“Very good, Bobby,” I told him. Even to myself, I sounded patronizing. He was in no mood for a pat on the head.
“Second thing,” he told me sharply, “Regg Morris caught the early morning Concorde flight from Kennedy to Paris. France. For a meeting with some very heavy money men from a mysterious country where the main problem is getting street vendors to cash thousand-dollar bills.”
“Run that by me again, Bobby. What?”
“Regg is fronting for some oil sheiks. Who have just purchased a five-hundred-acre estate in northern Westchester County under the name of ‘The Wisdom of Allah School of Greater Nations.’ Incorporated. President and General Director, the Honorable Dr. Regg Morris. A cash deal, Lynne. Allegedly for setting up a country version of his city brownstone private school. The IRS is on this and I’ve established a liaison with a couple of other federal people. There’s going to be all kinds of tax evasion schemes—i.e., that this is a religious enterprise. It’s a little fringy for us. But I thought you’d like to know how Allah rewards his favorite loud-mouth troublemakers.”
“I’ll think about all of that later. Tomorrow. Or on Saturday when there’s nothing on TV but cartoons.” It was really too much and too unexpected to fit into anything that was happening at my office at the moment.
A call from Mr. Whitney Hale; fielded, as instructed, by Jeffrey Speedwriter: Ms. Jacobi just left the office, sir. Good boy, Jeffrey.
Dr. Chan: “Lynne, Sanderalee is really messed up. She must have corrective surgery on her hand almost immediately. It’s quite urgent. There was some terribly serious damage done when she fell.”
“Dr. Chan, I am sorry but surgery is not among my many skills. The only recommendation I can make is don’t call Dr. David Cohen.”
“Lynne, the problem is that Sanderalee absolutely refuses to sign the release for surgery until she talks to someone. I’ve suggested she talk to you, but no dice. And she won’t talk to me, so where do we go? Positively no chance for Lucy?”
No chance. At all. Brief conference with Bobby Jones.
“Dr. Chan, ask her if she’d talk to Alan Greco and get back to me.”
Two more phone calls and then Dr. Chan.
“Okay on Alan Greco.”
I sent Bobby Jones out to find Alan and bring him to Sanderalee so that she would then consent to the surgery needed to save her hated left hand.
Throughout the past two weeks, other concerns had been crossing my desk. I had Squad members working on various cases and I took a few hours’ vacation from Sanderalee Dawson, Regg Morris, David Cohen et al. for briefings and updatings on several pending sex/violence cases. There had been the matter of serious assaults on several homosexuals in a gay bar by on-the-town thugs whose hometown families described them as good boys; good baseball players; one wonderful potential professional hockey player whose arrest might jeopardize the poor kid’s entire future. There were depositions from nearly an entire town as to the healthy, happy family backgrounds, the good citizenship displayed in the home suburban community, the leadership qualities of a couple of the eighteen-year-olds; past membership in Boy Scouts; industrious contributions to community fund-raising events where some of them displayed their skill with basketballs or their strength and dedication by the hard physical labor contributed.
Nowhere, in any of the statements, was the alleged crime referred to: six young men, aged seventeen to twenty, had taken the time, trouble, effort and skill required to carefully stud baseball bats with heavy nails at the hitting ends; had taped the narrow ends for a good grip. They had boarded their local bus to big bad New York City; drifted around while searching for their targets; invaded a pleasant, low-key, social-type gay bar whose regulars were local shop owners, antique dealers, artists, actors: definitely non-violence-prone tax-paying citizens.
I had assigned Karen Slate, young, black, urban: tough, fair and unrelenting in her view of justice.
The defense team had made an approach to my office: would it not be more equitable, more in the interests of justice that this case, involving as it did young white males from the suburbs, carefully nurtured, tended, loved young boys firmly established and connected by lines of family, education, associations with their community: would it not be possibly wiser, fairer, more in keeping with the pure concept of justice that the prosecutor assigned more closely resemble these lads in order to better understand them: as to background? as to misguided motivation? as to childish misbehavior and misconceptions of right and wrong? as to color? as to sex?
The injuries that they had individually and collectively inflicted were horrendous. Not only were heads broken, but lives were broken. Dreams destroyed; careers disrupted. Karen and I went over the case perpetrator by perpetrator and between us we zeroed in on the two most likelies: those who’d go for a deal in return for ratting on their boyhood pals.
A deal: the basis of the criminal justice system.
“If they don’t go for it,” I instructed Karen, “nail them to the wall and cut their little suburban hearts out.”
I spent a little time going over a child molestation case: middle-aged man, six-year-old girl. The defense was seeking a deal: a DOR—dismissed on own recognizance—in return for a promise that the defendant would return to a hospital to continue therapy.
It is my job to consider all sex offenses as serious. I am not as offhand as some of my male counterparts about the passive nature of the acts of exhibitionists or voyeurs. I believe in the possibility of escalation: just give him the time, the place, the opportunity. Same old song; same old story.
“The hell with their promise,” I told my assistant, a bright but slightly reluctant young male Assistant District Attorney who had just recently been assigned to my Squad. “Get the conviction or the guilty plea, then let them persuade the court that this man should be allowed to be hospitalized or analyzed or whatever instead of imprisoned. I don’t give a damn about his immediate future. My aim is to have this charge on his record permanently. A DOR disappears as though it never happened within a year. And it did happen. And I want it recorded.”
I covered as many pending things as I possibly could; caught up with whatever I had been neglecting and then was ready to turn my attention totally to the presentation of the case against Dr. David Cohen before the Grand Jury.
CHAPTER 35
MY APPEARANCE BEFORE THE Grand Jury was set for Thursday morning, March 29. I spent Wednesday afternoon and evening with the District Attorney reviewing my plan of presentation.
My list of witnesses was relatively brief for such a heavy case:
Tim Doyle would offer his testimony—for what it was worth—to establish in general terms the fact that Sanderalee Dawson did, in fact, return to her apartment with a “tall unidentified white male dressed in navy running clothes and wearing distinctive blue running shoes”;
Statement by the responding patrolmen as to condition of plaintiff when they came upon the scene;
Affirmation of Sanderalee’s injuries by the attending physician on duty at the Emergency Room at Roosevelt Hospital;
Statement by Dr. Adam Waverly, member of the microsurgery team, as to the surgical procedure performed at New York Hospital necessitated by the amputation of Sanderalee’s left hand (note to myself: keep this guy within limits; he likes to ramble down the path);
Statement by Dr. Chan re Sanderalee’s present emotional condition, physical and mental inability to appear in person before Grand Jury;
Which would lead to the introduction of the taped statement by Sanderalee Dawson, preceded by my statement that I had in fact verified through personal questioning of the plaintiff that the taped statement accurately presented her charges;
Sworn written statement of Lucy Capella, confined to hospital with broken leg, verifying her presence during the original taping of Sanderalee’s statement;
There would be a few technicians introduced briefly re: the blue mohair thread found on one of Dr. Cohen’s navy blue running jackets, the i
mplication being it matched the blue mohair of Sanderalee’s scarf, worn the night of the attack; the sample of type B positive blood found on the remaining tip of the silver unicorn with which Sanderalee had stabbed her assailant (without mention of Sanderalee’s similar blood type); verification by a television lab technician that the still photo taken from the initial news conference with the three microsurgeons, and showing a small round Band-Aid on the left cheek of Dr. David Cohen, was in fact what we claim it to be: an indication of a wound prior to his “alleged” accident in his classroom.
Whitney Hale and I both agreed we had enough for an indictment on the charges as sought: rape; sodomy; assault with a deadly weapon; attempted murder; dismemberment.
“There is one thing that’s turned up and I hope something important comes of it,” I told the District Attorney. “Sam Hendrikson spoke with a Mr. Swenson of the Orthopedic Specialty Shoe Company in Pittsburgh. Where Dr. Cohen had his running shoes made up.”
“Yes, and?” Jameson raised his eyebrows and waited for something clever. I didn’t have much to offer.
“Well, we’ve confiscated three pairs of Cohen’s running shoes. Custom-made; the oldest pair, obviously the pair out in East Hampton, cost one hundred and twenty-five dollars. Four years ago. The two pairs from his New York apartment were ordered ... wait a minute ...” I dug around in my notebook until I found the information I wanted. “Here we go. Cohen ordered two pairs of custom-made running shoes from this company a year and a half ago: price one-ninety-five each pair.”
“Yes, and? Are you trying to show the effects of inflation, Lynne, or what? What’s the point?”
“The point: six years ago, Dr. Cohen had his first pair of running shoes custom-fitted. He went to Pittsburgh and had Mr. Swenson take a mold; went back once for a fitting. The mold is kept on file for future orders. So, the first pair of shoes, costing eighty-five dollars, was delivered some six years ago. Now, Mr. Swenson states that these shoes are practically indestructible. That a pair of these custom running shoes, properly maintained, could last maybe fifteen years. Apparently, Cohen takes good care of them, wearing them on a rotating basis. Two years ago, Dr. Cohen sent his first pair of running shoes back for resoling—‘revitalization’ is actually the word Mr. Swenson used when he gave this information to Sam Hendrikson. And so ...”
“Ah. Yes. And so ... we’ve come up with three pairs of custom running shoes. And the question is, where is the fourth pair? And I believe, am I not accurate, that the redoubtable Mr. Doyle says that yes, the shoes shown him resemble the shoes he observed on the feet of the unidentified male who accompanied Ms. Dawson on her elevator ride but not exactly. And the difference being?”
“That the shoes he observed were older. More ‘scuffy’ was Mr. Doyle’s word.”
“And the oldest pair of shoes is missing? And Dr. Cohen has not been asked about them? No, of course not. Well, the question at this point is, what do you make of this before the Grand Jury? Hmm, yes.” Jameson covered his eyes with his long and elegant hand for a thoughtful moment. “Save it for the trial. Possibly by then ...”
“Right.”
“The status of Ms. Dawson as of this very moment? I understand she underwent further surgery for damage sustained during an attempted suicide?”
I told him that Sanderalee was resting, under protective custody, in a totally secure and publicly unknown section of the hospital. That her physical condition was good. That her emotional condition was very, very questionable.
“And she had, for a while, refused to submit to further surgery?”
Jameson knew more than he was telling; he always did.
“Right. I guess she was overwhelmed by what good-friend Regg Morris did to her. He really made good international use of those pictures. My God, they were featured in every yellow rag in the world with headlines ranging from ‘Incredible Photos of Top TV Star’ to Third World ‘Black Heroine Scarred for Life by Zionist Zealot.’ Which, I guess, solidly established Morris’s credentials with his new financial backers.”
I briefed the District Attorney on Regg’s whereabouts and future plans.
Jameson Whitney Hale shook his head; quick annoyance. “That’s all beside the point of this immediate case, Lynne. Except in one respect: this immediate indictment will counteract much of the bad publicity. We will generate as much media coverage, as many headlines as possible to counteract all of this garbage.” He narrowed his eyes and focused on me thoughtfully. “We will hold a well-attended news conference immediately the indictment is handed down. You will be front and center, surrounded, of course, by your hard-working staff, but the focus will be on you. Lynne Jacobi, public avenger. Your name and face will be fully featured, Lynne. It will be your public introduction. This is the case that will be remembered and we will be sure that your name is linked permanently in the public’s mind with the prosecution of David Cohen.”
His eyes took in every detail of my somewhat shoddy appearance: my hair needed “doing”; I was wearing a not-great shirt, tails hanging out of not-designer jeans. Working clothes, not media-conference clothes. It is one of District Attorney Hale’s finer abilities: he can deliver a specific message without saying one single word.
I shoved a lock of hair from my forehead. “I’ve been going nearly around the clock on all of this, sir. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of turning up before the Grand Jury in less than my best.”
“A nice dress would be very appropriate, Lynne.” He held his hand up quickly. “Of course, whatever you decide.” And then, pointedly, “You do have a nice dress or two, don’t you?”
Not that I’ve ever seen you so attired, Lynne.
“I will be presentable, Mr. Hale.”
“Yes, of course. You always are, Lynne.” His eyes slid over me as he rose from his desk to escort me from his office. “Almost always.” And then, quietly, he asked, “And what exactly was it that our plaintiff had on her mind that she needed to relay to a ‘good friend’ prior to consenting to surgery?”
I smiled. He was up on this case without doubt.
“Apparently, it was just that she needed to talk to a friend. I guess she was pretty devastated by what Regg Morris had done to her. I haven’t spoken to Alan Greco or seen his statement, but Bobby Jones said it was more or less that she needed reassurance. She needed to have someone affirm that her life was of value. She was pretty destroyed by what this ... man ... did to her.”
“All right, then, Lynne. After your Grand Jury appearance tomorrow morning, let’s have lunch, shall we? We’ve some talking to do. Relative to your future, my dear.”
Sounded good to me.
It’s a date.
CHAPTER 36
I WORE A NICE Diane Von Furstenberg shirtwaist and my presentation to the Grand Jury went forward smoothly and without a hitch. This is one of those cases where no one coughs, sneezes or blinks too much lest they miss one drop of blood or word of gore. Almost immediately, they gave me exactly what I sought. Dr. David Cohen was indicted and his arrest ordered on Friday, March 30, for the crimes of rape; sodomy; atrocious assault (dismemberment); assault with a deadly weapon (cleaver); assault with intent to kill. They didn’t even award him points for having carefully sewn back on the hand he had so carelessly hacked off.
District Attorney Jameson Whitney Hale was as good as his word. There was a wide-open, well-attended media conference held in his office as soon as the indictment was handed down. I was front and center and the District Attorney deferred to me at every question. I modestly awarded a great deal of credit to my hard-working staff, including members of Chief of Detectives Jim Barrow’s office. By the end of thirty minutes, my eyes had totally lost the ability to focus. The television lights were not only heat-generating, they were blinding. Particularly in combination with the constant, shocking flash of the newspaper photographers. Glori Nichols was on the job, asking just a few more than her fair share of questions, and her cameraman came practically across Jameson’s desk to get a close closeu
p of me in my quiet and modest moment of triumph.
The only key members of my crew who were missing, but to whom I made reference, were Lucy Capella, who was recuperating from her latest animal venture. And Bobby Jones.
Who was off checking something with the feds relative to Regg Morris and his international cartel. Or something like that, he said.
The arrest was effected quietly, quickly and professionally by members of Jim Barrow’s Detective Division. The news media didn’t get on to the proceedings until Dr. Cohen and the detectives arrived at the precinct for booking. By the time he was brought downtown for arraignment, of course, it had become a full-fledged media event. Cameras were not allowed in the courtroom, but row after row of benches were filled with bright-eyed eager reporters, male and female, sketching the scene, craning forward, calling out: Who’s the lady in the wheelchair? Is that Cohen’s father taking care of the lady? Who the hell is the younger guy with them? Must be Cohen’s brother, he’s an absolute ringer. Hey, isn’t their attorney Arnold Mulholland? Didn’t he practice exclusively in Texas, defending all those rich women who killed their richer husbands? Jeez, doesn’t this guy charge ten thou just to appear for an arraignment?
I was a little impressed at the appearance of Arnold Mulholland, legendary glamour-lawyer who had not only been cover-featured by Newsweek and Time, but who had written one book and co-authored two movies based on his most famous, and invariably successful, cases. He immediately became the center of attention. He exuded star quality, an aura of power, certainty, presence, authority, excitement, tension, yet at the same time easy confidence. He was a large man: or at least he gave the impression of being a large man, of filling the room with his own sense of himself. He turned momentarily toward the family group: a unit clustered around the mother, who was taut and semi-paralyzed, rigid with dignity in her wheelchair. His wide-opened arms embraced and encompassed Dr. Cohen’s father, a tall, thin man whose hands seemed frozen on the handles of his wife’s wheelchair. Dr. Cohen’s brother, a younger version of David, slightly taller, basketball-player legs, more hair, dressed in what seemed to be the family uniform—the good dark suit, the crisp white shirt, the muted expensive tie—this Cohen, Ben, nuclear engineer up at the King’s Point reactor, seemed to be focused with great alarm on his father.
False Witness Page 21
