Conviction of the Heart

by Alana Lorens

  “I can find someone. If my guys are deep into cases, maybe I can take a couple of shifts myself just to help Vice cover.”

  “Good man. Get rid of that speaker, son. It annoys people.”

  The jovial warmth in Reickert’s tone made Nick smile. “I hear you, Chief,” he said before he set the receiver back in its cradle.

  Somewhat fortuitous or downright creepy? He’d just been thinking he spent too much time in the office, and Reickert handed him a vice assignment. Prostitute pops provided male officers with one of two roles, johns on the hunt or backup for female officers posing as ladies of the evening. Nick was happy to do either. Street busts meant quick turnaround, the exchange of offer and acceptance in a few words between hooker and john. The city had started impounding cars used for solicitation, and that put some dollars in city coffers and won commendations.

  The down side, of course, embodied risk. These patrols often took place in areas like Homewood, or along Liberty Avenue, where gang activity and heavy drug use created situations that were often volatile and dangerous.

  In recent years, the department spent more time busting Internet prostitution rings spawned off Craigslist and the classified ads of the City Paper. Advertisers boldly teased their wares, believing that because they were anonymous on the Net, they couldn’t get popped as fast as on a street corner. The Pittsburgh police did their best to disabuse these criminals of their beliefs.

  Either way, Nick might volunteer. A bit of the old days would be good for him.

  Nick’s former patrol partner, Hank Ferguson, peeked in the door. The man, who’d lost most of his hair and the paunch he’d hauled around for sixteen years on the force to a recent bout of chemotherapy, wore a brown polo shirt and slacks. Nick guessed Hank wasn’t wearing a suit because he was buried in paperwork and knew he’d get no street time.

  “You got thirty minutes for a bite, Nicky?”

  Nick eyed his desk. He didn’t. But he needed to get some air. “Sure, Hank.” He grabbed his jacket from behind the door and followed him out.

  Before they left the squad room, Nick caught sight of the major cloud on the office horizon. The Three Amigos, three officers in their mid-twenties. Individually, each of the three malcontents performed well as officers, properly motivated. Together, they resonated off each other, compounding their bad attitudes, steeped in inner city piss and vinegar.

  Emilio Vasquez, a Puerto Rican from the Bronx, stood three inches over six feet, once firm muscle sliding over into fat, in much the same way his work ethics softened as he contemplated the options for someone not born a white middle-class male in a city like Pittsburgh.

  Jojo Washington hailed from the city of Atlanta, raised up by a single mother under some of the toughest conditions a boy could face. Somehow, that education by fire produced a wiry young man who now felt the world owed him a living.

  Clara Malron—pronounced the Creole way, with a long O and accent on the second syllable, she was quick to remind people—was the slender peasant-shaped daughter of Haitian immigrants, who’d worked hard to overcome economic and educational deficits. Of the three, she seemed most likely to move up like a rocket through the ranks.

  Washington and Malron carried twelve months’ seniority over Vasquez in the department and had worked under Nick for nearly twice that. Vasquez complained from the beginning about the assignments he received, blaming management for giving the “island boy” less than glamorous duties, and whipping up racist sentiment among those in the lower echelons. Before long, Nick started hearing similar bitches across the board.

  Although he addressed the concerns immediately, in group settings as well as one-on-one, they hadn’t ended. The simmering dark eyes of Jojo Washington verified their persistence as Nick and Hank left the office.

  “Hey, man,” Washington said. “What’s up with this robbery detail?”

  Nick remembered he’d assigned him to investigate a string of convenience store stick-ups, the latest one early that morning. Nick straightened his shoulders, his feet set a foot apart. Fully in command mode.

  “What about it?”

  “You think because I’m black that I can catch a black kid who stuck a gun in some clerk’s gut?”

  Looking at their three stone faces, Nick summoned patience from a place in his heart. “No, Jojo, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I decided to send you because I need to know what the clerk knows before she goes off shift. I thought I should send someone to the Sheets to talk to her. That’s what I do. You’re the one who needs to go talk to her. That’s what you do. You’re the lucky guy.”

  “Man, I don’t believe this shit.” Washington turned away, not before Nick saw the exaggerated roll of his eyes. At the desk behind Washington, Vasquez smirked. Malron picked up her jacket and walked off without a word.

  “And, Jojo, I want that data compiled by end of shift.” Nick waited a long moment for an acknowledgement that finally came as a grunt, then he went out the door with Hank. They took the stairs, six floors. Nick nearly ran down. The movement, the impact with each stair, shook Nick, jostling the irritation around his brain. He was very careful not to treat those three unfairly. Who wouldn’t be, with department affirmative action lawyers breathing down his neck? Sometimes he really wondered if all the hard work he’d put into that promotion was worth the hassle of dealing with whiny crybabies.

  Hank lagged back, finishing the descent two flights behind.

  “What’s got into you, Nick? You can’t let them under your skin.” Hank limped over, breathing hard. “They’re just blowing smoke, like young guys do. You keep your cool, give your orders, they’ll come around.”

  “Maybe.” Nick held the door for Hank, and they walked several blocks to Peppi’s.

  “No maybe about it. If they don’t straighten up and fly right, kick ’em to the curb,” Hank scolded as they got a table. The waitress had long experience with this pair and showed up with two iced teas, no sugar, no waiting.

  Hank passed up The Roethlisburger, number seven on the menu, which Nick knew he dearly loved, but the sausage and burger topped with egg and cheese was off his diet list. He ordered a salad, disappointment practically dripping off his long face. Nick took one, too, to keep Hank company. After the waitress gifted them with her flirty smile and a little flip of her skirt, she headed back to the kitchen. Hank returned to his lecture. “Have you talked to Reickert about it?”

  Nick shook his head, watching out the window for wrongdoers, his vigilance built of long habit. “What’s he going to do? No sense in my complaining. I wanted to be the lieutenant, so now I’ve got to handle the situation.”

  All the same, Nick realized, Reickert might have handed him the solution to his problem. His request for extra men might separate the rabblerousers long enough to defuse the situation. Indeed it might.

  He had his plan in mind before the meal hit their table.

  Chapter Seven

  Suzanne didn’t hear from Maddie Morgan for nearly a week.

  With the papers prepared and ready for signature, she’d nearly written the case off as one of those that so often resulted in reluctant reconciliation when she found a bruised and battered Maddie Morgan waiting on her office doorstep.

  “What happened?” Suzanne demanded, herding Maddie inside after a quick look to make sure the assailant wasn’t lurking in the hall. If Morgan had followed his wife, they could have a brawl right in her lobby before the police could ever arrive. But no one was there.

  Maddie didn’t speak until they were settled in Suzanne's office. She trembled as she sat in the chair, chewing on her lip, a scarf tied over hair she hadn’t bothered to comb. Her blouse and slacks didn’t match each other or her shoes.

  “I don't care where I go,” she said, her affect and tone flat. “I'm done with him.” An emptiness in her eyes said more than her words.

  “I was concerned when you didn’t call,” Suzanne said. Maddie’s blotchy purple cheek, the eye nearly closed from the swelling, turned Su
zanne’s stomach. She could imagine the force necessary to cause such injuries, the blinding pain Maddie must have felt at the hands of a man who professed to love her.

  “I’m so sorry. I should have. The first few days after he got back, he didn't bother me. He just went to the office and stayed there late. But yesterday he came home before the children got off the bus, and he was furious.”

  “About you? We haven't sent him the papers yet.”

  “Rocco saw my car when I was here the other day. Greg accused me of having an affair when he left town.” Maddie began to cry, her throat choking with tears. Suzanne could barely understand her. “He took his gun out of his drawer a—and laid it on the table in front of him. He m—made me sit down at the table. God, I was scared. I knew I was going to die, and my kids would come in and see it.”

  Maddie's fingers shredded the worn hem of the lavender blouse. Suzanne set the box of tissues closer. Her mind clicked ahead into action. With a threat and an injury within the last twenty-four hours, she had grounds for the protection order. But first she should hear the rest of the story.

  “He looked at me across the table. He just stared. His eyes were like lasers. I thought I would burst into flames. He said, ‘No other man will ever have you. I'll kill you first, so you better not even think about it.'” A little whimper escaped her lips, and she covered them with her hands, as though it would keep her from telling too much. “Then he stood up and picked up the gun with his left hand. I was watching the gun, and I never saw his right hand coming at me. I went right off the chair.” She looked away. “I should have left then, but the children weren't home from school. I didn't want to go without them.”

  “That's a wise choice,” Suzanne said, “but we could always get the children later. If something happens to you first, you won't be there to care for them.”

  The silence stretched out, taut like a thread. Still Suzanne waited.

  Maddie reached for a tissue and wiped her face, patting her injured cheek with caution. A ragged breath spurred her to continue. “Greg wouldn’t leave. He sent me to my room. When the kids were ready for dinner, Greg ordered pizza and told them I had a headache. He was Mr. Wonderful Dad and they loved it.”

  “You didn't call the police?”

  “Not while he was home. I would have been dead before they arrived.”

  “Did you go to the hospital this morning?”

  Maddie shook her head. “I just wanted to see you. I asked my neighbor to drop me on Carson Street because my battery was dead. She thinks I'm at the dentist across the street.”

  “You must go to a doctor today, either yours or the emergency room, and get a medical record made of this.” Suzanne indicated Maddie's face. “I can take you now for your protection order.”

  Suzanne pulled out the file, showing Maddie both the protection order request and the divorce papers she’d prepared. Maddie had to take hold of her writing hand with the other to steady it while she signed the papers, but she did it. When she was done, she stared at the black scrawl, intently, like it was a poisonous bug or something dangerous.

  “Do we have to file for divorce?” she asked.

  “You said you were finished, Maddie. I support your decision. We might as well make it a package,” Suzanne advised. “Let the sheriff serve him with everything, divorce and all.”

  Indecision flitted across Maddie’s face, and Suzanne suggested she wash up and take a few minutes to pull herself together. When she returned, she appeared more composed, and even managed a faint smile.

  “Maddie, we ought to take pictures. If you haven’t already.”

  “Pictures?” Distress sucked blood from her face. “What for?”

  “For court. We might not have a hearing for ten days. By then, you won’t look like this anymore.” Suzanne reached for her Blackberry. “May I?”

  Stiff with shame, Madeleine Morgan pulled up her sleeves and let Suzanne photograph her from several angles. Suzanne finished as quickly as she could, feeling guilt at causing her client embarrassment. “I’ll get these printed. Are you okay?”

  Maddie nodded, not meeting her eyes.

  “Let's go,” Suzanne said, feeling like she was leading the first assault at Normandy.

  The wait for the ex-parte order seemed endless. Suzanne wasn't worried about getting the order—Maddie's face alone showed the damage had been done. The hard part would be having the sheriff serve Mr. Civic-Minded Morgan and force him out of his house until a full hearing could take place sometime in the following ten days.

  The courthouse hall echoed with the sound of voices and footsteps, the coming and going of court personnel carrying files and running errands. Examining the papers one more time, Suzanne didn’t notice the man who stopped in front of them until he spoke.

  “Maddie? Is everything all right?”

  Suzanne glanced up at the gray-suited man, then at Maddie, who was frozen in her seat.

  “Can I help you?” Suzanne asked, annoyed by his casual stare at Maddie’s bruised face, even more dramatic under the unforgiving fluorescent lights.

  He turned to study Suzanne a moment, then dismissed her without a word. “Maddie, tell those kids I love them,” he said. “I'll be over to see them this weekend. I'll see all of you then.”

  As he walked away, Maddie's hand found Suzanne's and squeezed so tightly Suzanne gasped. “W—We should g—go,” Maddie said through chattering teeth. She stood up and Suzanne pulled her back down.

  “You need to stay here. You need this order. Don't let him scare you.” She watched the guy vanish into the crowded hallway. “Who is that?”

  “One of the guys who does Greg’s dirty work. He'll call Greg.”

  Suzanne forced her voice to be light, to downplay the blow this dealt to their case. How powerful was Morgan really? Could he manage a phone call to the judge before they could even see him? Would it matter? “Greg would have found out within a couple of hours anyway.” She patted Maddie’s hand and pried it gently off hers. Danger brewed on the horizon like a summer thunderstorm. “You’ll be okay, Maddie. I promise.”

  Judge Franken's secretary came out. “The judge will see you now.”

  Five minutes earlier, Suzanne thought. Three, maybe. And Maddie's secret would have been safe for a little while longer. Long enough to get her out of the courthouse and into a safe place. Damn it.

  Maddie told Judge Franken her story and, as expected, the judge signed a restraining order removing Gregory Morgan from the house, giving Maddie temporary custody of the children. Due to the broken arm, Greg was only allowed supervised visitation. Maddie was granted temporary support of fifteen hundred dollars per month.

  Suzanne took a copy of the order from the judge's chambers, along with the divorce complaint, already filed, and walked it to the sheriff's office for service of process. Under these circumstances, they agreed to put it in their day’s workload, but there was no guarantee they’d have them served by the end of the day.

  “Not good enough,” Suzanne snapped.

  The deputy behind the counter eyed her with patronizing ennui. “That’s the best you’ll get, ma’am. We don’t have guaranteed service for anyone here, I don’t care who they are.”

  “Particularly not when a city councilman’s involved, I expect.”

  Indignation made her voice louder than she’d intended, or else everyone simply stopped talking at the same moment. The words echoed for several seconds before the usual hubbub of the sheriff’s office resumed.

  “You want to speak to the supervisor, lady, I’ll call her.”

  “Never mind!”

  Suzanne snatched the papers from his hand and marched out, Maddie on her heels. Granted, the order was only a piece of paper. It wouldn’t deflect a fist—or a bullet. But it was what they had. Furious that the deputy couldn’t see the inherent menace in the situation, she scoured her mind for other options.

  One came to mind. Nick Sansone wanted to play white knight, didn’t he? So he could do his part
in the rescue of Maddie Morgan.

  She pulled Maddie into a nearby coffee shop and sat her at a table. Tapping her cell phone’s screen, she found the number for the detective division. As she dialed, her foot tapped, fueled by nervous energy. She found herself observing the crowd and waiting for trouble to surface. The officer who answered put her straight through.

  “Lieutenant Sansone.”

  His voice sent ripples through her. She forced herself to focus on her mission. “Nick, it’s Suzanne Taylor. I’ve got a small problem you might be able to help me with.”

  He listened while she explained and arranged to meet her in half an hour outside the doctor’s office without further question. Maddie protested, arguing that she could take a cab, but Suzanne wouldn’t allow it.

  “We’re in for the whole pound, Maddie. As long as we’ve got a city officer willing to go with us, you should take the chance.”

  Maddie left her doctor's office with an envelope of documentation, including more pictures, a prescription for pain and a warning that if her face wasn’t better in twenty-four hours that she should go to the hospital for X-rays.

  As promised, Nick was waiting for them outside the doctor’s office. He greeted Maddie with a warm smile and gentle handshake. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Morgan, we’ll make sure you’re safe, all right?”

  He helped her into Suzanne’s car, then took the envelope containing the legal papers from Suzanne, giving them a quick glance, since he’d need to explain the import of the paperwork to Greg Morgan. He nodded his approval. “What next? You’re the boss.”

  “Why don’t you follow me over there, and you can serve him then? She’ll need some things for herself and the kids.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Liking the fact he hadn’t questioned her expertise, but had just done what she asked, she slipped into the driver’s seat of her car, then watched him get into his own, a smile pressing through to surface on her lips.