“Why don’t you think it’s connected to the African Burial Ground?” I asked.
“Not a chance,” Mercer said. “I’d like to claim credit for knowing this, but you understand I got all the history from Mike.”
“That figures. How is it different?”
“African slaves were brought here to New Amsterdam in 1626. But they weren’t allowed to be buried in any of the church cemeteries within the city proper. And in those days, when Manhattan started at the Battery and covered only the southern tip of this island,” Mercer said, “the northernmost part of the city ended right over there, a block away. There were palisades built-fences with stakes on top-to defend the settlers. The slaves were given five desolate acres north of that, outside the original city, to bury their dead.”
“Five acres?” Nan said. “Then there must have been more than five hundred bodies.”
“Something like twenty thousand. Many of them infants and children stacked on top of each other.”
I was still reeling from the fact of all the women and men being trafficked to the States, and how common modern-day slavery actually is. I’d never thought much about slavery in the North, in a place like colonial New York. “What became of all those other graves?”
“Dust and detritus, Alex,” Mercer said. “When the city moved past here, beyond its colonial walls, it just appropriated the cemetery and paved over it.”
I scanned the skyline. It appeared that the entire Civic Center that was adjacent to the north side of City Hall Park had been built on top of the remains of thousands of African slaves. “I’m embarrassed to say I don’t even know when slavery was abolished in New York.”
“Eighteen twenty-seven. Shockingly late, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” I said. “So who are we looking at here, Mr. Brady?”
“This just for your information?” Brady was checking Mercer for an answer as he straightened up.
“Yeah, I’m a curious guy.”
“The mayor knows all about this, if that’s what you’re thinking. Been going on for years. It’s a historical project.”
“Pretty sloppy one,” Mercer whispered to me.
“This here City Hall was built in 1803. You can read that right on the sign over at the front gate. Before that, all this land was an almshouse. A homeless shelter, a poorhouse, and a jail, all balled into one part of town. Had its own cemetery next to it. For whites, of course. No blacks.”
Mercer nodded at me. “Of course.”
“I was working here when Giuliani was mayor. That’s the first time some bits and pieces of bone came up, all jumbled together. We was making over the park for the new millennium celebration-taking out the dead trees, fixing the pavement, putting in new lights. Holy cow,” Brady says, “one of the guys calls me over to show me this cluster of bones-like a whole human leg. Spooky as all hell.”
“What did Giuliani do?” Nan asked.
“Sure didn’t like anybody talking about it. Guess he was afraid all those people would come back and protest again. Though it ain’t like slaves. Don’t know anybody who’d claim an old relative from the poorhouse or jail. Sent what was found to the Smithsonian. Can’t say I know what ever come of it. Now, whenever we come upon an area of the park that needs renovation, we have to put up this here fencing and tarp it over.”
“The city morgue has its own anthropologist, Mr. Brady,” Mercer said. “Gonna have him take a look too.”
“Kinda unnecessary if you ask me,” Brady said. “We got this here hole and the one just southeast of the front steps. Nobody pays ’em no mind.”
“Every now and again maybe somebody should,” Mercer said. “What else you find in these digs?”
“Dead animals get in. Sometimes you come across old buttons or shards of glass. Even some shroud pins.”
“And modern-day things?” I asked.
Brady studied me for a few seconds. “You police too?”
“Nope,” I said with a smile.
“You’d never believe she studies ballet,” Nan said, drawing a laugh from the wizened Parks Department worker. “Clumsy as she is to fall in your ditch.”
“All kinds of stuff gets tossed in by people heading into the building. Scraps of paper, tennis balls, empty cans. Sometimes we find a pocket knife or something out in front that wouldn’t make it through the metal detector. Then there’s your food and garbage. That’s what attracts the rats, what start draggin’ the pieces of bone around.”
“How sad is that?” I said aloud to no one in particular.
“You know what they say about cross-examining,” Nan said. “Never ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer. Or don’t want to know the answer. Let’s head back. We’ve got so much to do.”
“You two go on ahead. I’ll wait to show this stuff to Andy when he gets here.”
“Not because it has anything to do with what we’re working on?” I asked. I didn’t see any connection.
“Course not,” Mercer said. “I just can’t imagine letting anybody’s folks spill out of the ground like this and not be treated properly. Shoo, ladies. I’ll be along soon.”
Nan and I walked back to my office, going over our checklist of things to do. I pressed the elevator to take us to the eighth floor.
“What’ll you give me for not telling anyone about your giant flop?”
“I’m running out of IOUs. I had to promise my life away to get Mike to take me to Salma’s apartment last night.”
“I’m much easier,” Nan said. “I’ll take lunch at Forlini’s when you come up for air. I want to hear how things are going with Luc.”
“Luc, Paris, and all the romance that went with the week seem light-years behind me,” I said as we approached Laura’s desk.
“Ah, Paris. Only the extra pounds remain. I have a feeling you’ll work it off in the next month.”
“You’re later than I expected, Alex,” Laura said. “And another casually chic outfit, I see?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Not even about the dirt that’s clinging to the back of your hair?” she said, following us into my office so that she could straighten me out before handing me my messages. “And don’t bother to look at these yet. Go see the district attorney. Rose said it’s ugly in there. He’s chewing her head off waiting for you.”
“See what I mean, Nan? The boss is gunning for someone. I hate to be in the crossfire until I figure out who the target is.”
“You’re all set with the conference room, Nan,” Laura said. I’d be lost without her self-starting efficiency and ease of operating in a maelstrom. “I’ve reserved it for the next couple of weeks, and there are actually two official Ukrainian interpreters able to start working with you today.”
“Great. All we need is a way to get our victims back to us. Go ahead, Alex. I’ll call Donny Baynes and get us on the same page.”
“Am I supposed to be knocking out subpoenas for the phone company?” Laura asked. “Mike left a message with some numbers for a Salma someone. Landline and cell, right?”
“Not until Nan opens a grand jury investigation,” I said, putting my hands together as if praying to my colleague. “Jump the line, Nan. Make it dinner, and all the gossip I know.”
“Last thing for the moment,” Laura said. “Lem called. Wants to know what you did with the congressman’s package. Something about what he was expecting this morning.”
“Package? Is that a new euphemism for piece of ass? Don’t call him back, Laura. Resist Lem’s charm and his persistent calls. Tell him nothing.”
“You know he’ll show up here if you ignore him.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, heading off to see Battaglia. “Lem would be comic relief by the time the boss gets through with me.”
THIRTEEN
The security guard buzzed me into the executive suite. The handful of lawyers who held administrative positions had offices in Battaglia’s inner sanctum, and I passed by them as I walked toward Rose Mal
one, his longtime loyal assistant. Her expression often mirrored the district attorney’s mood, and today it was unusually cold.
“Good to see you, Alex. Go right in.” We didn’t even bother to exchange our usual pleasantries.
I made the turn into Paul Battaglia’s large office. He was sitting at the conference table at the far end-not his desk-and he wasn’t alone.
“I told you she wouldn’t keep you waiting very long, Boss,” Pat McKinney said. “Look at that, Alex probably ran all the way down here. Sweats must be the new power suit, no?”
The chief of the Trial Division was a perennial thorn in my professional side. McKinney was a few years my senior, and although he was reputed to have capable investigative skills, his rigid and humorless manner made him an unpopular choice to lead the hundreds of smart young lawyers who staffed the division that was the heart of every good prosecutor’s office.
“Good morning, Paul,” I said, closing the door behind me. “It’s so rare for you to compliment my outfit, Pat. I’m flattered.”
“How’d it go at City Hall?” the DA asked.
“I left the mayor and Scully bickering over staging the next phase of things.”
“Really? Bickering about what?”
“The commissioner wants to use Gracie Mansion because it’s so convenient to Salma Zunega’s apartment. Statler said no and asked us to leave.”
“Why won’t he let Keith use the mansion?” Battaglia asked, sitting up straight and making eye contact with McKinney.
“He wouldn’t talk in front of Mike or Mercer or me. I don’t know.”
“You don’t usually defer to authority so meekly, Alex,” McKinney said. He saw Battaglia reaching for a new cigar and stood up to strike a match for him.
“She barely said a word yesterday,” the DA spoke out of the corner of his mouth, as he dragged on the Cohiba to get it lighted.
I didn’t realize Battaglia had lifted the gag order he had imposed for my meeting with Mayor Statler. “Just depends on whether I respect the person giving orders, Pat.”
“There’s something very serious I’ve got to tell you, Alexandra. I’m going to take you into my confidence on this, because it may impact what’s going on with Ethan Leighton and, well, even with his mistress. Obviously, Pat knows about it too. Can I trust you with this?”
I stood up to leave. “Maybe that’s a leakier boat than I want to get in, Paul.”
“Sit down. Sit right down.”
McKinney’s affair with Ellen Gunsher, who ran the office GRIP unit-Gun Recovery Information Program-had not only broken up his marriage, but it had also made him the laughingstock of many of the lawyers and cops. Gunsher’s mother was a former newswoman whose career had washed up due to her own carelessness and unprofessional behavior. But McKinney was always trying to stay in her good graces by feeding her exclusives on crime investigations that should never have been discussed.
“Did the mayor bring any other politicians into the conversation today?”
“No. No, he didn’t.”
“The reason I wanted you to go over there this morning without me-and without Tim-was that I thought Statler might have let down his guard and mentioned names in response to what you told him.”
“That didn’t happen. Of course, he and the commissioner were still together when I left.”
“How about Lem Howell, Alexandra? I’m sure he’s tried to speak to you since yesterday.”
“Actually, yes, Paul. Laura says he called me this morning. I expect he’s peeved because Salma Zunega didn’t show up for his first meeting with her today.”
“That’s the way to go, Boss,” McKinney said. “Lem Howell. Lem thinks he taught Alex everything she knows. Maybe she can get something out of him?”
I watched carefully as they talked between themselves. McKinney’s sharp, pointed nose and pinched mouth morphed into a rodentlike face when he schemed, especially in regard to someone he disliked.
“That’s an idea.”
“What’s an idea?” I asked.
Paul Battaglia stowed his cigar on the edge of an ashtray, a sign that he was ready for a serious talk. “Have you met the lieutenant governor yet?”
“No, Boss.”
Eliot Spitzer, the New York governor who resigned after the scandal caused by his involvement with the ultra-high-priced prostitutes of the Emperors Club VIP ring, had also been a prosecutor in Battaglia’s office in his first years out of law school. When he stepped down, Lieutenant Governor David Paterson was sworn in as his replacement.
A year later, in a special statewide election, a powerful former state senator from the Albany region named Rod Ralevic succeeded Paterson as the new lieutenant governor.
“Ralevic. You know the name?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you know that the feds have had him under investigation for months?”
McKinney was like the cat that swallowed a canary and then washed it down with a bald eagle. He loved being in the know while I looked dumbfounded.
“No, sir.”
“Don’t you want to know why?” McKinney said.
“I assume Paul’s about to tell me. Don’t forget to wipe your mouth, Pat. I think there are some bird droppings on your lip.”
McKinney lowered his beak and actually tried to see if something was wrong.
“Ralevic’s been trying to sell patronage in Albany for years now. Probably has. He’s already starting bragging that for the right price, he can control the party’s pick in the special election to replace Ethan Leighton’s congressional seat.”
“It’s only been a little over twenty-four hours since Leighton went belly-up on the FDR Drive,” I said.
“And every couple of hours that go by represents a two-year ticket to Congress or some other vacant post, Alex.”
Paul Battaglia had won reelection term after term using the slogan “You can’t play politics with people’s lives.”
“It’s not Ralevic’s position to give, is it?”
“Not exactly, but it’s Ralevic’s style to claim he can influence the party endorsement,” Battaglia said. “It’s not like a vacant Senate seat, where the governor can choose someone to finish out the term. For the House of Representatives, Paterson has to set an election date-usually one hundred twenty days out-then each party nominates a candidate. Theoretically, the district leaders here in the city would try to control the apparatus that does that, but Ralevic’s trying to flex his muscle-and his pocketbook.”
“Not with the governor’s approval?” I asked.
“Certainly not, Alex. Paterson’s a thoroughly straight shooter, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t people who would pay dearly to show on his radar screen, to try for an advantage, whether it gets them there or not.”
“So you think Leighton is in on this scheme?”
“Leighton or his old man. The father would sell his grandkids if they brought the right price. Don’t shudder, Alex. That’s why they call it hardball. Leighton’s father has always been his fixer. I’m sure he’d like a say in who succeeds Ethan. Someone who may be willing to step aside when all this is over, if his son’s name is eventually cleared.”
“If the feds have been all over Ralevic about this, Paul, what do you need from me?”
“Lem Howell would follow you if you jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge,” McKinney added.
“Oh, please, Pat. Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “And Pat? Don’t hold your breath too long, because I’m not jumping.”
“I need you in this, Alex, because I have to come out of this clean as a hound’s tooth,” Paul Battaglia said.
There had never been a whisper of a scandal surrounding the district attorney. “But you are that, Paul. I don’t understand.”
“It’s about Tim Spindlis, Alex.”
Something happened between Battaglia and Spindlis after I got out of the DA’s car last evening. There must have been a reason the chief assistant hadn’t piggybacked with me to City Hall th
is morning. There must have been something he told Battaglia that meant he couldn’t be in the room with us right now.
“What about Tim?” I asked.
Spindlis was in his sixties, with little to show for a thirty-eight-year career in law enforcement except an endless series of lesser decisions that Battaglia had sloughed off in his direction.
“I’d like to see him on the bench this year. I’d like to get him named to the Court of Claims. And I don’t want that designation snarled up in any monkey business or pay-for-play talk that sleazeball Ralevic brings into the picture.”
That gubernatorial appointment to the Court of Claims was an absolute plum for a lawyer under any circumstances, but for Spindlis it would cap his lackluster career and ensure that he would have job security until he reached the mandatory retirement age, as well as top-tier pension benefits.
Battaglia had been close enough to Spitzer when he was governor to make the kind of behind-the-scene deals that placed many protégés-most of whom were well-qualified-in important jobs. Scores of former prosecutors were staff for the attorney general and the governor, dozens more wore judicial robes or ran administrative agencies. There were no bribes or illegal payments ever at issue, just the traditional political back-scratching, and the all-important blessing of Paul Battaglia.
But Battaglia didn’t have that relationship with the new governor, couldn’t call in the chits that a mentor might request of the kind of protégé Eliot Spitzer had been.
“You think Ralevic and Ethan Leighton have some kind of relationship?” I asked.
I could see now why Battaglia had been in such a foul mood yesterday. He didn’t want these events to queer the deal he had made for Spindlis. And of course Pat McKinney was in on this political positioning, because he would be the likely successor to the role of chief assistant that Spindlis now held-the consigliere to Battaglia.
Something in it for almost everybody.
“The less detail you know the better, Alex.”
“I take it someone’s been wearing a wire.” I wondered if either one of them noticed that I was beginning to squirm.
Hell Gate Page 10
