Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“Five acres?” Nan said. “Then there must have been more than five hundred bodies.”

“Something like twenty thousand. Many of them infants and children stacked on top of each other.”

I was still reeling from the fact of all the women and men being trafficked to the States, and how common modern-day slavery actually is. I’d never thought much about slavery in the North, in a place like colonial New York. “What became of all those other graves?”

“Dust and detritus, Alex,” Mercer said. “When the city moved past here, beyond its colonial walls, it just appropriated the cemetery and paved over it.”

I scanned the skyline. It appeared that the entire Civic Center that was adjacent to the north side of City Hall Park had been built on top of the remains of thousands of African slaves. “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t even know when slavery was abolished in New York.”

“Eighteen twenty-seven. Shockingly late, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” I said. “So who are we looking at here, Mr. Brady?”

“This just for your information?” Brady was checking Mercer for an answer as he straightened up.

“Yeah, I’m a curious guy.”

“The mayor knows all about this, if that’s what you’re thinking. Been going on for years. It’s a historical project.”

“Pretty sloppy one,” Mercer whispered to me.

“This here City Hall was built in 1803. You can read that right on the sign over at the front gate. Before that, all this land was an almshouse. A homeless shelter, a poorhouse, and a jail, all balled into one part of town. Had its own cemetery next to it. For whites, of course. No blacks.”

Mercer nodded at me. “Of course.”

“I was working here when Giuliani was mayor. That’s the first time some bits and pieces of bone came up, all jumbled together. We was making over the park for the new millennium celebration-taking out the dead trees, fixing the pavement, putting in new lights. Holy cow,” Brady says, “one of the guys calls me over to show me this cluster of bones-like a whole human leg. Spooky as all hell.”

“What did Giuliani do?” Nan asked.

“Sure didn’t like anybody talking about it. Guess he was afraid all those people would come back and protest again. Though it ain’t like slaves. Don’t know anybody who’d claim an old relative from the poorhouse or jail. Sent what was found to the Smithsonian. Can’t say I know what ever come of it. Now, whenever we come upon an area of the park that needs renovation, we have to put up this here fencing and tarp it over.”

“The city morgue has its own anthropologist, Mr. Brady,” Mercer said. “Gonna have him take a look too.”

“Kinda unnecessary if you ask me,” Brady said. “We got this here hole and the one just southeast of the front steps. Nobody pays ’em no mind.”

“Every now and again maybe somebody should,” Mercer said. “What else you find in these digs?”

“Dead animals get in. Sometimes you come across old buttons or shards of glass. Even some shroud pins.”

“And modern-day things?” I asked.

Brady studied me for a few seconds. “You police too?”

“Nope,” I said with a smile.

“You’d never believe she studies ballet,” Nan said, drawing a laugh from the wizened Parks Department worker. “Clumsy as she is to fall in your ditch.”

“All kinds of stuff gets tossed in by people heading into the building. Scraps of paper, tennis balls, empty cans. Sometimes we find a pocket knife or something out in front that wouldn’t make it through the metal detector. Then there’s your food and garbage. That’s what attracts the rats, what start draggin’ the pieces of bone around.”

“How sad is that?” I said aloud to no one in particular.

“You know what they say about cross-examining,” Nan said. “Never ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer. Or don’t want to know the answer. Let’s head back. We’ve got so much to do.”

“You two go on ahead. I’ll wait to show this stuff to Andy when he gets here.”

“Not because it has anything to do with what we’re working on?” I asked. I didn’t see any connection.

“Course not,” Mercer said. “I just can’t imagine letting anybody’s folks spill out of the ground like this and not be treated properly. Shoo, ladies. I’ll be along soon.”

Nan and I walked back to my office, going over our checklist of things to do. I pressed the elevator to take us to the eighth floor.

“What’ll you give me for not telling anyone about your giant flop?”

“I’m running out of IOUs. I had to promise my life away to get Mike to take me to Salma’s apartment last night.”

“I’m much easier,” Nan said. “I’ll take lunch at Forlini’s when you come up for air. I want to hear how things are going with Luc.”

“Luc, Paris, and all the romance that went with the week seem light-years behind me,” I said as we approached Laura’s desk.

“Ah, Paris. Only the extra pounds remain. I have a feeling you’ll work it off in the next month.”

“You’re later than I expected, Alex,” Laura said. “And another casually chic outfit, I see?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Not even about the dirt that’s clinging to the back of your hair?” she said, following us into my office so that she could straighten me out before handing me my messages. “And don’t bother to look at these yet. Go see the district attorney. Rose said it’s ugly in there. He’s chewing her head off waiting for you.”

“See what I mean, Nan? The boss is gunning for someone. I hate to be in the crossfire until I figure out who the target is.”

“You’re all set with the conference room, Nan,” Laura said. I’d be lost without her self-starting efficiency and ease of operating in a maelstrom. “I’ve reserved it for the next couple of weeks, and there are actually two official Ukrainian interpreters able to start working with you today.”

“Great. All we need is a way to get our victims back to us. Go ahead, Alex. I’ll call Donny Baynes and get us on the same page.”

“Am I supposed to be knocking out subpoenas for the phone company?” Laura asked. “Mike left a message with some numbers for a Salma someone. Landline and cell, right?”

“Not until Nan opens a grand jury investigation,” I said, putting my hands together as if praying to my colleague. “Jump the line, Nan. Make it dinner, and all the gossip I know.”

“Last thing for the moment,” Laura said. “Lem called. Wants to know what you did with the congressman’s package. Something about what he was expecting this morning.”

“Package? Is that a new euphemism for piece of ass? Don’t call him back, Laura. Resist Lem’s charm and his persistent calls. Tell him nothing.”

“You know he’ll show up here if you ignore him.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, heading off to see Battaglia. “Lem would be comic relief by the time the boss gets through with me.”

The security guard buzzed me into the executive suite. The handful of lawyers who held administrative positions had offices in Battaglia’s inner sanctum, and I passed by them as I walked toward Rose Malone, his longtime loyal assistant. Her expression often mirrored the district attorney’s mood, and today it was unusually cold.

“Good to see you, Alex. Go right in.” We didn’t even bother to exchange our usual pleasantries.

I made the turn into Paul Battaglia’s large office. He was sitting at the conference table at the far end-not his desk-and he wasn’t alone.

“I told you she wouldn’t keep you waiting very long, Boss,” Pat McKinney said. “Look at that, Alex probably ran all the way down here. Sweats must be the new power suit, no?”