Holding her breath, Faith placed the magnifying
glass on the picture and slid it slowly from left
to right, watching the faces of the men shrink
and grow. As she slid it across the windshield of
the car, her heart nearly stopped at the face
she saw there, illuminated for the briefest of
moments by the flare of a lighter. She pushed
herself away from the table, her heart pounding
her chest, ready to scream for Kelson. Backing
away from the picture, she tried to control her
breathing, her breaths coming in short, harsh
gasps.
He was dead.
Caitlin had told her he was dead. Caitlin had seen the body.
He was dead...
Wasn't he?
Moving cautiously, slowly, as if the figure in
the photograph could reach out and grab her. She
sat warily on the couch and let out a long, slow
breath. You’re wrong, Faith…you must be
wrong…she thought to herself, pulling the picture
onto her lap. Taking the magnifying glass up
in her sweaty hand, she lowered it slowly to the
picture.
She sucked in a horrified breath as her eyes recognized
the chiseled features…the dark hair
and darker eyes, the defined mouth. All of the
man whom Faith had loved so many years ago.
The man who had shared her bed, married her, fathered
her child, stolen Chloe away, killed
her unborn baby with a precisely planned car accident,
shot her best friend, kidnapped she and
Chloe away in the middle of the night, held her
hostage in a shack in Georgia and then raped
her…leaving her for dead. She shuddered at the
memories.
He couldn’t be alive.
Getting up, Faith walked over to the window and
parted the blinds, staring out into the tranquil
lights of New York City, masking the chaos that
went on in the streets below. He was out there
somewhere, he was down in the chaos…
The question was, was he going to come after her…or
was he going to let her alone? Who
knows how long he’d been in New York…
“Sugar?”
Faith jumped, her heart in her throat as she spun
around. Kelson was standing in the doorway,
wearing his pajama bottoms and a concerned expression.
“You okay?” he asked, quietly. His
eyes fell on the picture on the coffee table.
“Ah, sugar…you shouldn’t be looking at these…”
He squatted down and busily filed it into the
folder. Faith slid the magnifying class secretly
behind the curtain on the window sill, clearing
her throat. Kelson straightened up, smiling softly.
“Ready for bed?”
She brushed her hair away from her face, hiding
her trembling hands behind her back. “Yes,”
she whispered, eager to be in the safe embrace
of his arms, trying to push the dark thoughts
away. “Yes…”
***
At 8 AM on February 1, members of the ATF, the
FBI and the NYPD came to Hiram Sullivan's
home to serve search and arrest warrants. They
found no sign of the Judge or his car, but
plenty of photographs and video cassettes. More
incriminating evidence was in the hard drive
of Sullivan's computer.
One day later, the Judge's car was found in the
parking lot of a strip mall in Schenectady. A
small amount of reddish-yellow fluid--with human
blood--was found on the trunk floor. The
experts concluded that someone with a head injury
severe enough to leak cerebrospinal fluid
had been placed in the trunk. The blood type matched
Judge Sullivan's.
On February 2, Force Plodder was officially disbanded.
A search of the suspicious office on
West 46th had turned up only a safe filled with
ashes, and a dismantled computer.
Deitz and Oromocto hosted a party at the surveillance
headquarters that evening. It was not a
boisterous affair--the Whitestone School catastrophe
and the genuine evidence of corruption
uncovered by Sullivan's team were fresh in everyone's
mind. Still, there were cheers,
especially when Deitz announced that Lennie Briscoe,
Ed Green and Anita Van Buren would
resume their regular duties tomorrow.
The police scanner was still on, monitoring the
usual activity. At 8:13, Mike heard a silent alarm
call...from Bianchi's.
*Atlanta!* Mike's heart raced. He yelled, "Hey, there's trouble at Bianchi's!"
With that he ran to the stairs. When he reached
the door he pulled out his gun.
With his gun raised, Mike stepped outside. He couldn't
see what was happening inside
Bianchi's.
With billowing breath he sprinted across the street.
Behind him, the others had stepped outside
and Deitz was giving orders, sending Van Buren,
Briscoe, Green and LaMotte west to look for
any getaway car and directing Reynolds and several
others east. Deitz and Oromocto moved
to back up Mike.
Deitz said, "Easy, Logan," but Mike's heart continued
to race. The thought that Atlanta Willow
was in danger filled him with dread.
He approached the entrance just as three men with stockings on their heads ran outside.
He aimed and yelled, "Police, stop right there!
Hands up!" Deitz and Plodder joined him. They
searched and handcuffed the three as people cheered
from inside. Plodder said, "Like old
times, Rocket."
Mike entered and found Atlanta surrounded by fellow employees. She looked shaky but unhurt.
The robbers had tried to take the whole cash register.
They'd placed their guns on the counter
and concentrated on tearing the machine from its
mounting. Atlanta had scooped the guns out
of their reach.
By the time she finished her story, the others
had arrived. Lennie and Anita had their prize--a
dazed-looking young woman.
"She was the driver," Lennie said. "Awake and alert, gave us a ton of trouble."
Mike and Anita grinned; Lennie was back in form.
Uniformed officers came to run the suspects in.
Mike said, "There's enough room, might as
well finish the party in here. Besides, it's time
Atlanta here learned more cop talk." Atlanta
showed an embarrassed smile.
Parole Board Hearing
Ossining State Correctional Facility
2:16 PM Friday, May 29, 2015
Woodrow Franks said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am
truly sorry for having helped plant that
bomb which killed so many kids at Whitestone School.
But I know that saying 'sorry' isn't
enough. I'm prepared to devote the rest of my
life to making restitution, and I can best do that
as a free man. Last month some employers held
a Job Fair here and my application to be a
chef at the Poughkeep..."
"Thank you, Mr. Franks," said Chairman Silas McNamara. "You may sit down."
Woody's body felt heavier. He knew that parole
was never guaranteed, but the prospect of
staying at least another year in this joint was
frightful.
McNamara and the other Parole Board members did
not appear to be impressed with his
speech. Cranky old Jack McCoy and his stern young
assistant Chelsea Patterson certainly
weren't.
Twenty-five surviving victims of the Whitestone
bombing were present. Seven were in
wheelchairs, six others had prosthetic limbs,
and four were completely blind. Almost all were in
some way visibly scarred.
Of the many impact statements, none was more moving
than Susan Enjo's. She said, "I pity
you, Mr. Franks. You do not seem to understand
family values. Through your act many families
were destroyed. All of these families had at least
one surviving member, but to lose parents
and children, siblings and cousins and friends
so horribly...it bloodies one's soul whether that
person is physically injured or not. I lost my
mother Hillary that day. The Lord put my daughter
Amanda to rest two days later. I remember them,
and the others who were taken, every day.
They may be buried in the ground...but they cannot
be buried in our minds."
District Attorney Jack McCoy kept his face tight.
In the corner of his left eye he saw Chelsea
dab her face; undoubtedly she was thinking of
her sister's death 16 years ago. Chelsea had
resolved to become a prosecutor then; now she
sat at the side of Manhattan's top attorney for
the People.
Silas McNamara announced the Parole Board's decision
just after 3:10. Parole was denied for
Woodrow Franks. He would be eligible to re-apply
in twelve months. Jack watched grimly as
Franks--crestfallen with a hint of dull anger
in his eyes--was led out of the room. Keeping a
man in a place like Sing Sing was not a pleasant
business, but the Parole Board had done its
job in this case.
By 5:15, Jack and Chelsea were back in NYC. They
paused at Whitestone Park. Quite a few
people were present; someone had recently polished
the brass plaque and its black granite
pedestal. Dark red roses gave off funereal sweetness.
The two prosecutors prayed silently, spoke to people
they knew, then excused themselves.
More work was waiting at the Adam Schiff Building.