"Where is that fool Jabal?" he muttered to the other bodyguard. "Go look in the alley and see if he is relieving himself."
The bodyguard walked down the block to the entrance of the alley. The space between the buildings was pitch-black and he couldn't see beyond a Dumpster ten feet from the entrance. "Jabal?" he said.
There was the sound of scurrying and something sent a bottle skittering in the dark, making the bodyguard jump and put his hand inside his coat for the comfort of his gun. Rats, he thought when his nerves calmed down, just rats.
"Jabal?" he said a little louder. But there were no more sounds. He considered exploring the alley for his colleague. But when he took a step into the blackness a chill seemed to freeze his muscles, and he could force himself to go no farther. He returned to his leader who was waiting impatiently.
"Well?" Al-Sistani demanded.
The bodyguard shrugged. "He wasn't there. Perhaps he thought he'd been noticed by a passing police car and left to avoid being questioned."
Al-Sistani thought about it. "Yes," he concluded. "He wouldn't want to draw attention to this place. He'll meet up with us later."
The two men left, walking past the alley where the bodyguard had heard the sounds. He'd been right about the rats. Dozens of them had smelled the blood and come running to feast on the headless body of the second bodyguard behind the Dumpster.
9
Kings County District Attorney Kristine Breman peered through the tinted window of her official limousine at the two black men leaning against the brick wall of a dark office building that occupied the corner of Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard and 121st Street. The bigger of the two-his girth so wide that his arms stuck out to the side like an immensely fat penguin-rocked forward from his angle of repose and waddled toward them, his broad face wrinkled into a menacing scowl.
A small, childlike voice began to chime in Breman's head. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here. Why am I here? If she had been behind the wheel, she might have stepped on the gas pedal and roared out of there like Mario Andretti at the Indy 500. But she had no choice except to get out of the car when her driver opened the door for her.
The whole mess had started that past spring when Hugh Louis called and asked for an appointment. As he pretty much told her black constituency how to vote, she had willingly granted him an audience. In fact, she'd sent out for a tray of snacks from the local deli and several bottles of root beer, which he was known to love.
After trading meaningless compliments and bromides, Louis popped the top on one of the root beers, washed down a canape, and got down to business. He told her that a prison inmate named Enrique Villalobos would soon contact her and confess that he alone was responsible for the 1992 rape of a woman named Liz Tyler under the pier at Coney Island. Louis said he was representing the four men who'd been "falsely imprisoned" and that he intended to sue New York City as the employer of the police officers and detectives who had carried out this "abominable injustice," as well as the Kings County District Attorney's Office, which had "conspired" through the two women prosecutors who'd acted in concert with the police to deprive his clients of their constitutional rights. He also intended to sue the cops and the prosecutors as individuals, though obviously it was the government entities that had the deeper pockets. Louis paused to make sure she understood what he was saying.
Breman understood. She also knew that she was staring at him with her mouth hanging open but couldn't quite bring herself to try a different expression. This is a nightmare, she thought. She barely remembered the Coney Island case-she'd still been working for the New York DA's office in 1992 and had been too busy trying to stave off being released for incompetence to worry about some rape case in someone else's jurisdiction. It was only by chance-in the form of partisan politics, a strong political machine, and a few favors called in and promised in return-that a half-dozen years later she'd won the election for the office of Kings County District Attorney, which was essentially Brooklyn.
The press is going to make my life miserable, she thought. Got to find a way out of this. She cleared her throat, smiled weakly at Louis, and said, "Yes, umm, go on."
Sweating profusely already, Louis grunted and thought, Got the bitch right where I want her. Taking his time, he finished off the root beer and pounded his chest lightly before emitting a long belch. "Pardon me," he said not very convincingly. "Anyway, as I was saying…"
Louis said he was convinced that he could prove a pattern of reckless misconduct on the part of the two prosecutors, as well as Breman's predecessor in office. "A pattern I believe the jury, as well as the African-American community, will recognize was based on an institutionalized racism."
At the mention of African-American community and racism, Breman sucked in her breath and held it. She wasn't comfortable around black people; they always seemed to be looking at her as if they secretly blamed her for everything bad that had happened since the days of slavery. But without the black vote, Breman knew she was finished as the district attorney. Her future flashed before her eyes. If she was kicked out of office as the racist DA of Kings County, no firm would hire her. She'd have to hang her shingle out in front of some little strip mall office in Brooklyn and hope to pick up the odd criminal case, plus the cheapie divorces and DUI infractions.
She wouldn't be able to count on her husband for support. The pencil-dicked asshole was a plastic surgeon who preferred screwing his nurses and patients to her. She'd been his ticket into party politics-he saw himself as potential governor material someday-but there'd be no reason to keep her around if she was a nobody.
The image faded and was replaced by the immensely fat Hugh Louis. Fortunately, the plastic smile had never left her face and she pointed out, "I wasn't in office at that time. I-"
Louis held up a big sweaty hand. "I know, I know," he said in his most "Hey, we're all in this together" voice. "I've always liked you, Krissy. May I call you Krissy? Good. Yes, always liked you, thought you was fair and reasonable."
This sounded like a good thing, so Breman brightened. In fact, she was so grateful that tears sprang to her eyes. "Well, you know, I try…" but her mouth snapped shut when Louis held up his hand again.
"Please, allow me to continue," he said. "I would hate for you to suffer the consequences for your predecessor's mistake. We might even have on our hands a Rodney King sort of backlash here…" He was gratified to see Breman blanch. "So because of my respect and fondness for you, and hating the thought of how this community could come apart at the seams, I thought I would speak to you first and see if maybe we could work out an arrangement. Something mutually beneficial to both of us, as well as our community."
Breman was all ears. "Yes," she said, nodding like a bobble-head doll in a car going down the railroad tracks. "I'm sure that's true. Here, have another canape and a root beer…shall I open it for you?"
Louis accepted the groveling with dignity, although inside he was smirking. "Thank you, thank you…excellent spiced meat. May I ask where you got it? Perhaps later you can call my secretary with the name of the deli."
Smiling broadly, Louis said he thought he might be able to convince the African-American community that "these heinous transgressions against my clients" were the work of another regime and that she, Kristine Breman, was not responsible. "However, there is going to have to be a show of good faith from your office." He paused for her reaction.
Breman shook herself as if she'd been daydreaming. "Yes, of course, good faith. Umm…such as?"
Louis pulled out a white hankerchief and mopped at his face before continuing. "Well, nothing more than what would be just and fair. The first is that you meet with Mr. Villalobos and when you find that his story is credible, you will order DNA testing to see if his is a match for the evidence found on the victim's clothes."