Reckless Ambition
Part 10, the conclusion


  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.
 

Index