Page 16 of Two Kinds of Stranger (Eddie Flynn #9)

She put a napkin on top of the glass deli counter, and two donuts on top.

‘I just wanted a single donut.’

‘You’re too skinny. You need to eat,’ she said. ‘I know a man. I heard some folks complaining about him. Richard something . . . ’

‘Richard Reynolds?’ I asked.

‘That’s him. He’s charging people a lot of money. Charges they don’t expect.’

I’d heard of Reynolds – a few stories some years ago, along with half a dozen other bondsmen. In the justice system, there was always a way to skim off the top, rip somebody off or worse. Most bondsmen did a good job, yet the profession had a bad rep. Not as bad as defense attorneys, of course.

Still, Richard Reynolds’s reputation was bad enough to earn him a nickname. The obvious one.

‘Thanks, Renata,’ I said, taking the coffee and the donuts.

I walked round the corner from the shop, took a mouthful of the coffee and gave the donuts to two young kids, obviously brothers, sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall.

They looked like they were waiting to see if a parent got bail.

Hard to know if they were praying they got out or praying they stayed in.

The kids were maybe sixteen and thirteen, if that, and they looked as if they hadn’t had a good meal or a new pair of shoes in a long time.

They didn’t say anything as I gave them the donuts.

They didn’t need to.

They just ate them. That was thanks enough.

I hung around the hallways while Kate was in court, keeping an eye on the lists and gauging the mood of Judge Busken.

I was looking for cops.

It didn’t take me too long to spot detective Bill Sacks.

He was wearing his uniform. Not a cop uniform, at least not in the conventional sense.

Sacks wore a plaid shirt tucked, under strain from his small belly, into his navy chinos.

He was a little overweight, nothing wrong with that, but he was one of those guys who wore a shirt and pants one size too small.

Because of his gut and his profession, his belt had to do a lot of heavy lifting: an empty holster for his Glock on his right hip (police are required to check their firearms at the security gate), a keychain with three pounds of keys and keyrings dangling off his left side, perhaps to help balance the weight of the Glock on the right.

Half a dozen lanyards, including his NYPD badge, hung round his neck.

Two Velcro pockets on the back of the belt held extra magazines for the Glock and his cuffs, and a large pocket beside it held his notebook and pen.

Sacks had reached the level of experience and seniority where he wasn’t required to chase down suspects on foot. Just as well. It had taken him ten years as a patrolman to work up to detective, and that time had taken a toll on his feet.

Whenever he could get away with it, like today, Sacks wore a pair of black Crocs over thick black woolen socks.

A moustache and pair of Oakley sunglasses finished the ensemble.

He was the kind of guy who read the instruction manual for every device in the house, cover to cover. Twice.

He was talking to Bernice Mazur, another one of the workhouse civil servants in the justice system – except Bernice worked as an assistant DA.

She had come up under former District Attorney Miriam Sullivan, my old sparring partner.

Bernice was forty-one years old with five kids under eighteen and a divorce two years behind her.

She wore dark green suits, white shirts and thick glasses, which either hung off the end of her nose or dangled on a gold chain round her neck.

She always had a thick armful of files, which she carried with ease, and a large purse hung off her elbow, which must’ve weighed twenty pounds.

The purse was stuffed with a laptop, glasses cases, half a dozen legal pads and fifty ballpoint pens – and only half of them still had ink.

Because Miriam had been a mentor for Bernice, or perhaps because Bernice already possessed the character that Miriam expected of her ADAs, I always found Bernice to be ruthlessly fair, highly skilled and good natured.

Bill Sacks was talking Bernice through a file of papers. He was briefing her on the Elly Parker arraignment.

I left them to it and went into court, found Kate sitting on a bench while other cases proceeded.

‘Bernice is handling Elly Parker’s case,’ I whispered.

‘That’s the first piece of luck Elly’s had. I like Bernice,’ said Kate.

‘Me too. I just hope Judge Busken behaves himself. He’s normally fine, but sometimes he gets ideas. No good ever comes from a judge with ideas.’

‘He’s been pretty reasonable this morning. No one has pissed him off so far. I think things might turn out okay today, touch wood,’ she said, and tipped her fingers to the bench beneath us.

It wasn’t long before Bernice entered the courtroom, Bill Sacks behind her.

Bernice called the Elly Parker case. Kate and I made our way to the defense table.

Soon as the name of the case was called, I saw something flash over Busken’s chops.

He recognized the case. He must’ve heard about it on the news – who hadn’t?

Still, it made me nervous, and I suddenly had a bad feeling.

Kate and Bernice went through the formalities. Elly was led into court, in handcuffs and tear-stained prison sweats, wide-eyed and trembling. I told her to take a breath, and that this hearing would be over in a few minutes.

‘Your Honor, the prosecution opposes bail. This is a double homicide. The defendant is a high-profile individual, but the People recognize the defendant has a clean record. If the court is of a mind to grant bail, we would ask for bond to be set at one million dollars . . . ’

Bernice had read our financial statements. She was being fair. And I silently thanked her.

‘One million?’ asked Judge Busken. ‘Isn’t this the TikTok murder case that is all over the news?’

Oh shit.

Busken was having an idea.

‘Correct, Your Honor. I’ve spoken to the probation and bail officer regarding the defendant’s circumstances and financials.

One million dollars should be sufficient to secure the defendant’s attendance.

The sum is in keeping with the seriousness of the charges.

It is however a matter within the discretion of the court,’ said Bernice.

Before Kate or I could say anything, Busken was straight out of the traps.

Like all judges, he wasn’t a fan of publicity for bad decisions.

If this was a case that came under media scrutiny, the last thing Busken wanted was some legal analyst on CNN criticizing him for setting bail too low.

The general public figured that anyone who was remotely famous was also a multi-millionaire, and of course this couldn’t be farther from reality.

Busken wasn’t thinking about the defendant, or securing her attendance at trial – he was thinking about column inches and the media saying he was soft on celebrities.

‘The court has to be assured that the defendant will return for trial, and it is cognizant of the defendant’s celebrity and financial means. I will set bail at a bond of one million dollars . . . ’

I heard Kate, beside me, breathe a sigh of relief, her shoulders easing out of a knot as she exhaled. We could just about secure a bond that amount.

I was still holding my breath. Busken hadn’t finished.

‘. . . and a further cash deposit of one million dollars. Next case.’

Kate objected, I objected, Busken gave us a dirty look and the clerk was already calling the next case. Elly just about had enough to pay the percentage court bond of one million. She didn’t have a million in cash on top of that.

Elly Parker was shaking as the correction officers on either side of her half dragged her out of court. Panic had taken her limbs; she wasn’t resisting the officers.

She could barely stand. She said, ‘What’s happening? What’s happening? What’s happening to me?’

I turned to Kate, said, ‘Go tell her I’ll have her out in forty-eight hours.’

‘I’m not going to lie to her. Where the hell are you going to get a million dollars cash?’ she asked.

I pressed my lips together tightly.

Kate got the picture.

She shook her head, said, ‘I don’t want to know.’