The Midnight Taxi - Softcover

Gunasekera, Yosha

 
9798217187539: The Midnight Taxi
Softcover
ISBN 13: 9798217187539
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

When the last fare of the night turns up dead in her backseat, a Sri Lankan American taxi driver works off the clock to clear her name in this mystery novel by debut author Yosha Gunasekera.

Siriwathi Perera doesn’t quite know where she’s going in life. She never expected to be a taxicab driver in New York City, struggling to make ends meet and still living with her parents at twenty-eight. The true-crime podcasts that keep Siri company as she drives don’t do much to make up for the legal career she imagined for herself, or the brother she’s grieving.

When public defender Amaya Fernando gets into her cab, they make a quick connection through their shared Sri Lankan roots. Siri, whose social circle is limited to her grade-school best friend, Alex, thinks things might finally be looking up with this new potential friendship. But she’s suddenly dropped into her own true crime when she discovers her next passenger murdered in the backseat, and she has to call Amaya sooner than she’d expected.

Pinned as the obvious and only suspect, and desperate to clear her name, Siri chases down leads across the boroughs of New York City with Amaya’s help. But with her court date looming, they have just five days to find out who really killed the midnight passenger—or Siri’s life will be over before she can even truly live it.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Yosha Gunasekera is a Sri Lankan American attorney who represents people who have spent decades behind bars for crimes they did not commit. She teaches a course at Princeton University focused on wrongful conviction and exoneration. Yosha is a former Manhattan public defender and has written and spoken extensively on the criminal legal system.

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Chapter 1

I spend most of my free time thinking about murder. The facts, means, motives, opportunity. My true crime podcasts are a lifeline to help me escape traffic, the passenger yelling at his wife who should surely divorce him, and the people who deem it appropriate to eat what appears to be a three-course meal in the back of my cab. Funny how murder is a tantalizing reprieve from my real life.

As I drive along the East Side of Manhattan, I'm trying to figure out who really stabbed the Italian tourist seven times before the host does. This podcast is trying to throw me off the scent by suggesting a stranger did it. Like many true crime aficionados, I know 90 percent of murders are committed by people the victim knows. I'd almost be offended by this obvious red herring if I weren't so engrossed in the story. Instead of obsessing about a crime thousands of miles away, I should be focusing more on picking up passengers. The clock disapprovingly blinks midnight, taunting me for only completing eleven rides today, which is nearly an all-time low.

I look out on unobstructed views of the Brooklyn Bridge set against the backdrop of the Brooklyn skyline. I remind myself that I'm not just a taxicab driver. I'm a New York City taxicab driver. My superpowers include weaving through bikes in rush hour, finding my way around the city without a navigation app, and silencing dudes in seconds with my resting bitch face when they have no manners. No, I don't want to go on a date with you, especially after seeing the tip you just left.

I take an exit off the highway and find myself close to Centre Street, which houses the criminal courthouse in Manhattan. There are often lawyers streaming in and out at all hours thanks to night court, which allows those arrested to see a judge even when it's late. It's usually a reliable spot to pick up a fare, and at times the people who enter my cab from court fill my incessant desire to learn more about those New York Post headlines. Is their "Groin Graffitier," charged with spray-painting all those penises on subway cars, going to get prison time? True crime podcasts are interesting, but it's best to hear the stories from the sources themselves. Sometimes I think I could be a lawyer, only to remember that my LSAT prep book has remained untouched for longer than the hair-waxing kit in the back of my bathroom cabinet. Ah yes, to be a twenty-eight-year-old woman who can grow a mustache to rival that of a pubescent boy.

I know I shouldn't try to talk to my passengers. Most people prefer to sit in silence, their pursed lips telling me that every word out of my mouth is one dollar less of a tip. I can almost hear my bank account whine in protest each time. Still, I'm nosy. I ask the person how they are doing, and depending on their response, I can quickly suss out whether they want to talk to me or tell me to shut up. Lucky for me, lawyers like to talk, especially about themselves and by extension, their work.

I slow my car outside the courthouse. I find the brutalist architecture a style more suitable for a bomb shelter than a bastion of justice. The quote etched in the stone facade declares Equal and exact justice to all men of whatever state or persuasion. I laugh when I see that someone has added a WO in front of MEN. That's the type of graffiti I can support.

Scanning the steps of the courthouse, I see a man milling about before I spot a woman on the corner. She is shivering slightly. The late-night fall air certainly calls for a coat, yet she's without one. I hear Ammi tutting in my head. Even in 80-degree weather, my mother insists I keep a sweater around so I don't catch a cold.

The man waves me down just before she does, but if I have a choice, I'll take a female passenger any day.

The woman appears to be a lawyer, judging by her suit and high heels. Both of her bags are filled with files that are popping out the top. I make the snap judgment that she is a public defender. Most of the prosecutors I pick up are white men; she is some sort of Brown, like me, and while her suit is nice, it looks well-worn.

I try to avoid judging people on their appearances, because if driving a taxi for this long has taught me anything, it's that people are often more than they appear to be. Or less. Like the man in a tuxedo who clipped his toenails in my cab one time-when I asked him to stop, he pretended he couldn't hear me.

I pull over and the woman hops in, taking a second with her bags. The man who hailed my cab looks annoyed when he sees I've decided to pick up the woman, and he calls me something I can't quite hear but I'm positive isn't a compliment. I ignore him. If I had a dime for every lazy, sexist diss I've received, I'd be able to afford to see the Knicks courtside . . . well, maybe not courtside, but in great seats, and I wouldn't have to smuggle in my own snacks.

"Do you need help?" I ask the woman. Men always seem a little offended when I offer to load their bags into the car, but it's just part of the job. Fragile ego, bro?

"No, I'm fine," she says, settling in. "Bedford and Greene Ave. Brooklyn, please."

She immediately turns off the taxi television that plays the same loop of puff piece news stories. I'm grateful when people do that so I can better hear my podcasts, which I play at low volume on my phone-just loud enough to drone out an obnoxious guy in a suit complaining about the stock market but not loud enough for my passengers to think they hopped into the car with a cab-driving murderer. Less than 10 percent of serial killers are women, so I can't imagine I pose too much of a threat, but you never know. There are also very few women cabdrivers, yet here I am. Sometimes the taxi television plays interesting news stories though. The one last week about the goats at Riverside Park was entertaining the first and second time I heard it. However, by the end of the day, after hearing the story repeat over forty times I officially hated goats and sought out some goat curry for dinner.

She doesn't seem to want to talk; nevertheless, I ask my customary question. "How was your night?"

"Ugh, it was rough. Rough," she replies.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Why?" This seems like it may be my first real conversation of the day. People who don't want to talk simply say "fine" and take an urgent phone call where the phone suspiciously doesn't manage to ring. Not sure if I can blame them. I'm just a mode of transportation after all.

"My last guy got held in on five hundred dollars' bail. He's homeless; how is he going to afford that? Bail for trespassing," she says, an air of sarcasm in her voice. "He was evicted from his own home, didn't leave it instantly, so they arrested him. It's barbaric."

That all but confirms she's a public defender, and I congratulate myself on my successful assessment.

"It's very cold outside," I say as I pass yet another cardboard-box house on the street. Even though I can't really afford it, I've given more than a few free rides to those in need. It seems like basic decency. My Venmo balance would suggest otherwise.

I notice how candid she is as she continues discussing her day. It's a degree of honesty that I frequently see in my cab. People revealing their most real, raw selves to someone they will never see again, also known as free therapy!

I look in my rearview mirror but can't really tell what she looks like because my plastic divider, graying with age, gives everyone a murky appearance. The dark night further distorts my view. As soon as I save enough money, a new divider will be the first improvement for my taxi. Not being able to see what people are doing in my back seat, especially at night, is a constant source of anxiety. I've been avoiding the 2 a.m. bar crowd for this reason, but with my passenger numbers so low, I may risk the occasional...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2026
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 13 
9798217187539
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
337
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

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