Rogan threw Ellie a worried look as she was already picturing a loose-lipped Kristen Woods, with freshly arched brows, dishing to her boss about this afternoon’s surprise fishing expedition.
“So what exactly are we looking at?” she asked.
Max frowned. “Bandon wants to throw Guerrero a bone. I figure he’s trying to send a message to Sparks that he did all he could.”
“Which is?” Rogan asked.
“Bandon wants a briefing, under oath, about where things stand. And then from there he wants updates on the case.”
Ellie and Rogan were only two people, but from the cacophony in Tucker’s office, they could have been the entire studio audience of
“Can he do that?” Rogan finally demanded.
“Not typically,” Max said. “There’s a separation of powers issue. We’re the executive. He’s the judiciary. He has no claim to a general right to access information that we possess in an investigation.”
“Okay, so once again, tell them where they can stick that motion.”
Max looked at Ellie, and she knew what was coming. “He says this isn’t a typical case. He says there’s at least a colorable claim that the NYPD is harassing Sam Sparks—”
Rogan was already shaking his head, but Ellie held up a hand, wanting to hear the rest of the explanation.
“Bandon says it’s a colorable claim, that’s all. And that in light of the jurisdiction he has over the matter given Guerrero’s demand for discovery, he’s ordering this process as temporary relief. It’s basically a middle ground. The way he explained it to me, he’s essentially protecting us—you, really, the police”—he looked again at Ellie—“from a harassment suit by intervening.”
“Tell him to bring it on,” Rogan said. “He’s gotten kid gloves compared to anyone else who’d be in his position. Bring it the fuck on. Let him sue.”
Rogan looked to his partner for validation, but Ellie just stared at the speckled earth-tone linoleum of Tucker’s office floor. If Max was here, instead of the courthouse, it was because he had already tried to fight on her behalf.
“I already ran it up the chain,” he said, confirming her suspicions. “Knight thinks it’s best if we play along.” Knight was the chief prosecutor of the trial unit at the district attorney’s office and was also Max’s boss. “It’s just a matter of meeting with Bandon in chambers—in camera—no Sparks, no Guerrero, not even a court reporter—and then I’ll informally notify him of any further material developments. Like I said, it’s really just for show. Bandon comes out looking good to Sparks. Nothing on the record shows he’s doing some rich ass a favor—”
“And we’re going to play along,” Rogan said. He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm.
Ellie finally spoke up. “Donovan’s right. Bandon’s probably helping us out.”
Robin Tucker looked at Ellie with raised eyebrows. It was a look of surprised approval.
“And Rogan should be the one to do the in camera session with Judge Bandon.”
“What? So I can serve some time, too?”
“So I won’t be an issue. So Bandon will see we’ve dealt with Sparks on the up-and-up.”
“That’s a good idea,” Max said quietly. “Thank you.”
“Okay, so we’re all done here?” Tucker said. “Happy campers all around?”
No one looked happy, but no one was protesting. “That was easier than I thought. Now get out of here. I’ve got a kid waiting at home for dinner.”
Rogan didn’t bother waiting until they were back to their desks before reconstructing the events that must have led to Judge Bandon’s phone call to Max Donovan that afternoon.
“Your girl Kristen Woods gave us up,” he said once they had both crossed the threshold of Tucker’s office.
“I assumed the same thing.”
“So much for the sisterhood of the traveling pantsuits,” he said.
“Well, Woods is more of a miniskirt and stiletto heels type anyway.” Ellie tried to muster a smile as she lowered herself into her worn vinyl-upholstered desk chair. “Given the timing, she must’ve called Sparks the second we left her on the street.”
“And then Sparks makes a call to Bandon.”
“Or, more likely, he calls his lawyer, and then Guerrero calls Bandon. That way it at least
“Instead of the bullshit rich-boys club that it is.”
Ellie felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find Max Donovan smiling down at her.
“I’m gonna get my gear from the locker room,” Rogan said.
“You okay?” Max asked once Rogan was out of earshot.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“I know this has to be hard on you.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’m actually grateful that Rogan will be the one to deal with Bandon this time. I probably need some distance.”
“I’ve got another couple hours of work at the courthouse, but meet at my place when I’m done?”
“I’m sorry, Max. I’m really tired. Last night wasn’t exactly the Ritz-Carlton, you know?”
“That’s fine. Why don’t you go home and get some rest, and I’ll come to you.”
“I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”
“That’s all right. I’m used to doing all the talking while I watch you chew,” he said, smiling.
Ellie knew she should be grateful for his response. She should be thankful that he wanted to support her, to comfort her, to watch her sleep the way she’d sometimes catch him in the morning. And she wanted to accept his offer. She wanted to be the kind of woman whose first instinct was to run to a man who cared about her when she was under pressure.
But one of the things she loved about Max was that he seemed to understand her, even when she had trouble understanding herself. And he was comfortable and confident and took everything in stride. Unlike other men she’d dated, she never had to worry about Max making it all about him. It was all the more reason to wish she could give him what he wanted.
“I’m sorry. Tomorrow, okay? I promise. Tonight I just need to kick the blankets, squish the pillows, drool onto the sheets, and snore like an old fat man. And I really don’t want you to see me like that.”
“Might kill the magic.”
“Exactly.” She held his gaze and brushed his forearm.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m holding you to it.”
“You better.”
“Well, get some rest, all right? You’ve earned it.”
Outside on Twenty-first Street, to the west, Ellie spotted a familiar figure leaning against the white stone of the building, smoking a cigarette. Jess.
She smiled at her older brother as she imagined all of the one-liners he must have come up with at her expense since she’d called him the night before from jail.
“Hey, you.” She caught a whiff of smoke and wondered when she’d stop missing it.
He removed an unopened pack of Marlboros from his faded jean jacket and handed them to her.
“I quit, remember?” She had, for the most part.
“I hear they’re currency where you’re from.”
“Funny.”
“I’m serious. Anything you want. Soap. Candy. Porn. A shiv. Reefer. The white pony. These bad boys can get you anything on the inside.” He shook the cigarettes for emphasis.
“Is that all you got?” she asked dryly.
“Of course not. I figured I’d go with the prop comedy first. Let the rest of my lines trickle out over the next few days. Weeks. Months, if necessary.”
“Oh, good. Something to look forward to.”
