House Witness

by Mike Lawson

  “Does your boss know that John Mahoney has a personal interest in making sure Toby Rosenthal goes to prison?”

  “Yeah, I’ve told him that, and he doesn’t give a shit. My boss has been the Manhattan DA for twelve years, he’s sixty-six years old, and he has no desire for another job, meaning he has no intention of running for another office. Frankly, he doesn’t think John Mahoney can do anything to upset his applecart.”

  “You need to tell him he’s wrong about that,” DeMarco said, a little steel in his voice this time. “There was this developer up in Boston a year ago, and he thought the same thing, and now he’s—” DeMarco suddenly realized he should stop running his mouth about what happened in Boston. He said, “Anyway, I’m not an investigator. When I said you should call if you needed help, I meant that I’d get Mahoney to lean on someone. Hire a PI or some retired cop if you want something investigated.”

  Porter, whose eyes were becoming a little unfocused with the second bourbon, raised a finger and wagged it in DeMarco’s face. “I did some research on you, too, buddy-boy. Actually, my intern did. I know you’re John Mahoney’s troubleshooter and he’s used you a few times to dig into things, like that thing you got involved in out there in North Dakota a couple years ago.”

  “What do you know about that?”

  “Enough to know that you’re bullshitting me when you say you don’t do investigations for Mahoney. As for hiring a PI, that would be my preference, too, particularly if the PI was ex-NYPD. But like I told you, I don’t have the budget for that. The only reason I have an intern is that she’s free.”

  “Well, if you don’t have the budget, who’s going to pay for an investigation?”

  “You work for John Mahoney, so don’t bullshit me. He’ll get you whatever you need.”

  DeMarco shook his head. “Look, I’d like to help you but—”

  “DeMarco, don’t act like I’m asking you to do me a fuckin’ favor here. You’re the guy who came to me, and basically threatened me, and said your boss wanted Rosenthal convicted. So if you want to make sure that happens …”

  “Hey! It’s your goddamn job to convict the guy, not mine. I’ll have Mahoney call the DA and lean on him, but if that doesn’t work …”

  “Look, just do one thing for me,” Potter said. “Okay?

  “What’s that?”

  “Go talk to the two detectives who arrested Rosenthal and hear the story about what happened to the old lady. After you do, we’ll talk some more. Okay?”

  DeMarco hesitated, then said, “Fine. As long as I’m up here anyway, I can do that. But that’s all I’m going to do.”

  “We’ll see,” Porter said—and DeMarco was beginning to understand why her boss didn’t like her so much.

  20

  DeMarco met Coghill and Dent at a deli in Tribeca on Vesey Street. When he arrived, they were sitting at a table near the window, making crude comments about women walking by on the sidewalk outside. Can you believe the gazooms on that one? DeMarco thought they looked like bookends: both in their fifties, gray-haired, and overweight. They had small cynical eyes and faces best suited for displaying skepticism. They wore tight-fitting sports jackets, wrinkled white shirts, cheap striped ties, and thick-soled black lace-up shoes. New York’s finest on display.

  DeMarco told them Porter’s theory: that she’d found six cases involving rich defendants and that someone had tampered with the witnesses in all six. Porter, he said, had reason to believe it could be the same person—she’d gotten a “whiff” of the guy, whatever the hell that meant—and she was afraid he might be screwing with the Rosenthal case.

  Dent said, “I wouldn’t be totally surprised if somebody got to the witnesses if the defendants were superrich. Fuckin’ rich people can get away with anything. But it’s hard to believe it’s the same guy. I gotta admit, though, Justine’s one of the sharper ADAs in Manhattan, and if she thinks it’s possible … well, who knows.”

  “Anyway,” DeMarco said, “Porter said she was suspicious about what happened to the old lady and said you could enlighten me.”

  Dent said, “When we first heard about Esther having a stroke, frankly we didn’t think too much of it. I mean, shit, she was almost ninety years old. But Justine told us to go see if anything funny happened because she didn’t like the coincidence of losing two witnesses.”

  “So we go to the hospital to see her,” Coghill said, “but she couldn’t talk. You know how folks look sometimes when they have a stroke? One side of her face all twisted down, drool coming out of her mouth? It was a shame.”

  “Esther doesn’t have any family,” Dent said, “except some cousin who lives out West she never sees. But her friend Leah was there at the hospital. Leah’s the same lady who was with Esther in the bar when DiNunzio was shot, and she asks if we’re there to investigate who poisoned Esther.”

  “We go, whoa!” Coghill said. “‘Poisoned’ her? What are you talking about? So Leah says after Esther had her stroke she went back to Esther’s apartment to bring her things she might need in the hospital. You know—toothbrush, nightgown, slippers, whatever. Well, Leah can’t find Esther’s pillbox, one of those little boxes marked with each day of the week. Leah said it should have been sitting on the kitchen table because that’s where Esther always kept it, but it’s not there. Leah hunts for it for a bit, finally gives up, and starts packing up the stuff she’s going to bring to Esther. And that’s when she finds the pillbox. It was in the pocket of the robe Esther would wear in the morning after she got out of bed. It looked like Esther had taken her morning pills, then stuck the pillbox into the pocket of her robe instead of putting it back on the table.”

  “Okay,” DeMarco said, but he wondered why Coghill was droning on about the pillbox. The old lady just misplaced it, the way he sometimes did with his keys, putting them someplace other than on the table beside the door.

  “So Leah looks to see how many pills are in the pillbox,” Coghill said, “and she sees there are only three. One blue one in the Saturday space and two pills for Sunday, one blue and one white. The blue one is supposed to be Coumadin and the white one digoxin.”

  “Leah, of course, knows what Esther takes,” Dent said. “All these old people do is talk about their medical problems, and Esther and Leah are closer than sisters. Anyway, Leah goes to the medicine cabinet, planning to fill up Esther’s pillbox. She opens the digoxin and Coumadin bottles and shakes a few out, and that’s when she notices that the pills don’t match the ones in Esther’s pillbox.”

  Coghill picked up the story again. “The pills are the same color, blue and white, and the same size as the ones in the prescription bottle, but they don’t have the numbers on them that Coumadin and digoxin do.”

  “Leah goes bananas,” Coghill said. “She calls the nurse in the assisted leaving place and tells her someone switched out Esther’s medicine. The nurse says, ‘Oh, bullshit,’ and comes up and starts pawing through the closet in the bathroom which is just full of crap and, sure as shit, the nurse finds pills that look just like the ones in Esther’s pillbox. One pill is a diet pill and the other is an antihistamine. The nurse says it’s obvious that Esther mixed up her pills.

  “Now it’s Leah who says, ‘Bullshit.’ No way would Esther have made that kind of mistake. Plus, she tells the nurse, Esther never took a diet pill in her life. And this is the story Leah told us when we went to see Esther in the hospital.”

  Dent leaned back in his chair. “So what do you think, DeMarco? Do you think an old lady mixed up her pills or that someone sneaked into her apartment and switched out the pills knowing if she didn’t take her medication she might have a stroke? And why would this person have switched out just the pills in the pillbox and not the pills in the prescription bottles in the medicine cabinet?”

  “I don’t know,” DeMarco said, but it seemed a lot more likely that old Esther had just mixed up her meds.

  “What about this busboy who split?” DeMarco asked.

  “Now that w
as weird,” Dent said. “I mean, weirder than Esther having a stroke, because Ortiz seemed to us like a solid guy. But when Justine called him to check on something in the statement he’d made, she got a message that his phone had been disconnected. So we went looking for him, and found out that he’d moved out of his apartment. We asked the building super where he’d gone, and he said that Ortiz split in the middle of the night and didn’t say anything to anyone about why or where he was going. He didn’t even get back the damage deposit he put down, and left all his furniture. I mean, it’s like he got scared and ran.”

  “Did you try to find him?” DeMarco asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Coghill said. “Well, not us personally, but one of the missing persons gals who’s good with computers. She searched to see if he had used his credit cards or bought an airline ticket or if his social security number had shown up on a tax document, but she couldn’t find the guy. But, to tell you the truth, we didn’t try to track him down like he was a serial killer. At the time, we still had four good witnesses who could testify against that little shit Rosenthal.”

  21

  DeMarco ordered another beer after Coghill and Dent left—sticking him with the check, by the way. He mulled over what they’d said for a few minutes more, then called Porter. She didn’t answer, but a couple of minutes later he got a text message that said: I’m in court. Call you back in 20.

  So DeMarco sat there for twenty minutes, mostly just watching the girls walk by the deli as Coghill and Dent had done. New York, New York. If there was a better city for girl-watching, he couldn’t imagine where it could be. Paris maybe? But then he’d never been to Paris, so he really didn’t know. His mind ricocheted to Porter’s father, who died on the links at St. Andrews. If he had a choice between seeing the Eiffel Tower or playing St. Andrews …

  His phone rang.

  “I’ve only got five minutes before I have to be back in court. Did you talk to Coghill and Dent?” Porter asked.

  “Yeah, and I have to admit the story about the old lady is interesting, but it seems a lot more likely that she just had a stroke and wasn’t poisoned.”

  “You never met Esther. I did. She was healthy as a horse.”

  “If you say so, Dr. Porter, but let me ask you something. If you’re worried about somebody getting to your witnesses, why don’t you just throw a net around them? You know, watch to see if anyone approaches them.”

  “Are you dense, DeMarco?”

  “Dense?” he said. The woman really pissed him off.

  “Yeah. How would I justify assigning about twenty cops, which is what it would take, to watch three witnesses full-time? This isn’t a mob case. It’s not even a murder one case. And frankly, although John Mahoney may have cared about Dominic DiNunzio, nobody else cares.”

  “Yeah, but this theory of yours …”

  “My boss doesn’t buy the theory. I already told you that. And I can see you don’t buy it either. But I’m telling you right now that if you don’t do something, Toby Rosenthal might literally get away with murder.”

  “Hey, Justine, quit trying to pin this fucking thing on me. This is your case, not mine.”

  “Yeah, well, if I lose I’m gonna let your boss know that I asked for your help and you refused. Now I gotta go.”

  The damn woman was incredible, having the nerve to threaten him. On the other hand, if Toby Rosenthal was acquitted, Mahoney was going to be pissed, and a pissed-off John Mahoney was not a pleasant person to be around.

  DeMarco decided the best thing to do to cover his ass was tell Mahoney what Porter wanted, and then convince Mahoney to lean on the powers that be in New York to get her the manpower she needed. That way, he’d be off the hook, having put the ball back in the court of the people actually responsible for prosecuting Rosenthal.

  He called Mahoney’s office, knowing Mahoney most likely wouldn’t be available and would be off doing whatever it is he did all day to keep the ship of democracy on its errant course. He told Mavis, Mahoney’s secretary, to have the big man call him as soon as possible, and that the subject was Dominic DiNunzio.

  Mahoney called him back five minutes later, which surprised him. Mahoney rarely interrupted his schedule to talk to DeMarco, which meant that the fate of Toby Rosenthal was a major priority—and this in itself should have told DeMarco what was likely to happen next.

  DeMarco hadn’t told Mahoney about the call he’d received from Justine Porter telling him she’d lost two witnesses. Nor did he tell Mahoney he’d gone to New York to talk to Porter. The reason he didn’t do so was that he’d known, without having to be told, that Mahoney would expect him to go to New York.

  So he told Mahoney about the two witnesses, and Mahoney began swearing before he was halfway through the story. Then he told him about Porter’s cockamamy theory, that there was some phantom out there who went around tampering with witnesses in cases involving rich defendants.

  “How does she know this?” Mahoney said.

  “She doesn’t,” DeMarco said. “She came to this conclusion based on some research she had an intern do and from talking to the prosecutors involved in these other cases. She’s going totally on her gut.”

  Before Mahoney could interrupt him, DeMarco said, “She wants me to investigate these other cases and see if I can find the phantom and stop him before he screws up the Rosenthal case. I’ve told her what she really needs to do is get NYPD to do the investigation and to throw a net around the other witnesses, but she says her boss won’t support her, doesn’t have the budget, yada yada yada. What I was hoping you could do is call—”

  Mahoney said, “I know her boss. He’s an arrogant prick and he’s been the DA so long up there he thinks he’s invincible.” Mahoney paused and muttered, “And maybe he is.”

  “The other problem,” DeMarco said, “and I hate to say this, is that Dominic wasn’t a celebrity and whatever happens to his killer isn’t going to make the front page. By now, nobody probably even remembers that this father of three got shot. But if you were to lean on the mayor up here …”

  The mayor was a Democrat.

  “… and the police commissioner …”

  A guy DeMarco knew had political ambitions.

  “… maybe you could get Porter the help she needs.”

  Mahoney didn’t say anything for a moment, probably thinking about how much pressure he could bring to bear on the mayor of New York and its top cop, both of whom were celebrities in their own right—and in their own minds.

  Finally, Mahoney said, “So do it.”

  DeMarco didn’t understand. “Do what?” he said.

  “Do what Porter wants. It’s not like I got anything more important for you to do. Nothing’s more important to me than convicting the guy who murdered Dominic.”

  “Wait a minute!” DeMarco said. “To do what she wants could involve traveling all over the country, talking to these other prosecutors, and—”

  “I don’t give a shit. Do it.”

  Although he knew it was hopeless, DeMarco said, “Who’s going to pay for the travel and everything else involved? Porter says she doesn’t have the budget.”

  “Just put it all on your credit card. I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed later.”

  Before DeMarco could raise another futile objection, Mahoney said, “Joe, that little prick Rosenthal is not getting off. And you damn well better make sure he doesn’t.”

  Mahoney hung up—and DeMarco thought: How in the hell did this become my fucking problem?

  DeMarco called Porter, the call went to voice mail, and DeMarco said, “I’ve decided to help you, like you asked. Call me.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Porter called him back, and the first words out of her mouth were: “You called Mahoney and tried to get him to lean on my boss, and he told you to do the job. Isn’t that right?”

  “No, that’s not right. I discussed the whole thing with him and told him, after thinking everything over, that helping you might be prudent.”

&nb
sp; Porter made a raspberry sound.

  DeMarco said, “Anyway, I want this intern of yours for the duration. I want to see the research she did and want her available to make reservations for me, do more research, whatever I need.”

  “She’s yours,” Porter said.

  22

  The intern’s name was Sarah. She was a tiny thing—maybe five foot one on tiptoes—had a mop of short, unruly black hair, and wore big black-framed glasses perched on a nose that seemed too short to support them. DeMarco figured she had to be in her twenties, though she looked about sixteen.

  She had a cubicle in the bowels of the Criminal Courthouse in a room she shared with about twenty other low-ranking paralegals and clerks. She said the place was so noisy, with people yelling, the phones constantly ringing, that she did most of her work at a Starbucks three blocks from the courthouse. She suggested that DeMarco meet her there.

  When DeMarco arrived, Sarah waved at him as soon as he walked through the door, which made him wonder how she knew what he looked like. Then he remembered Porter saying the girl had done some research on him. He wondered what she’d found. Most of the things he did for Mahoney you wouldn’t find online. He hoped.

  He sat down at her table and she pushed a two-inch-thick three-ring binder over to him and said, “That contains the research I did on the six cases Justine told you about. Also contact information for the prosecutors involved. I’d suggest you flip through that and we can go from there. While you’re doing that, I’m going back to the courthouse; there’s a trial in progress I want to see. Just call me when you’re ready to talk and I’ll come back here.”