After walking a sepia corridor under the criminal courthouse, the women were divvied up among three large bullpens. The corrections officer took a massive key ring off her belt and opened the door for Kathleen’s group. Before entering, Kathleen set her face into a stolid expression. She knew how a mature woman who could no longer physically fight had to carry herself. She’d done time with lifers who were in their later years. She could handle herself in a state prison, if that happened to her. In many ways, it would be easier than last time. She still knew women there who’d never gotten out, who would be happy to see her. She’d sent holiday cards with cash to some of them, repaying their kindnesses at various times during her last prison stay.
The ones she worried about were the new girls. The trifling and violent ones. She remembered from her last stint on Rikers Island that it was the boosters, streetwalkers, and petty larcenists who posed the biggest threat, not the murderers or wholesale drug dealers facing major time. The petty offenders had nothing to lose if they let their worst instincts run free and made a few enemies inside. Rikers was like evil sleep-away camp for them.
She sat on a hard bench where a woman, well over six feet tall, slept on her side with her legs halfway to a fetal position. Kathleen felt a small moment of gratitude that at least she wasn’t detoxing or hallucinating like the first time they’d brought her here. That time she’d immediately started a ruckus, talking to herself and screaming about snakes and her dead husband, until the other detainees began yelling at the CO to “get the crazy bitch outa here, we can’t sleep.” Kathleen had ended up at Bellevue Hospital, where they’d drugged her enough for her to return to the bullpens for arraignment. Unfortunately, being crazy hadn’t helped her as a defense against the murder charges.
She wondered how her bail application would be greeted by a judge. She had a felony conviction for manslaughter and a history of mental illness. Would they think that made her likely to set fire to an occupied building, even though she’d never done anything to intentionally harm anyone? Would they charge it as attempted murder of each of the residents in the building? Whatever it was, the sentence would be higher because she was a predicate felon. A two-time loser received almost double the sentence of a first-time felon.
She hadn’t seen a lawyer yet, so she didn’t know the exact charges or the basis for them. It was the middle of the night now, and she had no way to reach her own lawyer. She would have a free legal aid attorney for now, who would review her case for only a few minutes before the arraignment.
Keeping her eye on her surroundings, appraising the dozen women in the bullpen for the level of threat they posed and feeling relatively safe for now, Kathleen mulled over the case against her. She couldn’t imagine how her bank accounts had been emptied, or why the police thought she’d committed arson in her own building while she was inside it. Like the police, she had to assume the draining of her bank account and the fire were connected—but of course not in the way the police had connected them. Somebody else had emptied out her bank accounts and burned down her building. And if she came to that conclusion, what were the odds of Sharon’s murder and Wayne’s death being a coincidence? Kathleen wasn’t dead, but all three of them were now certainly out of the way. Not that the cops, or even a jury, would believe her if she started sharing conspiracy theories that tied all of it together.
Kathleen thought back to the question that seemed to be the key to everything: why had Sharon called her and Wayne?
A male inmate, housed in the jail upstairs known as the Tombs, pushed a metal cart filled with sandwiches and Styrofoam cups to the bullpen door. The sandwiches would be hard and inedible, made of soup-kitchen bologna and welfare cheese. The CO unlocked the door, and the inmate handed sandwiches to the women nearest the door, who passed them down to the others. Bullpen fare and the routines hadn’t changed. The women passed the cups of tepid tea hand to hand until it reached those in the back of the barred pen. Kathleen took hers, placing it beside her on the bench. She took a pack of sugar from the plastic sandwich packet and poured it into the cup.
The big woman who’d slept on the bench rolled to sit upright and grabbed a sandwich a woman had left beside her. She took a bite and pointed to Kathleen’s sandwich. “You gonna eat that?”
“No.” She handed it to the woman.
“What you here for, abuela?”
“Arson.”
“Oooh,” she exclaimed. “That’s gonna be a bitch-load of time.”
Kathleen nodded.
The woman appraised her. “I can see you OG. Done time before?”
Original gangster. An old-timer. A first-timer, especially a first-timer of her age, would have smelled of fear.
Kathleen nodded, staring off. “Five years, Bedford.”
The woman shook her head and grimaced. “Man, I hope I ain’t still coming here when I’m old. Shit.”
CHAPTER
38
EMILY CALLED LAUREN, asking her to come to the Airbnb. Skye was sleeping, so she couldn’t walk over to her mother’s. Pacing in the living room, Emily quickly told Lauren the story of Kathleen’s arrest. She knew how Lauren would react. That was why Emily had insisted on talking to her in person. It was too easy to say no on the phone.
“Forgive me for saying I told you so, but I told you she was bad news,” Lauren said.
Emily stopped short. “She’s not bad news. She didn’t do anything.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I escaped the fire with her, remember? I saw how shocked and scared she was.”
“Maybe it got out of hand and she didn’t expect to be running for her life.”
“Mom, that is ridiculous. She would never risk the lives of all the neighbors, or mine, or Skye’s. She loved her apartment too, but that’s a minor issue compared to the people. Only a psychopath would intentionally burn down a building full of people. For insurance money? Come on. It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. This is only happening to her because she has a criminal record. You should see how the cops treated her from the very beginning.”
“If that’s the case, I’m sure she’ll be okay. She knows the system.”
“She wasn’t okay when she ended up in prison last time. She didn’t deserve prison then either.”
“First off, from what you’ve told me, she was an addict last time and she’s not now, so she’ll be better able to deal with this. She seems to know how to take care of herself. Second, about her being a psychopath, you don’t even know whether anything she told you is true. Psychopaths can be charming, and compulsive liars too—no guilt about it. By definition. I don’t like you mixed up with this.”
Emily sat across from her mother, who sipped Earl Grey tea Emily had found in the kitchen. The scent of bergamot reminded Emily of countless times she’d smelled it in her mother’s kitchen and, lately, Kathleen’s. Maybe that was why she’d taken such an immediate liking to Kathleen. She reminded Emily so much of her own mother—without the needling and prying.
A small inner voice nagged at Emily, though, suggesting that maybe there was a seed of truth in what Lauren said. When Emily and Kathleen had looked at the website for the law firm Sharon had called, Kathleen had said she didn’t recognize any of the firm’s lawyers. Now one of those attorneys was dead, and Emily had seen Kathleen’s reaction when Emily told her his name. Kathleen knew him. The police had interrupted before Kathleen had a chance to explain, but Emily had since checked and seen that Wayne Carrier’s name was on the firm’s list. There was no way Kathleen had missed it.
What if Emily’s mother was right that Kathleen was lying about everything? What if Kathleen was involved in some way with Sharon’s and Wayne Carrier’s deaths, deaths that Emily couldn’t help but think were related?
Emily brushed the thought away. She was connecting dots that weren’t there. She hated when she did that. She needed to stick with facts.
Kathleen must have known the lawyer who died. But that was a far cry from Kathleen set
ting a building on fire with neighbors and friends inside. Kathleen had said she’d explain, before the cops arrived. Emily still wanted to hear it.
Lauren asked, “Did you ever think that being involved with Kathleen could put your career at risk?”
“Because I believe in my landlady’s innocence and don’t want an ex-con railroaded? I took the job at City Hall so I could have a positive impact on the world. Until I learn something that makes me think Kathleen isn’t worth helping, I can’t sit by and watch an innocent woman go to prison. I feel sick to my stomach just thinking she’s in jail right now.” Emily turned to the reason she’d asked her mother to come over: “And I want you to represent her.”
Lauren’s mug hit the table, sloshing tea over the side. “What?”
“For the arraignment.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“Please. I need your help, Mom. It’s too late to find her another attorney for tonight. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Please trust my judgment. I’ve earned that much.”
Lauren’s face softened. She blew air out. “Okay … but just for the arraignment.”
* * *
Hector arrived at two AM, after he finished his shift at the hotel. At first, when Emily looked through the peephole, she didn’t recognize him. Hector had grown a beard. She hadn’t realized it had been that long since she’d last seen him. They talked by phone a lot, but their custody arrangement worked like clockwork: he picked Skye up from day care on Wednesday and kept her until Friday for his “weekend.” He left her with his mother on Friday afternoons until Emily got off from work, where Emily picked her up on Friday night.
Emily took in Hector’s golden skin and dark eyes, his beard trimmed to accent his strong jaw. He’d been shorter than her when they first met in middle school, a nerdy kid. He still had a nerdy streak, but he stood nearly a foot taller than her now, with broad shoulders and a slim waist. She felt a hitch in her chest, the feeling of affection and attraction she always got when she saw him after a long time. He grinned, happy to see her.
“Emily.” He reached out to hug her.
She inhaled the scent of his coconut oil shampoo, which had graced her pillow nearly every college weekend. Feeling the warm familiarity of his lanky frame and a disconcerting need for his comfort, she stepped back quickly from the hug. “I like the beard. It’s nice,” she said, bringing him to the living room.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. But Skye is still so clingy. On top of that, she’s worried about Rusty. She keeps asking for him. I thought, if she woke up next to you in bed, it would be best.”
A look passed between them. Hector thought it would be best if Emily woke up in bed next to him, too, every day. Hector dated other women, but Emily knew where he stood when it came to their relationship.
The silence hung for a moment before Emily turned the conversation to Kathleen. She told Hector everything, grateful to have someone to talk to.
“It sounds like your friend is getting a bad break,” Hector said.
Emily felt relieved that he hadn’t questioned her judgment about supporting Kathleen the way Lauren had. Hector’s cousin, Tabu, had done a year in federal prison for computer hacking. But Hector’s family had stood by him.
As Emily readied herself to leave, Hector looked up at her from where he sat on the couch. He picked up the remote control. “Do they have Netflix here?”
CHAPTER
39
IN THE DEEPEST blue-black before dawn, Emily and Lauren approached 100 Center Street, a grim art deco building befitting Batman’s Gotham. Lauren wore a charcoal pantsuit. Emily wore slacks and a blouse, as if she were going to work. Lauren said she’d take Emily into the attorney consultation room as her paralegal, if the court officers let her. Lauren checked the court calendar, a printed list of case names taped to the wall outside the arraignment part.
“She’ll be called soon,” Lauren said. “Must be a slow night. I thought it would take longer.”
“Are we too late?”
“I doubt it. Come on.”
Emily and Lauren entered through the double doors of the courtroom. It was a large room with twenty rows of benches separated from the working part of the busy courtroom. Up front were not only defense and prosecution tables before a tall judge’s bench but desks where legal aid and assistant district attorneys worked on their cases between rounds in front of the judge.
Emily followed Lauren down the aisle. Kathleen was already standing at the scuffed defense table. Emily recognized her hair and erect, narrow back, even though any normal person would stoop with exhaustion after a night in the bullpens.
Emily pulled on Lauren’s sleeve. “That’s her.”
“Okay. Stay here.”
Emily sat in the first row, wanting to get as close as possible. The row was reserved for lawyers, but she was there as her mother’s paralegal and figured the court officer wouldn’t tell her to move.
She watched Lauren nod, acknowledging the court officers who sat at their scratched table next to the low wooden wall that separated the observers from the officers of the court. Lauren unlatched the wooden gate to enter. A legal aid attorney gathered up her files at a desk and walked toward the defense table. The assistant district attorney stood at the table on the left, a bony guy with a bow tie and loose suit.
Lauren met the legal aid attorney before she reached the defense table. The attorney was a heavyset woman in her late twenties, her hair highlighted in smoky blue. Lauren spoke with her in whispers. Kathleen turned to look at them. Emily tried to get Kathleen’s attention to let her know she was there. Kathleen blinked with surprise, taking in Lauren and then glancing back at Emily.
Emily waved. Kathleen didn’t look exactly happy to see her. It wasn’t the way Emily had imagined she’d react, though she supposed Kathleen had more important things to think about. And maybe she didn’t want Emily to see her like this: a prisoner.
Lauren walked with the legal aid attorney toward the defense table. Lauren had told Emily that if the attorney seemed to have a good head on her shoulders, Lauren wouldn’t take over. She’d just second-seat her, in case Lauren needed to add any argument to the bail application.
Lauren stood to Kathleen’s right, the legal aid attorney on Kathleen’s other side. Kathleen cringed—Emily was sure of it—when Lauren stood next to her. Emily frowned.
What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. While the judge read the charging papers, Lauren turned to shake hands with Kathleen, obviously planning to introduce herself. Kathleen halfway turned toward Lauren.
Lauren peered at Kathleen and reared back. “Mom?”
Emily sat back hard against the bench. Kathleen was her grandmother? Her addicted, screwed-up grandmother? Kat Davis had become Kathleen Harris?
Emily stopped breathing. Her mind spun, unable to put things together. Her reality refused to assemble into coherent pieces.
Kathleen slumped as if she were folding into herself. Emily saw Lauren take a deep breath.
* * *
The judge banged the gavel, oblivious to what was going on. “Appearances, counsel.”
“Assistant district attorney Joshua Hunter for the prosecution.”
“Carmen Benanti for the defendant, Kathleen Harris.”
“Lauren Davis Cintron for the defendant.”
Emily noticed that her mother’s voice shook a little, something that never happened to her.
“Your Honor, the State has charged Ms. Harris with arson in the first degree. She started a fire in an occupied building in order to collect insurance proceeds. She is the owner of the building through Inwood Associates, LLC. It is a residential building. Dozens of people were in their homes at the time. She was financially insolvent and unable to make her next mortgage payment. The FDNY investigators have determined that the fire was started by an incendiary device comprised of a cigarette and a book of matches wrapped in gasoline-soaked clothing. The defendant’s DNA was found on
the clothing used to wrap the device. Defendant is a predicate felon, having a prior conviction for manslaughter under the name Kat Davis. The State is asking for one million dollars bail.”
Lauren waited a beat for the legal aid attorney to speak, then cut in. “Excuse me, Your Honor, DNA on clothing … after a fire that completely gutted a building?”
ADA Hunter looked down at his notes. “Your Honor, this is an issue for trial … but there were multiple incendiary points with accelerant leading away from them. At one of them, fire investigators were able to sweep the ash and lift the evidence underneath.”
“The prosecution is correct,” the judge said. “It will be an issue for trial. Let’s get to the bail application.”
The legal aid attorney replied, “The defense requests that Ms. Harris be released on her own recognizance. She legally changed her name after her release from parole, and she is not a flight risk. She is sixty-eight years old with no history of violence. The manslaughter conviction, over thirty years ago, related to the accidental overdose death of her husband when the defendant was herself addicted and bought the drugs for him. It was not a violent crime.”
Emily saw her mother’s shoulders stiffen even more. Emily knew the story of Kathleen’s imprisonment, but it was different from what Lauren had told Emily about their family history. After her father died, Lauren had lived on the street, then entered a drug treatment program. Lauren had told Emily the caseworkers had had to track down her mother, “interrupting her crack party,” to consent to Lauren’s treatment, and that her mother hadn’t even wanted to show up at court. Had the caseworkers found Emily’s grandmother in prison and not told Lauren the truth? A few months after that, while Lauren was in drug treatment, the program had helped her become an emancipated minor. That meant she wouldn’t have to depend on an addict for medical consent or college financial aid applications. Lauren had been living on her own for over a year, so she didn’t need her mother’s consent to become emancipated.
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