Clean Hands

by Patrick Hoffman

  “No. No, I didn’t take anything from it,” said Avram, looking to Billy, like he might offer some kind of help.

  “All righty then,” said Valencia. “Thank you.” She clicked the phone again and checked the time.

  At that same moment, Ren Xiong was in the middle of taking care of some last-minute details before leaving town. He’d just visited his girlfriend Wan Kin Yi. He told her he had to go on a business trip and that he’d be gone for a few weeks, maybe longer. They had sex in her bed, which had white sheets and a white blanket and pillows and seemed altogether more luxurious than anything else in the rest of his life. Before he left, he gave Wan Kin Yi an envelope with a thousand dollars in it, explaining that he wanted her to be comfortable. She made a funny face but she didn’t refuse the money.

  He didn’t know if he’d see her again, which made him feel sadder than he expected. He spent most of the walk back from Alphabet City thinking about her. Now he looked at his phone, saw it was almost four p.m., and sped up his pace.

  He’d left his suitcase at a mailbox store in the hands of a Chinese worker he was friendly with. When he picked it up, the worker asked where he was off to. Xiong told him Los Angeles, and the two men joked about him becoming a famous actor. “I won’t forget you when I’m rich,” Xiong said.

  Upon entering the laundromat he took off his baseball cap. He’d lost the receipt and he wanted the old woman to recognize him. She greeted him in Chinese, and he apologized for not having the ticket. She disappeared in search of his shirts, and Xiong looked around the place and felt saddened by the dirty floor. Didn’t the owner have any family who could help with sweeping and mopping?

  The old woman returned with his two shirts, and Xiong paid without making any more small talk. Then he set his suitcase on the floor, opened it, and put the two clean shirts—still wrapped in plastic—inside. After zipping it closed, he stood, smiled at the woman, and rolled the suitcase to the door. Before leaving, he looked at his phone again—4:10 p.m.

  The laundromat was on Baxter Street. Xiong had been instructed to walk north on Mulberry. If he wasn’t contacted by the time he got to Broome Street he was to get into a taxi, head to Penn Station, take the train to Philadelphia, then jump in another taxi to Camden. In Camden, he’d go to a safe house on Norris Street. He’d been once before; it was a place without charm. The television didn’t pick up any Chinese stations, and the nearest pool hall was a half-hour bus ride away.

  Xiong got to Mulberry and rolled his suitcase north. He passed a fish store and looked at some sea bass laid out on ice. The smell coming out of the place was enough to stop him from breathing through his nose. He walked on and scanned the street for signs of irregularity.

  His eyes settled on a Chinese man with a paper bag walking toward him. The man stood out because of his athletic build. He carried the bag from the bottom, as though it might break from its load. If the man had a gun, Xiong thought, he could keep it in the bag and fire without pulling it out. As the gap between the men closed, Xiong reminded himself that if his old bosses from Anquan Bu—the Ministry of Security—ever sent someone, they would come from behind. He would never see them. It would be merciful that way. Still, Xiong kept his eyes on the man, and they passed each other without incident.

  Two blocks later, just after Grand Street, Xiong noticed a black SUV parked on the west side of the street in front of him. When he got within ten paces, he saw the back window lower. Xiong leaned down and looked in. Riding in the backseat was his American boss, Jonathan Redgrave.

  “There he is,” said Redgrave, smiling like a wolf.

  The driver’s door opened, and Manny Vega stepped out. “You all right?” asked Vega, holding a hand out for a shake. He always had dark circles under his eyes, and today was no different. He was roughly the same age as Xiong, somewhere in his forties. He had small scars on the right side of his face, the remnants, seemingly, of an explosion. He looked dangerous, but he’d always been friendly. They shook hands and Vega patted him on the back.

  We’ve lived our lives and now we’re here, thought Xiong, standing on this street. For a moment his mind jumped back to the sea bass he’d just seen, the single skyward eye looking like it was shocked at the predicament it found itself in. One moment alive in the sea, the next dead and on ice.

  Manny Vega took Xiong’s suitcase from him, and the back door popped open. “Come on,” said Jonathan Redgrave, waving him in.

  Xiong reminded himself to be calm and got into the back.

  “There he is,” repeated Redgrave. They shook hands, and they didn’t say anything more until Manny Vega finished loading the suitcase, and the back door slammed shut.

  Jonathan Redgrave, as far as Xiong could guess, was somewhere in his forties or fifties. It was harder to tell with white people. His face looked older; it was sallow and pitted. He was skinny, had dark hair and a receding hairline. He looked like the kind of man who exercised regularly but remained unhealthy. He was, Xiong thought, ugly both inside and out.

  “That was good work today. You should be proud,” said Jonathan. Manny jumped into the driver’s seat and the vehicle began to move.

  Xiong licked his lips, nodded, but he didn’t feel anything. He’d been smuggled away from China, away from his family, his life, to work for this man. It brought him no joy. A former Anquan Bu operative, Xiong had been compromised by accepting money from the Americans. They’d given him a choice: fake his own death and come to America and work for them, or be exposed. He agreed to work for them. Because of his family in Tianjin, he couldn’t run away. His entry into America had been undocumented. There was no record that he existed. In China he was dead. Now Jonathan Redgrave had a man without documented fingerprints, DNA, iris scans, or a known facial pattern. He could do jobs for them. He was a tool in their toolbox. They kept him, he imagined, for some bigger job in the future. Not for these little jobs. Someday he would really be needed, and afterward they would throw him away.

  “We’re gonna put you in Camden, and then move you to Baltimore in a week,” said Redgrave. “Just sit tight.”

  Xiong nodded again, and then looked out his window at the people walking on Broome Street. He looked at their jackets, backpacks, and hooded sweatshirts. Sit tight, he thought—that means sit without moving. His mind shifted to Baltimore—he thought about his gambling options there. The pool hall downtown had games. He could find a new girlfriend. He could start exercising, get back in shape.

  “Manny said the kid played it right?” said Jonathan Redgrave.

  “Is it a question?” said Xiong.

  “I’m saying, Manny said the kid played it just right. Do you agree with that assessment?” said Redgrave, sounding annoyed.

  “He seemed sad,” said Xiong.

  “You hear this?” asked Redgrave, looking at Manny Vega in front. The driver shook his head.

  “May I ask a question,” said Xiong.

  “Please,” said Redgrave.

  “What are you going to do with him?” asked Xiong.

  “He’s a good kid. He’s played it straight so far,” said Redgrave. “Shit, you know better than anyone, once you’re in the field … you are in the field.”

  Xiong glanced at Manny in the mirror. The man nodded. They were all in the field.

  “So, it is now 4:39 p.m. I told you I’d have the phone back by the end of the day,” said Valencia Walker, sounding cocky. She slid the missing iPhone across the table to Elizabeth Carlyle, and then turned her attention back to Chris Cowley. He looked appropriately wrung out.

  “Technically, you said ‘a few hours,’” said Elizabeth.

  “Nonetheless,” said Valencia.

  “Should I tell him how much you cost?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Valencia.

  Chris shook his head and a pained look passed over his face. “I want to thank you,” he said, raising his hand and tapping the table with his fingertips. “I don’t even know what to say.�
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  Right then the door of the office opened and Elizabeth’s assistant, Andy, poked his head in. “Ms. Carlyle, there is somebody downstairs at security who wants to speak to you.”

  “Take a message,” said Elizabeth.

  “They say it’s urgent. About a phone.”

  “One person?” asked Elizabeth.

  Valencia stood, pulled out her own phone, and began texting her men. She didn’t know exactly what was happening, but she knew her night was far from over.

  “One man, yes,” said Andy.

  “Tell security to personally escort him here. Tell them, under no circumstances should they let him go,” said Elizabeth.

  Valencia and Andy went straight to the elevator and got there before it arrived. When the doors opened, Valencia was surprised to see an Indian or Pakistani man sandwiched between two of the building’s suited security staff. The man wore a stained beige shirt, and a loose maroon tie. He had jet-black hair and a black mustache, but appeared to be in his sixties. He was clearly very nervous.

  Valencia thought about checking him for weapons but decided against it. “This way,” she said, motioning in the direction of Elizabeth’s office. She let the guards lead the way. Andy followed behind.

  Chris and Elizabeth were both standing when the group arrived.

  “Thank you, please wait outside,” said Elizabeth, dismissing the guards and Andy. The door closed and the four of them were left alone.

  The man raised his hands apologetically. “I’m a delivery man. I don’t know what this is. I got a call for a delivery. I met them, they give me paper, that’s it.”

  “Tell us what you’ve been asked to deliver,” said Elizabeth.

  “I don’t want to get in trouble,” said the man.

  “I can assure you—you are not going to get in any trouble,” said Valencia. She stole a glance at Chris Cowley. He appeared to be as confused by what was happening as she was.

  “I’m not with them,” said the man.

  “We know,” said Elizabeth. “Now tell us what you’ve been told to say.”

  “They gave me two hundred and twenty dollars. They say, tell them, ‘we have the Cal …’” The man searched his mind for the word.

  “Calcott files?” asked Elizabeth.

  He nodded.

  “What else?” asked Valencia, in the friendliest voice she possessed.

  The man took a folded envelope out of his pocket, unfolded it, and with some difficulty tore it open. From inside he pulled out a plain white page with black handwriting on it. He began to read from it: “They say ‘You have until tomorrow, five p.m.’ They say ‘Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash.’ They say ‘We’ll be back in communication with you.’”

  The man looked up from the page, which was shaking, and swallowed. Valencia nodded at him to continue. He looked back down.

  “They say otherwise they go to Emerson lawyers. They say, ‘We know their address.’ They say, ‘1604 Broadway,’ and then they go to New York Post, New York Times, CNN, everywhere, news. Emails.” He looked back up and took a deep breath.

  “What’s your name?” asked Valencia.

  “Juahar.”

  “Juahar, we’re gonna need the two hundred and twenty dollars that they gave you. We’ll replace it with fresh bills.” She took a step closer to him. “Did they write that note, or did you?”

  “I didn’t write it. They wrote it. Not me.”

  “The envelope and paper? Did they have the paper?”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s all them.”

  “Fine, why don’t you set that note and envelope down right there.” She pointed at the table. “We’re also going to need to take a statement from you, get a little bit more of the details fleshed out. Are you okay with that?”

  “Yeah, but …” said Juahar. He frowned, shrugged, turned his palms up.

  “Don’t worry,” interjected Elizabeth, her face showing exactly how angry she was. “You’ll be paid for your time.”

  2

  YOU WORK FOR US

  “That will be all, Chris,” said Elizabeth. The message—delivered with raised eyebrows and a cold expression—couldn’t have been clearer. Still, for a moment Chris didn’t understand what was happening. He stood there blinking, then looked at the deliveryman, as though he might be able to help. The deliveryman offered nothing. Seven hundred and fifty thousand—the number passed through Chris’s mind without meaning. He looked at Valencia and saw her standing there with her arms crossed. She nodded to him like, Yes, this is happening. Chris finally understood; he was being asked to leave the room.

  His cell phone lay facedown on the table; a moment passed while Chris deliberated as to whether or not he should take it. His eyes went to a piece of tape on the back, and he wondered if Valencia had put it there. Finally, he picked it up, held it, waited a second for any objections, and then jammed it into his pocket.

  Then he looked back at Elizabeth. “I’ll be in my office,” he said. The words came out at a lower volume than he’d hoped. The walk to the door seemed endless. His ears were ringing, and he felt dizzy.

  When he finally stepped out, he saw Elizabeth’s assistant Andy seated at his desk. The expression on Andy’s face suggested a mixture of disbelief and watchfulness. “Back, to my office,” Chris whispered to himself. He pointed down the hall. One of the security guards sat near Andy’s desk. His posture and facial expression indicated that he understood something big was happening. He kept his eyes on Chris.

  Look normal, Chris told himself. Normal walking feet, and hands in pockets.

  As he made his way down the hall his mind went to the beginning of his problems. Just under two weeks earlier (an overcast Saturday), he’d been in his apartment working on an answer to a motion when someone knocked on his door. The building had an intercom system—he figured it was a neighbor knocking.

  When he looked through the peephole, he saw three men standing in the hallway. They wore suits and ties. That was the precise moment when all of this started. There’d been nothing leading up to it. One day you’re home doing a little work, the next you’re involved in a criminal conspiracy.

  At first, the men at the door looked like detectives, maybe FBI agents. Keeping his eye on the peephole, and without opening the door, he asked who it was. He couldn’t remember the exact words they used when they answered: something about needing to open the door right then.

  He remembered some paperwork being held up—some kind of warrant. He leaned away from the door for a second and considered grabbing his phone. His heart was racing. The next thing he remembered was the sound of metal gently bumping against metal; he looked through the peephole again and could see that one of the men was bent over. Chris could only see the man’s rump.

  It occurred to Chris that the man was picking the lock. Scared that the guy was going to damage his door, Chris pulled it open and tried to make himself stand tall like a lawyer who wasn’t at all scared of cops.

  The men didn’t ask if they could enter. They just walked right in. There were five of them in total: two stayed in the hallway, and three pushed their way right past him. The next thing Chris remembered he was sitting on the couch. One of the men, a tall, skinny white guy with pitted skin, sat down next to him. He had thin hair, and a receding hairline. His eyes were dark, almost black, and set close together. He wore a slightly wrinkled gray suit. He seemed like the leader.

  He had a cheap-looking book bag in his hand, and he unzipped it and pulled out a laptop. At that point, Chris still thought the men were law enforcement, at the wrong door, maybe looking for one of his neighbors.

  I’m going to have your fucking badges for this, Chris remembered thinking with a kind of bloodlust. I’m a fucking lawyer.

  The man opened the computer, typed in a security code, and shifted in his seat.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal,” he said. “You’ve been viewing child pornography. It doesn’t matter if you thought they were eighteen, it doesn’t matter if yo
u think you can beat the case. It will be in the news.”

  Chris stayed silent and then shook his head.

  The man continued. “I guarantee you. One phone call and it will be all over the place. Fucking BuzzFeed, everywhere.”

  The man looked at one of his associates as if he were going to ask a question, then he seemed to decide against it and continued talking to Chris. “People love when lawyers get busted with child porn. They love nothing more. It’s their favorite thing. You can’t get it off you. That kind of shit sticks with you for the rest of your life.”

  Chris wondered if he was joking; he turned and looked at the other two men. They were busy going through his things. One of them looked Latino, or Middle Eastern, the other was pink-skinned, short, and ugly. Chris could see the darker one at the dresser near his bed. He was pushing the clothes around inside it as if he were looking for something.

  This can’t be happening, thought Chris. “They can’t,” he said to the man seated next to him. The other man, the white one, had been searching in the closet, but now moved on to the desk. When he started taking pictures of the papers there, Chris blurted out, “You can’t do that.”

  He tried to stand, but the man next to him grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. He was stronger than he looked. It felt like he could break Chris’s wrist if he wanted.

  It was at that point that Chris became truly scared. These weren’t cops.

  “Look,” said the man. “Look at this.” He wanted to show Chris something on the laptop. Chris squinted and saw an article about some guy being arrested for child pornography.

  Then he clicked through a few more articles about different men. “Look,” said the man, clicking on a blue file. A spreadsheet opened. The man pointed out things with his cursor: “That’s your IP address. That’s the date, that’s the time. That’s the URL.”