Bail bondsmen do not have offices on the Upper East Side. The types of establishments that grant loans to the wives of suspected killers know there’s little money to be made operating out of the ground floor of a ritzy condominium. They set up shop in commercial buildings across from jails and courthouses—the kind of locales that don’t frown upon neon lights in the window advertising “Get Out Fast.”
The closest bondsman is south of Houston. A taxi driver ferries me thirty minutes through traffic from my fertility doctor’s office to a grimy street in the financial district lined with electronics repair shops. I spot the place a hundred yards before we pass it. Who could mistake a yellow awning with spray-painted black handcuffs? I ask the driver to let me out on the corner even though he could easily stop in front of the store.
My legs wobble as I exit the cab and head to a neon sign boasting “Affordable Bail.” It’s an oxymoronic phrase if there ever was one. Securing David’s release will cost a million dollars. Seventy percent of the cost of our majority-bank-owned apartment. His entire post-tax salary for the past five years. More than the sum of my life’s earnings.
When David had revealed the price, my head had hammered so hard that I’d feared a stroke. He’d explained that we only needed to post 10 percent of the coupon, as though that was supposed to make me feel better. I’d responded that a hundred thousand would liquidate our savings, effectively bankrupting us. Any more would have had the virtue of being impossible.
David had not taken kindly to my preference that he await trial in jail. He’d assured me, voice filled with righteous indignation, that when the state ultimately drops the charges, he will sue for every penny of his bail, plus personal damages. He’d also threatened to have Cameron secure his release with a loan from the business, if I “couldn’t be bothered.” The idea of David’s secretary showered with his gratitude made me ill. After all, she wouldn’t be on the hook for the money if he skipped town.
I reach the store and loiter outside, reluctant to hand over the bank check in my wallet. In all likelihood, we’ll never get this money back. I’ve written too many stories about “wrongfully” accused characters to think that the state files charges willy-nilly against upper-middle-class people. Either the defendant is being framed, or he’s guilty of something.
The exterior of the bail bondsman’s reminds me of a dive bar: brick outside, neon signs in the picture window. Inside, however, it is set up like a miniature version of my local Chase bank. There’s a bar-height wooden desk topped by a likely bulletproof glass wall. On the other side, a heavyset man eats lunch at a blond Ikea-type desk, biting into a foot-long sub with the paper peeled back to reveal bread as thick as my bicep. He wears a pinstriped shirt and tie, no jacket. His neck has been tanned to the color of marmalade.
I wait for him to finish chewing before announcing my presence. He looks up from the sandwich, takes another bite, and points to a door in the corner. I hear it unlock as I reach it. The man welcomes me into his office. Lettuce is wedged between his incisors as he smiles and asks how he may help.
I start bawling. Adrenaline and my doctor’s wary stare kept me from crying over the phone, but I can’t maintain composure in the face of a simple pleasantry. I know that’s all his offer is. This man doesn’t want to “help” me. He wants to charge me the down payment on a mansion for a short-term loan that he’ll get back the moment David shows for his court date. Yet the offer of help, said without condescension, sounds so good.
I follow him, sobbing, to a desk stacked with file folders. As I sit in a rolling chair, he offers a tissue from a drawer, which only makes me cry harder. He walks me through the documentation I need in the manner of an oncologist delivering a bad diagnosis. Yes, he’s getting rich off of me, but he feels my pain. Everything is accessible through my smartphone or his computer. Bank statements. Property records. Twenty minutes later, my bail bondsman—I never thought I’d say those words—makes a call. I’m told that that my husband is out. I can go home.
*
I emerge from the underground into a painfully bright summer day. The afternoon sky is a neon blue, even though it’s nearly 5:00 PM. I shield my eyes with my palm and keep my gaze trained on the sidewalk until I hit my block. My apartment building is unmistakable, even at a glance. A New York riff on Italian architecture, the midrise is unique with its white stone and microbalconies cupped by ornate lattice work. When David and I had bought the condo, I’d imagined throwing the French doors wide and leaning over the railing to see the sun rise over the East River. The apartment had seemed so romantic. I hadn’t considered the reality of the busy street beneath my feet, the obnoxious honking that would drown out my own thoughts, let alone conversation.
I wave to my doorman as I enter and then take the elevators to the eighth floor. Bail posted an hour ago. David may be inside by now. One last chance to figure out how to confront my husband about the charges that he murdered his best friend.
David, I know you were seeing Nick. Trevor told me yesterday that he saw you two kiss on the street. Did you kill him?
Do I really want to know?
The pounding in my head picks up as I ride to my floor. I close my eyes against the glaring elevator lights and wait for the car to stop. When it does, I exit into the hallway and head to my apartment. Rather than use my key, I knock. David should be prepared for me. You shouldn’t surprise a murderer.
He opens the door looking like a well-dressed homeless man. Lines that I have never noticed wave across his forehead, reminding me of a beach after the tide has receded, leaving behind its sunken garbage.
He steps back from the doorway. I brace myself for our confrontation, to tell him that he needs to, finally, be honest with me and with himself. Suddenly, his arms surround me. His head falls into the crook of my neck. Tears wet my dress strap and soak my shoulder. Sounds sputter from his throat that I’ve never heard before. Wailing, moaning.
I lead him to the couch. Getting him to sit takes all the skill of a wild horse trainer. I hold his hands and guide him to the cushion, whispering things I don’t believe about everything turning out okay. When he’s finally on the couch, I grasp his hand and ask about Nick in the least pointed way possible. “David. Please tell me what is going on.”
He runs his palm under his nose and over his eyes. The skin glitters in the light pouring from the window. Not a single square inch of his face is dry. “The police found a note that Nick had sent me in the pocket of one of my jackets.” He gasps. “There was blood on it.”
“They arrested you over a note?”
“Yes.” He sounds as though he’s gargling. “A note. They think . . . Oh, God. It was his blood. They think I . . .” He bolts from the couch and stands, shivering, in front of me. “I don’t know how his blood got on it. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What did the note say?”
I ask, though I can guess. This is the document that David had been tearing apart the house to find, the piece of evidence tying him to Nick’s murder. I imagine a Dear John letter written with Nick’s scathing wit and a threat to out David if he didn’t walk away from the firm. The man was trying to take away my husband while I was undergoing extensive fertility treatments to have our child. He was ruthless when it came to getting his way.
David’s mouth opens as though he can no longer breathe through his nose. He stares at me, panting. I imagine his thoughts are racing. How to tell your wife of more than a decade that you had an affair with the best man at your wedding?
“Why do you ask?” His face, pinked from crying, darkens to a plum shade.