Page 154 of What's Left of Us

I hadn’t taken it personally.

“Large black coffee, no milk or sugar,” the woman behind the counter calls out.

As I grab it, my phone starts ringing. When I glance down at the screen, my brows pinch when I see Estep’s name. “Danforth,” I greet, nudging the front door open with my hip to go outside.

“It’s Jon Estep over at the DA’s office.”

“What can I do for you, Jon?”

He clears his throat. “This is a courtesy call. I thought you’d like to know that Jakob Volley was found dead in his cell early this morning.”

I stop in my tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. “How?”

“He allegedly hung himself using the sheets from his bed,” he answers. “There have been multiple incidents since you met with him that have required infirmary visits, stitches, and overnight stays. My best guess is that he’d had enough.”

I don’t buy that for a second. What was it he said to me? Something about us both knowing he wasn’t getting out of there? “So, you think he committed suicide?”

What he says next makes me clench my coffee cup a little tighter than necessary. “It’s not my position to think anything, Mr. Danforth. I was simply his attorney.”

“So that’s it? There’s not going to be an investigation? He’s just gone when things happen to start heating up with Del Rossi?”

Estep sighs heavily. “Even if I thought his death was under suspicious circumstances, I have no power to do anything about it. Frankly, Rikers Island has already seen nineteen deaths this year. It’s not uncommon for the prisoners to decide they don’t want to continue their sentence, knowing they’ll never get out.”

That’s the politician’s way of saying his death is going to be lumped into the others. The magic number twenty. Unfortunate, but unimportant.

“If Volley was having such a hard time there, why didn’t you try harder to get him moved when I suggested it?” I question. I’d told him we could try getting him transferred if he worked with us, but Estep barely batted an eyelash at the suggestion.

“Do you know how much time that takes?” he counters in exasperation. “That requires a lot of strings to a lot of different connections. And if you’d like me to be blunt, there are some people I’m not willing to waste those favors on. A cop killer is one.”

I can appreciate his honesty, even if I think it’s a little fucked up. But what do I expect? There isn’t one defense attorney that I know who would answer differently. “He could have helped build something big for you, Estep.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll never know,” is his answer. It’s detached. Unaffected.

And I get it. I’ve been the same since I started this job. “I guess not.”

He ends the call, leaving me staring at the blank screen. I go through my contacts to find Beaugard’s name, but he doesn’t pick up.

As I walk toward the building for my six o’clock appointment, I get a text message back from my former boss.

Beaugard:What did I tell you about getting a life?

Me:Hard to do when the body toll goes up

Beaugard:That’s not on you

Me:That’s what they said about Conklin

Bubbles appear and disappear at the bottom of the screen. I stop outside the door of the psychotherapist’s entrance and wait for his reply. He’s not one to beat around the bush or offer me some Pinterest-level advice.

Beaugard:We got the call this morning

Me:And?

Beaugard:Volley already had his trial

Beaugard:You can’t get justice for everyone

That’s not what I want for Volley. It’s because of him that Conklin is dead. But if he was killed so he didn’t talk, then it could risk the case being built against Del Rossi.

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