I have to pray, to whatever gods are listening—Atlas, Achilles, God—that Astor doesn’t think too much about the little boy in the pictures.
And I have to believe, with all that makes me into Ben Donahue, that the people that came after me and my family, won’t come after her if she fails in proving them not guilty.
The problem with the subway is that it’s public.
I’m assailed almost as soon as eyeballs hit my face, then go to their phones. The good ol’ days of asking for autographs are long gone, Instead, fans shove phone cameras at your nose and make sure the flash is on.
Other, more intrepid ones, throw an arm around you, catch a selfie, and don’t even say hello.
I get all three.
“Yo, Donahue, you rock!”
“Sorry about the playoffs, man. You were robbed.”
“Your fucking quarterback is a limpdick.”
“Go, Jets!”
I sneer at the last parting shot before I step off the train and into the anonymity of the TriBeCa sidewalk. I’m supposed to meet Ash at a mysterious location he won’t tell me the name of, only the address, but I’m more feeling the gym at this point. Get out some aggression.
My phone vibrates and I slide it out of my coat pocket, groaning when I see who it is.
Mom.
It’s been a few days. No doubt she’s worried about me.
I don’t call her my adoptive mom. She’s only Mom. Remembering my real mom is tough, considering she died when I was four. I wasn’t allowed to bring any pictures with me, either, so all I have are vague flashbacks of feeling warm against her chest, and the smell of gardenia.
To this day, I don’t like the smell of gardenia.
I’m told I was found crying over my mom’s blood-soaked body.
My adoptive parents, my new parents, don’t have a clue about my past, either. I mean, my fuckin’ dumpster fire history was only made known to me when I was sixteen, and a guy in a suit pulled me aside at the school playground, informing me I may be “compromised.”
Compromised. Like I knew what that meant.
Aiden made sure I grasped the seriousness of my situation, grimly stating he didn’t want to do this, but I may have to leave with him that second, and never turn back.
I thought he was full of shit. Wouldn’t you, if some Men in Black dude told you a secret universe existed where you were the victim of a violent drug cartel who was currently in the midst of figuring out who you were? I was always told I was adopted and that it was closed, meaning the birth parents didn’t want to be identified. Never did I get a whiff of the tragic circumstances that brought me to the Donahues. For all they knew, I was from an abusive family that burned me severely, forcing child services to step in. They were told my name was Ben, and that was all.
I went home that day, told I needed to pack a duffel bag, and if necessary, he would be there to pick me up in an hour. I was young, stupid, vulnerable. Scared. He showed me a badge and I figured him for real. I called the number he provided and asked for his badge number, and it matched. I raced past Mom and up the stairs, before she could see the tears in my eyes.
Luckily, it never had to happen. Whatever was blowing the lid wide open in my identity was firmly shut.
But that night, my dad peered at me strangely. Held my gaze too long at the dinner table. And when I finished Mom’s famous pot roast, he said, “I love you, son.”
Ronald Donahue doesn’t say things like that. He’s more one to express love through actions, in cheering for me at every game and talking me down when I’ve lost. Training with me, running with me, and outfitting our garage as a makeshift gym so I could do two-a-days whenever I wanted.
Even Mom gave Dad the side-eye when he said that, but he patted her hand, said “I probably had too much of a nightcap,” and left it at that.
But right then, I thought he might’ve known. About me.
I like where I am. I love being Ben Donahue. Some decades-old case about parents I should love but don’t remember can’t take that away from me. There’s no way these murderers can find me. Aiden assured that any documentation about my identifiable burn marks are long buried and sealed shut.
All I have to do, while this case goes on, is lay low.
Astor.
The name comes unbidden, and I shove it aside by answering Mom’s call. “Hey.”
“Honey! I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”
“Sorry, Mom. I shoulda called as soon as the game was done, but I got caught up—”
“Oh, it’s all right. I’ll forgive you if you come to dinner tonight.”
“Ah, Mom…” Guilt makes me trail off. It’s been a day full of trials, and I’m looking forward to crashing tonight as soon as I finish up with Ash.
But somehow, telling that to my mom doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse to ditch her for dinner.
“It’s okay if you’re busy, honey. I miss you, though. So does Dad.”
Her voice is overly bright, and I picture her clutching the landline to her face, a fire engine red phone she refuses to send to Goodwill, a near match to the blush on her cheeks. She always smells like Dior and has hair perfectly curled, coming across to strangers as more well-to-do than a middle class, stay-at-home mom.
She’s the best, and I won’t let anyone forget it. She knew how to get rid of athlete’s foot by using apple cider vinegar, has the best brownie recipe, and stayed with me through a lot of tough, long nights, when I first moved in with them. To deny her now would be a complete disservice to how much she gave up to care for me, since before I arrived in her life, she had a career as a publicist.
Turns out, a traumatized kid is a lot of work, but she refused to send me back into foster care. Fell in love with my pale blue eyes, she said, that gazed upon her like I was a cherub who accidentally fell into the devil’s lair before she pulled me out.
“I’ll be there, Mom.”
“Really?” she can’t disguise her enthusiasm. “Oh, that’s great. I’ll tell Dad once he gets in from the garage.”
“How’s he doing, anyway?”
“Oh…you know. Covering up any pain by turning into a grouch if you try to ask him about it.”
I chuckle. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
“Tell Locke and his family they’re welcome, too,” Mom says, immediately understanding who I’m referring to.
“I think they’re busy, but I’ll ask. Mind if I ask Ash?”
“Oh boy,” she says. “I’m not sure the supermarket has enough beef to feed him.”
Not much intimidates Callie Donahue. My giant, tattooed biker friend is no different, probably because he makes the best chocolate-hazelnut croissants in Manhattan.
“When are you going to bring a girl around here instead of your friends, who eat us out of house and home?”
“Okay, Mom. Gotta go.”
“Someone like Carter. She’s such a lovely person.”
“Oh—do I see? Uh-huh, I do. Ash is waiting on me. Love you, Mom.”
Mom gives some sort of laugh-sigh, then says, “I love you, too, honey. See you at six.”
I’m not lying. I may not see Ash, exactly, but I see his bike outside the warehouse, and that’s good enough reason for me to bail on my mom when she’s asking about my love life.
10
Astor
The subway ride gives me time to collect myself. I score a seat—a rarity—and I plan to make the most of it by searching through my tote and pulling out my tablet, catching up on emails.
If I deign to think about it, it’s amazing how fast I can go from emotional to business-savvy, like a kitchen faucet going from hot water to cold. But that’s how it has to be. Ruminating on Ben and the strange cast to his expression when he asked me—no, told me—to back off the Staten Island Slaughters gets me nowhere.
Sighing, I cross my legs and frown deeper at my fifty new emails. Hadn’t I just told myself not to think about Ben?
The man beside me, bu
lky in an oversized beige coat and a fedora too small for his head, keeps trying to read what I’m up to, a sad annoyance whenever I want to get work done during public transportation, and why I usually avoid it. I angle away from him and cross my other leg, clearing my throat in an obvious, passive-aggressive attempt to get him to realize his impropriety.
He only shifts closer, peering down through his bifocals to get a better look.
Fuckin’ New Yorkers.
At last, the train screeches to a halt at my midtown station. I shove my tablet in my tote and depart, leaving Peeping Grandpa behind forever.
When I reach the clear-glass, fifty-story building that houses my office, I swipe my security clearance, say hello to the weekend doorman (usually much sleepier and with more newspapers than the weekday guy) and step into the elevator to the 45th floor.
When the doors slight open with a classy ding, my suede boots clunk across the flawless varnish of the marble floors, past the empty receptionist desk, and since all “walls” in this office are sparkling glass (not even frosted), I can spot where everyone is.
Black and navy suits are crowded into Conference Room B, not as big and spacious as A, where clients can get a close-up view of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. This one is reserved for exactly what’s occurring this afternoon—interns and associates angling for a position on the latest, hottest, case.
I pull off my beanie, smoothing my hair, and slip off my parka, dumping it unobtrusively on a rolling leather chair outside the conference room. I slip in unnoticed, and am relieved to see other people in casual clothing like me.
Mike, of course, is in a goddamned three-piece suit.
And he’s right at the front, beside Altin Yang, senior partner in charge of all criminal defense cases, like he’s already secured a spot.
I sidle up to my co-associate, Taryn Maddox. We’ve helped each other out now and again during late nights in the office. She’s also the only other female in this room and stands out more than I do. Perhaps it’s due to her Barbie-thick, blonde hair, round almond-colored eyes, and ridiculous breasts. More likely, it’s because of her insanely high IQ, graduating summa cumme laude at Harvard, and the Mensa title behind those pert nipples. She’s probably smarter than most of the testosterone in here.
Taryn’s better as a friend than an enemy, but I catch myself wondering often if she would’ve been part of the cohorts who spread my picture around campus, had she gotten the chance.
“What’d I miss?” I whisper to her out the side of my mouth. I try to look busy pulling out a legal pad and pen.
“Not much. Just started,” she says quietly. “Your man’s up there doing his damndest to be on the Delaney case.”
My left hand, still wearing the engagement ring, clenches. “Delaney case?”
“That’s what we’re calling it now. The family’s name. No more Staten Island Slaughters.”
It makes sense. Being on the defense side, it’s better to dull down words like “slaughter,” to the media.
“All right, people.”
Altin’s booming voice cuts off any further conversation. Half Japanese, Half African American, he has both height and smarts to his name. His close-cropped hair is mostly white, likely caused by his forty years at this firm. Altin is one of the unnamed partners who started CW&C from the ground up, and, as a result, he’s intimidating as fuck. He doesn’t merely take prisoners—he kills them after smiting them with lightning. I’ve never been on his bad side and don’t ever plan to be.
“I know why y’all are here,” he continues. “Sadly for you, this joint defense doesn’t need thirty attorneys crowding for a spot in the courtroom. I’m only taking on two of you, so as of this second, you’re about to be on your best behavior.” Altin smiles, enjoying being king at this feast.
“I have here the police files, some discovery passed to us from the state, and essentially what’s going to be an extended date night for a lucky two of you. I want it summarized, arguments laid out, and any holes ripped wide open for me to read tomorrow morning. Everyone got that?”
He raises his brows, and we all nod like good disciples.
“Arraignment is coming up shortly. While I don’t believe we’ll get these boys out on their own recognizance, we can damn well try.”
“Yang got a phone call,” Taryn whispers to me.
“Huh?”
“From Chavez.”
A small spot at the center of my chest goes cold. Enrique Chavez is a known crime lord in NYC, a slick, laid back man who Altin Yang has drinks with on the regular. Chavez pays us an expensive monthly retainer, so if any of his crew are arrested, someone here is ready to defend them.
We get a lot of business from the Chavez cartel.
I’ve only seen him a few times, but at each click of our eyes against each other, I sense he’s more an adder ready to strike than a human being. There’s nothing behind the black of his irises, except more black. He’s a very rich, very dangerous man, and if he’s involved in the Staten Island Slaughters—he’s likely already deeply involved with these defendants.
“Shit,” I say.
I’ll never say it to his face, but perhaps Ben is right and I should stay far away.
My talents are usually reserved for mergers, acquisitions, and financial problems on the corporate side of things. But, as a junior associate, I can traverse departments so the partners can see where I really shine, before solidifying myself in one particular subject. And witnessing Mike beside Altin, deploying a closed-mouth grin at the rest of us like he’s already one of the two juniors picked to assist, makes my teeth hurt.
“Who’s prosecuting?” I ask in the small space of silence.
All eyes and feet shuffle toward me. A small pathway emerges with Yang at the other end.
“I’m glad you asked, Miss Hayes,” Yang says with approval. “As it’s always better to know your enemy before you meet him. We’ve got a file on him, too. Spencer Rolfe.”
Grumbles abound, and even I make a sound in my throat. He’s a well-known, young and hungry prosecutor six years older than me. Barely thirty and already making a name for himself.
“All right, people,” Yang says, and slaps his palms on the two piles of paper and files in front of him. “Here’s how this is going to go. The first people to bring me a weakness in this case—and I don’t mean some crap like self-defense—will be seated with my team. Give me something meaty. Something I can sink my fangs into. First two to do that, you’re in.”
Yang backs away from the large table and leaves the conference room without so much as a look back.
As soon as the glass door shuts and he’s out of view, we descend onto the files like vultures.
Hands swipe, but Taryn and I have the sharpest nails. We grab what we can, and I’ve got my fingers on the crime scene file when a thick, hairy, perfectly manicured paw grabs my wrist.
“Hey—!”
“We should work on this together,” Mike says, cutting off any further protest from me.
I laugh. “Sorry, what? Did you say work as a team? Do you even know what that means?”
He leans closer, hand still squeezing my wrist, and I cover a grimace. As far as everyone knows in this room, we’re still a happy couple.
“You’re well aware of what our two heads together can accomplish,” he murmurs. “Don’t you want to lay waste to these other hacks?”
“Too bad you can only think with your little head,” I snap, and pull out of his hold. “I’ve already agreed to team up with Taryn. You’re on your own, Ascott.”
Taryn glances between us, too smart to believe we’re still that happy couple. “Uh…sure?”
Mike shakes his head and laughs. “You’re putting our personal life before nailing the best case of your short-lived career. That’s a mistake, Hayes.”
God, am I ever tired of hearing that word. Mistake. “I’ll make sure to remind you of that when I’m sitting beside Yang on Monday.”
“Uh-huh.” Mi
ke rolls his eyes. I’d be stupid to think I hurt his feelings, because his attention immediately slides over me and rests lightly on Taryn’s breasts before he yells across the room. “Yo DeSean, you in?”
Another junior, DeSean Ferguson, throws his arm up, gripping the ADA’s file and a few police transcripts. “I’m in like win, Ascott! Let’s go.”
“Your loss, honey,” Mike says, then puckers his lips and blows me a kiss before moving to his new teammate.
“I don’t know why Yang makes us do this,” Taryn says. “When everything’s available on the company database.”
Hands on her hips, she sighs as associates continue to scramble around on the table (some even on it), a sign of what cutthroat competition can do to Ivy League educated desperados. The sounds of yelling and papers tearing ricochets against the small space.
“Because we’re baby sharks in the womb,” I say, “and we have to eat a few of our siblings before bursting out into saltwater. C’mon, let’s go to my cubicle.”
Clutching the crime scene photos to my chest, Taryn and I leave the carnage behind.
Ready to create our own.
Three hours later and I’m no closer to giving Altin Yang the hole in the case that he wants, but I’m a whole lot sicker.
I’ve turned the crime scene photos face down at this point, even though Taryn keeps picking them up and studying the pictures, as if the bloodstains can give us a clue.
They don’t.
There’s too much of it to create any sort of pattern.
“Okay, so here’s what we have.” Taryn brushes donut crumbs from her fingers then gets back to her laptop she’s perched at the corner of my L-shaped, gray desk. We’re framed by more gray, carpet-like cubicle walls that always smell funny no matter how much I Febreeze it. The mumblings of other associates are a constant thrum, nobody willing to speak up enough for another team to hear.
“Our defendants are Angel Lopez and Jose Garcia. Rose and Tim Delaney were killed around three in the morning, after being woken by their front door busting open by, it is estimated, three men. There’s only two in custody, though.”
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