Robert Swartwood - Legion

Ashley hadn’t even been at her desk for five minutes when Jeff popped by and asked, “How was lunch?”

She looked up from checking email (someone reporting they spotted Paris Hilton near Central Park) and gave him the fakest smile in her facial arsenal. “Fabulous.”

“And?”

“I had the salad. It was delicious.”

“You’re not going to make me ask, are you?”

“You mean what type of salad? No, of course not. It was Arugula and Roasted Pear.”

He sighed. “Ashley, come on.”

“No, Jeff, you come on.”

He stepped into her cubicle and leaned back against her desk, his arms crossed.

She said, “Did I invite you in here? Because I honestly don’t remember doing so.”

“Sure. You just told me to come on.” He glanced around the main floor with the dozens and dozens of cubicles, people working on stories, answering phones, covering their asses. His voice went low: “Or was that code for something sexual?”

“You wish, tiger.”

He laughed, and she laughed, their relentless teasing never getting old. They’d been colleagues for nearly five years now, and always joked around. Jeff was married with children and would never even consider the idea of straying from his wife, which made their teasing even better.

“So,” Jeff said.

“So,” Ashley said.

“Are you really going to keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Avoiding the question.”

“And what question is that?”

“Did you ask her?”

“Do you think I asked her?”

He tilted his head slightly, squinting, giving her a measured look. “No, but I think you considered it for a moment.”

“Sorry, not even an instant.”

“Maybe a half instant?”

“Not even close.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. “Ashley, you’re killing me.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to do it.”

“No, you said you would think about it.”

“Right. And I thought about how I wasn’t going to do it. Jeff, Melissa is my best friend. These lunches are strictly a best friend kind of thing. We don’t talk business, and even if we did, she wouldn’t tell me anything top secret, especially about this case.”

The case, as it so happened, was turning out to be one of the biggest of the year, at least in Manhattan. Timothy Carrozza, heir to the Carrozza Empire (an old Italian family who was bringing back the olden days of New York Mafiosi), was being tried by the city for a string of indictments, the most damning murder, though money laundering was still on the table, as well as illegal trafficking. The police and FBI had been coming at the Carrozzas for years, but the family was smart, almost too smart, eliminating the proper witnesses if someone ever saw or heard something he or she shouldn’t have. But, perhaps by luck, maybe even fate, a witness had stepped forward, a witness the police had yet to identify, as they worried (rightfully so) the Carrozzas would come after him or her with everything they had. A conviction of Timothy Carrozza would be a huge win for the District Attorney’s office (though they were working with the FBI, the witness had come to the DA, so they were carrying the ball), and would set back much of the corruption throughout the city for years. It was rumored the mayor may have even had dealings with Timothy Carrozza once upon a time, but of course it was just rumor and nobody had yet confirmed anything.

And who was prosecuting the biggest trial of the year? Melissa Baxter, Ashley’s college roommate and best friend, that’s who. She was an Assistant District Attorney, and while the District Attorney himself would normally be taking lead, he was retiring next year and thought it best to hand the reins to Melissa. And, of course, every newspaper in the city wanted an exclusive on the story, anything at all, and so Jeff had asked Ashley to glean some information from Melissa during lunch, anything, just something that Jeff could use as the journalist covering the trial.

Jeff pushed off the desk, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you’re not helping me out.”

“And why would I help you out?”

“For starters, we’re colleagues.”

“Anything else?”

“You think I’m cute.”

“Does your wife know how much you flirt at work?”

“Trust me,” he said, heading out of her cubicle, “the less she knows the better.”

Ashley considered telling him about the cop, the one who was clearly uncomfortable in the suit and who hadn’t left his position at the bar until she and Melissa finished their lunch and then he escorted her out. As far as Ashley knew, news of the death threat hadn’t yet been made public.

Pausing, he turned back and said, “One of these days maybe you’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

The playful look in his eyes had disappeared, replaced by a stone-cold determination. No longer was he the guy she harmlessly flirted with in the office. Instead he had become the hard-hitting reporter who had graduated from Princeton at the top of his class, which had landed him a job here at the Post .

“What it’s like to be a real journalist,” he said.

The cop stops the tape and shakes his head. “Nobody pushed you.”

“Play it again.”

“Mr. Smith-”

“Just one more time?” I ask him, my voice lilting into an uncharacteristic plea, and maybe the cop takes pity on me, or maybe he’s just bored, but he nods and plays the tape for a third time.

The video quality, unsurprisingly, is pretty shitty. There are a bunch of different cameras in the station, and none of them got a good angle of me. The best they could find is one facing the tracks with me off to the left-hand side. I’m standing there, among others, waiting for the train. A few people pass back and forth, old women wearing hats, men in suits, a kid in a Yankees cap bobbing his head to some unheard beat, but that’s it. As far as the video shows, I’m just standing there until, suddenly, I’m not.

The cop-his name is Daniels, or Baniels, or Maniels, though I’m pretty sure it’s Daniels, an older guy in jeans and a black coat with his shield hanging off a chain around his neck-lets the video play out a bit longer, showing the two people who rushed forward to save me. One is a businessman, some Wall Street guy, the other an older Italian dude. They moved almost instantaneously, filling the space which I had occupied only an instant before. Both dropping to their knees, reaching out, grabbing my bag. Pulling me back up onto the platform mere seconds before the train would have killed me.

I blink, watching it all for a third time. It happened less than a half hour ago, but on screen it looks like it happened in another life. Like something you’d see on one of those reality hero shows. I never did catch either of their names. They were true New Yorkers, just doing their thing. Neither of them had time to talk to the press, who had yet to make an appearance. The metro cops showed up, took statements, and sent them on their way. I’m pretty sure I said thank you to each of them, but I can’t really remember. I still had the echo of that oncoming train’s horn blaring in my ears. The echo was even there, minutes later, when they led me to this small, cramped room in the subway station where Daniels or Baniels or Maniels was waiting for me.

“What were their names?”

The cop eyes me. “Who?”

“The two that saved me.”

The sound of shuffling papers on the desk, and the cop squints down at a single sheet. “Darrell Abbott and Anthony Tuzzini.”

“Which one was the Italian guy?”

The cop gives me a bored look.

“Can I have their addresses?”

“Why?”