Too Far

by Jason Starr

  ‘You’d tell your own brother to turn himself in, if you knew he was innocent?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘I think you’re full of shit,’ I said. ‘That, or you don’t believe I’m innocent.’

  I heard him deep breathe.

  ‘I’ll meet you, okay?’ he said. ‘Come to the Manhattan South on 23rd. It looks much better in these instances if you come in on your own, if they don’t have to pick you up. And who knows? Maybe they won’t get a warrant, maybe it’s all some sort of bluff. But we won’t know that until we get down there and –’

  I ended the call.

  When he called back, I sent the call to voicemail. Then I went into settings and blocked his number.

  There was no way I was going to an interrogation room with Nick Barasco again, subjecting myself to that barrage of bullshit.

  I rushed out of the apartment, out of the building. I had one more option; then I’d be out of moves.

  I would’ve rented a Zip Car or called an Uber, but without a credit card that wouldn’t work. So I hailed a city cab.

  ‘White Plains,’ I said. ‘As fast as you can get there.’

  17

  ‘I don’t go to White Plains,’ the driver said.

  Of course he didn’t. What cabbie wanted to go to Westchester?

  ‘You have to,’ I said.

  ‘No, I only have to go to the five boroughs,’ he said. ‘Get outta my cab.’

  ‘Look, this is an emergency,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said.

  There was no way I was going out. Hard to find another taxi, and the next driver could have the same attitude.

  ‘I’ll give you a big tip.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t go to –’

  ‘How much do you think the ride will cost?’

  ‘Come on, buddy, just –’

  ‘I’ll pay you double the fare.’

  ‘It’s sixty dollars at least.’

  ‘Here, how’s one twenty?’

  I showed him the bills. This would only leave me with twenty-seven dollars from the money Anthony had given me. I’d have enough to afford a train ticket back to the city. After that, I had no idea where I’d get money for food or – oh, yeah – where I’d sleep tonight, but I’d worry about that later.

  ‘Okay,’ the driver said. ‘Get in.’

  I didn’t really have a plan – well, a full plan – but I knew I had to do something to clear my name, make this whole thing go away. I’d go to Lawrence Ward’s house, use my phone as a voice recorder, somehow get a confession, and then replay it for the police. I knew the whole idea was risky, maybe crazy, but, seriously, at this point what did I have to lose? After all, I’d already lost everything important to me. Was it a better idea to wait for Barasco to bring me in again, and rely on my out-of-his-league Legal Aid lawyer to fight whatever charges he tried to bring up against me?

  In White Plains, we passed houses – really estates – that had to go for five million or more. Then we reached Lawrence Ward’s house, which wasn’t the nicest in the neighborhood, but it was damn close. It was a contemporary, probably with four or five bedrooms on about an acre and a half. It looked even nicer than it had on Google Earth.

  After I paid the driver – he clearly wasn’t happy that I’d stiffed him on a tip – I headed along the stone walkway toward the brick stoop and the house’s main entrance. A gray-haired guy raking leaves in front of the house next door glanced at me, then resumed raking.

  Halfway along the walkway, I stopped, and opened the voice memos app on my phone and pressed record. I had no idea what I would say to Lawrence, or how I would get him to confess, but I wasn’t going to leave here without something to use against him.

  I continued up the stoop to the front door, rang the bell, and waited. I didn’t hear anyone coming. It was very possible he wasn’t home. I didn’t know why this thought hadn’t occurred to me sooner, but if he’d killed Anthony, he could’ve gone somewhere else afterward, maybe back to work.

  As I rang the bell again, I flashed back to when I’d arrived at the townhouse in Manhattan, maybe a minute before I’d discovered Sophie Ward’s body. If I could’ve returned to that evening in Manhattan, had a do-over, I never would’ve gone into the townhouse. I would’ve gone home, to my wife and son, where I belonged.

  Maybe coming here to confront Lawrence was an awful idea. My instincts were telling me to learn from my mistakes, to walk away. Better yet, run.

  But when had I ever listened to my instincts? Besides, it was too late to leave now. I heard footsteps approaching. A second later, the door opened.

  It was hard to tell in the picture I’d seen online, but I’d expected Lawrence Ward to be a foreboding, muscular guy. Instead, I was facing a wiry guy, about my height, with a neatly trimmed dark beard.

  ‘Yes, can I help you?’ he asked.

  He didn’t sound like I’d expected either. His voice was high-pitched, whiney.

  ‘Lawrence Ward?’ I asked.

  Then he squinted and said, ‘Wait, I recognize you. You’re him. You’re Jack Harper.’

  I glanced at his clothes – he was wearing dark jeans and an untucked gray dress shirt – to see if there was any obvious evidence that he’d killed Anthony, like blood on his sleeves, but I didn’t see anything. Of course, that didn’t mean he hadn’t showered and changed; he’d had enough time to.

  ‘I know you killed your wife and my friend, or had them killed,’ I said.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said, and tried to close the door.

  I shifted, blocking the door, then forced my way into the house. I still didn’t have a real plan, but once you force your way into a stranger’s house, there’s no turning back.

  The foyer was practically the size of my entire apartment, and beyond it was a dramatic winding staircase.

  Backing away from me, into the living room area, Lawrence had his cell phone out, and was saying, ‘I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘Go ahead, call ’em,’ I said. ‘You can confess everything to them too.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m calling them so they can arrest you for breaking into my house, you crazy son of a bitch.’

  I knew this wouldn’t sound great in my recording. I needed a confession, or something that incriminated him in the murders.

  ‘So make the call,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait here and we can tell the police together.’

  Of course, as a wanted murder suspect, I didn’t want to chat with the police, but I also wanted to call Lawrence’s bluff.

  After mulling it for a couple of beats, all of a sudden he turned and rushed back toward the huge chef’s kitchen. There was a rack of knives on the counter. He grabbed the largest one.

  Wheeling back around toward me, he aimed the knife at me like a sword.

  ‘Interesting choice,’ I said. ‘Since I just saw Anthony’s body with a knife in his back.’

  ‘You have no idea what you’re dealing with,’ he said.

  Was that a confession? Sounded like it, but I needed more.

  Before I could get him to elaborate, he lunged at me with the knife. If I hadn’t backed away at the last moment, he would’ve stabbed me in the chest.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘what the fuh –’

  Lawrence swiped at me again, skimming my arm.

  I might’ve screamed, thinking, How’d this happen? A couple of weeks ago, I was a normal Upper East Side dad/real estate agent, hanging out with my son in playgrounds after school. Now I was fighting for my life with a crazed killer.

  When he tried to attack me with the knife again, I grabbed his forearm above his hand gripping the handle. He was much stronger than he looked, and it was easy to imagine him killing Anthony and Sophie. I saw the cold, evil determination in his eyes, and I knew he wouldn’t let me leave he
re alive. My only chance was to get the blade away and somehow subdue him.

  He was relentless. I was squeezing his arm as hard as I could, trying to keep him away, but I couldn’t hold him back. The tip of the blade was maybe two inches away from my neck. If I gave in, for just an instant, the blade would go into my neck.

  I was thinking about Jonah. How I didn’t want him to grow up without a father. How I wanted to be there for him.

  Maybe these thoughts helped me garner a little more strength because I could tell that Ward’s grip on the knife was starting to loosen, and then it fell, clanging onto the floor.

  As Ward reached for the knife, I tackled him and we fell onto the floor. I’d lost control, acting impulsively. He tried to push me off him, but I took control, managing to flip him on to his back. I punched him in the face and heard something crunch. I punched him again and again, using both fists. For a few moments, I felt like I was outside myself, watching Jack Harper beat the crap out of Lawrence Ward. It had been a long time since Jack Harper had hit someone and Jack Harper had to admit that it felt exhilarating, freeing.

  I had my hands around Ward’s throat. I must’ve been squeezing for a while because his face went reddish purple, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. I didn’t stop squeezing though, telling myself that this asshole had cost me my marriage, my job, maybe custody of my son, and I told myself that if I just kept squeezing, if I didn’t let up, I could make all of my pain go away.

  Then, when I realized I was squeezing the neck of a dead man, I let go.

  My rage had turned to panic.

  This isn’t happening… maybe he isn’t dead.

  No, his eyes were open and still. Definitely dead.

  ‘Fuck,’ I said. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Pacing like a caged animal, I tried to figure out what to do. Run? Hide the body? Call the cops? All the options seemed bad, especially the last one. How could I possibly explain what had happened to the police? Even if I convinced them that I’d come to White Plains to get a confession from Ward, would they believe that he’d tried to attack me with the knife before I’d strangled him? Probably not. And, worse, I hadn’t gotten the confession from Ward. The only semi-incriminating statement he made was, You have no idea what you’re dealing with. On my recording, it would sound like I’d broken in and attacked him.

  I stopped pacing, trying to focus. The room felt like it was wobbling and my spiraling thoughts made less and less sense.

  I decided I had to leave, but first I had to cover my tracks. There were napkins on the kitchen counter. I wetted a wad of them and then wiped the doorknob, and the floor around Lawrence’s body. I tried not to look at the body, holding my hand up in front of my face. Why was I getting a feeling of déjà vu? Cleaning up crime scenes was starting to feel like a bad habit.

  Then I noticed blood on my arm from where Lawrence had cut me. It wasn’t a deep wound, but the blood looked like it might have dripped. Great, so now I’d be leaving blood behind, as well as hair fibers and God knows what else.

  I was searching for a drop of blood somewhere on the wooden floor when I heard the police siren. Was it a coincidence, a police car headed somewhere else in the neighborhood? Or had someone called the cops on me? The neighbor, I suddenly remembered. He’d probably seen me force my way into Ward’s house.

  I backed away, stumbling a little, but careful not to touch anything; like it mattered. I left the house and sprinted out to the sidewalk. The siren was getting louder. Not wanting to be too conspicuous, I walked as fast as I could, with my head down slightly. At the corner, I turned right. I knew this was the general direction of downtown White Plains, but I had no real destination – I just wanted to get away.

  At the next corner, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the speeding police car turn on to Lawrence Ward’s block. Coming from the distance I heard another siren. This officially was not a coincidence.

  To hell with walking – I ran as fast as I could, maybe faster than I’d ever run in my life. I just wanted to get away, put as much distance as I could between myself and the house. I told myself that I was making up the nosy neighbor story, the police could’ve been going there for many reasons, but this didn’t give me any reassurance. Even if no one had seen me in the house the police would find plenty of damning physical evidence – including my blood. Even if the neighbor couldn’t ID me, there was someone who definitely could – the cab driver. When the cabbie heard about a body discovered in White Plains he’d remember that he’d dropped me off at the house. This was worse than Sophie’s murder – there was much more evidence against me this time. I even had motive for wanting to kill Lawrence as I’d been telling Barasco for days that he had killed her. Barasco could easily create a story that I’d come to White Plains looking for revenge.

  Gasping, I had to walk for a while. Up here I had no chance; if the local cops weren’t looking for me already, they would be soon.

  The city – I had to get back to the city. I’d feel safer in crowds.

  Using Google Maps, I saw that the White Plains Metro North station was about a mile away. I ran about a block, then slowed to a walk as the ambulance I’d heard zipped past me. Then I continued, alternating walking, jogging and running. It was the longest mile I’d ever traveled. Finally, I saw the powerlines of the train tracks up ahead, and then the concrete, industrial-looking train station.

  In the ticket area, I checked the schedule – the next train would arrive in twelve minutes. It was better than having to wait an hour, but time wasn’t on my side.

  From a ticket machine, using cash, I bought a one-way ticket to Grand Central. Now I only had about twenty bucks left, but it probably didn’t matter. The police had probably discovered the body about ten, fifteen minutes ago. If somebody had tipped them off about me, or they suspected me just because I was already a person of interest, there would be a – what did the police call it? APB – yeah, an APB on me. One of the first places they’d check would be the train station.

  While there were only a few people in the waiting area, I felt uncomfortable. In the state I was in, with my agitation heightened, I was afraid someone would notice me.

  So I went up to the platform, toward where the back of the train would arrive, and where no one was waiting.

  Okay, only eight minutes now until the train arrived. I was feeling a little better about my chances of making it back to the city.

  Until I saw the transit cop arrive on the platform.

  He’d come up the same steps I’d come up. He was stocky with thick gray hair and a mustache. He stopped near the middle of the platform and then turned in my direction. He seemed to be looking right at me, and then he began walking along the platform in my direction.

  I had nowhere to go. There were no exits at this end of the platform – I’d cornered myself. I could jump onto the tracks, but if the transit cop had really recognized me, how far could I get?

  So I stayed where I was and stared at my phone intently, as if preabsorbed. My only chance was that he didn’t know who I was and was walking toward me for some other reason.

  I heard his footsteps approaching, then saw him in my peripheral vision.

  ‘It’s running behind.’

  His voice had startled the shit out of me, but I tried to react naturally, unfazed.

  ‘Sorry?’ I said.

  ‘The train,’ he said. ‘Signal problems at Fordham. Everything’s behind.’

  ‘Oh. That’s too bad.’

  I continued staring at my phone, hoping he’d leave me alone.

  ‘You live in the city?’ he asked.

  He didn’t seem to have any idea who I was, but, my luck, I had to meet a chatty transit cop.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, hoping the one word answers would give him the not-so-subtle message that I wanted to be left alone.

  ‘Grew up in the Bronx,’ he said.
‘Two blocks from Yankee Stadium. Man, that neighborhood’s changed. Back in the day, off season, the place was a ghost town. Now they got bars with fuckin’ happy hours there.’

  I didn’t say anything, hoping he’d leave, pretending to be busy tapping out an email.

  ‘You Yankees or Mets?’ he asked.

  Seriously?

  ‘Sorry, I just need to send something,’ I said.

  ‘Whoa.’ He sounded offended. ‘You don’t have to be rude about it. Just thought I’d tell you about the delays in case you wanted to know.’

  ‘How long’s the delay?’

  ‘Now you being friendly?’ He sounded like a disappointed teacher. ‘Was a half-hour before, but they got it cleared up. Should only be five or ten minutes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  He muttered something that included the word ‘nasty’ and walked away.

  I looked down the track, hoping to see the light of a train approaching, but there were no trains as far north as I could see. At least I’d gotten rid of the transit cop, but the exchange hadn’t helped my situation. If he got an APB on me, he’d remember me and my rudeness.

  While I was staring at my phone, I figured I might as well Google myself, to see if I was a murder suspect. Nothing new came up in the results, but that didn’t give me much reassurance. It would take time before anything about Lawrence Ward’s death made it into the news.

  Lawrence Ward’s death.

  I’d been in such a frenzy to get away from the house, I hadn’t fully processed what I’d done.

  I’d killed him. Actually killed him.

  I’d had no choice. If I didn’t kill him he would’ve killed me. But is that how it would look to a jury? I’d come to his house, and I had plenty of motive to kill him. Maybe I could make a case; maybe forensics would support my case. This seemed unlikely, though, what with a Legal Aid lawyer defending me. And what about Sophie’s murder? I’d still be on the hook for that, especially since the guy who could prove that I hadn’t killed Sophie was dead.