Page 106 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“We have her cell,” Kylie said. “Ping it.”

We did. She was at Forlini’s, afamily-ownedItalian restaurant on Baxter Street that was soold-school, it had become Instagram trendy. At lunchtime, it would be packed with judges, prosecutors, defense attorneys, bail bondsmen, and of course, criminals.

Blakely was at a booth with three men, enjoying her last meal as a free woman.

Kylie and I approached the table. She looked up, recognized us immediately, and forced a smile.

Kylie smiled back. “Hell-l-l-lo-o-o-o, Mother,” she said, stretching the two words out into a very un–New York languid drawl, letting them hang in the air—bad tidings dripping with honey.

Blakely let the fork drop from her hand, and Kylie snapped the cuffs on her.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she bellowed.

Kylie yanked her out of her seat and toward the front door.

Blakely was apoplectic. “Are you out of your fuckingminds? I’ll have you fired. Then I’ll sue your asses, and I won’t let up until I’ve taken your homes, your cars, and every penny you have in the bank.”

People looked up from theirpaglia e fienoor their veal chop valdostana. Most of them shrugged and went back to their lunches. They had spent their lives in the criminal justice system. They’d seen it before.

Weperp-walkedBlakely out of the restaurant. Kylie remainedstone-faced, but I knew that inside she was doing cartwheels. She would gladly have paraded Blakely through the crowded streets, past the county courthouse, Foley Square, and the rest of Lower Manhattan, where friends and enemies alike knew that her reputation was legend.

But there was no time to revel in the collar. We put her in the car, still ranting, and within minutes we led her into the building at One Saint Andrews Plaza.

Her wrath turned to fear. “What are we doing here?” she insisted. “You have no right to take me here.”

“Here” was the US Attorney’s Office for the Southern District of New York. As soon as we walked her through the door, Blakely realized that she would no longer be dealing with the city, the county, or the state. We had kicked up the charges to the most punishing court in the land: the federal government. And as every lawyer knows, when you end up fed, you end up dead.

Blakely is combative by nature. She thinks she’s at her best when she’s arguing her case. But we hadn’t said a word to her since we took her from the restaurant, and I could see that our silence had her unnerved. She was trembling as we took her upstairs to thefourth-floorconference room.

The welcoming committee was already there: Selma Kaplan from the Manhattan DA’s office, two FBI agents who had been called in because Blakely’s crimes crossed state and international lines, and Edward Owen, an assistant US Attorney.

Sonia knew him. “Ed, I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, “but tell these morons who I am and get these fucking cuffs off me.”

“You’re a prisoner, Sonia,” Owen said. “The cuffs stay on.”

Not the response she’d expected, but she fought back. “This is outrageous. I want to speak to my lawyer. How can you allow them to interrogate me without reading me my rights?”

“You have no rights,” Owen replied. “You get no lawyer.Dickerson v. United Statesreaffirmed that the Miranda rule is out the window if these officers have determined someone is at immediate risk of death or serious injury.”

The last ounce of bravado drained from her face. She didn’t ask whose life was at risk. She knew.

Owen gestured to a chair, and Blakely sank into it. Then he nodded to me and Kylie. I gave my partner the honors.

Kylie moved closer to the chair and looked down at Blakely. “Where are Megan Rollins and Wayman Tate?” she demanded.

“I don’t know,” Blakely said. It was a lame response. A stall while she ran her options through her head.

“They kidnapped a teenage boy,” Kylie said. “If anything happens to him, you’re looking at the death penalty. Now, where areMegan Rollins and WaymanTate?”

Blakely turned to Owen. “I want a deal,” she said.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Total immunity.”

“No,” he said, his voice cold and uncaring, making his response all the more menacing. “I could have you tried, convicted, and on death row in three weeks. Here’s my best offer. You’ll do time in a federal prison, and if you stay healthy, you won’t be leaving in a box. How old are you?”

“Forty-nine,” she said, her lower lip quivering. “I’ll be fifty in September.”

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