Klinger was another castoff from the New York District Attorney's Office. She'd come aboard in the waning days of Garrahy's reign, recommended by one of his colleagues who'd done it as a favor to a friend, her father. But the recommendation only went so far, and she'd proved to be a mediocre prosecutor at best. But, as she'd later taught her protegee Breman to emulate, Klinger had involved herself early and often in party politics and when a spot on the bench opened up as a result of the sudden and unexpected death of its owner, she'd inveigled the appointment with the help of her dad, a major contributor to the party.
Even then she wasn't satisfied. She had her eye on becoming nothing less than the U.S. Attorney General. She and Breman sometimes got together at a private spa she belonged to in Manhattan for a "girl's day out" and a giggle about their aspirations. "You look so stunning in basic black…like a judge's robe," she hinted to Breman, who'd blushed and rolled her eyes.
After looking the Kaminsky letter over, Klinger had dismissed it as just another inmate who thought he saw a way out of prison. "He probably thinks that you'd jump at the chance to impeach Villalobos and preserve the case against four black men. But there's no proof here-at best just a he said/he said." Both women knew that a copy of the letter should have been turned over to the defendant's lawyer, in this case the Corporation Counsel. But Klinger said, "I see no sense in letting a red herring like this stand in the way of the truth or cloud the issues. There's a trial coming up; let's let the jury decide whether to believe Villalobos based on his testimony." She offered to hold on to the letter "so that it isn't accidentally discovered in your files and raises questions."
Breman had been only too happy to let Klinger have the letter. She was determined not to even remember its existence, except that in a moment of trying to one-up Louis, she casually mentioned it. At first she'd been pleased to see that he was shaken; after all, he'd done it to her often enough, but then she'd regretted telling him. He got surly and demanded to know who had the letter. She was relieved when he seemed to accept that the letter was in safekeeping with Klinger.
She was happy to report to Louis that she had not heard from Kaminsky since the letter. She glanced over at the two young men. Desmond Davis, a brooding, dark-visaged throwback to mankind's primitive past, had his head on the back of the couch and was staring up at the ceiling. But Sykes was looking right at her with a smile. She smiled back-at least she could feel good about saving this one. He was so well spoken and polite, a shame that the police had ruined his potential.
"Yo, Des, check out the bitch," he said. "She's afraid the big bad wolf might eat her." He leaned forward and made smacking noises with his mouth.
"Jayshon!" Louis rebuked him. "It is important to remember who our friends are…and Ms. Breman is one of them." He turned to Breman, who refused to look anywhere except at Louis. She was in shock. Whatever happened to the nice young man?
Sykes apologized, "I didn't mean anything by that-just the old prison defense mechanism, you know." He didn't like being lectured by the fat lawyer, but he did want to be a rich man. If he had to play the fucking game and listen to this fucked-up talk about trying to reintegrate him and his homies, he could deal. Just so long as after he got the money, nobody tried to tell him what cars he could and couldn't buy, or how many bitches he could have running around the mansion he planned to buy. Then he'd get a little payback on the people who locked him up and, if they weren't careful, the people who tried to boss him around now. The fat lawyer and this skinny bitch will get theirs if they keep pushing, he thought. Thinking about the other woman had been one of Sykes's favorite pastimes in prison. Exhausted by the long night of "wilding," he and his homies had been chilling beneath the pier that morning, drinking the last of the forties of malt liquor they'd stolen from a liquor store and smoking weed. He thought it was funny how easy it was to fool his teachers and others with his clean-cut, valedictorian act. This was the real Jayshon-the other guy was just a fake to get what he wanted.
He was idly whacking at a piling with the piece of steel rebar he'd found the night before when Desmond spotted the woman running down the beach toward them. He'd ordered his comrades back into the shadows until she was just about upon them, then jumped out in front of her.
"Boo!" he yelled in her face.
The woman tried to get away but he jumped in front of her. "Say, where you going, bitch? Me and the homeboys was partyin' and thought maybe you should join us."
The woman tried to move around him. "Leave me alone!" she said in what was apparently meant to appear forceful but only made him laugh and taunt her more. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. Then to his surprise and rage, she'd reached out and clawed his face.
Without thinking about it, his hand with the steel rebar came up and hit her on the side of her head. She'd looked stunned, as if just given bad news, and sank to her knees. "Fucking ho," he snarled and grabbed her by the hair and pulled her under the pier and out of sight from anyone strolling along the boardwalk.
The pain of being dragged by her hair seemed to bring the woman back to her senses. She lunged up from the sand, screaming and scratching for his eyes. He'd felt fear and might have backed off, except Desmond kicked the woman in the small of the back, which knocked the wind out of her and sent her sprawling in the sand. She rose to her hands and knees, then paused, trying to catch her breath. Enraged by his fear, Sykes walked up to her and hit her on the head with the steel rebar again, only harder. The blow knocked her over onto her back, where she lay moaning.
Sykes reached down and grabbed her running shorts and tore them off. Excited by the site of her half-nude body, he shouted, "Hold her" as he dropped his pants and got down between her legs.
Kwasama Jones ended up at her head on his knees and leaned forward to pin her arms. Kevin Little and Packer Wilson each grabbed a leg.
However, after having penetrated her, Sykes found he could not maintain an erection and ejaculate. This only served to anger him more and he punched her twice in the face before jumping up. "Yo, Des, your turn," he shouted and then egged his comrade on.
After Davis was finished, Sykes ordered Wilson to rape her but the fifteen-year-old couldn't get an erection at all, which brought loud guffaws from Sykes. "Look at the little fucker, can't even get it up. Fuck her, homes, ain't you a man?"
Not knowing what else might qualify him for manhood in his leader's eyes, Packer pulled up the woman's shirt and then bit her on the breast hard enough to draw blood. The woman screamed, which made Sykes and Davis laugh; Wilson tried to smile as he wiped the blood from his mouth but he then stood back and did not participate in the rest of the event.
Sykes next ordered Kevin Little to assault the woman, but he turned and threw up in the sand. "Ah shit, the little faggot got sick. Kwasama, you get you some now." But Kwasama shook his head. He'd continued holding her arms down, but he was crying.
Sykes was wondering what to do now with the woman when he noticed the ugly pockmarked Puerto Rican man standing twenty feet away. The greasy fucker looked like a hungry rat and was licking his lips and rubbing his crotch. "Hey, ratface, you want some of this bitch?" he asked.
Villalobos had jumped at the invitation. "Show you boys how to treat these bitches," he said. "If you want to teach them a real lesson, you got to fuck them dirty." He'd then kicked the woman so hard in the side that it knocked her over and onto her stomach. Laughing at the look on the others' faces, he'd then sodomized her, and when he finished, stood and wiped himself on her sweatshirt.