by Adam Mitzner
“I’m so sorry,” I add softly.
I wonder if Richard is thinking clearly enough to understand that the next few minutes will determine everything. He hasn’t been Mirandized because he’s here voluntarily and Miranda warnings are only given to people in police custody, but I’m certain Richard knows that the smart move is for him to remain silent.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water . . . something to eat maybe?” Gabriel asks, still standing.
Richard declines the offer with a shake of his head.
This is Gabriel’s cue to sit, and I immediately follow suit. A beat later, so does Richard.
“Dana and I will be leading the investigation into your wife’s murder,” Gabriel says. “Let me state at the outset that this is going to be a no-stone-unturned situation. We’ve been given every available resource to track down her killer. The first step in that process, however, is you. I know you’ve already answered some questions. You must be exhausted, but we need to start from square one.”
I wait with bated breath for Richard’s response. The next thing out of his mouth will tell me exactly how he plans to play this.
His mouth starts to contort as if he’s about to say something.
Then he vomits all over my lap.
11.
ELLA BRODEN
I begin to walk to One PP. I’m not certain why I don’t jump into a cab. It’s still below freezing, last night’s cold front not having moved on yet, and my destination is more than half an hour away by foot. After a block or two, I embrace the frigid air instead of letting it cause me discomfort.
It’s begun to numb my face, and I want to feel numb all over.
When I finally arrive indoors, Steve Lassiter, the officer who more often than not mans the front desk, smiles at me. “Hey, Ella. Nice to see you again. Here to see Gabriel?”
He must not have heard the news.
“Yes” is all I trust myself to say.
“Sign in, and then go right on up.”
I can’t go “right on up,” of course. There’s a metal detector that requires me to remove my coat, my shoes, and my belt, and to place my phone and handbag on the conveyor belt. Even after I do all of that, I still set off the machine. A female police officer is tasked with passing the wand over me and then gently patting me down. Only after she’s satisfied that I’m not a threat does she hand me a visitor’s pass and tell me to have a lovely day.
On the sixth floor, I’m greeted by Ruth, the receptionist. I tell her I’m here to see Gabriel. She’s not one for small talk—or smiling, for that matter. She tells me to have a seat.
“Is he in?” I ask.
“He’s in the building,” Ruth says curtly.
Although I’ve visited Gabriel at work a few times since we started dating, it’s usually a prearranged lunch meet-up, and he greets me at the elevators. This is the first time I’ve been relegated to the unpadded wooden chairs set out in the hallway since I was a near-daily visitor six months ago, when Charlotte went missing.
I had been determined to hold it together. But being back here, once again to hear Gabriel tell me about a loved one being murdered, is too much for me to bear. I can’t believe that I’m never going to speak to Lauren again. I go back through our talks, how much I’ve learned from her, how much I tried to be like her. It’s all too much, and I once again break out into uncontrollable sobbing.
When he was leading the investigation into Charlotte’s disappearance, Gabriel always maintained a positive demeanor with me. No matter how dire the circumstances, he somehow made me believe that a happy ending was still possible. I knew that was part of his training, but it nevertheless buoyed me when things were at their darkest. And then, when everything finally went black and Charlotte’s body was discovered, Gabriel’s presence assured me that I’d again see the light.
When he approaches me this morning, however, he’s wearing the same horrified look that I’ve been carrying around since he told me the day’s sad news. I can’t imagine he’s truly grieving—after all, Lauren was merely a work colleague to him, and not a particularly close one at that. Rather, he’s worried about how devastated I am. He knows all too well the struggle it has been for me over these last six months, the slow and steady ascent out of the abyss. I’m certain he fears precisely what I do—that Lauren’s death will push me back into that bottomless hole.
I fall into his arms, and he embraces me tightly. I revel in the warmth.
Until the noxious odor pushes me back, that is.
“You smell like—”
“Puke, I know.”
“What happened?”
“Richard Trofino threw up, and I got hit with some splatter, I guess.”
A minute later, we’re behind the closed door of Gabriel’s office. The privacy could allow me to break down further, but for some reason it causes me to collect myself. I’m conscious of my own breathing, a deliberate attempt to control my runaway emotions.
Gabriel has never lost anyone close to him. He’s a thirty-eight-year-old man who still has all four of his grandparents. I’ve never met his parents, but in photographs they look to be the picture of health. Of course he understands plenty about loss from witnessing it on a daily basis. He’s a wonderful consoler—in fact, I don’t know how I would have survived Charlotte’s death without his support—but no one who hasn’t experienced grief firsthand can fully comprehend its power to overwhelm. It’s the difference between watching the destruction of a hurricane on television and taking the full brunt of the storm.
“Can I get you anything?” Gabriel asks, ever the host.
“You know what I want.”
He smiles to confirm that we can, in fact, read each other’s minds. At least on issues like this one.
“Not much to tell you, unfortunately. Two GSWs. We think at close range, but ballistics will confirm. Lauren’s body was found at five this morning by the duck pond in Central Park, which is between Seventy-Third and Seventy-Fifth Streets, so just a few blocks from her apartment. It’s not clear yet if she was murdered there or shot somewhere else and then moved.” He stops. “Anything I’m missing?”
“Richard’s story is that he knows nothing?”
“He was in no condition to be questioned. We tried, but like I said, he threw up before we got started. The cops who were first on the scene told me he was a total Sergeant Schultz.”
I’ve heard the Sergeant Schultz reference before, but I can’t recall its origin. I only know it means that Richard is not giving anything up.
“You need to track down Donald Chesterman,” I say.
“Yeah, I already mentioned that to Dana, but I couldn’t remember the guy’s name.”
Gabriel is writing Donald Chesterman’s name, so he doesn’t forget again. I’m focused on something else entirely, however.
“Dana?”
“Dana Goodwin. She’s partnering with me on this.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Do you think she’s not right for this?”
Dana Goodwin replaced me as Lauren’s deputy. Before she got my job, I’d met Dana over the years only a handful of times—a consequence of the Manhattan DA’s office having hundreds of ADAs in its ranks—because Dana spent her career in General Crimes, whereas I had been a lifer in Special Vics. But I knew her by reputation. In fact, I’d wager every ADA knew her that way. She was universally recognized as the best trial lawyer we had. On top of which, she was beautiful. Her large eyes and slender neck conjured the image of a Golden Age movie star.
Lauren’s natural inclination had always been to reject long-term line ADAs for management roles because they had a difficult time transitioning from trying cases to acting as supervisors. “Once they’ve seen Paris, you just can’t keep them down on the farm” was how she put it. With Dana, Lauren said she made an exception because she saw something special in her. “Something like I saw in you,” she explained to me in that way parents sometimes do so you don’t think they like your sibling bet
ter.
I spent some time with Dana before I left, helping her transition into the job. It didn’t take me long to conclude that Lauren had made an excellent choice. Aside from being whip smart, Dana had an easygoing way about her and a sharp, cynical sense of humor that I’ve always found fun to be around. Of course, all of that only made me more jealous.
“It’s not that. She’s a great ADA. Maybe the best there is. But McKenney should have appointed a special prosecutor. Someone from outside the office.”
“Why?”
“To avoid the appearance of a conflict of interest. I was special prosecutor a few years ago when some Queens ADA was gunned down. Turned out to be a mistaken-identity thing, but the Queens DA made the designation as a matter of course.”
“I’m sure McKenney did it just so he can maintain some level of control over the investigation. Nothing better for him than Richard Trofino going to jail for murder, right?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t sound right to me. Especially if McKenney knew that she was thinking of challenging him for DA. That makes him a potential suspect.”
“I actually wasn’t thinking about that,” Gabriel says.
He looks like he’s contemplating it hard when a knock on the door startles me. Gabriel calls out that whoever is on the other side should come in.
A uniformed cop sticks his head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Lou, but we got something during the search of the apartment.”
It takes a second for it to register that the cop is referring to Gabriel as “Lieu,” as in Lieutenant.
“I’ll step out,” I say.
“No,” Gabriel says quickly as he follows the officer out of his office. “You stay. This’ll only take a second.”
Gabriel returns about a minute later. In his hand is a plastic bag. I can’t see what’s inside it.
“What’s that?”
“We might have caught a pretty significant break. Lauren left her cell phone in the apartment.”
“Her cell or her BlackBerry?”
He looks down at the bag. “It’s an iPhone.”
“She never used it. That’s why she left it behind. She only used her BlackBerry.”
He looks at me curiously, as if he can’t imagine someone who wasn’t glued to their iPhone. Or maybe it’s because he thought BlackBerrys no longer existed.
“For ADAs, all work communications have to be done on a BlackBerry,” I explain. “Phone, text, and e-mail. In fact, my BlackBerry was my only phone for quite a while. I finally bought an iPhone because I wanted to listen to music when I ran. I’m surprised Lauren even owned an iPhone, to tell you the truth. She didn’t when I was her deputy. And I’m sure she rarely used it.”
“And here I thought we found the Holy Grail. Her phone’s passcode protected anyway. So right now, it might as well be a paperweight.”
“Richard doesn’t know the code?”
“I don’t know. But you can bet we’ll be asking him.”
“I’ll go double or nothing he claims he doesn’t,” I say. “That’ll be your first indication that he’s the guy. If he killed her, there’s no way that he’ll want you knowing what’s on her phone.”
12.
DANA GOODWIN
After Richard got sick all over me and Gabriel sent him home, I headed back to my office for a change of clothing. I have a spare suit and blouse stowed there from the last time I was on trial. Sometimes it makes more sense to stay in a hotel rather than to hike back to Queens at two in the morning.
The first face I see upon my return to One Hogan is Sandra Wittcamp, the most junior lawyer in the group. I’m still covered in remnants of Richard’s last meal—at least what I couldn’t wash off in the One PP restroom—but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“I was looking for Lauren,” she says. “Any idea where she is?”
It occurs to me that I never discussed with Drake McKenney how to break the news to the members of Special Vics. I can’t get too far out in front of the boss on something like that, so I obfuscate.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“Maybe . . . It’s about the Gutierrez case.”
The name means nothing to me. “What’s the issue?”
“It’s a domestic,” she says, trying to sound casual with the lingo even though I can tell she’s uncertain whether she’s using it properly. “The vic was pretty badly beat up. Broken nose. Anyway, now she says she fell. Doesn’t want to press charges.”
This is the most common obstacle in sex-crime prosecutions. We could easily bring in ten times as many cases if it weren’t for recalcitrant—or, more accurately, petrified—wives and girlfriends.
“Did you explain to her that it’s not going to get any better if she does nothing?”
This is what the newbies are taught during orientation. When the victim wants to forget the whole thing, you play the role of understanding friend, advise her to pursue the matter and remind her it’s going to be more of the same until she does.
Virtually no victim ever changes her mind. That’s when it gets tough. The DA’s office doesn’t need the victim’s cooperation to prosecute, but it’s often a matter of resource allocation. Why knock ourselves out to protect someone who won’t accept our help, especially when the case is likely unwinnable if the victim is going to deny under oath that any crime occurred?
“Yeah, but she’s insisting she fell,” Sandra says.
“Right. Did you talk to the husband?”
“The wife?”
“No, I know you talked to the wife. Did you talk to her husband?”
“There is no husband,” Sandra says, trying to maintain a straight face. She knows she set me up and is now trying to show she’s enlightened.
“Two women?”
“Yeah,” Sandra says with the hint of a smile.
This is actually a first for me, but I’m not going to share that with Sandra. Better that she think I’ve seen it all.
“Did you speak to the battering wife?”
“Not yet. I didn’t know what to say.”
“First complaint?”
Sandra nods.
“Any chance that the injuries were actually the result of a fall?”
“No. The vic was pretty clear with the cops on the scene that she’d been hit.”
“Any weapon?”
“The cops didn’t think so. Punches. Maybe some kicks too.”
I conclude that this case isn’t going to be prosecuted. It’ll likely take at least two more beatings before the victim is ready to go that route. And she may never get there.
“Here’s what I’d do. Bring them both in. Have a uniform with you. Meet with the vic first. Go over the options with her. If she sticks to the slip-and-fall story, tell her that it’s your experience that it’s not going to stop and it’s likely going to get worse. Then, when she won’t change her mind, tell her that if it happens again, she should call you right away. Make sure you give her your card, and tell her to keep it somewhere safe. Her wallet. Inside her phone case. Someplace she has ready access to it in case she needs it, and where her wife won’t find it. Then I’d meet with the perp. Just you and her. No cops. You emphasize to her that she should consider this a gift from God, and that she should pray that her wife doesn’t ‘fall’ again, or ‘walk into a door,’ or have someone mistakenly ‘drop’ something on her head. Because if you hear that anything like that has happened, you’re going to make sure that it’s a jail situation—even if her wife doesn’t want to press charges.”
Sandra nods as I go through this explanation. “Okay. That sounds good,” she says. “Thanks, Dana.”
“You’re welcome. One last thing.”
Sandra looks at me with wide eyes, no doubt expecting me to impart some additional pearl of hard-earned wisdom.
“After you send them home, say a prayer that they don’t end up killing each other.”
Back in my office, I shut the door and change into my spare clothing. Then I call the
District Attorney.
McKenney’s assistant says that her boss is behind closed doors and left instructions not to be disturbed. I tell her that it’s important I speak with him as soon as possible because I need to alert the people in the bureau before the news hits.
“What news?” she asks.
“Just give him the message, please,” I say.
I don’t get a return phone call. Instead, Drake McKenney shows up at my office twenty minutes later.
Even though I’ve worked for the man for fifteen years, this is only the second time I’ve been in a room with the District Attorney. The first time was this morning.
“Terrible news today,” he says. “Lauren was . . . quite simply, what we all aspire to be as prosecutors.”
I get the feeling he’s workshopping this turn of phrase for when he has to deliver a more public eulogy. I know that Lauren wasn’t as big a fan of Drake McKenney as he’s now professing to have been of hers.
“Yes. Just terrible.” I pause in case he wishes to express more of his sadness, but he doesn’t say another word. “The reason I called you is because one of the lawyers in the group just asked me where Lauren was, and I realized that we need to make some statement before the news becomes public.”
“That’s why I’m here,” McKenney says. “Bring everyone into a conference room, and I’ll address the troops.”
We don’t actually have a room big enough for addressing the troops. The largest space on the floor is used for document review, but it has a long conference table that seats thirty. The entire Special Vics Bureau numbers more than a hundred, so it’s a standing-room-only situation, with many outside the doorway, in the hall.
Some in the room wear nervous looks, but I’m certain no one knows why the entire bureau has been assembled. This type of all-hands meeting has never happened in my tenure, but that’s been all of nine months. My guess is that most of the ADAs think they’re about to hear something about layoffs or a salary freeze.
