Authors: Richard Doetsch
His mind began to open. He felt the memories coalesce. Joy’s pain, her suffering and tears, and, in an odd way, the purse on her shoulder sparked it all. It was as if his brain was suddenly on overload. Thoughts, feelings, images, and memories from two days earlier poured forth as if it had been minutes ago, as if it was always there, in the forefront of his mind.
Jack remembered.
W
EDNESDAY
, T
WO
D
AYS
A
GO
I
T WAS
W
EDNESDAY
, 11:00 in the morning. Jack was staring at Joy, her eyes blue and clear, unmarred by tears and sorrow. Her wry smile flashed the usual I-told-you-so as she handed him a file.
“I told you to take the Richmond case file with you last night.”
“I went straight to the conference room this morning.”
“Mia leave you on empty again?” Joy laughed.
“You could have brought the file upstairs to the conference room.”
“You could leave ten minutes earlier in the morning.”
Jack handed her back the file. “A lot of good it’s going to do me now.”
Without missing a beat she took the file and handed him the newspaper and a new file. He raised his eyebrow in question.
“You need to read up on the polling numbers,” Joy said. “And the
Times
didn’t paint a very flattering picture of your first term in office.”
Jack opened the file and glanced at his morning campaign brief. Although it was only June, the political prognosticators and the
soothsaying polls had already projected his defeat in November. His opponent had raised more than double what his coffers held, most from the power brokers who had funded him four years ago. While many thought elections were up to the voters, they were really won with dollars and a theme.
While Jack had achieved much in three and a half years, there was no compelling theme to hang his hat on. Everyone needed buzz, every politician needed a defining moment that could be boiled down to a catch phrase that thirty million dollars could disseminate into the hearts and minds of the thirty-two percent of the public that pulled the lever on election day.
With his thoughts on more significant matters, Jack snapped the file closed and headed into his office.
The high-ceilinged space was the largest on the floor, as was fitting for the man who oversaw the prosecution of the New York City’s crimes. The wood-grain walls matched the forty-year-old chipped and scarred desk that sat before the large picture window. New York Harbor’s panorama was brightly lit under the summer sun, the vast waterway dotted with freighters and barges heading in and out of the local ports. A handful of sailboats piloted by those lucky enough to have the day off cruised the waterway, their sails filled with summer breeze.
Jack removed his jacket and draped it over his chair, loosened his muted blue-striped tie, and stared out at the view, regrouping after his early-morning trial conference, knowing he had a long day ahead. He finally looked at the
New York Times
and skimmed the article about his successes and failures in his first term, along with the odds against reelection. And as he turned, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
Sitting on the couch was the last person he ever expected. She had only been to his office once in all the years, and that was when she needed his signature on the legal papers to refinance their mortgage.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mia said. She was sitting on the old, cracked leather couch, dressed in a long black pencil skirt and white shirt, far more fashionable than any FBI agent he had ever known. On the couch next to her was a long black metal box.
“Friggin’ Joy,” Jack said with a half-laugh. “She could have mentioned you were in here.”
Mia smiled. “I told her I wanted to scare you.”
“Well, you succeeded.” He laughed.
He walked over, leaned down, and kissed her gently; it was a rare day when they saw each other in the morning, their divergent schedules pulling them in different directions. He hoped their lives would once again fall into sync but knew that was years off with both of their careers in high gear. “By the way, thanks for leaving me on empty.”
“Sorry …” Mia smiled that get-out-of-jail-free smile, the one that always released her from Jack’s anger. She had him so wrapped up in her heart that she could remove his limbs and he’d still forgive her with a thank you and a returned smile.
“Not a very nice article,” Mia said as she pointed at the newspaper in Jack’s hand.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” he said as he tossed the paper into the garbage. But then his eyes filled with sudden concern at her unaccustomed presence. “Are you all right?”
Mia nodded as she stood from the couch. “Yeah.”
But Jack could see that she wasn’t, his eyes falling on the case on his couch.
Mia walked to the window, looking out at the harbor. “You know, we never did properly christen this office.”
Jack looked at her with raised eyebrows, glancing out through the open door at Joy, who was busily typing, hoping she didn’t hear Mia’s suggestive comment. He quickly closed the door.
“Hmm. You like that idea.” Mia turned around and sat on the windowsill, her long legs exposed even more, a glint of mirth in her eyes. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Mia,” Jack said with a smile, “as much as I would like to mark the occasion four years after the fact, as much as I would like to see the rest of those legs, I know you didn’t come here for that.”
“I need a big favor.”
“You don’t need to preface it.”
“I need you to put this evidence case in the Tombs.” Mia pointed to the box on the couch.
“The FBI evidence room isn’t good enough?”
Mia didn’t answer.
Jack looked at her, his concern growing. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Mia shook her head.
Jack walked to the couch and picked up the case. It was a standard one-foot-by-three-foot evidence case, akin to a bank lock box. It was hinged along the short side, a single cylinder lock on the near end. The top was stamped
FBI 7138
.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“It’s best you don’t know.”
The moment hung in the air, a host of unasked questions floating around the room. They both had secrets, things in their jobs that they didn’t share: cases, investigations, rumors. It was the nature of their jobs. Jack and Mia had always been open and honest, even speaking those truths that are sometimes hard to hear. It was the foundation of their love. But in their careers, while often sharing war stories, tales of success and failure, advising each other as spouses so often do, there were aspects that they couldn’t talk about.
“Mia, I’ve never questioned you, never told you what to do with your job.” Jack stared at her. “But if you can’t trust your own people …”
“I don’t tell you how to do your job, Jack.” There was a hint of stress in Mia’s voice. “Can’t you just help me without a lecture?”
Jack took a long breath and relaxed. “I’ll have Joy bring it down—”
Mia shook her head. “I don’t want anyone else to know.”
“OK.” Jack nodded. “I’ll bring it down myself after lunch.”
Mia continued to stare at him, the same look she gave him when he said he’d take the garbage out, the look that said it couldn’t be done on Jack time, it had to be Mia time. It had to be done now, preferably five minutes ago.
Jack walked out of his office and thirty seconds later returned with a case nearly identical to Mia’s but without the FBI sticker. “You’re going to need to swap the contents of your box into one of mine.”
Mia nodded. “Now?”
“You can do it on the ride over. We’ll take the Tahoe.”
Jack grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, put it on, and straightened his tie. He picked up both metal boxes and walked out of his office, Mia two steps behind.
“Joy,” Jack said to his assistant, “Mia and I are going to run and get a quick bite to eat.”
“Well, that’s a first,” Joy said. “You guys have worked ten blocks apart for all these years, and in all that time, it was like you worked in different states.”
Joy stared at the two large boxes under Jack’s arm, then looked into her boss’s eyes. They both knew that lunch was not really on the agenda.
T
HE
M
ANHATTAN
D
ETENTION
Complex was located at 125 White Street and had a level of security that rivaled the New York Federal Reserve, where one of the world’s largest gold stores resided only a half-mile away. But the contents of the Tombs were far from precious metal. The primary function was as a jail for holding criminals with pending cases in the adjacent courts, although it also functioned as a maximum-security prison for several of the country’s most notorious criminals, from terrorists to serial killers. It was rarely spoken of, as both liberal and conservative voices would seek to
have the facility shuttered for humanitarian or not-in-my-backyard reasons. The facility was actually two adjacent structures that rose eighteen stories into the Lower Manhattan skyline and extended down eight additional floors into the island’s granite substrate. Configured with multiple checkpoints, electronic security, video, and nearly impenetrable walls, the Tombs was considered one of the most secure locations in the country. Without incident, it was a place of no hope for the incarcerated, as no one escaped the Tombs, ever. It was a place fittingly called a mausoleum for the living.
Of little note, unless one was familiar with the workings of the judicial system, was the function of sublevel five. With its central location to the courts, it had become the natural repository for the district attorney’s evidence room. Five stories belowground, it was like a modern dungeon, secreted in the earth, carved out of Manhattan Island’s bedrock.
Jack and Mia walked through the cavernous granite and marble lobby, a single black evidence case under Jack’s arm.
Desk guard Larry Knoll’s eyes lit up upon seeing him. “Mr. Keeler.”
“Hey, Larry,” Jack said warmly. He tapped the black evidence case. “I’ve got to see Charlie. Is he down there?”
“Is he ever not down there?”
“Good point. How is your wife?”
“Great, thank you. Daria’s getting fat with our first.”
“Congratulations.” Jack laughed. “Never heard it put that way. There is nothing better than kids. Keep me posted.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Larry hit a button, and Jack and Mia walked through the security gate and headed to the elevator, the doors open awaiting their arrival.
“Fat with her first?” Mia repeated with a laugh. “Do you know every cop in the city personally?”
Jack smiled. “Hardly. If I could, I would, though.”
Mia rubbed Jack’s back. “Once a cop, always a cop.”
Jack and Mia rode the car down and arrived in a small vestibule. There was a couch and two small chairs, their soft design in sharp contrast to the iron door and adjacent Plexiglas window on the far wall, its three-inch bullet-proof design distorting Charlie Brooks’s round face like a carnival mirror. The small window revealed the head and shoulder of the sixty-year-old man who had been the facility’s gatekeeper for twenty-two years.
“Whoa,” Charlie said with a smile, his voice tinny and hollow through the small speaker. He glanced down with an arched brow at his lap. “If I knew the big cheese was coming down, I would have worn pants.”
Jack smiled as he pulled Mia toward the glass into Charlie’s view. “Charlie, I’d like you to meet my wife, Mia.”
“I beg your pardon.” All sense of mirth fell out of the old guard’s face as he looked at her with contrite eyes. He quickly stood up in a chivalrous greeting while making a point to show his clothed legs. “I always wear pants to work.”
The door lock fell back with a thud as a loud buzzer echoed through the halls.
Jack pulled open the heavy metal door and ushered Mia into a small hall, the door crashing closed behind him sealing them in the confined space. The small room was adorned with a metal desk; in the corner was an ancient cathode-ray TV atop a VHS player, its cable line draped along the ceiling, disappearing into a conduit. And while the room and its accoutrements were of a prior century’s vintage, the computer setup on the desk appeared to come from the future, off of some starship: three flat-screen monitors, images of an elaborate file system on one, a security monitoring configuration on another, and the third displaying a picture of Jack with his fingerprints and statistics below. It all sat before Charlie, who was far larger than Mia expected. At six-two, the older man, in his crisp NYPD blues, looked as if he didn’t need the protection of all the security or the 9mm pistol on his belt to fend off any intruder.
Jack laid the metal box on the table against the wall.
“How can I help you, Mr. Keeler?” Charlie’s voice had taken on a forced formality.
“It’s a lock box, highly sensitive case.”
Charlie looked between the two of them as he began to type it into his computer. The evidence-tracking program came up.
“You need to do me a favor,” Jack said as he laid his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Don’t log it into the system.”
Charlie slowly turned and looked at Jack, his tone saying far more than the question he uttered. “How are we going to track it?”
Jack stared back, his eyes speaking volumes.
“Suppose something happens to you or me,” Charlie said slowly. “How’s anyone going to know where to look?”
“We’ll just have to make sure nothing happens to you or me.”
Charlie paused a moment, his mind working. “This isn’t some elaborate way to hide Christmas presents or anything, is it?”
Mia smiled. “If the three of us tuck it away, there shouldn’t be any problem.”
Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You know I can’t let her beyond the gate—”
“She’s FBI,” Jack said.
Mia reached into her purse and flashed her credentials.
“You know that carries no weight.” He nodded to Mia. “No offense.”