from the minds of the prosecutors, cops, and support personnel who elbowed the mahogany at the Austin. Over the interceding years, many a glass had been raised in the name and legend and memory of Catherine Susan Genovese.
Michael had driven Falynn Harris to her foster parent’s home in Jackson Heights. They had talked for nearly two hours. During that time Michael walked her carefully through the case, twice, and she had proven himself remarkably perceptive and bright, far beyond her fourteen years. Michael knew that if she had half the poise and strength on the stand, the defense would not shake a single branch.
But it was on the drive back to her foster home that something remarkable happened. Michael told Falynn about the murder of his own parents. It just seemed to come out in one long sentence. Except for Abby, he had never told another living soul the whole story; about his fears, his unrelenting grief, his anger.
Was this wrong? Had he crossed the line? There was little doubt in his mind that he had. But he knew why he had done it. He had one chance of putting Patrick Ghegan away for life, and that chance was Falynn Harris. He needed her to be not only intellectually engaged, but emotionally engaged.
When he finished his story, Falynn just stared at him. She dabbed her eyes while he was telling the tale, but now her eyes – although a bit red – were dry. She almost looked a bit matronly.
“What does that saying mean?” she asked.
“Which one?”
“The one your mom said to you right before, you know . . .”
Michael had told her about this, then instantly regretted it. It was something planted deeply in the garden of his soul, and he did not let many people in. “Zhivy budem, ne pomryom,” he said. “ If we will be alive, we will not die.”
Falynn looked out the passenger window for a few moments. It had begun to rain. She looked back at Michael. “What do you think that means really?”
“I have a few ideas,” Michael said. “What do you think it means?”
Falynn gave him a beguiling smile. “I’ll tell you when this is all over.”
Michael nodded. He took out his small notebook, wrote on it. “This is my e-mail address and my cellphone number. You contact me whenever you want. Don’t even look at the clock.”
Falynn took the piece of paper. She unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned over.
“Is it okay to hug you?” she asked.
Michael smiled. “It’s okay.”
They hugged, parted.
As Michael watched her climb the steps, he knew everything was in place. She was going to testify fully against Patrick Ghegan, and the man who had killed her father was, at the very least, going away for life.
Michael Roman was going to win.
Life was good.
T HE BAR WAS PACKED . The gathering was for retiring ADA Rupert White who, it was rumored, was getting ready to join a white-shoe firm on Wall Street.
Michael looked around the room. It was a who’s who of the movers and shakers in Queens politics.
For the first hour it was a standard roast – other prosecutors, defense attorneys, city councilman, judges, all recounting stories and anecdotes, PG-rated ditties that brought casual laughter and mild reproach from the ostensibly dignified Rupert White. In the second hour, after enough Jameson had flowed under the bridge of propriety, the vulgarity was unleashed, and the stories recalled a number of less-than-public episodes, including the time Rupert White was stalked by a disturbed juror from an old case and, of course, a cache of embarrassing inter-office romantic moments.
“As I live and breathe. Tommy Jesus and The Stone Man.”
The voice came from behind Tommy and Michael.
Michael’s nickname, The Stone Man, grew out of two sources. He originally acquired it because he was of Estonian descent, and a lot of the street people he knew in the early years – most of whom he prosecuted – had no idea what or where Estonia was. They couldn’t pronounce it. The second meaning came later, due to
Michael had driven Falynn Harris to her foster parent’s home in Jackson Heights. They had talked for nearly two hours. During that time Michael walked her carefully through the case, twice, and she had proven himself remarkably perceptive and bright, far beyond her fourteen years. Michael knew that if she had half the poise and strength on the stand, the defense would not shake a single branch.
But it was on the drive back to her foster home that something remarkable happened. Michael told Falynn about the murder of his own parents. It just seemed to come out in one long sentence. Except for Abby, he had never told another living soul the whole story; about his fears, his unrelenting grief, his anger.
Was this wrong? Had he crossed the line? There was little doubt in his mind that he had. But he knew why he had done it. He had one chance of putting Patrick Ghegan away for life, and that chance was Falynn Harris. He needed her to be not only intellectually engaged, but emotionally engaged.
When he finished his story, Falynn just stared at him. She dabbed her eyes while he was telling the tale, but now her eyes – although a bit red – were dry. She almost looked a bit matronly.
“What does that saying mean?” she asked.
“Which one?”
“The one your mom said to you right before, you know . . .”
Michael had told her about this, then instantly regretted it. It was something planted deeply in the garden of his soul, and he did not let many people in. “Zhivy budem, ne pomryom,” he said. “ If we will be alive, we will not die.”
Falynn looked out the passenger window for a few moments. It had begun to rain. She looked back at Michael. “What do you think that means really?”
“I have a few ideas,” Michael said. “What do you think it means?”
Falynn gave him a beguiling smile. “I’ll tell you when this is all over.”
Michael nodded. He took out his small notebook, wrote on it. “This is my e-mail address and my cellphone number. You contact me whenever you want. Don’t even look at the clock.”
Falynn took the piece of paper. She unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned over.
“Is it okay to hug you?” she asked.
Michael smiled. “It’s okay.”
They hugged, parted.
As Michael watched her climb the steps, he knew everything was in place. She was going to testify fully against Patrick Ghegan, and the man who had killed her father was, at the very least, going away for life.
Michael Roman was going to win.
Life was good.
T HE BAR WAS PACKED . The gathering was for retiring ADA Rupert White who, it was rumored, was getting ready to join a white-shoe firm on Wall Street.
Michael looked around the room. It was a who’s who of the movers and shakers in Queens politics.
For the first hour it was a standard roast – other prosecutors, defense attorneys, city councilman, judges, all recounting stories and anecdotes, PG-rated ditties that brought casual laughter and mild reproach from the ostensibly dignified Rupert White. In the second hour, after enough Jameson had flowed under the bridge of propriety, the vulgarity was unleashed, and the stories recalled a number of less-than-public episodes, including the time Rupert White was stalked by a disturbed juror from an old case and, of course, a cache of embarrassing inter-office romantic moments.
“As I live and breathe. Tommy Jesus and The Stone Man.”
The voice came from behind Tommy and Michael.
Michael’s nickname, The Stone Man, grew out of two sources. He originally acquired it because he was of Estonian descent, and a lot of the street people he knew in the early years – most of whom he prosecuted – had no idea what or where Estonia was. They couldn’t pronounce it. The second meaning came later, due to
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