Tainted Evidence

by Robert Daley

"That's some trial you have on," the governor said.

  "Yes it is."

  "I read about you every morning in the papers. I see you on the TV news broadcasts every night. You handle yourself very well."

  "Thank you."

  "Tell us about yourself," the governor said, indicating with a sweep of his hand the two silent aides.

  She was now almost at ease. This interview wasn't going to lead to anything. She was able to smile. "Where would you like me to start?” At least tonight she could tell her children she had had a ride in a helicopter.

  "I'm told you are the third ranking assistant in the office. Is that correct?"

  "Fourth or fifth, the others might say. It depends who does the ranking."

  "And the highest ranking woman."

  This was irritating. To be accorded special consideration because of her sex was always

  irritating.

  "Well, the others are all men," she said.

  "So tell us about yourself."

  To talk about oneself without self consciousness was not easy, and afterwards, after she had left the office, Karen would be able to remember little of what she had told him, apart from certain details about her children.

  "When I finished law school I was almost nine months pregnant. I thought I wasn't going to make it to graduation. The day I took the bar exam my husband was out in the hall with the baby so I could feed her from time to time."

  "Then you joined the Manhattan District Attorney's office?"

  "No. I couldn't leave my children while they were so small. I worked part time in a small law office in New Rochelle until our son--our second child--was old enough for kindergarten."

  "So you've been with the DA's office how long?"

  "Eight years."

  The governor had nice eyes. They were brown. He wasn't a handsome man, but she liked his face.

  For a time he did not speak. He appeared to be studying her.

  Then: "As I told you, appointing an interim DA is a priority item with me. I've been interviewing candidates for the past two days. Someone recommended you.”

  They gazed at each other. "Someone I trust," he said.

  Obviously she wondered who it could have been. Just as obviously she did not ask.

  "What do you think of Norman Harbison?" the governor said.

  And that's the real reason I'm here, she thought with disappointment. He wants to pick my brains about Norm. He's already decided on Norm. He's just trying to check out Norm as much as he can.

  "Well, Norm is Chief Assistant."

  "Yes, I know that."

  "Norm certainly knows everything about running the office."

  "I'm sure he does."

  After another pause the governor said: "Is that faint praise, or what?"

  It was her chance to disparage Norm, perhaps turn the governor away from a man she did not like or trust. She was reasonably certain it was what Norm would do in her place.

  "Faint praise?" she said. "I didn't mean it that way. Norm has run the office for many years. He does it very well."

  "What kind of man is he?"

  "He's conscientious, hard working."

  "Is he a good trial lawyer?"

  "He used to be. He doesn't try many cases anymore."

  The governor stood up, so Karen stood also. The interview was over.

  "I asked you up here this afternoon to sound you out," he said. "Suppose I appointed you district attorney, would you accept?”

  Was he serious? Karen did not think so. "If the answer were no," she said, "I could have saved myself and the state a helicopter ride.” But his question, she was convinced, was merely a display of his innate politeness--a way of easing her politely out of his office.

  "And your family?"

  "My family would accept also."

  "It would be just an interim appointment--until the November election."

  Karen shrugged.

  "Of course you could run for a full term in November."

  Another pause. The governor looked over at the other two men in the room, but again neither spoke.

  He escorted her to the door. "May I ask what your feelings are about the law?" he said.

  Karen glanced behind her at the two men. The question made her somewhat embarrassed.

  "About the law?"

  "Please," said the governor.

  "I'm afraid I'll sound like I'm preaching."

  "Not at all."

  "I love the law."

  "Yes.” The governor smiled warmly. They had reached the door but he was suddenly in no hurry to show her out. "Go on."

  "Between us and barbarism what else is there? Religion? For the time being, I don't know why, religion--our religious leaders--seem to have failed us. The law is all we have to hold us together. We have nothing else to hold on to."

  "Well put," the governor said. For a moment she thought he was going to applaud her. Instead he looked questioningly over at the other two men.

  "Gentlemen?" he said.

  One of the aides nodded his head. Neither spoke.

  "I'm pleased to hear you speak of the law that way," the governor said. "I'm a lawyer myself, you know."

  He showed her out. "Thanks for coming in," he said. "You may be hearing from us."

  In her kitchen Karen prepared dinner. Her husband was at her shoulder. Hillary came and went as she set the dining room table. By this time Karen had convinced herself that she was being seriously considered--it was what she wanted to believe--and that she should warn her family. Talking about it made the possibility more real to her, and it was important to know what Hank's reaction would be.

  "You did what?" Hank said. "You went where?"

  "I'm being considered as district attorney. Maybe I am. I'm not quite sure."

  "That's exciting, Mom," Hillary said. "That's really exciting."

  Henry did not find it so, apparently. He seemed to be thinking out what to say and how to say it. This was only what Karen had expected, and she watched him closely, and then her smile faded and she bit her lip.

  "You don't seem too pleased at the idea."

  "Of course I'm pleased for you," Hank said carefully. "Proud of you too. But--"

  "But?"

  "I'm a bit confused. Have you thought this out? As DA how many lawyers would you be in charge of?"

  "About 450."

  "Prosecuting how many felony cases a year?"

  "Fifty or sixty thousand. I'm not sure."

  "It's a twelve hours a day, seven days a week job, wouldn't you say?"

  Karen handed a platter to Hillary. "Put this on the table honey."

  "Are you sure you have your priorities straight?" Hank said. "Your children might begin to ask: what about us?"

  "Oh, Hank.”

  "I thought you were talking about spending more time at home, not less.”

  "I know, I want to."

  "What you give up today you don't get back next year or the year after. They'll be grown and gone."

  In the face of such pressure Karen became annoyed. "I couldn't very well refuse the governor's summons, could I. He hasn't offered me the job and probably won't. Even if he did, it would only be until the election."

  "No, if it's gone this far there's a good chance you'll get it," Hank said.

  This reaction, in the midst of all her other conflicting emotions, caused Karen a certain elation, but also a certain fear. Of course he was right about lost time with the kids. If it happened. If it did, what were her priorities? But if it didn't happen it wouldn't be a problem; naturally and humanly she did not want to face unpleasant decisions unnecessarily. Not this far in advance.

  "You've earned it," Hank said. "But--"

  If Hank believed she had a good chance, then perhaps she did.

  Although the possibility suddenly became more real to her she felt obliged to say defensively: "I'll never get it.”

  "Karen, I'm carrying a full schedule of classes, I'm coaching swimming, I have to finish the monograph I'm writing
, and then find a publisher for it, because that's how you get ahead in the academic world. I won't be able to take up much of the slack."

  She was imagining herself as district attorney, and did not want to let the idea go just yet. "We could employ someone. There would be a good deal more money."

  "We employed people before and it didn't work out too well."

  "I was thinking of a housekeeper, perhaps."

  "Wouldn't you have to maintain a New York City residence as well."

  "Yes."

  "By law."

  "Yes."

  "A housekeeper and a New York apartment. That takes care of the extra money, wouldn't you say."

  Karen fell silent. She felt guilty and confused. Mostly guilty.

  "It would certainly turn our lives upside down," said Hank, "which maybe is what we want right now, I don't know."

  Opposition from Hank was only what she had expected. Nonetheless she didn't know how to cope with it.

  "Once you get the appointment, you're stuck with it," Hank said. "The party will put you up in November and you won't be able to say no."

  "Let's talk about something else, shall we?" said Karen. "Kids," she called out, "dinner's ready."

  During dinner she interrogated her children. She asked them about schoolwork, about cheerleading, about anything she could think of. She concentrated on it, and scarcely looked in the direction of her husband at the head of the table.

  But when she and Hank were getting ready for bed, the original discussion resumed.

  "I'd be very proud of my wife as district attorney," he said. "It's just--you better think it out carefully. Decide right now how much your children need you. And--

  Hank was hanging up his trousers. Karen was rummaging through a drawer for a clean nightgown. "And what?" she said.

  Hank glanced all around him as if looking for someone else.

  "I don't know--is there anyone else around here who needs you?"

  Karen tried to smile, but it was thin. "I'm sure he won't appoint me."

  "You're an ambitious woman," her husband told her.

  Karen was reduced to tears of guilt and frustration, but kept her face in the drawer, determined he would not see them.

  "I don't blame you for that," he said.

  He came over and put his arms around her, but she shrugged him off.

  "Let's see what happens," he said.

  Chapter 15

  The call came over the radio at one minute past ten PM.

  Muldoon had just entered the grocery and made a bee-line for the beer cooler. He had left Ritter and the radio in the car, or so he thought, but in fact Ritter had come in behind him. He didn't realize this until the radio went off in Ritter's hand.

  In the absence of Barone, who was still working for the DA's office, Muldoon had found himself paired with Ritter recently. The black lieutenant had said to him, "give him the benefit of your expertise.” Muldoon had thought: why not? His private name for Ritter was The Virgin. For some nights now he had been trying to serve as The Virgin's mentor, instructing him on the precinct and all, even though he did not entirely trust him.

  Actually there were two radio calls while they were in the grocery, but the first was of no concern. Fucken cardiac arrest in the Two-Five. All it did was alert Muldoon to Ritter's presence. Immediately he changed directions. He made a right angle turn like a soldier, away from the beer and headed now for the toilet, which was in the stockroom, calling over his shoulder to the grocer:

  "Just want to use your facilities."

  As he watched his urine splash into the bowl, Muldoon reminded himself to be careful with this Ritter. He was not sure of him. Too stiff. Too observant. He wanted to see the fucken guy do something he was not supposed to do. That was the only way to tell whose side he was on, headquarters' side, or the side of his friends.

  Muldoon had just come out of the toilet when the second call came over. He was halfway across the stockroom, his fingers still working at his fly. Ritter was in the doorway watching him.

  "Report of a ten-thirty," the radio said. "Armed robbery in progress. Man with a knife.”

  The address was given: the St. Nicholas project, an area four blocks square and constituting almost half of Sector One. There were thirteen high rise, low rent apartment buildings in there, but Muldoon recognized immediately which one.

  "On the grass in front of the door," continued Central in a voice of no particular urgency. "Which car responding? K."

  Muldoon came out of the stockroom so fast he nearly knocked Ritter down, grabbing the radio out of his hand and keying it while running. "Two squad responding, Central. K."

  "Two squad responding, ten-four," acknowledged Central in the same bored voice.

  Their car was double parked outside and Muldoon threw himself behind the wheel. Ritter barely got into it before Muldoon took off with a squeal of tires.

  By the time he reached the corner, which he took on two wheels, Muldoon had the car up to sixty. Speeding downtown he had the accelerator floored, and to get around intervening cars he was sometimes out in the face of oncoming traffic. He had the siren on, and also the magnetic red light which was stuck onto the dashboard between them and which was flashing in their faces like repeated gouts of blood. They had about ten blocks to go. With the constant swerving, braking, accelerating the light kept bouncing off the dashboard. Muldoon was driving one handed. He had the other clapped on top of the light trying to hold it in place until Ritter, who looked terrified, slapped his hand away crying: "You drive, I'll hold the light."

  This was the most dangerous work cops did, which Muldoon well knew, but the object was to get there fast. On the radio he could hear other cars responding. They would be rushing to the scene too. If you got there fast enough, the witnesses would still be there. The perpetrator was often still there, and you could grab him, case closed.

  The driveway into the project was narrow, and Muldoon at great speed turned into it. The turn almost capsized him, he had to correct and then recorrect. The driveway was lined with parked cars, making it only a single lane wide, and the end of it was stuffed with emergency vehicles: two radio cars and an ambulance, all with roof lights turning. Muldoon very nearly bounced off several of the parked cars, and at the end with his brakes jammed on he slid into the rear corner of one of the radio cars, hammering it forward into the side of the ambulance.

  As he jumped out he gave all this barely a glance but ran toward the door of the building.

  There were some uniformed cops standing around, some civilians too, most of them peering down at a pool of blood on the cement walk. The blood measured ten or twelve inches in diameter which, Muldoon knew from experience, was a lot of blood. You seldom saw more than that. It meant someone had been wounded deeply, perhaps fatally. Leading away toward the door there were drops of blood every four or five feet.

  Muldoon sized all this up with a glance, and he said to one of the uniforms, "How far did he get."

  "He collapsed in front of a door on the second floor."

  Muldoon was peering all around, trying to absorb whatever details he could.

  "He was trying to get back to his apartment," the cop said.

  Muldoon knew this without being told. The wounded ones always tried to get home. Standing over the blood he asked himself what else he knew? That the crime took place right here. That there were probably witnesses. If you could find them. Maybe these people standing around, maybe not. If you could convince them to talk. He didn't know much. What was the motive? Drugs? Robbery? Domestic violence? The perp ran off in which direction? Which of these possible witnesses was it worth spending time on? All this and more he did not know.

  "Whatta ya got?" he said to the cop, for perhaps the cop had heard something, interviewed someone already, though he doubted it. Cops were not that enterprising. Their way to handle a crime scene was to wait for the detectives to show up.

  Before the cop could answer, here came the victim out of the building, on a
stretcher between two paramedics. The guy was not in a body bag, not covered over, which meant he was still alive, so that was where the investigation would start, it took precedence over anything the cop, or even one of the witnesses, might be able to tell him.

  Muldoon lumbered off in the direction of the victim, leaving Ritter to handle the rest of it. The paramedics were moving fast and they had the angle on him. They had the stretcher in the ambulance and the doors closed before Muldoon reached them. The ambulance was already moving and its siren came on, as Muldoon, running now, yanked the doors open and heaved himself in.

  The paramedics looked up startled. They were only paramedics, not doctors, which was good. Doctors rarely rode these ambulances, interns once in a while, but when they did they could be counted on to give detectives a hard time. It became a turf war. They did not want detectives inside their ambulances. One time one of them kicked the door open and shoved Muldoon out. The ambulance was moving at the time, too.

  The light was dim inside but Muldoon could see that the victim was bleeding all over the cot. The paramedics were working on him, but without much success. One of them had a wad of cotton or gauze pressed over the wound, which was in the left side. The blood was leaking out from under his hand and dripping onto the floor, each time with an audible splat. The victim's face was grey, if a black guy's face could be said to be grey. He looked unconscious. But often you could wake them up and interrogate them, even the dying ones, get them to answer questions.

  Muldoon, who had his legs spread for balance and his hands braced on the roof, spoke to the paramedics first, and quickly. "Where you guys from?” It was an important question. He needed to know how much time he had, for no one was going to let him interrogate the victim once they got him on the operating table. It had to be done right now in this ambulance, or not at all. He hoped they were not headed for Harlem Hospital which was right around the corner. They weren't. This ambulance was from St. Luke's, good, a longer ride.

  Muldoon crouched down beside the victim's head. The ambulance was making time, careering around the corners, and maintaining balance was difficult. He was gripping the bars of the cot with one hand and shaking the victim's shoulder with the other. He was being gentle about it, he believed. "How you doing, man," he said several times, still shaking him.