Chapter 7 of 9. See previous chapters beginning on Friday, July 26. Or check link to author archive – https://www.evesun.com/authors/31

As I sat at my desk, thinking back on what my younger self had just communicated on the telephone, it all came back to me. The tumult. The pressure. The anxiety. And Fire Marshal Macmillan Hughes. Mac Hughes. Mac. Square jaw, high forehead, and aquiline nose, which I later learned was broken as a kid during his one attempt to duke it out in the ring.

Mac also had impossibly light blue eyes and blond hair. Real blond, like men in Scandinavian movies. I would say that he was the strong silent type, except he’d been anything but silent the day I met him in the Criminal Court Building. He was angry.

Clenched-jaw angry.

Righteously indignant angry.

Lethal angry.

With jury selection only weeks away, our office was making gladiatorial leaps toward preparing for trial. My boss was informed that in his FDNY report, Fire Marshal Hughes had concluded that the police arrested the wrong man. Believing that the best way to boost his own case would be to discredit the fire marshal’s findings, the weasel decided to take Macmillan Hughes’ deposition himself.

He brought me along.

He said, to take notes.

But I was really just window dressing.

Right from the get-go, Mac refused to cooperate. He called Edward “Eddie” instead of Mr. Nygh, he blurted out answers to questions that the weasel hadn’t asked, he interrupted, and he smirked. His contempt was as palpable as a knee to the groin.

“Levon Williams set the Futterman fire,” my boss snarled, his mouth a nasty slit.

“He did not,” Fire Marshal Hughes replied with deadly calm.

“HE. WAS. CAUGHT. RED. HANDED,” Edward pounded his fist against the table five times. Once for each word.

“I know,” Mac scoffed. “I’m the one who arrested him.” He glanced down to read off a report in his hands. “On May 17, behind Jimbo’s Coffee Shop on West 12th Street. That was two days before and eleven blocks south of the Futterman’s fire, which occurred on May 19.”

“We have his confession!” My boss shouted in fury.

“But not to the Futterman fire. Levon confessed to throwing three purses into a dumpster behind Jimbo’s Coffee Shop and setting them on fire. He stole the purses earlier in the day and was attempting to destroy the evidence.”

“His shoes were soaked with gasoline!” The weasel kept shouting.

“No,” the fire marshal maintained both his calm and his contempt. “Analysis of the residue on his shoes indicated that he’d stepped into spillage from Jimbo’s trash barrel. Levon’s sneakers were coated with kitchen grease. Not gasoline.”

“He’s a convicted felon,” my boss’s face was turning purple.

“Levon Williams is a sex offender, a car thief, a career criminal, a drug user, a punk, and a Class A scumbag. He is also an arsonist, and he set fire to a dumpster. But he did not kill three firemen.”

Throughout the deposition, Fire Marshal Hughes continued to relate facts about the fire. Throughout the deposition, the weasel continued to ignore them.

The next morning, District Attorney Nygh got a judge to issue a gag order against Fire Marshal Hughes, prohibiting Mac from discussing the case with the press. Two days after that, the fire marshal was detained by investigators working for the Office of the Prosecutor, and “interviewed” about the credibility of his evidence. His investigative report was called into question, and his integrity was attacked.

It was a terrible time for a lot of people.

Terrible, but exciting.

And it had happened a long, long time ago.

I shook my head, as if to clear my brain of past events, and I stood up. I walked across the living room to the window, drew open the long, lavender curtains, and gazed outside. The sky was cerulean blue and dotted with puffy white clouds. A woman in a fuchsia trench coat was walking across the street while holding the hand of a little boy wearing a red and blue Superman T-shirt. Trees fluttered fat green leaves under a brilliant yellow sun, and on the corner, a traffic light changed from red to orange to green, and back to red again.

I yanked open my window. The city smelled like energy, excitement, and exhaust fumes. There was an enormous purple bush growing right outside my window, so it smelled like lilacs, too. I inhaled deeply, threw back my shoulders, and strode to my desk.

Two weeks after the trial, I put my possessions into storage, sublet my apartment, and flew home. My mother was getting out of the hospital after back surgery. She and Dad needed my help, and I needed a break from whatever my life had become.

I stayed in Cleveland for two months.

Continued next week.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2024. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com.