by Jason Starr
“Fuck that,” I said out loud as I headed down to the subway station at 96th and Lexington.
Just because Rob hadn’t directly ruined my life didn’t mean he was a good guy. He knew I was vulnerable, in a bad marriage, and he’d planted ideas in my head. He was like a lot of addicts I knew—trying to get people to sink as low as they felt inside. He was an empty man and he wanted me to feel empty, too. He deserved to lose everything, he deserved to suffer. This wasn’t about revenge; this was about justice.
I checked to make sure there were no cops or MTA employees watching, then I jumped the turnstile.
On the platform, I waited for the train to arrive. I saw the light in the tunnel, felt a little wind, so it wouldn’t be long.
I didn’t know if Rob would actually go through with the wire transfer. He’d seemed sufficiently terrified when I’d left him, but it depended on how much his marriage actually meant to him. Either way, I felt like I’d done a good thing. If he wired the money, Maria and Jonah could use it to help have a happy, stress-free life. If he didn’t do the transfer, well, at least I’d die knowing that, in the end, at least I’d tried to do something positive for my family.
The roar of the approaching train grew louder, the headlights blaring like the eyes of a vicious monster.
I was looking forward to death. It would be a relief from the shit show my life had turned into, that was for sure. I just wanted the pain to end. I wanted peace, darkness.
As I bent my knees, about to take my dive into eternity, I already felt the train’s beautiful impact, the relief of my spiraling thoughts shutting down, when somebody tackled me, pinning me down to the concrete platform as the train whizzed by.
“Don’t worry, I got ya, I got ya,” the big guy said.
I heard a woman say, “Oh my God, I’ll call nine-one-one.”
Other people were just screaming.
I tried to get up, but the guy wouldn’t let me budge, and then I was struck by what seemed like the worst realization possible.
I was alive.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THEY MUST’VE INJECTED me with something because I’d stopped screaming and was just staring at the roof of the ambulance, trying to prepare for whatever came next.
As they carried me out of the ambulance toward a building, I glanced at the signage:
BELLEVUE
Figured. Where else would they take a guy who’d tried to jump in front of a train?
They took me to a small hospital room that had a bed, a table and chair, another chair in the corner, some equipment for examinations, and not much else. They didn’t leave me alone. An aide, maybe some sort of guard, remained in my room at all times, obviously to make sure I didn’t try to kill myself again.
Nurses and doctors examined me, like a normal physical, and then a psychiatrist, an attractive gray-haired woman named Dr. Lindsay, asked me questions, mainly about my general psychological state like:
“Do you ever feel helpless?”
“No.”
“Do you ever feel alone and isolated?”
“No.”
“Do you ever feel like you’re not in control of the decisions you make?”
“Never.”
I knew that she and the other doctors were just doing their jobs, but the last thing I wanted was for them to determine I was insane. If that happened, they might commit me, and I’d wind up on suicide watch indefinitely.
Why didn’t I jump a second sooner? If I had, I would’ve been wiped out. I hadn’t seen any newspapers or news online, but the guy who’d saved me was probably considered a hero. He thought he’d done a great thing, saved a good person.
If he only knew.
Although I felt calmer, thanks to whatever drugs they’d given me, I was still planning to jump in front of a train, or slit my wrists, or OD the first chance I got.
Or, if I wound up in jail, I’d kill myself there.
No one had mentioned anything to me about the police investigation, but they knew my name and had to know I was a murder suspect. Maybe they didn’t want to alarm me, or maybe Barasco had instructed them to not mention anything about the murders.
Then Dr. Lindsay asked the question that she’d been building toward:
“Why did you try to kill yourself, Mr. Harper?”
“I didn’t,” I said.
She’d been entering all off my responses into an iPad. She added this one as well, then said, “Witnesses say you were about to jump in front of an oncoming train.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” I said.
“But several people have reported seeing you about to—”
“I have no desire to kill myself, I swear. I love my life.”
She entered this, then said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Harper. I’ll let you rest now.”
As she headed out, I asked, “How long do I have to stay here?”
At the door, she turned back and said, “I’m not in charge of that decision.”
I sensed she was lying.
“You can’t keep me for more than twenty-four hours, right?” I asked. “Isn’t that the law?”
“Rest, Mr. Harper,” she said as she left the room.
The aide remained in the room. His name was Cuvis. Hoping he’d be my ally in here, or at least give me information, I tried to strike up a rapport with him. But he wouldn’t talk to me, unless it was about bodily functions. I asked him if I could have my phone back—my personal belongings had been taken away—and he told me I’d have to discuss that with the doctors. I noticed that there were no sharp objects around me—no pens and no knives, not even a plastic one was served with my dinner. I considered trying to jab the plastic fork into my throat but a) I didn’t think it would kill me, and b) Cuvis was staring at me while I ate.
He even came into the bathroom with me.
“You’re really gonna watch me shit, too?” I asked.
“Yes, I am.” No bullshit tone; this was clearly his career, his wheel-house—suicide watches.
I tried to go, but with an audience, I was too tensed up.
Back in the room, I said, “I guess it’s true what they say—you know, about a watched pot never boiling.”
Jeez, I couldn’t even get the guy to smile.
* * *
The stagnant air with the combination faint odor of disinfectant and feces was sickening. The dinner last night reminded me of a cross between mediocre airplane food and the TV dinners my mother used to “prepare” for me when I was a kid. I wouldn’t have minded going back to prison—if it meant getting out of Bellevue.
More nurses and doctors visited. I asked them when I would be allowed to leave, but they all avoided the question. Then a doctor told me I could discuss my situation with Dr. Lindsay.
When Dr. Lindsay returned, I said, “So what’s going on? Are you going to release me today or what?”
“A detective from the NYPD wants to speak with you,” she said.
“Nick Barasco?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Are you aware of why he wants to talk to you?”
“I don’t have amnesia,” I said. “I’m just surprised he didn’t come sooner.”
“He’s wanted to talk to you since you were admitted here,” she said.
Her gaze hardened as she studied my reaction.
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “You wanted to make sure I’m sane. Well, I’m totally sane, okay, so you can send him in at any time.”
“I highly suggest you consult with your lawyer first,” she said. “The detective mentioned a lawyer who’s represented you before.” Dr. Lindsay looked at her iPad. “Marcus Freemont.”
“He’s not my lawyer,” I said.
“Well, you should have someone—”
“I want to represent myself.”
“I’m not sure it’s a matter of representing, it’s a matter of consulting. I really think you ought to talk to someone before you—”
“So what’ve you determined about me so far?” I
asked. “You think I’m crazy? That’s the bottom line, the elephant in the room, so let’s just get it out in the open. What’s your diagnosis, Doctor? Come on, let’s hear it.”
“You’re experiencing extreme agitation,” she said.
“That doesn’t sound like medical lingo. You sure you’re a doctor?”
She remained stone-faced.
“See?” I said. “You’re the one who won’t answer my questions, hiding behind your psychobabble, and you think I’m crazy?”
I felt abnormally hyper and unguarded, maybe some side effect of whatever drugs they’d been pumping me up with.
I wasn’t looking at Cuvis, but I knew he was watching me, making sure I didn’t lash out at the psychiatrist.
“I think you’ve been experiencing a lot of stress,” she said, “and that’s manifesting as—”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Am I crazy or not?”
“My job is to evaluate you, Mr. Harper, and—”
“I know what your fucking job is.”
Cuvis came over, ready to escort Dr. Lindsay out of the room, but she held up her hand to him—the stop sign.
“To answer a question you asked me earlier,” she said to me, “you’ll be released when I determine you’re fit to be released, and when the police feel it’s safe to release you. There’s no set time table, but remaining cooperative with the process is probably a good idea.”
Great, now she sounded like Nurse Ratched from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
“Fine, I’ll do what you suggest,” I said, leaning on suggest for a little passive-aggressiveness. “You want me to call Freemont, I’ll call Freemont. Does that mean I can get my cell back?”
“We’ll contact him,” she said.
As she left the room, Cuvis didn’t stop watching me.
* * *
I knew what their M.O. was. They’d keep me here until they gathered enough evidence to deem me crazy and commit me, maybe for life. Why did that guy have to grab me on the subway platform? New York is full of assholes; my luck, I had to cross paths with the one nice guy.
Dr. Lindsay returned to my room and asked me many of the same questions she’d asked me during her first visit. This was obviously more of their grand plan to drive me insane. I tried to stay patient, but how long can anyone stay patient answering the same damn questions over and over again. Eventually I raised my voice—didn’t shout, just raised it—and she tapped something into her iPad.
Their plan was so effective that even I began to wonder if I was crazy, and the belief that I wasn’t crazy, and they were just trying to make me think I was crazy, was a manifestation of my craziness.
See how twisted they were making me?
* * *
I was at the desk, picking at another delicious TV dinner, when Freemont arrived. He looked at me, I thought, in a disappointed way, like a parent who’d been called to school because his kid has been sent to the principal’s office.
“We meet again,” he said.
“Hey,” I said. “I’d invite you to join me, but I don’t think you’d be into the recycled turkey.”
Ignoring my attempt at an ice-breaking joke, he glanced at Cuvis, who was sitting stone-faced in the corner—hey, maybe it was my delivery—then said, “Can you wait outside?”
“Yeah, but I’ll have to keep the door open,” Cuvis said.
Freemont sat in the chair that Cuvis had vacated. “This would’ve been a lot easier if you turned yourself in like I suggested.”
“I want to confess,” I said.
“Confess, huh?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I killed Sophie Ward, then I killed Anthony Sorrentino and Lawrence Ward. I’m a cold-blooded murderer. You know how they say the killers are the ones you least expect? The nice guy who goes to work every day? The husband, the father? Well, that’s me. I’m a nice guy on the outside, evil on the inside. But I didn’t try to kill myself. I don’t want to go for an insanity plea because I’m not insane.”
The best-case scenario for me would be a quick conviction and a death sentence. Unlikely in New York, but it was worth a shot. Otherwise, I’d kill myself in my jail cell the first opportunity I got. Well, that was my plan anyway.
“I agree with you,” he said.
“Agree with what?”
“That you’re not insane. I had a talk with Dr. Lindsay. She says you have no signs of mental illness, you’re just playing games with yourself—her words not mine. You feel guilty about things so you want to take responsibility, but I’m here to tell you, you can let go of all that now. I think you’re gonna walk.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What’re you talking about?”
“I mean, the police got their man and he’s dead. The cops know Lawrence killed Anthony Sorrentino. By the way, man, if you’re gonna hire a P.I., you should really tell your lawyer about it.”
“I didn’t hire him, he’s a friend from A.A.”
“There’s no way that could go wrong,” Freemont said sarcastically.
“Wait,” I said, “so how do they know Lawrence—”
“Killed him? Witness saw him leave the building. DNA on the body, DNA on Ward’s body.”
“What about Lawrence Ward’s murder?” I said. “They can’t think he killed himself?”
“No, they know you killed him.”
“Then how’m I gonna walk?”
“You’ll have to explain exactly what went down at the house and why you went there in the first place, but the police know that was self-defense.”
“They do? How?”
“Well, it helps that there’s video of the entire incident. Ward had a security system at his place. You’ll have to explain why you strangled him, though. On the video, it looks like you could’ve let up, but you didn’t. You’ll have to explain how you panicked, your adrenaline kicked in, something like that. That shouldn’t be hard to explain since it was his weapon. You’d just been attacked and all so it makes sense you’d want to defend yourself. Given the police now know that Lawrence Ward killed Anthony Sorrentino, I don’t anticipate a problem. In other words, the cops don’t seem too upset that Ward’s off the board. It’s not like you killed some innocent guy. You killed a killer.”
I was trying to absorb all of this, figure out what it meant.
“What about Sophie Ward’s murder?” I asked. “Before Anthony and Ward were killed, you wanted me to come down. They were ready to arrest me.”
“I never said they were going to arrest you,” Freemont said. “You know, you should really clarify these things before you block my number. You were a person of interest, yes, but I think they know they don’t have enough to build a case against you. Besides, now that Ward killed Anthony, it seems more likely that he killed his wife, too. There may be a hole in his alibi—the police are looking into it. Anyway, Anthony was probably getting too close to the truth, so Ward took him out. That’s the theory the cops are working with now anyway. As long as no new information comes up that involves you in any way, I think you’ll be in the clear.”
“Sorry for blocking you,” I said. “So I’m not going to be charged with anything?”
“Assuming the questioning goes the way I hope it’s going to go—no, you won’t be charged. So you can stop all the game playing, all right? Just be honest with the doctors, yourself, and, most importantly, with me. After you get whatever treatment you need, yeah, you’re gonna get out of here. I don’t get it, why aren’t you smiling? You should be happy.”
“Happy.” I let that linger, then added, “I’m in fucking Bellevue. I’ve lost everything. If I get out of here I won’t have money to take a subway, I’ll have nowhere to stay. I’ll be homeless, begging on the streets. And you’re talking about happy?”
I knew I was being a little melodramatic, but still—it wasn’t far from the truth.
“I know it’s rough,” Freemont said, “but people bounce back. You’re a smart guy, resourceful. You said you’
re in A.A., right? I’m sure you can find a friend’s couch to crash on till you get your life in shape again.”
“Yeah, that worked out great for me the last time.”
Freemont half-smiled at my morbid humor, then said, “Tell you what. I have a guest room in my house in Brooklyn, Kensington. If you can’t find someplace to stay, you can stay with us till you can.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t.”
I was moved, but didn’t want to break down in front of him.
“Look, Jack,” he said, “you worry about rebuilding one step at a time. First, we get you out of here, clear your name, and then you worry about your other issues. But you should feel good about this—this is a good development. Things’ll get better for you, I promise.”
I didn’t see how getting out of Bellevue as a free man would necessarily make my life any better, but I did see a positive in the situation.
When I got out, I’d definitely have another chance to kill myself.
* * *
Later, Cuvis told me I had another visitor. I figured it was Barasco to charge me with at least one murder.
“Send him in,” I said.
“Her,” Cuvis said.
I figured it was Dr. Lindsay, returning for more evaluation of my mental state.
Instead, Maria entered.
I didn’t expect to ever see her again, outside of divorce court. She remained near the door with a neutral expression that I read as cold. Had she come here to tell me I was an asshole, that I’d ruined her life, that she was going to divorce me and take Jonah away to another state or country?
Bracing myself, I said, “I know you probably hate me right now, but thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”
She looked like she was trying to see through me. I’d seen this look before—her death stare. It was usually right before she lashed in to me with a tirade, and this would be her worst ever. She’d locked me out of our apartment and gotten a restraining order when she thought I’d killed one person; what would she do now?
Well, at least we were in a hospital, with guards, so there was a limit to how angry she could possibly get.
“I guess you’ve heard about what happened,” I added. “It’s been a crazy few days.”