Hold Me in Contempt (6 page)

“That's seven dollars, mamita,” the cabbie said, looking at me from the front seat of the cab. “Gangnam Style” had gone off, and we were idling outside 1 Hogan Place—a building that had consumed too many hours of my life. “You okay? You look like you dazed and confused, mami? Maybe we turn around? I take you home? Take care of you?” He grinned at me like there was any chance of that.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, slipping him a ten. “And for that little comment, give me my change.”

I don't know if Carol had some kind of lookout person sitting outside the building waiting to announce my arrival, but when the elevator doors opened onto my floor, there she was standing with her iPad in one hand and a cell phone in the other, ready to pounce.

“Kimberly, you're here! I was just about to call you!”

“Again?” I nodded to her. “And good morning to you, Carol.”

“Good morning. I'm sorry. It's just things are crazy here right now. I didn't know you were coming in late, and I . . .  ​things are crazy.” Carol was a bony Irish girl from Westchester who couldn't keep a tan—not even in the summer—to save her life. Right before my eyes, she turned beet red and looked like she was about to hyperventilate.

“Well, I'm not sure how you didn't know I wouldn't be in until later. I had a doctor's appointment this morning. Remember?” I lied, walking toward my office with her panting beside me. The floor was quiet because most of the other ADAs were probably in court or prepping for court. In New York County, we have more than five hundred assistant district attorneys in bureaus covering any kind of crime imaginable—elder abuse, human trafficking, sex crimes, public integrity. One of my classmates from Columbia Law is the ADA in animal cruelty. Last Christmas he was in the newspaper for leading the prosecution of a Russian man who'd been breeding bats in the basement of a building in Alphabet City, killing them, and selling the skin to Chinese herb shops in Chinatown.

“What? Really? I don't know how I missed that you had a doctor's appointment. It's not on the schedule,” Carol said, looking down at her iPad. She clicked through a few screens. “I know I would've caught it.”

“Carol,” I called to get her attention once I'd made my way to my office. “Do you need anything from me?”

“Yes. I do. It's about Bernard Richard—the ex-boyfriend of that guy in the Christopher Street meth-lab case.”

“Oh, I forgot all about his appointment this morning. Did you reschedule him?”

“That's the thing—I tried to. When you didn't respond to my messages, I figured that was what you wanted me to do—”

“Good. And?”

“And I tried, but he wouldn't reschedule. He's still here.”

“Here?” I looked back down the hallway to the empty waiting area. “Where?”

“In the interview room. I had to put him in there.”

I rushed to my computer and looked at the time. “It's after eleven. He's been here since nine?” I hung my purse and a thin sweater I'd draped over my shoulders in the cab behind my office door.

“He won't leave. Said something about people coming for him,” Carol said. “Think he may be kinda . . .  ​you know . . .  ​crazy.”

“Oh, Jesus!” I snapped, grabbing the files for the case from my desk and walking out of the office in front of Carol. “No breaks! There are no breaks for me,” I added under my breath.

“Wait! One more thing!” Carol called on my heels.

“What is it? I don't want to keep this guy waiting any longer,” I said.

“I know, it's just that Paul's assistant keeps coming down here, asking about your brief from the Lankin case.”

“Right. He needs it. I told you to send it up last week. Is there a problem?” I asked, heading toward the interview room.

“Actually, there is,” Carol started. She turned her iPad to me. “I was just looking it over before I e-mailed it, and I noticed a few things. Little errors. Nothing too big.”

I read through a few corrections Carol had noted in the margin. Somehow, some of the words were misspelled, and I did see that the punctuation was incorrect in a few places.

“Must've been my computer,” I said nonchalantly. “Spell-check and whatever happens when I move my files around between computers.”

“I know. Your briefs are always impeccable, Kim. That's why I wanted you to see it again before I sent it. I know you would never want this out.” Carol leaned into me and whispered, “Not with how much Paul seems to be coming around here now.”

“Right. Good call,” I said, patting Carol on the shoulder. “Look it over again and let's get it out.”

“Okay.”

When I started with my class of ADAs working in the district attorney's office, I vowed to work myself into the ground. I mean, I told myself I'd be the best ADA or “die trying.” Although I'd never told anyone, I struggled through law school. While everything was coming easily to Ronald and he seemed to do more drinking and barhopping with his law school buddies than he used to, I basically slept in the law library and had to take writing classes every summer to keep my head above water. I think I was the most surprised person in the world when I realized that I'd actually passed the New York State bar examination. I read my name, like, a hundred times to make sure it was really me, and then I didn't tell anyone I knew I'd passed for, like, three hours. I sat on my couch and cried. I thought about my mother. None of us had heard from her in months, and the last person to see her was Tamika, who said she'd seen my mother standing in a rainstorm on Jamaica Avenue in Queens selling umbrellas but not bothering to put one over her own head. She'd had on her old favorite red hoodie. Sneakers with holes. No socks. I looked at my phone. I had no way to contact her. To let her know what was happening to me. I had no way of knowing if she'd even care. If she was alive.

Both Ronald and I applied to work in the district attorney's office in New York City. For the first time in so many years, a black man, Paul Webster, had been elected to the position, and every black law school student in the city was planning to put muscle behind him. While Manhattan wasn't exactly the impoverished district Ronald imagined himself working in to save the world, he really admired Paul. I think that was why it was so hard for him when he wasn't accepted into the ADA class that year and I got the position. He said it was cool. Reminded me of the long hours and low pay of an ADA and said he'd have more fun starting his own firm. He was too smart to be led by anyone. He'd make more money and do more good on his own.

“Bernard Richard,” I started, walking into the interview room with my hand outstretched to shake his hand, “I'm Attorney Kimberly Kind. It's great to meet you.”

Bernard was slumped over the table and looked like he was actually asleep, so I had to stand there holding out my hand.

When he finally stood before me, I realized he was much taller than I'd imagined based on listening to recordings of his interviews with the police officers who'd shut down a meth lab his boyfriend was operating out of the Candy Shop, a gay club on Christopher Street. On the tape his voice was soft and rather genteel for a twenty-seven-year-old male prostitute living in New York City. But in front of me, he was the same height as Kent, definitely more muscular. His hair was blond but red at the roots.

“Good morning,” he said, and there was that soft voice again. Maybe he was from Alabama or Mississippi. He looked down at his watch.

“I apologize for being late. I had a doctor's appointment. My assistant and I got our wires crossed—”

“I can't leave. I have to go into witness protection,” he said, cutting me off. “I won't testify unless I'm in the witness protection program. These people are after me. Going to kill me. This is big! It's—”

“Wait, let's slow down, Mr. Richard,” I said, pulling him back to the table. “Have a seat and slow down. I need to make sure I'm hearing everything you're trying to share.”

Carol padded in to try to refill Bernard's empty coffee mug, but I told her to bring us both a little spring water. Bernard looked anxious, and the last thing I needed was for him to be hopped up on caffeine and apparently thinking someone was trying to kill him. I called Carol to me and whispered in her ear that she should have an officer on guard just in case we realized the threats Bernard feared were real. As could be expected, he'd been reluctant to provide any information since the bust at the Candy Shop. His interviews were distant and lacked true detail. He wasn't sure about anything and never gave any names. I wanted to give him one more chance, to see if I could break through and get enough information to make my argument conclusive.

During my seven years as an ADA, I'd come to know that interviewing witnesses was by far my best skill. I was a great trial attorney too, but I had a way with witnesses that made them open up to me and that gave me an edge in the courtroom. Sometimes I could make people remember things they'd forgotten, share something they were sure they could hide, or realize something they didn't know. I always wished that could translate into my personal life.

“I can't go home. I won't,” Bernard said.

“Home. Let's start there. You came here to meet me this morning. Did you leave from home?”

“Yes.”

“Was there something there? Something going on that made you believe you were in danger?”

“Outside the window. My bedroom window. There was a black car.”

“What time was this?” I asked, writing down Bernard's responses. While I used a recorder when I interviewed people, I always took notes as well. There was something about looking at the details on the page that turned everything into a connected web for me to follow in a way that the recordings never could.

“I don't know. Like, seven. After seven. I was getting ready to come here,” Bernard responded.

“Did you recognize the car? Know the driver?”

“No, I didn't. But I know it wasn't the police because their black car is parked outside the living room window on the other side of the building.”

“I understand,” I said. “And please note that seeing the police car should not be reason for panic. That's just a part of protocol.”

“I know. They're making sure I don't leave town. But that's not what I'm worried about. That other car, it wasn't a cop car.”

“How do you know that?”

“It just wasn't.”

“Well, how do you know it was there for you? Did you see the driver? Speak to the driver?”

“No. I just know,” he said, annoyed.

“Mr. Richard, I'm not here to confuse you or second-guess anything you're saying,” I explained. “I'm just trying to make sure we are both hearing the same thing. You're not on trial here. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Now, have you experienced anything you'd consider a threat? Anything specific that I can record and pass along to the appropriate authorities so they can help you?”

“Why can't you help me? You're the district attorney.”

“I'm not the district attorney. I'm an assistant district attorney. And what you're talking about goes beyond the legal matters we deal with here. It's criminal. Now, if we find you need to be in the state's witness services program, we'll move forward with that. But I need to know there's a real threat present for that kind of action. Now, have you experienced any other threats?”

“You don't understand,” Bernard whispered, looking over his shoulder at the door. “I was around the Candy Shop for a long time. I've seen things.”

“Mr. Richard, Miguel Alvarez is in jail right now. And with your testimony, we'll make sure he stays there for a very long time,” I said.

Behind me, toward the back of the room, there was a long wall of old law texts, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, that no one ever used. Bernard looked away from me and at the wall and seemed to leave me.

“Can I have a smoke?” he asked, reaching into his pocket without taking his eyes off the wall.

“Sorry, this is a nonsmoking building,” I replied. “Everyone likes to blame Bloomberg, but it's been that way for a while.”

Bernard had already pulled the red box of cigarettes from his pocket, and he started tapping it on the table.

“I'm sorry. I almost forgot I was in the ‘Smoke-Free Apple.' Guess I was thinking of those cop shows where they always let the people smoke before they confess their crimes.”

“Do you have anything you need to confess?” I asked carefully.

“I don't know.” He paused. “Maybe. There was this girl—just a girl, a black girl—I never really knew her name. I think Miguel called her Yellow a few times, but he was always calling people colors when he was high,” Bernard added slowly, still tapping the little red box on the table. “She was a dancer at one of the clubs near the pier, and she started selling a little meth for him. I knew she didn't have it—you know, she wasn't like the other girls who sold his shit in the clubs. She was just some kid. Probably a college kid. Dancing to pay her cell phone bill. She had that look. Good skin. Hair. Nails.” He paused and looked at me. “She sold for a little while, but then, just like everybody else, she got hooked.”

“She started using meth?”

“I was there when Miguel confronted her about it. He just asked her. Just like he did everybody else. She said no. But it was obvious. You know the look. She was skinny. Nervous. Clothes were dirty. Nails dirty. Hair dirty. It seemed like it only took a week for that to happen to her. I'd seen it all before, but there was something about her. Something different. She didn't belong there,” Bernard said. “I pointed that out to Miguel, but it was like a joke to him—boxing her into a corner. He gave her more to sell. A bagful. It was wrong. He knew she was using. She'd mess up. I tried to stop him, I knew what was coming, but he ignored me. Anyway, like a week after that, here Yellow comes again. One tooth missing in the front. Holes in her cheeks. Hair in patches. Miguel and I were sitting on a couch in his living room. He made her stand in front of us. Asked about the money. Asked about the meth. She had no answers. Just shrugged and said she had nothing. Offered to sleep with him. Miguel laughed and flipped my legs from off of his lap. ‘I like dick. If you don't have a dick under that dress, we're both in for a surprise if we end up in the bedroom together,' he said. ‘You got a dick, darling?' he added, laughing as she shook her head. ‘Sure you don't. Sure you don't.' He got up and walked into the kitchen. I was going to follow him, but I stayed in there and told the girl to leave. She just stood there—right there. She said she needed more. Just a little. She offered to have sex with me. Then Miguel came back into the room behind her and threw her to the floor. He started hitting her, punching her in the back, the arms, everywhere. I went to get him off of her, but I couldn't. He was losing it. That's when I saw the cheese grater.”