Greenpoint

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Prologue

The beat-up Buick Riviera pulled to the curb outside of Rossia’s convenience store. Three young men sat inside; two were Latino, and one was African American. All of them were in their late teens, and all of them were armed. They watched the store and people coming and going as they headed to work from their congested apartments. It was going on 8:00 a.m., and people were heading to work. To everyone on the street, it was business as usual—the same hum of traffic, the same city smell that never seemed to change, and the same routine day after day.

Greenpoint was located in Brooklyn, New York; it was your typical urban community with apartment houses standing right next to each other. The buildings were old, and some were in need of repair, but despite this, they displayed a sense of warmth and life like an old blanket that had holes and needed to be thrown out but was loved too much to be discarded. For many, Greenpoint was the only world they had known since they were children. For others, it was like a prison with a life sentence. But for others, like Moshe and Oniya Rossia, it was heaven and a place they never wanted to leave. Greenpoint had its good side as well as its bad; its history was long and full, and at one time the people who resided within its imaginary boundaries were proud and had a strong sense of a community of people working together and helping one another through the bad times that life always seemed to give.

Yet time had a way of eroding everything, good or bad. The community that at one time had been full of goodwill and togetherness had slowly disintegrated into violence and chaos. At certain times of the day, walking the street wasn’t an option, and if you were out at night, you were either brave or stupid, because you surely were taking your life in your own hands. Everyone knew these problems existed. Everyone wanted change, everyone wanted justice, and everyone wanted someone else to do it.

The neighborhood’s downward spiral had been a gradual one. It had taken decades for it to form into what it was today. People blamed the world as a whole for causing it—the ever-increasing pace of society, the total disrespect children had for their parents, parents never being home, the booming population, and many other reasons. In truth, though, everyone knew there was nobody in particular to blame, no one to vent their anger at . . . except the politicians.

Today was just like any other day in Greenpoint. The Latino driver looked at his gold watch and then at his companions.

Go get ’em, was all he said.

The two young men got out of the car; they wore long overcoats that easily hid their weapons as they moved rapidly toward the small convenience store.

People scattered. Just from seeing the mannerisms of the youths, people around and on the street could sense trouble was about to happen.

They stepped through the door of the store and casually walked down one of the aisles, as if looking for something. Behind the counter, Moshe Rossia, the store’s owner, bagged groceries for the customer who was about to head out the door. He never took notice of the two youths as they entered. Ringing the cash register, he handed the woman her change and thanked her with a smile the residents of Greenpoint had come to love from the old Jewish man.

Moshe Rossia and his wife, Oniya, had immigrated to the United States after the Second World War. Both had been liberated from Hitler’s death camps, and when they were reunited, they swore they would live life for every minute, never letting the world’s problems drag them down. They had found a renewed sense of life from death. They were both well-loved in the small community, and through the years, they had helped many residents through the tough times, sometimes not asking for anything in return.

They had never been robbed before, nor had they ever had any problem with the community gangs. In fact, they often said, Giving love grows love.

Today was not one of those days.

Hands in the air, sucker! the African American youth yelled, drawing rapidly up to the counter with a pistol-gripped shotgun drawn up toward Moshe.

What is this? Why do you do this thing? There is no need, he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

I said get your motherfuckin’ hands in the air! the youth yelled.

Moshe slowly raised his hands as he watched the second robber, the Latino youth, approach from the side.

Open the register! the Latino said, waving a .357caliber pistol at the old man.

Slowly, old man, slowly, the other robber said, drawing the shotgun toward the man’s head.

Moshe slowly brought his hand down and pressed the button that released the register drawer. He hadn’t noticed but the Latino youth had drawn quickly around behind the counter. Snatching the few bills that were in the register, he yanked the drawer out, expecting to find a bunch of larger bills beneath.

Where are they, old man? he yelled.

Where is what? Moshe said, resuming his stance with his hands up in the air.

Where is the rest of the money? the Latino youth snarled.

There is no more money, he replied.

Bullshit! the African American youth yelled. You got a safe somewhere here. I want you to open it.

There is no safe. I do not own a safe, Moshe said, shaking his head. Most people pay with credit cards . . . not cash, he tried to explain.

I think you’re fucking with us, old man! the Latino said as he spun around, slamming the butt end of his pistol into Moshe’s face.

The blow was hard, and it knocked Moshe backward, his arm slamming into one of the magazine displays on the side counter. Blood spurted from his nose and down across the front of his shirt as he stumbled and fell to the floor.

What in the hell are you doing? the other youth yelled.

This old man is going to tell us where he keeps his stash, or he’s not going to be taking many credit card orders again, the Latino youth said, pointing the gun at Moshe.

We got the cash. Let’s get the hell out of here! the other youth yelled. We’re taking too long.

"The boss told us to get all the old man’s money, and I don’t believe this is all the old man has," the Latino snarled, showing a fistful of cash he’d taken from the register.

I said we got the money . . . let’s get out of here! the other youth yelled in reply.

The boss also said that if the old man gave us any problems, we were to waste him, the Latino said with an evil grin.

"The boss said we weren’t supposed to hurt him," the African American youth replied with a frown.

Why are you doing this? I never hurt anyone . . . I know you two. You’ve come into my store for years. I gave you candy when you were younger. Why do you do this? Moshe said with disbelief. Put down the guns. I won’t call the police. Let me help you two, he said as he started to get up.

At that moment, a young woman came through the front door, the overhead bell jingling as it opened. Startled, the African American youth wheeled around with his shotgun, pulling the trigger as he did. The woman, in shock, never knew what happened as the blast from the shotgun tore through her chest, smashing her back against the glass doors. Broken like a marionette, her body toppled to the floor as blood splattered everywhere.

At the same moment, the Latino youth, startled from the shotgun blast, pulled the trigger on his handgun—repeatedly.

Moshe felt the bullets drive into his body. He felt the instant pain as the bullets penetrated his flesh. The only thing he could think of was how the horrible tortures he had endured in the death camps hadn’t killed him, all the pain and suffering for so long. It was all going to end here and now. He was being shot to death by a child. It was the last thought he ever had. His body slumped back, and his blood rapidly ran out of his body onto the tiled floor.

What the fuck did you do? the Latino yelled, dashing from behind the counter.

What did I do? Why’d you kill the old man?

You saw him! He was going for a gun, the Latino said as they dashed for the doors.

What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout? You know as well as I do that he never owned a gun! he snapped.

They slid back into the Buick, and the driver squealed the tires as he swung the large car out into the street. Within moments they were gone, leaving the carnage and death behind them.

It had been another day in Greenpoint, New York—another day that eroded the once-fine community even further.

The sounds of sirens filled the air . . . again.

Chapter 1

The screeching wail of the patrol car was irritating. Yes, its high-pitched scream drew attention, but it also sometimes gave its occupants headaches.

Today was another one of those days.

Simon Banks rubbed his temples as the car he was riding in weaved and bobbed through traffic, skirting through red lights and nearly being struck by a garbage truck. As he looked over at the police officer who was driving, the first thought Simon had was that the man was young—very young. In any event, he drove with precision, which is what all officers are trained to do. Between jutting stabs of pain in his head, which the bright sunlight only made worse, Simon wished he hadn’t been at the precinct when the call had come in.

Being a district attorney didn’t require him to go to crime scenes; in fact, he should be polishing his butt in his office, which at least would be dark, with the blinds closed. He was a new breed of DA. He believed in the system, his purpose, and his promises. He swore he would reduce crime in the city and suburbs, and he was going to see it happen, even if he had to get involved directly, which was becoming a regular event.

He was going to talk to the police chief when the call came through. What made this call different from the dozens of others was that it was from his hometown of Greenpoint.

Just from the description of the call that came through, he already knew all about the crime, and it sickened him to think that some scumbag punk had hurt the Rossias. As the wail of the police car became louder, he wished he had some ibuprofen

As he glanced out the window, Simon began to see buildings and businesses that he recognized and knew. As they flew past Silvia Thompson’s bakery, he licked his lips. He remembered how he and his best friend, Nick, would go in there as children and sweep the floors or take out her trash, and she would reward them both with a bag of pastries. Nick would take his home as a treat for his mother, but Simon was more selfish and would devour his bag’s contents before they reached the street where they lived. A short way away they screamed by McHale’s Bar. Gordon McHale was an Irish immigrant who came to Greenpoint in the late ’30s and opened the bar. He was a pleasant man but one you didn’t want to get riled. He was full-blooded Irish, and the Irish liked to fight. Still, though, he had been nice to Simon and Nick and never spoke a harsh word to either of them.

The patrol car came to an abrupt halt, the tires skidding slightly on the pavement. There were already two other patrol cars there with lights flashing, an ambulance, and of course, the coroner. The entire area was taped off with Do Not Cross police tape to keep the hordes of local residents from getting too close.

As Simon got out of the car, his attention was drawn to the storefront, and his stomach suddenly did a flip-flop, causing him to feel ill. The Rossias were good people who were immigrants, like nearly everyone in Greenpoint. He remembered going in the Rossias’ store to buy something for his parents, and Moshe Rossia would wink at him and toss him and his friend some candy. Simon always felt somehow that the Rossias were taken with Nick more than Simon. The thought of the call he would have to make to Nick sickened him further.

As he slipped under the police tape, he noticed Oniya Rossia sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance as a paramedic took her blood pressure. A ray of hope surged through him; at least she didn’t appear hurt. As he drew closer, she looked up with tear-filled, puffy eyes and noticed him.

Oh, Simon . . . Simon! she said, standing with open arms.

He drew her to him as she began to sob uncontrollably.

Oniya, what happened here? he softly asked.

Hoodlums . . . bad children . . . hoodlums! They took my Moshe away from me, she said between gasps of breath.

I’m sorry, Oniya, he said, knowing his words would not comfort her.

What has happened to the world, Simon? We survive the horrors of the Nazis only to be killed by children? she said, wiping her eyes.

Did you get a look at them? he asked.

Not very good . . . I saw them as they were leaving, she said, sniffing. I know one was colored. The other two . . . I am not sure. They were all children though, she explained.

Was . . . was Moshe alive when you found him? he regretted asking.

No, no . . . oh God, she said, lapsing into a fit of tears as she once again hugged him.

Listen, Oniya, once the investigators are done, we’ll close your store and pack a bag, and you can come and stay with my parents, he softly said, patting her on the back.

Thank you, Simon, but for some time now I’ve been taking care of Ellen Collins, she said, sniffing again.

Ellen? he said, drawing a frown.

She’s ill, she explained. You did not know? Oniya asked.

No . . . no, I didn’t. Nicky . . . didn’t say anything to me, he said, stunned.

He is a busy man, just like you are, she said. You two boys turned out so, so well. I am so proud of both of you.

How long has Ellen been ill? he asked.

Two months now, if I recall, she said, staring at the pavement.

Two months . . . he muttered in reply.

Is something wrong, Simon? she asked, looking up into his saddened face.

N-no, nothing, Oniya, he said, her words snapping him back to his senses. Look, are you going to be okay for now? I have to look things over myself . . . do my job, he said.

I will be fine. You find those hoodlums and get justice for Moshe, she said, her face contorting with an anger he had never seen in the woman.

All he could do was nod.

The inside of the store was a mess; items were knocked off the shelves around the counter. The coroner had already removed Moshe’s body, along with the woman, who hadn’t yet been identified. All that remained was the ominous white outline tape that indicated where the bodies had fallen and in what position they lay, and of course, the huge blood stains that soaked the floor behind the counter as well as the entire area in front of the door where the woman had been killed. Investigators worked the area, and a police photographer snapped pictures of the scene for record.

Ah, the martyr DA arrives at the scene . . . too late, a voice said from behind him.

Wheeling around, Simon kept his composure as he looked into the dark, sunken eyes of Detective Mark Beaumont. Beaumont was the precinct’s chief detective, an overweight man who looked professional but found it hard to hide his deep dislike for and sarcastic snipes about society. The man was a thirty-five-year veteran of the force, and he had seen much during those thirty-five years. Simon recalled seeing Beaumont when he was just a patrol officer and Simon was a kid. He was arrogant and cocky even then and allowed much to slip through his fingers. Either that or he just looked the other way.

In any event, there was no love lost between them. There was only jealousy in Mark’s veins—jealousy because he lost the DA position to Simon.

Better late than never, Simon shot back. What did you find here? he asked.

What, can’t wait for my report? Mark snapped back.

No, he replied coldly.

The perps used a fully automatic weapon, along with a revolver and a shotgun, Mark explained. The old man was executed using the .357 revolver. My guess is it was a Ruger. The woman, it appears, was just coming into the store to shop, and another perp caught her point-blank with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

Moshe Rossia.

Huh? Mark frowned at him.

The old man had a name. His name was Moshe Rossia, Simon said, giving him a sharp look.

Yeah, whatever, Mark said, looking out the storefront windows. The woman’s name was Mira Adams. She was from East Thirteenth Street.

"You said he was executed. What evidence do you have to draw that conclusion?"

Simple—the old man, Rossia, was behind the counter, by the register. The drawer is open, and the cash is gone. Robbery, right? he said, looking at Simon to make sure they were both on the same page. The perp who shot him did it from behind the counter, right over there at the edge of it. He put a round into him; Rossia collapsed and then the perp put another three rounds in to make sure he was dead. I’d say that indicates an execution, he said, taking a deep breath.

It looks like a plain robbery to me, Simon said, looking around.

Well, big district attorney, that’s the difference between you and me, Mark snapped. You see things for what they basically are . . . I see them for what they really are, a system that doesn’t work. And do you know why I say that? he said, drawing closer to Simon, his tone becoming aggressive. "Because the old man didn’t have a weapon behind the counter like most good store owners have. He didn’t even have a club . . . nothing. The scumbags who robbed him could have taken the money without killing him or the girl," Mark snarled.

They saw their faces, Simon quickly countered.

So what? Mark nearly laughed. "Look around you. Get out on the street and see what’s heading our way, Mr. Big Shot DA. Do you seriously think people are going to help the police? If you haven’t noticed, the perps rule the streets. Gangs are everywhere, and there are too few good cops to keep everything together," Mark nearly spat.

Well, violence isn’t the answer, Simon softly said.

Yeah . . . right. Mark let out a deep sigh. I’d bet the old man and the woman who got blown away thought that too.

Before Simon would counter his comment, Mark Beaumont turned and left. Fundamentally, both Simon and Nicky felt the same way—violence just led to more violence. Beaumont, on the other hand, felt that everyone should carry a big stick . . . or a gun. He felt that society was out of control and on a downward spiral into chaos. Simon didn’t blame Mark for feeling that way either.

When Simon had been a patrol officer, he too had seen the horrors society inflicted upon itself. Humanity was its own worst enemy and one of the few species that preyed upon itself. It was these horrors he had seen that led him from the force into law and eventually to become the district attorney. He wanted justice for crimes. He wanted the criminals to pay for their crimes, and he wanted the murderer of Moshe Rossia.

He just didn’t want justice using a gun. As he looked over at the investigators, he noticed one of them holding up the shell casing from the gun that killed Moshe. It was at that moment he wondered if his beliefs were right.

It was nearly noontime when Simon finally arrived at his office. His staff was large, comprised of many prosecuting attorneys, paralegals, and aides. It sometimes awed him to watch them work; they were diligent and believed in their jobs.

Good morning, Mr. Banks, his personal secretary, Sara, said, smiling at him.

There was no doubt in his mind that Sara was interested in him as more than just his secretary. He was in his early forties and single. She was in her early thirties, with fiery red hair, full red lips, and a body that belonged on a magazine cover.

She was also single.

Simon warmly smiled back at her as he opened the door to his office. He no sooner opened the door than he turned and came face to face with Sara.

You have a meeting with the mayor at 1:00 p.m., a court appearance for the Murdock case at 3:00 p.m., and then another court case at 5:00 p.m., the Ridge murder case . . . and then dinner with me at 7:00 p.m.

Creating space between them, he quickly went behind his desk and sat down. For a moment, he sat there staring at the mass of paperwork on the desk before him, and then he glanced at his watch.

I’ll need the files on the Murdock and Ridge cases to review, he said, sighing.

On the desk in front of you, she pointed out.

Sara, can you hold all my calls for the next hour or so? he said, looking up at her.

Will do, she said turning to leave.

Oh, and a cup of coffee would be nice, he said to her.

Sara turned and looked at him over the top of her glasses. Simon knew better. Sara was not a waitress, and she had told him more than once before that if he wanted coffee, he could drag his butt down to the break room and get it himself. She quickly left the room.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his desk and pulled out a small, flat metal pop-up phone directory. Pushing the little tab all the way down then up, he brought the pointer back to the letter C and then pressed the tab at the bottom, opening it. Inside were all the phone numbers of people listed with a last name that began with the letter C. His eyes glanced down the list and quickly came to the name he was looking for: Nicky, or Nick, Collins.

Nicky Collins was his best friend—a rare type of friend who was more like family than just a friend. They had grown up together and had seen much in doing so, but through the good times and the bad, they had stayed true to each other. Nicky was smart, and anyone who truly knew him when he was growing up could see he was going to succeed in life. As a little kid, he was like every other kid in Greenpoint and lived in an apartment building with too many people, all of whom were dysfunctional. He had a rough childhood growing up fatherless; his mother, divorced, was pretty and very streetwise but always fretted about being alone. Simon remembered all the times he saw her. She was always looking good, dressing up, and making herself as pretty as possible, as if Mr. Right would pop out of the woodwork and sweep her off her feet.

At one point growing up in the early ’70s, she thought she had landed him—a young soldier returning from Vietnam. He was considerably younger than she was, cocky but a hard worker. It had been his idea to move the family down to Florida, where he thought work would be plentiful, but after nearly a year, he found that opportunity had dried up, and they ended up back in Greenpoint again.

Nicky had an older brother named Jack, who was so unlike him that he often wondered if they had come from the same father. Jack was a spawn of hell, often teasing and beating Nicky up. At one point he had even beaten the crap out of Simon as well.

Jack Collins was the reason he became a police officer.

Jack Collins was the reason he went into law.

Jack Collins was the reason he became a district attorney.

Jack Collins was the one person he swore he’d bring down.

The man was at the center of the Mob, the heart of it, actually dealing with drugs, prostitution, extortion, and execution. Jack was filth of the worst kind and one person Simon would see behind bars if it was the last thing he did.

Nicky, like himself, had clawed his way out of Greenpoint, becoming a lawyer and then getting into politics and being elected to the New York State Senate. He seemed to shrug off his bad childhood and always look toward the future.

Nicky was shorter than most men but well-built. He was concise when he spoke and had an aura that somehow made people instantly like him. He remembered teachers in school who seemed to gravitate to him and made him their favorite. Unfortunately, he attracted the good as well as the bad, resulting in him being picked on by not only Jack but other kids as well.

Reaching for the phone, Simon now had to call Jack’s brother and tell him the bad news about the Rossias. With his hand on the phone, he paused and for a moment wondered what he was going to say, because Nick had always been close to the Rossias and had often done odd chores for them. They in turn would give him food and other things that he took back to help the family. The Rossias had almost become his stepparents.

He picked up the phone.

At that moment, the door opened and Sara came in—carrying a mug of coffee. Simon watched her enter the room, bring the cup over, and set it down on the desk blotter in front of him. He sat there stunned, his mouth hanging open.

Now I expect you to take me out to dinner tonight at 7:00 sharp . . . no excuses, no rain checks, she said to him with a stern tone. As she opened the door and was about to leave, she turned and looked at him again. Remember, Mr. Banks, you back out on me, and the next cup will be in your lap! She left the room.

For a moment he looked down at the coffee in front of him and then back at the door she had just left from. He was still stunned, and a part of him was fearful. Sara was not the type of girl you crossed. As with many people who entered law, she had a police background, having been an officer herself, along with the rest of her family. Surely she was not the girl you wanted to cross in any form, and he would be dining with her this evening.

His attention was snapped back when he heard a click and the dial tone stop. Pressing the phone back down for an instant, he picked it up again, hearing the tone, and then dialed the number for Nick’s office. He listened as it rang once, then twice, and then a sweet, soft female voice spoke on the other end.

Good morning, Senator Collins’s office. How can I help you? she said.

This is District Attorney Simon Banks. Could you please inform Senator Collins I would like to talk to him?

Senator Collins asked not to be disturbed this morning. Can I take a message and have him contact you later? she said efficiently.

Could you please inform him now? This is personal and important, he countered.

Please hold, she said, the line quickly changing to elevator music.

Simon hated elevator music when on hold. He would rather listen to nothing—even static—rather than the droning, sleep-inducing, numbing melodies that were often heard when one was on hold. He didn’t have to wait long, though. Within a few minutes the line was picked up, and he heard the familiar voice of his friend, Nicky Collins.

Buddy, how’s it going? It’s been a while since we last spoke, Nick said with affection.

I know, Simon agreed. I regret to say that there is a reason why I’m calling.

The line went quiet.

Nick, there is no easy way to say this . . . Moshe Rossia was murdered this morning in his store, along with a customer, Simon said softly.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Nick, I’m sorry. I know how close you were to them. Oniya is shaken, of course, but unhurt, he explained.

Still there was silence on the other end.

Who? Nick finally demanded.

We’re not sure; I’m on top of this myself. According to Oniya, it was three youths. They apparently came in to rob the store, and it went bad. Detective Beaumont thinks . . . well, he thinks Moshe was executed, Simon sighed.

What else?

Right now, that’s about it. The robbery happened at roughly 8:00 this morning. You know also that I can’t divulge any more information about his case, even if I had it, he said, assuming with slight paranoia that his phone or Nick’s was tapped.

I don’t believe it, Nick said sadly. "The Rossias are the