The Seventeen. Joel Arcanjo

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      They reached the large glass doors, funneling through two at a time, Boyd still clutching the kid’s arm tight. He thought he saw a slight grimace of pain as they lumbered down the white marble stairs, but it quickly disappeared. He glanced left and right, checking the street for anyone eyeing the kid. It was the middle of the day and the street was bathed in sunlight. But it seemed that no-one on the street could care less about what was happening. New York commuters just trying to get from A to B as fast as possible.

      He dragged Archer to the back of the waiting van, opened the door, and stuffed him inside, taking little care he didn’t hit his head. Unfortunately for Boyd, Archer ducked low avoiding a nasty bang. Boyd jumped into the back after him. They sat side by side, saying nothing all the way back to Police Plaza.

      The kid had lost his confident smile and was staring blankly out of the window at the blur of color whizzing past. He had a look of naivety and innocence about him. Hard to imagine he had killed someone in cold blood. But from experience Boyd knew looks could be deceiving, and they usually were.

      They reached the HQ at quarter past two. Boyd swung the van doors open and jumped out the back. He got one of the other men to lift Archer up and move him to the rear. He grabbed Archer’s arm and dragged him out. They took a moment to congregate before marching Archer straight to the nearest interrogation room. Rooms one through six were occupied but seven was empty. Boyd opened the door and led Archer in. The moment the door closed he took off Archer’s handcuffs and threw him into the chair on the far side of the room. Archer fell into it with a painful thud. The kid objected to this and instinctively jumped to his feet, but immediately composed himself and sat down.

      He was smarter than Boyd thought.

      “Give me a reason,” Boyd growled, raising a melon-sized fist.

      The kid did not look intimidated at all. Far from it. He looked eerily calm. It unnerved Boyd. He’d had a bad day and was hoping this punk would make the mistake of throwing a punch at him so he could lay him out and call it self defense. Not exactly by the book, but it was better than paying hundreds of dollars he didn’t have on a therapist. Why admit you have problems when you could just hit a guy? But Archer didn’t bite. He remained seated.

      “Got anything to say for yourself?” Boyd asked provocatively.

      Archer leant forward slowly and said, “Yeah I do. Get me Isabella Clements.”

       Chapter 3

      They filed out of the courtroom onto the imposing marble steps. Below them the New York traffic had ground to its rush-hour crawl, complete with blaring horns and a siren somewhere in the mid-distance.

      “Goodbye, Price.”

      “Goodbye, Isabella. Better luck next time.”

      Isabella couldn’t bring herself to reply to that. Price was a cocky opponent at the best of times, and to have lost to him again was almost more than she could bear. One more month’s rent was all she had in her checking account. Her feet ached, her back was killing her, and all she could think about was a chilled bottle of Sauvignon and— Her cell phone vibrated.

      Please let it be a client. Any paying client.

      The phone was on its fifth ring when she finally picked up. The voice on the end was serious. “Is this Isabella Clements?”

      “Yes, who am I speaking to?” she asked, praying that it wasn’t another pro bono case.

      “New York Police Department. We need you to come down to headquarters. A suspect in our murder investigation has requested you and only you. As quick as possible please ma’am.”

      “Murder?” she asked. But the line had already gone dead. She slowly took her phone away from her ear, trying to comprehend what had just happened. She was exhausted but she had to go, there was no two ways about it. Maybe one of her pro bono drunks had given her name to the potential murderer. Maybe he was some kind of insane, drunken killer who wanted her to work pro bono for him.

      These were the thoughts that were filling her head as she made her way along the street looking for a cab. She grabbed the first one she saw and asked for 1 Police Plaza. The traffic was fierce but they managed the journey in a little over fifteen minutes. All the time she was wondering why she had worked her ass off in law school. For what? This? Living in an apartment which had a bathroom in the kitchen. Attempting to defend clients who claimed they were innocent in the face of CCTV footage of them urinating on a police car singing the national anthem. This is not what she had wanted for herself. She had thought by the time she was thirty she would be living in New York. Check. Have her own firm. Check. Have a luxurious apartment with a view of Central Park. Not even close. Have a loyal and elite clientele. Couldn’t be further from her current reality. Be married and wonderfully happy. She hadn’t been on a proper date in years and the happiest she got was sitting at home in her dingy apartment watching Netflix with her two favorite men, Ben and Jerry. A sad existence. Actually, that was the exact word for it. An existence.

      She snapped out of her temporary self-loathing as they pulled up to the headquarters. It was an intimidating place. One which she frequented, due to her ‘not-so-elite’ clientele. She paid the driver and got out of the cab. Took a deep breath and headed for the doors.

      The moment she stepped inside she was greeted by a fresh-faced young officer.

      “Are you Miss Isabella Clements?” he asked politely.

      “Yes,” she replied with a forced smile. She didn’t like how he emphasized the Miss, but she let it slide.

      “OK ma’am, follow me please.” He turned and headed towards the interrogation rooms. He skipped the first six, but came to a stop at number seven. He kindly opened the door and let her step inside.

      The room was poorly lit. The only furniture inside was two chairs with a table between them. A familiar scene. The man sitting in the seat closest to her got up the moment she entered, blocking any view of her insane, drunken client..He was so big his head nearly touched the ceiling. Around about 6’6, she guessed. With arms like tree trunks and a neck so thick she couldn’t distinguish between what was shoulder and what was neck. He had balding ginger hair which started in the middle of his head and thick, bushy ginger eyebrows. His eyes were beady, deep set and a bizarre gray color. He had a full beard which was a slightly darker shade of orange than his hair and eyebrows. He had a small but pronounced nose and under, pursed, thin lips. He was a strange looking man but unquestionably big. The kind of big that big people class as big.

      He reached out a tennis racquet sized hand and said, “Detective Max Boyd. Nice to meet you.”

      “Isabella Clements, but I guess you knew that. Why am I here, detective?” she asked, a little impatient to get this over with.

      “This man has asked for you. You’re the only one he’ll speak to.”

      “Aren’t I lucky. Where is he?” she asked.

      “Right here.” He moved his giant frame to the left and pointed at a guy on the far side of the table. The guy was smiling the kind of smile she had only seen once before, years ago at college, in England. He stood up and said, “Hey Belle. I’ve got a little problem here.”

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