Duplicity

by Jane Haseldine

  Julia glances at her watch. 8:05 AM. She knows she’ll have to make the meetup with Navarro and Russell quick in order to get to the courthouse in time. She waits for a second at the crowded podium and peers inside the restaurant, searching for Navarro amidst the gold leather booths and black lacquer tables with gold and silver stars hand-painted in the centers. Chanel’s is Detroit’s current “it” spot. Not the type of place Julia would normally frequent.

  She spots Navarro and Russell parked in the best seat in the house: a booth in front of the open kitchen positioned in the center of the restaurant, where everyone can see them. Not Navarro’s usual style, Julia thinks, as she elbows her way through the crowd.

  A French press coffeemaker sits in the center of the table between the two detectives, who are studying some kind of handwritten diagram Navarro has drawn up.

  “Mind if I join you?” Julia asks as the two men look up from their diagram. “Russell gave me the invitation earlier, and I thought I’d take you guys up on it if it’s still okay.”

  “Didn’t think you’d make it,” Russell says. His eyes move down the curves of Julia’s skirt, and he pats the seat next to him.

  Julia slides into the booth and places her purse between herself and Russell to give a wide berth as Navarro picks up the piece of paper and stuffs it in his pocket.

  “Official police business, huh?” Julia asks.

  “How are you doing, Gooden?” Navarro asks.

  Navarro runs his fingers through his dark shock of hair, and Julia spots his familiar barbed wire tattoo on his forearm, the one he got after they broke up about twelve years earlier.

  At the time, she was just twenty-five years old and felt too young to accept Navarro’s marriage proposal, no matter how much she loved him. Navarro took the rejection hard and the two separated romantically, but their friendship somehow remained intact.

  “What’s the picture you’re hiding?” Julia asks.

  “It’s okay, Ray,” Russell says. “Everyone’s known for years you’re her leak.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Navarro answers.

  “Sure. I’ll leave you two kids alone to talk about the weather,” Russell says, and heads toward the neon restroom sign.

  Julia clasps her hands together and leans down toward the table, as if she’s whispering the next play to a quarterback in a huddle. “I’m not going to write about this, but I need to know. I hear the prosecution is pulling out a last-minute witness. I understand if he’s identified ahead of time, he could get killed. That’s not my intention. I’m going to have to file a story in a couple of hours, and I need as much background as I can get. That’s all this is. Just background for a future story. No one gets hurt.”

  “David didn’t give you anything?” Navarro asks.

  “No. He says it’s a conflict, and I have to respect that. I had to fight like hell with my editor to stay on the story because of David’s involvement in the case. You know me. I swear to God if you tell me who the witness is, I won’t write about it until it’s public. I just need a jump-start. What do you say?”

  Navarro’s deep-set hazel eyes lock in on Julia and stay there until she looks away first.

  “I won’t give you a name, but I can give you something. The guy used to work for Rossi as a pretty high-up,” Navarro says in a gravelly whisper. “He used to be Nick Rossi’s henchman, I mean in the worst way imaginable. Remember Dwayne Brown?”

  “Sure, the big hustler guy who was killed down by the Ambassador Bridge.”

  “It’s rumored Rossi ordered the witness to off Brown because Rossi wanted Brown’s territory. The guy David got to testify supposedly cut Brown’s throat so deep, it almost decapitated him.”

  “How did David get the witness to testify?”

  “Reduced sentence if he flipped. When the heat came down on Rossi after the mayor got busted, the guy fled to the West Coast. He just arrived at Detroit International.”

  “Thanks for this. But I need the name.”

  “No can do, Julia. I shouldn’t have told you what I did. We have a deal, right?” Navarro asks and, to make his point, grabs Julia by the wrist. “This didn’t come from me, especially if your husband finds out you got background on this. The guy doesn’t like me as it is.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “You never were a good liar.”

  “I don’t think David dislikes you.”

  “I don’t blame him if he does. I wouldn’t want my wife hanging around a guy she used to sleep with either.”

  “I didn’t think you cared what anyone thought about you,” Julia says.

  “I care what you think.”

  Vintage Patsy Cline crooning “Walkin’ After Midnight” softly pipes in overhead as a striking woman with dark red hair and a carefully made-up face steps out of the kitchen in a black sleeveless jumpsuit and cuts her way through the crowd toward their table.

  The redhead assesses Julia as if she is a curious and possibly dangerous specimen, in a way only one woman can do to another. She leans over and gives Navarro a quick, territorial kiss on the mouth.

  “Bianca, this is my friend Julia. Bianca owns the place,” Navarro says.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Julia. Ray talks about you quite a bit,” she answers with just a hint of a New York accent. “He tells me you’re the best reporter in Detroit. I can’t imagine how you can cover all the grizzly crime in the city and then go home to your husband and children and not take your work with you. But my skin isn’t that thick, even though I’m a New Yorker.”

  “I’ve never had a problem,” Julia answers.

  “Of course not. Women like us, we’re chameleons. Makes us dangerous and appealing. Please, let me get you a menu.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not staying long.”

  “Did you hear about how Ray and I met?” Bianca asks, preparing for her wind-up.

  “No, he never told me.”

  “I was leaving here late one night. It must have been around one in the morning. I’m heading to my car when a mugger comes up behind me, grabs my butt and then my purse. The guy obviously had been stalking my place and knew when I’d be leaving with the bank deposit from the day’s receipts. I’m about to scream when this big guy, all muscles and swagger, comes tearing across the street, tackles the robber, and cuffs him. That was about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Ray Navarro, the sexiest man alive,” Russell chimes in. “We were leaving O’Sheas across the street after a couple of beers. I could have been the hero if Ray hadn’t left me behind to pay the bill.”

  “Yeah, anyone would have done the same if they were there,” Navarro answers, staring down at the table, obviously uncomfortable with the unwanted attention.

  The food is delivered, and Bianca studies each plate to be sure it is perfect.

  “Goat cheese omelet with kale, quinoa, and sun-dried tomatoes, a specialty of the house. It’s the best seller at my Greenwich Village location,” Bianca says, pointing to Navarro’s plate.

  “Isn’t kale a weed?” Russell asks as he tucks into a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage.

  “We need to get you and your husband in here for dinner,” Bianca says, ignoring Russell’s comment. “Maybe we could make it a double date.”

  “Sure, that sounds good,” Julia lies.

  A pretty young woman wearing a black uniform with gold and silver stars hustles over to Bianca, looking as if she’s close to breaking down into a fit of tears.

  “Mayor Anderson is here early, and his table isn’t ready yet. I offered him another window table in the back of the restaurant, but some guy who works for him said the mayor needs to sit closer to the door so everyone can see him.”

  “Another fire to put out,” Bianca says calmly. “Very nice meeting you, Julia.”

  Russell carefully watches Bianca’s retreat until Navarro clears his throat to redirect his partner’s attention elsewhere.

  “Keep your eye
s to yourself, partner,” Navarro says.

  “Just admiring the view. Glad you found a good woman finally, Ray,” Russell says. “No offense, Julia. I figure you and Ray have passed the statute of limitations by now.”

  “No offense taken, Russell,” Julia says.

  She fumbles through her purse to retrieve her cell phone, and a Detroit News alert flashes across the screen. A nervous shiver goes down Julia’s arms as she clicks on the story, anticipating the worst.

  David’s headshot pops up first, and Julia quickly scans the color story about David’s run for D.A. and anecdotes from his impressive, yet tragic, upbringing: David’s mother dying of cancer when he was just eight; his affluent childhood with his father, a heart surgeon, in the affluent community of Grosse Pointe; David’s success at Harvard Law School, where he was named editor at the Harvard Law Review, followed by his surprise move after graduation to work in Detroit’s Public Defender’s Office and then into private practice before his move to assistant D.A. Julia’s eyes flick across a family picture of David and the boys and then feels her pulse quicken as she scrolls down to the main article about the trial:

  Prosecution in Rossi Case Pulls Out Last-Minute Witness

  By Tandy Sanchez

  (DETROIT) As the trial of Nick Rossi, widely believed to be one of the city’s most violent criminals, starts today, the district attorney’s office is poised to introduce a last-minute witness, who sources confirm is the former right-hand man of Rossi’s local criminal empire and believed to be his hit man. The witness is expected to testify against his ex-boss in what is anticipated to be an explosive confessional in this ongoing story that has rocked city hall.

  A source close to the case said the witness will likely get a reduced sentence for his cooperation in the case.

  Whether Judge William Palmer allows the last-minute addition to the prosecution’s witness list remains to be seen.

  “Son of a bitch,” Julia says, and quickly scrolls through the rest of the article.

  “What’s going on?” Navarro asks.

  “Detroit News story. I’ve got to go.”

  Julia hustles out of the restaurant and waits until she gets to her SUV to let out her anger. She pounds her fist against the driver-side door and accidentally drops her keys into a pool of slush underneath her car.

  “Gooden, wait.”

  Navarro has followed her out, somehow not shivering in the cold in just a long-sleeved black T-shirt, jeans, and black motorcycle boots. He reaches under Julia’s car and retrieves her keys.

  “The Detroit News got the witness. They didn’t name him, but they might as well have. Did you leak it?” Julia asks.

  “It wasn’t me. Probably the defense. They’ve got the most to gain. Before he comes out of the gate, it taints the witness as a snitch. Smart move. If Judge Palmer knows about your husband’s witness, Palmer’s going to be pissed it got out ahead of trial. If he doesn’t know, he’s going to go apeshit and probably won’t give David a pass card to add a last-minute witness, since he wasn’t on the list during discovery.”

  Julia assesses the collateral damage. Getting beat on a story is the worst sin a journalist can commit. It’s a matter of personal pride and hell to pay from the entire pecking order of editors. But for David, the stakes are much higher: potentially the life of his witness and the outcome of the trial.

  “We’re screwed. David and me, we’re both screwed.”

  “No one’s screwed yet. It’s day one. You’re trembling,” Navarro says, and begins to drape Julia’s jacket around her shoulders.

  “Give me the name.”

  Julia can feel Navarro’s warm breath against her neck as he weighs her request.

  “I’ll do this for you. Just don’t leave a trail back to me.”

  “You know I wouldn’t.”

  “The witness’s name is Sammy Biggs. His nickname is the Butcher.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Julia dumps her laptop, purse, and jewelry onto the conveyer belt and hurries through the courthouse lobby security checkpoint, setting off the alarm in her haste. A red buzzer blares above her head like an angry hornet as a hundred pairs of curious and suspecting eyes turn their focus on the offender.

  “Hold on, Julia,” the security guard says as he waves a hand wand around her body. All is clear until it reaches Julia’s chest.

  “Someone told me underwire bras can do that,” the woman behind her says.

  Julia doesn’t respond to the unsolicited comment, and her fingers latch around the one thing she forgot. “My new necklace,” Julia says, unhooking her gift from David and setting it down in the basket. “Sorry, Gus.”

  “If there weren’t two dozen people behind you this morning, I would have let you go on through,” the older man says discreetly.

  Julia takes the marble steps to the second floor two at a time and searches for any sign of David, a long shot she realizes, since he and the defense attorney are most likely getting a smackdown in Judge Palmer’s chambers to rival a WWE wrestling death match.

  8:50 AM. Ten minutes to go. Julia carefully hunts back and forth in the hall to see whom she can hustle for information before she and the rest of the press get corralled into the media gallery of courtroom eight.

  Julia catches a glimpse of David just outside of the Nick Rossi trial courtroom. David’s expression is tight and intense as he talks closely with a tall, long-legged brunette in a tailored beige skirt and jacket. Conservative look, probably another lawyer from the D.A.’s office, Julia thinks to herself. She forces herself to stay put and not approach her husband for comment, and begins to scan the corridor for another source when the woman turns around. Julia’s instant recognition of Brooke Stevenson makes her stomach twist. Julia was correct in her assumption that the woman was a lawyer from the D.A.’s office, and a point of contention in her recently revived marriage. David dated Brooke briefly at the beginning of their separation, a nasty little pill for Julia to swallow at the time, as Julia thought she and David were still trying to work toward reconciling sans any other third parties.

  Brooke catches Julia’s cold stare and reciprocates with a cool nod as she passes, like two adversaries sizing each other up for a rumble at sundown. Julia starts to move toward David, this time more for reassurance and to make sure he had told her the truth that Brooke wasn’t working the case with him than for information gathering, but David disappears inside the courtroom to prepare for the morning’s opening statements.

  Julia brushes past her insecurity as her radar picks up the defense team’s second chair, Ralph Charboneau, leaning up against the back wall, clad in a cheap-looking polyester suit. Charboneau is busy chatting up Tandy Sanchez, a bottled platinum blonde and the Detroit News reporter who scooped Julia. Julia’s pulse quickens like a bull catching sight of crimson. Tandy’s trademark braless cleavage is front and center in a tight-fitting emerald dress that appears to be at least one size too small for her. Julia’s city editor, a former business writer back when he was one of her kindred crew, started calling Tandy “tits on toast,” which through the years got shortened to Tot and the nickname stuck, at least behind her back.

  “Nice suit,” Julia says to Charboneau, not bothering to disguise her disdain. “I figured you were the leak, but I imagined you’d be more discreet. Nothing says ‘I planted the story because I couldn’t win the case any other way’ more than having a private one-on-one with the Detroit News reporter you told about the prosecution’s witness right here in the hallway for everyone to see.”

  Charboneau, a stubby man with a gut that protrudes over his belt by a good two inches, gives Julia a mean little smile, showing off his small, square teeth slightly yellowed by taking as many smoke breaks as he can fit into a day. Julia has had little use for Charboneau since his early public defender days, before he joined a lucrative private practice that specializes in representing Detroit’s well-paying criminals.

  “Ms. Gooden, I don’t know what you’re referring to, but I’d sugge
st you not insult me so early in the trial,” Charboneau says. “I’m not inclined to speak to a rude and obnoxious reporter, even if her husband is a colleague. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a case to try.”

  Charboneau waddles down the hallway, leaving Julia alone with Tandy Sanchez.

  “Ralph is a walking oxymoron. A lawyer who hates confrontation, on a personal level that is,” Tandy says. “So you read my story, I gather. I’m surprised you didn’t beat me to it with your inside source and all.”

  “That story was reckless. Nick Rossi is a killer, and outing the witness puts him in jeopardy.”

  “The witness is also a killer. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have written the story if you got the tip first,” Tandy says, her pert chest shining with some kind of shimmering powder, as if it needed any more attention.

  Julia snaps to respond but stops when she realizes she doesn’t know the true answer to the question herself.

  A heavy-set bailiff walks out of courtroom eight, and the scattered crowd of media, relatives, cops, and lucky residents who won lottery seats to the trial quickly jockey for positions so they can get a prime seat inside.

  Julia weaves her way to the front of the pack and snags an empty seat in the center of the media gallery and next to a friendly face, Twyla Jones, the online editor for the Lansing State News. Twyla tosses her pink, blue, and brown dreadlocks that look like spools of multicolored cotton candy out of her knit cap and gives Julia a nudge.

  “I’d ask you what was up with the Detroit News story, but from the look on your face, I think you’d strangle me right here in front of dozens of people and wouldn’t care that there are plenty of witnesses to confirm the attack,” Twyla says.

  “Yes, don’t ask,” Julia answers, and pulls out her tape recorder and her old-school reporter’s notebook and pen.