by Bill Stanton
“What case, Chief? My client’s dead.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Bishop. I’m talking about the whole goddamned mess. The Muslim scumbag and his whore of a mother who killed him and his sister and then herself. And I’m talking about that drug-dealin’ nigger Supreme, who, as far as I’m concerned, is a domestic terrorist.”
When the chief used the word “nigger,” Bishop looked at his driver, who was black. Whatever he was thinking, his face gave nothing away. The ugly language was nothing new—that was just the lazy, dismissive way cops often talked to one another when no one else was around. They rarely meant anything by it. They mocked everybody. But this was different. In all the years he’d known Fitzgerald, Bishop had never seen this kind of rage from him. This wasn’t just cop talk. The chief’s remarks were loaded with real hate.
“Chief, forgive me here for a moment, but why the fuck do you care if I’m handling Supreme’s case?”
“You don’t need to know why, Bishop, you just need to fucking do what I tell you,” he said, the veins in his neck bulging.
“And if I don’t?” Bishop asked with a little more edge than he’d meant.
“If you don’t, you’re on your own and it’s gonna get really ugly. Where elephants tread, ants get trampled.” With that, the driver pulled over to let Bishop out.
Bishop stood motionless on the street as the car sped away and realized that something had changed forever. He’d just been threatened by the NYPD’s chief of detectives but also, more to the point, by his longtime friend.
16
LUCY WAS SMOOTHING her skirt and adjusting the clips in her hair while she sat in the living room of Kevin Anderson’s house in the Hamptons. She’d been there for about ten minutes and was waiting for Yvette Anderson to return with coffee. The house was bigger than she’d expected, and the main floor had lots of open space and a striking glass wall that overlooked the pool and the backyard. Not exactly the kind of place a cop could afford, Lucy thought. The furniture was tasteful contemporary—sleek leather couches with very clean lines in muted earth tones—and there was a huge floor-to-ceiling fireplace with a glass mantel. There were also large cartons, the kind used for moving, scattered around the room in various stages of being filled.
Yvette had wanted to be packed and out of the house by now, but she couldn’t start the process until she had clearance from the cops. And they were in no hurry. First the whole place was sealed off as a crime scene and cops from the Hampton Bays Police Department went over every inch of the house. Yvette had no idea what they were looking for or why they cared about any area other than the master bedroom, where her husband’s body was found. Then came the NYPD investigators, along with several cops from the Internal Affairs Division. It was only after all of them were finished that Mrs. Anderson was allowed to go back into her home and start packing.
Lucy tried to look beyond the furniture for some clues about who these people were. She walked over to the fireplace, which was beautifully done, to take a look at the several dozen photographs on the mantel and the wall. It was a mix of family shots at life-cycle events like weddings and christenings, vacation photos of the Andersons skiing and on the beach with their two kids, and a smattering of the kids at school functions and participating in sports. What a shame for the kids, Lucy thought. It was bad enough to lose a parent, but she couldn’t even imagine the difficulties involved when it happened under horrible circumstances like these.
There were also several photos of Kevin Anderson in uniform with what appeared to be his partners and a few ceremonial photos of Kevin getting promoted and receiving awards. She even saw one with Kevin surrounded by family, shaking hands with police commissioner Brock on the day he was promoted to lieutenant. The photograph was obviously taken by a family member or a friend, not a professional, so it wasn’t framed that well. There were five people in the background; four of them appeared to be chiefs, judging by the scrambled eggs on their hats. But there was another guy dressed in a dark suit Lucy thought looked familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him.
“That was a wonderful day,” Yvette said when she walked into the living room carrying a tray with coffee and cups. “Everyone was so proud of Kevin when he became a lieutenant.” She stopped for a moment, staring at Lucy. “I know what you’re thinking,” she continued, now with a sharp edge to her voice. “You and all the other outsiders who come here assuming you know something about my husband because of what happened. Well, you don’t know anything.”
Lucy relied on her training and remained quiet and impassive. She could hear A. J.’s voice in her head: “If she didn’t want to talk to you, she wouldn’t have let you into her house in the first place. Let her vent. Let her say what she has to say. It’s not about you. It’s about getting the story, so shut up and listen.”
Yvette was a good-looking woman, with high cheekbones, lovely mocha skin, and almond-shaped eyes; Lucy guessed she was in her mid-to late thirties. She was well dressed, and her hair and nails had been done in a salon. Lucy thought she looked like the kind of woman who’d have a house like this—and nothing like the average cop wife.
Most cops come from a working-class background, and their average career path keeps them firmly rooted in that socioeconomic milieu. New York City requires at least two years of college to join the NYPD, and it’s a given that most of the candidates go to community college to get the minimum number of credits they need to get into the academy. The starting salary is about $25,000, which gets bumped to $35,000 after the first year. It’s a tough economic road given the cost of living in New York. Cops often live with their parents until well into their thirties or until they marry their neighborhood sweetheart, who has to work to help make ends meet. Lucy had seen some statistics somewhere that said if a New York City cop were to get married, have two kids, and have his wife stay at home, that family would have to go on some kind of government assistance just to get by.
The Andersons didn’t fit the profile. Yvette had met Kevin when they were juniors at Tulane, where they were both prelaw. When he was quietly asked to leave in his senior year, she stayed on at school to graduate. She went to NYU law school and worked part-time while Kevin began his career as a cop.
“Look, I didn’t mean to snap,” Yvette said after a pause. “It’s just been a very difficult time.”
“I’m sure,” Lucy said quietly.
“Anyway,” she continued, seeming to regain some of her buoyancy, “the weather was perfect that day and Kevin was so happy. I thought he’d lost his passion for being a cop and it’d become just a job, something he had to do. You know, just work. But that day I realized I was wrong. No matter what he did, or what people think he did, he really loved being a cop. I’ve never told anybody this. When I got up that morning to get ready—the ceremony was downtown at eleven—Kevin wasn’t in the house. I thought maybe he’d gone for a run. He got back by the time I’d showered and dressed. I was in the kitchen having a cup of coffee when he walked in. When I asked him where he’d been, he told me he’d gone to the cemetery. He went to his father’s grave. Now,” Yvette said, pouring coffee for herself and Lucy, “he hadn’t been to the cemetery since his father’s funeral seven years earlier. I didn’t ask him why he went. I knew. He wanted to tell his father in person that he was becoming a lieutenant. That’s how much it meant to him.”
Yvette sat down on the couch and Lucy sat across from her. They quietly sipped their coffee for a few moments. Lucy desperately wanted to take out her notebook, but she was concerned it would disrupt the flow. So she began to take mental notes, hoping she’d be able to remember everything later.
“Look,” Yvette said, breaking the silence, “I don’t know what kind of story you came here to do, but God knows there’s enough salacious misinformation and bullshit out there to fill a book. You know, crooked cop found with dead hooker. I’ve heard it all. I mean, my husband gets murdered and I don’t even get the opportunity to grieve because I have to put up with all t
hese intrusions, all this other crap. It’s like he was such an awful person, who cares what happened to him. Well, let me tell you, I care and my kids care.”
“Why do you believe your husband was murdered?” Lucy asked.
“Are you gonna give me that nonsense that my husband was so despondent that he was being investigated by Internal Affairs that he beat a hooker to death and then killed himself with drugs?” Yvette snapped. “That’s bullshit. And if you’re here just to tell the same story that’s been in the papers over and over again, you can leave now. I have no interest in talking to you.”
“No, no,” Lucy protested gently, trying to reassure her. “The last thing I want to do is to tell the same story again. I want to tell your story. That’s why I came to see you.”
“Excuse me a moment, please.” Yvette walked out of the room. While she was gone, Lucy quickly took out her notebook and furiously began writing things down. When she heard footsteps, she closed the notebook but left it sitting on her lap. Yvette walked back into the room, wearing a light sweater now.
“Sorry, I felt a little chill. I went and raised the heat. Are you okay? You sure? You know, it’s ironic, I never wanted this house,” Yvette said, shaking her head and looking around. “I don’t really like the people out here; it’s all too flashy and way too busy during the season. I prefer western Connecticut, where it’s a lot quieter and more laid-back. That’s why I’m packing up and selling the house. Of course, I can’t go into the bedroom anymore, either. I haven’t been in that room since Kevin’s body was found.”
“Mrs. Anderson—” Lucy began.
Yvette interrupted her. “Listen, girl, if we’re going to talk about very personal matters, you’ve got to stop calling me Mrs. Anderson.”
“Sorry,” Lucy said with a sheepish look on her face. “Yvette, for me to do this story, your story, I need to be able to ask you anything. I need to know I can bring up any subject, no matter how sensitive.”
“What?” Yvette replied. “The house, the money, the hooker, the rumors about Kevin? We can talk about all of it, as long as you give me your word you’ll keep an open mind. No preconceived notions about who Kevin was or what he did. If you’re good with that, then let’s do it. But not here. Let’s go for a walk.”
• • •
There was now a light mist falling. Yvette gave Lucy a nylon windbreaker and had an umbrella for the two of them as well. They walked down the gravel driveway and then on the long dirt road that led out to the main drag. They made a left to walk along the side of the road.
“I want to tell you up front that I loved my husband,” she said as they walked. “He had lots of flaws, and I know he did some bad things, but I still loved him. It’s certainly not my intent to run down his name. But I can’t say anything at this point that could be worse than what’s already been said. I want to set the record straight. Well, as much as I can anyway, and I want to nail those hypocritical bastards to the wall who did much worse things than he ever did and are now trying to make him the fall guy. So, tell me what you’ve heard.”
Lucy gave Yvette a short version of the story Supreme had told her about Kevin Anderson forcing his way into Church Jackson’s drug trade, and how he’d used information from Church and Supreme to build an amazing arrest record while eliminating the competition. Yvette didn’t say much, but when Lucy finished, a broad smile finally crossed her face. “I’ll bet you’re expecting me to dispute all of this,” she said, “and protest that my husband would never do something like that, the same way I did for Internal Affairs and all of the self-righteous investigators who questioned me. But not today. Today’s your lucky day, Lucy. I don’t have anything that’ll help you prove Supreme’s claims, but I can tell you that I buy it, that it makes sense based on what I know.”
Lucy stopped walking and turned to face Yvette. “What are you saying?” she asked.
“I’m saying that I believe it. I never knew the specifics, but the way you laid it out just now sounds about right. You ever watch The Sopranos?” Yvette asked.
Lucy nodded.
“Well, I’m not Carmela Soprano. I didn’t stay with him for the lifestyle, for the material things he provided. I have a career of my own. I didn’t need Kevin’s money. I stayed with him because I loved him, and because despite it all, he was a good father. You ever love someone who wasn’t perfect? We’re all human and we’re all flawed.”
“So you knew,” Lucy said.
“Look, there’s knowing and there’s knowing. I obviously knew we weren’t living this way on a cop’s salary. But whenever I did ask, he assured me he wasn’t doing anything to hurt anyone. I got the rationalization that people have their vices—drugs, gambling, prostitution, or whatever—and they’re gonna find a way to indulge no matter what the cops do. So if he could play some role in somehow making things safer, and make a few dollars at the same time, why not? That’s about as detailed as the discussion ever got. And whenever I expressed concerns about him, his safety, and the risk of getting in real trouble, he always assured me he was protected. He laughed it off. Look, he couldn’t have done this by himself, without cooperation from someone higher up. And he always said he had an insurance policy. He knew too much for anything to happen.”
Yvette stopped walking. She turned and looked at Lucy. Beads of water were dripping off the edge of the umbrella. “He was my husband and I loved him for who he was and despite who he was. Part of me viewed him as a real man—tough and strong and resolute, with the guts to go out and do what he believed he had to do to take care of his family regardless of the risk and the danger. I don’t know what that makes me, but that’s the truth. And now that I’ve given you what you came for, I’d really like you to do something for me.”
“If I can,” Lucy said. “What is it?”
“My husband did not kill himself and he certainly didn’t beat that poor girl to death. He’d never lay a finger on a woman. Not a chance.”
Lucy thought about what she said for a moment. “Well, what about the pressure from Internal Affairs?”
Yvette laughed. “Shit, Kevin knew from day one the kind of scrutiny he’d get. So now, after all this time, he suddenly gets jumpy about IAB? No way. It doesn’t make sense. The only thing I can figure is somebody else is involved in this—probably a higher-up in the department, I don’t know—but I’m guessing somebody suddenly decided he wanted one less partner. Or whatever. But I’m telling you the whole murder-suicide thing is bullshit. The autopsy found Viagra in his system. And there’s not a chance he would’ve taken that.”
Lucy started to say something, but Yvette cut her off. “Let me finish. There’s no doubt Kevin liked to take a hard-on drug every once in a while for recreation, you know, to really have some fun and last a little longer. But he wouldn’t have taken Viagra because it gave him severe migraines. Girl, you’re not blushing, are you? You can’t be that innocent. Anyway, he had a prescription and a full bottle of Cialis in his nightstand. He’d never take Viagra. So please tell me you’ll look into this.”
“I assure you A. J. and I will look at every possibility,” Lucy said.
As they walked back to the house, Lucy knew she needed to ask about the prostitute. “Don’tcha think that in this context that’s the least of it?” Yvette said, laughing. “Sorry. But if I don’t laugh I’m afraid I’ll cry. We’ve already established that Kevin was no saint. And he was a man with large appetites. But I know I had his heart.”
As they were turning the corner to head down the dirt road back to the house, Yvette said, “Oh, there’s one more thing. Look down the street. You see the Chrysler with the tinted windows? They’re here all the time. My guess is they’ll follow you now, too, or somebody just like them. Sorry, but you asked for it.”
17
A. J. HATED GOING to Rikers Island. It was a dreadful, depressing place, and every time he went, he felt like it sucked the life out of him. No matter who he had to see or why he needed to see them, it always seemed to t
ake all day. And by the time he finished, he’d be practically gasping for air. He wasn’t claustrophobic, but the inside of a prison always made him feel like he couldn’t get enough oxygen, like his breathing passages were closing up.
At least he’d been able to eliminate most of the bureaucratic hassles involved in getting access, thanks to connections he’d made among the wardens and senior corrections officers. One phone call usually got him whatever he needed.
The inmates simply referred to it as “the Rock,” but to most New Yorkers, Rikers Island was some unspeakably wretched place they preferred not to think about. Ever. If you asked someone in the city where Rikers Island was located, the response was usually a quick, “Oh, it’s in . . . it’s near the . . . um . . . you can see it from the Triborough Bridge, right? Well,” they’d invariably say after a few moments, “I know it’s in the river somewhere.”
It’s actually a 415-acre island in the East River, just off the shoreline of Astoria, Queens, and only about a hundred feet from the end of Runway 22 at LaGuardia Airport. Though the swirling currents of the East River once guaranteed that no inmate could make it off the island alive, airport expansion and its proximity to the island had resulted in a few prisoner sightings at the end of the runway. (All, however, had been quickly apprehended.) Most people were surprised that Rikers had not one but ten separate jails and was the largest penal colony in the world, a motley collection of old-style penitentiaries, modern prefab jails, modular units where prisoners lived in dormitory-style housing, and trailers. Every day, in addition to about sixteen thousand inmates, there were seven thousand guards, three thousand nonuniformed staff, and as many as thirteen thousand vehicles on the island, which was accessible only by a two-lane bridge. It was big enough to qualify as a medium-size town, with its own power plant, a firehouse, a bakery capable of making enough bread every day for more than twenty-five thousand people, a marine unit, and even a makeshift courthouse where prisoners could file the more than two hundred writs a week they brought against the system.