They had been accosted in the lobby of our building by the hungry hordes of media-land. They had had questions screamed at them, accusations shouted at them, demands for explanations, statements and unhindered photo opportunities. In effect, our office represented a safe-house and we assured them of a secret, reporter-proof exit at the end of our conference.
Jerry Ashkenazi was not a criminal lawyer. He had been intimidated by events from the time he got up in the morning and received a phone call from David Cohen to the effect that three men with a search warrant were seeking access to his apartment.
“Is this how these things are generally done, Mrs. Jacobi?” Mr. Ashkenazi demanded to know. He missed the signal that went around the room: from me to Bobby Jones to Lucy Capella to Jim Barrow’s man, Sam Hendrikson. What we have here, friends, is a man in over his head. Let’s hope, for his sake, he realizes this fact very soon. Or that he doesn’t and lets his client talk and talk and talk.
Dr. David Cohen did not miss the signal. Dr. David Cohen did not miss very much. He sat straight in his chair, not leaning back, yet not looking tense. Just alert and slightly wary. And slightly angry-but-controlled.
“Is it customary,” Dr. Cohen asked me, “for people with a search warrant to show up unannounced at seven o’clock in the morning?”
“It’s as good a time as any. They were on the first shift. Did they also advise you about your offices and your cottage out at East Hampton?”
Dr. Cohen nodded. “Yes. If there was any specific item you wanted, it might have been easier to just ask me. They were going through my things like marauders.”
His attorney leaned forward, pressing Dr. Cohen’s wrist in what looked like a death-grip. “Easy, David, easy. Let me talk, let me make the complaint.”
He proceeded to tell me that Barrow’s men were going through David’s apartment like marauders and that if they’d only said what it was they wanted, it would have made matters easier. He asked about ten questions relative to search-and-seizure procedure: what were they allowed to take? who had the receipts for items taken? why were they taking these things? where were they being taken off to? why? when would they be returned? if some tests were to be run, by whom and toward what end?
This guy was asking us to educate him.
“My advice to you, Mr. Ashkenazi, and no offense intended, is that you should confer with someone on your staff who is familiar with criminal procedure.”
“Criminal procedure? Criminal procedure?” He stood up and looked around, shook his head and then sat down again. “What criminal procedure? Do you know the kind of man we are talking about here? Do you know the reputation of this man? Do you know the things that David Cohen has accomplished? My specialty is defending against malpractice suits. This is what my firm does, that is what my partners and I do. If I thought for one minute that Dr. David Cohen—that this eminent microsurgeon, world-famous, a pioneer in this technique—if I thought for one split second that he should be represented by a—God-forbid—criminal lawyer, then a criminal lawyer would be sitting here next to him and not me. But just tell me, please, since I am not familiar with the procedure, under the search warrant, what are you people entitled to anyway?”
A really ludicrous thought flashed through my brain: what if, by some unexpected and terrible miracle, Dr. David Cohen felt called upon, right now in the presence of all here assembled, to confess to the crime that was alleged against him. Would it be thrown out because he did not have proper legal representation to advise him of his rights?
We led Dr. David Cohen carefully according to a prearranged plan we had discussed before he and his attorney arrived.
Lucy was good at the possibly incriminating areas. Her questions sounded more like sincere requests for information that might one day be helpful to her: e.g., Dr. Cohen, you’re a runner. From your apartment, where do you generally run? Goodness, do you risk the 72nd Street transverse? Ah, that would make a good run: from your apartment on 69th and Fifth, up to 72nd, across the park, down Central Park West to Central Park South to Fifth Avenue and 59th and up to 69th Street. At night, Dr. Cohen? Goodness, have you ever encountered any muggers? Well, you must be one of the very few New Yorkers who can make that claim.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that how you present yourself makes a difference,” Dr. Cohen explained to Lucy, who nodded, taking advice and instruction very nicely.
“You know, Dr. Cohen, I think you’re right about how you present yourself, the kind of aura of self-confidence one gives off.”
He nodded at Lucy. They were on the same wavelength and she straightened up slightly, held her head high, showing her own confidence.
“When I was in ... social work, I used to go into very dangerous neighborhoods. You know, where violence was just an ordinary fact of daily life. And yet, I was never attacked or anything. And it wasn’t that I was known particularly, that I was treated with respect because of who I was or why I was there. I agree with you, I think it’s a matter of self-confidence and being able to radiate that kind of confidence.”
Bobby Jones’ eyebrows asked me the question: What the hell’s this all about? We going to start exchanging “element of danger” stories or something? I winked and nodded slightly in Lucy’s direction.
Dr. Cohen was agreeing with Lucy. Although he looked somewhat breakable with his long slender arms and legs and slim build, he told Lucy, “Yes. I maintain there is a trick to it. I’m not about to give up favorite areas of the city to the ‘street elements.’ They are not all that stupid. They can sense who is not your perfect victim.”
“And that’s got to come from inside, I think,” Lucy said. “From somehow knowing you can take care of yourself and then being able to sort of give off ... what, rays of your own confidence?”
It sat there for a moment, not going anywhere, not taking off in any particular direction.
Sam Hendrikson got into it. Sam is the kind of man who can pass in the crowd and become whatever everyone else in the crowd is: he is a chameleon, a nonentity with hornrimmed glasses and a quiet self-effacing manner. When he asks a question, he seems slightly afraid of revealing his own stupidity.
“Yes, but Lucy, you were trained in self-defense, weren’t you?”
“Oh, come on, Sam. Plenty of people take all kinds of classes but once they’re out of the gym, it’s a total washout unless they have that something extra special. Confidence. Right, Dr. Cohen?”
“Did you take up any self-defense techniques anywhere, Dr. Cohen? Well, I don’t imagine you’re called upon to go into the so-called dangerous neighborhoods. You hardly make house calls in your specialty.”
Dr. Cohen slowly leaned back in his chair and regarded Lucy and then turned his attention to Sam. “Are you asking me if I’m a specialist in karate or kung fu or any of the other empty-handed combat techniques? Such as were probably exercised on Ms. Dawson in inflicting the various injuries on her face. Is that what you’re asking me?”
Jerry Ashkenazi pulled out a handkerchief and waved it in front of him before be blew his nose.
“Hold on here, hold on now. David, don’t answer any of this. You’re not required to answer this.”
And then, poor man, he honked his nose and leaned over and asked in an audible whisper, “David, you know this kind of stuff? Kung fu and all?”
Had he ever heard of the Jog-gon-Inn? No.
Had he been out running on Tuesday, March 6, 1979?
He really could not say with any certainty.
Could he account for his time during the twenty-four-hour period immediately preceding the phone call that summoned him to New York Hospital for emergency surgery on Sanderalee Dawson?
“I will have to check my appointment diary,” Dr. Cohen said. And then, directly to me, “Or you people can check it, since I assume it is now in your possession.”
“Are you serious about all this?” Dr. Cohen’s attorney kept asking us.
“Mr. Ashkenazi, an accusation has been made against Dr.
Cohen. We are talking about an extremely serious felony charge against your client. It would seem to me, Mr. Ashkenazi, that it would be in your client’s best interest—no matter what—to cooperate as fully as possible.”
“No matter what? No matter what? My God, what are you saying? Do you know this man’s reputation?”
“It is not his professional reputation that is at issue here.”
Dr. Cohen began quieting his attorney; comforting him; reassuring him. Counseling him.
Bobby Jones.
“Dr. Cohen, when we asked you yesterday about the Band-Aid on your left cheek, you told us you had a cut as the result of slipping and hitting your face against the metal edge of your desk. Could you be more specific about that, please?”
He gave some more details; it had happened about eight days ago. The “when” could be clarified by a check on what day he had taught class at Columbia. There were some forty-one or forty-two physicians present: witnesses to the event.
“One of them accompanied me to the Emergency Room on the first floor, where two stitches were taken in my cheek. You can get all the details: everything is a matter of record.”
“Dr. Cohen, had you previously had a cut or injury or abrasion or blemish on your left cheek?”
“Previously? What previously?” his attorney asked.
“On the day that you did surgery to reattach Sanderalee Dawson’s severed hand,” Bobby Jones asked, “did you have a Band-Aid on your left cheek?”
David Cohen blinked, glanced at me, smiled tightly and shrugged.
“Did I? A cut from shaving or ... I haven’t the faintest idea. Ms. Jacobi, is this significant?”
“What are you getting at here, Mrs. Jacobi?” his attorney asked. “Are you serious about all this? Are you really serious?”
Bobby Jones held up the 8x10 enlargement of a stop-frame from the news conference held in the late afternoon after the surgery on Sanderalee’s hand. It was a blurry picture, hazy and soft-focus, but Dr. David Cohen’s face was clearly identifiable and there, on his left cheek, was a Band-Aid.
Bobby identified the enlargement and Jerry Ashkenazi took it, leaned it toward the light on my desk, offered it to Dr. Cohen, who glanced at it and then at me.
“Well, then, there you are. You hardly needed to ask me a question to which you already had an answer.”
“There is an old saying among lawyers, Dr. Cohen; Never ask a question to which you don’t already have the answer. At least not in a courtroom. Could you tell us, please, what injury, or whatever, was beneath this Band-Aid on your left cheek?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dr. Cohen said. Which, given his position, was a very wise answer. Although not the answer that I was beginning to believe we already had.
“What’s the significance of this Band-Aid on the cheek?” Mr. Ashkenazi finally asked.
We told him: Sanderalee Dawson stabbed her assailant on the left cheek with a silver unicorn.
“And you think that the cut or whatever on David’s cheek that day was ...” He shook his head and grabbed his client’s forearm and pressed it very hard. Dr. Cohen remained expressionless.
Jerry Ashkenazi was very pale.
“Mrs. Jacobi, I think my client has answered just about all the questions it is feasible for him to answer at this time.” And then, to his client, in a worried-but-don’t-worry-about-it voice, “David, you’ll come to my office and we’ll talk.” And then to me, “Mrs. Jacobi, will you people please provide us with a way of getting out of this place? I’m not about to let Dr. Cohen go through that mob of crazy people down there. What are they doing there? What do they want from Dr. Cohen?”
I signaled Bobby Jones for an escort and then I told Jerry Ashkenazi, and more particularly Dr. David Cohen, “You’d better get used to mobs of crazy people. They’re going to be with you for quite a while.”
About ten minutes later, I was alone in my office, having dispatched my staff to their appointed rounds. The tap at the door was tentative and so was the expression on Jerry Ashkenazi’s face as I waved him on in.
“We’re waiting for a car,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Your man went to get a car and we’re going to go out through the garage, I think he said.”
“Good. That’s fine.”
He looked around the room quickly, then approached my desk and leaned toward me, his fingertips resting on the desk blotter.
“Mrs. Jacobi,” he started. I corrected him: there had been just about one “Mrs. Jacobi” too much. “I’m sorry: Ms. Jacobi. Please. I wanted to tell you this: off the record. Just for your information I wanted to tell you this. This is a very valuable, decent, wonderfully gifted man who has saved more lives, put together more broken lives than you can believe. Please, Mrs. ... Ms. Jacobi. Be very careful. Think about who it is that is trying to make you do this terrible thing. Think what their motives are. Don’t let them make a sacrificial lamb of David. Please, think about this. Don’t let them do this. Don’t let them get to you.”
“Them? The ubiquitous them, Mr. Ashkenazi? We are them; they are them. I don’t give a damn who is out to get whom. What I want is to get the indictment and the conviction of the bastard who raped and sodomized and beat up Sanderalee Dawson. And then cut off her left hand. And if he just happens to be a wonderful and decent and valuable and gifted man most of the time, well that just isn’t my concern.”
“But look where it’s coming from, the accusation. Look what he’s trying to make of it, for God’s sake.”
Somewhere along the line, he had lost me.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about? Ah, that’s it, I can see that now. While we were in here, while we were talking in here in your office, that man, that PLO schwartze-pig, was on that afternoon TV news show, talk show, whatever, on Channel Five, I think.”
“Whom are you talking about?”
Of course I knew and when this very agitated man said Regg Morris, I was not surprised at all. Only shocked.
“He said, here, I’m reading it from the late Post, he said, here, read it yourself, he’s trying to make this into a black-Jewish confrontation thing. He’s accusing you, as a Jew, of covering up for a Jew because Sanderalee Dawson is a black woman.”
Mr. Ashkenazi was shaking from anger and anguish. I took the newspaper from him and told him to go home.
And, on impulse, off-the-record, I told him to call a good criminal lawyer. His client had need.
CHAPTER 30
IT WAS NOT A good weekend. Bobby Jones turned sulky on Friday night and when we returned to my apartment after a very long, exhausting evening of overtime consultations with staff members, this was not what I needed.
“Why don’t you go home, Bobby? You look tired. Or something.” No answer. “Well, which is it, BJ? Tired? Or is it something?”
“Let’s just sit quietly for a while, Lynne, all right? It’s been a long day.”
“Spoken like a husband, Bobby.” I shoved his feet off my coffee table. “C’mon, get going, pal. I don’t need moody and I don’t need hurt and I don’t need secretive and I don’t need sly glances and I don’t need any of this.”
“What do you need, Lynne? Have you any idea what you really need?”
His face even looks beautiful when moody; when angry. Borders on petulant, but a manly petulance. The fallen lock of hair just touching the brow, the golden eyebrows lowered over the clear mid-western eyes, the tension along his neck and shoulders, through his torso, along his perfectly proportioned arms and strong freckled hands, and down along his hard and slender thighs.
He put his feet back on my coffee table and fixed his clever blue eyes on my tired face and in a practiced, interrogator’s voice he asked me: “When were you going to tell me about your plan to run for District Attorney?”
It was totally unexpected. Lynne, how long have you been having an affair with old Mr. Timothy Doyle? why have you been stalking Jim Barrow? why have you been seen lurking in the playground behind the local gr
ammar school? Lynne, what are you up to with that dynamic devil, Regg Morris?
I turned it over carefully, absorbing the shock of the unexpected. We lawyers do that: do not answer in haste, do not follow up a surprise question with a surprise answer. Hesitate, evaluate. And then attack. Calmly and professionally. My God, we’re turning my living room into a courtroom.
“Where were you last night when I called you, Bobby Jones?”
His feet came from the coffee table again; his jaw moved side to side as he ground his teeth, searching for his own careful reply: question or answer? attack or retreat? truth or he?
Terrific. I had unknowingly made a connection. And then I held up my hand, because connections once made come quickly, clearly, and accurately.
“You spent a little time with the lady television biggie, the lady with the honey-colored hair. And she kindly provided you with not only a stop-frame clip of Dr. David, she also gave you a little bit of information about the Lady Lynne. And you’ve been walking around all day wondering when I was going to read your mind and offer you, offer you, as though I owed you, an explanation of my future plans.”
“As they pertain to me, personally, damned right.”
“They do not pertain to you, personally or impersonally or any other goddamn way, Bobby. My professional life, my career plans are mine.”
“No hitching my wagon to a star, is that it?”
I whirled around, trying for a regal anger, for grace, for dramatic effect and hit my shins on the goddamn coffee table and had to hop, hunched over and gasping. Midwestern gentleman to the core, Bobby leaped up, came to my rescue, helped me to a chair. I sank down, hugged my leg: God, it hurt. Tears sprang from my eyes: of pain, exhaustion, anger. And regret. A small, sad, and unwanted regret. He is so beautiful; even when he’s angry.
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