Naive

by Charles Royce

“I know I know, I just wanted to talk to you about your friend Frank and what happened to him this morning. I think it might have something to do with Lennox.”

  “Lenny was killed. Frank just overdosed, man. How the fuck you even know me? Leave me alone.”

  “I’m not sure Frank overdosed, Talbot, that’s the thing. Do you know what happened to Frank last night, who he saw? Who he bought the drugs from?”

  Like a defiant child, Talbot puts both hands in his coat, then jerks his coat down, forcing himself to attention. He looks at Shawn and doesn’t move. He is expressionless, resolved.

  This isn’t defiance, Shawn thinks. He knows something.

  “Hey, there’s a Starbucks at the end of the block up here,” Shawn says. “How ’bout I buy you a coffee?”

  C h a p t e r 3 1

  Shawn stares at his cold latte, then looks at Talbot’s empty coffee cup. Twenty minutes have passed with barely any words between them except, “Good coffee?” and “Yep.”

  They are sitting at a window bar on metal stools with worn wooden tops. A pop singer Shawn doesn’t recognize is playing over the loudspeaker, while two construction workers with thick Bronx accents stand nearby, talking about how much they hate Starbucks while sipping from their green-and-white cups. A woman with black dreadlocks and combat boots is just outside the doorway, screaming “Left! Right! Left! Right!” into her worn and raggedy mittens. Shawn is annoyed by the incessant city clamor and would much rather be home with his wife in Brooklyn.

  He stretches his feet onto the windowsill and leans back. Across the street, he admires a wrought iron fence with fleur-de-lis endcaps housing the garden area of a generic condo building from the 1980s. Barren trees line the street, their trunks surrounded by caged plants doing their best to stay relevant in the changing season. Shawn tilts his head to see past the obtrusive window graphics displaying the holiday spice latte du jour and sees a St. Catherine’s parking sign. Shawn wonders if Astrid is still there, perhaps talking with Frank or his parents. Now that he seems to be striking out with Talbot, Shawn thinks about going back to the ER. Then he thinks about Astrid. No thanks.

  Instead, he deems himself content to stir cold coffee while watching the after-work frenzy of New Yorkers heading home in the freezing drizzle that had just begun.

  “Talbot, I could tell that you wanted to share something with me earlier,” Shawn breaks the monotony. “When I mentioned the drugs, the heroin, your face completely changed. I want to help find who killed our friend Lennox. And I need to know what you know about your friend Frank.”

  “It was a mistake.” Talbot stares straight ahead.

  “I don’t think so. It’s not just chance that had us bump into each other, Talbot.”

  “No, I’m talking about last night. Frank texted me that he was gonna do heroin again. He’d been clean for almost four months.”

  “Heroin can grab ahold of people, and it’s hard to let go,” Shawn says. “Lennox had several relapses before he got his shit together. I remember one night in college, he was so fucked up I thought he was just gonna lay there and die. I spent the entire night holding his hand, cleaning up his puke.”

  “I know, he told me.”

  “He did?” Shawn asks. “Oh, right, of course. Sponsor, sponsee. Doesn’t get much closer than that.”

  “How do you know so much about me, anyway? You a cop?”

  “No, no, hell no. I’m an old friend of Lennox’s from a long, long time ago. We basically grew up together.” Shawn hesitates to reveal anything else but takes a chance. “I’m also a lawyer representing Lennox’s husband Micah.”

  “Micah, huh? Fucking jealous woman.” Talbot laughs.

  “Did your friend Frank tell you what happened that night?” Shawn doesn’t comment on Talbot’s insensitive remark. He is grateful that Talbot did not clam up and that his rapport-building techniques are paying off.

  “Yeah. Well, no.” He sorts out his thoughts. “Well, see, he told me he was thinking about it, and that he had set up some sort of meeting with a new drug dealer. Sounded kinda scary and a little stupid. I told him not to go. Wanna see the texts?”

  “Sure.” Shawn shrugs, hoping he looks nonchalant.

  Talbot removes his phone from his pocket and begins to flip through it.

  “Here. It starts right here.”

  Shawn reads, barely breathing between scrolls.

  11:07pm, Frank:

  Doing it. Made a new friend LOL

  11:08pm, Talbot:

  New friend? WTF?

  11:37pm, Frank:

  Dude says to meet him at 3am down by the river. Says he’ll be in a fucking wheelchair.

  11:40pm, Talbot:

  No. Don’t do it. Not worth it.

  3:03am, Frank:

  Got it. And get this. It was Ghost guy! Creepy AF dude, all freckly and shit. Iconic.

  3:07am, Frank:

  Swear to God, he had that heroin with the ghost thing on it. I’ve got some good shit.

  Shawn scrolls down one more frame.

  3:08am, Frank:

  Had to snap a pic of the Ghost before he vanished haha! I’ve got the shit baby. Come join me!

  (photo attached)

  Shawn looks at the attached snapshot, taken on the run. He can barely make out where it is, but he can see someone in a wheelchair sitting in front of what looks like the East River.

  Unmistakable reasonable doubt, Shawn thinks, if this is the same guy Lenny was involved with.

  “You didn’t tell me there was a picture.” Shawn tries to contain his excitement.

  “Well, look at it, you can barely tell what’s going on. Frank was probably high already.”

  “I’m gonna need screen grabs of all these texts, Talbot. And the picture too. Send them to me now, please.”

  “Sure,” says Talbot, scrolling and taking screen shots of the entire exchange. “Where do you want me to send them?”

  “Text me.”

  Shawn grabs Talbot’s phone and presses in his number. He hits enter.

  ((Swishhh.))

  C h a p t e r 3 2

  The jail cell door rolls across its glider, striking its familiar crash as it locks into place. The sound startles Micah, who is reading the Bible, one of the only books he finds available in the Tombs’ library.

  “You have a visitor,” says the well-built guard of mixed race, dressed in prison blue, with a dark brown crew-cut and wire-framed glasses. He has been eye candy of sorts for Micah, who often wonders what the man’s life is like outside of his workplace.

  The guard grabs Micah by the arm and begins to escort him down the subway-themed corridor to the visiting room. Micah doesn’t mind.

  Fellow inmates heckle as he passes each cell.

  “Oooohh, a visitor,” says one. “Maybe it’s your dead husband.”

  Micah gives the man the middle finger and continues walking.

  “I’ve seen porn that starts like this,” says another.

  Micah lets out a single laugh. He turns his head to see if his escort has had a similar reaction, and is rewarded with nothing. Or was that a grin? He couldn’t tell.

  They walk through the white metal door to the visiting room. The walls are cement blocks, so the sound reverberates with every footstep he takes. As he clomps another couple of steps, Micah watches his neighbor from the A & C train cellblock arguing with what looks to be his wife or girlfriend. In the corner, he notices a prison guard cleaning up a child’s puke on the speckled vinyl flooring. Then he sees beautiful Jenna sitting amidst the ugliness that surrounds her.

  He smiles.

  Jenna smiles back, stands up from her white table and makes a small waving gesture along with an air kiss. She is dressed in a cream-colored Gucci sweater with Snow White embroidered on the front, black slacks and navy blue off-brand pumps. She stands out amongst the slew of other visitors in sweatshirts and jeans.

  “Thanks for coming,” he says, sitting in the plastic chair across from her. “You’re my first non
-lawyer visitor.”

  “Are all the guards that, um …” Jenna’s eyes follow the guard.

  “Um, no. Just the one.”

  “You didn’t think we’d abandoned you, did you?” she says, trying to figure out what to do with her hands. She puts them under her ass and leans forward.

  Micah shrugs in a defeated affirmative. He is comfortable in the silence. Jenna is not.

  “The funeral was nice.” Jenna wanted to at least acknowledge that it happened. “I really wish you coulda been there.”

  Micah looks down.

  Jenna senses his loneliness. “I know this might sound trite, but I really want to know. How are you going?”

  “How am I going,” Micah says, rolling with the Jennaspeak. “Fucking miserable. Keeping myself busy. Reading. Staying up to date on my case through Shawn.”

  “Shawn. What would we do without him?” Jenna is trying her best to make her pronouns as inclusive as possible, making sure that Micah knows he is not alone.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Micah bows his head.

  “Speaking of the case, I spoke with James West.”

  Micah’s head jerks up. “You did?”

  “Yes, and it was quite the experience. That’s partially why I came, Micah. I’m scared. Like shaking in my skin scared.”

  Micah reaches his hands across the table. Jenna pulls her hands from her seat to hold Micah’s, sees the guard moving toward them, then moves them back with a head tilt to Micah.

  Micah places his hands back in his lap. “Why? What happened?”

  “He threatened me, kinda. And I’m not sure why.”

  “Threatened you how? Did you tell Shawn this?”

  “Not yet. While we were talking, Mr. West just wanted to make sure that if I knew anything, it would remain confidential. He even mentioned my nondisclosure agreement, and said something like ‘We wouldn’t want you to lose anything else dear to you.’” She stops, looks downward to her left. “Do you think that was about Lennox?”

  “Good question. My question would be, did he threaten you because of Lennox, or because of the Union Square killing? Cuz that company was involved in both, if you ask me.” Micah leans forward. “Two people from the same company, on the same night, killed by different nameless people who are still at large? If any of that’s true, he’s simply trying to throw his weight around, to make sure he can contain information as much as possible. You’re good, Jenna, you’re good.”

  Jenna sits back in her chair. He sees that she hasn’t really felt his words of encouragement.

  “Jenna, it’s all gonna be okay. Trust me.”

  She begins to cry, her shoulders shrugging as if she’s laughing. She is smiling. “You always do this to me. I come to you to make sure you’re okay, and you always end up being the one to comfort me.”

  “It’s what we do, right?” Micah says, borrowing one of Shawn’s catchphrases. He stalls a bit to let Jenna work through whatever she is feeling, then hits her with, “Wanna do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Find the letter.”

  “The letter.”

  “The one that Lennox filed away, the one that implicates the drug guy. In the folder with the ghost logo.”

  “Micah, I don’t want to get further into this,” Jenna says, deflecting. “This is all out of my horizons.”

  Micah realizes she is mixing metaphors again but can’t figure out what they are. He lets it go.

  “Jenna, I remember he wrote the letter about the same time you were his assistant, because it was right after his affair with Josh. Now, listen to me … Shawn says the letter isn’t in any of the files they confiscated from our condo, and it’s not in the discovery from the prosecution, so the only other place it could have been was in his files at work, or your files you took with you when you left.”

  “I don’t know.” Jenna looks uncomfortable, which is annoying Micah. “I remember Lenny asking me to delete it several months after I transcribed it for him, and I barely remember what was in it. Plus, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  “Do what anymore?”

  “This. All of this.” She flattens her palm and rotates her hand around in a circle. “I want to help, I really do. But I’m scared to get any further into this.”

  “Please just check, would you?” Micah finds himself over-enunciating. “I never read the goddamn thing, but because of everything Lennox told me about this guy, I think it might be key to who the company may have hired to kill him. Seriously. Help me here. Jury selection is beginning this week, for Christ’s sakes. Shawn has a plan for securing the right jury, but I’m not so sure about it.”

  She sits there, lost in thought.

  “Please, Jenna. Do it for Lenny,” Micah prods. “He didn’t deserve this.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Jenna says, forgetting the request as soon as she leaves.

  C h a p t e r 3 3

  I deserve this, Astrid thinks, congratulating herself as she takes off her high heels and pours herself a glass of cabernet. Although she hasn’t had the opportunity to spend much time at home over the past few weeks, she has set aside this evening to relax by working on her opening statement.

  Two months ago, Assistant District Attorney Astrid Lerner bought the home of her dreams, a modest one-bedroom end unit in the historic Christadora House across from Tomkins Square Park in the East Village. The condo is shotgun style, on the fourteenth floor, with sweeping north, east, and south views. Manhattan is majestically highlighted through thick black iron-framed windows against stark white walls.

  She fancies herself a bargain hunter, which was evident in the way she negotiated the deal on the condo itself. Even after her offer of $30,000 below asking was accepted, the appraisal came in way below offer. She stood her ground and decided not to walk away, forcing her real estate agency to handle further negotiations so they wouldn’t lose the sale. She ended up getting the $1.2 million condo for just under a million.

  She tops off her glass and revels in her victories, not only her condo purchase, but also the fact that she has just negotiated the jury of her dreams … An all-male, all-Republican set of twelve. Almost. Just two questionable peers separate me from convicting him, she relishes. One is a lesbian activist, the other is the female CFO of a high-tech company. In this moment, she is confident with her odds, despite her suspicions of her opponent Shawn Connelly.

  Three days of jury selection and only one peremptory challenge? She asks herself. It’s so unlike him to buckle like that. She takes another sip.

  ((Buzz.))

  Astrid places the wineglass down, disturbed by the buzz kill, yet fully expecting the arrival of Detective Penance.

  “Come on up,” she says into the intercom, and presses him in.

  She takes her glass of wine into her bedroom, places it on her nightstand, and grabs a notebook from her briefcase. She reads the opening paragraph:

  LADIES AND GENTELMEN OF THE JURY.

  “Good beginning, Ass,” she says out loud. “Ass” a nickname she calls herself, especially when she notices something stupid like her own typo.

  ((Knock knock.))

  She puts the notebook under her arm, grabs the glass of wine, and walks to the door.

  “Detective.”

  “Ms. Lerner.” Detective Bronson Penance does his best imaginary hat removal.

  “Why, do come in.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “God, we are dorks.”

  “You speak the truth, m’dear.”

  Detective Penance sits down in the chair where Astrid was enjoying her wine, takes out some papers and photos and spreads them across the coffee table. Unshaven, with his shirt half untucked, he appears tired but restless. He feigns excitement, if only to boost his adrenaline for the conversation that’s about to happen.

  “Let’s get to work, shall we?” He knows that Astrid has a lot of work to do the night before a trial.

  “Before we start, did you hear about my
jury?” She is still standing.

  “You mean how you basically ran right over the legendary guru, Shawn Connelly, and negotiated the perfect jury? You found ten full-on conservative religious men. In New York City, for crying out loud.”

  “Yeah, it’s strange. I would have thought he would have objected more, it was like we were looking for the same people, except those final two. Although I do like the lesbian as a person. And I think the CEO and I could be friends.”

  “Maybe that’s his strategy. All he needs is one or two. A hung jury maybe?”

  “Yeah, maybe, although he knows we’d turn right back around and pursue it again,” she answers, then gets distracted. “Oh, oh, get this … Do you know that one of the jurors actually made the statement … Wait, let me find it.”

  She bends down, reaches into her bag and pulls out a notebook, never putting her drink down.

  “Here it is.” She begins to read. “Okay, so he says, ‘Faggot priests who abuse young children should be hung by their balls and have their fingernails ripped off one by one.’ Then he did the sign of the cross.” She mimes the movement using her wine glass. “Can you believe that?”

  “In the courtroom?” He tries to hold in his laughter. “In front of Judge Wilson?”

  “I thought he was gonna have a heart attack,” she says, sipping her wine.

  “Please don’t tell me that guy is on the jury.”

  “He’s foreman. Shawn was actually the one who asked the question about Catholic priests.”

  “Something fishy there,” he says. “Who did he use the peremptory on?”

  “Some juror who went on and on about her cats during voir dire.”

  “That’s what they call the questioning of the prospective jury, right?” He’s trying to remember the terminology.

  “Yes,” she replies. “Now, this lady … this cat lady … she had on these tight black gloves with white tips. Looked like claws. Toward the end of her questioning, she said something that sounded vaguely like gay-bashing, and Shawn immediately moved to strike her. Which I really didn’t mind, cuz she was annoying as hell.”