Page 34 of Two Kinds of Stranger

‘Eddie Flynn, you working with all the bad people today?’

‘I got no choice – there’s always a prosecutor involved.’

‘You’re a very bad man,’ she said, laughing.

‘I have my moments,’ I said, slipping a twenty into the tip jar, and making sure Renata saw me do it. ‘Say, I’m looking for a bad man right now.’

‘You’re in the right place.’

‘I don’t mean a defendant. I need a bondsman. Someone with a bad rep. I know a few, but I want somebody who is hot right now. You hear any stories lately?’

She put a napkin on top of the glass deli counter, and two donuts on top.

‘I just wanted a single donut.’

‘You’re too skinny. You need to eat,’ she said. ‘I know a man. I heard some folks complaining about him. Richard something. . .’

‘Richard Reynolds?’ I asked.

‘That’s him. He’s charging people a lot of money. Charges they don’t expect.’

I’d heard of Reynolds – a few stories some years ago, along with half a dozen other bondsmen. In the justice system, there was always a way to skim off the top, rip somebody off or worse. Most bondsmen did a good job, yet the profession had a bad rep. Not as bad as defense attorneys, of course.

Still, Richard Reynolds’s reputation was bad enough to earn him a nickname. The obvious one.

‘Thanks, Renata,’ I said, taking the coffee and the donuts.

I walked round the corner from the shop, took a mouthful of the coffee and gave the donuts to two young kids, obviously brothers, sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall. They looked like they were waiting to see if a parent got bail. Hard to know if they were praying they got out or praying they stayed in. The kids were maybe sixteen and thirteen, if that, and they looked as if they hadn’t had a good meal or a new pair of shoes in a long time.

They didn’t say anything as I gave them the donuts.

They didn’t need to.

They just ate them. That was thanks enough.

I hung around the hallways while Kate was in court, keeping an eye on the lists and gauging the mood of Judge Busken.

I was looking for cops.

It didn’t take me too long to spot detective Bill Sacks. He was wearing his uniform. Not a cop uniform, at least not in the conventional sense. Sacks wore a plaid shirt tucked, under strain from his small belly, into his navy chinos. He was a little overweight, nothing wrong with that, but he was one of those guys who wore a shirt and pants one size too small. Because of his gut and his profession, his belt had to do a lot of heavy lifting: an empty holster for his Glock on his right hip (police are required to check their firearms at the security gate), a keychain with three pounds of keys and keyrings dangling off his left side, perhaps to help balance the weight of the Glock on the right. Half a dozen lanyards, including his NYPD badge, hung round his neck. Two Velcro pockets on the back of the belt held extra magazines for the Glock and his cuffs, and a large pocket beside it held his notebook and pen.

Sacks had reached the level of experience and seniority where he wasn’t required to chase down suspects on foot. Just as well. It had taken him ten years as a patrolman to work up to detective, and that time had taken a toll on his feet.

Whenever he could get away with it, like today, Sacks wore a pair of black Crocs over thick black woolen socks.

A moustache and pair of Oakley sunglasses finished the ensemble.

He was the kind of guy who read the instruction manual for every device in the house, cover to cover. Twice.

He was talking to Bernice Mazur, another one of the workhouse civil servants in the justice system–except Bernice worked as an assistant DA. She had come up under former District Attorney Miriam Sullivan, my old sparring partner. Bernice was forty-one years old with five kids under eighteen and a divorce two years behind her. She wore dark green suits, white shirts and thick glasses, which either hung off the end of her nose or dangled on a gold chain round her neck. She always had a thick armful of files, which she carried with ease, and a large purse hung off her elbow, which must’ve weighed twenty pounds. The purse was stuffed with a laptop, glasses cases, half a dozen legal pads and fifty ballpoint pens–and only half of them still had ink.

Because Miriam had been a mentor for Bernice, or perhaps because Bernice already possessed the character that Miriam expected of her ADAs, I always found Bernice to be ruthlessly fair, highly skilled and good natured.

Bill Sacks was talking Bernice through a file of papers. He was briefing her on the Elly Parker arraignment.

I left them to it and went into court, found Kate sitting on a bench while other cases proceeded.

‘Bernice is handling Elly Parker’s case,’ I whispered.