Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (43 page)

“You know, Hillary,” I said, “if you’re going to sleep over and want to keep your romance a secret, you really shouldn’t be answering the phone.” I loved calling her Hillary for the first time. I laughed.

I could only imagine the look of horror on her uptight face as she handed O’Brien my call. I gave him the high points of my chat with Will Harris.

“I’m not riding in that damn sports car of yours,” he said. “How soon before I can pick you up?”

“A half hour.”

“You got fifteen minutes.”

The prison was 343 miles from White Plains. O’Brien was not about to be chauffeured by a woman, so I knew once we started, he would keep the speedometer in his unmarked police car on 90 mph and he’d be reluctant to stop until we reached the prison gate. I don’t know how a cop his age could drink a thermos full of coffee and not need to pee, but I watched him do it as we raced along Highway 17 to Interstate 390 through the picturesque communities of Goshen, Monticello, Liberty, and Binghamton.

Finally, I demanded he make a pit stop and he grumbled the entire time. I started seeing familiar sites as we approached Elmira and mentioned that this is where I’d lived as a child.

“My dad and grandfather are buried here,” I said. Before I realized it, I had told O’Brien about my family. O’Brien chewed on his toothpick as he drove, without commenting. We were approaching the Elmira exit when he said, “You want to stop at the cemetery to pay your respects?”

“I’m not sure we have time.”

“We’ll make time. You’re an assistant D.A. and my old man worked at Attica, remember? We don’t have to worry about normal visiting hours. You do know where they’re buried, don’t you?”

“They’re both World War Two vets so they’re at Woodlawn National Cemetery. Some really important Americans are buried there.”

“Oh yeah, anyone I’ve ever heard of?”

“Herman Melville, Thomas Nast, Irving Berlin?”

“Don’t ring a bell.”

“Okay, how about Ernie Davis—or Mark Twain?”

With a mischievous grin, O’Brien said, “Davis was the first black to ever win the Heisman Trophy. But that other character—Twain—not sure I’ve heard of him.”

I smiled, knowing he was joking—or at least hoping he was.

I suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to call Mom and cancel our Saturday-night theater date. I knew she would be disappointed, but I also knew that my mom was so in dependent and frugal that she would not let her tickets go to waste. She’d find a friend and a way to get to that show without me.

We drove to my grandfather’s grave first and then to my dad’s. I asked O’Brien to wait in the car when we were at my father’s grave so that I could say a few words. Standing at the foot of his grave, I told him how much I loved him and regretted that he’d never seen me try a criminal case.

“Mom and I are fine but we miss you terribly.”

When I got back into the car, I told O’Brien that I needed to find a pay phone so I could call Mom. O’Brien headed to a nearby gas station and finally went to relieve himself while I rang up Mom and explained.

Back on the interstate, O’Brien bumped the speed up to 95 mph and asked, “So how’s your mom? You know, she’s a real looker.”

I looked at him with a horrified face and said, “Detective, don’t you think you got enough on your plate with Miss Potts?”

“I was just teasing you. Giving you a bit back after that stunt you pulled this morning.”

“Are you angry at me for talking to Hillary?” I relished calling her by her first name.

“She wasn’t happy, that’s for sure. In fact, she’s damn mad that you know about us.”

“I’m not going to say anything. I was just teasing her because she can be, how shall I say this? She’s so prim and proper and I can only imagine the hoopla you two make,” I said, intentionally staring at him to see his reaction.

O’Brien shot me a knowing glance and said, “Better to leave her alone or you’ll have the both of us to deal with.”

O’Brien was not the type to share personal information, so I was happy that he felt comfortable talking about Potts. I decided to push my luck. “You told me that retirement killed your dad. Is he buried in Attica—not at the prison, of course, but in the actual town?”

O’Brien kept his eyes on the road and didn’t answer.

“I mean, if you want to pay your respects to your father, I’d be happy to wait.”

“No need.”

“I’m just saying since we stopped in Elmira, I’d be happy to return the courtesy.”

“I said no need,” O’Brien growled.

Neither of us spoke for several moments, but I just couldn’t leave it alone.

“Maybe we could stop and see your mom then—if she still lives in Attica. I’d like to meet her.”

“Give the touchy-feely family stuff a rest, okay?”

“I was just trying to make conversation. Besides, you asked me about my parents and told me my mom was good-looking.”

O’Brien let out a sigh and said, “My mom is dead. Okay? She didn’t have a happy life. Not everyone had a great childhood and wonderful parents.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Why would you? My father was from a different generation. He went to work, and when he came home, he had some beers, read the sports page, and expected my mom to raise the kids. The only time he got involved was when she needed backup. Then he’d come at us with his belt.”

“Your father beat you?”

O’Brien turned and gave me an irked stare. “He gave me and my brothers whippings—not beatings. We deserved them, at least most the time. Like I said, it was different. It was about respect. When my old man asked you to do something, you didn’t give him any lip or you got a fat lip. I remember going to school with two black eyes.”

“None of your teachers said anything?”

“You joking? This was the thirties and I grew up in a tough blue-collar neighborhood. No one said nothing because no one considered it a problem. When kids got out of line, you smacked ’em. On good days, my old man might flip you a quarter so you could go to the Saturday matinee. On bad days, it was best you just stayed clear.”

“How about your mom?”

“What about her?”

“Did he hit her, too?”

“What is this—some sort of domestic violence interview? Save it for work. Our clients need your help, I don’t.”

We rode in deafening silence for several miles. I watched the countryside passing by. Finally, he said, “Of course my old man hit my mother. It was just how he was. He was not a communicator. When I was little, there wasn’t nothing I could do. But when I got big enough, I stood up to him one day.”

“Wow, that was brave.”

“My father looked at me differently when I did it. I was challenging him. It was as if he were sizing me up as a man. I think he’d always expected this day was coming. He knew I was going to take a swing at him and he said, ‘You need to think about what you’re about to try. ’Cause, boy, if we go at it—the free ride is over. This is my house and there can only be one man here. Even if you beat me, you’re out on your butt.’”

“What happened?”

“I threw a punch. Caught him right in his jaw. But it didn’t faze him as much as I thought. He was one tough bastard. He knocked me on my ass with one punch. I was sixteen and in good shape. He was probably forty. We went at it like two junkyard dogs. We beat each other until neither of us could lift an arm. My hands hurt for days. And that was the last night I ever spent living under his roof. The next day, I lied about my age and signed up for the Marines.”

“Didn’t your mom have a say?”

“Oh, she had plenty to say. She was furious. But her anger was all aimed at me. She told me I’d disrespected my old man and it wasn’t up to me to fight her battles. She was worried about him when we were lying there both bloody. I remember her saying, ‘Who’s gonna pay the bills if he’s laid up?’ It was the damndest thing. I thought I was going to be her hero and she was angry at me for getting involved.”

“She was wrong to do that.”

“She was his wife. That’s where her loyalty belonged.”

I quietly realized that this was the reason why O’Brien had sought me out when he’d first learned about Rudy Hitchins beating Mary Margaret. It was the reason why he’d agreed to work with the Domestic Violence Unit. I looked at him driving, and in his tough face, I could see the small boy who had grown up being slapped around, who had tried to protect his mother, and who had been rejected emotionally by both when he’d tried to put an end to the violence.

54

The Attica correctional facility south of town looks like a medieval fortress. Constructed in the 1930s, it’s surrounded by thick walls that rise more than thirty feet from the street. The entrance has a cupola fixed with two large searchlights. It is a forbidding place.

I’d never been inside the famed New York maximum-security penitentiary, and despite repairs after the 1971 riot, it remained gloomy and grim. Voices echoed off the cold gray walls, as did the sounds of cell doors opening and closing. We were greeted at the entrance by a beefy assistant warden. O’Brien had given me advice about how to act inside the walls.

“Don’t refer to them as guards. It’s disrespectful. They’re correctional officers. They aren’t knuckle-draggers. Don’t describe the prisoners as convicts. That gives them too much respect. They’re inmates.”

I’d no idea terminology was so important, but O’Brien told me prisons were all about control, respect, and violence. Words mattered.

I’d come to interview Antonio Hernandez, one of the thirty-fourth precinct officers who’d pleaded guilty to accepting bribes from Carlos Gonzales. O’Brien stayed in the front lobby while I entered the prison through a sally port, which was a small passageway with bars at both ends. One gate opened, I stepped inside, that gate closed, then the one in front of me opened. This way, there was always at least one set of bars between the interior of the prison and the exit.

A correctional officer escorted me to a visiting room that was more like a horse stall. It was divided into two separate areas by a brick half wall and wire mesh screen that rose from the bricks to the ceiling. There was a metal stool on each side of the screen. I stepped into my side and the door behind me was locked. A door on the other side of the wire screen opened and Hernandez was led in. The former police officer was wearing an orange jumpsuit, which meant that he was housed in the prison’s protective custody—away from the general prison population for his own safety. There was a chain attached to his ankles that forced him to shuffle. He was handcuffed, and those cuffs were locked onto a belly belt, which kept him from extending his wrists more than a few inches from his waist.

O’Brien had told me that former cops had to be kept away from other prisoners because they would be murdered. The protective custody unit where Hernandez lived also was home to snitches and weaker inmates who would be easily preyed upon. Nothing like home sweet home.

Having never met Hernandez, I didn’t know what to expect. He was in his early forties, about five feet ten inches tall and a mass of muscles. His forearms and biceps were huge from pumping iron. He had a Fu Manchu mustache and his head was shaved. I suspected his fierce look and weight-lifting regimen were born from necessity. He wanted to appear intimidating in prison. He did. At least to me.

“You wanted to talk to me about Carlos Gonzales.”

“What I want is to cut a deal.”