just liked getting beat down.” Her voice was as matter-of-fact as the pen moving from space to space on the form. “The thing with Byron was that he was doing too much coke, staying awake for days at a time. The whole thing got out of hand.”
I glanced at Caleb out of the corner of my eye. He was clipping his fingernails with a little clipper attached to his key ring, his studied indifference a clear indication that his gentle ministrations weren’t needed.
“You’ll forgive me, Priscilla, if I say you don’t appear to be in mourning.”
She curled the right side of her lip into a bow, tilted her head slightly as she looked up at me. It was a smile, one I would become thoroughly familiar with, that held back more than it revealed.
“This is Rikers Island, Sid. It doesn’t pay to be soft.”
I stood up and began to pace. “Is that what you’re gonna tell the jury? That it only looks like punching a hole through Byron’s chest means less to you than stepping on a cockroach? That deep down you still love him?”
“It’s the cocaine that really frightens you, isn’t it?”
I ignored the question. “Remember, it’s up to us to prove you killed Byron in self-defense. The prosecutor will be the one trying to supply reasonable doubt. Plus, juries are mostly too stupid to follow what witnesses actually say. They rely on manner, like they were at home watching television. If you come off as the ice princess, it makes our job a lot harder.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to practice crying.” She took out a Newport, lit it up. “Maybe I can find a sympathetic bull dyke to let me lean on her shoulder.”
Caleb cleared his throat, the sound bursting into the little capsule Priscilla and I had created, startling us both. “Speakin’ of that cocaine, Priscilla,” he said. “Where was it when the cops came in?”
“In a suitcase in the bedroom closet.” She tapped the ash from her cigarette loose, watched it drop to the dirty tiles on the floor.
“Now, see …” Caleb began.
“Wait a second.” I cut him off with a shake of my head. “The apartment was leased in your name, right?” I stopped, waited for her to nod. “That’s presumptive evidence that you, in fact, possessed the cocaine. The jury hears that, they’re gonna convict unless we prove it belonged to your husband, that you were a virtual prisoner in that apartment, that …”
She jerked her head to the left, exposing the bruise covering the right side of her face. “It was Byron’s cocaine and I was a prisoner.”
I reversed my chair and sat down, straddling the seat. “Tell me about the period between your leaving prison and Byron’s parole. You report to your parole officer?”
“The first Monday of every month.”
“Ever miss an appointment?”
“Never.”
“You have a job?”
“Yeah.” She took a hit on her Newport, curled her lip into a smile, the quick flash of anger disappearing as if it had dropped into a bottomless well. “Tucker Trucking in Maspeth. The owner’s a guy named Paulie Gullo. I worked in the office.”
“And what did you do there?”
“A small business like that, you do a little bit of everything, from payroll to bullshitting creditors about the check being in the mail. And you’re always four jobs behind.”
“Think you could make me a list?”
“Sure. I’ll do it tonight.”
“Okay,” Caleb broke in. “Let’s get back to the …” He chuckled manfully. “… the scene of the crime. How long did it take the cops to get there? After the shooting I mean.”
“About twenty minutes.”
“And the first cops to arrive, they were in uniform?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me what they did, as best you can remember.”
She dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it out. “The first thing they did, when I answered the door, was push their way inside. I can’t say I offered much resistance, but they definitely didn’t ask permission. Then they saw Byron and one of
I glanced at Caleb out of the corner of my eye. He was clipping his fingernails with a little clipper attached to his key ring, his studied indifference a clear indication that his gentle ministrations weren’t needed.
“You’ll forgive me, Priscilla, if I say you don’t appear to be in mourning.”
She curled the right side of her lip into a bow, tilted her head slightly as she looked up at me. It was a smile, one I would become thoroughly familiar with, that held back more than it revealed.
“This is Rikers Island, Sid. It doesn’t pay to be soft.”
I stood up and began to pace. “Is that what you’re gonna tell the jury? That it only looks like punching a hole through Byron’s chest means less to you than stepping on a cockroach? That deep down you still love him?”
“It’s the cocaine that really frightens you, isn’t it?”
I ignored the question. “Remember, it’s up to us to prove you killed Byron in self-defense. The prosecutor will be the one trying to supply reasonable doubt. Plus, juries are mostly too stupid to follow what witnesses actually say. They rely on manner, like they were at home watching television. If you come off as the ice princess, it makes our job a lot harder.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to practice crying.” She took out a Newport, lit it up. “Maybe I can find a sympathetic bull dyke to let me lean on her shoulder.”
Caleb cleared his throat, the sound bursting into the little capsule Priscilla and I had created, startling us both. “Speakin’ of that cocaine, Priscilla,” he said. “Where was it when the cops came in?”
“In a suitcase in the bedroom closet.” She tapped the ash from her cigarette loose, watched it drop to the dirty tiles on the floor.
“Now, see …” Caleb began.
“Wait a second.” I cut him off with a shake of my head. “The apartment was leased in your name, right?” I stopped, waited for her to nod. “That’s presumptive evidence that you, in fact, possessed the cocaine. The jury hears that, they’re gonna convict unless we prove it belonged to your husband, that you were a virtual prisoner in that apartment, that …”
She jerked her head to the left, exposing the bruise covering the right side of her face. “It was Byron’s cocaine and I was a prisoner.”
I reversed my chair and sat down, straddling the seat. “Tell me about the period between your leaving prison and Byron’s parole. You report to your parole officer?”
“The first Monday of every month.”
“Ever miss an appointment?”
“Never.”
“You have a job?”
“Yeah.” She took a hit on her Newport, curled her lip into a smile, the quick flash of anger disappearing as if it had dropped into a bottomless well. “Tucker Trucking in Maspeth. The owner’s a guy named Paulie Gullo. I worked in the office.”
“And what did you do there?”
“A small business like that, you do a little bit of everything, from payroll to bullshitting creditors about the check being in the mail. And you’re always four jobs behind.”
“Think you could make me a list?”
“Sure. I’ll do it tonight.”
“Okay,” Caleb broke in. “Let’s get back to the …” He chuckled manfully. “… the scene of the crime. How long did it take the cops to get there? After the shooting I mean.”
“About twenty minutes.”
“And the first cops to arrive, they were in uniform?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me what they did, as best you can remember.”
She dropped her cigarette to the floor and ground it out. “The first thing they did, when I answered the door, was push their way inside. I can’t say I offered much resistance, but they definitely didn’t ask permission. Then they saw Byron and one of
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