Run Away - Harlan Coben Page 0,6
level of pain to flow through his body. Eventually—Simon had no idea how much time had passed—Hayes and a tall white cop with the nametag WHITE hoisted him up and drag-walked him to a squad car. When he was in the backseat, White took the driver’s side, Hayes the passenger. Hayes, who had his wallet in her hand, turned around and said, “So what happened, Mr. Greene?”
“I was talking to my daughter. Her boyfriend got in the way. I tried to move around him…”
Simon stopped talking.
“And?” she prompted.
“Do you have her boyfriend in custody? Can you please help me find my daughter?”
“And?” Hayes repeated.
Simon was crazed, but he wasn’t insane. “There was an altercation.”
“An altercation.”
“Yes.”
“Walk us through it.”
“Walk you through what?”
“The altercation.”
“First tell me about my daughter,” Simon tried. “Her name is Paige Greene. Her boyfriend, who I believe is holding her against her will, is named Aaron Corval. I was trying to rescue her.”
“Mm-hmm,” Hayes said. Then: “So you punched a homeless guy?”
“I punched—” Simon stopped himself. He knew better.
“You punched?” Hayes prompted.
Simon didn’t reply.
“Right, that’s what I thought,” Hayes said. “You got blood all over you. Even on your nice tie. That a Hermès?”
It was, but Simon didn’t say anything more. His shirt was still buttoned all the way to the throat, the tie ideally Windsored.
“Where is my daughter?”
“No idea,” Hayes said.
“Then I don’t have anything else to say until I speak to my attorney.”
“Suit yourself.”
Hayes turned back around and didn’t say anything else. They drove Simon to the emergency room at Mount Sinai West on Fifty-Ninth Street near Tenth Avenue, where they took him immediately to X-ray. A doctor wearing a turban and looking too young to get into R-rated films put Simon’s fingers into splints and stitched up his scalp lacerations. There was nothing to be done for the broken ribs, the doctor explained, other than “restrict activity for six weeks or so.”
The rest was a surreal whirlwind: the drive to Central Booking at 100 Centre Street, the mug shots, the fingerprints, the holding cell. They gave him a phone call, just like in the movies. Simon was going to call Ingrid, but he decided to go with his brother-in-law Robert, a top Manhattan litigator.
“I’ll get someone over there right away,” Robert said.
“You can’t handle it?”
“I’m not criminal.”
“You really think I need a criminal—?”
“Yeah, I do. Plus Yvonne and I are at the shore house. It’ll take me too long to get in. Just sit tight.”
Half an hour later, a tiny woman in her early to mid seventies with curly blonde-to-gray hair and fire in her eyes introduced herself with a firm handshake.
“Hester Crimstein,” she said to Simon. “Robert sent me.”
“I’m Simon Greene.”
“Yeah, I’m a top-notch litigator, so I pieced that together. Now repeat after me, Simon Greene: ‘Not guilty.’”
“What?”
“Just repeat what I said.”
“Not guilty.”
“Beautiful, well done, brings tears to my eyes.” Hester Crimstein leaned closer. “Those are the only words you’re allowed to say—and the only time you’ll say those words is when the judge asks for a plea. You got me?”
“Got you.”
“Do we need to do a dry rehearsal?”
“No, I think I got it.”
“Good boy.”
When they headed into the courtroom and she said, “Hester Crimstein for the defense,” a buzz started humming through the court. The judge raised his head and arched an eyebrow.
“Counselor Crimstein, this is quite the honor. What brings you to my humble courtroom?”
“I’m just here to stop a grave miscarriage of justice.”
“I’m sure you are.” The judge folded his hands and smiled. “It’s nice to see you again, Hester.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“You’re right,” the judge said. “I don’t.”
That seemed to please Hester. “You’re looking good, Your Honor. The black robe works on you.”
“What, this old thing?”
“Makes you look thin.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” The judge sat back. “What does the defendant plead?”
Hester gave Simon a look.
“Not guilty,” he said.
Hester nodded her approval. The prosecutor asked for five thousand dollars in bail. Hester did not contest the amount. Once they went through the legal rigmarole of paperwork and bureaucracy and were allowed to leave, Simon started for the front entrance, but Hester stopped him with a hand on his forearm.
“Not that way.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll be waiting.”
“Who?”
Hester pressed the elevator button, checked the lights above the doors, said, “Follow me.”
They hit the steps and took them down two levels. Hester started leading him toward the back of the building. She picked up her mobile.
“You at the Eggloo on Mulberry, Tim? Good. Five minutes.”
“What’s going on?” Simon asked.
“Odd.”
“What?”
“You keep talking,” Hester said, “when I specifically