Justin Peacock

by Blind Man's Alley (v5)

  Forrest laughed, Candace noting his wedding ring as he did so. “Like I said, if there’s anything else I can do …”

  Candace took his card, offering a little salute with it. “I’ll be sure to tell Ben just how helpful you were,” she replied.

  BACK AT her office, Candace turned to looking into councilwoman Karla Serran, curious whether her support of the ACCC was part of a larger opposition to the changes to Riis. The first-term councilwoman had actually grown up in Jacob Riis, something her political biography stressed. She’d gone to Stuyvesant, and from there to Cornell and Fordham Law. She’d spent most of her career working for the city, first as a lawyer, then in policy jobs, before getting elected to the council.

  Candace couldn’t find anything linking the councilwoman and the ACCC. On the contrary, Serran was a public supporter of the Riis redevelopment, speaking out on its behalf, talking about the poor condition of the existing project and the dangers of living there when she’d been growing up. So by supporting the ACCC she appeared to be playing both sides of the street.

  Candace went back to what she had on the ACCC, looking for something that would connect the agency and the councilwoman. After a few minutes she spotted it: one of the members of the ACCC’s board of directors was named Antonio Serran. Candace pegged the odds of the overlapping last names’ being a coincidence at pretty much zero.

  Assuming Antonio was a family member, it was worth noting but hardly shocking that Karla Serran was funding his organization. Even if it was only for the appearance of the thing, a politician’s funneling money to a community group where a spouse or relative was on the board didn’t seem like a great idea. But of course such things happened all the time in politics. It probably wasn’t enough in itself for a story, but it made Candace want to know more about the ACCC. Something wasn’t quite right here; she could feel it.

  23

  IT’S NOT a terrible deal,” Duncan said, though he made no effort to show enthusiasm for it. He was alone with his client in a Rikers interview room. The room was small, Duncan’s knees almost touching Rafael’s as they sat across from each other. One wall was reinforced fiberglass, allowing the guards to keep an eye on them.

  Duncan knew he was supposed to be trying to get Rafael to take the plea, but his heart wasn’t in it. While he wasn’t going to discourage Rafael from taking it, he wasn’t going to do a hard sell either.

  “Twenty-five years?” Rafael said incredulously. “You saying twenty-five years?”

  “That’s the offer,” Duncan said. “Doesn’t mean you’d actually serve all of that, with good behavior and parole.”

  “What’s a bad deal look like? They gonna drag me on out to the yard and shoot me in the head?”

  “It’s a murder charge, Rafael. Any plea on this is going to be serious time.”

  Rafael was still incredulous at the thought of agreeing to spend twenty-five years in jail. “Serious time for what? Tell me what I’ve done that I’m going to do time for.”

  “I’ve got an obligation to let you know when the DA makes you an offer. I’ve got to tell you too how it looks compared to what could happen if you get convicted at trial. It doesn’t mean you have to take it; it doesn’t mean we can’t keep going with the case. But you have to understand that most murder prosecutions don’t have happy endings for the guy on the hook.”

  “But you said you can tell the judge how I hadn’t shot a gun, right?”

  Duncan was well aware that Rafael placed too much confidence in the idea that the case was some sort of misunderstanding that could just be straightened out. “I hope so, but it’s far from a lock. You can’t believe that I’m just going to be able to get you out of this. I mean, I’m going to do everything I can, but you need to know that there’s nothing that I’m promising you in terms of a result.”

  Rafael shook his head, leaning back in his seat, his anger making the tiny interview room feel even smaller. “So you telling me I should spend twenty-five years in the hole for something I didn’t even do?”

  Duncan knew what his marching orders from Blake were, but he also believed that his primary duty was to his client. And on some level, he didn’t want Rafael to plead out so easily. “Listen, you don’t want to take the deal, then don’t take the deal. Just remember I’m not Superman. Even if I get the gunshot residue thrown out, the DA’s still got a witness; they’ve still got a motive. The reason they’re not offering very much is because losing the gunshot evidence doesn’t scare them that much. I can’t promise this will reach a moment where it’s better than it is right now.”

  Rafael looked at Duncan carefully, studying him. “I say fight,” he said after a moment. “You gonna fight?”

  Duncan held Rafael’s gaze. “Fight, yes,” he said. “That I can promise.”

  “And it don’t matter that I can’t pay?”

  Duncan felt offended by the question, but quickly realized he couldn’t blame Rafael for wondering that. “That’s not what this is about. I get paid to do my job, Rafael. Defending you is part of my job. I’m doing what I’d do, saying what I would say, whether you were paying or not.”

  “Then let’s go to war,” Rafael said.

  DUNCAN HAD rented a car for the trip out to Rikers. As he drove back to Manhattan he thought about how he was going to spin this to Blake, who was doubtless going to be displeased.

  It also meant figuring out how to go forward with the case. The obvious thing was the hearing on the gunshot residue, see if he could get that thrown out. Despite what Castelluccio had said, doing so would likely get a much better deal offer, which could potentially end it.

  But it was also time to make a real effort to establish Rafael’s innocence. Duncan wouldn’t necessarily communicate that part of the plan to Blake, but he didn’t see how he could avoid at least making some effort in this direction. It was a one-witness case; the obvious thing was to take a hard look at Chris Driscoll.

  Duncan couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling he’d had ever since Blake had told him he’d be keeping the case. There was something going on he didn’t understand, a hidden agenda. Duncan had a lingering suspicion that he was being used in some way, but why and by whom he couldn’t tell. Then again, Blake was never exactly forthcoming, and the last couple of weeks had been generally disorienting, particularly with Leah Roth’s entrance into his life. He didn’t see his way to figuring it out, so Duncan resolved to just do what was in front of him to do. If something else was going on, it would reveal itself eventually. With any luck he would see it coming in time.

  24

  WELCOME TO our cave,” Jeremy said to Mattar Al-Falasi. They were at the Buddha Lounge, a subterranean nightclub in the Meatpacking District, tucked into a private VIP room that was indeed styled as a cave.

  Alena, after some protest, had furnished a friend, Ivy, to be Mattar’s date. Ivy was Asian, still modeling, although not as much as she used to. She was beautiful and aloof; Jeremy was unsure if her blankness was a form of superiority, or just the expression of her essential dullness.

  Mattar was dressed in a suit, though without a tie. Jeremy had yet to see the guy without a suit jacket on. Jeremy was dressed more casually, though no less expensively, in a long-sleeved Armani polo shirt, not wanting to look like he’d just stepped out of a business meeting when hitting a club. Both Alena and Ivy looked great, of course: Ivy in the standard little black dress, a sleeveless number with slits to midthigh, Alena in a scoop-necked turquoise dress that was one of Jeremy’s favorites.

  Private rooms at the Buddha required bottle service, Jeremy shelling out $350 for a fifth of Grey Goose that he could buy at a liquor store for less than forty bucks. Not that he gave a shit: being out with Mattar made tonight a business expense; his bar tab would be on the company. His father still kept him on what Jeremy considered a tight financial leash, essentially forcing him to live on his salary while all the real money was tied up in long-term trusts and property he wasn’t allowed to touch.

  Jeremy had
never been able to live within his means, going all the way back to high school. It wasn’t his fault: everyone knew how rich his family was, so people had certain assumptions about his lifestyle. It wasn’t like he could explain that his father had him on an allowance that made his wealth a fraction of what people assumed.

  The blond bartender had made them all martinis, showing off her cleavage as she did so. She left the bottle chilling in a gold-plated ice tray. It was Jeremy’s first drink of the night: this was a business outing, after all, and Jeremy wanted to stay at least somewhat on his toes around Mattar. “Cheers,” he said. “To new friends.”

  They all clinked glasses, but the moment felt forced, nobody but Jeremy even bothering to try to act happy about being there. Jeremy did not understand why Mattar seemed so distracted; the whole evening had been constructed for him, Jeremy thinking he’d put together exactly what Mattar had requested.

  “Is your family back in the city?” he asked Mattar.

  “My father is in Dubai; my brother has gone to Los Angeles,” Mattar said.

  Jeremy knew better than to explicitly bring up business, but without that he was at a loss as to what to talk about. “Ivy just got back from Paris,” he said, the first thing that popped into his head.

  Mattar turned to her, his expression blankly polite. “Is that so? It is a beautiful city, of course, but for me I find the relationship between the French and the Arabs too difficult.”

  “More than with Americans?” Alena asked, Jeremy not at all liking where this was going.

  “It can be difficult with the Americans as well, of course. Iraq, the support for Israel.”

  “I was actually thinking 9/11,” Alena replied.

  Mattar paused and nodded his head slightly in concession. “Yes, of course. But some Americans seem to think that 9/11 was the first time that America encountered the Arab world.”

  “Encountered?” Alena said.

  This was heading off the rails, Jeremy thought. “Let’s not,” he said.

  “It was of course a completely horrible tragedy,” Mattar said, ignoring Jeremy’s interjection. “But my point was that, even so, the Americans, the New Yorkers especially, they still see me as a person when I am here, not as an Arab terrorist. In Paris I’m simply an Arab, nothing else.”

  “We’re the new world,” Jeremy said, talking just so that Alena was not.

  Alena stood abruptly, saying she wanted to dance. Ivy stood up immediately. “Not for me,” Mattar said. “But please go; it’s fine.”

  “I’ll keep Mattar company,” Jeremy said. “You two have fun.”

  Alena and Ivy made their way out to the dance floor. Jeremy smiled at Mattar, then took a sip of his drink. “I hope this place is okay?”

  “It’s nice,” Mattar said, glancing around as if he’d neglected to actually notice his surroundings.

  “And the company is satisfactory?”

  Mattar hesitated, but it seemed to be more out of politesse than actual uncertainty. “Actually, if you want to know the truth, I prefer the other one.”

  Jeremy made no effort to hide his surprise. “You mean Alena?”

  “If you will forgive my being blunt, it is the white girls I prefer,” Mattar said with a slight smile. “And perhaps it is also true that I like the difficult women also.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Jeremy said, laughing because he didn’t know what else to do.

  “If the Asian one is attractive to you, then perhaps …” Mattar trailed off.

  Jeremy’s smile was straining, but he held it. “No, but … Alena’s with me.”

  Mattar flushed. “She’s your girlfriend?”

  “Maybe that’s not quite the right word, but we’re seeing each other, yes.”

  “I thought—Please excuse me,” Mattar said.

  “A simple misunderstanding,” Jeremy said quickly, finishing off his martini. “Don’t think twice.”

  “You must think me a crude man. Where I am from, it’s very different with men and women. When I see women advertising their bodies, perhaps I make assumptions I should not make. But that is no excuse for offending you.”

  “It’s fine. No big deal,” Jeremy said. He told himself that was true. Jeremy decided to find the whole thing funny. Hell, it was funny, when you looked at it from a certain angle. Not that Alena would think so. She just wouldn’t have the right point of view.

  25

  RAFAEL HADN’T known his mother was coming to New York until she showed up at the jail. Yara had come alone, which surprised Rafael: he would’ve expected her to hide behind his grandmother.

  Yara had given birth to Rafael when she was little older than he was now. His parents had never been legally married, though they’d lived together in Vieques for the first few years of his life. When Rafael was about three his father had come up to New York, looking for work. The idea had been for Yara and Rafael to follow a month or so later, but that month had somehow turned into a year of waiting to be summoned north.

  So Yara had finally taken matters into her own hands, bringing Rafael with her on an unannounced trip. Rafael was too young to remember any of it himself, but what Yara had discovered in New York was that his father was living with another woman.

  Looking back, Rafael understood that his mother must have suspected what she was going to find. Nevertheless, she’d decided to stay in New York. A short time later Yara’s mother had come up from Vieques and moved in with them. In Rafael’s earliest memories, he was already living in Jacob Riis with his mother and grandmother. He had never seen his father again, had no actual memory of the man, wouldn’t recognize him if they passed on the street.

  When Rafael was twelve his mother had been arrested and sent to prison, and his grandmother had brought him up on her own from there. Rafael gave her most of the credit for seeing that he came up right: she’d been stuck with the hard years, when the temptations of drugs and gangs claimed so many of his classmates from the projects. Rafael had stayed in school, graduating from high school last spring, been working full-time at Alchemy ever since. He loved it at the restaurant, was taking classes so that he could one day become a proper chef, maybe even open a restaurant of his own.

  But those dreams were distant now. It was hard to imagine any kind of future at all while in the harsh confines of Rikers. So Rafael focused on the present, and the surprising sight of his mother in the visiting room.

  This was the first time Rafael had seen Yara in almost a year. It’d been nearly seven years since they’d last lived together, since her arrest. She’d been caught in her then-boyfriend’s apartment in a raid, charged with possession of cocaine with intent to distribute. Yara had insisted she wasn’t involved, resisted taking a plea till the last possible second, and even then she’d refused to testify against her boyfriend. She’d ended up being sentenced to eight to twelve years and doing over five. Upon her release Yara had decided to return to Vieques. Rafael hadn’t considered going with her: he’d grown up in New York, it was home, and by then his grandmother felt more like his parent than his mother did.

  Rafael had gone down to Puerto Rico the last two Christmases, but other than that he hadn’t seen his mother since right after she got out of prison. She hadn’t previously come up to New York since moving back to Vieques: Yara blamed the city for what had happened to her, though Rafael thought that bullshit, just a way of making excuses for herself.

  “You didn’t need to come up here,” Rafael said in Spanish as she sat across from him in the visiting room.

  “Of course I did,” Yara replied, also in Spanish. Her eyes were already welling with tears. She’d just turned forty, although Rafael thought she looked older: she’d grown heavy, her hair fast turning gray. “My only son in jail.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I should’ve made you come back home with me,” Yara said, a tear escaping. She made no effort to wipe it away, as though she didn’t even know it was there. “It’s this city; it just eats our peop
le up.”

  “Don’t cry, Mom,” Rafael said. “I don’t want to see you cry.”

  “You were always so good. I know I disappointed you, but I tried.”

  Rafael’s own vulnerability came out in anger. “How could you try from a jail cell?” he said.

  Yara looked stung; he could see her fighting her own anger down. “I held you in my heart every day I spent in jail,” she said. “I said a prayer for you first thing when I woke up and last thing before I went to sleep.”

  Rafael didn’t know why he’d brought it up, why they were rehashing all of this again. But now that it was there it was hard to let it go. “You could have made a deal right away; you could have testified against Emilio. You didn’t have to end up spending all that time in prison.”

  Yara finally took out a tissue to wipe the tears off her face, Rafael feeling bloated with guilt and shame for making her suffer more than she already was just by seeing him like this. “It was nothing but hard choices back then,” Yara said. “If I could make things come out different I would.”

  “I know, Mom,” Rafael said, trying to make peace.

  “I wish you’d come back with me after I’d got out. Things can be hard in Vieques too, but people stick together there.”

  “I thought New York was where I belonged,” Rafael said, realizing as he said it that he was no longer sure it was true. “One thing I’ve learned in here—I’ll always be a Puerto Rican, not an American.”

  “When this case gets cleared up, maybe you can think about coming down to Vieques to live. What does your lawyer say?”

  “The DA offered a plea if I’d do twenty-five years. Turned that down, so now we got to fight it.”

  “I don’t understand why they can’t just clear this up.”

  Rafael had felt the same way when he’d first been arrested, but not anymore. Now he found it naive. “Nobody cares what really happened,” he said. “Just find the first Puerto Rican who might have a reason to shoot the white guy, put him in jail for it. How it’s always been.”