A Heist Story

by Ellen Simpson

  Marcey was alone then. Truly alone, trapped in a hostile environment at every turn. It had never gotten any easier.

  When Marcey was young, she used to fantasize about what sort of person she would become later in life. Her pediatrician had asked her every year, in his kind way, what she wanted to be when she grew up. The answers varied. For a while, she’d wanted to be a mermaid, and then a skateboarder. There was a brief period at around six years old when she wanted, more than anything else, to be Mulan. As she grew older, Marcey had stopped having easy answers for her doctor. She would look away, mutter some sullen teenage excuse about not wanting to box herself in, and find herself wanting.

  She went to school for statistics, because she was good at numbers and liked the probabilities and how easily data could be manipulated. She took the numbers like her mind took possibilities and weighed them to see the best possible choice. Marcey told herself she went to school for statistics so she would never become one, but it wasn’t quite true. She already was one, and not one trending in the positive. She wanted to get better at weighing odds, to avoid the bad choices that had gotten her into the situations that plagued her still.

  What did she want with her life? What did any kid with a fairly public—though ostensibly sealed—juvenile record want? What did any kid who’d suffered through high school because their best friend was ripped away from them want out of life? Anonymity. To be left in that vacuum of alone they’d dumped her in.

  In a single thirty-second sound bite, Linda Johnson’s ad tore down the rickety framework of lies and half-truths she’d told her coworkers about her past and her childhood. Marcey never outright lied to her peers—she just had no compunction about omitting the truth. If they really wanted to know, they could use Google as well as anyone else.

  By the time the ad finished playing for the third time, Marcey’s mind was made up. She picked up her phone and shot a message back to Rebecca.

  Marcey: Thanks for telling me. It’s good to hear from you. If you’re smart you’ll lose my number.

  There was no way she could continue to allow this to stand. She had to get the ad off the air. By any means necessary. And if she couldn’t, she was going to destroy Assistant District Attorney Linda Johnson’s career before the election in a very public way. Rebecca and whatever feelings Marcey still had for her be damned.

  Rebecca: What are you going to do?

  Marcey Daniels has successfully blocked Rebecca Johnson.

  Marcey set down her phone and sat back. The sigh on her lips tasted wrong, like the ill-fitting clothes she wore and the curling idea of revenge in her stomach.

  Only…she had no idea how to exact a revenge like that. She wasn’t a criminal, thanks to her mother putting herself into debt to pay for the lawyer that had gotten her off. She wasn’t even a lawyer; she was a kid with a degree in math who saw patterns in things.

  She minimized the internet window and exhaled quietly. Her computer wallpaper, a photograph of herself a handful of years younger than her twenty-five years, alongside her best friend, winked into view. They were standing in front of a Starbucks, heads thrown back to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Darius was clad in all black, a cream-colored hat perched awkwardly on top of his just-trimmed fade. Marcey’s bright red scarf matched her cheeks. She was wearing Darius’s heavy winter jacket. It was one of the last photographs of them happy and together. Rebecca and everything that had come after that awful party…was all a bad memory now. But this—this moment was pure.

  Marcey stared at it for a long time, heart warm with the memory of that day. His monthly visitation was soon. The first Friday in March. Marcey was going up to visit him again then. Maybe he’d have an answer about Johnson, the mysterious package she’d received a few weeks before, or what to do about the fact that they couldn’t talk to each other but in code. Marcey hated the slog of going in and out of a high-security prison once a month. She hated the never-ending guilt.

  In a way, she was grateful for the forward thrust of the early stages of revenge.

  Anything was better than dwelling in the past.

  Marcey didn’t get the chance to drive much. It came with living in New York, squatting in the spare bedroom of her mother’s already too-small apartment. She relished the opportunity to get behind the wheel and out on the open road, driving up I-90 toward Albany and then on to Canada. Driving was freedom, divorcing herself from the concrete jungle of the city and pulling her into the rolling Adirondack foothills north of the capitol.

  Nestled deep amid the forested mountains was a tiny village that played host to the prison where Darius was locked away. Called Dannemora, it hardly evoked the hardened home of some of the worst criminals from the state of New York, picturesque as it gathered at the edge of a national forest that shared the village’s name.

  ADA Johnson had made sure to send him to the scariest prison she could arrange: Clinton Correctional. The name meant nothing if you weren’t from New York, but if you were, and you had any passing brushes with the law, you feared the place. It was where they sent the worst of the worst criminals, where they locked them away and tossed the key into the Hudson.

  Or whatever dramatic shit they say on Law & Order, Marcey mused pensively.

  Marcey had spent the past few weeks stewing about ADA Johnson’s political ad while in meetings with Darius’s lawyer. He had to figure out if the ad was illegal, and they’d spent hours debating what to do with the strange package that had arrived on her doorstep. She gripped the steering wheel of her rented Hyundai, trying to focus on the drive. On the seat next to her, sticking out of her purse, was a small black Moleskine notebook. Marcey glanced at it before training her eyes back on the road. That was another mess that would only serve to distract her. She and Devon weren’t in agreement about the best course of action. It was starting to snow; the road was slick and the prison was fast approaching. Her mind couldn’t wander now.

  When she sat down across from Darius thirty minutes later, she barely took the time to take in his gaunt appearance and the dark circles under his eyes. His skin was dry when he grasped her hand and pulled her in for the one hug she was allowed at the beginning of the visit. They’d kept him in here longer than they should have—some technicality his previous parole hearing had invalidated the whole process. Marcey didn’t want it to happen again. What Johnson wanted to do could change that, somehow keep Darius locked away forever. She couldn’t look at him, not without telling him the awful truth. He had to know—it would impact him too.

  Marcey swallowed, looking at her hands to avoid Darius’s serious brown eyes, and spoke quickly. “Linda Johnson’s using our mugshots in a campaign ad. Devon says it’s legal and we can’t really do shit about it, and now the entire world knows that I was involved in your arrest and that you’re about to come up for parole again.”

  He stared at her. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope.” Marcey paused, forcing herself to look up. She sighed, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Well, that’s stretching it a little. They’re cartoonish renderings, but they’re very obviously based on our mugshots. I didn’t want to ask anyone, but I think if your ma or mine saw it they’d know. Same with anyone who knows us. That’s what worries me.”

  “Man.” Darius scrubbed at his face. “You got off for this bullshit.”

  “I shouldn’t have,” Marcey said, spitting it out quickly. She always did. He resented her freedom enough as it was. There was nothing she could do about it either, other than be quicker to the punch of her white guilt.

  He glared at her. “Don’t start.” He sat back. “Devon doesn’t think it’s libel or something?”

  “Not as far as any research can figure. I’ve spent the past couple weeks stewing about it. Talking at him about it. He’s looked into it, off the clock. Basically, Devon says it’s a matter of public record. And apparently the Super PAC who paid for it isn’t known for their scruples. I’m sure they think I’m locked up somewhere too.” Marcey pressed he
r hand flat on the table before them. “I’m not sure what this means for your parole hearing.”

  “Probably means I’m fucked.” Darius’s first appearance before the parole board was scheduled for May, when the campaign would be really heating up prior to the summer campaign season. Marcey’d checked those dates too. There was no way to get the ad pulled without a lengthy court battle. Darius rubbed at the back of his head and looked away. “Fuck, man.” He looked like he was on the verge of crying.

  All Marcey wanted to do was reach out, draw him into a hug, and not let him go. He was her best friend; he knew her secrets and she his. She looked down at her hands, useless on the table. They weren’t allowed to touch. The distance opened like a great gash across the space between them. “I’m sorry.”

  It never sounded like enough.

  “Devon’s pretty convinced she wouldn’t show up in person, I guess because of the campaign. He called me and told me that. This musta been why. Said we’d get some green-eared kid who’d recommend parole and I’d be out in June.” Darius seemed to crumple in his tan scrubs. His gaze met Marcey’s. “Man. If she’s using this case as a cornerstone for her campaign, she’s gotta show up. My ma’s gonna have a fit.” There were tears in his eyes, borne, Marcey suspected, of frustration. “She wanted me to come home last June. It’s been more than eight years.”

  “What if there was, say, a way we could get back at her?”

  “We’d be stupid.” His tone was sharp. “There’s no way we can do that, Mar. The most you could do is get that group in trouble for using your picture in an advertisement. I got no rights. And it won’t fly. If they’ve done it, it means it’s probably legal, no matter how dubious.”

  “True.” Marcey bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder. The guard at the far end of the room was distracted by a young mother’s squalling child and not paying her much attention. Marcey leaned forward, her tone dropping and growing urgent. These visits were monitored. She had to be careful. “But I think I might have found something that could help.”

  He tilted his head, skeptical. “What?”

  “I got this book in the mail. I can’t show it to you. I left it in the car. But I think it might be the key.” Marcey glanced over her shoulder. “You know that guy, the one that Johnson wasn’t able to convict right before our case, when the papers were calling for her to be fired and sanctioned by the New York State Bar because of how it ended? The book belonged to him.” Marcey prayed Darius remembered. It was so long ago, and she couldn’t tell him much else about the strange encounter and series of disagreements she’d had with Devon Austin Jackson about what to do with the book. Darius’s lawyer evidently knew the man. He knew everything about him and about the contents of the book before Marcey could even ask about it. He knew and he’d sat there and smiled at her and told her that Linda Johnson was well within her rights about the ad and had asked what she was going to do about it before implying other people were looking for the book as well.

  “Are you sure, Mar?”

  “There’s a story here, Dar. A connection. I just have to pick at it…” She leaned forward, her fingers gripping the edges of the table. “I want to know what it is.”

  It was a lie. Marcey knew what it was, but she couldn’t say it here and they both knew it.

  At first, Darius didn’t say much at all, sitting hunched over in his tan scrubs. Frowning, Marcey took him in then, saw how the years in this place had shaped him into someone far different from the baby-faced kid she’d cared so much about as a teen. His hair was getting longer, which Marcey liked, and his face was hollow now—it bore the weight of all he’d been through.

  “I don’t want you doing anything that’d mess up the parole hearing.” Darius’s eyes took on a resigned look. “Everyone knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell to get out a few years early. Then that bullshit happened last year and I got stuck for another year. If you go and fuck it up for me, Mar, I don’t think—” He trailed off, but the implication was clear. It wasn’t Marcey’s place to do this for him. “Don’t follow up with this.”

  “But—”

  His expression hardened. “Take your guilt and shove it. Don’t. Fuck up your own life.”

  “It could ruin her, if she’s connected to someone like that.”

  “Is it worth my freedom?” Darius slammed his hand on the table. A guard looked over at them, one hand on his belt. “Everyone knows she wanted you more than she wanted me. Because of Rebecca. She offered me immunity. She offered me freedom, Marcey, if I gave you up. I never said shit. Now she’s making us look like cartoon villains to make her career.”

  “Career…” Marcey snatched her hand away from the table, getting to her feet.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded, half rising. “We still have fifteen minutes.”

  “I just thought of something, something that I think will help you when you get paroled.”

  “Marcey, I told you no! If you look into that guy—that case—you’ll poke the bear, and she’ll come for you. Then what will you do?”

  “Fight back, I suppose.” Marcey sat back down. “I want to do this for you.”

  “I don’t need your fucking savior complex.” From across the room, the guard gave Darius a stern look, and he scowled at the guard before nodding to Marcey. “You don’t need to save me. I can save myself, convince the parole board I should be let out. The ad is damaging, yes, but it will be a hell of a lot worse if you poke the freaking bear.”

  Marcey hung her head. She’d known he wouldn’t want her help. Her mind was already back on the book, thinking hard about the contents and the thin threads of connection between its author and the letter he’d sent, and how it all could be tied back to ADA Johnson. That connection couldn’t be ignored, no matter how risky it was to Darius. If this was the same guy, as Devon claimed he was, then the risk of possibly turning over some stones to rattle Johnson’s campaign wasn’t such a bad idea, even if it would make Darius angry.

  “I won’t,” she promised. It was a lie that slid easily from her tongue. She had to do this. For him more than for herself. If it hurt him to get to a better outcome, so be it. The drive to act anyway, and do what she felt was right, it hit her hard and settled in her stomach. Darius would understand. “It’s snowing like crazy outside and the eastern half of the state’s under some sort of winter storm watch. I want to get on the road before we get upgraded to a blizzard.”

  He nodded, clearly not quite following. His confusion showed in the furrowing of his eyebrows and the way his lips pitched downward into a frown. Marcey mouthed I’ll tell you later and said her good-byes. She had a lot to think about on her way back to the city.

  CHAPTER 2

  Marcey, Stumbling into Something

  Six and a half hours into an early-March snowstorm that only seemed to get worse the closer she got to New York City, Marcey’s eyes were stinging with the effort of keeping them open. She had three texts from her mother, demanding to know when she’d be home, that she couldn’t answer. She didn’t dare take her hands off the wheel to text her mother until she’d pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour storage facility in the Bronx.

  I’ll be home soon, I still have one more errand to run before I return the car. I got you that syrup from Albany you wanted.

  It’s snowing. Roads are a mess.

  Marcey shoved the phone into her back pocket and tugged on the beanie she’d thrown into the back seat with her coat. Her straight, mousy-brown hair was full of static. Marcey cursed quietly and attempted to smooth it down before leaning into the back seat to retrieve her jacket.

  It was humid outside. Snow still fell, and Marcey was grateful for her LL Bean boots as she stepped down into a puddle easily three inches deep of slushy, disgusting water. She wrinkled her nose and scowled as she shook her boot off before hopping through the slush over to the kiosk at the front of the facility.

  Her feet were wet. She squelched her way up to the office. The man sit
ting inside was overweight and dozing, listening to the Knicks on the radio. He eyed Marcey as she pulled the Moleskine notebook out of her purse.

  “Can I help you?” he asked. His shirt read “Ted.”

  Marcey nodded. “I need to see”—she flipped to a page toward the back, where the details were copied down in a precise, masculine hand—“unit number five-four-three-three.”

  “Ya got a key?”

  “There’s a combo-lock.”

  Ted grunted and pushed himself slowly to his feet. He flipped the “OPEN” sign hanging from a suction cup on the window over to read “BACK IN FIVE MINUTES” and passed Marcey a clipboard. “Gonna need to see some I.D.”

  Marcey frowned. “Why? I thought the whole point of these places was to be anonymous.” She jotted down her name in the messiest handwriting possible.

  “Got something to hide?”

  It was a lie, but Marcey shook her head. “Nah. Just hate my license picture.” She dug it out of her wallet and passed it to him.

  “Don’t we all?” Ted took the license. He glanced at it, and then at Marcey’s face, before passing it back. He picked up a set of keys. “Five-four-three-three is toward the back. Come with me.”

  Ted was a lot taller than Marcey had anticipated. He towered over Marcey’s slight frame when he stepped down from the office and shuffled toward the back of the facility. He moved with the grace of someone fifty pounds lighter as well, even if he wasn’t doing much to pick up his feet as he walked. He led Marcey to the back row of bright red doors and pointed. “Down at the end. If you’re not out in an hour, I’ll come check on you.”