Cruel State of Mind

03. a man is what he hides

Maná, the Mexican pop-rock band that my dad used to listen to all the time plays loudly on my AirPods; strangely enough, their songs have become the small piece of home I can carry with me where I go. The moment those infectious melodies start to play I'm transported to my dad's car backseat, back when my feet wouldn't quite reach the floor and I would scream the words to Labios Compartidos as if I knew anything about heartbreak. Or to our old kitchen, where Mom and I would dance to Oye Mi Amor in the morning while Dad laughed and sipped his coffee on the kitchen island before work. It's a bit odd that songs about either agonizing heartbreak or worship and devotion to love sound like home to me, but they do. They're the refrain of my childhood.

I make my way to the living room, nodding my head to the rhythm of the music, but when I gaze at the TV screen, I almost drop my coffee. I quickly turn the music off and leave my mug on the table.

"Business magnate Barton Newman was found dead in his penthouse early this morning," the news reporter says as I try to swallow the knot in my throat. "His only son, Wesley Newman has been arrested for his murder. We expect to have more information tonight."

I sit on the sofa, my eyes locked on the TV. Wesley's face is still there, his familiar grin and electric blue eyes jumping through the screen, almost as if he's here. It takes me a few minutes to feel like I can breathe again and when I do, I look at my watch. I'm late.

Wesley's face keeps popping into my head as I drive to Rikers Island. I met him at Columbia Law School and, for a long time, he was my only friend in the city. I met his father at a charity event to which Wesley asked me to be his plus one. Tall and lean figure perfectly fitted into a Brioni suit, with grey hair and light blue eyes like his son's except his were a bit more somber, Barton Newman was king of New York. It was probably the way he carried himself, so carefree and untroubled, that gave away the kind of power he had over every other person in the room. I could only imagine the kind of secrets that crooked smile and puzzling eyes hid —secrets that weren't even his.

I could probably write down a long list of names that would want him dead before I even got to Wesley, yet he's the primary suspect. It must be some kind of mistake, I'm sure.

"Mm-hmm," Chris sips his coffee and closes his eyes, "If seasons had a flavor, this is what fall would taste like."

I knew that getting the coffee inside would be nearly impossible, but as Lawrence always says, where there's a will, there's a way. Usually, people are willing to look away if you can guess their price. I hate being part of the corruption in the system but, after a while wearing yourself down trying to beat it, you realize that sometimes, there's no other way to move around it.

Plus, it's just a stupid pumpkin spice latte. How much damage can it do?

"So, tell me, Chris. How exactly did you meet Melissa?"

"Haven't we been over this like a hundred times already?" He replies sharply. I get that he's annoyed, but this is not the time to have an attitude.

"We have, but I need more. I need details. Everything is important, even the littlest of things could be of huge significance to your defense."

"Okay," he sets his paper cup aside and leans in. "I met Melissa at NYU."

"I already know that, Christopher. Where exactly did you meet? How?"

"Oh, I guess it was during one of Professor Hastings' lectures."

I write down Professor Hastings, NYU in my notebook and wait for Chris to continue.