Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel

by Jeanine Pirro

  Apparently, Whitaker had heard Pisani’s refrain before because he shot me a “here we go again” look. Pisani also glanced over his shoulder at me and I felt an immediate sense of dread. We’d never formally met, but I certainly knew him by reputation for being a formidable prosecutor, a complete snob, and a notorious philanderer. The secretaries in our office had warned me about Pisani and his endless flirtations. Rumor was that Pisani had tried to bed every attractive woman whom he’d encountered in the courthouse—and some unattractive ones, too! I’d been told that he hadn’t found any of them as fascinating as he found himself.

  In our courthouse almost every lawyer and judge had a last name that ended in a vowel. Even so, Pisani stood out. He had graduated from Phillips Exeter and Harvard Law. He was also the only assistant district attorney in Westchester who’d ever walked into a courtroom dressed in a London Savile Row suit.

  The secretaries had also tipped me off about Whitaker and his insecurities and ego. Shortly after he was elected, he’d spent thousands having contractors remove walls in the suite of rooms that included the D.A.’s office so it was now the equivalent of three offices remodeled into one. The additional space at one end had been made into a massive conference area with a table large enough to seat sixteen. On the opposite side of his expanded domain, he’d installed a lounge area with leather sofas and chairs clustered around a wooden coffee table. Directly in the center of the room was a hand-carved mahogany desk from the 1800s that was rumored to have once been owned by one of New York’s robber barons. Whitaker, who was in his midsixties, had a fondness for antiques and had found a way to purchase the desk with public funds when the desk showed up at an estate sale on the Hudson. A Waterbury school clock, another antique that he’d secured, was hanging on the wall to his left. Its noisy pendulum had been intentionally stopped because Whitaker had found the tick-tocking distracting. The clock was the only decoration in the room. All of the remaining wall space was taken up either with framed photographs or documents. The photos were eight-by-tens of Whitaker shaking hands with local, state, and national politicians or celebrities. The framed documents were certificates, honors, and awards that he had received. It was a museum of egomania.

  Pisani was seated directly in front of Whitaker’s massive desk in one of two red leather chairs. I nodded politely to Pisani as I walked across the thick carpet. I could feel both men’s eyes giving me the once-over. It seemed to take forever to reach the empty chair next to Pisani. I did not sit down but rather remained standing until Whitaker acknowledged me.

  That was not something he apparently was in a hurry to do.

  Seeing them together reminded me of the 1969 movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The older Whitaker would have been cast as Paul New-man while Pisani would be an Italian version of Robert Redford.

  As always, “Mr. Invincible” was stylishly dressed and not a single piece of his slicked-back black hair was out of place. He was in his midforties and had a strong jaw and beautiful steel-gray eyes.

  Some fifteen years older, District Attorney Whitaker did not have as impressive a legal pedigree as his younger impresario, which was why, I suspected, the D.A. had furnished his office with the antique remnants of the once powerful and had covered his walls with reminders that he was someone of importance. He’d graduated from Fordham University Law School and returned to White Plains, where he’d used his physician father’s social connections to open his own successful legal practice while immersing himself in local politics. Like Pisani, Whitaker dressed well, but not so well that his constituents would be resentful. Both men could feel at ease on the ninth hole at the country club. But only Whitaker could shed his jacket, roll up his sleeves, and drink mugs of draft beer with the cops and blue collars at O’Toole’s well into the night.

  After a few intentionally awkward seconds, Whitaker said, “Miss Fox, you told my secretary that it was urgent for you to see me. Something about a potential news story and big case. What’s it about?”

  As I started to answer, Pisani interrupted. “I’d like another cup of coffee, wouldn’t you, Carlton? Can you fetch us some, Ms. Fox?” He nodded toward a silver urn in the office’s northwest corner, yet another antique, and held out his white mug. I didn’t move. What a pig, I thought. I was a prosecutor, not his personal waitress. I made eye contact with Whitaker and much to my disgust, he slowly hoisted up his empty mug, too. I noticed that Whitaker’s had the words THE BOSS emblazoned on it in gold leafing. I thought both of those mugs should have had the word PRICK on them.

  “No problem,” I said flatly.

  “I take two lumps,” Whitaker said.

  “I take mine any way I can get it,” Pisani added.

  How about with some added spit? I thought.

  I had brought the manila envelope with me that contained photographs of Mary Margaret’s beaten face. As I reached toward Whitaker’s outstretched hand to retrieve his coffee mug, I handed him the envelope. Then I turned and took Pisani’s mug with the most disingenuous smile that I’d ever flashed anyone.

  When I returned from pouring the two men’s coffees, Whitaker was examining the photos.

  “Mr. Whitaker, I wanted you to see these photographs so you would know what sort of defendant we’re dealing with here.”

  “Defendant?” Whitaker asked. “Has someone already been charged with this beating?”

  “Well, not yet,” I said, correcting myself. “The victim is Mary Margaret Finn, a local White Plains girl, and the man who did this to her is her boyfriend, Rudy Hitchins.”

  Pisani said, “Would this be the same Rudy Hitchins who got a free pass a few weeks ago on an armed robbery charge? A ‘smash and grab’ at a jewelers on Mamaroneck Avenue?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, genuinely impressed that Pisani remembered.

  Because Whitaker wasn’t familiar with the case, Pisani briefed him. “Mr. Hitchins and his criminal associates were arrested but the charge against him was dismissed. They burst in the store, smashed the glass display cases with hammers, grabbed as much as they could carry, and then ran outside. Not real inventive, but efficient. The case wasn’t that interesting, but I remember it because I’ve been watching this Hitchins character.”

  “Why?” Whitaker asked.

  “He’s got potential.” Pisani laughed. “He’s a wannabe gangster. He does work occasionally for Nicholas Persico’s crew.”

  “He works for the Butcher? Persico?” Whitaker asked, clearly impressed.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m not following any of this.”

  Pisani sounded irritated but looked pleased to show off his knowledge. “Persico is a member of the Genovese crime family. We’ve been after him for years.”

  “Why did you call him the Butcher?”

  “’Cause he runs a family-owned butcher shop in Yonkers and he likes to use a butcher knife when he tortures his victims.”

  Growing suddenly impatient, Whitaker asked me, “What’s so important about this Hitchins character that you needed to see me? He sounds like small potatoes and this sounds like a family court matter, not a big case.”

  I quickly explained that Mary Margaret and Rudy Hitchins were not married. I added that she was pregnant with his baby and that he’d put her in the ICU. Following Detective O’Brien’s advice, I said nothing about how Hitchins had raped Mary Margaret.

  Whitaker said, “Get to the point, young lady.”

  “Since they aren’t married, I’d like to prosecute him in criminal court on first-degree assault charges. Family court lacks jurisdiction. I want him to go to jail for what he did—and Detective Tom O’Brien agrees with me, sir.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Pisani smirk. Mentioning O’Brien’s name had been a mistake. It made it appear as if I wasn’t strong enough on my own to handle this—that I’d been be prompted by O’Brien.

  Whitaker asked, “Miss Fox, aren’t you assigned to the appeals bureau?”

  “Yes, sir.”

/>   “The last time I checked, attorneys assigned to the appeals bureau don’t try criminal cases, or has someone changed my office policy without telling me?”

  Pisani smirked again. He was enjoying this.

  “Sir, I’d like to prosecute this case, just the same. It’s important to me.”

  Whitaker glanced at Pisani, who decided to join the conversation. “Ms. Fox, what makes you think you can prosecute a case if you’ve never tried one before?”

  I turned my head so I was looking directly at Pisani. “But I have tried cases in court, Mr. Pisani. Actually, I’ve tried thirteen misdemeanor jury cases in Westchester County.”

  “Ms. Fox,” Pisani said, “each morning when I come to work, I review all the criminal matters this office has prosecuted in county court and in our other forty-three jurisdictions in Westchester County. I do the same before I go home each night, and I have never read your name as the assistant district attorney of record on a single criminal case.”

  “That’s correct, sir. The cases I prosecuted were all night cases assigned to other assistant district attorneys. The men couldn’t keep up so I helped them out.”

  “The men in this office couldn’t keep it up, so you helped them? You gave them a hand?” Pisani asked, making yet another sexual entendre. “And who gave you permission to do this? Does your division chief know?”

  Whitaker interrupted. “Are you saying you volunteered to take other attorneys’ night court cases?”

  “That’s correct, sir. Most were DWIs but there were also assaults and burglaries reduced to misdemeanors at the local court level.”

  “And were any of these defendants represented by counsel or did you simply work out plea deals?”

  “All of the accused in the thirteen cases that I tried were represented by legal counsel. They had defense attorneys.”

  “Really,” Pisani sniffed, lifting an eyebrow as a clear sign of his skepticism. “And how many of these thirteen cases did you actually win?”

  “All of them.”

  Whitaker liked my response. “So what you’re telling us, Miss Fox, is that you tried the cases but your colleagues claimed credit for it on the paperwork?”

  I thought he might be trying to get me to criticize my coworkers, something I was not going to do. “Whether or not my fellow assistant district attorneys gave me credit on the paperwork is something you’d have to ask them. I’ve never bothered to check. But I showed up in night court and I did my job as a prosecutor. That’s why I am confident I could prosecute Rudy Hitchins and win.”

  I couldn’t tell if Whitaker was impressed or amused by my reply, but Pisani was neither. He said, “Ms. Fox, you didn’t lose a single case that you prosecuted? Is that correct?” It suddenly sounded as if he were interrogating me on the witness stand. And, in fact, he was interrogating me.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “Tell me, Ms. Fox, how does someone in the appeals bureau who came to us without any trial experience win every case she has ever tried? Are you claiming to be some sort of legal prodigy?”

  Again my eyes locked with his. “No, sir, but I had an excellent teacher and I am absolutely certain that you, yourself, would call him a prodigy. In fact, you might describe him as a genius in the courtroom.”

  “At Albany Law School?” he replied dismissively. “I hardly think so!”

  “No, sir, to the best of my knowledge, he’s never taught at a law school.”

  “Then who is this genius?”

  “You. My teacher was you.”

  Whitaker laughed out loud.

  I explained that I had studied every major transcript of criminal cases that Pisani had tried in the past five years in Westchester County. I’d read every opening statement that he’d given, every direct examination that he’d performed, every cross-examination, and every closing argument.

  “That’s the fucking funniest thing I’ve heard all morning,” Whitaker said, adding, “She’s right about one thing. You would describe yourself as a legal genius.”

  The D.A. laughed again.

  Pisani wasn’t amused. “If you have studied my cases, Ms. Fox, then you’ll have no problem telling me about the Billy Prescott murder?”

  “I’m assuming you’re referring to the defense’s charge that your star witness—a teenage boy with a long juvenile record—had admitted under oath during questioning that he’d originally lied to the police.”

  Pisani didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to help me prove that I was telling the truth.

  “In your closing argument, you told jurors that if the police locked up every witness who had held back information or had lied to them when they were first interrogated, the jails and prisons would be overrun with frightened and foolish witnesses who’d merely panicked and had become confused during questioning.”

  I knew I was right and so did Pisani.

  Whitaker glanced at his watch and said, “Okay, let’s cut to the chase here. I’ve got an afternoon tee-time. What makes you think the victim—who is pregnant—is going to testify against him?”

  “It appears that Hitchins already has a new girlfriend. When Mary Margaret hears that, he’s not going to be able to sweet-talk her into dropping charges—especially after what he’s done to her face.”

  “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Whitaker said. “I get that. What else you got?”

  I sensed it was time to test my scheme. “A reporter named Will Harris from the White Plains Daily wanted to write a feature story about me when I was first hired as an assistant district attorney. Of course, I refused. But I thought this case might be a good chance for your administration to show how concerned it was about domestic violence. Having a woman prosecutor handle it would make the news even more unique.”

  Whitaker rocked back in his chair, considering my idea.

  “My, my,” Pisani said with a mix of sarcasm and hint of admiration. “You certainly have figured out all of the angles here, haven’t you, Ms. Fox?”

  I sat there waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Finally, Whitaker spoke. “Here’s the deal. I’ll let you try this case in criminal court rather than shuffling it off to family court for some couples counseling. You can charge this Hitchins character with first-degree assault. And I’ll let you prosecute it. But you cannot, and I just said cannot, talk to that reporter. You tell him that you can’t discuss the case because it’s a pending legal matter. I want him to talk to me and only me at this stage. Is that perfectly clear?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He was giving me exactly what I wanted.

  Pisani, who clearly couldn’t let this matter drop without making a comment, said, “Well, well, well. Congratulations, Ms. Fox. Bravo. It seems you have gotten what you came in here for, but there is one angle that I think you may have overlooked.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Pisani?”

  “The fact that you’re probably going to lose. This is not a simpleminded DWI prosecution; your objective is to put a man in jail for an alleged crime that, as I’m sure you know, is not a violation of the law if a couple is married in New York.”

  “But Hitchins and the victim aren’t married.”

  Pisani replied, “Yes, you said that. But they were living together, she is pregnant with his baby, and apparently she was using his last name.”

  I wondered how Pisani knew that, since I had not mentioned it. And then I remembered that the words MARY MARGARET HITCHINS were written in large black letters on the back of the eight-by-ten-inch photographs that I’d handed Whitaker earlier. Clearly, Pisani had seen her name.

  “You can go now, Miss Fox,” Whitaker said, “but I want you to keep Mark Steinberg informed of everything you do and you are not—not—to talk to that reporter. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Having mentioned Steinberg’s name, Whitaker suddenly looked a bit puzzled and said aloud, “Where the hell is my chief of staff? Miss Potts said he wasn’t around today. I’ll want to talk to him ab
out this Hitchins matter.”

  I volunteered, with a slight smile, “I understand he’s at the dentist.”

  Whitaker shot me a curious look.

  Pisani said, “Carlton, you’d better keep an eye on this one. She’s one sly fox.”

  I began walking toward the door but Pisani wasn’t finished. “Ms. Fox, have you heard that old saying: ‘Every female in a relationship needs to be taken with a grain of assault.’”

  As I exited the office, I thought: I really should have spit in their coffee mugs.

  6

  Detective Tommy O’Brien answered my telephone call in his well-practiced growl: “Homicide. O’Brien.”

  “Detective, this is Assistant District Attorney Dani Fox. The district attorney has agreed to move forward and file criminal charges against Rudy Hitchins for assaulting Mary Margaret.”

  O’Brien didn’t immediately respond so I continued: “I’m assuming you did a routine background check of the criminal files and complaints?”

  “Yeah, yeah, nothing surprising in them.”

  “And you went to the hospital and took the victim’s sworn statement and she is still willing to testify against Rudy Hitchins—am I correct?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. I talked to her and her mother, too, and they want to nail that prick. But let’s back up. You said Whitaker is okay with you prosecuting Hitchins in criminal court?”

  “That’s right. We’re prosecuting Hitchins the same as we would if he had beaten a man on the street.”

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned.”

  “Detective, there are a few things I’d like to get squared away before you arrest Rudy Hitchins.”

  “Such as what, Counselor?”

  “I’ve already prepared the necessary filing to get an order of protection to keep Hitchins away from Mary Margaret. I’d also like to know if you can arrange for a police officer to accompany Mary Margaret’s mother when she goes to Hitchins’s apartment to collect her daughter’s belongings while she’s still recuperating in the hospital.”