Justin Peacock

by Blind Man's Alley (v5)

  Yara started crying again, more fiercely this time. “I know I messed things up with you. This city, I just couldn’t live here anymore. I haven’t been there for you when you needed me.”

  “You didn’t need to come back here,” Rafael said, coldness seeping back into his voice. He wasn’t going to trust his mother to be there for him, wasn’t going to open up to her. She couldn’t help him here—she’d never helped him, and he didn’t need to be let down right now. “I’m going to get through this same way I have everything else—on my own.”

  26

  DUNCAN HADN’T bothered to try to talk to the eyewitness to Fowler’s shooting while he’d been assuming the case would reach a quick plea. Chris Driscoll, like Fowler, was an ex-cop, which presumably meant both that he’d be a good eyewitness and that he’d do what he could to see Fowler’s alleged killer put down. The point in talking to him was to see if there were any flaws in his story, anything that could be exploited down the road, and also to get a sense of how the man came across. There were established methods for attacking eyewitness identifications—the unreliability of interracial IDs, the weapons-focus effect—but at the end of the day a believable witness was just that.

  Unsure whether Driscoll would agree to meet, Duncan decided to go over to Jacob Riis unannounced in the evening and try to find him there. He left the office around seven, took a cab to Twelfth Street and Avenue D, since Alphabet City was largely off the subway grid, a relic of its tenement past.

  This wasn’t his part of town, and Duncan had no doubt it showed. He kept his pace brisk, walking purposefully even though he wasn’t exactly certain where he was going, wanting to seem sure of himself. Not that he was worried: while daylight was fading, the time was long past where the lettered avenues of Alphabet City had been said to stand for Attention, Beware, Caution, and Death. Avenue D still lagged far beyond the others in terms of gentrification, but you no longer took your life in your hands by walking down it.

  This was particularly true because the transformation of Jacob Riis was already well under way. The city was tearing down the existing buildings one block at a time, putting residents in another project as they were displaced, or else giving them federal Section 8 vouchers that they could use to cover rent at private residences. They’d taken out two square blocks so far—from Thirteenth Street to Eleventh. That was where the security guards were concentrated; it was where Duncan eventually found his way to Chris Driscoll.

  Driscoll was in his late forties, burly but fit, with sandy brown hair and pale blue eyes that gave him a ghostly look. Duncan had found him walking along the edge of the new buildings, where they met the remaining project. When he’d introduced himself as Rafael’s lawyer, Driscoll hadn’t seemed surprised.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about that night?” Duncan asked, he and Driscoll standing somewhat awkwardly next to a plywood wall blocking off the construction site. Duncan realized they were less than a block from where Fowler had been shot.

  “I was expecting someone from his side,” Driscoll said. “But nothing I know is going to help your guy.”

  “How long have you been working for Darryl Loomis?”

  “Almost two years now.”

  “Did you know Sean Fowler well?”

  “I saw Sean pretty much every day once we were both detailed to Riis. Can’t really help but get to know a man you work with that closely.”

  “What exactly do you guys do here on site?”

  “It’s a mix of foot patrol and manning the booths we set up by the equipment. Main thing is to make sure you don’t get people sneaking into the construction site and making off with stuff. Because nobody’s actually living there now, people see it as an easy target.”

  “Had there been any trouble before the shooting?”

  “Some kids trying to climb the fence for kicks, that sort of thing, but in my line of work we don’t call that trouble.”

  “Did Fowler ever have problems with anybody around here?”

  “You mean other than your client?”

  Duncan didn’t take the bait, grinning instead. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  One side of Driscoll’s mouth curled into something like a smile. “We’ve busted some people around here on some minor stuff. There were things that people got used to getting away with ’cause cops don’t give a fuck what happens on Avenue D unless a body drops. Now they got us writing it up. You don’t make a place like this ready for civilians without skimming the scum off the top. That’s what we’re doing, and we’re getting it done, but it don’t make us any friends. Actually it probably does, ’cause there’s some perfectly decent people stuck in this shit-hole, but they’re never going to tell us thanks.”

  Against his better judgment Duncan found himself liking Driscoll. “You guys ever break anything up that might’ve made you enemies?”

  “The drug boys weren’t exactly putting out a welcome mat. You transform this into someplace livable, you take down the neighborhood dealers as collateral damage.”

  “Drug dealing was pretty entrenched here?”

  Driscoll shrugged. “Same as any other project like this.”

  “But they didn’t ever give you any problems?”

  “Dealers are like cockroaches. You shine a light somewhere, they know to avoid it. They just go somewhere else.”

  “That doesn’t mean they liked the disruption.”

  “What it does mean is, they’re generally going to know better than to do battle with the keepers of the peace. They don’t need the attention. We never had any problems with the dealers here.”

  “How much actual dealing is there?”

  “Fair amount. Used to be everything from Avenue B on over was pretty much little Amsterdam. Back when you had squats and abandoned buildings everywhere, there were guys on every corner. Now you got an East Village yuppie with a jones, he lives on Avenue A, but his condo development chased out the corner dealer. So he hits the projects.”

  “Do you guys go after them?”

  Driscoll laughed. “You kidding? We’re here to provide security to the construction site. We’re not here to be cops.”

  “But Fowler allegedly busted my client for smoking a joint.”

  “Somebody wants to shove it in our face, sure, we make a citizen’s, call in the NYPD Housing Bureau, hand it off. Get rid of the people who won’t be able to live in a civilized version of this place.”

  “But drug dealers don’t fall into that category?”

  “Hey, in a perfect world, right? But we’re not in a position to take down a real crew, and plus my guess is those guys will take themselves out of the mix anyway. They can’t operate in a functioning environment. Once this place is livable they’ll be moving on.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Driscoll shrugged. “I’m just the hired help,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

  Duncan figured that was as much big picture as it was useful to get. “Can you walk me through what happened that night?” he asked.

  “There’s not a whole lot to walk through. Sean had been on a patrol. I was coming over to sub him out for his break. When I saw him he was arguing with someone. They were standing under a streetlight on Tenth, Sean with his back to me while the kid, your client, was facing me. I was less than a block away when your client drew down and shot him. It happened real quick; I didn’t see it coming, so I didn’t react like I would’ve in my prime, twenty years ago when I was a uniform walking a beat. I yelled; he took off, cut into the project. I wanted to go after him but I needed to check on Sean first. A couple of cops from the housing unit showed up a minute or so later.”

  “So you never went chasing after the shooter?”

  Driscoll shook his head. “I stayed with Sean. By the time the cops got there I was pretty sure he was gone, but I wasn’t going to leave him. But once the ambulance arrived we wanted to work quickly to try and make an ID. The Housing Authority has photos of every resident, s
o I went down to the station and they showed me pictures of everybody who was about the right age and description. It only took about five minutes before I found him.”

  “Then what?”

  “They went and picked him up, had me take a look in person. I made the ID, and here we are.”

  “And you were sure of your ID? Even though you’d never seen Rafael before that night?”

  Driscoll laughed off the suggestion. “I’ve been doing this since you were in middle school. Making somebody is second nature to me.”

  “Sure, but they brought him to you in the back of a squad car. Obviously the police were letting you know they thought this was the guy.”

  “They thought he was the guy; I thought he was the guy. We all thought he was the guy. That’s because he was the guy.”

  CANDACE WAS making her way east on Tenth Street, heading back to Jacob Riis, when she saw them. It was only the lawyer, Riley, whom she recognized, but she figured it had to be Driscoll that he was talking to, the two of them up the block on the far side of Avenue D. Driscoll, the very guy she herself had come down here looking for.

  Instinct told her to hang back, and so Candace dawdled on the sidewalk, moving around slowly without going anywhere. Her first reaction had been to assume there was something sinister in spotting the two of them together, but as she thought it through Candace realized that she had nothing but her gut to back that up. If confronted, Duncan could simply say that he was interviewing the eyewitness in the murder case against his client. And for all she knew, that was what he was actually doing.

  But she didn’t for a second believe it. Both these men served the same master. Whatever they were talking about right now, it was in Simon Roth’s interest. The fix was in. She didn’t have the pieces, but she could feel it.

  This Riley was fairly young, still getting himself established. He was quite possibly in over his head on this. Maybe he’d talk. Hell, maybe he’d want to talk. She decided to take a swing, see where it got her. If she had something to lose, she couldn’t see what it was.

  Finally the two men went their separate ways, Duncan heading south on D, walking right toward her. Candace stood still on the corner, looking straight at him, waiting for him to notice.

  He was still across the street, waiting for the light to change, when he did. Duncan quickly looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen her. As he crossed Avenue D, Candace realized he was planning to walk right past. Even people with something to hide weren’t usually this obvious about it.

  She sidestepped directly into Duncan’s path, giving him no choice but to look up. “Remember me?” Candace said.

  “I can’t talk to you,” Duncan said. He’d stopped, but wasn’t looking at her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re a represented party on the other side of a case. I’m not allowed to talk to you. You know, ethically.”

  “I’m not here to talk about the libel suit.”

  This didn’t appear to make Duncan any more comfortable. “Look, I’m not just making this up. If Rosenstein found out I was talking to you without him around, he’d bring me up before the bar.”

  “Whatever it is, I hereby waive it, okay? I’m the one who came up to you.”

  “Did you want to call me an asshole again?”

  Candace felt herself flush. “I’m sorry I called you an asshole. I know you were just doing your job. If it’s any consolation, I’ve been called worse things in the line of duty myself.”

  “I don’t find that so difficult to believe,” Duncan said. “Moving on, just for a second, are you following me?”

  “Why would I be doing that?”

  “I have no idea. Is there some other reason you’re standing here?”

  “You and I should talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Simon Roth,” Candace said.

  “That’s not something that you and I are going to talk about.”

  “Why not?”

  Duncan made a face. “I’m not allowed to talk to you, and I’m also not allowed to talk about him. So talking to you about him is pretty much out of the picture.”

  “Rafael Nazario then.”

  Duncan’s surprise was visible, as Candace had hoped it would be. “How do you know about Rafael Nazario?”

  “It’s not a secret that he’s your client, is it?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t know why it’s of interest to you.”

  “Let’s go talk about it. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Duncan was looking away from her, as though mapping out an escape route. “I’m still working,” he said.

  “So I’ll buy you a latte. There’s gotta be a Starbucks on Avenue B by now.”

  27

  DUNCAN MADE Candace send her lawyer an e-mail from her BlackBerry before he’d talk. Duncan dictated the e-mail while Candace wrote, the two of them huddled in the street. He felt stupid, certain he was further convincing Candace what a lawyerly douche bag he was, but talking to a represented adversary in the absence of her lawyer really was the kind of thing that could get him hauled before the disciplinary committee. He also declared their conversation off the record; he wasn’t going to give her a quote on anything until he’d had a chance to run it past Blake.

  No Starbucks in sight, they ended up at Life Café on Tenth and B. “I have to admit, I only know of this place because of Rent,” Candace said as they sat down at a small and rickety wooden table with their coffees in tow.

  “Because of rent?” Duncan asked, not following.

  “You know—the show? You never saw Rent?”

  “Not really my thing,” Duncan said, looking around the cramped café. “Seems like a hard place to do a song-and-dance number.”

  “Not onstage, it wasn’t,” Candace said. “I think a bunch of it was actually written here.”

  “Those were the days, huh?”

  “I can’t say I’ve liked watching the whole of Manhattan turned into a habitat for the hedge-fund crowd.”

  “On the list of things that killed off the edgy version of the East Village,” Duncan said, “Rent must make the top five.”

  “What about tearing down the Jacob Riis projects?”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s that going to do to the neighborhood?”

  “I don’t know, make it safer maybe. But that’s bad for the drug dealers and the muggers, so there goes the neighborhood, right?”

  Candace didn’t disagree; she’d never really understood people who treated gentrification as a categorical evil. “I don’t have a problem with the idea of changing housing projects into livable places, but last time I checked, Simon Roth wasn’t a humanitarian.”

  “If you bought me a latte to get me talking about Simon Roth, you wasted five dollars.”

  “I’ll just ask about you, then. You do know that Roth’s developing the new and improved Jacob Riis, right?”

  “Sure,” Duncan said readily. “That’s public knowledge.”

  “And you know that Sean Fowler was working security for Roth’s company, right?”

  “Are you cross-examining me?”

  “What I’m doing is wondering how you can represent Simon Roth on the one hand, and represent someone accused of killing his employee on the other. You’ve been talking a lot about ethics; isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  “It’s not, actually. Rafael’s being prosecuted by the State of New York, not by Simon Roth. There’s no legal conflict.”

  This didn’t seem quite right to Candace, but she wasn’t versed in the finer points of legal ethics. “But how can you represent Nazario when the victim worked for your client, the eyewitness works for your client? Roth can’t want you to be helping a guy who shot someone who worked for him.”

  Duncan was trying to figure out the balance between not telling her anything about internal firm discussions while talking her down from assuming he was masterminding some kind of conspiracy. “I’m not going t
o discuss any privileged conversations that may have taken place, but I will assure you that there are no concerns from any of our clients regarding anything that might be perceived as a conflict here,” Duncan said, clearly choosing his words with care. “So if that’s why you were stalking me, I’m afraid you had the wrong idea.”

  Candace felt herself losing ground. “What about the fact that they were throwing people like Nazario out of Jacob Riis on fake drug charges?”

  Duncan tilted his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “The eviction proceeding against your client and his family. You really don’t know that Fowler and the rest of the security crew had racked up over a dozen of those?”

  Duncan didn’t hide his surprise. “All on drug possession?”

  “That’s right. And yes, I know that drugs are a part of a housing project, but even at Jacob Riis there can’t really be that many people who stand around smoking joints in front of security guards.”

  Duncan was intrigued, though he didn’t know quite what to make of it, or whether it could help his case. Dolores Nazario had told him that there were a lot of other recent evictions at Riis, but he hadn’t paid much attention, not finding it surprising that the city would be aggressive in throwing lawbreakers out of public housing. And while he’d gone along with Rafael’s protestations that he hadn’t actually been caught smoking pot, Duncan had never fully believed it. “So what are you saying?” he asked.

  “It looks to me like the security guards are faking drug busts to kick people out of Jacob Riis, empty the place so that they can refill it with yuppies. You should know more about this than I do.”

  “Why should I know about it?” Duncan asked defensively.

  “You’re defending somebody who’s a victim of it, and the obvious suspect in terms of being behind it is also a client of yours. Now’s your chance to get in front of this, Duncan.”

  Duncan looked at her incredulously, his mouth open, eventually forming some forced approximation of a smile. “You’re serious? You think I’m involved in some sort of setup?”