Payback, p.8
Payback, page 8
That didn’t ring a bell. I made a mental note to check it out.
“We’ll keep looking for the guy. Maybe there was some camera footage from the place he broke into the car. I’ll find out. Hey, thanks for coming by today. We can eliminate the suspect in the lineup, start over. Your description will help out.”
I said, “I ought to be able to provide a decent description. I was in the DA’s office for three years, and my dad was a cop.”
“That so?” His mustache twitched, maybe hiding a smile of his own. “Then it makes sense. You should know what goes into a police report. ”
“Oh hell yeah. I had a lot of exposure to the particulars growing up, and on the job. And I’ve had personal experience lately, just within the past month.”
Brennan hadn’t indicated whether he knew of my recent experience, but glancing at the computer on his desk, it occurred to me that he might be privy to some inside information. “Hey, while I’m here, can you do a quick check for me? I was the victim of a subway push a few weeks back, and no one has told me whether they ever got the guy in custody.”
“Well, damn! You’re that former ADA. You had a big fight on the subway platform, ended up on the tracks, am I right?”
“Yep.”
He squinted at me, like he was thinking. “Are you that Stone? Morris Stone’s daughter was a victim of an attack recently. Or am I mixing it up with another case?”
“Not mixing it up. That’s me.” The longtime connections my dad had forged never failed to amaze me. But law enforcement is tight.
“We went through training together, years ago. Morris and Victor Odom were partners.”
“Right.”
“Victor was a character.” He shook his head. “He never could keep his hands clean. But Morris, he was solid. A good cop. Sad to hear how he died.”
The response surged automatically, and I wanted to voice it. He didn’t kill himself. He would never make that jump. But there was no point in arguing. In the past year, I’d tried to investigate his death myself, to prove it. I never got to the bottom of it.
“That subway push! Damn, you’re lucky. I saw the video. It was—”
I finished his sentence. “On the website of the New York Post. Yeah, I know. So, can you check it out? See if there’s any updated activity in that investigation? It would be a tremendous relief to know whether they’ve picked up the guy who attacked me. I’d love to hear that the guy isn’t walking around Manhattan. I don’t particularly want to bump into him.”
Obliging, Brennan hit the mouse and studied the monitor. As he searched for information, I waited. I could feel tension building. The muscles in my back tightened. I started to rub the skin between my thumb and finger.
When he frowned, I pinched my skin so hard that it hurt.
He said, “Yeah, I’m seeing that they picked someone up. A thirty-eight-year-old male is being held on suspicion of the subway attack. Name is Phillip Edgar Hoffmann. Does that sound right?”
Hearing that the police had apprehended Edgar made a wave of relief wash over me. “Yes! I knew the guy as Edgar. Is there a mug shot?”
He showed me the picture on the screen. It was Edgar, for certain. But the photo was shocking. He looked terrible, gawking into the camera with an expression of horror.
Looking at his face and profile, I shuddered. Brennan gave me a sympathetic glance as he said, “Hoffmann is the only recent arrest. The other suspect named is a woman, Whitney Novak.”
I wasn’t yet accustomed to hearing Whitney’s last name. It wasn’t the first occasion in recent days that I wished our old vigilante group hadn’t embraced anonymity, insisting on first names only. If I’d known Edgar’s full name, the cops could have picked him up faster. And the police hadn’t yet apprehended Larry, who lured me to the subway that day. I’d still have to watch out for him.
To Brennan, I said, “Glad they got Edgar in custody. I’m really relieved that I don’t have to worry about Whitney, either. That’s some comfort. She’s charged with attempted murder.”
He stared at the screen. “Assault.”
“No, it’s an attempted homicide charge. Attempted murder at Bellevue.”
“That’s not what I’m seeing.”
“Maybe you’ve got a glitch in your system, or you’re looking at an old report? NYPD contacted me when she was charged. I was in Florida on vacation, but I was told she’d been picked up and was being held without bond.”
The cop’s hands returned to the keyboard. For someone who only used a few of his fingers to type, his hands moved pretty fast. He squinted at the screen and then nudged the monitor so that I could see it from my seat.
He said, “There’s the docket sheet. Charges were amended after her first appearance, and they had a bond hearing. The judge found that the assault didn’t involve a firearm or deadly weapon. Does that sound right? How did it go down?”
I was so shocked that I stammered in response, unable to articulate a rational answer.
Whitney hadn’t attacked me with a gun or knife, but she had come for me in my hospital bed, messing with my painkillers and trying to shoot an air bubble up my arm with a hypodermic needle. It was, without doubt, an attempt to kill me; the facts were clear. Staring at the docket sheet on the computer screen, I shook my head in disbelief. Brennan was right. With my own eyes, I saw that the detective’s statement was correct.
A hearing was held in Judge Callahan’s court. He set a cash bail amount at ten thousand dollars. Whitney had bonded out a week ago, while I was still in Florida.
A red-hot surge of fury rolled through my head, deafening me. I thought of the trip out to Coney Island, of Millie’s fears that Whitney was trailing her. I recalled the picture from the roller coaster, the partial shot of the woman sitting three rows behind me.
Caught up in my dark mental rumination, I almost missed the detective’s next observation.
“This would never happen in Queens. Our DA is a believer in law and order. But that guy you’ve got in Manhattan, he’s soft on crime. That candy-ass just goes whichever way the wind blows. The legislature in Albany decides that ‘no bail and low bail’ is the fashion—because that’s the trend right now. Rubenstein chases it, he throws open the jailhouse door.”
As Brennan gave me a sympathetic look, his mustache twitched again. “I can’t believe the guy would do this to a former ADA. You were on his staff, right? That’s a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.”
Brennan was absolutely right. This was no coincidence. My eyes watered as I absorbed the information, like they’d literally been poked.
And I knew who held the stick.
Rubenstein.
My old boss was going soft on the woman who tried to kill me. Whitney was out, and she was following me around.
My gut said she was coming after me. Whitney was going to try it again.
Chapter 15
The second time I appeared at Rikers, my path was less rocky. The corrections officer acknowledged that my prescheduled meeting with Rod appeared on his log. I only had to go through two metal detectors. They made me stow my belongings in a locker, but at that point, I knew the ropes. I had a quarter in my pocket. And this time, they didn’t throw me to the dogs.
Still, as I sat alone and waited in a dank cinder-block cubicle, I kept waiting for disaster to strike. Maybe they’d appear to say that my meeting was canceled, due to unforeseen circumstances. They might announce that they’d done a random search of my locker and found contraband. Or they’d throw me with a rule change, one that they had arbitrarily and capriciously determined. Maybe they’d claim that lawyers whose names began with the letter “S” could only meet with clients on Sundays and Wednesdays, every third week.
Anything was possible.
I heard the door open on the other side of the cubicle and I tensed up, bracing myself for disappointment. I thought I’d be relieved, grateful, to actually see him come into the room. I was wrong. It was deeply unsettling when Rod walked through the door, dressed in jailhouse scrubs, with his hands cuffed behind him.
The sight of my friend restrained in handcuffs sent my fight reaction into overdrive. I could feel the adrenaline bounce in my brain. It required a huge effort to keep my demeanor cool and professional.
Before the corrections officer left, he glanced at me through the prisoner partition and said, “You got forty-six minutes.”
That shook me. “Hey! He gets an hour for attorney visits. The website says so.”
Without giving me another look, the guard said, “Took seven minutes to walk him over here from his cell. And it will take seven minutes to get him back.”
And then he disappeared, with the door swinging shut behind him.
I scooted close to the window, and said, “Rod, I’m sorry it took so long—”
He interrupted me. “How’s Millie? Is she doing okay?”
“She’s all right. Mostly worried about you. She really wants to see you, Rod. She misses you like crazy. The first time she came out here, they wouldn’t let her in. But she’s coming back, guaranteed.”
“No.” Through the grimy partition, his eyes pinned me to the wall; he wasn’t messing around. “I don’t want her here.”
“Rod, I don’t think you can keep her away. I told her I’d come first, to clear the path, because they didn’t let her in when she tried to visit. But she’s desperate to see you.”
“No,” he repeated, louder that time. “You hear me? I don’t want her anywhere near Rikers. It’s too dangerous. This place is a hellhole. God, if something happened to Millie, I don’t know what I’d do. Anyone who laid a hand on her, I’d kill him.”
“Stop! Jesus, Rod, don’t even think like that.” I glanced around the small room, worried that someone in the Department of Correction could be eavesdropping. Sadly, I couldn’t tell Rod his fears were groundless. I had seen horror stories in the media and heard tales from other lawyers. Plus I had firsthand experience with the “tramp line.”
He leaned forward, folding his arms on the counter behind the window. “I didn’t expect to see you, to be honest. Good surprise. But they told me I’d be getting a public defender.”
“Who told you?” I wasn’t shocked to hear that no one informed Rod in advance of my attorney visit. Rikers didn’t run a tight ship.
“The judge. At the arraignment.”
“They took you over to the courthouse? When?”
“No. I haven’t been out of this shithole since the cops picked me up a week ago. The arraignment was virtual, on video. The judge read the charge to me and asked if I had money to hire a lawyer. I actually thought I had representation because Gatsby always had a guy on retainer if we ran into trouble. But the judge said there was no record of a lawyer entering an appearance. I don’t have any money set aside, neither does Millie. So the judge said he’d appoint the public defender. But no one has been by to see me. I think that’s pretty standard. That’s what I’m hearing in my cellblock.”
He was right about that. The public defender system was shamefully understaffed. A lot of inmates didn’t have the opportunity to consult with their lawyers until it was time for trial.
“Jesus, Rod. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Last I heard, you were in the hospital, flat on your back. I didn’t figure I could ask you to wheel into court on a stretcher.”
“Do I look like I need a stretcher?” I asked, pretending to be offended. “I was in Florida when they picked you up. But if you’ll have me, I’d be glad to enter my appearance on your behalf.”
As he nodded, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. He looked weary, like he hadn’t slept in days. And even in the dim light, I could see marks of a battle: the discolored skin around one eye and an abrasion on his cheekbone.
I needed to address that. “Who’s been knocking you around?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
His statement caught me off guard; I kept forgetting about the bruising from the Suburban ride. But that wasn’t Rod’s problem. “I was in a wreck, coming home from the airport. What about you? I’m your advocate, you gotta keep me advised.”
I expected to hear him attribute it to a prison guard. But if I had bet on that, I’d have lost my money. He said, “Two guys jumped me in the cell yesterday. A couple of skinheads.”
I experienced another wave of righteous anger on Rod’s behalf. My muscles tensed involuntarily, as if preparing to join a fight. “Two guys? How many men to a cell?”
“It’s unreal. A cell with two beds, they’re squeezing three or four of us in there at a time.”
Had I heard about that extent of overcrowding? The DA’s office never spent much time discussing jailhouse conditions. When I tried to describe my Rikers experience to Bill’s coworkers at the bar the night before, they’d shrugged it off.
“Why’d they do it?”
“Do skinheads need a reason to jump a Black man?”
The words made my stomach turn. Rod looked down at his hands. The skin on his knuckles was raw. He made a fist with his right hand, rubbing his knuckles with his left.
“I didn’t have any trouble fighting them off. There were only two of them, for fuck’s sake.”
When our eyes met, we both grinned. Before working in lower Manhattan as a bouncer, Rod had done two tours of duty in Afghanistan. Those skinheads at Rikers had picked the wrong guy to mess with.
“But it was weird, I’ll tell you that much. There were two guards there, right down the hall on the cellblock. They just turned a blind eye.”
“What about when it was all over? There wasn’t any trouble from the guards? They didn’t try to blame it on you?”
“Didn’t do shit about it. But last night, they moved the skinheads out. No explanation, even though they kept asking them what was going on. I thought maybe they was being released. But I saw them in the mess hall this morning.”
I shook my head. Didn’t know what to make of it. “So how many in the cell now?”
“Three. They moved two new guys in. Russians.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Don’t know yet.”
It worried me. The DA’s office had referred cases to the US Attorney, allegations concerning the expansion of organized crime into the city from a “Russian mafia.” “We need to get you out. What bond amount has been set for you?”
I hoped it was a reasonable sum, that I would have enough borrowing power to post it, or to pay a percentage to a bail bondsman. I was willing to lean on Mom’s credit. Funny to think I’d sworn I’d never use it.
“That’s another weird thing. I’m being held without bond.”
“You’re fucking kidding me. For a misdemeanor assault? Who’s your judge?”
“I wrote down the name, so I’d remember it.” He reached into the pocket of his scrubs and pulled out a scrap of paper. “It’s Callahan.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as a bolt of pain drilled my left eye socket and rebounded across my forehead.
Judge Callahan? Again? It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Someone was coming for us. And they were using the courts to do it.
Chapter 16
I didn’t burden Rod with my personal fears. And I didn’t share my doubts about Judge Callahan’s ethics. If Rod knew he was in purgatory while Callahan set a ten-thousand-dollar bond on Whitney and let her go, he’d flip out.
I tried to project confidence as I said, “I’m going to get on top of this. I’ll enter my appearance and go to the Criminal Courts building tomorrow, run down the assistant DA who’s handling it. Maybe there’s been a mistake. That’s the only reasonable explanation.”
He let out a long sigh, and his body seemed to relax. “I appreciate it. How are you doing? Have you recovered, pretty much? We were worried about you. Jesus Christ—who gets run over by a train?”
“I’m on the mend. But I’m getting out of shape, Rod. I look forward to bouncing you out of lockup, so we can meet at the gym again. I need a sparring partner.”
He cracked a smile at that. “What about Steven? Can’t he fill that role?”
“Steven? Oh, please.”
“Really? I thought you two had a thing going on.”
I tried to sound casual. “Well, that doesn’t mean he can take me down in a fight.”
I was trying to be funny. Rod didn’t laugh. “I’m serious. Are you and Steven together?”
It didn’t sound like idle curiosity. Rod was getting at something, I could tell. “Yeah, I guess we are. Looks like it.”
“So you’ve seen him, since you got back to town.”
“Yeah.”
“Have y’all had any trouble? Since you’ve been back?”
“How do you mean?”
His eyes shifted, and he dropped his voice. I had to lean up to the partition to hear him. “I mean, with any of those assholes we used to hang with. I’m not talking about Whitney. She’s locked up at Rosie’s, I heard that. But Edgar’s still out there, right? He didn’t get picked up, did he?”
I almost told him then, almost said it. Whitney’s out. But I couldn’t offer any reasonable justification, couldn’t explain why the system cut her loose and incarcerated him. Until I figured it out, I’d keep it close to the chest. So I just shared the good news. “I heard yesterday, from a cop in Queens. They picked Edgar up. Phillip Edgar Hoffmann. I saw the mug shot, and it’s definitely him.”
“Really? I’m glad to hear that, after what he did to you. Where’s he being held?”
“In here, I guess. Think you’ll run into him?”
“No telling. But it’s not likely. They got over five thousand inmates on this island. What about the others? Diane, Devon, Larry. Anybody heard from them?”
Rod may not have known about Larry, that he had led me to the subway where I almost died on the tracks. I saved that story for another day—but not because I was trying to withhold information from him. I mean, Rod was locked up. Larry was my problem, not his.
“Nobody has seen them. Not that I know of.”
“Last time I saw Larry, he was drinking again. Somebody’s gonna pop up. I worry about Millie. She can’t fight them off, not with me locked up on Rikers Island.”
