Sly Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  When we reached the bar’s entrance, O’Brien again gently touched my arm, forcing me to stop. “Wait,” he commanded.

  At that moment, the door swung open and Rudy Hitchins stepped outside with his new lover. They stepped forward and almost walked into us.

  “Hitchins!” O’Brien growled.

  Hitchins had been preoccupied, but now he saw the plainclothes detective.

  “You’re under arrest.”

  “For what?” If he was intimidated, he wasn’t showing it.

  “For assaulting Mary Margaret Finn!” I answered before O’Brien could.

  The sound of my voice seemed to surprise both men, as well as Hitchins’s girlfriend.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Suddenly time seemed to slow down. I’d been so intent on confronting Hitchins that I’d not noticed that three men had slipped silently out of the bar and were now standing directly behind Hitchins and his girlfriend. Without warning, one of these men slammed his right fist into Hitchins’s right side while another hit him on the left side of his head with a pocket-size blackjack. Hitchins hit the concrete sidewalk hard from the blows and immediately began to reach inside his blue windbreaker. Before he could grab whatever he was going for, O’Brien stomped his right foot against Hitchins’s wrist, pinning it to his chest.

  Hitchins hollered in pain.

  Two of the men behind Hitchins dropped to their knees. One pinned Hitchins’s shoulders against the sidewalk while the other began hitting him repeatedly in his face. All this time, O’Brien kept his foot firmly on top of Hitchins’s wrist and chest. I could hear Hitchins’s nose crack. Blood spurted from his nostrils. The man hitting him landed at least six hard punches. I had never seen such brutality.

  Without warning, Hitchins’s girlfriend lunged at me. I’d never been physically attacked, either, but I instinctively reeled back to avoid the bright red fingernails that were targeted at my face. As I was back stepping, one of the men grabbed Lucinda’s arm and expertly twisted it back behind her. In a well-practiced move, he slapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists.

  It dawned on me that these men were off-duty White Plains police officers who’d been inside the bar and had come outside to assist O’Brien. Obviously, he’d tipped them. As she was handcuffed, Lucinda began shrieking obscenities. The officer slapped her with his open hand and said, “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Don’t hit her!” I yelled. This was getting out of control.

  The officer glared at me.

  O’Brien removed his foot from Hitchins’s wrist, bent down, and flipped open Hitchins’s windbreaker. A small-caliber handgun was tucked into his waistband. O’Brien snatched it as the other officers lifted Hitchins to his feet and handcuffed his hands behind him. Blood was flowing from his broken nose.

  “Now we got some other charges to file against you, tough guy,” O’Brien said. “Resisting arrest, attempting to assault a police officer, not to mention a gun charge.” He glanced at the pistol, rolling it over in his hand. It was a cheap Saturday night special. “What were you going to do, if you’d gotten that?”

  Snorting out blood, Hitchins said, “Fuck you and fuck your bitch, too!”

  The officer who had been slugging Hitchins released his grip while his partner instinctively tightened his hold on Hitchins’s handcuffed wrists, keeping him from moving. The first officer punched Hitchins in his gut. Like a trained boxer, the officer followed that sucker punch with a left jab and then got another shot in with a right to Hitchins’s abdomen. Leaning back, the officer lowered his right shoulder and delivered an upper cut that hit Hitchins in his jaw with such force that it lifted his feet from the sidewalk.

  “Wow,” the officer holding Hitchins’s wrists said admiringly. “That must have hurt. Carl—have you been working out?”

  I was stunned and afraid that Carl—I had no idea what his last name was—would continue punching Hitchins to the point that the attack might jeopardize my trial. I shouted, “I’m from the district attorney’s office and I have a court order here that says you can’t get anywhere near Mary Margaret Finn until this order is lifted by a judge. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”

  Everyone stared at me. Hitchins could barely hold his head up. He didn’t say a word, but Lucinda did.

  “Why would Rudy want to see that skank Mary Margaret again?”

  “Yeah, especially when he’s got a prize like you waiting in his bed,” I responded.

  The cops, including O’Brien, burst out laughing. He handed the Saturday night special that he’d taken from Hitchins to Carl.

  “Take this and that piece of shit to the car.”

  But Carl wasn’t finished. He took the handgun and then swung the pistol upward, smacking the gun’s metal grip against the side of Hitchins’s head. The prisoner’s entire body went limp.

  “That’s for Mary Margaret,” Carl declared.

  This arrest seemed personal to him and I wondered if he might be the cop responsible for getting Mary Margaret pregnant—if she was carrying someone else’s baby.

  “Give him another pop,” an officer chimed in.

  “No! Stop this, right now!” I shouted. My cry surprised them and me, too. “That’s enough!”

  The officers looked at me and then at O’Brien. He took a step toward Hitchins, and for a moment, I was afraid O’Brien was going to join in the beating. Instead, he pulled Hitchins’s wallet from the pocket of his windbreaker and began rifling through it. He plucked a folded piece of green paper from the billfold and then returned the wallet to Hitchins’s pocket.

  Turning, he handed me the paper and said, “This is Mary Margaret’s paycheck. Her boss leaves O’Toole’s at five o’clock and hands the paychecks out just before he goes home.”

  That was how O’Brien had known Hitchins would be coming to the bar before five o’clock.

  “You might want to give it to Mary Margaret. She needs it more than he does.”

  The off-duty officers dragged Hitchins and his girlfriend to our unmarked police car, where they were shoved into its rear seat. As soon as the car door was slammed shut, Lucinda became hysterical.

  O’Brien was unfazed but I was shaken by what I’d witnessed. The arrest was nothing like I thought it would be.

  “You owe me ten bucks, Counselor,” he said.

  9

  My mother, Esther, is a classic beauty with huge brown eyes, great cheekbones, raven hair, and a fit figure that hasn’t changed since the first time I noticed her as a woman, not just as my mother. I remember thinking she was more attractive than most other moms. You certainly never caught her in public wearing hair curlers the size of orange juice cans or stirrup stretch pants.

  Unlike my girlfriends, who rebelled as teens and fell into the much-hyped generation gap, my young feet stayed on solid family ground. In fact, Mom was one of my heroes, and the bond between us became even stronger after my father died from cancer.

  Of course, we didn’t agree on everything. What mothers and daughters do? But I trusted my mother more than anyone. She was my muse. Part of the reason why is because of her past. Even though my mom was born in New York, strangers often assume she is a recent immigrant because of her accent and exotic looks. She is of Lebanese descent and it shows in her olive skin. Her beauty masks an inner toughness that was forged from necessity. My mother’s childhood was not easy. The reason was my grandfather Charles, who had been both cantankerous and charismatic.

  He was a Lebanese immigrant who believed my grandmother’s single purpose in life was to provide him with a male heir to whom he could leave his fortune. Instead, she gave birth to four daughters. Wanting a son, he divorced her and sent his daughters—including Mom—to Lebanon so he could search for a new wife to bear him a son.

  Mom and her three sisters lived in Beirut with an uncle who was wealthy and influential. He treated them well but considered them liabilities. After all, they were girls, and in the 1930s, women were reared to be subservient to men. Even young b
oys had more social prominence. The male-dominated culture drilled into my mother’s head that, at best, she was a second-class citizen.

  Back in the United States, my grandfather quickly found a second wife who promptly gave him two sons.

  Our story could have ended there—with my mother banished to Lebanon and my grandfather going happily on with his life in the United States. But fate intervened. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, my grandfather enlisted in the navy, and while at sea, he met a young sailor who was a second-generation Lebanese American. One night my grandfather mentioned that he had four daughters living in Beirut. One of them, he said, was especially beautiful. After the war ended, this young man went to Lebanon to see for himself. As soon as he set his eyes on my mother, he was smitten. They eloped.

  At least that is what I was told as a child.

  Although my grandfather had abandoned my mother, he invited the newlyweds to live with him in Elmira until they could find a house. He also offered my father a job at a prosperous business that my grandfather had started. By the time I was born, my mother and grandfather had reconciled, and I spent my childhood in a happy, loving home.

  My mother’s past shaped her character, and after she returned to the United States, she never allowed anyone to treat her as a second-class citizen—not even my grandfather. She also became adamant that I would get an education. She didn’t want me dependent on a man for my well-being. She used to tell me: “Luck is for the lazy. You must work to achieve, and because you’re a woman, you must work three times as hard as any man.”

  Despite all attempts by her father, her uncle, and what was then the Lebanese culture to crush her independent spirit, Mom was a woman with iron-strong self-esteem. She demanded to be treated with respect and she treated others likewise.

  While she was incredibly independent, she also honored old traditions. She ran our house, reared me, and took special pride in her cooking. The first plate that was prepared always went directly to my father, who sat at the head of our table.

  I wanted to talk to my mother about what I’d witnessed outside O’Toole’s pub, so I drove to the ranch-style house that she’d bought in White Plains after my father died.

  She swung open the front door as I pulled into her driveway, having tuned her ear to the sound of my TR6. We went immediately to her kitchen, where we did all of our serious talking. Earlier that morning, she had cut daffodils, the first of the season to bloom in her garden, and arranged them in a vase on the Formica-topped kitchen table.

  Knowing that I had an insatiable sweet tooth, Mom said, “I’m almost ready to take some ma’amoul from the oven. You can add the sugar.”

  Mom knew ma’amoul was my favorite Middle Eastern pastry. It was made of dough with pistachios tucked inside, and the more powdered sugar sprinkled on it, the better.

  Her baked ma’amoul filled the kitchen with a pleasant aroma, causing me to think of my father. He loved my mom’s ma’amoul and baklava. I envisioned my father sitting at the table, drinking a cup of ahweh, a strong, thick Arabic-style coffee. My parents were both extremely patriotic Americans, but like so many children of immigrant parents, they also paid homage to their heritage.

  As I started to sprinkle sugar over the fresh ma’amoul, Mom asked if I was thirsty.

  “Do you have any Dr Pepper?” I replied. She frowned. My mother didn’t care for carbonated drinks and she especially didn’t like them served with ma’amoul.

  “How about a glass of milk? Or coffee.”

  “I’d really rather have a Dr Pepper. I brought several bottles over last week. They should be in the back of the refrigerator on the second shelf—unless you drank them.”

  She knew I was teasing her and reluctantly fished a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator and handed me a bottle opener.

  I served her the first of the powdered ma’amoul after she had sat down at the kitchen table, and she poured herself a cup of fresh coffee.

  “I need advice, Mom.” I picked up a pastry and took a bite. The taste was delicious. “I’ve gotten involved in something.”

  I quickly explained about Hitchins and how he’d beaten and raped Mary Margaret. I told how I’d gotten Whitaker to file criminal charges against Hitchins. I then recounted the brutality that I’d witnessed outside O’Toole’s.

  I ended my story by saying, “When I get to work tomorrow, I know O’Brien will want Hitchins charged with resisting arrest and a long list of other criminal charges. But the police never gave him a chance to resist. That police officer named Carl threw the first punch and pistol-whipped Hitchins after he was handcuffed.”

  “This Rudy Hitchins, he had a gun?” she asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps this Carl person knew this and felt he had no choice but to strike him first. This Hitchins sounds like a violent man. You choose a life of crime and you pay a price.”

  “There’s no question he is vicious. I can understand why they might have attacked him first. The truth is that I wanted to smack him, too, for what he did to Mary Margaret. As you said, he is a criminal. He deserves what he got. But do the police have a right to hit him after he has been handcuffed and disarmed, and then accuse him of attacking them?”

  My mother took a sip of her coffee and asked, “Have you told Detective O’Brien that you disagree with what happened?”

  “No.”

  “If you have a problem with this detective, you must tell him now. Otherwise, your silence is the same as approval and eventually becomes the norm and no one questions it.”

  My mother took another sip of coffee and added, “You also need to wipe your lips. You have powdered sugar on them.”

  10

  O’Brien’s arrest paperwork for Hitchins was waiting on my desk when I reported to work the next morning. As I had anticipated, a slew of new charges had been lodged against him, including resisting arrest, criminal possession of a weapon, and assaulting a police officer. The only thing missing was a littering charge from the blood that he’d left behind on the sidewalk.

  I telephoned O’Brien, who sounded uncharacteristically pleased to hear from me. His tone did an immediate 180-degree spin after I told him that I was not comfortable pursuing any of the new charges that he’d sent over.

  “Not comfortable?” he snarled, mimicking me. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that I am not going into court and lying.”

  My blunt answer got an immediate and angry response.

  “Lying? You’re accusing me of lying? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I know what I saw. Hitchins never had a chance to resist arrest because your guys threw the first punch. And after he was handcuffed—well, do I really have to go into details here? You and I both know what happened.”

  “And what’s that, Counselor? What exactly do you believe you saw yesterday outside O’Toole’s?”

  “Your buddy Carl used Hitchins as a punching bag after he was handcuffed and smacked him in the side of his head with a pistol grip.”

  For a moment, O’Brien didn’t respond, and then he asked, “And tell me, Counselor, who owned that little Saturday night special? The one Carl—excuse me, Detective Carl Jones—allegedly used to hit poor Rudy Hitchins in the head after he was cuffed?”

  “It was his. You took it away from him.”

  In one of the coldest voices that I’ve ever heard, O’Brien said, “That’s right. Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job.”

  Without raising my voice, I replied, “Don’t you tell me how to do my job, either. I’m going to try the assault charge but I’m not going to file these new charges because they aren’t true.”

  “Not true? I know three White Plains police officers who will each testify that Rudy Hitchins attacked first. They’ll also testify that no one put a finger on him after he was handcuffed. Not one finger. You might want to think about that. You also might want to think about whose side you’re on here.”

  It was his final sentence
that stung the most. Although O’Brien was twice my age and had years of experience on the street, I was not going to have him lecture me. “I know whose side I’m on. Listen, I became an assistant district attorney to prosecute criminals. I’ll work harder than anyone in this office to get a conviction. But I’m not closing my eyes for you or anyone else just because you’re a cop. I don’t work that way. You give me a good case and I’ll try the hell out of it and protect your back eight days a week. But I don’t go for what I saw yesterday. I don’t lie for anyone. You think I’m giving Rudy Hitchins a pass here but you’re wrong. I’m giving your friend Carl a pass. The real question is why did you put me in this position? Whose side are you on, Detective?”

  O’Brien slammed down the receiver.

  Well, I thought, at least I took Mom’s advice. O’Brien definitely knew how I felt. I’d drawn a line.

  Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “District Attorney Carlton Whitaker III would like to speak to you,” Hillary Potts announced, summoning me to his office.

  As I made my way, I tried to predict what might be happening. I couldn’t imagine O’Brien had stormed over from the White Plains police station in person to complain. First of all, the district attorney would never have met directly with the detective because both of them would have been usurping the bureaucratic chain of command. O’Brien would first need to complain to his direct supervisor, who then would talk to the chief of police, who then would decide if he wanted to complain to the district attorney. The chief and D.A. were bureaucratic equals.

  I wondered if O’Brien had been so angry that he’d orchestrated all this in a mere fifteen minutes.

  A queasy feeling began churning in my stomach. I’m generally not the nervous type but I sensed this was not going to be a pleasant encounter.

  Hillary Potts looked stern, as always, when I arrived. She motioned toward a chair and said, “Let me see if he’s available.” She called him on her intercom and then quietly opened one of the doors for me to enter his office, saying, “The district attorney will see you now.”