Never Goodbye

by Adam Mitzner

  I’m not going to debate the etiquette of who should foot the bill for adulterous affairs with my boyfriend, so I change the subject to something more relevant. “What does Richard say about the affair?”

  “We talked to him before we had the bank records, but he told us that he didn’t think there was another man in her life. Dismissed it out of hand, actually. We haven’t gone back to him with this evidence, but I’m sure it’s not going to change anything. He’s a smart enough guy to realize that admitting he even had an inkling his wife was cheating gives him motive.”

  I couldn’t agree more. Richard Trofino’s no stranger to peril—legal or otherwise—and those experiences undoubtedly taught him the importance of establishing a defense early and sticking to it, no matter what. On top of which, he’s most definitely not the kind of man who would play the cuckold well. If he had learned that Lauren was cheating on him, he very well may have killed her.

  27.

  DANA GOODWIN

  The next morning, I receive a text from Gabriel asking me to meet him at the Commissioner’s office. I assume that, now that we’ve briefed McKenney, Gabriel wants his boss to be up to date.

  I arrive at One PP and go directly to meet up with Gabriel. His surly assistant tells me that he’s already gone to the meeting, so I head up to Calhoun Johnson’s office.

  When I enter his office, Commissioner Johnson is sitting behind the desk and his number two, a guy I haven’t met before but who I remember seeing at Lauren’s funeral, is in one of the guest chairs. Off to one corner are the two other cops who were present at the meeting when we were told about Lauren’s murder—the lanky African American who is Gabriel’s boss and the short, mustachioed guy who is the Chief of D’s.

  I can’t remember either of their names, and neither introduces himself to me. Drake McKenney stands off to the side, and Gabriel is leaning up against the wall. I smile at my partner, but he doesn’t return the gesture.

  It’s when I see the four uniformed officers—three men, one woman—in another corner, that I realize what this meeting is actually about. There’s only one reason uniform cops would be here.

  “I’m going to get right to the point, Dana,” McKenney says. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Lauren Wright.”

  This must be the cue for the uniform cops. The four of them move in tandem, as if all 140 pounds of me might overpower them with any less manpower. My fight-or-flight response kicks into overdrive, but I tell myself to stay calm. Everything unfolds before me in what feels like slow motion.

  One of the cops pulls a set of handcuffs from his belt and in a stern voice says, “Put your hands behind your back.”

  I’m being arrested for murdering Lauren Wright. The words actually play again in my head, this time in my voice, repeating what McKenney said a moment before.

  I do as directed and put my arms behind me, wrists together. One of the other cops clips the cuffs around my left hand and then my right. The handcuffs are much colder than I’d assumed they would be, and they dig uncomfortably into my wrists. If I had a free hand, I’d rub the spot where the contact is most painful, but of course I can’t.

  The sole woman in the group, a Latina with long, dark hair, begins speaking. “Dana Goodwin, you have been arrested for the murder of Lauren Wright. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  I know I should listen to her and remain silent. I should also invoke my right to counsel, which will prevent them from questioning me right now. I’ve seen literally hundreds of people end any chance they had of acquittal by speaking in exactly this situation. Yet despite my training, I can’t help myself.

  “What the hell is going on?” I say, looking squarely at McKenney.

  No one answers me. Instead, the cop continues reading me my rights aloud.

  “If you do not have the means to pay for an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  “I asked you a question, goddammit!” I shout at the DA.

  McKenney holds my stare. “We cracked Lauren’s iPhone. You must have thought that was never going to happen, because I can’t for the life of me understand why you didn’t leave the country when you knew we found that phone. Did you actually think we were never going to get around to hacking into it?”

  I want to answer his question, to deny my guilt, but my better judgment has now taken over. I need to be smart about this—and that means not to make it any worse by speaking.

  The cop finishes her Miranda speech. “Ms. Goodwin, do you understand your rights as I have just explained them to you?”

  I crane my neck at the others, looking for an ally in the room. My gaze bounces from person to person until it stops on Gabriel.

  We only met eight days ago, but in that time, we’ve spent nearly every waking moment in each other’s company. During that time, I’ve come to think of him as a friend. I thought the feeling was mutual. Does he think I murdered Lauren Wright too?

  “I’m sorry, Dana,” he says.

  “I understand,” I say as defiantly as I can. And then I add, “About my rights.”

  It’s equal parts liberating and horrifying when the thing you’ve feared most in the world finally occurs. Secrets I’ve kept will soon be offered up for public consumption. And while that once seemed the absolute worst thing that could ever happen, it’s now the least of my worries.

  PART THREE

  EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER

  DANA GOODWIN

  28.

  I hadn’t prepared a résumé since George W. Bush was president. That was the résumé I’d used to secure my employment with the DA’s office, but it had long ago been lost to outdated word-processing systems. To apply to be deputy chief of the Special Victims Bureau, I created a new one from scratch.

  Lauren didn’t even look at it when we met, although she might have glanced at it before my interview. Then again, maybe she couldn’t have cared less about where I went to college or law school, or what I wrote my law review article about. Certainly, she already knew that I’d spent the last eighteen years in General Crimes.

  My boss in General Crimes was Eugene Stickleman, who everyone in the group referred to as “Stick-Up-His-Ass Man.” He was the kind of person who never smiled and had no family—or interests—as far as I could tell. He lived alone in a garden-level studio apartment in a building owned by this old lady he referred to as Mrs. Golitto. All I knew about Mrs. Golitto was that she owned lots of cats. Stickleman was forever complaining because the cats used his patio as a litter box. He pretty much wore the same suit, shirt, and tie combination—gray two-button suit, white button-down-collar shirt, solid-blue tie—every single day.

  Lauren Wright was his antithesis in every way, starting with the moniker people used behind her back: “Lauren Always Right.” Not the cleverest nickname, but it fit. Her reputation was that she was infallible. In her judgment about cases, about people, about everything.

  It was big news when Ella Broden stepped down. Not a shocker, given who her father is, but a deputy doesn’t often leave the job. When one does, it triggers a rush of would-be successors, something akin to what happens when a politician in a safe congressional district decides to seek higher office.

  I had gone on the interview on something of a lark. I knew that there would be at least half a dozen people vying for the spot, and I assumed that Lauren would promote from within her group. Lilly Weitzner, the head of the Sex Crimes Division, or Sara Sadinoff, the leader of the Elder Abuse Division, were the odds-on favorites.

  Lauren and I met in her office. Whereas Stickleman’s work space was cold and off-putting, like its occupant, Lauren’s office was thoroughly inviting. The décor was light: a pale yellow sofa and sky-blue chairs surrounded the conference table. Impressionist prints in white frames adorned the walls, and her desk was a warm cherry wood—obviously one that she purchased herself, because the standard-issue DA’s desk lacked even a hint of style. A needlepoint picture on the wall behind her chair read: “A Woman’s Work is Putting Awa
y Sex Offenders.”

  I couldn’t even remember when I first met Stickleman, but I knew instantly that my introduction to Lauren Wright would be indelible. That my career and my life would never be the same.

  She got up from behind her desk and seemed to glide toward me. That was the sense I had, that she moved with the grace of a dancer. She was dressed in typical ADA attire for women—blue suit, white blouse, sensible shoes, a simple rope necklace, and small gold earrings—but somehow she made the ensemble appear to be elegant rather than workmanlike. But it was her gaze that froze me in her orbit. Lauren had the most piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  “I’ve heard so many great things about you, Dana,” she said. “And I can’t believe that we’ve never met before. How can that be?”

  “I’ve had my head down in General Crimes for a long time, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I’m very glad that you popped up to meet with me today. But I have to ask the most obvious question: Why? You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself over in GC. Eugene can’t stay chief forever. Why not wait him out? In another three, four . . . at most five years, you’d be chief. And, full disclosure, I’m not going anywhere in that time frame.”

  I had a prepared answer for this question. I was going to wax on about how I’d never wanted a management role, explain that I came to the DA’s office to try cases. How, after nearly twenty years, I had accomplished all I set out to achieve in the courtroom and thought it was time to take on new challenges. My lack of deputy experience would hinder my being picked to take over for Stickleman when the time came . . . blah blah blah.

  For some reason, however, when the time came to deliver this speech, I deviated from my script and actually told her the truth.

  “You,” I said. “I don’t mean to be a suck-up, but I’m not here because becoming a deputy is a box I need to check on my way to getting a bureau chief job. I’m here because I want to work with you.”

  My revelation caused Lauren to sit up straighter. I suspect the other applicants had all answered that question with a variant of the same speech I had prepared about seeking out new challenges.

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “Why do you want to work for me?”

  “I want to be inspired. Not to get all new-agey about it, but I’m looking to work with someone who can help me become the best version of myself. To become something more than I have been up until now.”

  “That’s a high bar for a boss.”

  “With all respect, I’m not looking for a boss. I’m looking for a partnership. I understand I’m not going to be an equal partner, but I want to feel like my point of view truly matters in all decisions, big and small.”

  I left Lauren’s office without the slightest indication of whether she liked me or not. Then I didn’t hear from her for two weeks and assumed that was that. The call came on a Friday at 6:30.

  “Is this a test?” I asked, throwing caution to the wind. “I mean calling on a Friday after working hours to see if I’m still here.”

  “No. If you hadn’t answered, I was going to leave the job offer on your voice mail. Welcome aboard, partner.”

  29.

  A month into my deputyship, Stuart suggested we host a dinner party and invite Lauren and her husband over. He said he wanted to get to know the woman I spoke about all the time. I did not think it was a good idea.

  “I want her to think that I’m a superstar,” I explained to him. “She’s going to come here and see that I can barely boil water.”

  He dismissed my concerns out of hand. “You are a superstar. You can do anything, even host a dinner party for your boss. Trust me. It’s going to be a huge success.”

  I took comfort in the idea that there’d be others present to serve as buffers. I also invited my closest friend, Kate, and her husband, Ed. They’re the smartest, most interesting people I know, and very New York City. Kate and I met at college. She was a vegan even then—she introduced me to the term. She teaches feminist political theory at Sarah Lawrence and is the kind of intellectual who probably hasn’t seen a movie without subtitles in a decade. I’m not entirely sure what Ed does for a living, even though he and Kate have been married for more than ten years. I know it has something to do with economics—the subject of one of the two PhDs he holds from the University of Chicago—and that he could make ten times as much money if he did whatever it is that he does in the private sector. They have no children, but two dogs. Needless to say, they live in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

  I cooked a lamb roast. Much to my surprise, it turned out perfectly. For my vegan guests, I added pretty much every vegetable I could find at the farmers’ market. The result of my culinary efforts was displayed atop the buffet in our dining room—platters containing roasted root vegetables, cauliflower sautéed with mushrooms, a pasta primavera, and a potato recipe that I’d tried for the first time. It contained a ton of chili powder.

  Kate and Ed arrived early, while I was still in the kitchen. I remained secluded while Stuart sat with them for about ten minutes, until I heard another knock on the door, when I left my station to greet Richard and Lauren. Whereas Ed and Kate were both outfitted in clothes from the Gap—jeans, sweaters, sneakers—Lauren wore a little black dress with a V-neck revealing her considerable cleavage. I noticed Stuart taking in the view. Richard was wearing what he must have considered casual wear: an expensive-looking sports jacket likely made of silk, and gray trousers.

  I had previously told Kate to make sure that Ed knew Lauren was my boss and Richard was the Trofino of Trofino Construction, but she must not have passed that information along.

  The first words out of Ed’s mouth were, “How do you two know Dana and Stuart?”

  “Dana and I work together,” Lauren said graciously.

  “And by work together,” I said, “Lauren actually means for. She’s my boss. My very new boss, in fact. So say nice things about me.”

  Everyone laughed, but I felt uneasy nonetheless. To calm my own nerves, I offered Lauren and Richard some alcohol. Lauren opted for the already-open bottle of red wine, but Richard asked if we had any scotch. To my surprise we did, so I poured him two fingers’ worth, neat.

  “The smell from the kitchen is heavenly,” Lauren said after she took a sip of the wine.

  “Thanks. You look beautiful.”

  “I’m sorry if I’m overdressed. I just . . . I like to dress up when we go out.”

  “No, don’t apologize. Like I said, just beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Your house is so charming.”

  “Would you like a tour?”

  “Of course.”

  I turned to Richard. “I’m about to give your better half the nickel tour. Care to join?”

  “If it’s okay, I’m just going to enjoy this very fine scotch.”

  “It’s just us, then,” Lauren said. “So lead the way.”

  Our home is barely more than fifteen hundred square feet. By virtue of walking in the door, Lauren had already seen most of it: the living and dining rooms. I opened the door to the kitchen and said the obvious.

  “This is the kitchen.”

  “Smells so good,” she said again.

  Next, I led her up the staircase to the bedrooms. I pointed at the closed door to the office and said, “That’s Stuart’s man-cave-slash-art-studio. It’s quite the mess, so we’re going to bypass it.” As I said it, I worried that I hadn’t made the bed in our bedroom either, but when I opened the door to the master, I saw that, thankfully, I had. “Here’s our bedroom.”

  “Very nice,” Lauren said. “I especially like the photograph. Is that Jacob?”

  She was pointing to a black-and-white shot in a silver frame. Stuart had taken it when Jacob was two. It was still my favorite picture of Jacob, capturing an impish smile that he has to this day.

  “Indeed it is. Come, let’s visit the model.”

  I knocked lightly on my son’s half-closed door. “Jacob? Sweetie, I want you to meet someone.”

&nbs
p; I pushed the door open. Jacob was staring intently at his iPad. He didn’t look up.

  “Please put your screen on pause and say hello to Mommy’s boss.”

  He didn’t move. I felt a flush of embarrassment, prayed that he wouldn’t make me say it again. Or worse, require that I be the heavy and actually remove the iPad from his clutches in order to get his undivided attention. Thankfully, the wait was short. He put the device down.

  “Jacob, this is Ms. Wright. She’s Mommy’s boss at work.”

  “Hi,” he said, as disinterested as a four-year-old boy could be.

  “What are you watching?” Lauren asked.

  “Thomas the Tank.” Jacob decided that he’d had enough social interaction and returned to the iPad.

  “Sorry,” I said to Lauren. “Little boys are not great conversationalists.”

  “He’s so sweet,” she said.

  At dinner, the candles flickered on my dining table, giving our guests a glow. Kate was talking about a play she had recently seen in a basement space in Bed-Stuy that accommodated an audience of fifteen—and in which the six actors onstage performed in the nude.

  “Men or women?” Richard asked.

  “Three of each. And the weird thing was that the nudity really had nothing to do with the plot. I mean, there was nothing sexual about the play at all. It’s like the characters, you know, went to work, came home, etcetera. But they were all naked. No one commented on it in the play. The playwright was apparently making some symbolic point about how we’re all naked or something.”

  “Not very subtly, of course,” Ed added.

  “Do you go to much theater, Lauren?” Kate asked.

  “Not as much as I’d like. Richard isn’t a fan.”

  “Maybe if the actresses were naked, I’d reconsider,” he said with a loud laugh.

  The others all smiled, but Lauren’s grin appeared to be strained. You can tell an awful lot about a marriage by the silent expressions spouses share when they think no one is looking. Hers communicated that she was unhappy and had been for some time. She tried to mask it as best she could, and I wondered how much longer she could continue the charade. You might think that was a lot to glean from a single reaction, but it was one that I know all too well, since I wear it myself on a daily basis.