Blindside(75)

“Where are we going?”

“Why couldn’t we keep sleeping?”

“When will we get there?”

“When can we eat?”

I shut everyone up with a quick run to McDonald’s, then let nature take its course, and I gave a satisfied smile once everyone fell back to sleep. Everyone except Seamus. And he was smart enough to not ask any questions.

A little over an hour and a half after we’d eaten, about half the kids woke up.

Jane, my second oldest daughter, looked out the window of the van and said, “Isn’t this the way to Fishkill?”

Trent said, “Where the prison is?”

Fiona, with a higher pitch of excitement in her voice, said, “We’re going to visit Brian, right?”

I smiled and said, “Do I ever have some bright kids.”

Now everyone was awake, and excitement rippled through the van.

There were no more complaints now that they all knew the reason we’d gotten moving so early. But the real surprise for my family was yet to come.

They knew the drill. Go into the prison. Check in. Wait. Move to the visiting area. Wait. Get to see Brian.

Today, the drill was thrown off. We were immediately led to a community room with no guards, partitions, or closed-circuit telephones. There were more questions, but everyone filed into the room dutifully.

That’s why, when a door on the other side of the room opened, everyone just stood in shock.

Three corrections officers entered the room, followed by Brian. He was wearing jeans and a collared shirt, holding a duffel bag crammed with everything he owned.

Mary Catherine said, “What’s this?”

Brian dropped his bag and ran right to me for a big hug. All I could manage to say as the weight of my grown son pushed me back onto a couch was “Brian’s coming home.” I would’ve given more explanation, but I started to cry.

Before I could be self-conscious about crying in front of corrections officers, everyone in my family started to cry. And they piled on me and Brian.

My glimpse of the corrections officers told me they liked the happy scene. They all smiled and clapped.

My grandfather had to sit at the end of the couch just to catch his breath. The combination of excitement and joy had worn out the old man. Seamus asked, “How did this happen? It has to be the hand of God.”

I couldn’t speak with everyone piled on top of me, but it was better that way. Because Brian was released with the help of God. That’s the only way I could view it. God helped me find Natalie and rescue her. He certainly protected us during our escape. And that led the mayor to work extra hard and push for Brian’s release. The mayor’s pressure, and the work Brian had done on a drug case against the cartel, had led to an early parole.

Part of it might’ve been the failure of the Department of Corrections to keep Brian safe when he was attacked by cartel members last year. But it didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered at this moment.

Brian was coming home.





CHAPTER 106


ONCE WE GOT Brian home, I took a few extra days off. It might’ve been the most joy-filled week of my life, and that includes the week before every Christmas as a kid. Brian was home and was still himself, although he was not the boy who’d left us. Prison can do crazy things to people. It can twist them and distort their view of reality, or cause a depression that never leaves.

One of the common threads I’d seen among convicted felons was a victim mentality. It’s counterintuitive but prevalent. Released felons believe they were unfairly targeted by the police while others get away with everything. Brian accepted his mistakes and was ready to move on. He’d taken what the corrections system had offered in classes and training. It had made me proud in an odd kind of way.

He was already looking for air-conditioning companies he might be able to work for. And he blended back into the family fairly easily. The boys played basketball at Holy Name, where the faculty seemed thrilled to see Brian home. My grandfather and I sat in the bleachers and watched Brian, Trent, Eddie, and Ricky play for hours.

On the third day after Brian’s release, Seamus turned to me in the bleachers and said, “You did a great job raising these kids. I’m proud to be part of your family.”

I waited for the punch line. Then I realized the old man was sincere. I draped my arm around his bony shoulders and said a silent prayer of thanks. What else is there to do when you realize all the blessings God has given you?



I went back to work a couple of days before I’d intended to. But it was for a good reason. My informant Flash had gotten word to me that he might have found the suspect in the murder of the nurse and her daughter—the elusive Tight.

Usually a suspect like Tight would have some kind of record. An assault charge is common. Those kinds of charges always get pleaded down, but there would still be a record. But we had nothing on him, not in either police intelligence or arrest files.

Flash told me he was supposed to meet Tight at Convent Garden on 151st Street up near Washington Heights, one of the places where Flash and I usually met. It was quiet and comfortable and, from a tactical standpoint, suitable for a quick arrest.

Even though I had worked with Flash for a few years and I knew his real name was Evis Tolder, I didn’t tell anyone else what was going on. Informants are notoriously unreliable, and I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.