Chapter 15: On the Record

Luca's text came at nine the next morning, while I was drying dishes in a stranger's kitchen.

He's at the 114th on Northern Blvd. He called the news himself. I can't stop him. Come or don't.

I put the dish towel down.

The driver's wife handed me my bag without being asked.

"Go," she said. "Whatever it is, go."

The driver took me in his truck.

The precinct steps were crowded when we pulled up, with two camera crews, a woman with a microphone and a photographer on a milk crate.

Across the street, a line of men in dark suits stood by four black cars.

They stood very still, with their hands at their sides.

I knew most of them from the Bay Ridge porch.

I went in through the side door and stood at the back of the lobby behind a pillar.

Damiano was at the front desk.

He wore the grey suit, and next to him stood his driver, the old man who had held the wheel of the Lincoln for eleven years.

A lawyer with a leather folder was talking fast into Damiano's ear.

Damiano did not turn his head.

"Mr. Corvino," the sergeant said. "You understand what you're about to sign."

"I do."

"You're saying on the record that your vehicle struck a pedestrian on Northern Boulevard in July."

"Her name is Moira Keane," Damiano said. "I was in the back seat. The order to run that light was mine."

The cameras were rolling.

I saw the red light on the nearest one blink.

"I left before the police arrived, and I gave nobody my name," he said. "Then I paid for her care through the wrong hands, and I never checked."

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