Sly Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “Ms. Gonzales,” I said, “please stand, remove your blouse, and show the jury your back.”

  “What?” Kent exclaimed. “I object.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Judge Williams said. “Don’t you do anything yet.”

  Looking angry, he called Kent and me to the bench.

  “Ms. Fox, what makes you think I’m going to let you show this girl’s scars to the jury after I’ve already ruled that you can’t show them photographs of her back?”

  “Your Honor,” I said sweetly, “you allowed Amanda Jones to show the cuts on her arms. The defense wants jurors to believe my client is a cutter just like Amanda Jones. You allowed that evidence even though there was no proven connection. If you allowed Ms. Jones to show her cuts, then common sense, let alone legitimate legal rebuttal, demands that I be allowed to have Ms. Gonzales show the jurors the scars on her back for comparison.”

  “You can’t have her topless in court,” Kent said.

  “She’s not going to be topless,” I replied. “She’s wearing a bathing suit top under her blouse. No one will see anything you can’t see at the beach.”

  “Your Honor, she’s turning your court into a circus sideshow.”

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  I had Judge Williams trapped and he knew it. His face turned scarlet. With an exasperated look, the novice jurist said, “Proceed.”

  Returning to the podium, I said, “Ms. Gonzales, the defense has hypothesized that you used your father’s belt to whip yourself because of a mental illness that makes it pleasurable for you to cut and harm yourself. Did you whip yourself?”

  “No. My father whipped me.”

  “Please show us your back.”

  Carmen stood and removed her blouse. As she turned, a wave of revulsion swept across the jurors’ faces. Carmen continued rotating so spectators could see the myriad scars on her back. Finally, she finished a full circle and Judge Williams got a good look.

  I watched Kent. At that moment, I think he knew he’d lost the case. The only person who wasn’t horrified by what we all saw was Carlos Gonzales, the man who’d beaten her. He showed not a shred of remorse.

  I had no more questions for Carmen and Kent didn’t, either. There were no surprises in either of our closing arguments. In fact, I felt that Kent’s argument was rather flat. An hour later, the jurors returned with a verdict. On the twenty-two counts of rape in the first degree, sodomy, assault, and incest: Gonzales was found guilty. Guilty of every charge.

  Feeling triumphant, I looked over at the defense table. Much to my surprise, neither Kent nor his client appeared upset. In fact, Carlos Gonzales was whispering to a smiling Kent. Gonzales was not acting like a defendant who’d just been found guilty of crimes that would send him to prison for a minimum of twenty-five years.

  Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. But I didn’t have a clue what it could be.

  37

  “I’m taking you out to little italy for a big Italian dinner,” O’Brien announced as we exited the courtroom. “We can take Carmen and her kid brother, too. Hell, let’s invite your mom to go with us.”

  “You paying?” I asked.

  “I know a place run by an ex-cop in lower Manhattan. Hell, he won’t charge any of us. That’s the best part of the deal.”

  It sounded like a fun evening, but I wasn’t sure I was up for it emotionally. Preparing for the trial had kept me so busy that I’d not had time to fixate on my breakup with Bob. But now that I had convicted Gonzales, I realized that I really didn’t have anyone special in my life to share it with, except for my mother and colleagues. I’d not heard from Bob, and even if I had, I would not have responded. Still, I felt as if there were a hole in my heart.

  “C’mon,” O’Brien said. “Stop being so uptight!”

  At that moment, Mom came up to us, and before I could say anything, O’Brien invited her to join us.

  “It does sound like fun,” Mom said. “And Dani could use a night out. Of course we’ll go.”

  “Great. I not only get to celebrate with Ms. Fox, I get to buy her foxy mother dinner, too.” I suddenly realized that O’Brien was actually flirting with my mom. “I can sure see where your daughter gets her looks.”

  I smiled. It felt good.

  Mom said, “I’m calling a car service to drive us into Manhattan.”

  O’Brien said, “Great, I’ll pick up Carmen and her brother. We’ll all meet at the restaurant around eight o’clock.”

  I had never said I would go but neither O’Brien nor my mom was going to let me off the hook.

  By the time I got home, fed Wilbur, showered, fixed my hair, and changed, the car service was out front with my mom sitting in the rear seat.

  I opened a back door and slid in next to her. We hit gridlock as soon as we entered Manhattan. The driver turned down a side street and then another trying to avoid the traffic. Eventually, he stopped at a red light and I realized that we were approaching 26 Federal Plaza, where the FBI field office was located. From our vantage point, I could see the skyscraper’s main entrance, and as I watched, I saw two men walk outside the building. They stopped to talk, then shook hands and went in different directions. One of them was walking directly toward our car, which had tinted windows. As I watched him stroll by only inches away, I realized why he looked familiar.

  It was Neal Kent, the defense attorney I’d just defeated in court. As the car moved through the intersection, it caught up with the other man who had come from FBI headquarters. He was FBI Special Agent Jack Longhorn.

  “Dani, you’re way too thin. You need to eat a good meal tonight instead of always snacking on those darn Junior Mints,” Mom said.

  But I wasn’t paying attention. I was wondering why Carlos Gonzales’s defense attorney and Agent Longhorn had been chatting like long-lost friends outside the FBI field office.

  “Dani,” my mom said loudly. “We’re at the restaurant. Now let’s go inside and have a good time. I know you are thinking about Bob, but you’ve got to move on with your life.”

  I hadn’t been thinking of Bob. I suddenly felt the same feeling in my gut that I had felt earlier in the courtroom when I had noticed that neither Kent nor Gonzales seemed upset by the verdict. There was something going on.

  38

  The first thing I did when I got to work the next morning was find FBI Special Agent Longhorn’s business card. I dialed his private line at the New York Field Office and his secretary put me right through.

  “I’ve been meaning to give you a ring-a-ding,” Longhorn said, sounding pleased to hear from me. “Congratulations on convicting Carlos Gonzales.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, sounding equally cheery. “Actually, he’s why I’m calling. I’m curious about the status of your federal drug and racketeering charges against him.”

  “They’re progressing, but you know, young lady, a watched pot never boils.”

  I thought, We’re in New York. Let’s drop the folksy sayings. “Agent Longhorn, I’d like to read your investigative files about him if you don’t mind.”

  Longhorn didn’t instantly answer, and when he did, his voice sounded less jovial. “Why are you still interested in Carlos Gonzales?”

  “He might have committed other crimes in our county,” I said without elaborating.

  “Is that so? Sorry, Ms. Fox, but I can’t simply let you rummage through our INTEL files. After all, they contain confidential information about our informants. However, I can send you our original indictment.”

  Longhorn wasn’t offering me anything special. Indictments were public record as soon as they were unsealed.

  “That’s great,” I said, feigning enthusiasm.

  “I’ll get that indictment out to you as fast as a jack rabbit being chased by a coyote.”

  Really, enough already.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Have you had many dealings with Neal Kent? The Manhattan attorney who represented Carlos Gonzales?” />
  “Is Kent any good?” Longhorn asked, avoiding my question. And then, before I could reply, he said, “I guess that boy’s not too good of a lawyer since you whupped his derrière. Sorry, young lady, but I got to go, someone’s hollering at me, but I’ll send you our indictment. Thanks for calling.”

  Clearly, he’d avoided my question about whether he knew Kent, which made me even more suspicious.

  PART FOUR

  AGAINST

  ALL ODDS

  You have to learn the rules of the game.

  And then you have to play better than anyone else.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  39

  Will Harris had written about the Gonzales trial every day in the Daily and had done a good job of reporting the facts. Because Gonzales was a White Plains resident and a former prominent Hispanic leader, I knew Harris was also keeping tabs on the federal charges that the FBI had filed against Gonzales. I decided to call Harris. He answered on the third ring with a rushed voice.

  “It’s Dani Fox. Got a minute?”

  “For you always, but I’m on a deadline. If it’s going to take more than a minute, we’ll have to talk later.”

  “What do you know about the FBI’s case against Carlos Gonzales?”

  Harris, who had been typing in the background, suddenly stopped. My question had gotten his attention. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “I’m the one who calls you for information, remember?”

  “Turning tables.”

  “Shall I assume Special Agent Longhorn isn’t being forthcoming?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t assume anything.”

  “Let me finish this deadline piece. Then we can meet for a drink. In fact, let’s meet around six thirty tonight, or are you afraid to be seen with me in public?”

  Actually, I was. I didn’t want rumors circulating through the courthouse that I was one of his sources, especially since Whitaker was paranoid about anyone in our office talking to the media except for him.

  “Let’s just chat on the phone after your deadline.”

  “Not if you want to discuss Carlos Gonzales. I’m only doing that in person. Look, I’ll buy the drinks. How about Elaine’s restaurant over on Huguenot Street in New Rochelle? That should be discreet enough for both of us.”

  I agreed reluctantly.

  Elaine’s Supper Club sounded elegant, exclusive. It wasn’t. The brown shag carpeting needed to be replaced and the knotty pine paneling gave it a tired, outdated feel. I arrived early and immediately regretted it. Entering a bar alone is never a problem for a man. Everyone assumes a man is there to blow off steam after work. But if a woman walks in alone, men assume she’s on the prowl, looking for zipless sex. Three men were sitting at the bar, four others crowded into a booth were talking loudly. I didn’t recognize any of them. I checked my watch. It was 6:25. There was no sign of Harris.

  A waitress, who looked as worn out as Elaine’s and called me “hon,” asked what I wanted to drink. I replied, a bit louder than necessary, that I was waiting for someone but would take Dr Pepper.

  “We don’t have soda pop,” she answered.

  I ordered a draft beer. As the waitress made her way to the bar, one of the men who’d been sitting there sauntered over.

  “Be happy to buy you that beer. You want some company?”

  “Someone’s joining me.”

  Harris arrived ten minutes late. “Got a new editor and he’s a ballbuster, urr, sorry.” He sat across from me in the booth. “Never met an editor yet who didn’t want to put his mark on a story. Most make it worse.”

  Harris surveyed our dismal surroundings. “I didn’t realize this place had gotten so run-down.” He noticed the men at the bar watching us. “I hope waiting hasn’t been too tough on you.”

  “Only one barfly buzzed me,” I replied. “He must have noticed my bee-stung lips.”

  “You liked my story—or are you being sarcastic? I also said you were a real looker.”

  The waitress interrupted us. She called Harris “hon,” too. He ordered a draft.

  “Actually, I was pretty proud of that bee-stung line. I got several comments from other reporters about how clever it was. And accurate.”

  “It’s always difficult to read something someone writes about your appearance. I also have to be careful because of my boss.”

  “Say no more. Everyone knows Whitaker is a news whore.”

  “Those are your words, not mine.” His comment reminded me that this wasn’t a social meeting. “Before I say anything more,” I said, “I want to make sure we understand the ground rules.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “This conversation has got to be completely off the record. Just you and me talking. I don’t want to read my name in the paper tomorrow. Got that?”

  “No problem,” he said. “You got my word. I know you want to talk about Gonzales, but before we get into that, I’d like to ask you what you have heard about Paul Pisani.”

  “What about him?” I asked, taking a sip from my beer. “The truth is that I’ve not seen him lately. He’s been strangely absent from the courthouse but I don’t have a clue why.”

  “You really don’t?”

  “No, should I?”

  Harris looked at me intently and said, “I got wind that Pisani knocked up some young intern at the courthouse. She’s still in college and was working in the county clerk’s office. Her parents are supposedly close friends with Whitaker. They all go to the same country club and they’re threatening to go public.”

  Based on the shocked look on my face, Harris knew I was hearing this for the first time.

  “All I can tell you is that Pisani has a reputation. This wouldn’t be the first time that he’s seduced some young girl and broken her heart. He’s a sleazeball.”

  I suddenly realized that I could get into big trouble talking so frankly.

  “We are off the record, right?” I asked.

  He looked hurt. “When you told me about your cousin and her abusive husband, I promised I wouldn’t put it in the paper. And I didn’t, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t and I really appreciated that.”

  “I think I’ve proven you can trust me.”

  Without thinking, I reached over and gently touched his hand. “I do trust you, Will.”

  I suddenly realized what I had done and pulled back my hand.

  He looked confused and I felt embarrassed. We both ignored what had just happened.

  “Listen,” I said, “because of this trial and the fact that I work across the street from the courthouse, I don’t hear all the gossip that I used to hear. But I will ask around if you want me to, and if I learn that Pisani got someone pregnant, I’ll tell you.”

  “Thanks.” He took a drink of beer and asked, “Can I ask you why you would tell me about Pisani—I mean, I appreciate it, but I’m also a bit surprised.”

  “Because I think Paul Pisani abuses women just like the Rudy Hitchinses and Juan Lopezes of society. He just does it without using his fists. He’s a predator.”

  A serious look washed over his face. “Unfortunately, that’s not something that just men do.”

  I realized Harris knew a lot about me because he had interviewed me for the newspaper, but I didn’t know much about him.

  “Have you always wanted to be a journalist?” I asked. “You’re so good at it.”

  He looked pleased and said, “Yes, I have. It’s in my blood. My dad and mom ran a small-town paper, and when I was a kid, I used to help them. I did everything from taking ads to answering the phone to setting type for the printing press. I edited the college newspaper later. I’ve been a journalist nearly all of my life.”

  “You never thought about doing anything else?”

  “Actually, I considered going to law school.”

  “What happened?”

  “Life. Not too many people know it, but I’ll tell you my sad story. When I was in college, I fell in love and got married. I knew it was a mistake a
s soon as I said ‘I do.’ But we’d been going out for several years. We were childhood sweethearts and I didn’t want to hurt her. Because we were both in school, I couldn’t afford law school after I graduated, so I went right to work for the Daily and I’ve been working here ever since.”

  “You’re still married?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, no, no. That only lasted a year after graduation. We ended up hurting each other because I didn’t have the guts to say no when I knew in my heart that I should have. Her parents were angry and mine were disappointed, but it was the best thing for us.”

  “Where’s she now?”

  “Somewhere out west. Last I heard, she was getting married again. I don’t usually tell people that I’ve been married. It makes them think of me as damaged goods, especially women. They think I’m unreliable.”

  He’d finished his beer and signaled our waitress to bring him another one. I was only half done with mine but she brought me another mug without me asking.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Since we’re being personal. You got a boy friend?”

  “I had one. But I’d rather not talk about it. He broke my heart.”

  Harris took his glass and clinked it against my mug.

  “Here’s to mending broken hearts.”

  I decided to change our conversation. “Do you know why the U.S. Attorney hasn’t prosecuted Carlos Gonzales yet on the FBI’s drug and racketeering case?”

  Harris glanced around the room to see if anyone was within earshot. Satisfied they weren’t, he said, “I’m not sure, but I have a theory. That’s one reason I suggested we talk in person. I thought maybe we could exchange ideas.”

  “So let’s hear it.”

  “This is what I know. Carlos Gonzales was running drugs out of his jewelry store in Manhattan. You already know that, too, but did you know that Gonzales might be part of a Colombian drug cartel? Agent Longhorn told me. Could be a big case. Headline-making stuff.”

  “You’re talking about Manuel Rodriquez, right?” I replied.