were done questioning him long before your arrival, Ms. Randall. I did you a favor letting you back there the first time. You don’t get to ride in the car at his side.”
“Just five minutes, Detective. He has a daughter. I need to know where—”
“Most everyone we’ll arrest this week has kids. Just because his is white and rich doesn’t make him special.”
I ran to Detective Boyle and craned my neck to get a better view of Jack being led down the hall. “Jack!”
Boyle exchanged an amused look with the female detective and shook his head.
I wanted to push Boyle out of the way but knew there would be nothing more I could do once I made it past his guard post. I called out loudly but calmly, “Jack, don’t say anything to anyone—not police, not prosecutors, definitely not other prisoners. Do you hear me? Not a word.”
I managed to catch one final glimpse of him as he struggled to look back at me as two flanking officers led him away. I had never seen anyone appear so terrified and utterly confused. His knees seemed to buckle when I said the word “prisoners.”
The last Jack knew, I was working on getting him freed. I had walked out of the conference room to take a phone call. Now he was being processed into the system with no explanation of what had changed.
OUTSIDE THE PRECINCT, THE TYPICAL end-of-day Tribeca traffic was at a standstill on Varick Street. Trucks lurched forward a few inches at a time, honking horns as if the sound might somehow blast a clear path through the line of cars fighting for a spot in the Holland Tunnel. A stocky man in a Mets tank top stood next to a cooler, selling bottles of Poland Spring water to drivers at a buck a pop. A street vendor told me that my outfit could use one of his necklaces. A man who passed me on the sidewalk made an “mmm-mmm” noise and suggested it was “too damn hot for all those clothes” I was wearing.
I could see and hear all of it, but none of what was happening outside my head mattered. My phone was buzzing in my hand—duelingcalls from Don and Buckley, according to the screen—but I kept walking.
I had to make a decision: Door A or Door B. Door A is what Don would want: call another firm, bring them up to date, get them to represent Jack. Door B: stay on the case.
Lawyers say it doesn’t matter whether a client’s innocent. It’s not our job to know. We fight zealously no matter what. What a bunch of crap.
I’m not good at everything. Or, to be more honest, I’m pretty bad on some fairly major metrics. I’m selfish. I feel entitled to things always going my way. I despise hearing about other people’s problems, because I don’t like most people, especially people who would be described as normal. They say ignorance is bliss? I think bliss is for the ignorant. But before he met me, Jack was normal and good and blissful, and made the mistake of loving me anyway. And he got burned for it.
I am extremely good at one thing, though. I am good at tearing apart a prosecution. And from what I already knew, Jack needed someone good.
I owed this to him. And maybe I owed it to myself as well.
I PULLED UP A NUMBER on my cell phone and hit Enter.
“Café Lissa.”
The woman at the other end of the line was the Lissa of Café Lissa. We met when I was eighteen years old through the luck of the draw that was Columbia University’s roommate matching system. A quarter century later, Melissa Reyes was still my best friend and quite possibly the only person I had ever met who truly understood me.
“Hey there.”
“Hey, I was hoping to hear from you. You’ve been incommunicado since a very late text last night about bumping into Ryan at Maialino. I’m afraid to ask.”
“It’s the same old thing. It’s . . . whatever.” Anyone else, if they actually knew that story, would start in with a lecture. But like I said, Melissa understands me. “Can you make a point of checking to see if Don’s swinging by the café tonight? He’s not
“Just five minutes, Detective. He has a daughter. I need to know where—”
“Most everyone we’ll arrest this week has kids. Just because his is white and rich doesn’t make him special.”
I ran to Detective Boyle and craned my neck to get a better view of Jack being led down the hall. “Jack!”
Boyle exchanged an amused look with the female detective and shook his head.
I wanted to push Boyle out of the way but knew there would be nothing more I could do once I made it past his guard post. I called out loudly but calmly, “Jack, don’t say anything to anyone—not police, not prosecutors, definitely not other prisoners. Do you hear me? Not a word.”
I managed to catch one final glimpse of him as he struggled to look back at me as two flanking officers led him away. I had never seen anyone appear so terrified and utterly confused. His knees seemed to buckle when I said the word “prisoners.”
The last Jack knew, I was working on getting him freed. I had walked out of the conference room to take a phone call. Now he was being processed into the system with no explanation of what had changed.
OUTSIDE THE PRECINCT, THE TYPICAL end-of-day Tribeca traffic was at a standstill on Varick Street. Trucks lurched forward a few inches at a time, honking horns as if the sound might somehow blast a clear path through the line of cars fighting for a spot in the Holland Tunnel. A stocky man in a Mets tank top stood next to a cooler, selling bottles of Poland Spring water to drivers at a buck a pop. A street vendor told me that my outfit could use one of his necklaces. A man who passed me on the sidewalk made an “mmm-mmm” noise and suggested it was “too damn hot for all those clothes” I was wearing.
I could see and hear all of it, but none of what was happening outside my head mattered. My phone was buzzing in my hand—duelingcalls from Don and Buckley, according to the screen—but I kept walking.
I had to make a decision: Door A or Door B. Door A is what Don would want: call another firm, bring them up to date, get them to represent Jack. Door B: stay on the case.
Lawyers say it doesn’t matter whether a client’s innocent. It’s not our job to know. We fight zealously no matter what. What a bunch of crap.
I’m not good at everything. Or, to be more honest, I’m pretty bad on some fairly major metrics. I’m selfish. I feel entitled to things always going my way. I despise hearing about other people’s problems, because I don’t like most people, especially people who would be described as normal. They say ignorance is bliss? I think bliss is for the ignorant. But before he met me, Jack was normal and good and blissful, and made the mistake of loving me anyway. And he got burned for it.
I am extremely good at one thing, though. I am good at tearing apart a prosecution. And from what I already knew, Jack needed someone good.
I owed this to him. And maybe I owed it to myself as well.
I PULLED UP A NUMBER on my cell phone and hit Enter.
“Café Lissa.”
The woman at the other end of the line was the Lissa of Café Lissa. We met when I was eighteen years old through the luck of the draw that was Columbia University’s roommate matching system. A quarter century later, Melissa Reyes was still my best friend and quite possibly the only person I had ever met who truly understood me.
“Hey there.”
“Hey, I was hoping to hear from you. You’ve been incommunicado since a very late text last night about bumping into Ryan at Maialino. I’m afraid to ask.”
“It’s the same old thing. It’s . . . whatever.” Anyone else, if they actually knew that story, would start in with a lecture. But like I said, Melissa understands me. “Can you make a point of checking to see if Don’s swinging by the café tonight? He’s not
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