The Underground

Remy’s morning started with a succession of muttered curses, nothing out of the ordinary.

The phone had been ringing off the hook since eight, and it seemed like that morning the entire city had decided to dump all its problems onto his squad. It was barely eleven, and he knew it was going to be a long, brutal day. They flipped on the emergency lights a dozen times, while case files kept piling up on the desks, doubling right before their eyes. Robberies, assaults, grand larcenies. And for the worst crimes, the suspects were sent straight to Rikers Island.

For some of them, paradoxically, lockup was a blessing: they had no one on the outside, nothing waiting for them. Many were lost souls, beings forgotten by God, or simply by those who were supposed to care for them. Some ended up inside just to break free, at least for a while, from the grip of dope; so they’d pull petty thefts, low-level crimes, just to stay away from temptation for a few months. For others, though, it was just one stop in an endless cycle: children of lowlifes, born into toxic environments, who ended up repeating the same script with their own kids, who twenty years later would find themselves visiting them within those very same walls. Doomed to a misery that seemed baked into their blood. His precinct, in the Civic Center neighborhood of Lower Manhattan, was living proof of it. They had a file full of families who spent Thanksgiving each in a different cell, and another folder dedicated to juveniles, kids bouncing from one foster home to another like pinballs. If the juvie halls ran out of beds, they were assigned a temporary cot, and if they were unlucky, at that point there was nothing left for them to do but cave, sliding even further down. The case that caused the biggest media circus was Jesse Perrett’s, an eleven-year-old whom his twin brother, Daniel, had tried to save by opening a criminal case, only managing to get him adopted out of the county four years later. The case file Remy was reading right then, running a hand through his long brown hair gathered in a tuft, told a story no different from the rest—a recurring pattern of suffering that inevitably ended in tragedy. His pale, sharp eyes skimmed over the words of the report with the habit of someone who already knows that kind of pain.

Officer Smith knocked on the door three times quickly. Remy got the signal and, tossing on his jacket, walked out of his office. He cast a quick glance at his colleagues, ready, waiting for orders, like sentries on high alert. He gave precise instructions, his tone grave, just as he had done a thousand times before. This morning, he was just fucking tired.

“Roman and Waldorf on me. Humphrey and Rhodes, take the back route."

A quick nod of assent, and everyone moved, gearing up and climbing into the pick-up trucks headed toward Hunts Point in the Bronx. America was a massive country, yet Remy knew it was just as massive in its capacity to fail those who needed it most. The "Make America Great Again" slogans he saw hanging at every intersection on the road sounded like a sick joke in the neighborhoods he ran every day. Almost half of the arrestees were minors, and a good chunk of them were just pawns for the gangs, trade commodities for the drug trade. Fifty percent of the crimes involved firearms and dealing, meaning that three out of five families lived this kind of reality. Three out of five kids were born already destined for a life of marginalization and crime, while for the remaining two, it was just a matter of luck, a lottery.

They arrived in the neighborhood, the exact same place where they had already seen all of this play out a thousand times. Dilapidated houses and filthy streets, people watching their backs, and shut windows. An old woman saw them pull up and waved her hand through the crack of a barred window. Gwen, the old lady in her worn-out bathrobe and a mug that read Best Granny, insisted they come inside—the cold was biting—and Remy accepted the invitation while his guys fanned out across the neighborhood to patrol the area. Gwen, maybe of Italian descent judging by how pushy she was, forced a shot of espresso on him. Despite the exhaustion and the cold, Remy gave her a polite smile, relaxing his facial muscles for just a split second. She had a raspy, gravelly voice, like she’d been smoking for years, and she started talking without needing any questions.

"They shoot all the time out here, you know?" the woman kicked off, using the tone of someone confident in her own opinions, as if he didn't know that reality himself.

"What do you mean, ma'am?"

"The Niggas by the underpass… it’s all their fault,"

Chief went quiet, stiffening on the spot, biting the inside of his cheek to hold himself back. He turned his gaze toward the window and saw Dean, the head of Crime Scene Unit, approaching the crime scene, ducking under the yellow police tape. The fogged-up glass warped his silhouette, making him look like he was about to melt. A twenty-five-year-old white guy had shot a young Venezuelan over a turf war. A life cut short, a tragedy that had more than enough meaning on its own. And yet, for those who couldn't see past their own noses, it became nothing but a race issue. Remy forced himself to keep his tone neutral, thanked Gwen quickly for the info, and rounded up the squad. With the survivors of the shooting, the interrogations were quick and a dead end: nobody saw anything, nobody wanted to talk. In those alleys, omertà was the law, even though anonymous calls to the precinct were an everyday thing. New tags were popping up on the walls, though, and the one R. Sharman's crew spotted read Pigs go home, spray-painted in neon pink. As if the point wasn't clear enough on its own. Peter Humphrey burst out laughing when he saw it while adjusting his duty belt and holster, muttering sarcastic comments. He was a middle-aged man with a touch of asthma, which, combined with the fact that he mumbled his words, made him hard to understand. Remy watched him in silence with eyes that gave nothing away, leaning his shoulder against the wall, letting him finish.

"You find something funny, Peter?" he asked with a streak of steel that killed any attempt at humor, causing Humphrey to cut himself off, clearing his throat and allowing his superior to continue.

"As much as I can understand the grind of this life, that laugh isn't appropriate for any of our guys, let alone an officer on duty," he continued, crossing his arms, waiting for his colleague to find a shred of seriousness.

"Yes, sir," Humphrey said, looking down, aware of his screw-up.

Remy, breaking into a dimpled smile, locked his arm around his neck, pulling him from behind against his chest, calling out loudly: "There's always the option of night shifts with Gwen the 'Best Gran'!"

For a second, the officers stood frozen, as if holding back a laugh, then Roman was the first to let a quick smile slip. Waldorf shook his head, and within seconds they all joined in, bursting into a low, complicit laugh, their shoulders finally dropping after the tension. Humphrey looked down with an uncertain smile, taking the teasing without any hard feelings, while Remy let go of his grip, giving him an affectionate pat on the back.

"Come on, Peter, you look like a guy who could soften up with a donut and a hot coffee."

Humphrey offered a respectful salute, throwing his hands up.

"Alright, guys, it's on me. Dunkin’ is two blocks away, and no sugar for the captain, right?"

Remy let out a tired breath and nod, while the others waited on CSU's investigation. Peter came back with a box of donuts and piping hot coffees, setting them on the hoods of the parked cruisers, and the group took a brief breather. They talked in low voices about the case, their tone pensive. There were only a few streets, and by now one thing was clear to everyone: somebody within the community was protecting the shooter and his crew. The Bronx gangs were deeply rooted, and it was tough to figure out how the dynamics shifted; they needed someone willing to talk, at least one witness statement to present on appeal. They were going to have to play the suspects' game and count on a level of patience that was always pushed to the limit in cases like this, especially for the families demanding justice. Dean had been clear too: it would take days to get the full DNA results back. The samples bagged at the scene were scarce and degraded, but if they hit, they could add crucial weight to the killer's sentence. Lost in thought, Remy was taking a bite out of his donut when he noticed that Dean, completely casual about it, had taken a bite right out of his. He stared at him for a second with a skeptical look, then let out a tired laugh, nodding to his colleagues who kept whispering among themselves.

"Did you guys clear the scene?"

"’Course," Dean replied, brushing crumbs off his coat. "The lab work's gonna take a minute, but as soon as the results are in, I'll hit you up."

Remy nodded again, his gaze drifting past the crime scene toward the dark, silent windows watching them from a distance.

"Alright, I'll wait on your report. The rest of you, stick to the plan. I'll see you back at the precinct, and if anything pops up, call it in immediately."

Remy lingered for a few more moments, then shook his head as if to shake off the fatigue, and headed toward his car to head back to the station. Remy felt every muscle tight and aching, like he had just stepped out of a fight. And in fact, he had. The night before, in the ring, he had gone up against a younger opponent with tricky footwork that had turned the bout into an absolute beatdown for his already worn-out body.

The exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like a boulder, and every step felt like a drag, as if his legs could barely hold him up. He could still feel the ribs shots—bruises throbbing under his uniform—and the scratches tracing down his forearm seemed to burn every time he moved. His left eye was slightly swollen and his bottom lip was still tight from a cut, scars reminding him of the hours spent taking hits and staying on his feet out of sheer stubbornness.

When he finally sat down at his desk, it was like his body forced him to stop. The stack of files in front of him seemed to sway for a second, a byproduct of the exhaustion, but despite it all, he reached out to grab the first one on the pile. The phone rang relentlessly, hammering his brain and making him miss the brief truce he'd found a few hours earlier out on the field, among his guys and coffee.

Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his loose hair, trying to ease the pressure he felt there too, at the base of his neck. He was used to these grinds, to that fatigue that bit like a stray dog. Remy rubbed his jaw, wondering if there was gonna be a rematch. Something in that kid's eyes told him that maybe they’d run into each other again, and maybe next time he could make him feel the exact same exhaustion that was currently weighing down every single one of his muscles.

A text on his phone broke his train of thought. It was Dan.

"Dinner's on me. See you at home. Go KNICKS!"