by Adam Mitzner
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” McKenney begins. He doesn’t see the need to identify himself, even though I’d be shocked if anyone present has ever formally been introduced to him. Then again, everyone knows who he is. “I’m going to be brief. I’m here today to share with you some very tragic news. Lauren Wright was found murdered this morning. News of her death will be released to the media shortly. As you know, I often talk about this office as a family. Like a family, we share each other’s triumphs. And like a family, we pull together when we suffer a tragedy. Today is the saddest day of my tenure as District Attorney. The one small measure of comfort I take from Lauren’s murder is knowing that we will work together and not rest until we bring the responsible person or persons to justice.”
McKenney looks over to me. I’m not sure if it’s because he wants me to say something. It would be highly uncharacteristic for him to share the stage, so I stay silent.
“I know that the last thing on any of your minds at a moment like this is work,” McKenney continues, “but it is vitally important that we continue our mission of speaking up for victims. Now more than ever, we have to live up to the standard that Lauren Wright set for all of us. The best thing you can do to honor her memory is to go back to work and do your job in a way that would make Lauren proud. Dana Goodwin will serve as acting chief. Any questions, please direct them to her. We’ll be holding a memorial service for Lauren in the coming weeks.” He surveys the room. “Okay. That’s it. Thank you, everyone.”
The population of the Special Victims Bureau scuffles out. After the room clears, I approach McKenney.
“I think that went very well,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, because everyone knows Drake McKenney likes to be complimented.
“Dana, one of things that has always impressed me about you is that you’re a straight shooter. So let me return the favor for a moment and give it to you straight. What I said in there, I meant every word of it. One of our own has been killed, and we need to do everything we can, not only to bring Lauren’s murderer to justice, but to keep doing our jobs. The sad reality, however, is that there are going to be others who will use this tragedy for their own political ends. I gather you know that I’m thinking about challenging Lubins next time around. I have no doubt that our fearless mayor is going to use Lauren’s murder to score some political points. Which means that the longer the case goes unsolved, the better it is for him and the worse it is for me. That’s why I need someone loyal to this office on top of this investigation. To make sure we get the guy who did this, even if he’s one of hizzoner’s asshole buddies. And if all that happens, you will have my eternal gratitude.”
“I understand,” I say.
And I do. He doesn’t want someone loyal to the District Attorney’s office. He wants someone loyal to him. And he thinks that’s me. The quid pro quo he’s offering is that if I do his bidding on this, I can remove the “Acting” from my new title and become Chief of the Special Victims Bureau.
In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve gone from the near certainty of being unemployed to being promoted to one of the most powerful legal positions in New York City—at least in an acting capacity.
All I have to do to make it final is to ensure that Richard Trofino is arrested for his wife’s murder.
13.
ELLA BRODEN
Most federal cases in Manhattan are litigated in the Daniel Patrick Moynihan Courthouse. Completed in the mid-1990s, the building is twenty-seven stories of marble. It’s the second-biggest courthouse in the country—surpassed only by one in Missouri, of all places.
When I was an ADA, I rarely set foot in federal court. My beat was the New York State criminal court, which is located down the street. On rare occasions, I’d be hauled in by some federal judge on a jurisdictional argument, and I’d always feel like Little Orphan Annie when she first walked through the door of Daddy Warbucks’s mansion. I couldn’t believe that anyone could practice law in such luxury. The federal courtrooms are enormous, with thirty-foot ceilings and furnishings that could be in the lobby of a five-star hotel—inlaid, solid cherry tables and high-back leather chairs.
My speculation about Donald Chesterman taking his revenge on Lauren was enough for Gabriel to insist that I have a police escort to the courthouse. But upon our arrival, I tell Officer Santiago that I’ll be safe inside without him. I point out the fact that the court has its own police force, not to mention that everyone goes through a metal detector to gain entry.
The gallery is full when I enter Judge Paulson’s courtroom, which means that there are more than a hundred spectators—ten times as many as are present during most court proceedings. I take a position along the back wall. There, I spy several reporters and at least two sketch artists doing their thing.
My father is at the lectern, his back to me, but his booming baritone fills the cavernous space. He makes point after point about how the prosecution’s approach should be disallowed, that Nicolai Garkov is entitled to the same due-process rights as anyone else, which include the right to be tried only on the charges set forth in the indictment, the right to confront his accusers, and the right not to have the jury unfairly prejudiced by innuendo about other crimes for which he does not stand accused.
Twenty minutes later, Judge Paulson says that he disagrees. And, of course, his opinion is the only one that counts.
I catch my father’s eye as he’s heading out of the courtroom.
“Ella,” he says, stopping to embrace me.
For a man who just lost a major motion, he doesn’t look the least bit upset. I know it’s not because he doesn’t want to win—in fact, I’ve never known anyone more competitive than my father. Even when Charlotte and I were little, he never let us win at anything, no matter what the contest. In court, he has an especially vicious kill-or-be-killed mentality.
But one of his great strengths, I think, is that he’s able to let go of a loss. It’s something that eluded me in my own professional life. I wore my defeats on my sleeve, no matter how trivial.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he says. “I thought we were meeting at my office.” He grins. “Did you come all the way down here just to tell me that you told me so?”
I want to tell him that Lauren’s death is the reason for our change of plan, but this is not the time or the place for such a heavy discussion. So I force a smile and act as if nothing is amiss.
“I had to visit Gabriel for something, so I was just down the street anyway. I thought I’d watch the motion before lunch. But, just so you know . . . I told you so.”
My father explains that he had made a reservation for us to have lunch at Cipriani, which is among the priciest restaurants in midtown. But because we’re already downtown, he suggests that we go to Cipriani’s downtown location, which is also among the priciest restaurants in the neighborhood. It’s about a ten-minute walk from the courthouse, but my father keeps a car and driver waiting, so we’re chauffeured there.
The hostess frowns when my father tells her that we’re there without a reservation. Looking past her, I can see why. There’s not a single empty table.
“Tell Ricardo that Clint Broden is here, and I’ve brought my daughter.”
The hostess turns to do as requested. She returns a few minutes later with a man by her side. He’s about my father’s age, with silver hair and a regal bearing.
“Welcome, Mr. Broden,” the man says. “Please follow me to your table.”
I assume the man leading us through the restaurant is not the aforementioned Ricardo, because my father doesn’t address him by name. Whoever he is, he finds a spot for us in the center of the restaurant at a table that I would swear wasn’t empty a moment ago.
As soon as we’re seated, a waiter comes over and hands us each a flute of champagne. “Compliments of Ricardo,” he says.
“Who’s Ricardo?” I ask after the waiter leaves.
“A man who knows how to repay a favor,” my father says.<
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My father hasn’t detected that anything’s off with me, but he’s never been particularly attuned to my moods. He has also been cut off from the outside world for the last hour or so. One of the post-9/11 rules is that you can’t bring any electronic devices inside the federal courthouse, which means he doesn’t know yet that Lauren Wright has been murdered.
I’ve been looking for an opportunity to break the news to him, but our initial conversation is dominated by how Judge Paulson’s decision is going to change his trial strategy regarding the Garkov case. When he takes a moment to peruse the menu, I seize the opportunity.
“I have something to tell you.”
My father lifts his eyes away from the page to look at me with concern. “Everything okay?”
“No. No, it’s not. I heard this morning that my former boss, Lauren Wright, was murdered.”
He grimaces as if to convey that he disagrees with anyone being murdered. “I’m so sorry, Ella,” he says in the tone I’d use if he told me that his barber died. Someone you’ve known for a long time, but with whom you share no real intimacy. I can’t blame him for not knowing how important Lauren was to me. Through the years I’ve probably downplayed it, fearful that he might take personally my efforts to find a surrogate for my mother.
“Lauren and I were very close. She wasn’t just a boss to me but . . . well, much more than that. A really good friend and a mentor. I saw her just last night. Gabriel and I had dinner with her and her husband.”
My father doesn’t say anything; even though he is more facile with language than anyone I’ve ever met, heartfelt discussions with his daughter have never been his forte. Still, I know that he, more than anyone else, knows this pain. He does his best to always wear a smile in my presence and to allow me to lean on him with my grief—without burdening me with his own sorrow—but I’m well aware he hasn’t recovered from Charlotte’s murder either.
“I feel . . . I feel like I’m cursed,” I say.
My father is shaking his head in disagreement. “No, of course you’re not. It’s not you. These things happen sometimes.”
“Do they? I mean, Charlotte is murdered and now Lauren? Within six months of each other? Do ‘these things’ really just happen?”
My tone is sharp, like I’m trying to pick a fight. It’s misdirected, of course. I’m not mad at my father. My beef’s with God, or the universe, or maybe life in general.
“I think you know the answer to that,” my father says soothingly. “Because it has happened.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“Don’t I know it,” he says.
He’s fighting back tears now, a losing battle he acknowledges by rubbing his eyes. After a deep breath, he says, “But there’s another thing I know too, Ella. And this I know with more certainty than anything I’ve ever known.” He reaches over and puts his hand on top of mine, offering a gentle squeeze. “And that is that you are most certainly not cursed. You have years and years of joy out there, waiting for you. Trust me on this.”
I know my father means well, but I can’t see his optimism about my future prospects as anything more than wishful thinking.
14.
DANA GOODWIN
I spend the rest of my workday reviewing Lauren’s current docket. It was full of rapists, child abusers, and general sadists. At Gabriel’s request, I also reach back into the archive to pull out Donald Chesterman’s file. That guy was a seriously sick puppy, although perhaps not any more so than the others. The bigger issue for me is that if I’m going to have to consider everyone Lauren prosecuted who’s now out of jail as a potential suspect, I’ll easily have to review a thousand more case files.
I think back on my promise to Stuart of only yesterday to keep saner hours. Yet another way I’m going to fail him. Investigating Lauren’s murder means I’ll be logging long hours for the foreseeable future.
It’s after eleven when I finally arrive home. Stuart has been waiting up for me. The moment I enter our house, he jumps from the couch and gives me a long hug.
“I’m so sorry,” he says into my ear.
“I . . . just can’t believe it, you know?”
I called Stuart earlier to break the news of Lauren’s murder. I told him I was too emotional to discuss it over the phone and that I’d been put in charge of the investigation, which meant that I’d likely be home late. That was my passive-aggressive way of telling him not to wait up so that I could avoid discussing Lauren’s murder with him when I got home. He obviously didn’t get that message.
He leads me over to the sofa, where we sit side by side. Stuart’s holding my hand, caressing my thumb with his. “I know it’s early, but do you have any idea who did it?”
“Just the usual knee-jerk reactions. Her husband is a person of interest. And Drake McKenney is praying that’s how it turns out. Indicting Richard allows him to kill two birds with one stone: he ties the mayor to a wife murderer and cuts off hizzoner’s chief funding source. He probably figures it’ll make the mayor easy pickings when he throws his hat into the ring.”
“Do you really think it could be Richard?”
Politics has never interested Stuart. As a result, I know he couldn’t care less about Drake McKenney’s mayoral aspirations. The thought of uxoricide, however, visibly troubles him.
“He’s the statistical best bet,” I say, which isn’t actually a response to Stuart’s question.
“They seemed so happy together,” he says.
“I don’t know” is all I can think to say in response.
That’s not true. I do know, for a fact, that Lauren’s marriage to Richard was not as advertised. Another thing I know is that being the boss of the New York City construction world puts Richard in close proximity to many men who freelance in the criminal world.
“I’m reviewing about a million old case files on the alternative theory that it’s some creep she prosecuted,” I add. “Gabriel told me about this guy—”
“Who’s Gabriel?”
His interruption is a reminder of just how little I’ve shared with Stuart. “Oh, sorry. He’s the cop I’m partnered with on the investigation. Gabriel Velasquez. And get this: he’s dating Ella Broden.”
“That Ella Broden?”
“I know, right? They met when Ella’s sister went missing. It’s all much too incestuous for my liking. On the plus side, he does seem like a decent guy, and the police brass love him. Anyway, he told me that Ella worked with Lauren on some case like a million years ago and the guy just got out after a long stretch. Apparently he had made some threats against Lauren. Long story short, in addition to Richard, our suspect list includes the current crop of psychopaths we’re prosecuting—and everyone else Lauren had a hand in sending to jail over the last twenty years. So about a thousand people, give or take.”
“Is that your way of telling me that you’re going to be working late for a while?” he says with a smile.
I smile back. “It’s my way of telling you that I’m not happy about it.”
He smiles, pleased with my answer. I don’t think he minds my burning the midnight oil at the office so long as he thinks that I don’t like being away from him.
“Enough murder talk. How’s Jacob today?” I say.
“Good. He’s been asleep for about two hours.”
Even though he’s asleep, simply being in his company will be a godsend for me.
“I’m going to check in on him,” I say.
When I enter his bedroom, Jacob is snuggled under his blankets. Sometimes he likes to put the top sheet over his head to completely insulate himself from his surroundings. Tonight he’s hiked it up to only a few inches above his shoulders. His long, soft curls flow down his cheeks. His breathing is shallow, his eyes shut. I try to imagine what he might be dreaming.
Jacob’s in the throes of a superhero phase. His bedroom resembles what I would imagine a conference room would look like in the Justice League. A fathead Batman is on one wall, staring down Superman
on the other. His linens depict Ironman, and his pajamas tonight are Spiderman’s costume.
I never thought I’d have a child. In large measure, that was because I never thought I’d marry. I can’t imagine what my sixteen-year-old self would think if she could see me now. In fact, I’m sure that my thirty-year-old self would be disappointed too. But I’m certain that every iteration of me would love Jacob with the same type of reckless abandon that I do.
I kick my shoes off and lie next to my son. I take in the floral scent of his hair and feel the curly wisps against my own cheek.
My presence causes him to stir, and he softly says, “Mama.”
“Shh,” I whisper into his ear. “Stay asleep, my sweet boy.”
I want to stay like this forever, to hold on to the person I love most in this world. I know hoping that my five-year-old can protect me is as misguided as his faith that Superman would come to his rescue if monsters appeared from under his bed. But I shake away rationality and wrap myself in the security of his Ironman top sheet.
15.
ELLA BRODEN
Since my return to the apartment after lunch with my father, I haven’t left the piano bench. At first I wasn’t very productive, just playing with a few melodies and every once in a while going through the chorus of “Never Goodbye.” But after a few hours, I came upon an arrangement of chords I liked, and then I started adding some lyrics.
Gabriel opens the door moments after I’ve done a run-through of what I have so far. I’m certain the timing is not coincidental. He was undoubtedly lingering in the stairwell, not wanting to interrupt me because he knows I’d stop playing as soon as he entered.
Recently, he told me that this is the closest he’s ever come to living with someone, the four nights or so a week that we cohabitate. He also shared that he’s already broken his personal record for relationship length. I knew better than to ask him his number, assuming that he’d lie, or worse, tell me the truth—which must be that he’s either in or approaching the three-figure range. I wonder if these are things that should give me pause about considering a lifetime of monogamy with him. There are certainly aspects to Gabriel that read as if he’s untamable. Nonetheless, whenever we’re together, I don’t sense longing on his part to be anywhere else.