by David DeLee
He grabbed the woman by the arm and pulled her back, registering the horrified expression on her face. He pulled her into a tight embrace and glanced at Levy over the woman’s head which he had buried against his chest.
Levy had turned away and covered her face with her arm as the train rumbled past, its brakes screeching, bringing it to a halt. Officer King stood beside her. He blocked her way, making sure she couldn’t look back at the blood now streaked across the side of the first car as the train slowed into a stop.
Against Flynn’s chest, the woman sobbed. In a muffled, agonized voice, she kept repeating, “I didn’t mean to. Oh my God. Oh my God. I didn’t mean to…”
125th Street Train Station
101 East 125th Street
East Harlem, Manhattan
Friday, December 1st 4:23 p.m.
LEVY SAT ON A wooden bench in the train station downstairs. Flynn stood over her, as did the patrolman named King. The station was chocked full of policemen, detectives, EMTs, and Transit Authority officials. She’d heard investigators from the Transportation Safety Board were already on site. Various teams had arrived to work the forensics and the cleanup. And in between various city officials showed up, walked through the station—they were barred from going up to the platform—and looked either grim, worried, or concerned.
The press was kept at bay outside in the cold.
Detectives had spoken to patrolman King, Flynn, and Levy. Once their statements were taken, they were allowed to congregate together. Levy rocked back and forth. Her hands encased in black leather gloves still shook, playing the horrific scene over and over in her head.
Across the way the young woman who’d been held by Tillman sat on a similar bench. She had a blanket draped over her shoulders and a cup of coffee clutched in her hands. A female detective sat beside her, taking her statement.
Flynn had told the woman what to say. There was no need to mention she’d pushed Tillman. It had been a spontaneous reaction to her anger and fear. She’d have to live with that the rest of her life. She didn’t the added burden of legal and media scrutiny that would go with it.
Levy and King had agreed.
Captain Whalen came through the station doors looking anxious. He wore a threadbare tan overcoat hanging open and a thick cigar jammed into his mouth. He had more than a passing resemblance to Colombo, the character from the old TV show.
“Jesus Christ,” he said when he reached them. “I can’t let you two off your leashes for five minutes. Are you both okay?”
“We’re good,” Levy said.
Flynn clasped King on the arm and handed his business card to the officer. “Thanks, man. You ever need anything, just give me a call.”
“Thank you, Detective.” They shook hands. Before he stepped back, he actually tipped his cap to Levy. “Detective.”
When he was gone, Whalen asked, “What the fuck happened?’
Flynn and Levy took turns filling him in. Flynn finished by saying, “Tillman was dead on impact.”
“So, we’re done?” Whalen asked. “But why’d he do it? He didn’t know Olivarez or Cabot, did he?”
“No,” Levy said. “It wasn’t personal. They weren’t even targeted specifically. Tillman instructed Walker and Haywood to kill a cop. He didn’t care which one.”
“Why for God’s sake?”
“Because Stokes killed DeShawn Beach,” Flynn said. “A simple case of retaliation. You kill one of ours, we kill one of yours. It turned out Haywood and Walker were a couple of overachievers, instead of taking out one cop, they decided to take out two.”
“This all just speculation or can you prove it?” Whalen asked.
At Flynn’s feet was Tillman’s satchel. He picked it up. “Inside here are documents and transcribed conversations Tillman had with more than a dozen people, instructing them to disrupt demonstrations, harass cops, cause whatever trouble they could. The bigger, the better. Most of it was organized looting and property damage, burning cars, breaking windows, that sort of stuff.”
“With complete assurance,” Levy added, “they’d be taken care of if they got caught. Bail, legal fees, that sort of thing, so long as they kept quiet.”
“We’ve matched some of the names with persons arrested over the last few days,” Flynn said.
Levey added, “We’ve tied them, and others, to the Seize the Day legal defense fund Tillman set up. Direct payments trace into their personal accounts.”
“Good work,” Whalen said, clearly pleased.
“And his accomplice,” Flynn said.
“Haywood and Walker,” Whalen said. “I thought that was what we were talking about.”
“Them,” Flynn agreed. “But there was someone else, too.”
“Someone else. Who?”
Before Flynn could answer, Levy stood up. “Here she is.”
The two men turned to see Brooke Prescott marching across the station’s waiting area, her heels clicking on the tile floor. From outside, a siren started up. Emergency lights flashed through the windows.
“You get it?” Flynn asked.
Prescott reached into her oversized leather bag and pulled out a folded packet wrapped in a blue cover page. Legal court documents. She handed it to Levy with a smile. “Got it.”
“Got what?” Whalen asked.
“You have people in place?” Prescott said.
“Yup,” Flynn said, grabbing his coat from the bench next to where Levy had been sitting.
“In place for what?” Whalen wanted to know.
“Come on,” Flynn said, steering Levy toward the exit.
Whalen called out, “Where are you two going? Somebody talk to me, goddamn it.”
“Brooke will explain everything,” Flynn said without turning around. “Gotta run.”
The Ritz-Carlton New York
50 Central Park South
Midtown, Manhattan
Friday, December 1st 5:48 p.m.
THE RITZ-CARLTON, FORMERLY the St. Moritz, constructed in 1930, is one of the premier hotels in New York City. A thirty-three story building with nearly four-hundred windows facing Central Park, it was a favorite venue for party and event planners the world over.
Flynn pulled the unmarked sedan to a stop in front of the hotel. Three blue and whites rolled in behind him. A doorman who had just helped an elderly woman into the backseat of a yellow cab straightened up. He shut the taxi door and scowled. Decked out in an outfit that harkened back to the days when the St. Moritz first opened its doors, he tipped his stove top hat back, staring with undisguised distaste at the vehicles pulling up. He tugged on the lapels of his monkey suit jacket, with white linen gloved hands, and strolled toward Flynn and Levy with his nose high in the air.
“Is this…spectacle absolutely necessary, officers?” he started.
Flynn smiled. “Probably not, but it’s so much more fun.”
Trial Division Bureau Chief Joseph Gregg was currently hosting a thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner, using the event to officially announce his intention to run for District Attorney for New York County in next year’s election. According to Brooke Prescott, nearly one hundred people were expected to be in attendance, many of them local and national celebrities and political party leaders.
“Where’s Attorney Gregg holding his event?” Flynn asked the doorman.
“The Emery Roth Room, of course.”
“Of course,” Flynn said, like he should have known. He and Levy charged up the steps to the hotel lobby, signaling to the six patrolmen filing out of their cars to follow them.
“But you can’t go in there,” the doorman cried out, seemingly quite concerned. “It’s a private affair.”
“Good to know,” Flynn said, not caring.
Inside, they were directed to the Emory Roth Room. They moved fast down the carpeted hallway. There was a set of closed double doors at the end. To the bellhop who tagged along beside them, Levy asked, “How many exits are there from that room?”
“Two on either
side, besides the main entrance,” he said, breathless with excitement. “What’s going on?”
Two men in dark suits stood at causal attention guarding the closed main doors. They exchanged concerned looks as Flynn and Levy led six cops straight at them. Over his shoulder, Flynn commanded the uniforms to split off and take up positions at the other doors.
“No one in or out. I’m not expecting any resistance, but you never know.”
“You’ve got it, Detective,” one cop said as they peeled off.
“I’m sorry,” one of the dark suited guards said. “You can’t go in without an invitation.”
Flynn badged him. “Got one.”
He flung the doors open and entered the large banquet hall.
The man had style, Flynn thought. He had to give him that.
The room was filled with round, white linen covered tables. Ten people to a table, and it was a sold out crowd. The centerpieces were a collection of staggered height glass candle holders. Yellow-white flames flickered, casting the dimly lit room in a warm glow. Each of the high-back, wrought iron chairs had thin, beige cushions tied to their seats. The walls were paneled in dark hardwood topped with intricate crown molding. Linen-white silk panels draped from the ceiling to a thick, maroon-patterned wool carpet. A large, glass-blown chandelier hung from the ceiling over it all.
Gregg stood in the center spot behind a long banquet table at the far end of the room. He wore a traditional black tuxedo and held a sparkling glass of champagne raised in his hand. His handsome face wearing a broad smile.
Until he stopped in mid-sentence and stared with his mouth open as Flynn and Levy burst in.
A collective gasp swept through the room. Then the murmuring of voices began. All eyes were on Flynn and Levy as they marched down the center of the room.
Flynn recognized a number of people present, both in the crowd and invited guests seated on the dais. A few borough presidents, a couple of assembly leaders, a number of defense attorneys he’d faced off against in court over the years. Even a minor Hollywood starlet or two, a few radio and TV talk show host personalities. New York State Senator Grant McClellan was also there along with two congressmen—one from New York’s Eighth District and the other from the Eleventh.
Almost as if on cue, the four doors on either side opened up. Each of the six uniformed cops entered. Four of them took up positions blocking the doors, while the other two made their way to the main doors Flynn and Levy had just come through. There they took up positions, making it clear no one should think about leaving.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gregg demanded.
“We didn’t mean to interrupt, counselor,” Flynn said as he and Levy strolled toward the dais. “Oh, wait. Yes, we did. But if you were going on about how your attempts to railroad a good cop by forcing a meritless indictment through the grand jury system failed, don’t let us stop you.”
Flynn looked around the crowd. “He was telling you about how he knowingly let false testimony be presented to the grand jury—a recanted, perjured testimony, remain part of the record—and yet, the grand jury still returned the proper decision, a no bill verdict.”
“That’s not the full story,” Gregg said.
“Did they or did they not return a no bill verdict?”
“They did, but—”
“Did the NYPD exonerate Officer Stokes or not?”
“That was your doing, Detective.” He stared hard at Levy. “And hers.”
Flynn reached the long table with Levy a half a step behind him. Flynn went right and Levy circled around to the left. They walked behind the dignitaries and approached Gregg from both sides, trapping him between them.
Seated beside Gregg, Senator McClellan stood up at the last second, blocking Flynn from reaching for Gregg. “I demand an explanation, Detective.”
“Step aside, Senator. This doesn’t involve you.” Flynn stared down at the shorter man but McClellan didn’t yield. “If you prevent me from performing my lawful duty, sir, I’ll be forced to arrest you, as well.”
“Arrest me? For what?”
Levy took Gregg by the arm. She held her handcuffs in the air. “Joseph Gregg, you’re under arrest for murder and conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Murder,” Gregg said, incredulous.
“Is this a joke?” McClellan asked. “Joe?”
“No joke, Senator,” Flynn said.
“Then it’s some kind of mistake. I’ve known this man for twenty years. I’m proud to call him my friend.”
“I suggest you get better friends. Now, for the last time, Senator, step aside.” Flynn was aware of the cellphones that were now out, recording every second of the drama as it unfolded. He raised his voice. “I won’t warn you again.”
McClellan stepped aside.
“Flynn,” Gregg growled, “I’ll have your badge for this.” He twisted around and looked at Levy. “Both of you.”
Levy tightened the handcuffs around Gregg’s wrists.
Flynn took him by the arm and pulled him along to the far end of the table. Levy squeezed past McClellan. The Senator fell in step behind her, not ready to give up on his friend apparently.
Gregg barked a laugh. “Who am I supposed to have murdered?”
“NYPD officer Jordan Cabot and his partner, Leon Olivarez,” Flynn said.
Hushed murmurs turned into a great buzz and spread throughout the crowd. People got up from their tables and surged toward the center aisle. Flynn pushed Gregg through them as Levy urged them back.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gregg said. “They were murdered by a couple of thugs. You said so yourself.”
“Thugs hired by you and Sonny Tillman.”
“Tillman? Goodall’s attorney? I don’t even know the man.” Gregg shook his arms in an attempt to break Flynn’s grasp on his bicep.
Flynn squeezed hard and jerked him into compliance. “Try convincing a jury of that. We have transcribed phone conversations and recorded voicemails that tell another story. Like the Senator, you should’ve chosen your friends more wisely, too. Your co-conspirators, at least. Tillman didn’t trust you. He recorded every conversation you two had. He had ’em transcribed, date and time-coded, and cross-referenced with the actual phone call recordings as insurance against you if he ever needed them in the future.”
“We’re confident voice analysis will match your voice to the one on the recordings,” Levy said.
“Illegally obtained,” Gregg sputtered “It’ll all be inadmissible in court. You’ll see.”
Flynn laughed. “Nice try, counselor. Even I know New York is a one-party consent state when it comes to recorded conversations.”
“This is insane.” Gregg twisted his head around so he could see Senator McClellan. “Grant, you see that, don’t you? Why would I conspire with Tillman to kill cops?”
“For the most reprehensible reason there is.” Flynn looked around the room. “This.”
Levy turned to the Senator. “ADA Gregg approached Tillman on Monday morning, though it wasn’t their first conversation on the subject. He suggested to Goodall’s lawyer that their interests were aligned. Tillman wanted retribution for DeShawn Beach’s death, and Gregg wanted to demonstrate how lawless the city had become under the current administration, particular PC Berens and District Attorney Pace. He convinced Tillman to hire disruptors at the rallies.”
“Not that it took much convincing,” Flynn said. “Since this wasn’t Tillman’s first rodeo, and Gregg had suspected Goodall and Tillman had done so in the past.”
“Tillman already had a shell company in place to hide the payments they made to lawbreaking disrupters in the past,” Levy added.
Flynn shook Gregg’s arm. “Whose idea was it to go all in and kill a cop?”
Gregg frowned and remained silent.
“From what I heard on the tapes, I’d say it was your idea.”
“It wasn’t!” Gregg looked at Flynn with pleading eyes. “It was Tillman who came up with it. I swear. He sa
id such measures hadn’t effectively yielded the desired results in the past. We had to do something that couldn’t be ignored, he said.”
“Easy to throw Tillman under the bus,” Flynn said. “Well, as it turned out, a train.”
“What?”
“Tillman’s dead. But he left enough evidence to convict you ten times over, counselor. Trust me.”
“This will never stick,” Gregg said. “I’ll be out before you’re done with the paperwork.”
Flynn snapped him to a stop and stared him down. “You hold onto that hope, Joey. Cling to it as you get fitted for a Riker’s Island jumpsuit. Keep thinking that when they sentence you to life in prison without parole. And each time that hope fades a little and reality sets in a bit more over the years, and when you finally realize every day of the rest of your life you will spend behind bars, I want you to remember this. People are dead because of you and your ambitions. Some good people, like Olivarez and Cabot, and some maybe not so much, like Haywood and Walker and Tillman. Their lives are all over. And so is yours. Political and otherwise.”
In the hotel lobby, Flynn handed Gregg over to two of the patrolmen. “Transport this sorry piece of shit to the Seventh. We’ll be right behind you.”
“You got it, Detective.”
As they took Gregg outside, the doorman held the door open for them.
Levy turned to Flynn. “A good night’s work, well done.”
Before Flynn could reply, his cell phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. He frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Levy asked.
“It’s that cop, Evans, out of the Twelve-Two in Staten Island.” Flynn answered the call and listened for a few minutes. Then he said, “Shit.”
He disconnected the call. “We’ve got to go. Now!”
Residence of Ben & Karen Stokes
74 Ackerman Street
Great Kills, Staten Island
Friday, December 1st 6:32 p.m.
FLYNN SCREECHED THE UNMARKED car to a stop behind a plethora of emergency vehicles: patrol cars from the local precinct, unmarked cars, and an ambulance. The back doors of the ambulance were open, but the interior was unoccupied. The vehicles were parked in a haphazard pattern around Ben Stokes’ house, indicating an emergency response.