Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

Ricky said, “I thought you knew all about that kind of stuff.”

“I wish I knew more. What’s important is that we put Brian in our prayers and he knows how much he’s missed.”

Fiona started to sniffle. It was a precursor to crying, and that would cause a ripple effect throughout the van. I’d seen it too many times already. I had to do something fast.

I shouted, “Look!”

All heads turned to the right and looked out on West 96th Street, where I was staring.

Jane said, “What do you see, Dad?”

“I think it’s Derek Jeter.”

“Where?” came a chorus.

“Right there in front of the Gristedes supermarket.” I pointed at a huge man in a blue Brooks Brothers suit with his flab poking out around his belt. “Looks like he’s put on a little weight since retirement.”

Trent wailed, “Noooooo! That’s not Jeter.” He followed the Yankees better than he followed any of the classes he was in.

“Are you sure?”

Now there were some giggles as little voices said, “Not Jeter.” That turned into a chant. “Not Jeter, not Jeter, not Jeter.”

We pulled up to Holy Name, on Amsterdam Avenue. I knew I had survived another morning. For a change we were on time and got to see what it looked like when we weren’t racing to beat the final bell and shoo the kids in before the door was locked. Sister Sheilah even waved to me.

As each kid filed out, giving me a quick hug, I felt Brian’s absence like a missing limb.

Chapter 4

I parked the van in Queens and took advantage of the bus to Rikers Island. I’d been to New York City’s main detention facility dozens of times before, but today it felt grim. The narrow bridge from Queens

to the island in the East River made me anxious. The island itself is a giant facility where people booked on crimes from misdemeanors to homicides are processed. Today I got off in front of the main building, having used my connections to make things move quickly. There were several buildings in the facility, which could hold as many as fifteen thousand prisoners at any one time. I was told to go to a building near the front of the complex.

This main building housed males in pretrial status. Many of them were poor and couldn’t afford bail. Others, like Brian, had been denied bail altogether. Our lawyer had already told me that the district attorney’s office would be tough. For them, this was a chance to change the media narrative about the racist judicial system. They were charging him as an adult. My little boy was considered an adult this one wretched time.

My throat was dry as I cut away from the miserable little crowd that got off the bus. They shuffled to the main visiting entrance while I moved to the side, where I was supposed to meet an old friend. Even the bright sunshine couldn’t give the jail any kind of pleasant facade.

I nodded when I saw the lieutenant who had already been wildly helpful. “Hey, Vinny. I appreciate the assist.”

The pudgy middle-aged bald man said, “No problem, Mike. I’m a dad, too. I know this has got to be tough on you.”

I said, “Is he doing okay?”

“I just saw him, and he looked fine. You know this place is no summer camp.”

He led me through a side door to a tiny room that contained only two institutional metal chairs. There was no Plexiglas. No phones or surveillance cameras. This wasn’t an interview room. It was probably a place where corrections officers could get away from the stress for a few minutes. This guy was really helping me out. A rare perk of being one of New York’s finest.

I stood silently in the ten-foot-by-ten-foot room; it had bland two-tone beige walls and no windows. The door opened, and Brian stood there, wearing a simple orange jumpsuit and black flip-flops. He sprang forward and gave me a hug.

The uniformed corrections officer gave me a bob of his head and backed out of the room tactfully.

I held my boy. The young man I had raised. Nursed through the flu. Tutored in math. Taught to love sports. I held my boy, who was now facing up to ten years in the New York State prison system. I held him and started to cry.

Finally we both plopped into the two lonely chairs and just stared at each other. Was this our new normal?

Brian’s eyes were bloodshot, and he had a light stubble on his face—like a tiny sparse forest. Christ—he only started shaving a year ago.

I focused and said, “Look, Brian, we’re doing all we can. You’ve talked to the attorney. She’s the best. A former ADA.”