Three-thirteen. The clock on the precinct station wall was like the plain white wall clocks of elementary school. The whole station reminded Jessie of elementary school: bulletin boards, plate-glass partitions, yellow cinder-block walls, fluorescent lights.
She sat with the others in the plastic scoop chairs along the wall, Frank and Henry on her left, Caleb on her right.
“I see,” said Caleb. “And what time will that be? You’re kidding? You mean nothing could happen until morning?”
He was using Jessie’s cell phone to talk to Irene.
“Yes. I know it’s Friday night. Or Saturday morning or whatever you want to name it. But don’t you think—?”
The station on West Tenth Street was nothing like the police stations their father described in his war stories. A regular Friday Night Fight Club, he told his golf buddies, and the Saturday Night Knife and Gun Club was even wilder. But that was the Bronx in the 1970s. Here cops wandered in and out, and there were occasional arrests—an angry black drag queen, a drunk white college kid with a bloody nose—but things seemed relatively quiet. Jessie couldn’t tell if it was just the neighborhood that was different or the decade.
“Right back,” she told the others and walked over to the desk sergeant. “Our mother’s still here, right? They wouldn’t load her into a paddy wagon and send her downtown without telling us, right?”
The sergeant assured her their mother was still here. Jessie returned to her seat.
It’d be different if they could see Mom, but she was out of sight, tucked away in an office down the hall or maybe in a cell.
Jessie’s common sense continued to argue with her imagination of disaster. Kenneth Prager couldn’t die. Her mother couldn’t be charged with murder. But he could sue. Or Mom could be charged with attempted murder. Or carrying a gun without a permit. Or something that would mean they’d spend the rest of their lives in court. There were so many awful things to imagine.
But more confusing was that Molly Doyle had done such a thing in the first place. She pulled out a gun and shot a man. Maybe not deliberately, but the emotion was real, the anger. Jessie was frightened not only for her, but by her. Who was this lady?
Around the corner, an older man called out, “Molly? Molly Doyle? What in blazes are you doing here?”
Jessie leaned to the left but could see nothing down the hall.
“Jimmy Murtagh,” the voice declared. “I used to work with Bobby, rest his soul. So what’s this I hear about you and…”
The voice disappeared as a door was closed.
Jessie looked at Caleb. He had heard the man too. He paused for a moment, then resumed his talk with Irene.
“I know you’re an entertainment lawyer. But if you can’t reach that guy, you’ll come, right? You promise? Thank you.”
He snapped the phone shut and passed it back to Jessie.
“She knows a good defense attorney,” he said. “Who she’ll try to wake up and get here. If she can’t get him, she’ll come herself. But we can’t expect anyone before six.”
Jessie let out a groan. “I can’t leave while Mom’s still here. I’m afraid they’ll move her. Send her elsewhere and then we’ll never find her again. I know it’s neurotic, but it’s how I feel.”
Caleb nodded. “I feel the same. But no point in us all waiting. Maybe I should walk over to St. Vincent’s and see how Prager is.”
Jessie screwed up her eyes at him.
“I won’t try to talk him out of pressing charges or anything like that,” he told her. “I’d just like to know how he’s doing.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Henry.
Caleb frowned. “That won’t be necessary.”
“But I’d enjoy the walk. And I might be able to reason with Mr. Prager. Better than you. After all, he admires me.”
Caleb looked at his sister, wondering if she could explain Henry’s motive.
She didn’t have a clue. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got Frank here. You’ll stay, won’t you, Frank?”
He nodded. “Definitely.”
Frank seemed pleased that she needed him, and she was glad to have him here. But things were not entirely right between them, were they?
“Fear not,” Henry assured her. “All will be fine.” And he followed Caleb out the door.