“How’d he get Walker ’s number?” asks Van Buren.
“I really don’t know. I saw Feifer talking to my cousin Nikki at Wilson ’s; maybe he got it from her.”
“And how did you feel about that?” asks Detective Knight.
“About what?”
“About Eric Feifer putting the moves on your cousin.”
When Knight says that, he’s leaning halfway across the small table again, so when I bring my hand down hard in the middle of the table, he jumps back as if a gun went off.
“You’re the one with the problem,” I say, my face in Knight’s now, even more than his was in Dante’s. I’m bluffing, but Knight doesn’t know that. “Dante had nothing to do with these murders. He was there. That’s all. Now he’s here to share everything he saw and heard that night. But either the tone of this questioning changes, or this interview is over!”
Knight looks at me as though he’s going to throw a punch, and I kind of hope he will. But before he makes up his mind to do it, there’s a hard knock on the door.
Chapter 32. Tom
VAN BUREN STEPS outside, and J. T. Knight and I continue to glower at each other until his partner returns with a large brown paper bag. Van Buren places the bag behind his chair and whispers something to Knight.
I can’t make out Van Buren’s words, but I can’t miss his smirk. Or Knight’s, either. What the hell is this about?
“Let’s all calm down here for a second,” says Van Buren, a trill in his voice belying his words. “Dante, did you stop at the Princess Diner in Southampton on your way out here tonight?”
Dante looks over at me again, then answers. “Yeah, so Tom could use the bathroom.”
“Tom the only one who used the bathroom?”
“No, I think Clarence went too.”
“You think or you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So that left you alone in the car? Is that right?”
“I didn’t need to go.”
“Really?”
“What are you getting at?” I ask Van Buren, who maybe isn’t as dumb as he seems.
“An hour ago we got a call from someone who was at the diner at about two thirty this morning. The caller says they saw a very tall black man throw a gun into the Dumpster in the parking lot.”
“That’s a lie,” says Dante, shaking his head and looking at me desperately. “I never got out of the car. Didn’t happen.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, why don’t you send a cop out there and look for yourself?”
“We did,” says Van Buren, a smug smile creasing his lips. Then he reaches behind his back and drops a sealed plastic bag on the table like a poker player triumphantly laying down a full house.
Staring up at us through the plastic and looking almost obscene is a handgun with a black plastic handle and a dull steel barrel.
“I’ve never seen that gun in my life!” cries Dante. “And it’s not Michael’s gun either.”
I cut him off. “Dante’s not saying another word.”
Chapter 33. Tom
I DON’T KNOW what feels worse-what just happened, or the thought of facing Marie. I stagger up the stairs into the small waiting area, where Marie and Clarence jump from their chairs and surround me.
Behind them, steep sunlight streams through the glass door to the parking lot. It’s 8 a.m. Dante and I were in that box for two hours.
“What’s happening to my grandson, Mr. Dunleavy?”
“I need some air, Marie,” I say, and walk through the door into the cool morning.
Marie follows and stops me in my tracks. “What’s happening to my grandson? Why won’t you look at me, Mr. Dunleavy? I’m standing right in front of you.”
“They don’t believe him,” I say, finally meeting her eye. “They don’t believe his story.”
“How can that be? The young man has never lied in his life. Did you tell them that?”
Clarence puts his arm around her and looks at me sympathetically. “Tom’s doing his best, Marie.”
“His best? What do you mean, his best? Did he tell them Dante had no reason on earth to commit these crimes? And where’s the gun? There’s no weapon.”
I look at Clarence, then back at Marie. “Actually, they have the gun.”
I sit on a bench and look at the early morning traffic rolling by on Route 27. What a mess this is; what a complete disaster. And it’s only just starting.
“So, what are you going to do now, Mr. Dunleavy?” asks Marie. “You’re his lawyer, aren’t you?”
Before I can come up with any kind of response, the door swings open behind us. Dante, in handcuffs again, is being led out by two more cops, this time from the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department.
The cops try to fend off Marie, but they’re no match for her, and she runs between them and throws her arms around her grandson’s chest. Dante looks ready to cry, and Marie’s face looks even more heartbroken. The cops don’t want to grab her, so they turn to me.
“Where are you taking him?” I ask.
“ Suffolk County Courthouse.”
“We’ll follow them in Clarence’s cab,” I tell Marie. She whispers something to Dante as Clarence gently pries away her arms. Both of them are crying, and I’m pretty close myself.
“Are you in over your head?” Marie suddenly asks me.
I look at her, and I don’t say absolutely, but I’m pretty sure she can read my mind.
Chapter 34. Tom
THIRTY YEARS AGO, when the county slapped it together at the outskirts of Riverhead, the Arthur M. Cromarty Complex, a sprawling campus of county courtrooms, might have looked almost impressive and modern with its big white walls and tall glass doors.
Now it looks as plain and shoddy as any out-of-date corporate park. We pull into the complex just as Dante is being led into the main building. Hustling past a flock of off-course seagulls, we follow him in through the glass doors.
The guard behind the metal detector tells us that arraignments are handled by Judge Barreiro on the third floor, and with a beefy, heavily tattooed arm, he points us to the elevator.
Courtroom 301 has the same stench of catastrophe as an inner-city emergency room, which in a way it is. The distraught members of two dozen families have rushed here on short notice, and they’re scattered in clusters throughout the forty rows of seats.
Clarence, Marie, and I find an empty section and sit and wait as a parade of men, mostly young and dark-skinned, are processed.
One after another, they’re ushered through a side door with a sheriff on each arm and, as devastated moms and girlfriends and court-appointed attorneys look on, are formally charged with burglary, drug sale, domestic battery, and assault. For three years I was one of those public defenders, so I know the drill.
“Such a shame,” Marie whispers, talking to herself. “This is so wrong.”
The system proceeds with brutal efficiency, each arraignment taking less than ten minutes, but it’s still more than two hours before a disembodied voice announces, “The people in the county of Suffolk in the state of New York versus Dante Halleyville.” And now it’s Marie and Clarence’s turn to gasp.
Like the others before him, Dante wears handcuffs and a bright-orange county-issued jumpsuit, in his case several inches too short in the legs and arms.
Dante is marched to a rectangular table in front of the judge. Already sitting there is his court-appointed attorney, a tall, stooped man close to sixty with overly large horn-rimmed glasses. This is mostly Marie’s doing. She knows Dante is innocent, so she’s advised him to use what the court gives him. I don’t necessarily agree, but I’m just here to give free advice when I’m asked, if I’m asked.