Robert Knightly - Bodies in Winter

I sat down on the chair fronting his desk before continuing. ‘And don’t forget the lies. We did four interviews with Ellen Lodge. In the last interview she admits that every essential element of the first three interviews was untrue. So, why would a jury believe she’s telling the truth about the one little item that exonerates her?’

When Sarney leaned forward to place his elbows on the desk, his swivel chair emitted a double screech that reminded me of a braying donkey. ‘Take this to the bank, Corbin: a good defense attorney is gonna get this case dismissed before it goes to trial, even if a grand jury indicts her. And those lies she told don’t mean shit. Everybody lies to the cops.’

We continued on for another few minutes, going back and forth, until I finally conceded that while the evidence against Ellen Lodge justified an arrest, a conviction might be difficult to obtain. The admission brought a faint smile from Sarney, but I quickly erased it when I said, ‘But that’s only because of the cover-up.’

Sarney looked out over my head. His office was little more than a glass-walled cubicle and I’d spoken loud enough for my words to be clear to anyone still remaining in the squad room.

‘The evidence you’re demanding is out there to be found,’ I continued. ‘I would have found it on my own, if I hadn’t been pulled off the case. For example, the crime scene where DuWayne Spott overdosed? I admit that I didn’t get much of a look at it before I was relieved, but what I did see was discarded garbage, soiled utensils, blankets and mattresses. We both know this evidence went into storage when the job decided that Spott’s death resulted from an accidental overdose. Likewise for the evidence collected at the David Lodge scene. DuWayne killed David Lodge? There isn’t going to be a trial because DuWayne is conveniently dead? Time to conserve our limited resources by packing the physical evidence into a box, then shipping it to the property clerk’s office.’

Sarney attempted to interrupt, but I was well into my act by then. ‘Now take Ellen Lodge’s phone records. Given that we know there were two shooters present when her husband was killed, and that we suspect she’s covering for somebody by throwing all the blame on Dante Russo, it would be nice to run back through her phone records for the last six months. Just on the off-chance that she made contact with an unknown co-conspirator. But, of course, being as it’s not my case, I have no way to get those records.’

I went on for some time, mentioning, along the way, Clarence Spott’s vehicle, somehow unaccounted for on the night he was killed, the sad lack of scrutiny paid to the Broom’s sudden demise, the failure to capitalize on Jarazelsky’s parole status, and Ted Savio, the lawyer shared by David Lodge, Justin Whitlock, Pete Jarazelsky and Ellen Lodge.

‘The finances,’ I concluded, ‘are the key. Russo’s, Jarazelsky’s, Szarek’s, Ellen Lodge’s, and most of all Greenpoint Carton’s. Once we start tracing the money, the house of cards is gonna come crashing down.’

Sarney raised a finger, as if he expected to win on a technicality. ‘Only a grand jury can subpoena financial records. And a grand jury can only be convened by the DA. You know that, right?’

‘That’s why Ellen Lodge has to be arrested. Look, David Lodge became a celebrity on the day he was charged with killing Clarence Spott. That’s why his murder drew media scrutiny in the first place. So, what do you think’s gonna happen when the reporters find out his wife’s been arrested for his murder?’

Sarney shuddered. ‘If that were to happen,’ he said, ‘blood would flow.’

‘Not necessarily.’ I waited until Sarney’s eyes rose to meet mine. ‘If the job admits it made mistakes, then moves to clean house, the damage can be limited. There are bad apples in every barrel, right? On the other hand, if Ellen Lodge is released and some insider leaks it to the media after the fact? Think about it, lou. Think about what’s gonna happen if Ellen Lodge is released on your authority. Think about what the job will do to protect itself. Think about what it feels like to be the official NYPD scapegoat.’

I expected Sarney to explode at that point, but he surprised me, perhaps because he’d already considered this outcome.

‘Wait in the squad room,’ he ordered, ‘and see that Ellen Lodge gets to call her lawyer.’

Jack Petro and the four-to-midnight detectives were standing by the door when I came out. They fled at my appearance, which was fine by me. I knew they’d repeat the conversation they’d overheard to every cop they came across. That was all I wanted from them.

Ellen Lodge was considerably more subdued when I offered her my cell phone. She’d been contemplating her fate for an hour by this time.

‘You still have options,’ I explained, ‘if you want to take them.’

She stared at the phone for a moment, her expression puzzled, as if she was having difficulty remembering what it was for. Then she said, ‘You think I could use the bathroom?’

I accompanied her, but, of course, had to remain outside, risking the chance that she’d escape through the window. She didn’t, emerging instead with her face scrubbed. Again, I made an attempt to reach her.

‘Conspiracy in the first degree is an A-One felony,’ I said. ‘It carries a maximum penalty of life without parole, which you are very likely to get. We’re looking at five murders here.’

Ellen shook her head. ‘You’re not supposed to talk to me without my lawyer present.’

‘Well, that’s just it, that lawyer. What you wanna do is instruct him to cut the best deal possible in return for your truthful testimony. It’s the only way out.’

I could see it in her eyes, the message hitting home. She hadn’t been expecting an arrest and was unprepared for the rigors to follow. Unless Sarney cut her loose, she’d be looking at a night on Rikers Island, then a very brief appearance before an arraignment judge who would remand her without bail, the fate of all accused murderers in New York City.

I led Ellen back to the interrogation room and left her with my cell phone. When I returned a few minutes later to retrieve the phone, I asked, ‘You have any luck?’

‘My lawyer will be here in an hour.’

‘And what lawyer would that be?’

‘Theodore Savio.’

Inspector Thaddeus Clark, accompanied by Sergeant Joe Flaherty, beat the lawyer by a good fifteen minutes. They barged into Sarney’s office, without knocking and without so much as glancing in my direction. A few seconds later, the blinds came crashing down.

I recognized both men. From his office at Queens North Borough Command, Clark supervised the detective squads in six NYPD precincts. Flaherty was his driver.

When Theodore Savio arrived, he too went directly to Sarney’s office, though he did pause long enough to knock before opening the door. Savio was tall, slender and well-dressed. He wore a Russian fur hat, undoubtedly sable, and a black overcoat, undoubtedly cashmere. Everything about the coat, from the fit of the shoulders to the ruler-straight drop from armpit to hem, was perfect.

Savio emerged less than a minute later. He crossed the room to a wooden coat rack near the stairwell, took off his hat and coat, finally hung them on hooks. ‘Now,’ he said, turning to me, ‘if you’ll kindly show me to my client.’

Though he maintained a polite smile throughout, Savio’s overall intensity was apparent. He was young and hard-charging, with a long face, a square determined chin and the shoulders of a linebacker. If possible, his charcoal gray suit fit him even better than his coat.

I led him to his client, then walked back to my desk. For a short time, I fiddled with the five I’d eventually have to write, but then my thoughts began to wander.