all the good whining for you.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Sara said as she walked toward the room. She pushed open the door and saw Jared sitting up in bed. His left arm was in a sling, and his right arm was hooked up to an IV, but color had finally returned to his face. Although Jared had been told to take it easy, he was busy writing notes on a legal pad. As soon as he saw Sara, he stopped.

  “How’re you feeling?” she asked.

  “I’m better. Now.”

  “And your back?”

  “Don’t worry about my back,” Jared said. “How’re you doing with Conrad?”

  “I’ll get there,” she said. “It’ll take awhile, but I’ll get there.” Sara noted the pained but concerned look on her husband’s face. It was still a hard issue for him, and even as she tried to maintain a convincing facade, she couldn’t bear to see him like that. In an instant, she was slammed by an on
slaught of emotion. Through gritted teeth, she could feel it working its way up from the bottom of her stomach. Not for Conrad, but for Jared.

  “I’m really sorry about him…”

  “It’s not him,” she insisted as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s never been him.”

  Jared leaned forward, stretched his IV tubes to their limit, and embraced his wife. As he pulled her close, he knew he’d never let her go again. “Sara, I—”

  “I know,” Sara said, holding him just as tight. “I’ve always known.” Resting against her husband, Sara slowly regained her composure. When she pulled away, she noticed the large jar of kosher half-sour pickles on the nightstand. “I see you got Pop’s bouquet.”

  “Yeah, it just came.”

  “I was going to get you some balloons, but I didn’t want to—”

  “I don’t care about balloons. I have everything I need,” Jared said. Before Sara could reply, he added, “And in case there’s any doubt, I never said anything to—”

  “You don’t have to worry—they found the splitter on our monitor early this morning. That’s how Elliott got everything.”

  “So you’re ready to trust me again?”

  “Honey, you know the answer to that,” Sara said. “I’m just sorry I got scared in the end.”

  “I’m the only one who owes the apology. If I had as much faith in you as you had in me, I would’ve never called Victor in the first place. And if I hadn’t done that—”

  “Let me interrupt right here,” Sara said. “I don’t want to play the if-then game anymore. As long as you’re safe, as long as we’re together, we’ll get through the rest. Now tell me what else is going on.”

  “Nothing much,” he said, looking down at his legal pad. “Just trying to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

  “On a legal pad? You can’t do that. Legal pads don’t work for creative thinking. They stifle imaginative thoughts.”

  “I’m not having imaginative thoughts. I’m just making a list of all the people who owe us favors. Hopefully, one of them will be able to find me a job.” He looked down at the pad and reread the list of names. “Damn,” he said, dejectedly tossing it aside. “I can’t believe we’re going through this again.”