Beneath This Mask (Beneath, #1)(60)

The last eighteen hours had taken me down the rabbit hole, and I was fairly certain I would never find my way back. And let me tell you, this rabbit hole was f*cking scary.

How did I find myself in solitary at Rikers? I’d like to say it’s a long story, but it really wasn’t. It was the result of the dangerous combination of my own arrogance and ignorance.

I’d been so cocky and self-assured as I’d sat in the interrogation room at the FBI field office, making my demands before I’d deign to speak to them about what I knew. I could only imagine how stupid they’d thought I was.


First lesson learned today: an immunity, or proffer, agreement didn’t mean shit. I’d confidently signed my name—my real name—across the bottom and told the FBI the locker number and combination where they could find the notebook, along with my backpack. Nine hours of questioning later, Childers had said we were done. I’d stood to leave, but the door had opened and two of New York’s Finest had walked in. When I looked questioningly at Childers, one of the officers had said: “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit grand larceny in the first degree.” He’d followed those chilling words with another recitation of my Miranda rights.

Second lesson learned today: if the FBI wasn’t done questioning you, but didn’t want to let you go because they were afraid you’d run, they’d contact the district attorney and have state law charges filed against you. Childers was kind enough to explain this to me as the cold metal of the handcuffs closed around my wrists.

Third lesson learned today: I didn’t deserve Simon. He’d once again proven he was too good for me. As the two NYPD officers were leading me through the lobby, a distinguished-looking man in a pricey tailored suit had stopped them.

“My name is Andrew Ivers,” he’d said. “Simon Duchesne has arranged for me to represent you, Ms. Agoston. I apologize for not intercepting you on your way into the building this morning.”

I’d wondered if I would have listened to him even if he had stopped me earlier. But it didn’t matter. What was done was done.

Ivers had exchanged a few words with Childers and was up to speed within moments. He’d promised to be present at my arraignment.

Yeah.

My arraignment.

It didn’t get any more real than that.

After a short ride in the backseat of a police car, the officers hauled me into a precinct where I was booked—fingerprints, mug shot, the works. Then I was shuttled to Central Booking at the New York City Criminal Court for further processing. After being shoved into a holding cell with a dozen other women who, from the looks of them, were primarily hookers and crack addicts, I waited. And waited. A few hours later I was escorted into a courtroom that looked altogether too much like the one I had escaped from over a year before. The difference between then and now? I wasn’t leaving this room a free woman.

The arraignment hadn’t lasted more than five minutes. Ivers and the prosecutor had spoken rapidly, firing words at the judge. I caught phrases like one-ninety-fifty and remand. It was yet another code I couldn’t crack. All too quickly, I was being led out of the courtroom, and Ivers had followed me into a small room. His explanation of what had just happened, and what was going to happen next, had scared the hell out of me.

I’d been denied bail. Ivers had argued for an astronomical figure, but given the flight risk I presented, the judge had been resolute.

Nothing Ivers could have said would have prepared me for the reality of being chained to the arm of another woman as the bus chugged toward Rikers and then, upon arrival, being stripped of my clothes and my dignity. But three things he’d said stuck with me. First, his phone number, not that I could make calls from the bin. Second, Simon had ordered him to do whatever he could to help me. And third, I only had to endure this hell for 144 hours. Then they either had to indict me or conduct a preliminary hearing in front of a judge. Six days. I could survive anything for six days. I hoped. The second bit of information was all that was holding me together at that moment. The knowledge that even though he knew everything, Simon hadn’t given up on me yet. Which meant I wasn’t giving up either.

I wanted to smile at the thought of Simon, but my busted lip hurt too much. I rested my chin on my bent knees and tried to block out the woman screaming obscenities at me from where she was locked across the hall. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for shit to unravel once I’d been escorted to the large bunkroom-type cell. I could still hear the ripple of whispers as my identity was passed from one inmate to the next. And then Bertha, as I’d dubbed her, had stepped up and told me that no skinny, rich, poser bitch was going to look sideways at her. I was still having a what the f*ck are you talking about moment when her Mack truck of a fist had connected with my cheekbone. White spots had burst in my vision as she’d tackled me to the floor. The guards had been slow to pull her off me, and my scalp stung where she had ripped out a chunk of my hair. I’d gotten a few elbows in, but there was no question that I’d been the loser in that exchange.

So we’d both been thrown in the bin. While it was considered harsh punishment, I was thankful to be by myself and felt relatively safe within these four gray concrete walls. If I was still in the bunkroom, I would’ve been afraid to close my eyes, regardless of the fatigue dragging me under. But in here, once I blocked out Bertha’s threats, I could let myself drift off to sleep. Only 142 more hours to go…