Fury

9

Kings County District Attorney Kristine Breman peered through the tinted window of her official limousine at the two black men leaning against the brick wall of a dark office building that occupied the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and 121st Street. The bigger of the two-his girth so wide that his arms stuck out to the side like an immensely fat penguin-rocked forward from his angle of repose and waddled toward them, his broad face wrinkled into a menacing scowl.

A small, childlike voice began to chime in Breman's head. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. Why am I here? If she had been behind the wheel, she might have stepped on the gas pedal and roared out of there like Mario Andretti at the Indy 500. But she had no choice except to get out of the car when her driver opened the door for her.

The whole mess had started that past spring when Hugh Louis called and asked for an appointment. As he pretty much told her black constituency how to vote, she had willingly granted him an audience. In fact, she'd sent out for a tray of snacks from the local deli and several bottles of root beer, which he was known to love.

After trading meaningless compliments and bromides, Louis popped the top on one of the root beers, washed down a canape, and got down to business. He told her that a prison inmate named Enrique Villalobos would soon contact her and confess that he alone was responsible for the 1992 rape of a woman named Liz Tyler under the pier at Coney Island. Louis said he was representing the four men who'd been "falsely imprisoned" and that he intended to sue New York City as the employer of the police officers and detectives who had carried out this "abominable injustice," as well as the Kings County District Attorney's Office, which had "conspired" through the two women prosecutors who'd acted in concert with the police to deprive his clients of their constitutional rights. He also intended to sue the cops and the prosecutors as individuals, though obviously it was the government entities that had the deeper pockets. Louis paused to make sure she understood what he was saying.

Breman understood. She also knew that she was staring at him with her mouth hanging open but couldn't quite bring herself to try a different expression. This is a nightmare, she thought. She barely remembered the Coney Island case-she'd still been working for the New York DA's office in 1992 and had been too busy trying to stave off being released for incompetence to worry about some rape case in someone else's jurisdiction. It was only by chance-in the form of partisan politics, a strong political machine, and a few favors called in and promised in return-that a half-dozen years later she'd won the election for the office of Kings County District Attorney, which was essentially Brooklyn.

The press is going to make my life miserable, she thought. Got to find a way out of this. She cleared her throat, smiled weakly at Louis, and said, "Yes, umm, go on."

Sweating profusely already, Louis grunted and thought, Got the bitch right where I want her. Taking his time, he finished off the root beer and pounded his chest lightly before emitting a long belch. "Pardon me," he said not very convincingly. "Anyway, as I was saying…"

Louis said he was convinced that he could prove a pattern of reckless misconduct on the part of the two prosecutors, as well as Breman's predecessor in office. "A pattern I believe the jury, as well as the African-American community, will recognize was based on an institutionalized racism."

At the mention of African-American community and racism, Breman sucked in her breath and held it. She wasn't comfortable around black people; they always seemed to be looking at her as if they secretly blamed her for everything bad that had happened since the days of slavery. But without the black vote, Breman knew she was finished as the district attorney. Her future flashed before her eyes. If she was kicked out of office as the racist DA of Kings County, no firm would hire her. She'd have to hang her shingle out in front of some little strip mall office in Brooklyn and hope to pick up the odd criminal case, plus the cheapie divorces and DUI infractions.

She wouldn't be able to count on her husband for support. The pencil-dicked asshole was a plastic surgeon who preferred screwing his nurses and patients to her. She'd been his ticket into party politics-he saw himself as potential governor material someday-but there'd be no reason to keep her around if she was a nobody.

The image faded and was replaced by the immensely fat Hugh Louis. Fortunately, the plastic smile had never left her face and she pointed out, "I wasn't in office at that time. I-"

Louis held up a big sweaty hand. "I know, I know," he said in his most "Hey, we're all in this together" voice. "I've always liked you, Krissy. May I call you Krissy? Good. Yes, always liked you, thought you was fair and reasonable."

This sounded like a good thing, so Breman brightened. In fact, she was so grateful that tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, you know, I try…" but her mouth snapped shut when Louis held up his hand again.

"Please, allow me to continue," he said. "I would hate for you to suffer the consequences for your predecessor's mistake. We might even have on our hands a Rodney King sort of backlash here…" He was gratified to see Breman blanch. "So because of my respect and fondness for you, and hating the thought of how this community could come apart at the seams, I thought I would speak to you first and see if maybe we could work out an arrangement. Something mutually beneficial to both of us, as well as our community."

Breman was all ears. "Yes," she said, nodding like a bobble-head doll in a car going down the railroad tracks. "I'm sure that's true. Here, have another canape and a root beer…shall I open it for you?"

Louis accepted the groveling with dignity, although inside he was smirking. "Thank you, thank you…excellent spiced meat. May I ask where you got it? Perhaps later you can call my secretary with the name of the deli."

Smiling broadly, Louis said he thought he might be able to convince the African-American community that "these heinous transgressions against my clients" were the work of another regime and that she, Kristine Breman, was not responsible. "However, there is going to have to be a show of good faith from your office." He paused for her reaction.

Breman shook herself as if she'd been daydreaming. "Yes, of course, good faith. Umm…such as?"

Louis pulled out a white hankerchief and mopped at his face before continuing. "Well, nothing more than what would be just and fair. The first is that you meet with Mr. Villalobos and when you find that his story is credible, you will order DNA testing to see if his is a match for the evidence found on the victim's clothes."

Breman, who'd been wondering just how much of her soul she was going to sell to the devil, perked up. "You think it will be a match?"

Louis nodded. "I know it will be a match," he said. "But that's not all."

This is where the other shoe drops, Breman thought. "Yes?" she said, trying not to let her voice quaver.

"If what I say is true, then in the interest of justice I will immediately file a motion to vacate the convictions of my clients and seek their immediate release from prison… And you will not oppose it," he said, the jovial bonhomie gone from his fat face. "In fact, you will join with me in my motion."

"Well," Breman said, then paused as her mind frantically worked over the political implications, "it is irregular. But I suppose we could go through the normal procedures and put Mr. Villalobos on the stand, under oath, and hold a formal hearing. Then we could issue a joint statement…" She stopped talking because Louis was shaking his head.

"I don't think that's necessary," he said. "I think you can meet with Mr. Villalobos, who with my assistance-just to make sure he doesn't backtrack on the truth-will give you a statement. I think that with the DNA tests, you will have more than enough to do what I ask."

Breman realized that while Louis said "ask," it was a demand. He was telling her how to proceed or, as he'd said earlier, she'd face the consequences. She had no intention of facing anything of the sort, and so simply nodded her head.

Louis seemed to have caught her mood and misgivings. "Now, now, Krissy," he said. "I know this might be a little irregular, but my clients have just spent the last ten years of their lives locked up where they did not belong. They went in as young men, teenagers really, and missed the best years of their young manhood, not to mention the pain and suffering they experienced in prison.

"The DNA will check out, have no fear. Your own assistant DAs-Robin Repass and Pam Russell-conceded in the original trial that there was an unidentified assailant…the only assailant whose DNA was found at the scene. Indeed, we contend, the only assailant there ever was. We have some concerns, however, about Mr. Villalobos's change of heart-he is a vile and despicable man who has committed numerous rapes upon innocent women. He could change his mind again…if he thought he could get something out of it from the authorities. My clients have suffered enough. We don't need to put them through a lengthy hearing process or raise their hopes that justice will at last be served, only to have Mr. Villalobos retract and dash those hopes again. I'm sure you understand."

Breman surrendered. "Yes, of course. If all you say is true, it's only right that this office act with all due haste to correct this miscarriage of justice."

Sighing as though he'd been laboring long and hard in the cause of justice, Louis leaned forward and patted Breman on the knee of her pantsuit, leaving a damp spot. "Yes, all due haste. And mark my words, you will come out of this a hero in the African-American community, a veritable color-blind champion of the truth."

Breman almost burst into tears. That was the nicest thing anybody had said to her in what had turned out to be a very long day. She'd never wanted a drink so badly in her life. A double shot of scotch poured over a cube of ice. "Well, then I'll wait for Mr… did you say Villalobos?…to call," she said and started to rise as if to bring the meeting to a close. But Louis didn't budge, so she sat back down.

"Uh, yes, but there is one other thing," he said. "The people who perpetrated this crime against my clients need to pay for those lost years. I intend to wring every last cent out of them now and in the future."

"Of course." Breman was willing to say anything just to get the fat, sweating man out of her office. She'd decided she would need to take a shower before that drink. Just watching the sweat pour off the man made her feel nauseated.

"That will be easier if the police officers, detectives, and prosecutors responsible are not supported by their respective administrations," Louis said. "I think it is in your best interest to put some distance between you and them so that any prospective jurors will understand where you stand in this matter."

"What do you want me to do?" Breman asked.

"I want you to put Repass and Russell on administrative leave pending an investigation into possible criminal malfeasance, as well as civil rights violations," Louis said.

Breman blinked several times as Louis leaned over and grabbed the last of the root beers out of the little bucket of ice she'd arranged between them. She didn't like Repass and Russell-a couple of hotshots who'd come in during her predecessor's tenure to create the sex assault unit.

"Okay," she'd said. "If the DNA checks out, we have an arrangement." This time she stood up before Louis could add any more caveats. But he seemed well pleased with her response and rose with her. He'd stuck out his hand and she shook it, trying not to look sickened by the feel of his warm, wet grip.

"You won't regret this," he said.

And at first she hadn't. As she'd been told, Villalobos had approached prison officials and reported that a "positive prison experience" had led him to become a born-again Christian. That in turn led him to confess to the Coney Island rape because his conscience would no longer allow him to stand by and see other men "suffer for my sins."

When the news broke in the New York Times-a story written by a weaselly fish-faced reporter named Marvin Aloysius Harriman-Repass and Russell had immediately come to Breman and demanded that they be allowed to put Villalobos on the stand and take his "confession" under oath and be cross-examined. That was, after all, how such matters were supposed to be handled. But Breman had told them that she would personally handle this case and had asked that Villalobos be transported to the Kings County jail, where she conducted the interview with Louis the only other person present.

Louis insisted that she use a tape recorder he'd brought rather than the jail's installed system. In fact, throughout the interview, he'd controlled what was actually recorded. If not satisfied with an answer given by Villalobos, he'd stopped the machine, discussed the matter with the ugly little man, and then rewound the tape. Then on his signal, Breman had repeated her question, and Villalobos answered in a "more appropriate" manner.

After the interview was over Breman had announced to the press that there was "reasonable cause" to order DNA testing. She'd felt somewhat better when the DNA results came back positive. At least that part of Villalobos's story was accurate.

By arrangement, she'd leaked the results first to Harriman, who seemed to have made his own deal with Louis, so that the New York Times-quoting "an anonymous source in the Kings County District Attorney's Office"-had the story a day before the rest of the media. Shortly afterward, Breman had held a press conference on the steps of the Brooklyn courthouse with Louis at her side, announcing that "in the interests of justice" her office would be joining Louis's motion to have the convictions overturned. "It is my opinion that the so-called Coney Island Four have been exonerated by these developments, and this office will not seek further action."

In the days that followed, Breman was even able to convince herself that she had done the right thing. It helped that she got a lot of encouragement from others. Activists in the African-American and civil rights communities lauded her "courage in the fight against institutionalized racism"; the Kings County defense bar issued a statement that read in part, "finally a district attorney who recognizes that justice, not conviction statistics, is the duty of the state when prosecuting crimes"; and the Times even wrote an editorial. The editorial noted that based on the "exclusive" reporting of award-winning writer Harriman, the newspaper's hierarchy agreed with Breman's decision and that "perhaps other local district attorneys should take note of the evenhanded administration of justice by the Kings County District Attorney and seek to emulate her to bring credibility and honor back into their own dealings."

The only downside had been putting up with the tirades of the assistant DAs Repass and Russell, who'd insisted that they'd presented evidence in the original trial that there was a sixth perpetrator but that did not mean that the teenage defendants had not "initiated and participated" in the crime. "The jury understood this to be the case and convicted Sykes, Davis, Wilson, and Jones in less than two hours of deliberations," Repass argued.

Breman was proud of how she stood up to the know-it-alls. She pointed out that there were no eyewitnesses to place the five black teens at the scene-not even the victim could substantiate that allegation-"but we have irrefutable scientific evidence that Villalobos committed the crime, as well as his confession."

"An uncorroborated confession. There's a legal precedent for this-hold a hearing, put him under oath, at worst retry the case," Russell countered.

"A waste of time in my opinion, which is the opinion that counts here," Breman said. "Villalobos's confession is corroborated by the DNA evidence. There was no physical evidence or eyewitness testimony tying the defendants to the attack on Liz Tyler."

"We had a witness testify that five black teenagers were seen leaving the general area," Russell countered.

"No one who could say it was these boys," Breman countered.

"These 'boys' were also convicted of several other assaults that night," Repass pointed out, "including nearly killing an elderly man with a piece of steel bar like the one found beneath the pier."

"We try people for one crime at a time here," Breman said. "As you point out, they were convicted of those other crimes and served their time for them. It is this crime for which there are very large questions of guilt-questions that in my opinion raise a serious ethical question of how we were ever in a position to, in good faith, ask a jury to find these young men guilty beyond a reasonable doubt… And, I might add, there was no physical evidence-blood or hair-on the steel bar suggesting that it was the same one used that night in the other crimes."

"By the time it was found, the tide had washed it off," Russell said.

"It's nonsense anyway," Repass added. "These 'large questions' were looked at by the jury, and they found that we'd answered them beyond a reasonable doubt. And what about the confessions? Those animals corroborated the evidence-hell, they boasted about what they did."

Breman bristled at Repass. "I'll thank you not to refer to these young men as 'animals.' It merely serves to underline the accusations that this office has a problem with racist attitudes. As for the confessions, they were boys at that time-coerced, badgered, and intimidated by grown, gun-toting men who threatened them with every sort of punishment under the sun, including the possibility of the death penalty if Liz Tyler had died."

"Oh, Christ!" Repass exclaimed, "They were laughing about it in front of the cops. One of them talked about how much fun it was-that's not exactly the response of a frightened 'boy.'"

"Nerves," Breman shrugged. "Trying to put on a brave face."

"What about the defendant who took me to the scene and said he didn't realize there'd been so much blood?" Russell asked.

"That was Kevin Little, who, if I remember correctly, was given a pretty sweet deal for turning on his childhood friends," Breman said. "Hardly an unbiased witness."

Repass started to say something, but Breman sat up in the manner bosses do when they've given recalcitrant subordinates a "fair" hearing but are ready to move on. "This conversation is over," she said. At last, she thought, I can get rid of these two, and I'll even look like the hero as far as the public's concerned.

"I think it would go a long way toward reestablishing this office's credibility with the public if you two took it upon yourselves to sign off on the motion in support of vacating the convictions, as well as demanding that these four men be released immediately from custody."

Seeing the shocked looks on the other women's faces, Breman barely contained a giggle before adding, "It might mitigate some of the damages should they prevail in a lawsuit against this office."

"Fuck you," Repass said.

Smiling, Breman shook her head as if she didn't quite know what to do with such an unruly child. She cocked an eyebrow and looked at Russell, who nodded her head toward her colleague. "What she said."

"Well then," Breman said, clasping her hands as if they'd all reached some mutually satisfying agreement, "that leaves me no choice but to place the two of you on administrative leave." She leaned forward and pressed the button on her intercom, "Teddy, could you come in here, please."

A moment later, Theodore "Teddy" Chalk entered the room and glared at Repass and Russell. His boss had already told him what was up and that the women, especially the hotheaded Repass, might get violent.

Teddy wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was one good-looking, square-jawed, dark-eyed, dark-haired, olive-skinned, bodybuilding hunk of former-cop-turned-bodyguard. He was also madly in love with Breman, and she'd occasionally allowed him to service her sexual needs, although that was more to ensure his absolute devotion than out of any genuine desire for him.

"Teddy, would you please escort Ms. Repass and Ms. Russell to their offices, where they are allowed to remove a single box containing their personal belongings. However, they are not to take any legal paperwork or files. Can you do that for me?" She gave him her most beguiling smile, which made him blush and then straighten as if he'd been given an order by a superior officer. He'd been a marine for a couple of years out of high school, and once in a moment of passion she'd told him that it turned her on every time he snapped to attention when she spoke, so he'd stepped it up ever since. "Yes, ma'am."

Teddy stepped forward as if to physically remove the women but stopped when Repass snarled, "Touch me and I'll kick your balls up around your shoulders." He looked confused, then glanced over at Breman, who rolled her eyes and nodded her head toward the door.

The bodyguard and two angry women were gone from her office for only a minute when Hugh Louis stepped from the small antechamber where he'd remained out of sight during the discussion. "Well done, Krissy, well done," he said. "You go, girl. Good to hear that someone in government still believes in the Constitution and the concept of reasonable doubt." He shook a fat finger and looked at the ceiling as he recited, "…'better that a hundred guilty men'-not that my clients are guilty of these crimes-'than a single innocent man lose his freedom.'…I believe it was Jefferson or someone like him who said that."

That had been that past summer. Now, as Teddy stood back from the car door and extended a hand to help her out into the frigid December air, Breman recalled how Louis's praise that day had made her skin crawl. Again the little voice was asking her to leave so that she had to remind herself that she was doing this because Louis could practically guarantee her the black vote. This is just a little thing, she thought, we're accomplishing a lot in the office getting bums off the streets and arresting graffiti taggers to make cleaner, nicer neighborhoods. And you can't do that sort of good if you're not in office, can you.

Breman also had higher aspirations than the district attorney's office, and Louis could get her there, too. He'd hinted as much when inviting her to this late-night meeting in Harlem. "A person with your ability and charm could do a lot of good for this community as a district court judge," he said. "And I might be in a position to help a friend with those sorts of ambitions."

Breman was certainly aware that Louis pulled a lot of strings behind the scenes when it came to political appointments. He was also known to have important contacts in the nation's capital. A spot on the bench was a nice dream, one she felt she deserved, but on the ride over she also couldn't get over the feeling that Louis had whistled and she'd obeyed like a well-trained dog.

"Maybe I should go in with you, Kri…I mean, ma'am," Teddy said, glancing meaningfully at the big man standing on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading into the building. The skinny one had also come off the wall and moved onto the sidewalk.

Breman wished more than anything that she could say yes to Teddy's request, but Louis had told her to come alone. He promised that she had nothing to worry about, even though he mentioned that Jayshon Sykes and perhaps another of the Coney Island Four would be present. Mustn't show fear. "No. I'll be all right, Teddy. I won't be long."

As she walked over to the steps, the fat man turned and proceeded up the steps ahead of her. After she passed, the skinny man parked himself at the bottom of the steps and stared insolently at Teddy, who stood looking after Breman like a retriever waiting for its master to come home.

At the top of the steps, Breman paused long enough to read the simple plaque on the outside of the building: Louis amp; Associates, Attorneys at Law. The inside of the office was nondescript, by all signs a no-frills, hardworking, underfunded legal firm.

Beyond the outer reception area was another spartan office with a desk on which rested the nameplate for Hugh Louis, Esq. The chair behind the desk was functional but nothing special, as were the two chairs in front. What art there was in the room consisted of cheap African knockoffs of Zulu masks and Swahili spears and a fake lion's skin made of horsehide.

Breman figured that this office was probably where Louis met most of his clients. She was sure of it when she was led into the inner sanctum-a richly appointed den done in teak and leather. The walls were adorned with expensive-looking art pieces, including what she believed might have been an original Jackson Pollock. A black-and-white photograph of Louis with his arm around an uncomfortable-looking Joe Namath hung behind the desk, signed Best Wishes, Joe.

As she entered, Louis came out from around a bar where he'd been mixing "a root beer and rum…care to join me?"

Breman shook her head. "No, thank you. It's been a long day and it would probably just make me sleepy." She laughed, wondering if it sounded as false as it felt.

Louis mopped his forehead with the omnipresent handkerchief, which he then stuffed back into a pocket and held out his hand. "Good of you to make it, Krissy," he said. "Sorry to make you-I mean, ask you-to make the drive from Brooklyn, but I thought it would be good for us to meet away from prying eyes. There ain't many in this neighborhood, at least none who would say anything to anybody who might care." He released her hand and pointed behind and to her side. "I believe you know my clients here, Mr. Jayshon Sykes and Mr. Desmond Davis."

Breman fought to keep the smile on her face as she turned in the direction Louis was pointing. She had not seen the two men slouching on the black leather couch in front of the wall of books. She nodded. "Of course. Good to see you again."

Neither of the young men acknowledged her greeting. They both appeared to have found something infinitely more interesting on the wall and on the floor respectively. Louis pretended not to notice the slight and waved her toward the chair in front of his desk while he went around behind it and sat down. Establishing who's boss, Breman thought miserably as she noticed that her seat was several inches lower than Louis's, who appeared to tower over her.

As a matter of fact, Louis was immensely pleased with himself. He'd filed a $250 million lawsuit against the City of New York and its police department, which he estimated might settle at one hundred million. He was contractually entitled to one-third of the settlement and by the time he added in expenses, including an apartment for his mistress, Tawnee, and the baubles she required to keep her happy, he'd get about half. And that didn't include the book and film rights.

Over steaks and martinis at the Tribeca Grill, he'd cut a deal to do a book with the New York Times reporter Harriman, in exchange for half the royalties and favorable stories in the Times. So far, the reporter, who had never met a scene he couldn't create out of thin air or a quote he couldn't manufacture, had kept up his end of the bargain.

Louis and Harriman had a meeting set up the next week with three different publishing houses whose executive editors were already pissing all over themselves for the rights to The Coney Island Four: An American Tale of Racism and Injustice. As soon as they had a deal, Louis planned to fly to Hollywood and talk to a couple of producers he'd contacted about the film rights.

Life was good, but he thought it could get better yet. He'd called Breman and told her to meet him at the office for two reasons. The first was-as Breman had surmised-to make sure she understood who was in charge. He figured that if she was willing to drive to Harlem on a cold night in December to be given marching orders, she was his whore for the duration.

The second reason was that for all his meticulous planning, dangers remained dangers. The major difficulty was that for some inexplicable reason, Igor Kaminsky was still alive.

The idiot brute Lynd was supposed to have taken care of the problem but now he was worm meat. Then the brain-dead ghetto niggers sitting on his couch couldn't count to two-the number of arms the man they'd shoved in front of the train had-and so the one-armed Kaminsky lived to rat on them another day.

Otherwise, there was only one other loose end that he had to worry about-and he didn't think it was much of a concern. At the original trial, a teenage female named Hannah Little had testified that Kwasama Jones admitted to her over the telephone that Sykes and Davis had raped Liz Tyler. Hannah's brother, Kevin, had been one of the five originally charged for the attack on Liz Tyler, but he'd agreed to a plea deal and testified against the other four.

Sykes had used his gang affiliations to find Kevin in California and have him killed in a staged drive-by shooting. He'd planned to have Hannah killed, too, but she'd disappeared from Bedford-Stuyvesant shortly after her brother's death and hadn't been heard from since. She could present a problem if the investigators working for the city found her, but given the long silence, Louis believed that she was too intimidated to come forward at this late date.

Which brought him back to Breman. He knew she'd talked herself into believing that she was "doing the right thing" in the cause of justice; he'd pounded that notion at her enough. But what if the letter from Kaminsky made her think again about Villalobos's confession?

Louis knew his clients were guilty of the crime and that Villalobos was lying-he'd insisted on knowing and Sykes had filled him in with a smirk. But Louis didn't care; some middle-class white bitch getting raped wasn't worth the millions he stood to make by representing the Coney Island Four. But he was worried that Breman might grow a conscience because of the Kaminsky letter. Or, if the little shit came forward, that she would find it politically expedient to turn on him. Louis needed to make sure she was his.

Louis cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink, and asked, "Have you heard from that lying piece of shit Kaminsky fella who wrote you a while back?"

The question elicited a pang of guilt from Breman. She'd read the letter when it first arrived and sat on it for a couple of days. If what Kaminsky said was true, and it came out, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do. All sorts of questions might be raised about why she had capitulated so quickly and not followed procedures in dealing with Villalobos. So she took the letter to her mentor, District Judge Marci Klinger, who also happened to be presiding over the Coney Island Four lawsuit.

Klinger was another castoff from the New York District Attorney's Office. She'd come aboard in the waning days of Garrahy's reign, recommended by one of his colleagues who'd done it as a favor to a friend, her father. But the recommendation only went so far, and she'd proved to be a mediocre prosecutor at best. But, as she'd later taught her protegee Breman to emulate, Klinger had involved herself early and often in party politics and when a spot on the bench opened up as a result of the sudden and unexpected death of its owner, she'd inveigled the appointment with the help of her dad, a major contributor to the party.

Even then she wasn't satisfied. She had her eye on becoming nothing less than the U.S. Attorney General. She and Breman sometimes got together at a private spa she belonged to in Manhattan for a "girl's day out" and a giggle about their aspirations. "You look so stunning in basic black…like a judge's robe," she hinted to Breman, who'd blushed and rolled her eyes.

After looking the Kaminsky letter over, Klinger had dismissed it as just another inmate who thought he saw a way out of prison. "He probably thinks that you'd jump at the chance to impeach Villalobos and preserve the case against four black men. But there's no proof here-at best just a he said/he said." Both women knew that a copy of the letter should have been turned over to the defendant's lawyer, in this case the Corporation Counsel. But Klinger said, "I see no sense in letting a red herring like this stand in the way of the truth or cloud the issues. There's a trial coming up; let's let the jury decide whether to believe Villalobos based on his testimony." She offered to hold on to the letter "so that it isn't accidentally discovered in your files and raises questions."

Breman had been only too happy to let Klinger have the letter. She was determined not to even remember its existence, except that in a moment of trying to one-up Louis, she casually mentioned it. At first she'd been pleased to see that he was shaken; after all, he'd done it to her often enough, but then she'd regretted telling him. He got surly and demanded to know who had the letter. She was relieved when he seemed to accept that the letter was in safekeeping with Klinger.

She was happy to report to Louis that she had not heard from Kaminsky since the letter. She glanced over at the two young men. Desmond Davis, a brooding, dark-visaged throwback to mankind's primitive past, had his head on the back of the couch and was staring up at the ceiling. But Sykes was looking right at her with a smile. She smiled back-at least she could feel good about saving this one. He was so well spoken and polite, a shame that the police had ruined his potential.

"Yo, Des, check out the bitch," he said. "She's afraid the big bad wolf might eat her." He leaned forward and made smacking noises with his mouth.

"Jayshon!" Louis rebuked him. "It is important to remember who our friends are…and Ms. Breman is one of them." He turned to Breman, who refused to look anywhere except at Louis. She was in shock. Whatever happened to the nice young man?

Sykes apologized, "I didn't mean anything by that-just the old prison defense mechanism, you know." He didn't like being lectured by the fat lawyer, but he did want to be a rich man. If he had to play the fucking game and listen to this fucked-up talk about trying to reintegrate him and his homies, he could deal. Just so long as after he got the money, nobody tried to tell him what cars he could and couldn't buy, or how many bitches he could have running around the mansion he planned to buy. Then he'd get a little payback on the people who locked him up and, if they weren't careful, the people who tried to boss him around now. The fat lawyer and this skinny bitch will get theirs if they keep pushing, he thought. Thinking about the other woman had been one of Sykes's favorite pastimes in prison. Exhausted by the long night of "wilding," he and his homies had been chilling beneath the pier that morning, drinking the last of the forties of malt liquor they'd stolen from a liquor store and smoking weed. He thought it was funny how easy it was to fool his teachers and others with his clean-cut, valedictorian act. This was the real Jayshon-the other guy was just a fake to get what he wanted.

He was idly whacking at a piling with the piece of steel rebar he'd found the night before when Desmond spotted the woman running down the beach toward them. He'd ordered his comrades back into the shadows until she was just about upon them, then jumped out in front of her.

"Boo!" he yelled in her face.

The woman tried to get away but he jumped in front of her. "Say, where you going, bitch? Me and the homeboys was partyin' and thought maybe you should join us."

The woman tried to move around him. "Leave me alone!" she said in what was apparently meant to appear forceful but only made him laugh and taunt her more. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. Then to his surprise and rage, she'd reached out and clawed his face.

Without thinking about it, his hand with the steel rebar came up and hit her on the side of her head. She'd looked stunned, as if just given bad news, and sank to her knees. "Fucking ho," he snarled and grabbed her by the hair and pulled her under the pier and out of sight from anyone strolling along the boardwalk.

The pain of being dragged by her hair seemed to bring the woman back to her senses. She lunged up from the sand, screaming and scratching for his eyes. He'd felt fear and might have backed off, except Desmond kicked the woman in the small of the back, which knocked the wind out of her and sent her sprawling in the sand. She rose to her hands and knees, then paused, trying to catch her breath. Enraged by his fear, Sykes walked up to her and hit her on the head with the steel rebar again, only harder. The blow knocked her over onto her back, where she lay moaning.

Sykes reached down and grabbed her running shorts and tore them off. Excited by the site of her half-nude body, he shouted, "Hold her" as he dropped his pants and got down between her legs.

Kwasama Jones ended up at her head on his knees and leaned forward to pin her arms. Kevin Little and Packer Wilson each grabbed a leg.

However, after having penetrated her, Sykes found he could not maintain an erection and ejaculate. This only served to anger him more and he punched her twice in the face before jumping up. "Yo, Des, your turn," he shouted and then egged his comrade on.

After Davis was finished, Sykes ordered Wilson to rape her but the fifteen-year-old couldn't get an erection at all, which brought loud guffaws from Sykes. "Look at the little fucker, can't even get it up. Fuck her, homes, ain't you a man?"

Not knowing what else might qualify him for manhood in his leader's eyes, Packer pulled up the woman's shirt and then bit her on the breast hard enough to draw blood. The woman screamed, which made Sykes and Davis laugh; Wilson tried to smile as he wiped the blood from his mouth but he then stood back and did not participate in the rest of the event.

Sykes next ordered Kevin Little to assault the woman, but he turned and threw up in the sand. "Ah shit, the little faggot got sick. Kwasama, you get you some now." But Kwasama shook his head. He'd continued holding her arms down, but he was crying.

Sykes was wondering what to do now with the woman when he noticed the ugly pockmarked Puerto Rican man standing twenty feet away. The greasy fucker looked like a hungry rat and was licking his lips and rubbing his crotch. "Hey, ratface, you want some of this bitch?" he asked.

Villalobos had jumped at the invitation. "Show you boys how to treat these bitches," he said. "If you want to teach them a real lesson, you got to fuck them dirty." He'd then kicked the woman so hard in the side that it knocked her over and onto her stomach. Laughing at the look on the others' faces, he'd then sodomized her, and when he finished, stood and wiped himself on her sweatshirt.

They all stood looking down at the woman. She was bleeding from both of her ears as well as the ragged wounds on the side of her head from the rebar. There were no more moans, just a sort of fluttery breathing. Sykes kicked her in the head but there was no response. Then he became aware of a high-pitched wailing, in the distance but growing louder.

"Jayshon!" Davis had yelled. "It's 5-0! We got to get the hell out of here."

"What about her?" Kwasama asked.

Jayshon shrugged. "She's dead," he said and took off running.

Sykes had no idea what had become of the rat man after that, except that he wasn't caught. But the others were not so lucky. The cops had picked up Kevin Little and Packer Wilson as they were walking home to Bedford-Stuyvesant; when Kwasama Jones heard about his friends, he'd gone down to the precinct station with his mother. Based on what they said, the cops had showed up the next day and arrested Sykes and Davis.

Little had testified against them, but Wilson and Jones got the hint and clammed up, and Davis he'd never had to worry about. He'd made his own mistakes, like bragging to that ho, Hannah Little, that he'd enjoyed raping the white bitch.

Next time, no bragging, 'cept to the homies, he thought. But that stupid muthafucka Villalobos had to brag to Kaminsky, and maybe fuck up the whole plan. Well, when this is over, I'll have some of the homies pay him a visit and cut his fuckin' heart out and stuff it down his mouth while it's still beating. He was also pissed off that Lynd had messed up a simple knife job.

The fat lawyer had gotten on his case about shoving the wrong Kaminsky brother beneath the train but it wasn't his fault. How was I to know he had a twin? Louis didn't tell him until later that he knew where to find Kaminsky because he'd received a call from Olav Radinskaya, the Brooklyn borough president, who employed Ivan Kaminsky. Ivan Kaminsky had asked for the afternoon off to go meet his brother at Grand Central Station on the number 4 train platform.

Louis should have told me there were two brothers, Sykes thought, frowning at the lawyer. Now he was going to have to wait for the remaining Kaminsky to surface again. He tuned back in to the conversation between Louis and Breman when he heard the name Kaminsky.

"I just hope that if he does surface, you'll contact me first," Louis was saying. "I want to ask him a few questions before the police nab him and get a chance to feed him a story to protect their colleagues."

"Well, again, that's a rather unusual request," Breman said. She realized, though it was a jolt to her conscience, that at the same time she was pleased because it gave her power over Louis that he was afraid of what Kaminsky had to say. However, the pleasure and illusion of power were short-lived.

"Forgive them, but my clients here were the ones who wanted to meet you and have me ask that if you hear from Kaminsky, you call me first," he said. "They wanted me to express how very unhappy they will be if this lying sack of shit Kaminsky is allowed to ruin our hard work."

The reference to the gangsters made Breman want to go to the bathroom. How did it ever get this far? she wondered as she squirmed a little trying to get comfortable. She hazarded a glance at Sykes. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat and had a hand on his crotch. "Maybe you'd like a taste of this now?" he offered.

The men were still laughing when she hopped up and fled through the office and reception area and out the door of the building, stumbling down the steps. Teddy Chalk ran across the sidewalk and caught her by her arm or she might have fallen.

"Did they harm you, ma'am?" he asked, his face a mask of concern and anger.

"Oh, quit with the fucking chivalry, you idiot, and drive," she snarled as she jumped into the backseat of the limo. As they made their way south and east through Harlem into East Harlem, she broke down and cried. She cried so hard she hardly noticed the two Arab-looking men standing outside the small mosque, one of them staring down an alley with his hand in his coat.