Page 74 of The Writer

When Ruben Lucero was sentenced, he wasn’t a strong man. I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense. According to his intake form, he weighed only one hundred and thirty-two pounds. His job as a groundskeeper kept him reasonably fit but did nothing to add bulk to his almost girl-like frame. He was timid, had been picked on his entire life. He had no friends. He lived life in a bubble, and that did nothing to improve his social skills. Had the folks in Vegas taken bets on Lucero’s survival, the odds would not have been good. How he made it through those initial months, I don’t know, and when I asked him, he refused to talk about it.

Although I followed Lucero’s trial closely, the first time I met him, the first time we spoke, Lucero was three years into his sentence and no longer resembled the man I’d seen in the courtroom and the press. He’d put on at least forty pounds, all muscle. His long hair had been shaved away, and several tattoos covered his scalp as well as his armsand hands. His wide, childlike eyes had receded deep into his skull. And he was covered in scars, too many to count. Looking at him was painful and sent a single thought through my head:Prison made this.

Then he proceeded to tell me the truth.

He was guarded at first, rightfully so. But he was also clear, concise. He laid out the evidence against him and dispensed with each item systematically, not as a man who would say anything to gain freedom but almost as an impartial observer. Someone who was familiar with all aspects of the case and whose only goal was to set things right.

I didn’t want to believe him, but I did. Because his truth,thetruth, made far more sense than the case laid out by the prosecutor had. When I asked him why he hadn’t testified in his own defense, he told me his court-appointed public defender advised him not to. When I asked why that same public defender hadn’t raised these issues in court, he only shrugged, shook his head, and said, “I met with her twice before the trial and we covered everything I just told you. I told her I had a fondness for young girls, I admitted to that, but I also told her I never touched Maggie Marshall. I described the man I saw following her. I told her to run prints on the evidence found in my apartment because I knew she wouldn’t find mine, but she did none of that. On the final day of my trial, her last day to present my defense, I asked her why not, and she only stared at me. I realized she had already made up her mind about me and decided I needed to be in here, not out there.”

Ruben Lucero’s public defender was a woman named Carolyn Douglas. She was two years out of law school andhad a caseload on her desk tall enough to tickle the ceiling. She also had one foot out the door, ready to move into private practice. Lucero firmly believed Carolyn Douglas had been asked to throw his case by her new boss, one of New York’s preeminent criminal defense attorneys.

A man named Geller Hoffman.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

“DO YOU HAVE any coffee in this kitchen?” Cordova calls to Declan. Cordova uses the termkitchenloosely because the small space doesn’t function as a kitchen. The refrigerator is bare, most of the drawers are either empty or stuffed with random junk, and only one cabinet actually houses dishware; the others are full of everything from old magazines to car parts, which Cordova finds odd, since Declan doesn’t own a car. He does find a box of protein bars buried under some laundry on the counter. Unfortunately, they expired six months ago. Cordova takes one anyway and tries to ignore the fact that it contains dairy, which he tries to avoid, and is far more crunchy than it probably should be. “Dec? Do you have coffee?” he calls again, louder.

“Sorry! I meant to do some shopping, but…” Declan’s voice trails off, muffled by the running water of the shower in the other room.

The only bare spot on Declan’s kitchen counter is the place his knife block, now in evidence, once occupied. Cordova sees dirty dishes sitting in putrid water in the sink, and his stomach lurches. He has no idea how the kid can live like this. He has no idea how anyone could live like this. He tosses the rest of the protein bar in the overflowing trash and steps back into the living room. The door of the closet nearest the entrance is still open from the search, and half its contents are on the floor. Cordova counts five shoeboxes, and that’s without moving the coats and other items that are most likely covering more. All the shoes are the same brand and design as the ones he found in Hoffman’s safe: Merrell Moab, size eleven. Black. Declan can’t be bothered to buy a loaf of bread, but shoes? Shoes he’s got.

In the bathroom, the shower cuts off. A moment later, Declan opens the door. He’s wrapped in a towel, and white humid steam lofts out of the confined space and into the living room. He wipes the mirror with a balled fist and lathers shaving cream on his face. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” Cordova says.As long as you’re not going to ask me to help clean this shithole.

Declan says, “I need you to be completely honest.”

“Always am.”

“Did you seriously think I killed David Morrow?”

It’s been so long since Cordova got any sleep, he isn’t sure about much of anything. His brain is reeling from the events ofthe past twenty-four hours alone, and he hasn’t had time to try and make sense of it all. When Declan got in the shower, he tossed his shirt on the floor outside the bathroom door, and Cordova finds himself staring at it. He’s not sure why. Something about it knocks around in the back of his tired mind, but the thought is so greasy, he can’t grip it.

“If you did,” Declan says, “I forgive you. I’ll be the first to admit, things got a little sketchy.”

Cordova is still staring at the shirt.

“I’ve decided not to give a shit about Denise Morrow and her tell-all book,” Declan goes on. “Let her release it. With what you found on Geller Hoffman, if she puts that bullshit out there, I’ll sue her for slander, defamation, and whatever else I can come up with. Hell, pain and suffering, mental anguish… I’ll find a lawyer who makes Hoffman look like a saint, a bottom-feeder who has no problem getting dirty. It’s not like they’re in short supply around here. Maybe I’ll use the money to get a better place. Maybe I’ll get out of the city altogether. Who knows.”

“Who knows…” Cordova mutters.

When he finally turns away from the shirt, his right foot is tapping incessantly. This nervous tic that comes on whenever his mind is working a problem. He puts an end to the tapping and returns to the only other thought rolling around in his head. “I’m not sure I buy that Lucero is innocent in all this.”

“That scumbag is hardly innocent.”

When Cordova found Geller Hoffman in that closet, he felt like everything was coming together. The items in the attorney’s safe clinched it. If Cordova were the star of some weeklytelevision detective drama, those things would have happened at the fifty-three-minute mark. The case would be tied up with a nice little bow, and he’d be at a bar joking with his costars, setting things up for next week’s episode. Outro music would be cued up. But this is no television drama, and real life is anything but convenient. In all his years on the force, Cordova can recall only a single case that wrapped up as tight as this one. Cases are usually sloppy. There are usually unanswered questions. There are usually doubts—not enough to tip the scales, but doubts nonetheless. When you put somebody away, you make your peace with that. This is different. He’s missed something. Youdon’tmake your peace with that.

“Geller Hoffman kills Maggie Marshall. Ruben Lucero sees him all those years ago, then fingers him for the murder to Denise Morrow?” Cordova wonders aloud. “Think about that. If she doesn’t go up to Dannemora to interview him for her book, if her phone doesn’t ring at that exact second, none of that comes together.”

“What, you don’t believe in kismet?”

“Do you?”

“I think Ruben Lucero was found guilty by a jury of his peers. Saffi said he might get a new trial after what you pulled out of Hoffman’s place, so we let that happen. You saw Lucero’s apartment—that monster was tying girls to a mattress on the floor. Making them shit in a bucket. He had all those books, souvenirs. A cell at Dannemora is too good for him.” He glances at Cordova in the mirror. “Daniels told me about the pictures you found with Hoffman. You worried about those?”

“Shouldn’t we be?”

“Hoffman tried to frame me, so it’s not a stretch to see him frame Lucero,” Declan replies. “Lucero said he saw Hoffman in the park that day. If that’s true, odds are good Hoffman saw Lucero too. Pedos like them, they got this sort of radar, they home in on each other. Hoffman was sharp. He saw an opportunity to clean up a mess and he took it. Might even explain how that book got in Lucero’s apartment. Hoffman would know exactly who to grease to pull something from evidence. If he already knew what was in Maggie’s bag, it makes even more sense. You said Lucero mentioned Lieutenant Daniels. You ever stop and think maybehereally did it? It was his name in the log, right? Maybe he used the wrong hand to throw the handwriting. What better way to cover your own tracks? I sure as shit didn’t do it. Makes sense Daniels might’ve. Maybe that’s how he paid for that cozy cabin of his out at Riverhead. You want to make yourself feel better about it all, why don’t we run the Polaroids we found at Lucero’s place for prints, see if Hoffman’s are on them? They are, and you got your answer.”

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