Naive

by Charles Royce

  “I’m so sorry,” Shawn answers. “There’s no public access to the twelfth floor here.”

  “For protection from people like me, right?” Micah look down at his scrubs, his handcuffs.

  “Hey look, it’s gonna be fine,” Shawn says, trying to maintain a positive tone. “This is all just temporary. Let’s do this.”

  He motions for Micah to follow him, prison escort in tow. They reach the thick double-door entry of the arraignment room that reads “Criminal Court, City of New York.” Bronze Roman reliefs adorn each door panel, representing justice in the most antiquated of ways. Shawn forces them open.

  They walk down the center aisle between two rows of pews filled with onlookers, fellow criminals, lawyers and law enforcement officials. Shawn and Micah take their places in the front row.

  As he awaits his docket number, Micah begins to shake.

  “It’s so fucking cold in here,” he whispers.

  “Yeah, these people stand in here all day, so they crank the AC,” Shawn whispers back, as he pulls today’s paperwork from his briefcase.

  Micah scans the room. He listens to the judge explain the various proceedings as he looks each remanded suspect in their eyes. He seems nice enough, Micah thinks. Policemen stand both to the judge’s extreme right and distant left. Large, white vintage cone fixtures with dark brown nipples hang from the ceiling, and long vertical windows light the top half of each wall to his right and left.

  Micah looks out one of the windows, concentrating on a peak-a-boo glimpse of the distant Manhattan skyline. Some of the buildings are similar to his and Lennox’s view from the rooftop of their condo in Two Bridges, and he is lost again in memories.

  The day they first met.

  The last time he saw Lennox alive.

  The pounding on Lennox’s chest.

  ((Pound pound pound.))

  “Case #LS 454556-1471, the People versus Micah James Breuer, on for arraignment,” the courtroom deputy clerk exclaims.

  Micah jumps back to the present; he and Shawn stand up. Shawn unhooks the rope that separates the waiting area from the court, invites Micah through, then places the rope back in the locked position. They approach the long, slender podium that separates them from the judge. Micah, having paid attention to the last four arraignments, stands to Shawn’s left. Shawn places his file on the tall slanted part of the podium, struggling to keep its contents from hitting the ground. He opens the file fully just to be safe.

  The clerk continues. “Counsel, please state your name for the record.”

  “Shawn Connelly, your Honor, representing the defendant.”

  “And the defendant, please state, of your own accord, your name for the record.”

  “My name is Micah Breuer, your Honor.”

  “Mr. Breuer, your attorney has waived the reading of the charges against you.” The judge speaks to Micah with a soft yet stern undertone, like a concerned father addressing a teenage daughter. Micah smiles and nods.

  “However, due to the magnitude and sheer number of charges,” the judge continues, “I’m going to indicate that you are being charged with second-degree murder, first- and second-degree manslaughter, and criminally negligent manslaughter. Now, these are merely allegations at this point, and they do not imply at all whatsoever that you are guilty of any of these charges. It will be up to a jury of your peers to decide guilt. Right now, everyone in this courtroom assumes that you’re innocent.”

  A cough emanates across the room. Micah and Shawn turn to see the back of what looks to be Elaine Holcomb, a stout woman with short grey hair, making a swift but noisy exit. The door closes behind her.

  “Now, you did get copies of the information that's been filed?” asks the judge.

  “Judge, we acknowledge receipt of a copy of the criminal complaint,” Shawn says.

  “Great.”

  “A copy of the supporting affidavit, which is two pages,” Shawn continues. “Also a copy of the medical examiner’s death confirmation summary.”

  “Yep. How does your client plead?”

  “If it pleases the court, we enter a plea of not guilty.”

  “Well, that went the way I expected. Very well.”

  “May I be heard in terms of bail and scheduling, your Honor?”

  “I will hear. Is there an ADA present?”

  “Standing ADA Minerva Johnson here, sir, representing The People,” says the blonde-haired woman to their right.

  Shawn notices the purposeful absence of Astrid Lerner. Turning lackadaisicalness into grandstanding. Awesome.

  “Mr. Connelly, you may proceed,” says the judge, marking the record.

  “Mr. Breuer has never been charged with any capital offense,” Shawn says. “He is a respected member of the community, especially in AA, where he has been clean and sober for over eight years. In addition, the litany of charges brought forth by the prosecution is both damaging and unwarranted. Evidence obtained has no bearing—”

  “Save it for the trial, Mr. Connelly.”

  “Yes, your Honor. My point is that Mr. Breuer should not be considered a flight risk, as he has fulfilled all obligations, cooperated with police, and has no prior convictions. Also, due to the severity of the ridiculous charges, we would ask the court for at least ninety days to prepare for trial.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Connelly. Due to the severity of the charges, ridiculous or not, bail is denied. And your defendant has a right to a speedy trial, so date is set at October 15. Six weeks should give you ample time. I know your firm well.”

  ((Pound pound.))

  Shawn grabs his file and takes Micah back through the rope and out the double doors. They find the nearest bench.

  Micah turns to Shawn with defeated eyes.

  “I know,” Shawn says. “But we knew this could happen.”

  Shawn tucks his files away in his briefcase while Micah simply sits, staring straight ahead.

  “Micah, you gotta bear with me. This is not going to get easier. Now, later I’m going to give you some information on applying for a corrections administration permit to attend the funeral.”

  Micah says nothing.

  “Did you hear me?” asks Shawn. “Elaine is holding an open memorial service for Lenny.”

  Micah closes his eyes.

  “Look. I don’t want to alarm you.” Shawn begins to explain, knowing he has little time before Micah is taken back to the Tombs. “But in case you didn’t notice, the standing ADA in there didn’t say a word, which is extremely odd, especially when discussing bail. And even then, bail was denied. I thought we had a shot, but I can see Elaine’s influence is a little deeper than we thought.”

  Micah remains steadfast in his silence.

  “Whether you want to talk about it or not, Elaine is holding an open memorial service,” Shawn continues, “and she’s probably going to try and block your request with the detention complex. However, since we are applying for leave on compassionate grounds, I’m hopeful they will find that compassion and let you attend.”

  Micah is escorted away, staring straight ahead as he’s led down the hallway.

  C h a p t e r 2 2

  Shawn looks out the window of his Midtown high-rise office, pondering his next move. Having removed the coat and tie he had worn at arraignment, he now leans back in his large black leather chair with a pen in his mouth, arms and hands behind his head. His sleeves are rolled up just past the elbow, revealing an antique Rolex with the time reading 8:28pm. A photo of his wife rests on a shelf in the library behind him, a half-empty beer bottle in front of him, and his unopened gym bag next to his feet. A file box full of documents is strewn across his desk.

  His private investigator sits across from him, flipping through a large mound of paper, held together by a struggling black clasp.

  “In addition to the files the prosecution and police provided, which I pored over at length to develop points of exploration,” the P.I. says, “I spent over a day and a half going through all the files printed o
ff of Lennox’s work computer, and there is absolutely nothing here that suggests foul play or any sort of cover-up,” he says.

  Shawn says nothing.

  “As far as we know, the weird ghost-looking emblem is part of a small heroin operation on the Lower East Side. Promising leads from friends of theirs who have used this guy, but apparently this dealer is a pro at covering his tracks. Funny that someone who brands his heroin wants to keep a low profile, huh?”

  Still nothing.

  “The ex-boyfriend Josh Harrison has a solid alibi, but he’s still on my radar. The transcript from his police interrogation is pretty alarming, don’t you think?” Again, he receives no response. His questions seem rhetorical at this point. “I mean, your client seems to have quite the temper, based on this confrontation about the affair. Not to worry though, there’s plenty of dirt on this Josh guy. Many skeletons in his closet, mostly from when he was in one. I’ve got a man following him to see if he spends any time with shady characters.”

  Shawn is listening to every word. This silent contemplation is how he works when he feels overwhelmed. He is methodical, meticulous, and dangerous in his planning, according to those who have pitted themselves against him.

  Shawn’s detective is used to this, even amused by it.

  “And here’s a photo of the video camera that may have recorded the entire episode. You’ll notice it’s very small and not very advanced, which means it may not leave a trace we can pursue. However, we have contacted the manufacturer to determine all direct purchases in the last six months, and of course information on who distributes them at large. I have that info right here. It’s a lot.”

  He dumps the folder on Shawn’s desk with a loud thud that makes Shawn jump.

  “Shawn, the bottom line is that there are many leads in different directions, so I feel confident we have a good shot at directing our defense in at least one of them, if not two or three.”

  “It was this Ghost guy. I can feel it,” Shawn says. He picks up his land line.

  “But the Ghost letter you told me was in Lennox’s files isn’t there. Not with the police either. We have no way to find the guy at the moment, and we have nothing substantial connecting this man to the murder.”

  Shawn puts his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and whispers, “Except the warning of a dead guy.”

  Shawn uncovers the mouthpiece and says to his assistant, “Sandra, set up a press conference on the Breuer case. Yes, as soon as possible. Yes. Great, thank you.”

  He returns the phone to its cradle and turns to the detective.

  “Let’s see if this Ghost appears out of thin air.”

  C h a p t e r 2 3

  Shawn’s cab parks in the cobblestone parking lot of the Manhattan Detention Complex, known to most New Yorkers as the Tombs, a foreboding nickname given to one of the previous buildings that stood in its place back in the 1800s. Being an architectural history buff, Shawn is always disappointed as he approaches the building, a tall rectangular reddish-brown monstrosity.

  Looks more like self-storage, hoarding away people’s big-ass furniture that won’t fit into their tiny apartments, he thinks, rather than the Roman masterpiece that actually used to look like a tomb.

  Careful not to make eye contact or talk with the cab driver this time around, he swipes his credit card and gets out. The wind is both warm and cool on his face in an autumnal stasis. He walks up one of two sets of corner stairs leading up to the brownish-gray stone courtyard and enters through a grid-like glass-and-metal entrance, noting the decades of grime accumulated on the glass panes.

  He signs in, hands over his bag to an awaiting officer, places his keys and cell phone in one of the small gray metal lockers to his left, and walks through the airport-like security structure. Everyone he approaches is silent, carrying out their jobs like Stepford wives in some sort of mechanical rote.

  A tall, gruff female correctional officer escorts him past Micah’s cell block in 5 South, a newly renovated subsection of the Tombs. The fresh décor has a subway theme, and Micah’s cell number 13 is located just above the F line, designated by an orange circle with a large white F in the middle.

  Fitting, Shawn thinks, remembering the F train is the subway that runs from his condo in Cobble Hill to Micah and Lennox’s place on the Lower East Side.

  Shawn clomps across the intermittent vinyl and cement floors, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the canary yellow corridors. He enters the meeting room without any fanfare, any sense of danger or gloom. Again, he is relieved Micah is not at Riker’s Island. It wouldn’t have made sense, he reasons.

  Micah is doing push-ups in the center of the space. He is wearing a fresh set of tan scrubs, this time with a white T-shirt underneath. His muscles are too large for his tee, and they flex and expand, as if trying to break free from their confinement. As he enters, Shawn can see Micah through the window, despite the giant round metal speaker in the middle of the glass.

  “Micah? How’re you holding up?” Shawn asks as the correctional officer closes the door.

  In one powerful, fluid motion, Micah pushes himself up to standing. “Well, I guess I’m okay.” He brushes the dirt from his hands. “I just keep to myself, kinda used to that. Everyone is leaving me alone for the most part.”

  “See? I told you. But let me know if I can get the missus to talk with you. She’s the best listener I know. That’s why I married her.” Shawn sits on the metal chair in front of a long thin desk and places his open briefcase next to him.

  “Shawn, you know I love Haylee, but I’ve already got a therapist. How’s it going with you? Did you find the letter in that folder?”

  Micah sits down in the chair and looks up at him.

  “I’m glad you asked. We have several leads. You may not like hearing this, but it seems many people had far more motive to kill Lennox than you.”

  “You’re right. I don’t like hearing that.”

  “That being said, we didn’t find the letter, but I bet if we find this guy Lenny was so frightened of, we have the man who killed him.”

  “Jesus, you really think?”

  “Yes. Problem is, this guy is good at covering his tracks, which is probably why Lennox wrote that letter. If I was a betting man, which as you know sometimes I am, I’m guessing it has some pretty incriminating stuff in it, maybe even a way to find him, I don’t know. We’re still on the hunt for it. I’m gonna comb the evidence room, and maybe talk with the prosecuting attorney and see if she remembers anything.”

  “Sounds good, thank you.”

  “To recap from your arraignment, they’re going after you with murder 2, manslaughter 1 and 2, and least, criminally negligent manslaughter, which technically is the only one I’m afraid might stick. I’m fairly confident we can show state-of-mind at the time and rid you of all charges. But honestly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I still think Elaine is pulling the strings. And I think they’re pushing everything they have at this case, so bear with me. I’m holding a press conference in a few hours and need your permission to do so. It’s a little risky, but ethically I can hold one to offset the damage done by Detective Penance. We need to see if we can push this Ghost out of hiding.”

  “The guy in the letter?”

  “Yes, that’s what we’re calling him based on that sketch you drew and the pictures of the heroin bags.”

  “Heroin bags?”

  The correctional officer enters and whispers in Shawn’s ear. Shawn’s eyebrows lower. He looks back at Micah.

  “It’s my private investigator. Called me here. Must be important. I’ll be right back.”

  Shawn exits the meeting room, and the officer hands him a wireless landline.

  “Hey, in a meeting with the client. What have you got?” Shawn scratches his forehead. “Can you repeat that?”

  He places the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, so he can better mime a pen writing on a piece of paper in the air, hoping the officer will help him.
She does not react.

  “Okay, thanks, I’ll call you back when I hit the road,” Shawn says. “Find that hard drive.”

  ((Click.))

  Shawn thanks the officer and goes back into the meeting room.

  “Okay, Micah, you won’t believe this. So, remember I told you that Jenna said to check Lennox’s work hard drive for some information about a cover-up?”

  “Yeah, but I thought you said that didn’t turn up anything.”

  “It didn’t, according to them. I wanted my detective to check it himself because I didn’t trust the printouts and summaries the prosecution gave us. Trust me, I’ve been burned before by very, very similar instances of prosecutorial misconduct. And sure enough, I’m glad I did.”

  “How so?”

  “Get this. My team went to evidence to check out the actual hard drive, and it was gone. Like disappeared from the fucking police evidence room.”

  “No shit? They must know who did that. Aren’t there cameras and security guards everywhere?”

  “That’s the thing! No record of anyone. And the evidence room’s camera footage is gone for three days surrounding the day it disappeared. Both the original footage, and the backup on the outside server. They don’t think the camera was even working.”

  “No shit,” Micah repeats.

  “Yep. Gone. Missing from goddamn evidence. Not sure of who or why or how, but the fact that someone had the gall to take it means we’re onto something. Which is good news.”

  “Wait. You’re talking like we’re still going, like this isn’t that big of a deal. The evidence was stolen, Shawn. Can’t the case be thrown out completely? I mean, it’s evidence about my case. That they lost!”

  “Hold on a second. Hear me out. Yes, it’s the people’s duty to preserve evidence, but only certain evidence is covered by that protection. I’ve seen this before. Prosecution has a piece of evidence analyzed, logged, and submitted. Nothing is found relevant to the defense. Evidence disappears for one reason or another, can’t find it, chain of possession broken, lost it, whatever. Defense wants to have the evidence re-analyzed, but can’t find it. Defense moves for a dismissal of the case. Judge rules that the evidence was already analyzed and proven neither material nor exculpatory to the defense. Wastes everyone’s time, so it doesn’t matter.”