Blind Man's Alley (15 page)

“We certainly would have understood, especially if you were all out of town,” Jeremy said, finding the whole thing somewhat ridiculous. There were a couple hundred people at the party; one less wouldn’t have been missed. Then again, his father was precisely the sort of person who would stew over who hadn’t come, ignoring all of those who had, so maybe Mattar had a point.

“Just as you did not drink wine at dinner the other night, so it was important for one of us to be here tonight. There can be no business without respect.”

“Sounds like something my father would say.”

Mattar nodded solemnly, as if he and Jeremy had just agreed on a matter of grave concern. “The traditions are important, of course, but men like you and I know the world has changed. When I am in Dubai, I act according to what is expected of me there. But when in New York, I like to enjoy those things that New York offers.”

Mattar looked at him meaningfully as he spoke. Jeremy’s present state of mind was working against him; he was too fucked up to get a clear read on Mattar. The guy was clearly not one to come out and say anything in a straightforward way. But Jeremy was pretty sure he understood what Mattar was getting at. “New York can certainly be a lively place,” he said. “Especially after dark. I can show you around sometime—a night on the town.”

“If it would not be an imposition,” Mattar said immediately, smiling, letting Jeremy know he’d understood correctly.

Jeremy grinned back. Let’s see his father or, God forbid, his sister fill this role. But then again, presumably neither of them had any interest in being the company pimp.

“A LOVELY
party, Simon,” Steven Blake said.

“Is it?” Simon replied. “I haven’t really noticed.”

“And what a wonderful assortment of people you’ve gathered.”

“How many business cards have you handed out?”

“I assure you I’m well past the point where I come to parties to drum up business.”

“The truth is, I haven’t enjoyed a party since Rachel died,” Simon said. “She was the social one. Not like that’s a secret.”

“Michele complains that she never sees you,” Blake said.

“Why isn’t she here tonight?”

“I can’t seem to drag her out to the city anymore. She’s out in Amagansett pretty much year-round,” Blake said. His third marriage was to a woman fifteen years his junior. Although still in her forties, Michele had seemingly tired of city life, spending even the winter months in the Hamptons. It was a white lie that Michele complained about not seeing Simon; as soon as they’d married Michele had lost all pretense of interest in Blake’s business friends.

“Leah tells me she invited a young lawyer from your firm here tonight,” Simon said. “The one you brought to the meeting the other week.”

“He mentioned it,” Blake said. “I was a tad surprised, I’ll admit, but he’s one of our real up-and-comers. Who knows, he might even be the next Steven Blake.”

“I certainly didn’t raise Leah to fraternize with the help.”

Blake wasn’t entirely sure of the extent to which this was a joke. “Like it or not, the next generation is knocking at the door for both of us. I hope my firm will continue to represent Roth Properties for decades to come.”

Leah came over, the two men falling silent at her approach. “You two better not be plotting business,” she said. “Have you talked to anyone you don’t already know tonight?” Leah asked her father.

“If I don’t know them, the fuck are they doing at my party?”

Leah rolled her eyes before turning to Blake. “Was he always like this, and I was just too young to remember?”

“Simon used to respond to prodding better,” Blake replied. “But I don’t think his fundamental nature’s changed.”

“I saw that Jeremy was off making friends with Mattar,” Leah said to her father. “Surely if he can mingle you can.”

“But he won’t even remember doing so when he wakes up tomorrow.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Leah said.

“Don’t cover for him,” Simon replied.

Duncan had approached the three just in time to overhear Simon’s last remark. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say good night.”

“Going back to the office, I hope,” Blake said in a flat attempt at banter, while Simon Roth looked at Duncan like he’d never seen him before.

“Leaving so soon?” Leah said, just as the pause was growing uncomfortable. “But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. Come, we’ll go for a quick stroll before you go.”

“A stroll?” Duncan asked.

“In our garden.”

Duncan followed Leah out the back. The garden space was about eight hundred square feet, slightly larger than Duncan’s entire apartment. Other than a couple of stray smokers near the doorway, it was unoccupied. A slatted wooden fence enclosed the yard, only the top windows of the neighboring apartment building visible. Leah led the way to the outer edge, which Duncan realized was likely the only place at the party where they could actually be alone.

“So I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time tonight,” she said.

Duncan forced a smile, looking over at Leah, whose own gaze was fastened up at the night sky. “Who said I didn’t have a good time?”

“People who are having a good time at a party don’t generally leave in less than an hour.”

“I don’t know anyone here other than you and my boss,” Duncan said. “And you have hostessing duties, and my boss is my boss.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out. I realize you probably felt like you couldn’t say no when I invited you.”

“I wanted to come,” Duncan said quickly.

“Really? And why was that?”

Duncan didn’t have an answer handy, as Leah had obviously suspected. But he was quick on his feet, which was what she was presumably testing. “I figured this was part of the process by which we become allies.”

Leah smiled at this; Duncan thought it the most genuine smile he’d seen from her. “That was exactly my intention,” she said. “But I’m afraid I fell short on the execution. You have my apologies for that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Blindsiding you with Darryl like that. It was incredibly rude of me.”

Duncan wondered if Darryl was at this party as a guest or if he was working, or some combination of the two, but it wasn’t a question he was going to ask. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to blindside me,” he said.

“Oh, but I did,” Leah exclaimed, smiling and touching Duncan’s arm. “It was absolutely premeditated.”

Duncan was unsure whether Leah was actually trying to start a fight, or if this was more in the way of a display of power. He guessed the latter: she must know he wouldn’t fight back. Perhaps she was just again putting him in his place. “If there was a moral to the story, I may have missed it.”

“It seemed important somehow for the two of you to meet. You do similar work for us, though I don’t know if you see it that way, and I think it’s helpful if everybody has a human face. Sometimes it’s easier to do your job when you forget there are people on the other end; I get that. But we want both you and Darryl on
our
side at the end of the day, not opposed to each other.”

Duncan didn’t like where this was going. “Listen,” he said. “If you guys aren’t comfortable with our handling the Nazario case, just let me know and I’ll bring it to Blake’s attention.”

“Don’t be silly, Duncan,” Leah said. “I’ve spoken to Blake about it myself. And Darryl understands too.”

“He didn’t seem all that understanding.”

“Understanding and liking are two different things,” Leah said. “So you’re not going to tell me why you didn’t have a good time tonight?”

“It’s not that I didn’t,” Duncan said. “But this isn’t my part of town, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you sure? Harvard Law, Blake and Wolcott—aren’t those just means to an end?”

“To what end?”

“To be here,” Leah said. “This is inside. This is behind the magic curtain.”

Duncan looked up at the brightly lit house, the shadowy figures moving around inside, as if expecting to see Leah’s metaphor somehow brought to life. “Maybe I’m not inside yet.”

“Of course you’re not. I don’t blame you for feeling aware of that, but I’m surprised it registers as flight rather than fight with you.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Though I’m not exactly sure what fighting would look like in this context.”

Leah studied him, looking vaguely disappointed. It was clear that he’d let her down somehow, but Duncan didn’t understand what it was she’d been expecting. “Is this all just work to you?” she asked.

Duncan was still trying to read her and not having any luck. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking,” he finally said.

“Right now. Standing here with me in my garden, is this just you being a good soldier for your firm?”

Duncan looked away, smiling, then back at Leah, whose own expression hadn’t changed. “If you’re asking whether I enjoy talking to you, yes, I do. Do I think you’re maybe having some fun keeping me on my toes? Yes again.”

“Point taken,” Leah said. “If I promise to be on best behavior, would you like to get dinner sometime? And don’t say yes just because I’m a client. Although of course I am.”

“I’d like that,” Duncan said.

“Good. Well, then, I guess you’re free to go,” Leah said.

15

H
AVING GROWN
up in a housing project, Rafael found many aspects of Rikers Island familiar. He was used to harsh institutional surroundings. Jail was worse, of course: the brutal, numbing fact of confinement, the claustrophobia that came with knowing you were stuck, barely seeing the light of day, the constant hum of menace from both fellow prisoners and the guards. At least you could leave the project when things got to be too much, just head out the door and keep walking.

Rafael was doing his best to keep to himself, head down, not draw any attention. The place was too crowded and intrusive to allow someone to go unnoticed, but Rafael could carry himself hard enough that nobody was looking to punk him.

The one good thing coming out of facing a murder charge was that it got Rafael his own cell. For his first week at the jail, he had been housed in what was known as the projects, large open bullpens with fifty or so bunk beds. But then he’d been moved to maximum security, where every inmate got his own cell.

Rafael had been placed in a block of seventy-five prisoners. It was split roughly evenly between blacks and Hispanics, plus a handful of white guys. During the afternoon their individual cells were unlocked and they were allowed to hang out in the common area, which was basically a stretch of brightly colored plastic chairs, with a small wall-mounted TV on either end. People generally clustered around the tables near the TVs, blacks around one, Hispanics the other. There were four phones in the common area, which were also divided up by race. A white guy who wanted to use the phone had to pick his spots, and make it quick.

There was a delicate balance of power between the black gangs and the Latino gangs; from the phones to the cafeteria tables, pretty much everything was controlled by one group or the other. Segregation was virtually complete: everyone stuck with their own kind; doing otherwise risked violence. The racial hostility was far worse than anything Rafael had ever experienced.

Rafael got the bitter joke that what was keeping him relatively safe in jail was that as an accused murderer he was considered too dangerous to be put in the general population. But on the other hand most of the people in his cell block were facing charges on a violent crime, and the peace that endured was tenuous and uneasy.

The man in the cell next to his, Luis Gutierrez, was also Puerto Rican. Luis was in for armed robbery. He was a few years older than Rafael, short, but with a wrestler’s build, a spiderweb tattoo on the side of his neck. Luis clearly wasn’t someone that anyone with any sense would ever want to fuck with.

At first glance Rafael had been worried about Luis, but instead the man was friendly from the jump, calling Rafael his brother, introducing him to other Puerto Ricans on the cell block. Rafael couldn’t help but appreciate it, but he also knew not to let his guard down.

Other than meals, showers, and exercise, the only time Rafael left the cell block was to work in the jail’s laundry room. He’d been hoping to get assigned to work in the kitchen, but no dice. Nobody accused of a violent crime was allowed to work there; the kitchen had more actual and potential weapons than anywhere else in the jail. Instead he spent most of his time preparing the setups for new prisoners. These consisted of a blanket, sheet, towel, soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. He wrapped everything together in the blanket, creating a little bundle, which he then piled on carts.

He’d spent the morning in the laundry room, his shift ending at noon. From there he went straight to the cafeteria. Like most of Rikers, the dining area was full of bright primary colors—the pastel greens and yellows making Rafael feel like he was stuck in some sadistic version of a preschool. He’d managed to find a seat at the far edge of a table, nobody right near him.

Lunch was a meat loaf so brutally awful Rafael suspected the kitchen of deliberate sabotage. It crumbled, dry as burned toast, and tasted like it had been made out of cardboard mixed with cigarette ash. Rafael was halfway finished eating, forcing the food down, chewing as little as possible to keep actually tasting it to a minimum, when a man sat down directly across from him, looking right at him as he did so. He was a compact Hispanic man, mid-thirties, with buzz-cut hair and a small goatee, a prison tattoo on his right hand. But the striking thing was his direct, friendly look: eye contact with strangers was a rare and potentially dangerous thing at Rikers.

“Buenos días,”
the man said.

“What’s up?” Rafael replied, instinct telling him to reply in English. He didn’t know who this guy was or what he wanted, which meant he wasn’t to be trusted. Answering in Spanish would have created some slight bond between them that he was not willing to concede.

“You don’t speak Spanish?” the man asked, looking surprised. His English was good, but with a heavy accent, not that of a native speaker. “You Rafael, right?”

Rafael didn’t like it that the man knew who he was. He nodded curtly.

“I’m Armando. Where you come from, Rafael?”

“The Alphabet projects.”

Armando cocked his head. He hadn’t touched the food on his plate. “No,
amigo
, I mean where you come from.”

“I’m Puerto Rican.”

Armando waved his hand dismissively, apparently finding that only a statement of the obvious. “Where in Puerto Rico?”

“Vieques,” Rafael said. It was basically just a name to him, not a place he had any real sense of connection to.

“My people are in San Juan,” Armando said. “We keep track of our own up in here, you know.”

“You keep track of all the Ricans in here?” Rafael said. “Must be a busy man.”

Armando looked surprised for a moment, then chose to laugh. “It’s true they got a lot of us in here, but that’s not no joke. You’re in here for shooting a white man.”

His lawyer had told him not to talk to anyone about his case. Rafael didn’t understand how Armando knew so much about him, how he’d come to be on the man’s radar. “What you in for?” Rafael said, adding some street to his voice.

“Because I’m a brown man who knows our people got to do for themselves. That makes me a threat to them who run this country.”

Rafael tilted his head, not wanting to show too much skepticism, but not buying this either. “They got you in here for representing?”

“They got me in for something they want to call racketeering,” Armando said. “But that’s just their way of making it into something they know how to deal with. You come up from nowhere, try to get your own for you and your people, they call you a criminal. You go to one of them Ivy League schools and do it, they gonna call you a businessman.”

“Got that right,” Rafael said. He was pretty sure he saw where this was going, and was confident Armando posed no immediate threat. But that didn’t mean Rafael wanted to make an enemy out of him.

“You recognize that we’re a people with our own country, right?”

“I grew up here in New York,” Rafael said.

“Look around you, yo, you see
America
here? You think this is what America look like to the white boys with all the money? Who you think they put in here? We’re the people they don’t want out in the street. That includes you,
amigo
, because you’re sitting here same as me. A man’s gotta know where he’s from, because it’s only your own people who’ll have your back. Not too many can get through this place by themselves.”

“I been okay in here. Don’t take no shit, don’t give no shit—same as out on the street.”

“Same game as the street, sure, but motherfuckers play it harder up in here. And it ain’t just being safe. It’s about doing together with your people.”

“I hear you,” Rafael said.

“That’s all I’m talking, my brother, just listening. Maybe you can learn something about where you belong in this world.”

Rafael knew the worst mistake he could make in jail was to get on the bad side of his own. Word would spread that he was unprotected, and the black gangs and the skinheads and every other racist dumb ass would want to take a shot. But he also knew that this was all a sales pitch, and that what Armando really wanted was to recruit him. “I’m doing all right on my own in here,” Rafael said. “Going to keep my head down, do my time.”

Armando smiled slightly, although his eyes didn’t change. “You’re going to need your brothers here,” he said. “Everybody does.”