Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (18 page)

“I thought all polls did.”

“Naw, it don’t work like that. When it gets closer to Election Day, McMichael will change his polling technique. He’ll do what is called a ‘push poll,’ which is a poll that is intentionally designed to create favorable results. Those doctored results will be leaked to reporters to help Whitaker’s campaign. But right now, Whitaker is interested only in real data.”

I was impressed with O’Brien’s political savvy and also curious how he knew what was going on in the D.A.’s inner sanctum.

“A few weeks ago,” he said, “McMichael told your boss something that he didn’t want to hear.”

“How do you know what goes on in Whitaker’s office?”

“That don’t matter, okay? I’m trying to help you, so listen instead of asking questions.”

I sat quiet.

“For the first time in Whitaker’s political career, he is losing ground with voters and not just any voters. He is losing ground with registered women voters. Men love him, but women are drifting away to his opponent. That’s because his challenger is targeting women and seniors.”

“When did you say McMichael’s polls first started showing Whitaker losing ground?”

O’Brien smiled. “Ah, now you’re beginning to get it, aren’t you? He found out he was losing ground with women about the same time that you waltzed into his office and asked if you could file felony charges against Rudy Hitchins.”

Suddenly, I did get it. The reason why Whitaker had let me prosecute Hitchins in criminal court was politics.

“Your boss wanted to see how women and senior citizens would react when you charged Hitchins. In fact, I’ve been told that McMichael ran a special poll after Will Harris wrote that Hitchins was being indicted. You remember that story, right?”

I did. “What’d the polls show?”

“His numbers with women jumped.” O’Brien jammed his palm into the car’s horn, blasting the driver stopped in front of him who wasn’t moving quickly enough when a stoplight changed to green. “Would you like to guess who paid a special visit to the D.A.’s office on Monday afternoon? It was McMichael armed with yet another special poll that he’d conducted after the chief and Whitaker held their press conference about the homicides. It showed Whitaker’s numbers had jumped even more with women. That, my dear, is why you saw Whitaker and the chief and the mayor all perched on the front row today during that mass.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because when we met you told me you wanted to do something about domestic violence.”

“I do.”

“Then seize the moment.”

O’Brien stopped at the curb outside my house, where my Triumph, with inflated tires, was now parked in the driveway. “Told you there was no harm.”

19

My office phone was ringing when I came to work Thursday, even though it was fifteen minutes before eight a.m. when we officially opened.

“Miss Fox, this is Miss Hillary Potts, calling from District Attorney Carlton Whitaker’s office.”

I swear Potts was the tightest-wound secretary in the entire courthouse—and also the most unapproachable. I’d bent over backward trying to befriend her and had gotten nowhere.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Mr. Whitaker would like to see you. He, Mr. Steinberg, and Mr. Pisani will be speaking to you.”

An unsmiling Miss Potts greeted me a few moments later, but she kept me waiting in the outer office while she went inside to alert her bosses.

“You can come in now,” she announced when she returned, opening the door for me.

Steinberg and Pisani were sitting across from Whitaker, who was sitting at his desk. There were only two chairs, and since both of them were occupied and no one offered me a seat, I stood awkwardly among the triumvirate.

“Are you feeling okay, Miss Fox?” Whitaker asked, sounding concerned.

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Good, good. I know you had developed a friendship with the homicide victims so you’ll be happy to know the chief has his best detectives searching for Hitchins.”

“When they catch him,” Pisani added, “I’ll convict him and get him locked up for life. It’ll be a slam dunk.”

“Damn right,” said Steinberg.

It sounded as if I had entered a boys’ locker room before a big game.

“The reason,” Whitaker continued, “I’ve called you in here this morning is because I’ve decided to transfer you out of the appeals bureau into the trial division. Congratulations, Miss Fox. You’re one of the boys now.” He stood and stretched out his hand to shake mine. “Mr. Steinberg and Mr. Pisani will fill you in later today on your new duties.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Will one of my new assignments be helping Mr. Pisani prosecute Hitchins after he’s caught?”

“Whoa,” Whitaker said. “Slow down.”

Pisani jumped in. “Ms. Fox, you still have not prosecuted a jury case—at least not one under your own name. You don’t go from night court to a triple murder.”

“Even if it’s a ‘slam dunk’?” I asked.

“Mr. Pisani and I will be prosecuting the Hitchins matter together,” Whitaker said. “I have a different role for you.”

PART TWO

There are only about twenty
murders a year in London and
not all are serious—some are
just husbands killing their wives
.

—
COMMANDER G. H. HATHERILL,
SCOTLAND YARD, 1954

20

“What exactly do you call that?” Will Harris asked after I gave the woman behind the deli counter my order. It was noon Monday and we were inside Ruth’s Deli down the street from the Westchester County Court house. An hour after welcoming me to the trial division, Whitaker had given a thumbs-up to me being interviewed by Harris. The reporter had suggested today’s lunch and had even offered to pay.

“The girls in the office call this ‘cat food,’” I said. “It’s dry tuna—definitely no mayo—hot peppers with vinegar on whole wheat bread. Along with a Dr Pepper, it’s what I have nearly every day.”

“The girls? Aren’t you the only female A.D.A.?”

“Yes, but I like to eat with the secretaries. We’re friends.”

“Interesting,” Harris said, writing on his notepad.

“That really makes me nervous, having you writing down stuff like that. What does what I eat and who I eat with have to do with domestic violence?”

“You’re the subject of my story. Details such as these will make it more colorful.”

I handed him a sheet of statistics that I’d compiled over the weekend. “Here’s what your story should be about.”

We had moved to a Formica-covered table for two in the back of the deli. Harris glanced at the statistics. “One in four women will be the victim of domestic violence during her lifetime. Domestic violence is the most common source of injury to women, more than car accidents. As many as four thousand women a year are killed during domestic violence incidents.” He folded up the sheet and put it in his coat pocket. He was wearing the same blazer that I’d seen him in at Mary Margaret’s funeral mass, along with a light blue shirt, no tie, and gray slacks. His hair still needed trimming, but he looked handsome. “This is great stuff,” he said, “but I’m not writing a college term paper. ‘Dear Abby’ is the most-read feature in a newspaper because readers love to hear about other people and their problems.”

“I thought you were going to write a serious article.”

“Domestic violence is serious. But statistics are boring. I want to put a human face on the issue, the face of a crusader who’s going after Rudy Hitchins and men like him.” He shot me a smile and added, “And you have a pretty face.”

“Thanks, but flattery isn’t going to change my direction. I’d rather focus on how many women in our county are being beaten every day by the very men who say they love them.”