Think Twice

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Metropolitan Correctional Center is a twelve-story high-rise in the Civic Center of Manhattan, near Chinatown, Tribeca, and the Financial District. John Gotti was held here. Sammy the Bull was held here. Bernie Madoff was held here. El Chapo was held here. Jeffrey Epstein was held — and purportedly killed himself — here.

And now, with a ton of media fanfare around the edifice, Greg Downing was being released from here.

Myron and Win watched from a spot across the street.

“Greg could just exit from inside,” Myron said.

“He could.”

“It’s a correctional center. There are ways in and out besides the front door.”

“True,” Win said. “But we both know Sadie won’t let that happen.”

“You like her, don’t you?”

Win nodded. “She’s very effective in advocating for the bullied and battered.”

“Look at you,” Myron said. “Finding a cause.”

“And she’s profitable. Insecure, violent narcissists are a growth industry.”

“Sad but true.”

“Sadie’s also a total smoke show.”

Win.

There was a podium set up on the sidewalk. On the right, just far enough away to not be a part of the proceedings, stood the Konnerses — Grace, Spark, Brian/Bo. Grace seemed to be hiding behind her hulking older son, Spark. Spark turned and spotted Myron. Their eyes met. Spark’s eyes narrowed. He said something to his mom and moved toward them.

“Uh-oh,” Win said.

Spark beelined straight to Myron. “Chaz Landreaux,” he said.

Myron didn’t reply.

“You called him for me, didn’t you?”

“I may have told him to give your résumé a look,” Myron said.

“You think that makes up for what you did?”

Win took that one. “He didn’t do anything to you,” he said. “I did.”

“Win,” Myron said.

Win put his hand up to let him handle it. He slid in between Myron and Spark, his chin facing Spark’s paddleball-wall chest, once again daring Spark to make the first move. “You lied to us, Sparkles. You knew Greg was alive. You knew your brother committed perjury on the stand.”

“You better take a step back,” Spark said, puffing out the chest.

“Oh my.” Win smiled and Myron didn’t like the gleam he saw in Win’s eyes. “Do you want to play this game again?”

“Win,” Myron said.

“Don’t sweat it,” Spark said, looking at Myron over Win’s head. “I just came by to make sure you’re the one who put me on Chaz’s radar.”

“I am, yes.”

“Then I’m not going to the interview.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Myron said. “Chaz would have given you a fair shake.”

Win pouted and mimed rubbing his eyes and said, “Wah.” Pause. “Wah.”

Spark shook his head, turned carefully to avoid touching Win, and headed back to his mother and brother.

When he was far enough away, Win said, “I told you to let it be.”

“We kidnapped him, Win.”

“Kidnapped,” Win scoffed. “Don’t be so melodramatic. And could we stop with the ‘we’ please? ‘We’ didn’t do anything. I came up with the ruse of a fake coaching job offer. I flew him to Vegas in my plane. I am the one who put him on his ass on that tarmac.”

“And I’m just an innocent?”

“In this case? Yes. How is that hard to understand?”

Myron stared off across the street. “There was a time...” Myron stopped, starting again. “There was a time when I thought you went too far.”

Win waited.

“And I called you on it. I told you that you couldn’t do that again. Do you remember what you told me?”

Win still did not reply.

“You said: ‘You know what I do — and yet you always call me.’”

“Look at you, quoting me verbatim.”

“You were right though. I don’t get off the hook by blaming you.”

Win shook his head. “Such an idealist.”

“No, not anymore. I wish I were. But I get you better now.”

“And that’s a bad thing,” Win said.

Myron wasn’t sure whether Win meant that as a statement or a question.

“You try to shield me from the squishier morality moments,” Myron said. “But I’m right there with you. So yeah, maybe it wasn’t my idea, but that doesn’t mean I can wash my hands of what you did.”

“So,” Win said, “you figured that by calling Chaz, you might mitigate our, uh, squishiness, a bit.”

“Yes.”

Win thought about it. Then he shook his head. “Weirdo.”

There was a commotion by the front door now. Greg Downing stepped out with Sadie Fisher. Sadie, no surprise, wore a killer outfit — bright red blazer over black blouse, black pencil skirt. Greg wore the same jeans and flannel shirt he’d been wearing when he was arrested back at that A-frame house in Pine Bush. He blinked into the sun as though he’d just emerged from solitary and into bright sunlight. The move felt a tad performative, but Myron let it go. Greg gave a half smile and a half wave — he, too, knew how to work a press conference.

“Thank you all for coming,” Sadie Fisher said.

Win nudged Myron and gestured with his chin. Myron looked and saw Spark and Bo vanish into one of those large black vans Myron normally associated with party travel. Grace was by the door too. She turned and glared at Myron. Myron didn’t look away. Then Grace too slipped inside.

Sadie Fisher continued: “I said everything I needed to say at my press conference this morning from Las Vegas. I’m not here to grandstand, so I won’t repeat myself. Mr. Downing is grateful to be set free, but he worries about the other victims still incarcerated. He and I both hope for their speedy exoneration. We also hope that the Federal Bureau of Investigation will conduct an open and transparent investigation, so that the American people understand the threat and we can all help to bring the perpetrator to justice.” Sadie gave the crowd a tight smile. “My client asks that everyone please respect his privacy after this harrowing ordeal. Thank you for your time.”

The expected cacophony of questions erupted from the media. Sadie and Greg ignored it and hurried toward the same black van.

“Hmm,” Win said.

“What?”

“Jeremy didn’t make it.”

Emily Downing was watching her ex-husband’s release on television when she heard a strange buzzing.

You hear the hoary chestnut that there are moments when it seems your entire life passes in front of your eyes. The imagery here was not violent enough for what Emily was about to experience. The past few days have felt like her entire past clenched into a massive fist that won’t stop pummeling her. She had made mistakes. She had regrets. Who didn’t? She didn’t dwell on them. Her life was good. She thought about Myron. She thought about Greg. But mostly, despite modernity, despite everything, despite her own rebellion, she was first and foremost a mother. She didn’t say that to her friends when they gathered. She barely admitted it to herself. It felt too old-fashioned, too out-of-vogue, but the best of her, the most important role in her life, involved being a mother. Her own mother had told her that, way back when, before Jeremy was born. Your life is one thing before you have a child. It is forever something else after. Nothing is the same. Emily had pooh-poohed that canard. Of course, there would be changes, but she was steadfast in the fact that her path would not deviate from its intended course. How silly of her. The giant world she had known before the birth of her child had been reduced to a six-pound, fourteen-ounce mass on the day Jeremy was born. It was celestial and loving and feral.

The buzzing sounded again.

It wasn’t so much a buzzing, she realized, as a vibrating noise, and while that thought would normally make her smile — that thought might even lead to a dumb double entendre she would laugh over with friends — she didn’t move because, even though she had no reason to believe this from a simple vibrating buzz, the sound made her blood run cold. The sound was a precursor, she thought. The sound, like her first baby being born, was going to change her life forever.

Stop with the hyperbole, Emily told herself.

After college, Emily had gone to Iowa to get a master’s in creative writing. Yep, she’d wanted to be a novelist. It was not lost on her that the next love of Myron’s life, the one he’d fallen for after they’d broken up and she’d married Greg, was the novelist Jessica Culver. Culver had been one of Emily’s favorite writers, living the life that Emily had sometimes imagined could have been her own. In the end, Jessica Culver had left Myron too, and Emily realized that was something else the two women had in common. Not merely writing, not merely breaking it off with Myron, but a streak of self-destruction in the guise of independence.

The buzzing was coming from Jeremy’s room.

When she was twenty-four, Emily gave up writing completely. She didn’t even journal. The idea of putting pen to paper repulsed her. She didn’t know why. It was only lately, in the last year or so, the craving came back. She had started a novel. She wasn’t sure what fueled that — the need to reach people, the need to tell a story, the desire for fame, glory, immortality?

Did you need to know your motive?

The buzzing was coming from under Jeremy’s bed.

Emily got down on her hands and knees to see better. Her Upper East Side apartment had three bedrooms. One for her, one for Jeremy, one for Emily’s younger daughter Sara. The vast majority of the time, it was just Emily here. Jeremy was, well, wherever he was. Sara had taken a job in Los Angeles working as a production assistant for a major streamer.

The buzzing stopped.

Didn’t matter.

It took another minute or two, but Emily found the phone. And when she did, her heart sunk. She stood and walked zombie-like back into the kitchen. The live coverage of Greg’s release was over. A commercial played exalting the virtues of selling your own gold by mail. A little while later, Emily sat heavily at the kitchen table and stared straight ahead. Then she picked up her mobile phone and hit the number.

Myron answered on the third ring. “Emily?”

“I’m at my apartment,” she said, her voice sounding very far away in her own ears. “Please come over right away.”