All Day and a Night: A Novel of Suspense (Ellie Hatcher)

by Alafair Burke

  “We’ll see what we can do,” Ellie assured him before saying goodbye.

  Rogan gunned the engine. “We’ve got to get to this guy before he’s out on the streets.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  Thomas took the McDonald’s bag from Carrie with two fingers.

  “Trust me, Thomas. The taste of warm, soft pickles on ketchup-smothered meat product is way better than you’re going to want to admit.”

  “Well, with that kind of sales pitch, how can I possibly resist?” He removed the contents and smoothed the paper bag on the hotel room’s desk like a placemat. If he asked for a knife and fork, she was going to snatch that food away from him and make him starve.

  “You did a great job,” she said, looking around the room. She had spent the morning at the library, printing out archived articles about the case, and at the city attorney’s office, requesting public records. In the meantime, he had converted the non-bedroom areas of her suite—the largest in the hotel—into a functional working space. He had pulled the desk away from the wall and scrounged up an extra chair, creating a two-sided desk, complete with both of their laptops. He had placed the various boxes and Redwelds of files, neatly labeled, around the small table in the corner.

  “Linda said we can take a meeting room if we need more space,” he said. “I thought it was easier to make do here than to have to traipse down to the lobby constantly.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “Okay, but Linda told me to make sure you got the message: Spare no expense. This case could be worth millions of dollars. It’s very exciting, don’t you think? And I have to admit: this hamburger is much better than I remembered. I don’t think I’ve had McDonald’s for ten years.”

  Based on Carrie’s experience, the people who insisted they never ate fast food had a cabinet full of Happy Meal souvenir cups. But she was starting to think that Thomas was as honest and eager as he appeared. As someone who had frequently been criticized for being “overly earnest,” she appreciated his openness.

  She heard the first few bars of a Journey song on his cell phone. “It’s Linda!” He couldn’t have been more excited if Santa Claus himself were calling. “Hi, Linda. I was just talking to Carrie about the workspace here, and she agrees that we’re fine for now. We’ll let you know if that changes . . . Uh-huh . . . Yes, she’s right here.” He held the phone in her direction. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “Hi, Linda.”

  “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yeah, sure.” As a hat tip to the virtue of honesty, she made a point of perching on the edge of the bed.

  “I have amazing news. Amazing! Martin Overton called me first thing this morning. He has those two detectives up there. They’re scrambling for more evidence because—get this—we were right. Not only did Majors lie about that confession, he also led their one eyewitness. We’ve taken down their entire case. And I convinced Judge Johnsen that if the only evidence they had is invalid, they can’t swap out new evidence eighteen years later. And guess what? We won!”

  “Didn’t we basically win yesterday?” Carrie was pretty sure that their success was the reason she was in Utica.

  “We made progress, but I’m saying it’s not about Friday anymore. Amaro is getting out. Today. Now.”

  “What do you mean, out?”

  “Out. A free man. No more business with the New York County Courts. We have a ton to do, but I wanted you to know as soon as possible. He’ll need a ride from Five Points. Can you look up the directions?”

  “Um, sure. So, you want me to get him a car or something?”

  “No, silly. You’re his attorney. Go pick him up. I wouldn’t be surprised if other attorneys try to poach him, so make sure he understands how hard we’re working on his behalf. I’ll take a train up in the morning. In the meantime, you need to look out for him. I expect them to try to arrest him on the Utica charges. It’s what I would do if I were in their shoes. Find a motel for him—outside the city, one that doesn’t ask for names. Something cheap, so if they find him, it doesn’t look like he’s trying to cash in on his potential lawsuit. But pick him up now, okay? We’ve got to keep him protected.”

  To Carrie, this form of protection sounded like harboring a fugitive. “Um, are we allowed to do that? I mean, ethically, if they’re trying to arrest him?”

  “Until we know there’s an arrest warrant in place, we can actively help him. After that, we don’t have a duty to turn him in, but actual assistance gets dicier. That’s why we have to act fast. Prepay the room for—I don’t know, ten days. I’m wiring you cash through Western Union, but take care of that after you’ve got him in the car.”

  Carrie’s head was spinning.

  She had assumed this case would take years to resolve. She had expected prosecutors to fight them every step of the way. She expected the bureaucrats who ran the prison system to drag their feet, terrified that they might be freeing a killer. This case was moving faster than it would anywhere else in the country at any other time, and she had to believe it was because of the political tide that had so drastically and decisively turned against New York City law enforcement in the past year. The judge and the district attorney were worried about being reelected, and vindicating an innocent man would make for a good 30-second television ad.

  But was Anthony Amaro really innocent?

  “You still there, Carrie?”

  “Yeah. I think my phone cut out for a second.”

  “Oh, another thing: the ADA told Judge Johnsen that his detectives are up there talking to a jailhouse snitch who says Amaro confessed to him. I guess they got the guy’s name from an anonymous tip. You know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see anything in the old police records about a cellmate informant?”

  “Not yet, but I’m still working my way through it all. Do you want me to try to track it down?”

  Linda paused. “No. Let’s stick with pinning blame on the police department. Any progress there?”

  “Shouldn’t I be leaving for the prison, Linda?”

  “Yes. I just wanted a quick update on your progress.”

  Geez, she and Thomas had only been in Utica for eighteen hours. Linda Moreland seemed capable of moving five times faster than the rest of the world. “Well, the original Utica detective in charge of the case was in the process of retiring when the NYPD arrested Amaro. At that point, Amaro’s guilty plea to the downstate case was enough to shut down the investigation here. The new detective basically just served as a contact person. That’s all I’ve got for now.”

  “What do you mean, all you’ve got? That’s what we were hoping to find. Some lazy cop who didn’t give a rat’s ass about a bunch of working girls.”

  Carrie felt disgusted. She needed to find a way out of this. She could quit, but it was too late: Linda would just find someone else to do the same work. Carrie decided to take a shot at changing Linda’s strategy. Maybe she could try to mitigate the damage by operating from within.

  “I get what you’re saying, Linda, but the detective—his name’s Will Sullivan—I’m not sure that throwing him under the bus is going to work. He’s beloved here. A widower. Single father. He raised his boy all alone, and they’re both considered huge success stories for the city. His son is Bill Sullivan . . .?”

  Linda squealed into the phone. “The boy wonder? Seriously? That’s brilliant! The son can leverage the power of the state. Pitch into the settlement on behalf of the crime lab and the Department of Corrections. Maybe even stipulate to the release of other prisoners locked up by Buck Majors. This is huge. Huge! Okay, stay on Sullivan. And, oh, I’ve kept you on the phone too long. You hit the road now. Oh—and can you put Thomas back on? I need him to clear my schedule before I leave the city. You can find your way to the prison on your own, yes?”

  Carrie could feel her french fries working their way back up as she returned Thomas’s phone to him. She took this job because she’
d convinced herself she’d be doing the right thing by Donna. But Linda Moreland wanted money, and she wanted to win. She wanted the celebrity lawyer reputation. Perhaps most dangerous of all, she truly believed she was saving people.

  And Carrie had no idea how she could save herself from being a part of it.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-TWO

  Carrie had never been to a prison before. In law school, her study of criminal law had been restricted entirely to books. Russ Waterston didn’t handle criminal cases, and the civil work she did do rarely required her to leave the firm’s law library. Now she was on her way to pick up a man being released from prison. She had no idea what to expect, but she was convinced she was completely lost. All she could see was farmland in every direction.

  She looked down again at the rental car’s GPS system to make sure she was in the right place, and the gadget insisted she was almost there.

  She took the next right turn, as prompted by the robotic voice, and pulled onto a long, narrow road. It was beautiful here, and peaceful. Up ahead, she saw a sprawling concrete complex, surrounded by watch towers and barbed wire. Now she understood. This beautiful, peaceful place was the perfect location. No one wanted a maximum security prison in his backyard. No one wanted to be near the Anthony Amaros of the world.

  And yet here she was, about to serve as his personal driver.

  A sign at the visitors’ entry warned that all phones had to be turned off and could not be taken into the “hospitality area.” She powered down her cell and slipped it into her purse.

  A heavy woman in a flowered dress entered just ahead of her and commented that the line was short today. It didn’t look short to Carrie. She counted ten people in front of her, including the flowered-dress lady, before the line turned a blind corner.

  “Is the front of the line somewhere close to that turn?”

  “Oh no, sweetheart. I’d say it’s another thirty feet or so to the metal detectors. You haven’t been here before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It’s okay. I was afraid my first time, too, but my son, he needs visitors. I like to think that contact with the outside might keep him from getting too hard, you know? Who you here to see?”

  “Um, my uncle.” Somehow it didn’t seem right in that moment to announce herself as an attorney, to declare herself an outsider.

  “Oh, okay. Well aren’t you a thoughtful niece.”

  She smiled.

  A guard was pacing the distance of the line, eyeing its members. He started to pivot at the line’s end, but did a double take at Carrie.

  “Who are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You counsel?”

  She was wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt. Did she really stand out that much?

  “Um, yes, I am.”

  “You here for a client?”

  The flowered-dress lady was looking at her, confused. “I am,” Carrie confirmed.

  “You’re in the wrong line. Don’t worry, new lawyers do this all the time.” He waved her out of the line as the flowered-dress lady commented that her uncle was lucky to have a lawyer in the family.

  Carrie followed the guard past the back of the line. At the corner, he turned right instead of left, and Carrie followed. “See? Attorney window up there? Ring the bell, give the desk your client’s name, and they’ll get you a private room for your conference. Different from the other visitors, where we randomly monitor conversations.”

  She nodded. “Right, that makes sense.”

  “Wow, you really are green, aren’t you? Tell you what: let me walk you through it. What’s your guy’s name?”

  She noticed for the first time that the guard wasn’t wearing a ring, and didn’t seem to have a tanline from one either. Regardless of his reasons, she was grateful for the help.

  “Anthony Amaro. My understanding is that he’s supposed to be released any minute.”

  The guard did another double take. “Amaro? Whoa, I didn’t expect that. He’s been bragging to everyone who will listen about that woman from television being his lawyer.”

  “And I work for her. And, as you’ve probably figured out, I’m new to this.”

  “I got that.” He didn’t seem quite as friendly now. “Mike,” he called through the window, “what’s going on with Amaro? This lady’s looking for him.”

  “He’s being cut loose right now. Should be just a few minutes.”

  “They’ll release him out back,” the guard explained. “You can pull around and meet him there. You’re alone?”

  She nodded, and he shook his head disapprovingly. “Good luck with that.”

  Carrie had been resting her eyes, listening to the purr of the idling engine, but the grinding sound of the security gates jerked her to full alert.

  Anthony Amaro walked out alone, dressed in a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots. He carried a single cardboard box. As many times as she had looked at photographs of him over the years, she might not have recognized him in another context. He had always been physically innocuous: slightly chubby, but not fat; a receding hairline, but not bald; not ugly by any means, but certainly not attractive, either. Despite the averageness of his appearance, though, he had always looked ominous, the blank stare of his booking photo juxtaposed in newspapers with photographs of his victims. Now, his face was puffy and sagging, like an actor made up to look older. He was balder and grayer. Whatever used to terrify her about him visually was gone. He looked harmless.

  She stepped from the car, and he turned in her direction. She almost waved instinctively. She had no idea what she was doing.

  She waited for him to walk within earshot. He was staring at her intensely, but it was impossible to attribute an emotion to his flat expression. “I’m an associate with Ms. Moreland’s firm,” she explained. “I’ll get you situated in a nearby motel.”

  She did not offer a handshake, choosing to pop the trunk instead. He placed his cardboard box inside, and then she opened the back passenger-side door for him.

  “Do you mind if I sit up front? The back feels like being in a police car or something.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  As she put the car in gear, she felt his eyes on her. “I thought Linda Moreland was representing me.” He sounded disappointed, but, still, his face did not change.

  “She is.” Last week, Carrie was billing her time out at three hundred dollars an hour to Fortune 500 companies. Now this guy was getting her services for free, and managed to sound disappointed about it. “Linda will be arriving tomorrow. Unless you’d prefer to go back to your cell, I’m afraid I’m your contact person for now.”

  “Sorry if that was rude. I’ve been—well, you know where I’ve been, since I was about your age. That’s a long time. Guess I lost my manners.”

  “It’s fine, Mr. Amaro. You just need to put your seatbelt on, and we’ll get you out of here.”

  She watched as he instinctively reached for the right side of his waist before fumbling with the shoulder strap and securing it. He didn’t speak again until they pulled onto the long road leading back to the highway. “They tell you when you go in on an LWOP that it’s a living death, but it took about seven years to sink in. For my brain to get around the idea that I was never getting out. Ever. No matter what. No words to describe that kind of hopelessness. It’s like someone put you in the middle of the ocean on a dinghy, and you’re just waiting to die. But here I am. From the yard, you’d never know how beautiful this place was, just a few feet away.” He rolled down the window and stuck his head out like a dog.

  “Well, you’ll get plenty more of this scenery. We’re putting you in a motel pretty far out of town. Ms. Moreland wants you to have some privacy.”

  “The scenery in here is pretty good, too, if you don’t mind me saying. You’re very attractive, Miss—”

  “Blank.”

  He pulled his head back into the car. “You’re not related to Donna Blank, are you?”

/>   Carrie felt her pulse quicken at the sound of her sister’s name escaping his lips. “I’m from upstate, so I think we do share a bloodline somewhere in the past.”

  “But you’re—what? Japanese or something?”

  “Really, it doesn’t matter, Mr. Amaro. Let’s just focus on getting you settled in somewhere until Linda arrives, and then we’ll be working on your case.”

  “Sure, sorry. Just been inside for a lot of years. I’ll never forget the names and faces of those poor girls. It’s like, on the one hand, you got to feel sorry for what happened to them. But then there’s an anger, too. Like somehow it’s their fault you’re locked up for something you didn’t do. I know it’s not really, but—anyway, I know those six names and faces. You look like her in a way. Prettier, though, maybe because of your racial mix or whatever. Sorry for commenting.”

  “Really, it’s okay.” She saw the bright sun behind them flash on the windshield of an approaching car. “Get down!” On instinct, she reached her right hand to Amaro’s shoulder and pushed him forward. He followed her instructions and crouched low in his seat.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, once the BMW passed them. “You’ve been released on the Deborah Garner case, but the Utica police could still try to arrest you for the other victims. We want to keep you out of sight for now, just to be safe.”

  He shifted in his seat. “I haven’t had a woman touch me in almost twenty years. And certainly not one as pretty as you.”

  She looked at the GPS, already programmed for the motel she had selected to suit Linda’s instructions. Twenty minutes left, driving alone, in the country, with Anthony Amaro.

  Ellie and Rogan pulled up to the back gate, where most prisons processed releases. Ellie hopped out of the passenger’s seat and waved down a guard walking the perimeter.

  “You happen to know when Anthony Amaro’s getting cut loose?” she asked.

  “He pulled out of here, probably ten minutes ago.”

  “He’s gone?” She looked back toward the road, wondering if they might find him hitchhiking on the main road.