Down Here (23 page)

^“
M
ayday!” Hauser, on the phone.

I met him an hour later, in the park across the street from the Appellate Division courthouse.

“I was in Atlanta, on assignment,” he said. “Just got back. Turns out, a while back, a woman came to my house in Westchester. It was about four in the afternoon, right after school. My wife was at her Wednesday tennis lesson. One of the kids answered the door. Long story short, when she left, she knew damn well that you’re not me.”

“She saw a photo of you?”

“More than that,” he said, ruefully. “I’ve got great kids. They’re proud of their father. So, when a woman shows up and says Daddy’s getting an award . . .”

“
When
was this?”

“I don’t know
exactly
when, but it was a while back, only I just now found out about it,” Hauser said, impatiently. “Kids, they forget things. . . .”

Images of Laura Reinhardt flooded my mind. They turned slowly, like a roulette wheel near the end of its spin. I watched as she built her “business model” as meticulously as she had her bottle tree.

With her own hands. Unrestrained.

“Some kids do,” I told Hauser.

Then I hung up. On all of it.

T
he waiter cleared away the remnants of our meal, asked us if we wanted dessert. Laura Reinhardt raised her eyebrows at me. “I could go for a little
tórta,
” I said.

She held up two fingers.

“Now,
that
may have been going too far,” she said, patting her lips with a white napkin when she was done. She leaned back in her chair, seemed to think better of it, and bent toward me. I lit another cigarette for her.

“Tell me about the book,” she said.

“You’ve been reading about the death-penalty cases—the ones where they find out, years later, that a man sentenced to death was innocent all along?”

“I’ve seen things on TV, that’s all.”

“It’s a national scandal,” I said, locking her eyes with my sincerity. “In Illinois, the last governor canceled every single pending execution before he left office. He said he just couldn’t be sure that people on death row are really guilty. In one case, this guy was accused of raping and murdering a little girl. Turned out it wasn’t him.”

“How would they—?”

“Sometimes, it’s DNA,” I told her. “Sometimes, believe it or not, the actual criminal confesses—usually when they’ve caught him on a whole bunch of other things. Sometimes, it’s as simple as an alibi they never checked out. But it always comes down to the same thing, which is what my book’s about.”

“Innocence?”

“No. I mean, innocence is a
part
of it, but that’s not the theme, not the . . . drive-force. I’m trying to go deeper. These things aren’t due to incompetence. Well,
some
of them are, sure. But the dark underbelly to all this is the kind of people who become prosecutors. I’m not talking about corruption, either—although
that
happens, too—I’m talking about people who have lost their way.”

“Prosecutors?”

“Prosecutors. Some of them lose sight of the difference between fighting
crime
and fighting
criminals.
”

“I don’t see the difference myself,” she said. “If you fight criminals, you
do
fight crime, isn’t that true?”

“In
that
order, yes,” I agreed. “But not when it’s reversed.”

“How could it be—?”

“A child is murdered. A woman is raped. A building is torched, and a fireman dies when the roof collapses. A . . . You know the type of crime I’m talking about. Public outrage. Lots of media attention. Demands for results. The pressure on prosecutors is tremendous. And, sometimes, they can be so hyper-focused on the
crime
that they ignore the
criminal.
It’s almost like, if they can put
someone
in prison, the crime is ‘solved.’ It just . . . consumes them. Like going snow-blind.

“And it’s our—the public’s—fault, too. How do we judge prosecutors? On their conviction rates, right? So, if a DA has any sort of political ambitions, he’d
better
clear his cases. That’s where plea bargaining came from, originally. It
is
a bargain. The criminal gets a much lighter sentence, and the prosecutor doesn’t take a chance on losing a trial.”

“But why would an innocent person agree to a plea bargain?”

“They
don’t,
” I said, lighting another cigarette. I left it in the ashtray next to the candle-in-Chianti-bottle that had been burning since before I sat down. “And that’s where the gate to hell opens. That’s when the pressure builds to get a result.
Any
result. That’s when an innocent man goes to prison.”

“A man like—?”

“John Anson Wychek. You understand what they did to him, don’t you? I don’t mean the wrongful conviction,” I said, holding up my hand to stop her from speaking, “I mean the
rest
of it.”

“I know it ruined his—”

“Ms. Reinhardt . . .”

“Laura.”

“Laura, the fact that you couldn’t be closer to the situation and even
you
don’t understand the scope of the tragedy, well, that
proves
why my book has to be written. Look, your brother was convicted of a
single
crime, right?”

“Yes. They said he—”

“In fact,” I interrupted, “he was convicted of more than a
dozen.
”

“What? How can you—?”

“Laura, these cases don’t have to be
solved.
They just have to be
cleared.
Do you understand the difference?”

“I guess I don’t.”

“When your brother was convicted of that one crime, the police ‘cleared’ a whole bunch of
other
crimes, naming him as the perpetrator. I don’t mean they
charged
him with the crimes. I don’t mean he was ever
tried
for them. But, as far as the police are concerned, those crimes are closed cases now.

“They
never
could have proved those cases against your brother. He was innocent, and I think they must have known that. So they never brought him to trial. But with that one single conviction they announce that
all
the crimes—all the
similar
crimes that were committed throughout the entire metropolitan area!—are solved. And John Anson Wychek, well, he’s the guilty man.”

“They never said—”

“They don’t have to say anything to
you.
All that counts is the press. And for the press, it’s an instant no-story. They can’t print that your brother is guilty—he’d sue them for millions. But they can’t pressure the DA to ‘solve’ the cases, either. See how it happens?”

“My God,” she said, eyes widening.

“Yes,” I said. “I know just what you’re thinking. Somewhere in this city, maybe somewhere close by, a vicious serial rapist is walking around loose.
That’s
the hidden penalty society pays every time we stand by and allow an obsessed prosecutor to railroad an innocent man.”

“And you think John’s story could change all that?”

“For what I want, I think he’s perfect,” I said, pure truth beaming out of me, like I was radioactive with it.

T
he check came inside a small leather folder. The waiter dropped it off and vanished. I opened it up. Much less than I’d expected. I put a fifty inside the folder, closed it back up.

“Wouldn’t credit cards make a better record for your accountant?” she asked.

“The only accountant who’ll ever see this bill is the publisher’s. And they’re not going to care.”

“You’re not one of those guys who pays cash for everything, are you?”

“Me? No. I use credit cards when I have to, I guess. Probably more of that old-fashioned thing. I’m a long way from paying bills over the Internet.”

“Because you’re worried about the security?”

“The security?”

“You know,” she said, raising her eyebrows just a touch. “Identity theft, stuff like that.”

“Oh. Well, you can’t work where I do without hearing about it. But . . . no. I guess I just don’t see what’s so great about doing it any new way.”

“Sometimes, to make things better, you have to try new ways,” she said.

The waiter came back, picked up the leather folder, and walked off without a word.

“What’s the next step?” Laura Reinhardt asked me.

“That depends on you,” I said.

“But you’re going ahead, doing a story on my brother, even if I don’t . . . cooperate, I guess is the word I was looking for.”

“I . . . I can’t say that. Not for sure. My contract is for a book on the consequences of false—or, I should say, ‘wrongful’—imprisonment. I thought your brother would be the ideal way to present the material, but he’s not the only candidate. Let’s face it, if he
was,
I wouldn’t have much of a book.”

“I don’t under—”

“If this kind of thing was an isolated incident, it makes a good
news
story, but it’s not a book,” I told her. “What I’m talking about is a phenomenon. An epidemic. There’s a lot of reasons for wanting your brother to be the centerpiece. I admit, it would be easier for me, with everything based right here in the city, but there are others who would fit the bill.”

The waiter came back with the leather folder. I opened it. Found a ten-dollar bill, a single, and some change.

“You’re a gambler, huh?” I said to him.

“OTB’s right down the street,” he said, flashing a grin.

I extracted the single, closed up the folder, and handed it back to him.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, nodding as if a deeply held belief had just been confirmed.

^“
C
an I give you a lift anywhere?” I asked, as we stepped onto the sidewalk.

“I have my own car,” she said. “But I’d appreciate you walking me over to it. This neighborhood has changed a lot since I was a little girl.”

“My pleasure.”

She walked with a compact, efficient stride, matching my normal pace easily, despite the difference in our heights.

“Did you and your brother eat at that same place when you were kids?”

“No. It wasn’t really for family outings. I mean, it
is,
but I only went there with my father. Like for special treats, just the two of us. There was a Jahn’s close by, too. I always had a sundae I used to think they made just for me—pistachio ice cream with butterscotch topping.”

“You ate that
voluntarily
?”

“I’m a lot more adventurous than I look,” she said, with a little giggle. “I liked eating something the boys were afraid of.”

“Just
hearing
about it scares me,” I admitted.

“That’s mine,” she said, stopping midblock. She reached in her purse and took out a set of keys. A chirping sound identified her silver Audi convertible as clearly as if she had pointed her finger.

“Very nice,” I said. “You don’t see many of those in the City.”

“The TT?”

“Convertibles. Costs a fortune to garage them. And if you don’t . . .”

“That’s true,” she said. “But where I live, indoor parking’s part of the deal.”

“I’ve heard about places like that.”

“You don’t look as if you’re starving,” she said, fingering my new suede jacket.

“I’m not,” I said. “But this coat’s not part of my wardrobe; it pretty much
is
my wardrobe.”

“So I can’t interest you in some of our more . . . adventurous investing prospects?” she said, smiling.

“Maybe after my book hits the charts.”

She crossed the street, opened the door to her convertible.

“I had a very nice time . . . J.P.,” she said, almost formally.

“I did, too. I wish . . .”

“What?”

“Never mind. I . . . I don’t want to . . . Look, Laura, I know you’ve got a lot to think about. About what I told you, I mean. Or people to talk it over with, or whatever. But can I ask you just one thing?”

“What would that be?”

“Will you call me, either way? I mean, if the answer’s ‘no,’ even then?”

“If you want, sure. But couldn’t we just say, if you don’t hear back from me by—?”

“I would much rather you called,” I told her. “And I promise you, if the answer’s ‘no,’ I won’t try to talk you out of it.”

She climbed into her car, got behind the wheel, looked up at me. “I’ll call you,” she said. “Count on it.”

^“
A
ll right, Schoolboy. You got a look, but did you set the hook?”

“Tried like hell, Prof. But I can’t know unless I feel a tug on the line.”

“Yeah,” he said, unconvinced. “Your girl, she’s holding the case ace, right?”

“Wolfe? If I’m right about Wychek already recanting, sure. But we can’t know if—”

“And we got the boss hoss for a shyster, too, right?” the Prof pressed.

“Davidson’s as good as there is,” I agreed.

“But you still got my boy and the T-man working those computers like they trying to find the cure for cancer,” the little man said. “And you, you got no doubt, but you still out and about.”

“Am I missing something here?” I said.

“Not you, bro. It’s me that don’t see.”

“Why I’m still working?”

“Don’t play dumb, son. Every one of us know what you got in this. And when it looked dicey, dealing us in, that was fine. But now . . . ?”

“What, Prof?”

“Tell me there’s some green in the scene,” the little man pleaded. “Tell me you a man with a plan. A scheme beats a dream, every time.”

“It’s not a—”

“Don’t have to be no sure score, honeyboy. But there’s a longshot that we got money on
somewhere
in all this, true as blue?”

“True as blue,” I promised.

^“
H
e wants to meet you, again.” Pepper’s voice, over my cellular.

“Did he say why?”

“Another file, is all he said.”

“Couldn’t he just leave it with—?”

“I got the impression he couldn’t even
copy
it.”

“Tell him—”

“I did,” she cut me off. “Tomorrow night, Yonkers Raceway. In the outdoor grandstand at the top of the stretch. It’s a Thursday; he’ll find you easy enough, he said.”