Night Watch (13 page)

Lem had been one of my first supervisors in the office, dubbed the blank panther by Mike Chapman not because of his skin color, but because of his sleek elegance and smooth moves, inside and out of the courtroom. He’d been nicknamed Mr. Triplicate by his adversaries. It wasn’t just the trio of Roman numerals after his name, but his habit of rephrasing all his arguments three times. I didn’t need to read the arraignment minutes to know that Mohammed Gil-Darsin had undoubtedly been railroaded on the flimsiest of
evidence, gossamer threads of lies, and unsubstantiated wisps of a complaint.

“You understand why the district attorney reeled you in, Alex,” Mercer said. “He knows you have a great track record against Lem, not to mention he’s soft on you.”

“Soft on me? Are you crazy? Lem just thinks he taught me everything I know, and that if he pulls the right strings he can control me like a marionette.”

My phone rang. I checked to make sure it wasn’t Battaglia’s hotline to me, and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Bring your crew over to Brenda’s office.” It was Mike Chapman, who was obviously still in the building. “There’s breaking news on the telly.”

“What—?” I tried to ask about it, but Mike hung up on me.

Brenda Whitney was the DA’s press secretary. Her office was also on the eighth floor, and she had the difficult task of herding the unruly reporters whenever a media frenzy outbreak occurred. No assistant DAs were allowed to talk to reporters, so policing that rule and trying to prevent leaks was as important a part of her job as actually pitching stories or writing press releases.

“Mike’s in Brenda’s office watching TV. Something’s up.”

Ryan didn’t wait for me to clear the corner of the desk before leaving the room. Mercer put his arm around my shoulder and walked me slowly down the hall. “You must be exhausted. It’s after midnight your time.”

“I slept on the plane.”

“Things okay with you and your man?”

I didn’t answer.

“You want to talk? Grab some dinner?”

“That would be nice.”

He squeezed me tightly to his side before letting go and opening Brenda’s door. She was at her desk and would probably be there all evening. Two of her staff members were in cubbyholes at the rear of the room. Mike was seated with his feet up on an empty table,
using the remote control to switch channels on one of the televisions that lined a shelf in the press room.

“Who’s talking?” Mercer asked. “I didn’t think Lem would waste any slingshots after the evening news cameras shut down.”

“It’s not Lem,” Mike said. “It’s Alex Trebek.”

I hadn’t given any thought to the time of evening because of the long travel day. But we all knew Mike was addicted to betting on the Final Jeopardy! question at the end of the half-hour show. I had been with him at dinner parties and bars, morgues and murder scenes, and no amount of good taste or restraint ever stopped him from turning on the set to take all comers for the night’s big question.

Trebek was squared off in front of the oversize blue box as he announced the Final Jeopardy! subject. “That’s right, gentlemen,” he said to the three male contestants, “tonight’s category is baseball. Major League Mishaps. Let’s see what you good sports know about our national pastime.”

“From the looks of those brainiacs I’d guess they know as much about baseball as I know about physics,” Mike said. “What do you say, Mercer? Blow the bank and go for a hundred bucks?”

Our usual ante was twenty dollars. “You still dipping into your mother’s change purse when you take her to church? Where’d you come up with a Ben Franklin?” Mercer asked.

“I’m feeling flush. I collared an international horndog this weekend and got my favorite blonde back in town to boot.”

“I’m in,” I said. The three of us were rabid Yankee fans who went to scores of baseball games, though I took a lot of grief for my pinstripe enthusiasm from Red Sox Nation neighbors on the Vineyard during the summer.

Ryan never flinched. He was as naturally generous with his spirit as with his income, bolstered by the fact that his wife ran the legal department of a large pharmaceutical company. “Me, too.”

The board scrolled back to reveal the answer. “The only batter in major-league history killed by a pitch,” Trebek said, turning to the three men, who were frowning at the words on the big board.

“Double or nothing,” Mike said.

“So much for your poker face. Not happening, Detective,” I said. I blanked on this one, while Mike clearly knew the answer.

The
Jeopardy!
clock was ticking along with the theme music. Mercer was shaking his head and Ryan wasn’t playing either.

“Who was Ray Chapman?” Mike asked.

“Chapman? Foul ball,” Mercer said. “You can’t use the family tree to cheat us out of our money.”

“Poor guy wasn’t good-looking enough to be a County Cork Chapman. Not related, so show me the wad of money.”

The first and third contestants hadn’t even ventured guesses. The second man had scrawled, “Who was Doc Powers?” on his podium screen.

“I’m so sorry,” Trebek said. “Powers died off the field two weeks after slamming into the outfield wall chasing a fly back in 1909. No, the correct answer is, ‘Ray Chapman.’”

Mike muted the volume to tell us that Cleveland Indians shortstop Ray Chapman was hit in the head by a Yankee pitcher at the old Polo Grounds in 1920. “Never regained consciousness. That’s why the spitball was banned from baseball.”

“I should have known better than to go against you in this category,” I said. “C’mon, let’s see what Battaglia has up his sleeve.”

“Baseball? You know a lot about baseball.”

“Mishaps, Mike. You’re the king of mishaps.”

“I’ll wait here for you guys. I’m buying dinner.”

“Did I hear him right?” Ryan asked.

“Sorry, I’ve got plans,” I said, hoping Mercer would get the hint so we could have a quiet meal together and I could get his thoughts on what was going on in my life.

“I saw that pathetic glance you just threw him. You were gonna lean on Mercer’s great broad shoulders to whine about me breaking up your love life. Get over that, kid. Finish up with Battaglia now. I’m buying the chow tonight.”

We left Mike with Brenda and returned to the conference
room. Paul Battaglia and Pat McKinney had their heads together at the far end of the table. Everyone was present except June Simpson.

“Let’s get started. June’s on a call. She’ll be right back in,” McKinney said.

“Good evening, everyone. Welcome back, Alexandra,” Battaglia said, standing to face the group. As always, he ignored city laws about smoking inside office buildings and spent most of the day with a lighted cigar plugged between his lips. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve accomplished these last forty-eight hours. I have supreme confidence in the team we’ve put together—led by Pat—and relying as well on Alexandra and Ryan. We’ve got the country’s premier sex crimes unit, so they’ll be the face of this case to the world.

“How did Ms. Robles hold up today?” Battaglia asked.

Ellen Gunsher took the lead. “Quite well, all things considered. She wasn’t expecting to become the center of a media maelstrom.”

“No victim would,” the district attorney said. “What’s the answer to the question the
Times
keeps coming back to us with? I know we’ve still got a case whether she’s in this country legally or not, but what’s her immigration status?”

“Blanca was granted asylum nine years ago. She’s Mayan, Boss, and her village was destroyed by the Guatemalan Truth Commission—an intentional policy of genocide against certain ethnic groups like hers.”

“She witnessed the murder of her parents and two siblings,” Pat said, interrupting Ellen Gunsher. “I mean she literally watched them being slaughtered like pigs, Boss. She was gang-raped by a militia unit that burned her family’s farm to the ground. I couldn’t even stay in the room for some of her story.”

“You told me this morning she’s a very religious woman,” Battaglia said, addressing Ellen again. He wanted that information, but wouldn’t expend the emotional energy to empathize with most victims. “What parish? Where in the city does she worship?”

“I mean she wears a crucifix, Boss. I didn’t ask which church she belongs to,” Ellen said. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was always the wrong answer to give Paul Battaglia. He didn’t care about Blanca’s faith. He was more interested in the political currency of the information. If the woman was part of the flock, then the archdiocese would be checking up on her well-being in the hands of my colleagues. There would be a district leader with whom to exchange promises of favors for embracing the accuser against such a powerful perpetrator, and a state assemblyman who might later weigh in on a particular vote if his constituent was well supported. The district attorney wanted to make those phone calls tonight, not tomorrow.

“Is that housekeeping position she has a union job?”

“I think so,” Ellen said.

I’d learned long ago and trained all my assistants never to be short on the details that would engage Battaglia’s interest. He’d leave the case management to his legal staff, but the politics that arose out of these situations was what he thrived on.

“Find that out first thing and let me know. I’m not looking for any rallies on the courthouse steps by thousands of hotel workers in this city.”

“Sure, Boss. In the morning.”

“Have you made her safe?” Battaglia asked.

“Yes, we’ve put her up at—”

He held his arms straight out. “I don’t need to know where. I just want to be able to say she’s out of harm’s way. When do you go to the grand jury?”

The criminal procedure law of the state of New York dictated the time line the case had to follow. At Gil-Darsin’s arraignment this morning, the People had requested remand without any opportunity for bail. There were apparently millions of dollars at his disposal—his own, Papa Mo’s fortune, and the great wealth of his supermodel wife—the defense had argued. But the judge agreed that as a foreigner bound for a country with no extradition treaty with the United States for sexual assault, the powerful WEB head would remain incarcerated.

The NYPD—not the district attorney—had started the clock running by arresting Gil-Darsin late Saturday night. The arraignment had occurred at 10
A.M.
today—Monday—and by Friday of this week, 120 hours after our filing of the felony complaint charging first-degree rape, our team would have to present the evidence, the testimony of Blanca Robles, to a grand jury composed of twenty-three citizens who would then vote a true bill—an indictment—if they believed her story.

“We need most of the day tomorrow to go over the facts more carefully and make Blanca comfortable about telling her story to the jurors. Alex can help with that.” Ellen spoke rather tentatively, but I nodded to reassure her that I was on board. “Then we expect to go ahead on Wednesday afternoon. Get a vote and be ready to file immediately. The next court date is Thursday. If we go in before the judge with an indictment in hand, I can’t imagine that he’ll change the bail conditions, even with Lem Howell pushing for it.”

“Sounds good.” Battaglia had a dozen questions about issues external to the crime itself for Mercer Wallace and the prosecutors. Was the Eurotel management cooperating with the police investigation? Had any other victims called in to the hotline set up by Brenda Whitney’s office? Were the preliminary DNA results reliable enough to put before the grand jurors? Yes. No. Yes. The answers came as quickly as he asked them.

“I know it’s tempting to leak when your favorite reporters lean on you,” Battaglia said, the cigar held firmly between two fingers as he pointed around the room at each of us. “But this has to be a completely clean operation. I’m the only one talking to the media, is that understood? You get any inquiries from the UN or the French government or the WEB offices, nothing is too minor to bring to my attention.”

The door opened, and Battaglia stopped talking till he saw that it was June Simpson coming back in to rejoin us.

“You’re up against just about the best lawyer in the business,” Battaglia said. “He’ll be doing everything you can’t do, including
trying his case at impromptu press conferences in front of our office doors or WEB headquarters. Any overtures from Lem yet, Pat? Any sense he wants to sit down with you and hammer something out?”

“Nothing but silence, Boss. My guess is he’s figuring all this media circus will freak out the victim and we’ll never get her prepped to testify by week’s end. He doesn’t have to say a damn word.”

“Maybe Lem will try to use Alex to soften you up. Let me know the minute he reaches out to you, young lady, okay?”

“Unlikely to happen,” I said. I could feel the color rising in my cheeks. Lem had always played favorites, and I was one of them. He was inappropriately tactile, even in the most professional settings, rubbing my arm or my back, suggesting a physical intimacy that had never existed.

“I want somebody on this team designated to report to Rose every hour. I want updates with whatever you’ve got,” Battaglia said, then jabbed his cigar in the direction of Ellen Gunsher. “And answers tomorrow morning on everything I asked you about Ms. Robles.”

June Simpson was standing with her back to the closed door and her arms crossed.

“I’m not sure we’ll be getting the answers you want. And certainly not tomorrow.”

Every head in the room turned to June.

“That was Blanca Robles who called?” Pat McKinney asked.

“Sort of. That was Blanca Robles who called—but from the law offices of Byron Peaser. I think our victim’s been hijacked.”

There was a collective groan from the group assembled at the table. Peaser the Sleazer had long been the nickname of the greediest ambulance chaser in the city, a negligence lawyer who handled civil suits that lined his pockets with at least a third of the millions of dollars he sought for his victims.

“I thought this woman told you she wasn’t looking for money,” Battaglia said, facing off to Pat McKinney.

“That was yesterday, Boss. She told me this was all about justice, not money.”

“And tomorrow?” Battaglia directed the question to June Simpson.