The doorman helped me with my luggage to a cab, and I convinced myself that the extra hour at the office in the early morning would actually benefit me to organize my desk before the staff began to arrive.
I couldn’t believe the phone was ringing at seven fifteen when I unlocked the door.
“Alex? It’s Stan.”
Westfall. One of the guys in the unit who was fine in the courtroom but difficult to deal with almost all the rest of the time.
“I got a problem. Just tried you at home and when I got the machine, I figured I’d give you a shout at your office.” He sounded frantic.
“What could possibly be wrong at this hour of the morning?” I’d already had one dose of dreadful news and doubted that anything Stan had to complain about would be in the same league.
“My witness is gone, Alex. You know I’m on trial in front of Sudolsky, right? Well, I finished the direct case yesterday but she hasn’t been crossed yet. She’s the woman I brought back here from Pittsburgh to testify and-”
“Who’s she been staying with?”
“Well, that’s it. You were really busy, you know, with your murder investigation and I didn’t want to bother you. So I just went to Pat McKinney and got his permission to put her up in a hotel. I mean, a cheap one. Big Apple, over on West Forty-sixth.”
“Great. You put a hooker in a hotel in midtown. With a bodyguard?”
“No. Alex, she swore to me she’s not a hooker anymore. I really believed it.”
It didn’t do any good to roll my eyes. Stan wouldn’t have gotten the point had he been standing right in front of me. He was more likely to be struck by lightning than ever meet anex -hooker.
“And what happened? She got booted for bringing tricks into the room during the night while the taxpayers picked up the bill?”
“Well, the manager caught her with a guy coming into the lobby around 2A.M. Knew she was with us, so he stopped them and kicked out the john but let her go up to the room. See, um, the manager’s the one who called me. Sometime after that she just left.”
“Don’t panic yet. She’s probably out working, picking up a few extra bucks before she goes home to the burbs.”
“Manager doesn’t think so. She’s gone. And what he’s pissed about is that she took everything in the room with her. It’s not the kind of place that has much in it that isn’t nailed down tight. But she walked out with the sheets, pillows, blankets, and towels.” Stan was krexing at full pitch. “She even took the Bible.”
I laughed at his plight knowing McKinney would have his head. That would be the last witness we lodge at the Big Apple, one of the few Manhattan hotels the office could afford.
“I don’t know whether to have the cops look for her or not. The jury’ll hate her when they hear it.”
“Get out your copy of the Good Book, Stan. Give ‘em Proverbs. ’Who can find a virtuous woman?‘ Don’t try to change her stripes. Let her be what she is even if she’s still a hooker. If I remember correctly, you had a ton of medical evidence that corroborated the force in that case. Point out her vulnerability and let them see what a dirtball the defendant is.”
“How do I find her? The arresting officer won’t be down in my office ‘til nine-thirty.”
“Call Midtown South. Get some of the guys from the pussy posse before they sign out. Give them a description and check to see if they spotted her during their tour.” The guys who worked the pros detail didn’t go off duty until 8A.M. “And most of all, stop panicking. You’ll have to ask the judge for a few hours’ adjournment if she doesn’t surface this morning, but that’s not the end of the world. I don’t know how you get anything done when you’re so wired.”
“Thanks, Alex. I’ll check with you later.”
I worked on correspondence until Laura arrived, then dictated several letters to her that I wanted to get out before I returned on Monday. At nine-thirty, she reminded me that I had to go across the street to Judge Torres’s part for the sentencing in the case of the serial rapist that Gayle Marino had convicted three weeks earlier.
I slipped into a seat in the front row of the large courtroom while Gayle was addressing the bench. Although the judge was well aware of Johnny Rovaro’s criminal history, Marino was carefully restating his record to support the heavy sentence she would be requesting. She reminded Torres that Rovaro had been convicted of a similar crime eight years earlier and even ran the prison clinic for sex offenders while he was upstate. When released on parole Rovaro had returned to his home in Brooklyn; a condition established by the board was his participation in a therapy program run by a treatment center in Greenwich Village.
Three months after his release, the quiet neighborhood just blocks away from the center was the scene of a series of sexual assaults. First, the attack on a young Irish nanny who managed to secure the infant in her charge out of harm’s way before being overcome by the assailant. Then a housewife with armloads of groceries who was pushed into her town house as she struggled against the armed attacker. And finally, the ten-year-old child who was followed from school and forced into her building by the same man, who struck her in the face to subdue her during the commission of the crime.
Gayle had tried an outstanding case, supporting her fragile witnesses through their moving testimony and shattering the alibi defense of the rapist’s witnesses-family and friends-with fine preparation and thorough cross-examination. Rovaro himself had been shaken by her dogged and persistent questions as she steadily destroyed his patchwork of lies and exposed his temper to the panel of jurors. Now she sat, resting his fate in the hands of one of the toughest judges in the system.
Edwin Torres was ready to speak to Rovaro. He rose from his high-backed leather chair, stepped around behind it, and leaned his elbows against it. He looked first at the defendant’s wife and mother, who had been gesturing and cursing throughout Gayle’s statement to the court. Torres’s dark hair and strong features were outlined against the light paneling of the wooden wall that framed him and he glanced over at Gayle before he began to speak. In his eloquent fashion, the judge characterized the rapist’s conduct as he looked Rovaro squarely in the eyes. “The record speaks-or, perhaps, shouts-for itself,” referring to the acts proved in Marino’s case and summarizing them once again. “But what really carries you beyond the pale of civilization-beyond compassion, beyond humanity-is your attack on the child. You are the devil incarnate, for who but a devil could punch that child in the mouth, breaking her braces against her teeth before sodomizing her?” Torres asked. “For that act of savagery alone, there are societies where you would be impaled on a stake, to dance on tiptoes for hours in the Sahara sun.”
Mickey Diamond was furiously taking notes behind me and leaned over to whisper, “Don’t you wish it wasn’t reversible error for you to say things like that in a summation? I don’t even have to make stuff up with him-he’s always so quotable.”
I smiled as Torres went on, standing by his seat to pronounce the sentence of one hundred years for Rovaro, adding his final, personal seal on the record of the twice-paroled offender. “A collective pox on the parole board that ever sees fit to unleash this demon on our society again. I will rise from my moldy grave to visit it upon them myself.”
He winked in my direction and then told the phalanx of court officers who stood behind the cuffed prisoner to put him back in the pens. As Rovaro walked out, his expression never changed, but when he reached the door that led from the courtroom to the cell, he turned and spit at the judge’s bench. The captain grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him out of the room. I walked into the well to congratulate Gayle on the outcome as one of the court officers came back to us to make sure she was okay.
“Rovaro pees ice water,” he told us, shaking his head. “You should feel good about this one.”
She did, and I waved to Torres, walking out of the part as Gayle wheeled her shopping cart full of exhibits down the hallway with me. With any luck, Gemma Dogen’s killer would be tried be
fore a jurist like him. That is, if the killer were caught.
“You just missed Drew Renaud’s call,” Laura greeted me several minutes later. “He said he was leaving his hotel room. Didn’t want to disturb you in the middle of the night. Said he’ll try you a little later so he can get you before you leave for London.
“ McKinney wants you, too. Wants to know what you’re going to do about the new case up near Columbia-Presbyterian and who’s going to sit on things while you’re out of town. And he’s also a bit riled up about something to do with Phil. Wouldn’t say what.”
“Got it, Laura, thanks.”
Both phone lines lighted up before I could reach my desk and I had the feeling it was going to be one of those wild days, as it always seemed to be when I had to go out of town.
Through the intercom I heard Laura announce that Mercer was on the first line while a reporter from New York One was on the backup. “Kick the reporter over to the press office-I’m not talking to any of them. I’ll take Mercer.”
“G’morning. I gather Mike called you about the attack up at Columbia? I’m going over to the hospital now to see what I can pick up. Would you ask Laura to pound out a subpoena for Dietrich’s bank? I called over there when they opened up this morning. Got someone who told me he’s way deep in the hole. Racked up a huge bunch of debts and owes people a lot of money. She wouldn’t give me specifics without a grand jury subpoena-”
“Will she take it by fax? I’ll have one ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine. It’ll give me something to do while you and Chapman are having tea with the Queen. See you later.”
I hung up but saw that the button for the second line was still lighted. Obviously, a persistent reporter whom Laura couldn’t shake loose. “Alex, the guy on line two says he’s not looking for news, he’s got a tip for you. Won’t tell me what it is and won’t tell it to Brenda’s office. Want him?”
“Sure.” I switched the line and the high-pitched voice of a young researcher for the local channel piped up to introduce himself to me.
“Miss Cooper? We know you’re handling the investigation at Mid-Manhattan. Your people know anything about the break-in last night at Metropolitan Hospital?”
No point bullshitting him if he knew more than I did. I pulled a pad into place and began making notes as I told him I didn’t know a thing about it. “What’ve you got? Any patients hurt?”
“That’s what we’re looking for. So far, they’re denying patient involvement, but we just don’t know whether to trust the information or not. Nobody wants it to be another Mid-Manhattan, and I take it you’ve already heard about Columbia.”
“Yes. What’s your story on Metropolitan?”
“They’re playing it down. Saying the guy never got past the administrative offices on the ground floor. Patients and medical staff were never in any danger. Usual disclaimers.”
“Who discovered it?”
“Night cleaning staff. Lady came in and found lights on in the billing department at 3A.M. Heard footsteps but couldn’t see anybody running out. Door lock had been jimmied.”
“I know you’re not going to give me your source, but-”
“Not an issue. It’s all over the place here. The cleaning lady does one shift at Met, then she does our offices back to back. She was real upset when she got here this morning. All she could talk about was the burglar in the hospital-practically in the president’s office, in the middle of the night. She doesn’t want to go back to work there-had enough of hospitals after the last two weeks.”
“I’ll drink to that. Tell her she’s not the only one.”
“Well, the reason I called was to see if you got word that anything else happened at Metropolitan last night. You know, was this guy on his way in or his way out when our cleaning lady spotted him?”
“Quite frankly, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I owe you, next time you need a lead I can help with. Give me a number and if there’s anything I can tell you on this one, I’ll give you a call back. Thanks for the info.”
I dialed Mercer immediately. “Glad I caught you before you walked out. One more tidbit. Stop at Metropolitan sometime this morning if you can and check out this story.” I repeated what the caller had told me and both of us expressed relief at a break-in that had not resulted in physical injury to anyone.
“Let’s hope he was just looking for some checks to steal or some cash lying around,” said Mercer. “No reason for hospital management to have called us on this one, but I’ll see whether they reported it to the precinct and if anything was actually stolen. You’ll have a full report later today.”
I had three indictments to review before they were filed, a dozen calls that had come in yesterday that had to be returned, and a luncheon meeting in Rod Squires’s office with all the bureau chiefs to discuss proposals to change the hours of the late-night arraignment shift.
Faith Griefen stuck her head in and flashed the time-out signal with her hands as I held the phone to my ear waiting to be connected with one of the advocates at the St. Luke’s Crime Victims Intervention Program. “Sarah said you’re a size A and you always have spares. Got anything in an off-white?”
I nodded my head and held up a finger, suggesting she wait until I finished answering the question about how to recommend that the woman who was getting counseling be advised about the importance of testing for HIV infection after her rape.
“I’m about to do a summation and I snagged my panty hose on the table leg when I stood up to make an objection,” Faith said, displaying a two-inch-wide run that started above her hemline and ran into the heel of her shoe. “That old wooden furniture in Part 52 catches me whenever I’m about to reach an important point in a trial. I hate to stand up there for an hour with this grotesque hole down my entire side. Might be somebody on the jury who thinks it’s tacky enough they’d vote to acquit.”
“I guess juror number twelve’s still focused on your legs, huh? They’re certainly better than the evidence you’ve got,” I noted, walking to the file cabinet nearest my desk and tugging at the drawer marked “Closed Cases.” It pulled open to reveal a neat stack of Hanes Silk Reflections in a variety of colors, several pairs of Escada pumps in different heel heights, basic makeup items, toothpaste and a toothbrush-a little service station for lady lawyers in distress. I fished out a pair of stockings for Faith and reminded her that one of the worst things about starting in the office a decade earlier, as I did, was the very small number of women on the staff. The men had been great friends and fine mentors, but once Battaglia made an effort to recruit more of us to do the trial work there was an entirely different flavor to the camaraderie that was unthinkable under his predecessor. Not only could you now talk about something other than free agents, the Big East, and Demi Moore’s implants, but you could find an emergency supply of panty hose, Tampax, and emery boards without dispatching a paralegal to Bloomingdale’s on her lunch hour.
Faith was off to the ladies’ room to change her underwear and Rose Malone walked in with a copy of the remarks that Battaglia had planned to use for his opening statement at the panel meeting in England on Thursday afternoon.
“The District Attorney wanted you to have a copy of this. He suggested that you draft something yourself but include the positions he’s outlined here on gun control, drug treatment, and the death penalty. He said you should add some of your own comments on sexual assault and family violence, okay?”
“That’s fine. I’ll work it over right now so Laura can type it up for me. Any other instructions?”
“Mr. B. has called Lord Windlethorne and explained the substitution. They’re very gracious and happy to have you. Geoffrey Dogen will drive out to Cliveden on Friday morning, and since your main event will have been completed you and Mike can spend as much time as you need with him. Mr. B.‘ll expect to see you back here first thing Monday morning, of course.”
I thanked Rose and told her about the night’s events at Columbia-Presbyterian and Metro
politan so that she could bring Battaglia up to date. “He knows where to find me if he’s got any questions. See you next week.”
Paul’s speech was short and to the point. I knew his stand on most issues quite well, and it was easy for me to present his arguments and augment them with the topics that had come to be my specialties. By the time I had crafted my remarks and passed them along to Laura, she told me the group was beginning to assemble in the conference room for Rod’s meeting.
My having spent the previous afternoon in the hospital boardroom, the contrast was especially striking. Fourteen of us-Rod, Pat, six bureau chiefs who led Trial Division teams, special unit heads like me, and assorted directors of training and misdemeanor complaints-were crowded around two Formica tables that were placed end to end to run the length of the room. No glossy wood furniture in the city budget lines-just faux paneling, vinyl seat covers, plastic frames showcasing cheap reproduction photographs. Bring your own sandwich, the memo usually ran, and eat it while disregarding the green pellets on the floor in each corner, which had once poisoned the rodent population of the building although now they seemed to gobble them like candy.
Rod had been my favorite supervisor throughout all my tenure in the office-smart, funny, reasonable. He was easy to approach on any issue, personal or professional, and his judgment was reliable in crises of every kind. I had stopped counting the number of instances in which he had saved my neck by thinking through an issue with me before I responded hotheadedly. His friendship was as valuable to me as his wisdom.
I pulled a chair up to the table and sat against the wall next to John Logan, opening the tab on my lite yogurt while he unwrapped a ham and cheese hero that smelled delicious.
We all kibitzed with each other while Rod and Pat went over the agenda for the meeting, waiting for the last stragglers to settle into the room. “Heard about last night’s attack on the resident. How does that cut for you?” Logan asked.
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