While the City Burns (Flynn & Levy Book 2) Page 8

  “Daddy?” Rebecca still held onto his leg.

  Stokes looked down. His eyes moist, he shook his leg, trying to loosen her grip. “I’ve got to go, sweetie. Daddy loves you. Go to your mom now.”

  “Come on, Rebecca,” Levy said. “Come over her with your mom and me.”

  “Do it, Rebecca,” Stokes said.

  Finally the girl let go. She ran over and wrapped her arms around her mother the same as she had with her dad. Like a drowning victim leaping for a life preserver.

  “Take him downstairs and process him, Detective,” Gregg instructed.

  Flynn finished reading the police officer his rights. He pulled Stokes back a step, further separating him from his family.

  Karen shouted, “No! Noooo!” She reached out for her husband.

  Levy gently her pulled her back. Tears streaked Karen’s cheeks as she tried to shake Levy off.

  Stokes twisted in Flynn’s arms as he let him away. “It’s going to be okay, Karen. I promise. Call the union. Get a hold of my union rep. Tell ’em I need a lawyer. A good one.”

  Flynn walked Stokes to the door. They pushed out into the hallway beyond. Flynn looked through the windows into the squad room. Karen Stokes stood clutching the crying little girl even as she collapsed in Levy’s arms. Her anguished wailing followed Flynn and Stokes as they stepped onto the elevator. The doors slid closed and the elevator lurched, beginning its downward trip to processing.

  But the echoes of his family’s wailing traveled with them.

  Delancey Street

  Lower East Side, Manhattan

  Monday, November 27th 8:47 p.m.

  THEODORE GOODALL’S PRESS CONFERENCE had gone viral, and by seven that night the protests had begun. The largest had formed on the steps of City Hall. That one received the most media attention as well, so it was the one led by the silver-tongued Theodore Goodall. With bullhorn in hand, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a who’s-who of black and Hispanic city council members, civil rights leaders, and community organizers.

  The sun had set hours earlier and the rain had stopped.

  People filled the plaza wearing scarves and heavy coats. Some carried candles in little cups and held them over-head. Most were black and Hispanic, but a good number of white faces could be seen among those gathered.

  Reports put the number of protesters in the thousands. Realistically, the number was more likely in the mid- to high- hundreds. Metal barriers had been hastily placed at the base of the wide City Hall steps. Uniformed police in ballistic vests and face shields formed a line behind the barrier.

  Through the vibration of his bullhorn, Goodall recited in poetic discourse his version of how DeShawn Beach had died at the hands of Officer Ben Stokes. The account was devoid of facts, known or otherwise. Why let the truth get in the way of your message.

  The crowd stirred and grew angrier with every hateful word. Gloved fists were raised in the air. They chanted responses to Goodall’s calls for action.

  “What do we want?”

  “Black justice!”

  “When do we want it?”

  “Right now!”

  “How will we get it?”

  “We take it!”

  Unfortunately, the scene wasn’t just playing out at City Hall.

  The events were broadcast by the media, breaking news coverage on all the local stations, national ones, too. Social media platforms spread the word like wildfire, while roving reporters brought the viewer the smallest, most inconsequential details they could dig up. They stuck microphones in people’s faces, giving anyone who wanted it their fifteen seconds of fame. They panned the police lines, playing over and over the stoic faces of the officers, describing the overly-militaristic response of the police, which had been little more than men and women standing at attention in a line, in the most negative, bombastic way possible.

  And when they couldn’t find anything tantalizing, they simply filled the airtime with empty, uninformed speculation.

  Soon protesters were gathering in groups all over the city. Union Square Park. Columbus Circle. Times Square. The East Village. Along Delancey Street, a group was forming to march across the Williamsburg Bridge.

  That was where Flynn and Levy found themselves as the clock slowly ticked toward nine p.m.

  An all hands on deck situation, they were ordered into uniform and told to report to the scene an hour earlier by Captain Whalen. They stood second row back behind patrolmen wearing full body armor, knee and elbow padding, helmets with face guards, and carrying expandable batons and ballistic shields. He and Levy each held their side-handle batons at the ready.

  The tension in the air was palpable.

  So far the Williamsburg Bridge gathering was small and disorganized, the cold keeping all but the most committed at home. No one as yet had assumed a leadership role for the protesters. Without anyone to tell them what to do, there was a lot of milling around, a lot of drinking from paper bag shrouded bottles, and a lot of taunting of the police line.

  Officers and blue and white police sawhorses blocked vehicular traffic at Allen Street and at every cross street along Delancey all the way to Clinton Street where they were allowing a single lane of cars onto and off the Williamsburg Bridge, diverting all traffic away from the growing crowd loitering on Delancey near the base of the bridge.

  Angry horns blared. The diverted traffic had slowed to a crawl.

  Storefronts along both sides had closed. Those that had them brought their steel security gates down. The rattle of metal and chains and the snapping of heavy duty locks echoed in the crisp air. The night was cold, a fact Flynn was thankful for. He actually prayed for rain. The more inclement the weather, the more people would stay home. The more people who stayed home, the better the better for everyone.

  Made up mostly of young men and women, a lot of blacks, some Hispanics, and a few whites, the crowd was becoming bored and restless, waiting for something to happen. Flynn had worked riot patrols before. He knew from experience, if something didn’t happen soon, the troublemakers among the protesters were sure to start something.

  Voices grew louder and surlier as time dragged on. Some tried to start chants but none took hold. That was when things turned ugly.

  It started with empty booze bottles being smashed on the ground.

  The police line remained in position.

  Emboldened by the lack of response, the protesters grew braver with their taunts. Some began to shout familiar epitaphs from past police shooting protests and marches that had taken place across the country over the last few years—Pigs in a blanket, fry ’em like bacon. Killer cops have got to go. Hands up, don’t shoot—many of them moved closer to the line, now actively antagonizing the officers.

  Flynn tensed as one young man wearing oversized cargo pants and a baseball cap sideways on his head got up into the face of a white officer. Down the line there was more shouting and the sound of glass breaking. The young man started to mug at the cop behind the face shield. His eyes filled with hatred. He waved his arms around, gangsta style. “What’s ya gonna do, pig? Shoot me?”

  He feigned a lunge at the officer and raised his fist as if he was going to hit the cop.

  The cop blinked, jerked back in surprise, but to his credit and training didn’t lash out at the young idiot.

  Flynn leaned forward between the broad shoulders of the officers in front of him. “Back off, kid. Don’t be an asshole.”

  “Whose gonna make me?” the kid challenged. “You?”

  He gargled up a wad of mucus and spit at the cop. The loogie landed on the officer’s face shield. The cop stood his ground.

  Flynn on the other hand tried to push through the line. “You little shit.”

  The officer who’d been spit on shouldered him back. “Don’t do it, Flynn.”

  Beside him, Levy grabbed Flynn’s arm. “Let it go, Frank.”

  “Chicken shit, five-O,” the kid said. He snorted a derisive laugh and ran off, shouting to his friends. �
��You see that?”

  “This is bullshit,” Flynn said under his breath.

  “What?” Levy asked.

  “Just standing here.”

  “What do you think we should be doing? They’re peaceful, just blowing off steam.”

  “For now,” Flynn countered. “You saw with that kid. Us not doing anything, it’s like giving them permission. They’ll get more aggressive.”

  The deep, heavy bass of rap music blared from open apartment windows. Sirens wailed in the distance. Shouting from down the street got louder and there was a sudden uptick in honking horns coming from cars trying to get on and off the bridge. Something was going on.

  He pushed through the two officers in front of him to take a look. The bridge was lit up bright against the night sky. A group of officers had broken rank and were charging toward the ribbon of cars coming off the Williamsburg Bridge. A bunch of the protesters were running in that direction, too.

  “Shit!” Flynn pushed the rest of the way into the street.

  Levy followed. “What is it?”

  “Trouble.” Flynn started to run.

  Ahead of them, a sea of blue uniforms surged forward. Shields pushed people back and to the ground. Batons were being swung, smashing into the legs and arms of a swell of people who cried out in pain and in anger.

  The sounds of bottles breaking and car windows getting smashed surrounded them. Car alarms started to wail. The rattle of metal security gates being banged echoed in the crisp air. The commotion at the base of the bridge, whatever it had been, had sparked the pent-up crowd. Looters surged toward the storefronts. Plate glass windows were shattered and came crashing down. Security gates were ripped out of their channels.

  Hoodlums whooped at the top of their lungs.

  The first of several teargas canisters were lobbed into the crowds. Thick, choking smoke shrouded the mob near the row of stores but didn’t stop them from jumping through broken windows and smashed-in doors. Burglar alarms added to the raising cacophony of noise.

  People called out, “Everything’s free! Everything’s free!”

  Flynn pushed his way through a group of people. The crowd chanted, “Flip it! Flip it!”

  More bottles were thrown. And rolls of toilet paper.

  Several people were leaning into a stopped Toyota Camry. It had been trapped in the line of traffic coming off the bridge. The crowd rocked it violently back and forth. With each push and pull the car came closer and closer to being flipped over.

  Through the crush of bodies, Flynn saw there were people still inside the car!

  Cops were pushing their way toward the vehicle, but the protesters pushed back.

  Expandable batons were being swung; overhead swings and low, underhand swipes at the protesters’ legs. The sound of batons thumping against thick winter coats filled the air. Cops pulled people back, spun them away, threw them to the pavement. Knees smashed between shoulder blades as cops shoved with their shields, driving the crowd back. There were sharp cries of pain and loud choruses of shouted curses and insults. And more than a few grunts and groans.

  “We’ve got to get those people out!” Flynn shouted, pointing at the car.

  He grabbed people by the shoulders and pulled them back.

  Levy crowded in against his back. She used her baton to keep the protesters at a wide berth from them.

  Dozens of rioters—they were no longer protesters—had the car up on two wheels. With a cheer they jumped back and let the car fall back. The car bounced so hard the fenders and frame hit the pavement. A bottle was lobbed at the windshield. White cracks spider-webbed through the glass.

  Inside, the driver—an Asian man—hit his head against the driver side window. Blood smeared across the glass. And there was someone small in the back seat.

  The rioters rushed the car, lifted it again.

  The driver watched from the other side of the bloody window, a horrified expression on his face. He shook his head and shouted, “No!”

  His voice was muted behind the glass.

  Flynn and Levy were several yards back, dozens of shoving bodies, police and rioters alike still between them and the car. As the Camry was lifted again, more people rushed forward to help. Like it was a game. A challenge. Flip the car and win a prize.

  The car was almost to its tipping point. The undercarriage fully exposed.

  More rioters rushed forward. The car tilted further and further up.

  The crowd shoved.

  Flynn’s heart dropped as the car groaned. With the sound of screeching metal, the Camry rolled over and crashed down on its roof. The people inside were screaming.

  And the crowd cheered!

  The windshield glass exploded outward as the roof crushed like an empty beer can. The car tilted up on one side then rolled back, like an overturned turtle struggling to right itself. There would be no righting this.

  Flynn managed to push his way up to the passenger side of the car. The roof was caved in on one side, but not completely. The people inside could still be alive. Flynn dropped to the street and on his belly and tried to see inside the car. Levy stood over him with her baton in hand, shoving back anyone who got too close to them. A couple of uniforms joined her.

  “Are they okay?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He ran his baton around the rim of the window, knocking the broken glass from the crushed passenger side window, clearing the broken glass from the window frame. He shouted into the car. “Cover your faces.”

  He shimmied through the gummy glass littering the cold pavement like diamonds and squinted to see inside the crushed compartment of the overturned vehicle. The car radio was on, played Bill Haley & His Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock.”

  The driver lay in an awkward pile on the upside-down roof. His legs were trapped under the steering column. He’d unhooked and was struggled to untangle himself from his seatbelt.

  “Are you hurt?” Flynn called out.

  The driver thrashed about frustrated and futilely. “Can’t…get this damned…seatbelt…”

  “Take it easy.” Flynn pushed his head and shoulder further into the car’s interior. He felt his uniform jacket tear on a loose piece of metal.

  “Here…” He reached out. “It’s caught on the gearshift.”

  He unwound the seatbelt and the man tumbled the rest of the way to the roof.

  Flynn hooked a hand under the man’s armpit and gently pulled. “Come on. Go easy.”

  “No!” The man frantically twisted. “My son. He’s in the back!”

  Flynn pulled a penlight from the utility pocket of his uniform trousers and pointed the beam between the two seats to the back. The light fell on the face of the young boy. Flynn judged him to be four or five years old. He hung upside down, strapped into a car seat. His longish black hair dangled like inverted sea grass, as did his arms. His eyes were closed and he didn’t move.

  The man twisted around in his seat. “Oh my God! He’s dead! My son is dead!”

  “We don’t know that,” Flynn shouted over him and the music and the sounds of rioting outside, trying to calm him down. “Let me get you out…” Flynn tugged on the man’s arms, but the man yanked away.

  “No! I need to save my son!” He twisted in his seat, dangerously rocking the overturned vehicle.

  “Easy!” Flynn said. The man was scared, and Flynn couldn’t blame him. If it had been Hailey back there…

  He let the thought go. “I’ll get him out. I promise. But I need you out of my way to do it.”

  The driver blinked.

  Flynn pulled his arm. “Come on. Come on.”

  The driver nodded and scrambled across the crushed roof.

  Flynn guided him through the window. As the driver cleared the window and kicked himself free, with Levy’s help he stood up. Levy and a handful of officers who’d used their bodies and riot shields pushed the jostling crowd back, giving Flynn space to work.

  The man stared down at Flynn. He’s eyes moist with e
yes. “Save my boy.”

  A cloud of bluish smoke rolled like a fog near the ground. Tear gas and smoke from fires that had been started in trash cans.

  Flynn’s eyes teared as he climbed back into the car, ignoring the glass chunks digging into his elbows and his legs. He’d already cut up his palms pretty badly. They were bloody and stung like a bitch. He twisted onto his side and wiggled his head and shoulders through the tight space between the seats. The headrests were practically touching the crushed roof. With his penlight in hand, he flashed the beam at the boy’s face. His skin was dark. Way darker than it should have been.

  Gravity and blood flow.

  Flynn felt for a pulse in the boy’s neck and released a held breath when he found one. Faint, but it was there. He tried to jostle the boy awake but got nothing. The kid was out cold. There was a gash across his forehead. A small trail of blood ran down his face.

  “Have to do it the hard way,” Flynn grunted.

  He maneuvered his right arm up under the boy, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder, then reached over his head as he awkwardly hit the bright red release button on the five-point safety harness of the car seat.

  With an audible click the child dropped into his hand poised under the boy’s shoulder. The boy’s weight drove his elbow painfully into the roof of the car, but he kept the kid from landing on his head and risking a neck injury.

  Flynn scrambled to get his other hand under the boy so he could slide him along his forearms, cradling him and protecting him from the broken glass littering the crushed roof as he pulled him through the narrow gap between the two headrests.

  He scrambled back and tugged the boy as he went, experiencing only a momentary sense of panic when the boy’s foot tangled in the safety belt. He freed it with a jiggle of the boy’s leg, losing a red sneaker in the process. Flynn cleared the window and climbed to his knees, holding the unconscious boy in his arms.

  The father dropped to one knee and swept a hand across the boy’s forehead, brushing his hair from his face. “Is he…”

  “Alive. Yes.” Flynn cradled him and stood up. “But we need to get him to a hospital.”