“Ono, Bonner,” said a female voice. A uniformed officer led them through a maze of hallways to a windowless waiting room where they sat with dozens of other male and female prisoners queuing to see the judge. The room’s plastic chairs were badly scuffed and cracked. The air reeked of body odor, cigarettes, stale beer, and bad breath—the accumulated stink of a hundred people who had spent the weekend in jail without toilet paper or a shower.
Brooklyn was represented in full force. There were skinny college kids with ironic stick-’n’-poke tattoos who looked terrified; shifty-eyed middle-aged men in shabby clothes who looked resigned; old women who looked disoriented; and dozens upon dozens of young men.
Cat and Bess found two seats together and sat quietly, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Thirty minutes later, the first set of names were called.
“Diaz. Johnson. Moses. Kwan. Ono. Bonner.”
They stood up and made their way through the crowd to the guards as quickly as they could without bumping or touching anyone else.
The guards waved their hands impatiently. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go, ladies, hurry it up,” one said forcefully.
Grant was waiting on the other side of the door, where they were uncuffed and directed down a hallway.
“Don’t say anything unless you’re spoken to by the judge directly,” he said.
They walked into another windowless room with three metal desks. An older woman in a pantsuit and black robe sat behind the desk opposite.
Grant handed her two printouts. She looked over her glasses, squinted briefly at Cat and Bess, then signed a third piece of paper and handed it back to Grant before calling “Next!”
“That’s it?” Bess whispered to Grant as he led them through another door.
“That’s it,” he replied. “Go sign for your things.”
They waited in line at a window covered in bulletproof glass for their handbags. Cat checked the contents; her wallet, phone, keys, and cigarettes were all still there. She signed the release as quickly as she could and Bess did the same.
“There’s some photographers outside, but I have a car waiting. Just walk straight behind me and don’t speak to anyone,” he said. Cat and Bess turned to each other automatically, trying to wipe the dirt and smeared makeup off their faces and hands.
Cat dug a full-coverage liquid foundation designed to cover up surgical scars out of her purse. “Thank god,” she said, patting the opaque porcelain cream all over her face before handing it to Bess, who did the same. Grant tapped his toes and sighed.
“Let’s go,” he said impatiently as Bess clipped her hair into a topknot.
“Well, this is some A-game hot mess,” Cat said to Bess, ignoring Grant completely. “We are epic.”
“Put your sunglasses on,” Bess commanded, sliding a pair of oversized aviators onto her own face. “Now we can go.” She set her jaw and marched to the building’s exit, flinging the metal doors open while Cat and Grant tried to keep up.
A pack of photographers descended upon them immediately, snapping thousands of frames before they even got close to the waiting Suburban. Cat tried to keep the look of shock off her face but felt her jaw drop open. Both girls had spent their time in jail trying not to cry, not to make a scene, to be small and friendly to everyone they encountered; they’d deliberately avoided thinking about the real-world repercussions of what they’d done. Now, as the gaggle of men in cheap T-shirts and bedazzled jeans took their photos and screamed their names, Cat and Bess both felt their stomachs plummet. They fought their way into the SUV and slammed the doors.
Cat looked at her phone, which had miraculously stayed on all weekend and still had eight percent of its battery life. She had 49 missed calls, 23 new voicemails, 207 text messages, and 142 new emails. Not good. Cat realized, for the very first time in her life, that maybe it really didn’t matter how much Berger she threw in anyone’s face or how much theory she tried to bury inside the magazine; the rules of the world were real, and they were not hers to alter.
“We are so fucking fired,” she said.
“No, we’re not,” Bess insisted. “This is totally to our advantage. You’ll see.”
Chapter Eleven
Monday evening Hutton stood on Sigrid’s stoop, stabbing the pewter bell with his index finger. He peered through the channel of bottle-green glass lining the door but saw no signs of movement within. He leaned over and tried to see through the wooden shutters, but they were shut tight and the drapes were closed behind them. If anyone was home, they certainly weren’t acting like it.
He’d spent the past three days chained to his desk transcribing statements from all the agents and officers present during the raid and interrogations, leaving messages during his breaks for Cat, Grant, Bess, and Sigrid. No one returned his calls, so he’d left the office at 5:00 p.m. sharp and come straight to 170 Ocean from the subway.
He pulled a thin piece of paper out of his briefcase and studied it. Roth had been thrilled with his work, even implying that he was sure to be promoted. But when Hutton had insisted that none of this resolved the problem presented by the note Hillary had mailed to Idaho—the ribbon is the key to everything—Roth had turned surly and told him in no uncertain terms to forget about it, that it didn’t matter. Cardoso’s status as a foreign national had given them a fair amount of leeway under the Patriot Act to manufacture a story that implied a long-term investigation. Not only did they no longer need the note, Roth pointed out, but its very existence could impact the prosecution of the case. He’d actually taken the note and thrown it into the garbage before sending Hutton back to his desk with a sneer.
When Roth had gone to the bathroom Hutton dug the note out of the trash, and now he sat on Sigrid’s steps, smoothing the index card flat and wishing desperately that Cat, or Sigrid, or Bess, or someone who’d known Hillary would come out and talk to him about it. He didn’t know what to do.
Finally Hutton gave up and walked home. He stripped off his work clothes as soon as he walked into the foyer, changing into his running gear. The July evening was sweltering—nearing ninety-five degrees—but he looped around the park three times, punishing himself, pushing harder on every lap. His sneakers hit the pavement until his legs shook and his T-shirt was soaked through. He slowed down each time he passed 170 Ocean, but the building remained dark.
After a long shower he tried to keep himself busy with unpacking between obsessively checking his phone. After two hours and two doses of scotch, he’d emptied nearly a dozen boxes, collapsing their corpses into a tidy pile by the door and roping them neatly with twine for the super. The apartment barely looked different, having swallowed his meager belongings into cabinets and closets without effect. He was finally moved in.