Live to Air

by Jeffrey L Diamond

  “Okay, Jimmy, but I don’t think you should be here,” Ruiz said acidly. “I don’t think you can handle the pressure today. You should go home.”

  Benito stood up, screaming. Other officers turned and stared. “I don’t care what you think. I’m the CO on duty today, and I say I’m fine, so get the fuck out of my office!”

  “Sure thing, Jimmy. Take—take—take it easy,” Johnson said as they slowly backed out of the room.

  Benito closed his eyes. “Shit. The guys know I’m drunk,” he whined to himself. “If they report me, the warden’s gonna discipline me for sure. Maybe suspend me. I gotta take care of Feodor, and I gotta do it now. There ain’t no time to wait for that goddamn new inmate to get here.” He flipped off the safety on his handgun and made sure there was a bullet in the chamber. Then he picked up his nightstick and headed for the door, motioning to a security guard to buzz him onto the cellblock where he stumbled past a phalanx of corrections officers and made his way to Feodor’s cell. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t the most famous murderer on H Block. Lights, action, cameras. The man’s gonna be a big TV star,” he said, throwing his head back and howling like a wild man.

  Feodor didn’t move. “I know you think you’re funny, Mr. Big Boss Man, but I’m not buggin’ nobody. I’m just layin’ here on my bed, smokin’ a cigarette, mindin’ my own business. So buzz off and leave me alone, motherfucker.”

  Benito tapped his nightstick on the bars—rat-a-tat-tat—hoping Feodor would lose his cool and give him an excuse, any excuse, to pull out his handgun and blow off his head. “So, Pavel, you little shit, what you gonna tell that television crew? You gonna make up some excuse for murdering that pretty little girl? You gonna tell them you fucked her after she was dead? You gonna tell them it was fun?”

  Pavel stood and took two steps toward the bars, then stopped, put up his hands, and smiled. “I’m just gonna tell them the truth, what really happened that night, nothin’ more. I bet you can’t wait to hear what I say. I’m gonna be the talk of the town. Now go crawl under a rock and bother somebody else, you asshole.” He turned and sat back down on his bed.

  Benito had his opening. Feodor was disrespecting him in front of the other guards. He couldn’t let that happen—not to him, the commanding officer on H Block. It was time to teach that motherfucker a lesson. He’d just go in there and push him around a bit, whack him a few times on the head with his nightstick, maybe mess up his face, put him in the hospital. The interview would get postponed. Maybe even canceled. It was as good a plan as any, and it might just work.

  Benito whirled around and glared at the security guard standing behind him. “Open the fucking door, Jose. I want to check Feodor’s cell. The guy’s always hiding some kind of shit he’s not supposed to have.”

  “We just checked his cell, sir. It’s clean.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Benito said. “I want to check it myself. Open the goddamn door.”

  As the guard unlocked the cell, Feodor climbed off his cot and backed into the corner, never taking his eyes off Benito and his nightstick. Then he slowly turned and put his hands behind his back. “Okay, Mr. Big Boss Man, you can cuff me whenever you want. I ain’t gonna move, not even an inch.”

  “Fuck that. Look at me, asshole. I wanna see your face when I’m talking to you,” Benito said sharply.

  “Can’t do that,” Feodor said passively. “I can’t face you until I’m cuffed. That there is the rule, and I’m goin’ by the book today. I ain’t gonna provoke you. That wouldn’t be too smart, would it?”

  Benito stopped short. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen, he thought. He’s supposed to turn and threaten me so I can give him a good beating. Why won’t he play by the rules? He began to feel lightheaded, wiping his brow with his sleeve, then took two steps toward Feodor and pushed him up against the wall, spinning him around, and violently shoving his nightstick into the pit of his stomach. Feodor doubled over in pain, trying to catch his breath, the wind knocked out of him. “What the fuck are you hiding in here? Tell me, you little fucker,” Benito said, screaming. “I know you got somethin’ you’re not supposed to have.” He raised his nightstick and clubbed Feodor’s leg, sending him crashing to the floor. Then he brought up his nightstick again, and before he could bring it down on Feodor’s head, he was grabbed from behind by Miguel Johnson, who had quietly slipped into the cell.

  “Take—take—take it easy, Jimmy. You don’t want to do that. You’re—you’re—you’re going to kill the guy. Get—get—get a grip on yourself!”

  Benito wrestled free and began beating Johnson, breaking a rib with his nightstick, a loud crunch echoing around the cellblock as the prison guard slumped to the floor, writhing in pain.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Other guards rushed into the cell as Benito flailed away with his nightstick, striking anyone and everyone who came near. Two more officers went down, both bleeding from nasty head wounds, before Benito drew his revolver. Zeroing in on Feodor, now hiding under his bed, he aimed and fired, the bullet narrowly missing his face and embedding itself in the wall.

  More chaos.

  Corrections officers hurled themselves at Benito, grabbing his handgun and twisting his hands behind his back, struggling to subdue and cuff him. The warden and his chief press officer raced onto the cellblock, responding to sirens blasting around the jail complex, and pushed their way through the crowd of guards now blocking the entrance to Feodor’s cell. “What the fuck happened?” Morales said in a rage. “Who fired the gunshot?”

  “The CO, Jimmy—Jimmy—Jimmy Benito,” Miguel Johnson said, clutching his chest and shouting above the din of inmates yelling and screaming and banging on the bars. “He marched—marched—marched down here and demanded to go into Feodor’s cell, then—then—then he lost it—just like that. It happened real—real—real quick. We tried to stop—stop—stop him, but we couldn’t get—get—get to him in time.”

  Morales spun around and leered at Benito. “What’s wrong with you? You could have killed him.”

  Benito, now pinned to the ground by two officers, blood trickling down his cheek from a gash above his eye, looked up at the warden and started to speak, then stopped, deciding he was better off holding his tongue and not saying a word.

  “Answer me,” the warden said, shrieking. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “He’s not out of his mind, sir. He’s drunk,” said Hector Ruiz. “I tried sending him home when he first got here. Told him he was in no shape to work. But he refused to listen to me, sir.”

  “I can smell the alcohol on his breath,” Morales said pitifully. “Arrest his sorry ass and get him out of my sight.” He peered over at Feodor. “You weren’t shot, were you, Pavel?”

  Feodor was now sitting on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “No. I wasn’t shot, Mr. Warden, but my leg is all busted up. I need to go see a doctor.” He blew a series of smoke rings. “That asshole’s been after me for months. I want you to lock him up and throw away the key. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m gonna sue you and him and the entire prison system. Now get the fuck out of my face.” He flicked his cigarette across the cell and laid down as if nothing at all had happened.

  The warden turned to Hector Ruiz. “You’re in charge of H Block until I sort out this mess. Call the medics and get them down here to help the injured officers, then take Feodor to the infirmary. I want him patched up right away. Where the hell’s Gloria?”

  “Right here, Jose,” the press officer said, inching her way through the crowd of guards.

  “Put a lid on this,” the warden said authoritatively. “Bury the incident in your daily press release. Explain there was a disturbance involving Feodor and a corrections officer. Don’t mention the guard’s name. Don’t mention the shooting. Don’t mention that anyone was hurt in the scuffle. I don’t want the press—especially The Weekly Reporter—to find out about this before Pavel’s interview. Can you do
that for me, Gloria?” he said as he briskly walked down the hall to the security exit.

  “Right away, Jose,” Jimenez said, doing her best to keep up with him.

  Jimmy Benito watched as they left the cellblock, stretched out on the floor surrounded by corrections officers, his eye swelling, his face a bloody mess. But Jimmy Benito wasn’t feeling the pain. All he was feeling was the wrath of Nikolai Stanislov. God, what’s he gonna do now that I failed to take care of his problem? he whined to himself. Is he gonna get someone to draw and quarter me? Someone to beat the living shit out of me? Someone to kill me? God, I gotta find somewhere to hide. Maybe I can get them to throw me in solitary. He can’t find me there. Can he? He began to shake uncontrollably as the guards yanked him to his feet and dragged him like a ragdoll past one screaming inmate after another until he disappeared into the bowels of the prison.

  CHAPTER 23

  ETHAN WAS SITTING IN HIS study sipping a glass of scotch, missing Sarah and Luke, when Julie Piedmont, looking straight into the camera, began reading a report on the GBS News of the Day about an incident at Rikers Island. “The facts are sketchy,” Piedmont said in her deep anchorwoman voice, “but the director of the press office just released a terse statement saying there was an altercation this morning between Pavel Feodor and an unnamed corrections officer. There were no serious injuries and the cellblock is back to normal.” Ethan reached for a cigarette, then picked up his iPhone. “Mindy, it’s me. Did you see Julie’s evening news story about Rikers Island?”

  “Just watched it,” she said.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said contemplatively.

  “Think the guard was targeting Feodor?”

  “Why would a corrections officer want to hurt Feodor?”

  “I don’t know,” Ethan said, thinking the incident might be somehow connected to their interview. “I want you to make a couple of calls. See if you can find out who the guard is and how Rikers could let something like this happen. Call me back if you hear anything.”

  He hung up the phone, finished his scotch, and searched the Internet for a verbatim of the press release. He found it almost immediately—headlining the latest news on the Drudge Report:

  At eleven o’clock this morning, there was a minor incident on H Block of the North Infirmary Command Building involving a corrections officer and an inmate named Pavel Feodor who is awaiting sentencing for the murder of Cynthia Jameson, the daughter of New York City’s deputy mayor. The guard was carrying out a routine security search when the disturbance occurred. Other guards came to his assistance and quickly subdued Feodor. The corrections officer is now being questioned. There will be no further comments until the warden completes a full investigation. — Gloria Jimenez, Director of Press Information, Rikers Island Jail

  Ethan reread the statement and noticed it hadn’t been posted until shortly after six o’clock. That was strange. Why had the prison waited seven hours to issue a press release? Were officials hoping the story would disappear until the next news cycle? That was unlikely with all the instant reporting on the Internet. Ethan decided to call Mindy back and ask her what she thought when his cell phone rang. It was Lloyd Howard. “Hey, what’s goin’ on, Lloyd? Have you heard about the disturbance at Rikers?”

  “Just read Jimenez’s statement. It doesn’t say much. So I checked a couple of police blogs, and you know, I think we’re only getting half the truth.”

  Ethan scanned the verbatim one more time as Howard ticked off the random theories circulating on the Internet. “You’re right, this press release is sketchy. Just a lot of spin. I’ve got Mindy checking with her sources. Maybe she’ll come up with a little more detail.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. The warden’s gonna try to bury this as fast as he can. It’s bad publicity for the jail, and Morales doesn’t want to tarnish his reputation or bring any unwarranted attention to Feodor.” Howard paused briefly. “But this isn’t why I called, Ethan,” urgency creeping into his voice. “I’m in my surveillance van just around the corner from Nikolai Stanislov’s law office in Brighton Beach. I think you may wanna hustle out here right away.”

  “Why? What’s goin’ on?” Ethan said, pushing the Rikers incident to the back of his mind. “I know I said I wanted to get a look at him, but I’m prepping for the Feodor interview and have tons of shit to do. Can’t we do this another time?”

  “No. I think you need to be here now,” Howard said bluntly. “There’s been a steady stream of Kolkov gang members going in and out of Stanislov’s office all afternoon.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “I’ll say. I’ve staked out this place dozens of times and have never seen anything like this.”

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Ethan said cautiously.

  “Something big. Alexey Kolkov just walked into the building, and he rarely leaves his booth at Sasha’s Café—that shitty little restaurant where he conducts most of his syndicate business. I’ve never seen him go to Stanislov’s. Never.”

  Ethan poured another finger of scotch. “Okay, I’m on my way. Should I bring a video camera to shoot some pictures from the back of your van?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve been rolling since I got here. I’ve got shots of everybody who’s gone in and out of the building—including Kolkov. I’ll make you a copy—free of charge. Get here as soon as you can. I want you to see this before the meeting breaks up.”

  “On my way, Lloyd.” Ethan hung up the phone and downed his scotch, then headed to his bedroom, adrenaline pumping through his body. He glanced at his watch. Almost eight o’clock. “Shit. No time to check in with Sarah.” He cursed under his breath. He’d promised to call. “I’ll do it when I get back.”

  Rifling through his dresser, he grabbed a baseball cap, a windbreaker, and a pair of sunglasses, threw everything into a gym bag, then raced out the door. A black Lincoln Navigator was parked outside his building, two men sitting in the front seat. Ethan smiled and waved, then raced down the street toward Lexington Avenue.

  He’d take the subway.

  Maybe he’d lose them.

  • • • • •

  Alexey Kolkov paced around the office, holding a glass of Stolichnaya and smoking a Cuban Cohiba. The room was packed with other members of his crime syndicate, all smoking and drinking and sitting in silence. He sat down across from Nikolai Stanislov and inhaled a deep drag on his cigar, the smoke wafting to the ceiling, forming a puffy white cloud. “Is the van still parked out there on the street?” he said, scowling.

  “Yuri, go take a look,” Stanislov said tentatively.

  The bodyguard walked over to the window and peered through the venetian blinds. “It hasn’t moved, Mr. Kolkov.”

  “And you’re sure it’s Lloyd Howard?” the Pakhan said, glaring stonily at his underboss.

  “I’m positive. Tell him, Yuri.”

  “That’s his surveillance van, Mr. Kolkov. The asshole uses it whenever he’s on a stakeout. I walked by and took a quick look inside when I saw it. Howard’s sitting in the driver’s seat watching the building.”

  “Did he see you, Yuri?” Kolkov said as he sucked away on his cigar.

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Kolkov. I was very careful.”

  The Pakhan finished his Stolichnaya and turned back to Stanislov, his eyes piercing. “Why is he parked outside your office, Nikolai? What’s he doing here?”

  “I have no idea, Alexey. I’ve never seen him out there before.”

  “Is he with anybody?”

  “He’s by himself,” Yuri said. “I didn’t see nobody else in the van.”

  “Could he be working for Benson tonight?” Kolkov said, pushing his underboss for an answer.

  “There’s no way to know,” Stanislov said, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” Kolkov said. “I wanna know what he’s doing and why he’s watching us.”

  “Yuri,” Stanislov said, “listen to the
Pakhan. Take Petrov, go down to the street, and watch him from the front of the building. Make sure he sees you. I want him to know we’re onto him.”

  The two men quietly slipped out the door.

  Kolkov poured himself another vodka and ran his finger around the lip of his glass. “Nikolai, what the fuck happened today at Rikers Island? I thought you told me everything was under control. That the mole was going to call you with a plan before he tried to take out Feodor. But he didn’t do that, did he? He just went ahead on his own and screwed things up. Now we gotta worry about him as well as Feodor.”

  Stanislov lit a cigarette. “Don’t worry about Jimmy. He’s won’t rat on us. I scared the living shit out of him at our meeting.”

  “But you obviously didn’t scare him enough,” Kolkov said, ominously pointing a finger at his underboss. “What went wrong, Nikolai?”

  “I don’t know,” Stanislov said, cowering at the malevolence in the Pakhan’s tone. “I was just as surprised as you he fucked things up.”

  “So what do you propose we do now? Any more bright ideas, Nikolai?”

  “I asked Pavel’s attorney to swing by tonight. Maybe he can help us come up with another way to silence Pavel.”

  “Frankie O’Malley is coming here tonight with Lloyd Howard sitting out there watching us? That doesn’t sound too smart, Nikolai. What if Howard spots him coming into the building?”

  “I told O’Malley about Howard. He’s gonna come in through the back door,” Stanislov said reassuringly. “One of my guys is already standing there to let him in. We should be okay.”

  The Pakhan nodded, still not convinced it was a good idea. “Okay, Nikolai, we’ll do this your way and wait for your friend, the public defender. Let’s see what he has to say. Then I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

  The Pakhan drained his Stolichnaya and slammed the glass on the desk.

  • • • • •

  The doors opened at the Brighton Beach station, and Ethan hopped off the train. He’d already put on the clothes from his gym bag, hoping to disguise his appearance in case the goons in the black Lincoln had called ahead and their Russian colleagues were waiting on the street. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize him. He pulled the baseball cap down over his eyes, adjusted his sunglasses, and hiked up the collar of his windbreaker, then peered around the platform. A handful of shopping bag–laden old women and a couple of teenagers waited for the next train. Nobody paid him much attention—even when he jumped as his cell phone buzzed to life in his pocket.