Crime & Punishment: The Prequel Ch. 10

"What is this shit?" Tony demanded as he slapped down a press release on her desk.

It was an announcement that the governor had accepted the resignation of the current superintendent of the State Police and was replacing him with a former state inspector general on an interim basis until a new superintendent could be found.

The resignation had come when the superintendent learned through his sources in the state assembly that the governor was seeking the empaneling of a civilian review committee to consider the reorganization of the State Police.

For reasons that were unclear to Carrie, the governor made sure that Tony was unaware of this move against the state police. They were a kind of sacred cow, virtually untouchable. The superintendents came and went, but the entrenched command structure was permanent. It was a powerful and virtually ungovernable organization with an inclination toward corruption. No governor in recent memory had been able to bring them to heel. Any move against them would certainly require political planning.

Tony as chief political strategist and principal political aid could expect to be consulted about any move as politically treacherous as taking on the state police, but Kincade had kept him out of the loop. The question on Tony's mind was "WHY?"

"Look, I have no idea what the governor was thinking. He didn't explain himself to me," Carrie said.

"Don't give me that shit, this is your boyfriend's doing."

"I haven't spoken to Ray in weeks. I wouldn't know if he had any involvement in this or not," Carrie said believing he was referring to her fiancé, not her lover.

"Don't play dumb with me. I'm talking about O'Reilly. He's behind this, but he won't get away with it," Tony fumed and then stormed out of Carrie's office.

"What the hell?" she muttered as the door slammed shut, "and where was Jimmy and what was he up to."

****

They called Lynda Segal's new apartment on the outskirts of Croton a garden apartment. This meant only that it had access to a neglected little plot of land beyond the sliding glass doors off her bedroom. It was on a street that intersected the main road in a pre-world war building. The first floor was not desirable for security reasons, but the area was largely safe, an older neighborhood inside the town limits. The advantage was the ten-minute drive to the train station, and the disadvantage, the shabby condition of the apartment.

It was a bigger place than she was use to, but much more worn. Depressing in its way on a dark November evening with the derelict garden out the glass sliding doors with their broken lock. She needed to fix that and soon. Lynda never envisioned herself as the other woman type. Those women were naive and dependent types, so desperate for a man's affection that they were willing to accept the crumbs falling from another woman's life. Lynda saw herself as a strong independent person. She didn't need a man in her life. Males were a pleasant diversion, and a husband only came later when your career was settled. She had never consciously bedded another woman's man until Steven Fitzgerald.

Friday night and her lover would be home with his wife. How did her life come to this lonely place? As if the relationship itself were not bad enough, she had her boss pressing her for information on her lover. She should have told Steven when the US Attorney first blackmailed her for information, but she had hesitated. Too unsure of her lover or her job situation, she prevaricated. Now, so much time had passed what would Steven think if she told him? Would he think she was betraying him?

More to the point did any of it matter? Was there any way that a four-foot seven junior attorney could compete with the tall, beautiful, and oh so wealthy Mrs. Fitzgerald? The lady had everything, including Lynda's man at that moment. He was up there in Albany with his wife. Maybe she should cut her losses now, dump Steven and the job. Go to the Westchester DA and beg him to take her back, and never see Steven Fitzgerald again.

She heard the car pull into the drive. She had heard that whiney motor before, an older Honda Accord, Steven Fitzgerald's. When the knock came at her door, she when up on the toes of her bare feet to see through the peephole then pulled the door wide to throw herself into his arms.

Steven pushed her back so that he might kiss her then scooped her back into his arms kicking the door shut behind them like some romantic hero, he carried her to the bedroom where he ripped her blouse and shorts off. She was doing some ripping herself; the buttons of his shirt flew about the room.

"I love you," she whispered into his ear.

He pulled her head back by her hair, "Of course, you do. You belong to me."

"Yes, yes," she sighed, "but tell me you love me."

"I'm here," he replied. Then he entered her hard and needful.

Their lovemaking was frantic, but not quick. His hands searched her body explored her with a knowing grip. She touched him gently back as if he were some spirit that might disappear if she gripped too hard. He was not gentle, nor did she want him to be. He took her possessed her made her his. When it was over, and they lay on her bed spent, she asked the question, "Why are you here?"

"Didn't I just show you?"

"No, I need to hear you say it."

"Do the words matter? You either know the truth in your heart or not."

"Don't play the lawyer with me. Your words matter. Your whole existence is about words."

"I love you," he said looking directly into her eyes.

"And your wife?" she replied wondering whether she could trust him.

"She knows about us, but there is nothing she can do. She lost the right to object long ago. I left her a letter with my wedding ring. I said I was leaving."

She came into his arms, kissing him between her tears. She held him with a desperate need never to let him go.

"There's something I have to tell you," she began.

"I don't care what you may have done before," he replied.

"No, it's nothing like that. It has to do with my job," she said and hesitated.

He looked at her already suspecting where this was going.

She couldn't quite meet his eyes as she laid out what her boss had told her and asked of her.

"Please don't me mad. I should have told you sooner," she begged as she buried her head in his shoulder.

He pushed her back roughly, so he could see her face, "What's her name?"

"Who?"

"Your boss—the US attorney? WHAT'S HER NAME?"

"Nancy Ross Jordan."

He closed his eyes tried to think, desperately trying to remember. It could be the name, but it seemed so long ago, almost another lifetime. ALMOST.

Then he let hugged her to him knowing that their time together might be extraordinarily brief. "In the morning, we need to talk, but for now let us just be together," he said.

"You forgive me?" she asked.

"There is nothing to forgive. I should have told you about myself, but it's a hard subject to talk about and sometimes what happened seems like it happened to someone else."

She nodded, "Alright and I promise no more secrets and remember I love you. Even if you can't love me back," she whispered.

Did he love her? He asked himself for she was partially right he wasn't sure that he could love her because he wasn't sure that he could love anyone. He had been broken so long but maybe, and it was a big maybe, he was about to mend.

He would tell her what he must in the morning and explain what she must do. He would have to trust her as she would need to trust him.

He knew he was putting her in danger on a hunch, but he believed that time was running out and a hunch was better than nothing.

****

Susan Singleton entered the Eastern States Center for Reproductive Health with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

"I'm here to see Dr. Amanda Clark," she told the dowdy dressed receptionist. The girl looked through her big round glasses at the expensively dressed thirty-something woman who was a bit more beautiful than the average patient but fit the criteria to a tee, professional, thirty to forty, and a bit embarrassed she needed help achieving what any post-pubescent teen could do easier than catching a cold.

"Third-floor room three oh eight," the girl said.

308 turned out to be an office suite with a crowded waiting room filled with single women and some couples, but the woman behind the glass who checked Susan in then buzzed her right through, "The last door on the right. She's expecting you."

Amanda Clark was a small grey-haired woman who had to be at least sixty. She was all business and got right to it, "As I understand you had been trying for six months and became concerned when you failed to conceive."

"Yes, I guess that I naively believed that when I came off the pill, I would immediately get pregnant."

"Six months is not a long time. We usually don't get concerned until a year or more, but it never hurts to check. We usually start by checking the man, it's easier, but you indicated to my assistant on the phone that would be a problem."

"My husband is away at the moment working a new case, and I wanted to get started," it wasn't a complete lie; Steven did have a new case, but mostly he had a girlfriend.

"Two weeks ago, you saw my associate Doctor Jeffries, who ran a battery of preliminary test. These are not usually conclusive unless the problem is obvious, but in your case, the problem is both obvious and simple, scaring and partial occlusion of the fallopian tubes resulting from gonorrhea."

Susan had been listening expecting something since she had been ushered right in to see the chief honcho, but she hadn't expected the woman's bluntness.

"That was a long time ago when I was a teenager. I've been disease free for over fifteen years."

"Yes, but damage was done. However, we can treat this with surgery and fertility medications. In addition, I recommend a change in lifestyle. Doctor Jeffries also noted that your current habits aren't what makes for successful pregnancies, the drinking, excessive work, and late hours.

"When would I have this surgery. I need this accomplished as soon as possible."

"I take it that money is no object."

"You take it right. I have a rich and anxious mother, the sooner, the better."

The doctor scheduled the surgery for the end of the week and outlined a series of changes to Susan's lifestyle. She prescribed vitamins, some herbs, and a set of medications and injections to enhance fertility.

Susan left the clinic that day a bit shaken. She saw the doctors about a possible problem not actually expecting any. She would not have believed a misadventure from fifteen years ago would affect her now. It seemed no big deal at the time. The stupidity of a high school girl who got too high on pot at a party and had unprotected sex. She got sick, but she took care of it at the first signs. At the time, she had thanked the gods that she had infected no one else. As it turned out, she had contracted a virulent and resistant strain. Now she was paying the price.

Susan walked down the broad, long Manhattan street to the corner. She was resolved to change her life, but as she hailed a cab, her phone bussed. It was Tony Greco. She didn't answer. She was no longer speaking to the man and determined to turn her back on all that part of her life. Besides, their conversations now always ended with angry words. A moment later as she entered a yellow cab, the phone beeped with a text message.

"What I do now is 4U."

"What the hell does that mean?" she wondered.