The Grave Above the Grave

by Bernie B. Kerik

  “With Dannis?”

  Gallagher put his fresh, cold Coke down and got off his stool. He was nearly a head taller than Breshill, who remained seated on his stool. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Breshill grinned, his best defensive weapon. “I was just wondering . . . in the midst of all this, and with the grand jury coming up . . .”

  Gallagher got in his face. “Stop wondering, and go look for some real news.”

  Breshill laughed softly as he turned away and took a sip of his drink. He talked without looking back at Gallagher. “Just one question, Jerry. I’ve got sources in the DA’s office that have told me that Dannis will not be handling the GJ. She in Bimini too?”

  Gallagher didn’t take the bait. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I will,” Breshill said, smiling. “When I can find her. She seems to have deserted her office.” Breshill finished his drink, got up, and headed for the door. When he was a safe distance from Gallagher, he added, “I hear her First Deputy Rhonni is going to put Raymond on the stand. Something about police brutality.” Before Gallagher could say anything, Breshill waved goodbye and left. Gallagher took out a pad and made notes, headed by the time, date, and place.

  Raymond checked his watch. He would have to leave soon.

  “I didn’t bring my clothes, so I’m going to have to head on home. Are you staying here tonight?”

  Dannis rolled over and kissed him on his mouth, putting her hand on the side of his face. “I’m going to stay here,” she said.

  “Okay, I gotta go,” he said. “It’s nearly 10:30.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that late,” she said, and kissed him again. “I’ll see you downtown.”

  “Yeah.” He watched her get out of bed, her naked body sticky and slick with sweat. He felt a puff inside, in his stomach. He was about to throw in the towel and stay the night, but the thought of heading up to the Bronx at 5 am just to get fresh clothes changed his mind.

  In 15 minutes he was dressed. Dannis was standing by the bed, shoving her stockings, garter belt, and heels into her large blue Vuitton bag that she’d take with her in the morning. She wiped off her make-up with a towelette, and went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out a black sheer negligee that looked like it belonged in a Chanel commercial.

  “We’re going to have to talk about this grand jury thing,” he said to her as she walked him to the door.

  “We’ll get through it,” she said. “It’s going to be all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. Dolores is good. She’ll make it more than clear to the jurors that the homicide was justifiable.”

  “I’m not worried about any of that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You and me. When the press realizes you’re not handling this, they’ll get stupid and start asking why . . .”

  She didn’t let him finish. “There’s nothing to find out. My deputy is handling it and that’s it. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong.” She smiled. “Zip your pants up; your beautiful big thing is peeking out.” Raymond zipped up. She kissed him lightly on his cheek. “Bye, darling,” she whispered, as he slipped out the door.

  He left the room and walked down the hallway to the VIP elevator where Nelson appeared within seconds. A few minutes later, Raymond was walking out the side entrance of the building where Gallagher and Archer were standing outside the Explorer talking. He looked at Gallagher. “What are you still doing here?”

  “I was going to leave and then ran into that prick Breshill.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, at the bar. He’s snooping around about you and Sheilah.”

  “Fuck him,” Raymond said, as he got into the back of the Explorer. “I’ll see you in the morning. Let’s go guys . . . head on home.

  Archer spoke into the mike in his sleeve, “Eagle One to Eagle Three. We’re heading to the Castle.”

  CHAPTER 6

  7:30 am, Thursday, 5 October

  Before Raymond arrived every morning, all the New York newspapers were neatly fanned, one atop the other, on one side of his large oak desk in his office on the 14th floor of One Police Plaza in Lower Manhattan. On top was the New York Herald, with its banner headline, in full caps and italics, screaming:

  POLICE ROAD RAGE?

  HERO COMMISSIONER HITS RED LIGHT,

  GRAND JURY CONVENED

  Story by Sammy Breshill starts on page 3

  He picked the paper up and opened it to page 3, read a few lines of the piece, then slammed the paper down on the desk. With his left arm, he pushed the rest of the dailies off his desk into a wastepaper basket that went from empty to full in a millisecond. That Breshill, he thought. He could kill him. A perp kills a cop, shoots another, then shoots another and gets killed while he’s in a running gun battle with more cops. Clearly a justifiable homicide; but knowing there’s a grand jury being convened, Breshill wanted to make sure there were public questions! Every juror will be familiar with the case; all the papers, the local news, and CNN were playing the brutality up big. Baby, baby, baby, where did your love go?

  I was standing in front of the world’s financial center directing people from my command to assist at the temporary command post, when suddenly I heard this incredibly loud explosion coming from above me. People started to run in all directions, as I looked up to see the top of Tower II beginning to implode. I turned and ran with the others, but there was nowhere to go. I found myself running straight toward one of the buildings. There were these huge, round pillars in front of the buildings, and I could see cops running. I backed up against one pillar as the debris started to fire in all directions. I waited for it to stop. No one could breathe because of the heavy clouds of smoke. Three behind me survived. The ones who’d run in front of me didn’t.

  His phone rang. It was the mayor’s chief of staff. “Come on over; he wants to see you.”

  Raymond sighed, got up, checked himself once in the mirror of his private office bathroom, fixed the knot of his tie, and headed for his private elevator. City Hall was across the street. The air had a fall bite to it. Raymond half-trotted across the street, against the light; a lifetime of living in the city had taught him how to instinctively weave between the cars of the slow-moving street traffic. At City Hall, he was waved through the security barricades at the main entrance, and walked down the hall to the left, to Mayor Brown’s office. Shelly, the mayor’s gatekeeper and administrative assistant, nodded for him to go straight in. The mayor, who was standing, came around his desk, shook hands with Raymond, and offered him a cup of coffee. Raymond nodded yes, and Brown rang for Shelly to bring them two fresh cups, cream and sugar on the side.

  “That what you wanted to see me about? A coffee break?”

  The mayor sat back down and gestured for Raymond to take a seat on the other side of the desk. “Seen the morning papers?”

  “They were on my desk when I got in. That prick Breshill.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t want him, you, or it spilling over on me, with reelection coming up next year.” Shelly brought in a silver tray with a coffeepot, two cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a chilled filled creamer. She knew by now they both liked it the same way, two lumps and a splash of cream. She left without saying a word.

  “Everyone knows you’re not, but he’s trying to make you a target,” Brown said.

  “Clearly. And everyone who reads the papers or watches TV knows it.”

  The mayor took a sip of his coffee, holding the cup and saucer close to his face. “How in the fuck is he trying to turn this into police brutality.” He put his coffee on his desk. “Is there something we’re missing? Something that has a lot of unexpected curves he can throw right over the plate? Like on an icy mountain road, that kind of curve can throw you over without any warning.” He took another sip of his coffee. “I guess we’re lucky; a grand jury is a closed sessi
on. No judge, no reporters, just the DA, a jury, and you. I know Dolores will not be looking for an indictment and the use of force was justified, but anything can happen in the grand jury, especially when some obnoxious juror starts asking questions.”

  “It will be fine,” Raymond said, finishing his cup. “Dolores is tough, but regardless of what is asked by the grand jurors, she’s not looking for an indictment. She’s putting forward the investigative facts to justify the homicide. The most liberal of attorneys couldn’t argue the justification.”

  “Let’s hope,” Brown said. “I don’t like Breshill pushing this road rage police brutality shit and creating questions. I know it sells papers, but it also sometimes drives prosecutors, and we need this to go away quietly. What’s up with the sling?”

  “Probably just a sprain; it’s okay.”

  “Keep it on through the grand jury. And for God’s sake, stay away from Sheilah until this is all over.”

  Three nights later, having arrived in separate cars, Raymond and Sheilah were having dinner in a small Connecticut seafood house 30 miles northeast of the city. Raymond had arranged for them to have a private room, curtained off from the main dining room. They each had a vodka martini, topped with a trio of three black olives speared across their glasses like an African safari kill. Sheilah took the first one in her mouth and pulled the toothpick slowly out. Raymond yanked all three off the pick with his fingers and shoved them in his mouth all at once, like they were popcorn. When he could speak again, he said, “What’s the latest on the grand jury?”

  “I’d guess pretty good. The perp had a gun out; you were defending yourself. That’s your defense and what you will say on the stand.”

  “There were a lot of cops there.”

  “Good. Not a single one will testify against you. They’ll all praise you like you were Gandhi.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “The grand jury will call you as a witness, not as a defendant, but you’re always a big fish, remember that. You will be one of several witnesses they’ll call. Shelby, for sure. And Archer. They’re the primary focus, especially Shelby, since he was driving, but no one in that room will be interested. They always look at the big enchilada.”

  She stopped talking when the waiter came through the curtain, pad out, head down. They ordered crispy-skinned branzino with roasted almonds, creamed spinach, a bowl of well-done french fries, and a bottle of California sauterne. The waiter said softly, “Very good” and backed out through the curtain.

  She continued: “It’s the DA’s agenda that is pushed on the grand jury. You know the old saying, ‘You can indict a ham sandwich,’ but in order for them to come back with a true bill of indictment, you have to have a strong case against the person who killed the pig. There’s a big leap from a grand jury to an indictment, especially when the key witness is a national hero. Your only caution flag is the police brutality nonsense the press is trying to build into something. No one in the DA’s office can or will make that case, unless the court of public opinion becomes overwhelming; then they won’t be able not to.”

  “Then what?” Raymond asked, draining his martini.

  “It won’t happen. Dolores isn’t stupid. She knows it’s all bullshit.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Sheilah smiled. “I’m sure. Even though the mayor has nothing to do with the DA, and absolutely no influence over us, I know he wants you in and out of there as quickly as possible—and Dolores likes her job, and I need funding for my office. But really, we’re beating a dead horse. There’s nothing to this. I think the mayor’s making you crazy because he’s up for reelection.”

  Their food came, and the wine. The waiter deboned the branzino as they sipped the sauterne, and then they ate, mostly in silence. For dessert, they shared a wedge of tiramisu and had two cups of coffee. The waiter brought the check, and Raymond paid in cash. They got up, but left separately, Sheilah going first; her driver pulled her car up to the front door of the restaurant within seconds after she stepped outside. Raymond followed 10 minutes later, and his car did the same, Archer stepping out to open the back door to let him in.

  Neither Sheilah nor Raymond had noticed the small man sitting at the far end of the bar, hunched over a glass of beer. As soon as Raymond went through the front door of the restaurant, the man stood, still holding his beer, and moved to the edge of the large window that looked directly onto the driveway. Breshill watched Raymond get into his car and pull away in the direction of the New England Thruway. He then went back to the bar, took out his small spiral pad from the back pocket of his pants, and started jotting down notes.

  Breshill recorded everything about the dinner, including the time, the place, even what they had eaten. From his perch, he had been able to see the trays of food as they were brought to the private room.

  He threw a twenty onto the bar, shoved the receipt into his pocket so he could get reimbursed by the paper, and headed for self-parking at the rear of the restaurant.

  Charging for a valet would be pushing it with his editor.

  CHAPTER 7

  5:45 am, Wednesday, 11 October

  DA DALLIANCE WITH COMMISSIONER

  BEFORE GRAND JURY

  Story by Sammy Breshill starts on page 3

  Raymond read the article as he finished his coffee, knowing that everyone in the city had seen it by now. It implied that Sheilah had gone to an out-of-town dinner with a certain “higher-up” in the police department, and wondered if it had had anything to do with her not being in charge of Commissioner Raymond’s upcoming grand jury appearance. Breshill had stepped up to the plate, but hadn’t taken a swing, Raymond thought. Maybe he was waiting for the next day’s edition.

  Raymond knew that the mayor had read it too. I’m going to kill this motherfucker, he thought to himself. The mayor had told him to stay away from the DA until the conclusion of the grand jury, and although there was nothing wrong with them meeting, it was the perception of an impropriety that would drive the press. That in turn would drive the mayor crazy and cause problems between him and the mayor.

  The rule is referred to as the 180; that is, 180 hours, 1 week (7.5 days), after a crime is committed, except in rare circumstances, a grand jury must be convened. Eighteen jurors are seated, and it is up to them to either bring a bill of indictment or not. In this instance, the grand jury would conduct an investigation into the death of Samir Abdullah Bakheer, caused by Shelby, Archer, and Raymond, and determine whether the killing was justified or not.

  On the morning of Wednesday, October 11, the grand jury began its work. The steps leading up to the courthouse were jammed with onlookers, TV reporters and their cameramen, print media. Everyone and his fucking sister, Raymond thought to himself, all of them focused on him, like he had just discovered the cure for cancer, or killed the guy who did. And there, right at the front of the pack, was Sammy Breshill, holding his pad and pencil, ready to take down anything he might be able to use for the next edition. The good thing, Raymond knew, was that the press was not allowed inside the courtroom while the grand jury was in session. Nobody extraneous, not even other witnesses. Raymond could see both Archer and Shelby trotting up the steps, not together, and Dolores coming up the other side, surrounded by reporters, mikes thrust in her face. Cannibals, Rick thought to himself. Fucking goddamn cannibals. And the chief headhunter, he believed, was Breshill, who was looking to make a holiday barbecue out of him. Something had to be done about him, Raymond thought to himself, and he would get it done. As soon as this grand jury thing was behind him.

  Raymond was huddled in the courthouse hallway with Archer and Shelby, until, at 10:52, the court clerk came out and called Raymond’s name. He was going to be the first to testify. “Here,” Raymond said.

  “Follow me, please,” the court clerk said, gesturing with his hand for him to follow.

  The grand jury room was large, with 18
jurors seated triple-tiered. An empty seat was placed opposite them. To the jurors’ left, at an angle, was a large oak desk. Seated there was Dolores, with a sheaf of papers in front of her, a pitcher of water, a glass at one side, two pencils and a pad on the other. Raymond was sworn in and was seated directly facing the jury, at which time he was told that everything he said could be used at a trial. Seated next to Dolores was an assistant DA from the office, there to observe the proceedings. There was no judge.

  Dolores, dressed in a gray suit, a white shirt buttoned to the top, a long skirt, dark sheer stockings, and high-heeled black shoes, stood and came around to the front of the table. Raymond flashed on how good-looking she was, then pushed that out of his brain. He had enough troubles, he thought to himself.

  Dolores began. “State your name, please.”

  “Richard Raymond.”

  “Occupation?”

  “I am the police commissioner for the city of New York.”

  “How long have you held this position, Mr. Raymond?”

  “Eighteen months. Just over eighteen months.”

  “And how did you get to be commissioner?”

  Raymond shifted in his seat and noticed, for the first time, how warm it was in the room. “I was appointed by the mayor of the city of New York.”

  “So this was a political appointment.”

  “No. Yes. It was a job the mayor felt I was best suited for.” Raymond let a slight smile come over his face. “I’d like to think I was the best person for the job.” What was she doing, Raymond wondered? Why go there?

  “What did you do before you became commissioner?”

  Rick turned away from Dolores and looked beyond her, directly at the jury. “I was a member of the New York City police force close to 30 years.” There was a sense of satisfaction in his voice.

  “Where did you train to be a policeman?”

  He looked back at Dolores. “I have a bachelor’s degree from John Jay University of Criminal Justice in New York City, and a master’s in business administration from St. John’s University in Queens.