Sly Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “How old are you?”

  “Why’s that matter? Okay, I’m twenty-five. How old are you?”

  “More than double that, but I still remember how I thought I knew everything at your age. I lost that in the streets. You’ll learn. The streets wear you down and pretty soon those black-and-white rules start to bend. After a while, the streets take over your life, just like Attica took over my old man’s life. It begins when you stop feeling like you’re off the clock. No matter what, your mind is on the streets, even when you’re at home with the kids and wife having dinner. Your mind is thinking about that homicide you just saw, thinking about those punks who are beating up some lady for pocket change. Watching television, playing cards with a neighbor, going to church and singing ‘Glory Glory, Hallelujah’—all that normal shit most people do suddenly bores the hell out of you. You become addicted to the adrenaline, the danger. All you think about is the streets. Pretty soon the only friends you got are other cops because they’re the only ones who understand the streets. You got more in common with your partner than your wife. The streets will strip you of your idealism, Counselor. In a few months, you won’t be so black and white. If you last.”

  He swallowed a big wad of French fries that he’d stabbed. “Consider these murders your wake-up call.”

  “Do you blame me for what happened?”

  “Hell no! You did the right thing going after that prick. How were you to know he was going to kill her and her old lady? You can’t go around blaming yourself every time someone else goes crazy.”

  “That’s not what Carl Jones thinks.”

  “You shouldn’t care what he thinks. If anyone should feel guilty, it’s him. He’s more responsible for Mary Margaret’s death than you.”

  I suspected O’Brien was telling me that it was Detective Jones who had gotten Mary Margaret pregnant.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “all you can do is learn from this.”

  “Learn what?”

  “Learn what I just told you. That being black and white don’t always work. Sometimes you got to bend the rules.”

  I’d hardly taken a bite from what was supposed to be a salad—a few pieces of lettuce, a tomato, and some mushrooms—but he’d finished the steak and most of the fries. He waved to Ellen to refill his coffee and made no pretense about averting his eyes from her ample posterior when she walked away.

  Apparently done with his lecture, he asked, “So how come your parents gave you a boy’s name? I figured your name was Danielle, but I ran a background check on you.”

  “You ran a background check on me?”

  “Yeah, so,” he responded in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “I’m a cop. I was looking for your address. Don’t be naive.”

  “My first name is Dani. It’s not short for anything. My grandparents came from Lebanon. My parents chose it because of its meaning.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”

  “Judge or judgment.”

  “Well, they got that right. You’re definitely judgmental.”

  I wasn’t certain he meant it as a compliment.

  “How about Fox? Where’s that come from? I thought all they had in Lebanon was camels and sand.”

  “No one could pronounce my grandfather’s name when he arrived at Ellis Island. Some immigration official thought it would be funny to change it to Fox.”

  I decided to turn the tables. “Since I didn’t run a background check on you, what’s your story? Why did you get divorced—twice?”

  “I wasn’t very good at marriage.”

  “Let me guess, your wives didn’t understand you. They didn’t understand the streets?” I said mockingly.

  “Actually, they did understand me. That’s why they left. Both of them realized they’d never be as important to me as the guys who backed me up each day at work. Even a prick like Jones. Every birthday, anniversary, holiday—I was like a caged animal at home. I’m not the type who remembers anniversaries or goes to kids’ school talent shows.”

  “You got kids?”

  “Yeah, two. Don’t see them.”

  “Too busy?”

  “They don’t like having me around. One’s in high school and the other is married. Putting me and their mothers in the same room ain’t good.”

  O’Brien pushed his plate away, finished his coffee, and inserted a new toothpick between his lips. “What I’m trying to explain to you, Counselor, is that guys like me and Jones, we don’t have nothing much in our lives but this. We don’t have no one but each other. And when someone new comes in and pisses on our turf, it doesn’t go well.”

  Continuing, he said, “Speaking of taking a piss, I need to use the little boys’ room. You still owe me ten bucks from our bet, so you pay the check and leave Ellen a good tip. I don’t want her thinking I stiffed her. I’ll meet you at the car. This little talk ain’t done, but the next part needs to be said in private.”

  The bill was $5.75. The diner didn’t charge cops for their food, Ellen told me. I left her a ten. I paid my debt.

  18

  O’Brien was waiting impatiently behind the steering wheel when I got to the cruiser. Pulling into the street, he asked: “You know who Mark Steinberg is, right?”

  “I’d better. He’s our chief of staff.”

  “But do you know who Kieran McMichael is?”

  “No. Don’t have a clue.” I really didn’t like him playing these guessing games. “Look, if you got something to tell me, just spit it out, okay?”

  O’Brien slid the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, a sign that I assumed meant he was irked. “Kieran McMichael works for a large political consulting firm. Every four weeks, he and Steinberg meet with your boss in the D.A.’s office to discuss the latest polling numbers.”

  “It’s spring. The November election is still months away.”

  “McMichael does polling year-round. If you know which way a parade is going, it’s easy to jump out front and be the bandleader.”

  That was a good one, I thought.

  “The reason,” O’Brien said, “these early polls are important is because they’re real polls—ones that truly reflect the attitudes of voters.”

  “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 indi
cted. 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

  A SERIOUS

  MATTER

  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.”

  “What if I promise to work some of these statistics into the story? Will you tell me more about you so I can personalize it?”

  Before I could respond, he said, “Let’s start with me asking you if Hitchins is the first wife-beater who you went after.”

  “No, he’s the first one I prosecuted, but there was an earlier incident that had a huge impact on me. It was the very first case that I was assigned when I reported to work in the appeals division. The victim was twenty-five years old and her name was Debbie.”

  Harris began writing.

  Continuing, I said, “Debbie was a beautiful young woman. She had two kids and she had a husband who beat her. One day, she disappeared with the kids. She ran away and got a job as a waitress and started going back to school. She was getting her life on track until her husband tracked her down and hired a kid—a seventeen-year-old punk—to kill Debbie. That kid stabbed her twenty-one times. You could see the slashes on her arms where she’d fought back. The husband paid that kid a thousand dollars so he could go buy himself a used motorcycle. I’d never seen such horrific autopsy and crime scene photos. Blood was splattered everywhere. But the most disgusting photo was the mug shot of her husband in the file. He was smirking. Grinning like he was proud of what he’d done. I worked my tail off on that appeal to keep the husband and that punk in jail and even argued the case in the appellate division before a panel of judges. I won. In fact, that case made legal precedent. But what I did came too late for Debbie.”

  “How old did you say she was?”

  “She was my age—twenty-five—and she had everything to live for and some controlling man took it away and laughed about it. Who are these monsters who beat women? Who are they? What right do they
have to shoot, stab, and brutalize women and then feel so at ease, so protected, so entitled to take their lives, as if these women aren’t human beings. They’re chattel? And why isn’t anyone doing anything to stop them?”

  “That’s what I’m after,” Harris said, encouraging me. “Your anger, your passion. Is Debbie one of the reasons why you decided to go after Hitchins?”

  “Actually, she was. A White Plains detective showed me photographs of Mary Margaret immediately after she’d been beaten by Rudy Hitchins. When I looked at them—she reminded me of Debbie. Only Debbie was dead. Her photos were marked in big bright letters: AUTOPSY. The photos of Mary Margaret were marked with the word ‘EVIDENCE.’ I thought that if I didn’t do anything to punish Rudy Hitchins, I’d soon be looking at a new set of photos of Mary Margaret with the word ‘AUTOPSY’ on them.”

  “And that’s exactly what happened.”

  “Yes,” I said softly. “I thought I could prevent Hitchins from hurting her and now some people think I’m responsible. That I should have stayed out of it.”

  “Someone like Carl Jones?”

  “I’m not going to say who.”

  Harris stopped writing. “Look, I know about the cops and the charges you refused to pursue.”

  “Are you putting that in your story?”

  “No, it’s water under the bridge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, I admire what you are trying to do. But tell me something, is there more to your story?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend? Has he ever abused you?”

  “I do have a boyfriend, and no, he has never raised his hand to me, and he better not!”

  “What if he did?”

  “Bob wouldn’t do that, but if he hit me, I would file assault charges against him.”

  “Even if you loved him and you had been together for years?”

  “Mr. Harris, if a man loves a woman, he doesn’t beat her. Because that’s not love. That’s abuse and control.”