Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

Jose pulled his chair around to face Frank and sat so his knees almost touched Frank’s.

“Yeah,” he said carefully, “that’s what they did. They must have wired it to the lock.”

“And I pressed the remote when Leon was walking by, and I set it off.”

Jose brought his face close to Frank’s so their eyes were inches apart. He reached out and clamped one of Frank’s knees in his hand.

“Frank,” he said, leaning forward and biting off each word, “you listen to me. They put the bomb there… They rigged it to the lock… They did whatever happened.”

“But Hoser, I-”

“Bullshit, Frank!” Jose rapped out. “No goddamn way you gonna put this on yourself! Pushin’ a goddamn remote button on your car didn’t do that to Leon. Bastards did who put the bomb there.”

Frank looked into Jose’s eyes for a long time, searching, then pulled back. As he reached into his pocket for the pills, his hand paused. Perplexed, he drew out a small manila envelope. It took him a second to remember Janowitz sitting at the breakfast room table, handing the envelope over.

Riggs Bank… court order.

He put the envelope away and fished out the container. He twisted the top off and shook out two white pills, then downed them with the cup of water. He crumpled the cup, sat back in his chair, and rested his head against the wall.

“Hoser, I feel like shit.”

Jose squeezed his partner’s shoulder. “You got a right, buddy.”

“You oughta get over to the scene.”

“Yeah.” Jose hesitated, giving Frank a close once-over. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll live.”

After Jose left, Frank shut his eyes and waited for Arrowsmith’s pills to kick in. He dozed off, his hand opened, and the crumpled paper cup fell to the floor. At the same time, machine-gun fire cut through his mental fog. He bolted upright in his chair, eyes open, and the machine-gun fire morphed into the insistent chirping of his cell phone.

He got the phone to his ear.

“Frank? What the hell?” Tom Kearney’s concern came in at high volume.

“Dad…”

“Radio’s talking about a bomb in Georgetown. Then Judith called me. Said your street was blocked off. Neighbors said you were hurt…”

“I’m okay, Dad.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Hospital Center.”

That reignited Tom Kearney’s alarm. “I thought you weren’t hurt!” he shouted.

“One of our guys is, Dad,” Frank said patiently. “I’m waiting for him to come out of surgery.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Not yet, Dad. Not yet.”

Frank was putting away his phone when Sheresa Arrowsmith entered, her arm around a woman. Petite, in her late twenties, early thirties, black hair cut short and shaped around her face. She wore jeans, a paint-daubed Ohio State sweatshirt, and Nike running shoes.

“Detective Kearney,” Arrowsmith said softly to the woman. To Frank she said, “This’s Esther Janowitz.”

He’s been in there nine hours,” Esther Janowitz whispered to the clock on the ICU waiting room wall.

Frank watched the red second hand. All that could be said had been said. He and Esther Janowitz had been by turn withdrawn and almost maniacally chattering, only to drift off again into isolation. The clock notched another second, then another and another. And the near-silent ticking engulfed the tiny room.

He had told her all he remembered. How he and her husband had sat over coffee, how his remote had triggered the explosion. She had listened expressionlessly, and there was no way he could tell whether she blamed him for what had happened. If she was angry, the anger might come up later, but then it might never come up. She didn’t impress him as a whiner or sniveler, and if she did bring it up, she’d come at him in-your-face hard. He didn’t want it now, but he’d rather have it now than never.

He stepped outside to use his phone. He left a short message with Kate’s answering service, then called Jose. Calkins was setting up for a twenty-four-hour operation. Robin Bouchard had offered the Bureau explosives team, and Jose had gone into Frank’s to feed Monty.

Frank thought about calling Emerson, but gave it up when he realized he had nothing to say. He didn’t want to get involved in a hand-holding exercise.

Back in the waiting room, Esther Janowitz put down the copy of Conde Nast Traveler-“The Best Tapas Bars in Seville”-and gave Frank, a long, appraising look.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

“No. I don’t,” Frank said, wishing inside that she’d stayed with the magazine. What were the best tapas bars in Seville?

“Why did you choose Leon?”

It didn’t come across as a baited question. Esther Janowitz seemed genuinely curious. All the same, Frank found himself vaguely troubled that she’d asked and that he’d have to answer.

“I don’t know that I’m making the best of sense right now,” he began slowly, talking to her and to himself as well. “Simple answer… I asked for Leon because Jose and I needed help. We’d worked with him on the Keegan case, and we thought he was a good cop.”

He paused to gather his thoughts. “There’s a not-so-simple answer too. I’m proud of being a cop. There’ve been lots of days I wish I wasn’t, but on the whole, I like what I do, and I think it’s important.”

He searched for a word, a word that meant something. “It’s a worthy job. A job worth doing. Something worth devoting a life to. And it’s worth all the crap that goes along with it. And I guess when I see a young cop like Leon, it makes me feel good because I know when I hang up the badge, somebody is going to be out there wearing that badge who feels the same way I do about being a cop.”

“A legacy?”

“Call it that. Why’d you want to know… why I chose him?”

A small, nostalgic smile played around Esther Janowitz’s mouth. “I know why I chose him. And those reasons are good enough for me. I love him very much for those reasons. But it helps to know him better if I know how others see him.”

“I didn’t want him to leave the force.”

“I know. He told me. He said it made him feel warm inside.”

“Now I’m not so sure. Maybe New York…”

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flurry of motion in the narrow window set into the door to the ICU. A tall African-American man in green surgical scrubs came through a set of double doors, crossed the hallway, and entered the waiting room. He came over to Esther Janowitz.

“Mrs. Janowitz, I’m Dr. Michaels. They’re bringing your husband out of surgery now. I expect a full recovery. We had some internal injuries to take care of… There were facial lacerations, and…”

Michaels paused. Frank sensed a man about to step out on unknown ice. The doctor shot a glance at Frank. “… we… I… I had to amputate his arm.”

Esther Janowitz gave no sign she’d heard. Her eyes widened as two orderlies brought a gurney through the double doors into the ICU. Without a word, Esther Janowitz brushed by Michaels and was at her husband’s side.

That night, Frank couldn’t sleep. Outside in the rain, R.C.’s techs were still scavenging the block for evidence, working below canopies flung up over high-intensity floodlights. In his bedroom, each time Frank closed his eyes he felt the presence of meaningless death, the slow, circling beat of dark wings. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain, measuring its rhythms on the roof.

He couldn’t imagine ever having slept before or ever sleeping again. Soon he gave up. He got out of bed, slipped a pair of denim shorts on, and padded downstairs to the kitchen. Standing in the light of the open refrigerator, he drank deeply from a carton of milk. He wandered into the den, where he switched on a floor lamp and aimlessly began opening cabinets. One after another, he surveyed their contents, then closed them. Finally, in one, a thick album caught his attention.