The Second Girl

by David Swinson

  “Ms. Costello thinks that’s what we’re gonna do, and I’d like her to think that’s what we did do next time you two meet.”

  “What’s this about, Investigator Marr?”

  “I’m hoping to convince you that you’re about to really fuck things up with your life.”

  He clenches his jaw, and the muscles going down his neck tighten, but it’s not a nervous reaction. Then, impressively, he adjusts and relaxes himself. He puts his forearms back on the table and tries to act like he cares about what I’ve got to say.

  “You nearly beat that bouncer to death. We’ve been over all that plenty of times before, but I think it needs to be brought up again. There are witnesses who’ll say it was because he was doing his job, not letting you in the club ’cause you already had too much to drink.”

  “In his opinion I had too much to drink, which wasn’t the case, and as far as those witnesses go, they all work at the club.”

  “Yeah, we’ve been over all that.”

  “And what about my witnesses? Dude gave me a hard time just ’cause I was white.”

  “Let me finish, here.”

  He nods, but just barely, as if I’ve been given approval to continue.

  “The government’s gonna have all their witnesses and I’m sure plenty of others that’ll testify that you were disruptive and wouldn’t take no for an answer. They’ll say you threw the first punch. We know that part is true, ’cause you even admit to that.”

  “Hell yeah, he put his fucking hands on me. I had to defend myself.”

  “Some will say that he was just trying to escort an unruly man out. But let’s step back and say, like you mentioned, that you threw the first punch ’cause you were defending yourself. A fight ensued and you even took a couple of nice punches yourself. The problem is you kept throwing punches even after the man was down. It ain’t anything like self-defense if you stopped the threat after, what, the second punch?”

  He tilts his head, with what I would take as an inappropriate half smile, as if it’s something he’s proud of.

  I continue. “The prosecutor’s not gonna have a hard time convincing a jury that he wasn’t a threat after you knocked him down like that. They’ll say all you had to do at that point was walk away. And trust me on this, Claypole—you sure as hell won’t have a chance of beating the charge if you try to make this into a black-white thing. We both know that ain’t true and all that’ll do is backfire on you, make you look like the racist. So, barring some kinda miracle, you’ll more than likely be found guilty. Come sentencing time, you’ll be looking at five to fifteen. With your history, you’ll get somewhere in between.”

  “Man, this is some bullshit.”

  “You gotta lose that pride, my man. Pick your battles, forfeit this one.”

  “Sheeit.”

  “What I’m getting at is you might want to consider the offer you’ve been given. You take the plea and you’ll more than likely get out in less than three, with good behavior, of course.”

  “And what does Ms. Costello say about this?”

  “I told you, she doesn’t know we’re having this conversation. As far as she knows, I’m here in an effort to find something new, something that might help her during trial. In fact, she’s back at her office preparing to go to trial. I’m just saying, based on all my experience, that this is not a case you want to take to trial.”

  “Fucking three years?”

  “Including the time you’ve been held, probably less. Shit, that’s nothin’ for someone like you. Eat regular, work those free weights, clean out your body and mind.”

  “Yeah, a fucking vacation, right?”

  I don’t reply to that.

  “Man, I just got back on track with my lady and now this shit,” he says.

  “She’s still got her job, right?”

  “Yeah, but she’s gonna definitely have to sell my truck now. She had the good credit for the financing.”

  “I seem to remember you bought that used.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still more money than she can handle every month. She already blown through all the money I made on that construction job I had before I got locked up.”

  “What do you owe on it?”

  He has to think hard about it, probably because he’s never been the one to take care of the bills.

  “Somewhere around eight grand.”

  Something comes to me just like that, but I mull it over in my head for a second. Then I say, “What if I tell you I’ll take care of that bill personally, pay it all off on a no-interest loan?”

  “What the fuck you wanna do somethin’ like that for?”

  “You save us all a lot of time and effort and take the plea offer.”

  “That’s crazy, man. You’re talkin’ through your ass.”

  “I’m fucking real.”

  “Why the hell you want to do something like that for me?”

  “I wouldn’t be doing it for you. I'm doing it for Ms. Costello, who doesn’t want a reputation for losing, and I also know she doesn’t want to have to see her client get slammed by the court. Believe it or not, she actually loses sleep over shit like this.”

  “I don’t know, man. This is crazy shit. You’re basically offering me a few thousand bucks to take an offer that puts me in prison for a few years.”

  “Damn, Claypole, either way you’re not gonna get outta having to do prison time. I’m sitting here trying to save your ass from having to do more, is all.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. It goes to trial, I can maybe win this.”

  “You can. You can try. But it’s a bad gamble. You know that.”

  “I feel like this is blackmail or somethin’.”

  “You really are nothin’ but a bullheaded son of a bitch.”

  I shove the chair back and stand. “We’re done, then,” I say.

  “Fucking sit down, Marr! Give me a second, here.”

  I don’t sit, but I let him have his time. He looks down at the table, slowly moving his head from side to side.

  “And it’s not like I’d just be giving you eight grand. You’ll have to start paying me back when you get out, after you find work again.”

  It takes him a minute. He looks up at me.

  “I wanna start fresh. I don’t want this bullshit in my life anymore. You really don’t think I got a case on self-defense?”

  I sit back down.

  “I wasn’t there. I only know things based on the facts given to me. Based on what’s been given to me and what I’ve been able to find myself, it doesn’t look good for you.”

  “For real, right?” he asks. “I mean the eight grand. I don’t want my girl getting stuck with anything.”

  “I said I would. I will. But it’s between us, because if Costello ever finds out, I’ll lose my job with her and more. Then you’d be messing up my life. And you don’t want to do that.”

  “I trust you when you say that, Marr. I can see you got that way about you. Fuck, three years’ll pass by like nothin’ anyway.”

  “You said it already, but you gotta make it a fresh start when you get out. Lose that hot head of yours, especially inside. You don’t wanna fuck up inside.”

  “I hear ya. Tell me one thing, though. Where the hell does an ex-cop turned PI get eight grand to offer up like this?”

  “I know how to make good investments, and you shouldn’t be asking questions like that anyway.”

  I pull out my notepad from my rear pants pocket and a pen from the inner sleeve pocket of my suit jacket. I slide them across the table over to him.

  “Give me the dealership info on the car. I’ll get in touch with your lady and take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

  He writes everything down and hands it back to me.

  “And you tell my old lady I’m really sorry for all this shit, all right? And make sure she gets the sentencing date when it comes. I need her to be there.”

  “I will.”

  He folds his upper lip over his b
ottom lip so I’m not sure if it’s a smile or a frown. He nods, so I take it as an awkward smile.

  “All right, then,” I say, and stand up.

  I offer him my hand and we shake.

  “Do one more thing for me, Marr?”

  “Go on.”

  “Make sure my truck gets parked in the garage. It’s gonna have to sit for a bit.”

  “I’ll make sure,” I say.

  Eighteen

  I’ve never had this amount of blow staring back at me before. Well, I did when I was a narcotics detective. There’s so much here that I need to find a little self-control, or I might be picking imaginary bugs outta my hair, or worse. It’s sitting there on the shelf of my fake wall, sealed up nice and tight, but not so tight that I can’t get into it when I need to, like now.

  Despite what I see in front of me, I still find myself thinking about planning the next hit.

  Hell, you can never have too much of a good thing.

  My cell rings, startling me. I quickly close up the wall and clip the edge molding in place.

  I pull the cell outta my pocket.

  Costello.

  Damn.

  I am overtaken by a sudden apprehensiveness and I’m thinking Claypole probably gave up the true nature of our conversation earlier today. I almost don’t answer, but the feeling passes quickly because I just took in a bit of powdery courage. I lean against the washer, remember all the money I have stuffed in there along with my dirty laundry. I’ll have to count eight grand outta that bag tonight for Claypole, that is, if he didn’t just fuck me.

  “What’s up, Leslie?”

  “I just got off the phone with Lenny Claypole. What exactly did you say to him?”

  I start to wonder if she’s playing me ’cause she already knows the answer, and now all she wants to do is trip me up.

  “We went over the details of the case again, like you wanted. Wasn’t anything new there, so I was honest and said it didn’t look good for him.” She doesn’t reply right away, so I ask, “You still on?”

  “You must have said it with conviction, because he agreed to the plea offer. He’s not going to fight it.”

  “That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Of course! I told you it would be a losing battle and I don’t like to lose.”

  “After my conversation with him, I got the feeling he believed that, too.”

  “You know I like a good fight, though,” she adds, like she’s already trying to justify why she’s letting him take the plea. “But this is exactly why I hate having to take on some of these court-appointed clients.”

  “It’s the right thing. And it’s a good thing when a hardheaded man like him comes to his senses and accepts responsibility for his actions.”

  “Hardheaded, listen to you. Still, thanks for going back and trying, and for being honest with him.”

  If only she knew. Hell, it’s gonna be worth every penny ’cause of all the shit I put her through with that little girl. It’s like penance.

  “I feel like having drinks after work. Join me?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I’m meeting up with Luna and McGuire at Shelly’s. Actually, was going to call you, too, but you beat me to it. It’ll be a celebration all around. They just made a great case outta that kidnapped girl I left you with.”

  “And here I was about to offer the same thing. Shelly’s with the old crew sounds good.”

  “I’ll drop by around five thirty?”

  “See you then,” she says.

  I slip the phone back in my pocket and smile ’cause I now have a good excuse to wear the new suit I bought.

  I open the washer and pull out the bag of money.

  I take it to the living room, where I dump it out on the hardwood floor. Some of the bills try to roll away, under the sofa and under the entertainment center I have against the wall on the other side of the room from me. I scoop everything up into a nice pile and start pulling rubber bands off the rolled-up bills and separating them into stacks according to their denomination.

  Two hours later, all I’ve managed to do is cover most of the living room floor with several stacks of ones, fives, tens, and twenties. It’ll take me more time than I have right now to count up all this, so I grab a stack of twenties and then another and another and another, until I have four hundred twenties.

  I count them out into eight stacks of fifty and then secure them with a rubber band. After that, I count out about another five hundred in twenties for walking-around money. I use the rest of the rubber bands for all the uncounted stacks and then put those, along with the eight grand, back in the bag. I fold up the five hundred in twenties, slip it in my front pants pocket, and take the bag back to the washer.

  I head to the shower to freshen up, hopefully wash away some of that dirty money. Otherwise I’m sure I’ll feel great.

  Nineteen

  I’ve been doing this for so long I know most of the tricks, even picked up a few pointers from some prisoners I debriefed back in the day. Beat all but two of the random piss tests back then, too. I was caught off guard for the one that got me when I was called in twice in one week.

  It’s not so hard to hide this lifestyle of mine if you stick to a defined procedure. Without certain rules, you’re either gonna die or get yourself caught. Wish I knew then all that I know now, because I did love the job. And yes, there was more than a bit of self-loathing because of what that job meant and what I had become. I don’t blame any of it on the work. Fuck that. It’s my own damn weakness. It was and is something that has always been there, a malady I actually freed myself from when I decided I was going to be a cop.

  I was a strong man through the academy, my years walking a beat, then as a vice officer, and even a couple years into my work at Narcotics Branch. I don’t have an excuse for that day when I pocketed a little something for myself during the course of a search warrant. I don’t even know what I was thinking when I did it, except that I could.

  I’m actually okay with my life now, but the worst thing, I think, would be getting caught or found out. Especially by someone close, like Costello, or one of my good buddies, like Luna. That’s why I have rules. As hard as it is, I gotta maintain self-control. And as hard as it is most of the time, I gotta force myself to be social. It’d be easy to be a recluse. I do venture out, but usually to spots in my neighborhood around U Street or downtown at places like Shelly’s. It’s a good spot, a comfortable hangout, and one of the few places in DC where you’re still allowed to smoke cigars.

  Back in the day, I used to go with McGuire and Luna, sometimes Costello. A refuge for the boys and girls at the branch. Nowadays it’s the same thing, but with close people like Costello, after a long, challenging day at work or at the end of a trial, and with old buds like McGuire and Luna for a couple of drinks and a cigar, a time to catch up.

  The pill container I carry with me is for a prescription I get for chronic fatigue. A few years back, when I was on the job, I convinced a doctor that’s what I had. I was fatigued, but it was nothing I couldn’t fix myself. All I had to do was stop snorting all that blow after work and get some sleep. I never used at work.

  The meds worked for a while, but then the side effects got so bad I had to wean myself off of them. The doctor kept filling the prescriptions, though, ’cause I needed the capsules and the label showing they were prescribed to me. It’s a perfect hiding spot when you’re carrying. The capsules twist open easily and hold the equivalent of a nice line. I can sniff it directly out of each half of the capsules or, like I did in the bathroom at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, make a nice pile on the inside of the pill container’s cap. I keep about fifty capsules in the container.

  The new suit fits nicely. It feels good—clean. I choose to wear my light purple dress shirt without a tie, unbuttoned at the collar, and my black leather penny loafers.

  Costello lives in Capitol Hill, off Pennsylvania Avenue, near 3rd and C. It’s a nice two-story connected row house, but in an area a bit like
mine, which a lot of cops refer to as burglary central. She’s been lucky so far. Even if her home was broken into, she’d probably volunteer to represent the burglar that did it.

  It’s almost seven thirty when I pull on to her block. When I pull up to the front of the house, she’s sitting on a step leading up to the porch, just like a kid.

  I have to double-park, but she stands up and walks down when she sees me.

  Such a different woman away from work. Why? I don’t know.

  She’s wearing a light green long-sleeve V-neck T-shirt under a faded black lightweight leather jacket and well-fitted black jeans. She opens the passenger’s side door, steps in, and sits. Drops her small purse on the floor between her feet.

  “Traffic bad?”

  “It’s DC. What do you think? I’m not that late, am I?”

  “Not at all. I enjoy sitting on the steps when it’s cool outside. It’s refreshing. That’s a new suit.”

  “No, just dry-cleaned,” I lie, without knowing why.

  “Give me the name of your dry cleaner, then.”

  “It’s a little out of your way.”

  I tune the car radio to 101.1 ’cause I know she likes that station. A Foo Fighters song I don’t know the name of is playing again. She turns the volume up. I sort of grin and bear it.

  I head back toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Traffic is not so much a battle heading toward downtown.

  When the song ends, she turns the volume down.

  “I know it’s the weekend, but I was hoping you could come to the office tomorrow, early afternoon.”

  “I’ve never had a problem working a weekend. You know that,” I tell her.

  “Yes, I know, but this isn’t concerning anything I have lined up. There’s a couple that wants to meet you.”

  “A couple of what?” I joke. “You pick up a new client?”

  “No. I got a call the other day, after we spoke. The parents of the child you dropped off with me gave the family of another missing child my number. Apparently they spoke very highly of you.”