Footsteps of the Hawk

'Belinda Roberts, J. P. Hauser,' I said by way of introduction.

'I'm pleased to meet you,' Belinda said.

'Same here,' Hauser said, turning to face her, holding out his right hand for her to shake. Belinda started to reach for his hand, then gasped as Hauser just missed crunching a taxicab at the intersection.

'Take the Tunnel,' I said to Hauser. 'Then we want the Turnpike south.'

In the Tunnel, Hauser and Belinda got to talking about courthouse personnel: judges, clerks, court officers, ADAs. 'Moltino's a major asshole,' Hauser said.

'Big–time,' Belinda agreed.

I put my feet up on the big back seat, leaned back, closed my eyes.

My eyes flickered open as Hauser was pulling off to the side of the road. I could feel the trooper somewhere behind us. 'Fuck!' Hauser said. 'That's just what I need— another goddamn ticket.'

I looked back over my shoulder out of the corner of my eye. The trooper was Central Casting: tall, square– jawed, his Mountie hat canted at just the right angle. He walked around to the driver's window— Hauser already had it down.

'Sir, you were clocked at— '

'It's my fault, officer,' Belinda said, leaning across Hauser, arching her back so she could look up into the trooper's eyes. Or to show him how eager her breasts were to bust out of the white turtleneck.

'I'm on the job,' she said. 'Going down to the state prison to interview a witness.' She pulled a thick leather wallet out of her jacket, handed it over.

The trooper flipped it open, saw the badge, gave Belinda a sharp look.

'Call it in,' she said, flashing a dazzling smile. 'It's not my boyfriend's badge, it's mine. I don't even have a boyfriend,' she said in that pouty little–girl tone I'd heard her use before.

'May I see your license and registration, sir?' the trooper said to Hauser.

He took it all back to his cruiser. A few minutes passed. He walked back over. 'Sir, you were clocked at seventy miles per hour. Since you have no prior record, it is our policy to issue a warning at this time. Please drive more carefully in the future.'

'Thank you,'Hauser said fervently.

The trooper leaned into the window a bit, handed Belinda's wallet back to her. Then he straightened up, threw a half–salute and went back to his cruiser.

As Hauser pulled away, Belinda snapped open her wallet. A white business card popped out. She put the card in another jacket pocket, cranked her seat way back so she was almost reclining, looking up at me.

'Nice work,' I told her.

'Well, you can usually tin a Jersey cop,' she said, smiling. 'We'd do the same for them on a traffic thing.'

'I don't think it was the badge that did it,' I told her.

'What else could it be?' She smiled again, taking a deep breath.

We got off the Turnpike at Exit 8A. Belinda directed Hauser from there. I knew a faster way, but I didn't say anything.

You almost never see prisons in the middle of cities. Jails, maybe, but prisons, they always want them out in the sticks. But Trenton State Prison is so old that it was there first— they had to build the city around it. We turned off Federal Street into the visitors' parking lot. Hauser looked at the dark monster looming above us: endless stone walls aged into a single definitionless mass, a filthy gray–black slab. 'It's right out of a movie,' he said. 'A fucking horror movie.'

Belinda went up to the window first, leaned in to talk to the guard. When she motioned to us, Hauser and I went over too. We each showed ID— Hauser his press pass, me my phony bar card:

Juan Rodriguez, Abogado.

'I told them you were George's lawyer,' Belinda whispered. 'And that J.P. was covering the case. This way, we get a contact visit.'

'What's that?' Hauser asked her.

'If you're not an attorney, or a cop, or whatever— if you're just family or friends— then the visit is over the phone. Not a telephone, just a receiver you pick up on one side of the glass. The guy you're visiting does the same. A contact visit is when you can touch— no barriers.'

'Piersall. George Piersall,' the speaker squawked.

'That's us,' Belinda said, standing up to lead the way.

The place was chambered, like the hatches in a submarine. As we walked through each set of doors, they closed behind us before the next one opened. The guard in the first chamber ran over our bodies with a hand scanner. It beeped for keys, the metal clip on ballpoint pens…anything. Hauser took out one of those giant Swiss Army knives, the red ones with enough attachments to build a house from scratch. The guard shook his head, gave Hauser a look. Hauser stared back blankly until the guard dropped his eyes. 'You get this back on your way out,' he muttered.

The next chamber had a metal detector we had to walk through. Then a guard led us around to the conference room. Most of the room was taken up by a long table with a wooden divider running lengthwise: attorneys on one side, clients on the other. There were also a few smaller tables scattered around, the space between them the only privacy permitted.

'There's a better room, for lawyers,' Belinda said. 'They let cops use it too. But I didn't want to try and talk them into letting the three of us in.'

'This'll do fine,' I said, casing the room. Over in the corner, a muscular black man in a blinding–white T–shirt was huddled forward, talking to another black man in a business suit. The muscular black man looked up. His eyes passed over my face like it was a blank wall.

'Hey!' A man's deep voice, greeting someone. It was Piersall, spotting Belinda. He walked over so slowly it was just this side of a swagger, a blond man with a neat haircut. His eyes were dishwater blue, set close together, his nose almost too small for his face. He smiled at all of us— his teeth were either all capped or factory–perfect. I made him at around six feet, maybe an inch over. About a hundred eighty–five pounds, most of it in the upper body. A good–looking, confident man— I could see a woman leaving a bar with him way before closing time.

He sat down, pulled a pack of smokes from the breast pocket of his prison–issue short–sleeved green shirt. He put the cigarette pack on the table, then he turned to Hauser, extended his hand.

'I'm George Piersall. You must be the reporter, right?'

'J. P. Hauser,' Hauser acknowledged, shaking hands.

'And you?' Piersall asked, shifting his eyes to me. 'You're with Fortunato?'

'Juan Rodriguez,' I said. 'At your service.'

'Where do we start?' Piersall asked.

'You're not contesting the Jersey conviction?' Hauser replied, setting the table.

'No. Not actually. I mean, it wasn't at all like they said in the indictment, but the plea offer was so good I just couldn't pass it up. I don't care about this one— I'll be going out on it quick enough. The thing is, they already dropped a detainer on me. Instead of parole, they'll just load me into a van to start another bit.'

'The woman in New York?' Hauser asked. 'The one on University Place? You said you— '

'Doris,' Piersall interrupted. 'Her name was Doris.'

'Okay, Doris,' Hauser agreed. 'You said you…knew her. Before it…happened?'

'I did. I mean, not like we were friends or anything. I met her in a bar. We got to talking. And we went back to her place. After that, I called her a couple of times, or she'd call me. If neither of us was busy, we'd get together. You know, no big deal…But I liked her, you know what I'm saying? She was a nice kid— no reason for anyone to get rough with her.'

'You think that's what happened?' I asked him, leaning in to catch his eye. 'Somebody played too rough?'

'It could be,' Piersall said quietly, staying right on my face. 'She liked to play a little hard. Not over–the–top stuff, you know…'

'Spell it out,' I said.