Ambush

Chapter 15

As soon as the elevator doors closed, the Buffalo cop said, “You don’t know me, but I owe you big-time.” He held out his hand and said, “I’m Jeff Hutcheon.”

I shook his hand but didn’t say anything. It had to be a mistake.

“The case you made a few years back. When the guys took the hostages at the First Lady’s funeral and killed the mayor.”

I’d never forget that case. It was Christmas. Maeve, my wife, died around that time. My life was in ruins, and that case haunted me. Until I figured out that prison guards from upstate had staged the whole event, with the help of an FBI agent. They’d played the NYPD like a cheap guitar.

Hutcheon said, “My cousin was one of the prison guards. The whole family was embarrassed. He’s doing his time in a federal pen in California now. But I know that entire case forward and backward. I recognized your name as soon as that department of corrections prick started bragging about whose kid was being held. They hired us as extra security.”

I said, “All I wanted to do was visit my son.” My voice was still weak.

Hutcheon smiled and said, “And you’re going to. I guarantee it.”

Five minutes later, following the instructions the cop gave me, I stepped out of the elevator and back onto the third floor. The first thing I heard was raised voices. As I walked down the hallway, I saw that the cop who’d talked to me was leaning against the wall, holding the attention of the department of corrections man.

The cop said, “I’m telling you we’re going to need more overtime for this detail, and you guys need to start paying up.”

The DOC man sputtered, trying to explain that he didn’t control the money. The cop leaned in closer and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Standing in front of Brian’s room was a second Buffalo officer, who motioned for me to step forward. As I walked past Hutcheon while he was berating the department of corrections man, he raised his eyes to me for a moment and winked.

A smile spread across my face. I needed the help right about now.

The cop by Brian’s door patted me on the shoulder, then opened the door. I stepped into the room, where the TV played softly and gave me enough light to see Brian asleep in his bed.

I stepped forward and had to stifle a yelp. He had bandages wrapped around his face and forehead as well as his left arm. He looked like he belonged in the film The Mummy.

I took a seat right next to his bed and leaned in to get a better look. I didn’t care what the State of New York said — he still looked like my little boy asleep in the bed. I could just see the rough edges of the stitches on his cheek at the edge of the gauze bandage.

It hurt me both physically and emotionally to see my oldest son like this. Since his arrest and conviction, I had lived in a half fog of worry. The DA wanted to make an example of a cop’s kid who had made a mistake. The example haunted me every day.

As if sensing I was there, Brian turned his head, then opened his eyes. The smile he gave me made everything I’d gone through worthwhile.

I said in a low voice, “Surprised to see me?”

His voice was a little scratchy. “Not at all. I knew you’d come.”

He reached across with his right hand and took hold of mine. I carefully leaned down and touched my forehead to his. I almost cried, but I didn’t want to upset him.

After a few minutes of silence, Brian lowered the covers and lifted his gown to show me the two red stab wounds on his abdomen, covered by thin gauze. In total, he had gotten thirty-six stitches.

“I was scared, Dad. Really scared. It was two guys I barely knew. They passed me on the rec field and just started to slash and stab. It just happened that one of the corrections officers was standing nearby and was on the ball.”

I tried to limit my professional questions, designed to figure out who did this and who ordered it. Brian explained that he didn’t know much except they were both Mexicans who claimed to be part of a cartel. No one at Gowanda messed with them.

Brian told me again about the war between the Mexican cartel and the Canadian mob over territory. He’d warned me about the brewing feud when he first went to prison. He wondered if he was just caught in the middle.

Most people associated the word mob with Italians from New York, but the term applied to a lot of organizations. The Canadian mob was mostly made up of French Canadians who were loosely affiliated but banded together when threatened by outside groups.

Then Brian said, “But it doesn’t matter what happened to me. I’m worried they might come after you or the family. It’s all my fault. I brought all this on.” He started to cry.

That made me cry. I tried to tell him not to worry about it, that it wasn’t his fault, but I wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was all related to retribution for his working in the drug business and my trying to ruin that business. I knew drug cartels could be ruthless.

I said, “Brian, you’re not responsible for other people’s actions. You’re a good kid who made a mistake. I’ll fix all this. I promise.”

His eyes turned up toward me. “Really? Do you think you can?”

I squeezed his hand gently. I couldn’t put into words how much it hurt to see my son like this. Not only the bandages but also the agony over what he had put the family through.

Being a father was so much harder than being a cop.