Clever Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  O’Brien was already pacing near my reserved parking spot at the back of our building when I arrived. He tapped on his watch dial. O’Brien likes to remind me that he’s never late. “Your boss was expecting us ten minutes ago,” he said. “Maybe being punctual should have been one of your New Year’s resolutions.”

  I ignored the dig.

  For the record, District Attorney Whitaker was also O’Brien’s boss, ever since O’Brien had transferred from the White Plains Police Department’s homicide division to work as an investigator in our Domestic Violence Unit. But O’Brien still thinks of himself as a street cop. He’s also not a fan of Whitaker, who he thinks is more sizzle than steak.

  “Car trouble,” I said, shrugging.

  “Should have bought American. What the hell do the Brits know about building cars?”

  “You mean the Brits who make Rolls-Royce, Bentley, and Jaguar?” I asked sarcastically.

  O’Brien glanced at my Triumph and said, “That ain’t a Rolls, now, is it?”

  Whitaker and I have an unwritten understanding. He leaves me alone to handle what he calls “women’s issues” and I make myself available whenever he needs a woman’s help campaigning. He didn’t really want a “skirt” in his office prosecuting cases because he didn’t think women had the “chops” to prosecute tough criminal cases, but Whitaker was smart enough to realize that the women’s movement was sweeping in a new era across the nation and he was going to need women’s votes to keep getting reelected. One of his favorite sayings was “If you know which way a parade is going, it’s easier to jump out front and be the bandleader.” Whitaker was always ready with his trumpets and drums—and the token female attorney. At first, he’d stuck me at a desk job in the Appeals Bureau, our office’s equivalent to Siberia. It took the Carlos Gonzales rape and murder trials to change Whitaker’s mind about my legal skills.

  I knew Whitaker would be eager to milk our new murder case. His reelection campaign was still a couple of years away, but Whitaker got up every morning campaigning and kept at it until he went to bed. The biggest question in his mind would not be who butchered this woman, but how to fully mine the case politically. Especially if the Butcher Persico became our prime suspect. I had to convince my boss to keep me involved in the investigation and ultimately the prosecution.

  I may be the only female A.D.A. in our office, but those 110 male A.D.A.s also work for Whitaker, who didn’t hire them because they were shrinking violets. Nearly all of them had graduated from top-flight law schools, many had more courtroom experience than I did, and several could be as cutthroat as our former chief assistant district attorney, Paul Pisani, when it came to office politics.

  Pisani had been a legend in Westchester County for his courtroom skills. He was such an effective courtroom prosecutor that he was dubbed “Mr. Invincible.” But he had a massive ego, an arrogant attitude, and trouble keeping his zipper up. He crossed a line when he impregnated a young courthouse intern in the closing days of Whitaker’s reelection campaign. As soon as Pisani became a potential liability, he was shown the door.

  Whitaker’s obsession with getting reelected also explained his management style. He called himself a “hands-off” manager and left the running of the office to his chief of staff, Mark Steinberg, and his new chief assistant district attorney, Henry Myerson. Whitaker spent most afternoons at the Westchester Country Club in nearby Harrison playing golf and kissing up to the club’s elite. He could easily fit in with that well-heeled crowd but he also had enough sense to highlight his less egalitarian ties when he was mixing it up with ordinary types at a local watering hole.

  With each of his four successful reelection bids, Whitaker expanded his office. The additional space at one end had been made into a large conference area with a table big enough to seat sixteen. On the opposite side of his expanded domain, he installed a lounge area. Directly in the center of the room is a hand-carved mahogany desk from the 1800s rumored to have been owned by one of New York’s robber barons. He had a fondness for antiques, and one of his prized possessions was an antique regulator clock whose ticking had distracted him; he’d stopped the pendulum, which always struck me as a fitting metaphor for his sexist, old-fashioned attitude. In addition to heirlooms, he’d covered the walls with photographs of himself with local, state, and national politicians along with honors and awards that he’d received. His office was a giant monument to himself.

  The chamber outside Whitaker’s office was guarded—not by a fierce guard dog, but by something even more terrifying. Miss Hillary Potts was prim, proper, formal, and, quite frankly, intentionally bitchy. She regarded the other women in the courthouse with disdain, because she felt that her job as Whitaker’s personal secretary made her more important than the other secretaries. “You’re late,” she announced with a scowl when O’Brien and I entered. She sounded like a schoolteacher lecturing two wayward students.

  “We’re here now,” I replied, without offering an excuse.

  Potts scowled at me, rose slowly from her desk, made certain her cashmere sweater was tucked into her pencil skirt, and disappeared behind the double doors that led into Whitaker’s office. Out of the corner of my eye, I took note that O’Brien’s eyes were taking in her every step.

  When he saw me smirking, he popped his toothpick out of his mouth and said, “Don’t start.”

  When she reappeared, Miss Potts said, “Mr. Whitaker will see you now.”

  “Thanks, Hill,” I said as we breezed by her. She hated being called that, but she couldn’t complain because I knew a secret about her and O’Brien that neither of them wanted their courthouse coworkers to discover. Last year during the Gonzales case, I’d called O’Brien at home at 3 a.m. and had been surprised to hear Miss Potts answer his phone, tipping me off to their sleepover ritual. What O’Brien saw in Miss Potts was none of my business. All I knew was that I owned both of them.

  As soon as we crossed the threshold, Whitaker yelled from behind his desk, “Where the hell have you two been?”

  I scanned the massive office. As usual, Chief of Staff Steinberg was sitting in one of four leather chairs across from our boss. Next to him was Chief Assistant District Attorney Myerson, who was not as talented nor as devious as Paul Pisani had been in a courtroom but was a decent trial lawyer who went home at night without seducing naïve interns and secretaries.

  Whitaker snapped, “Tell us about the dead girl.”

  O’Brien and I sat between Steinberg and Myerson and I briefed them about what I’d seen in the bedroom and our interview with superintendent Roman Mancini. When I mentioned that our suspect was a man in his seventies with an ugly scar on his cheek, all three exchanged excited glances.

  “Are you telling me,” Whitaker asked, almost giddy, “that you got an eyewitness who saw Nicholas Persico going into a Yonkers apartment before this woman was butchered?”

  “We haven’t positively identified him as Persico,” I replied, trying to calm his growing prosecutorial hard-on.

  “You’d better be sure if you do,” Steinberg warned. “Charging a Mafia capo with murder makes this more of a sensational case than it already is.”

  Steinberg was good at stating the obvious.

  “How so?” I asked, just for fun.

  Whitaker ignored me and asked, “Any idea who the dead girl is?”

  “The super said she used the name Vicky, but we suspect it’s a fake name.”

  “Hooker?”

  “Doesn’t seem so. She had an expensive wedding ring and looks more Scarsdale than Times Square.”

  O’Brien decided to join in. “Someone at the law firm that rented that dump knows her name.”

  “Gallo and Conti are tough mob lawyers,” Chief Assistant Myerson volunteered. “They’ll do whatever it takes to protect the Butcher.”

  “For the money he pays them, they should,” Whitaker replied. Addressing me, he said, “Let me guess, you want a piece of this, don’t you?”

  Without any hint of embar
rassment, shyness, or fake modesty, I replied, “You’re damn right, sir!”

  Whitaker was enjoying himself. He leaned back in his chair and locked the fingers of his hands behind his gray hair. “So if I let you run with this, what’s your first move? Questioning Persico?”

  “Not without your permission,” I immediately replied, giving the politically correct answer. “Obviously, in a case of this magnitude, Detective O’Brien and I would have to work closely with Myerson and the Yonkers homicide detectives assigned to investigate the murder. But just because Persico is a Mafia capo and has an entire law firm on retainer certainly doesn’t make him any different than any other murder suspect.”

  “Yeah, right,” Myerson said sarcastically.

  Addressing Whitaker, Steinberg said, “Boss, the tabloids are going to go nuts over this. A young woman butchered on New Year’s Eve. Pieces of her flesh sliced clean from her body. If she’s married and this was a love nest, as Miss Fox has suggested, it’s going to be leading the news and papers for days.”

  Whitaker unlocked his fingers and leaned forward. “We’ll need to hold a press conference to show we’re on top of this,” he said.

  Myerson jumped in. “You’re not going to mention Persico’s name just yet, are you?”

  “Not yet,” Whitaker replied. “It’s premature.”

  “Besides,” added Steinberg, “we can always save that angle for the next day’s headlines. Stick with the murder today, talk about suspects tomorrow.”

  Looking at me, Whitaker said, “I’ll need you available at today’s news conference. Mark will arrange it. I’ll do the talking. You just stand behind me and smile.”

  I wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t the first time I’d been used as a prop. Since I was going to be paraded out before reporters, I decided to be a bit pushy.

  “So does this mean that you want O’Brien and me to oversee this investigation and possible prosecution?”

  I noticed Myerson flinch. He’d want to be in charge of prosecuting this murder, especially if it involved the Butcher.

  Much to my surprise, before Whitaker could reply, Steinberg weighed in. “You know, boss, having a woman seeking justice for another woman who was butchered might not be a bad idea, especially after Miss Fox’s performance in the Gonzales case.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early to be deciding who’s going to prosecute?” Myerson interjected, hoping to exert his power as chief assistant district attorney. “Any decision you make now might change depending on whether the Butcher is indicted. Don’t you also want Vanderhoot brought in?”

  “That’s right,” Steinberg declared. “Vanderhoot should be told it’s possible the Butcher will be a suspect in this case.”

  Chief Steve Vanderhoot was head of our office’s Organized Crime Bureau. A former military prosecutor in his early forties who kept a short-cropped haircut, he was well respected, aggressive, and had the authority to jump into any case that had the slightest hint of being linked to the mob.

  Whitaker addressed Myerson. “You’re right on both counts. It’s premature to decide who’s going to be prosecuting this murder. You’re also right about the need to bring Vanderhoot into the discussion. I’d like you to go talk to him right now. Tell him to keep this under wraps and also tell him that I’ll be sending Miss Fox and Detective O’Brien up in a few to answer any questions that he might have.”

  Myerson nodded and rose from his chair. He looked at us, incorrectly assuming the meeting was over.

  Whitaker said, “Go ahead, Henry, there’s a few issues I still need to speak to everyone else about.”

  A tinge of concern appeared on Myerson’s face, but he left as directed.

  “Miss Fox,” Whitaker said, “I didn’t hire you to be a detective. But there are times when a good prosecutor has to think like a cop. You’ve got to put all of the puzzle pieces together. In a big case, the best way to do that is by being part of the actual investigation. So I’m going to give you another hat to wear: I want you and O’Brien involved in every goddamn step of this case. I don’t want you sitting in your office reading reports. I want your eyes and ears in the field. I don’t trust the cops in Yonkers to go after someone as powerful as the Butcher. Who knows how many are on his payroll? I’m holding you responsible for making sure this is done right. If you do a good job, then maybe I’ll let you handle the actual trial. But regardless, I want you to learn everything there is to learn about this murder. I don’t want any surprises popping up later and if there are, then it’s going to be your ass that’s on the line.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “But what about Vanderhoot? He’s not going to want me butting into his turf.”

  “Whose name is on the door to this office? You let Mark and me handle Vanderhoot. You just do what I told you.”

  Who was I to argue, especially since it was starting to sound like I’d get a chance to actually try this case?

  5

  On the elevator ride to Vanderhoot’s office in the Organized Crime Bureau, I asked O’Brien what the hell was going on. I’d never heard O’Brien gossip but I also didn’t know anyone in the courthouse who knew more gossip than he did. Despite his gruff, macho exterior, people generally liked O’Brien and told him things they didn’t share with others. He knows how to read people and make them feel at ease. This quality makes him an excellent homicide detective.

  I’d gotten to know O’Brien during the Gonzales rape/murder case. During a long road trip to Attica prison, he told me a few nuggets about his past. His father had been a prison guard who often took his anger out on his family—at home—with his fists. When O’Brien was old enough to stand up to his old man, the two of them had squared off. The teenage O’Brien had left his father lying beaten and bloody on the ground and had been shocked when his mother, who he thought he was protecting, told him to move out. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I think O’Brien learned how to read people out of a sense of survival when he was a helpless child. In addition to O’Brien’s built-in radar, he also has a gaggle of loose-lipped courthouse secretaries, bartenders, waitresses, and other street sources feeding him information.

  “I’ve heard Vanderhoot is lobbying for a U.S. Attorney’s job. Wants to move on to bigger and better things. Whitaker found out and is none too pleased. Feels Vanderhoot is being disloyal. I doubt your boss is gonna want him juicing up his résumé by bringing down a capo as powerful as Persico.”

  O’Brien’s comment reminded me of how isolated I was across the street in my office and how little I cared about office politics. Just the same, I’d learned in the Gonzales case that what happened behind the scenes in the D.A.’s office was often more important than what played out in a courtroom, and that justice frequently came second to political ambitions.

  Myerson and Vanderhoot were still talking when O’Brien and I arrived. Vanderhoot, true to his Marine training, got right to the point. “This isn’t a domestic violence case, so why the hell are you still involved?”

  “The district attorney has specifically asked me and Detective O’Brien to be involved and monitor every aspect of this case. And no one really knows if the Butcher had anything to do with any of this.”

  “If he did, then it’s an organized crime matter. Isn’t that right, Henry?” Vanderhoot asked.

  “One would think so, wouldn’t they?” Myerson responded in his typical wishy-washy fashion.

  “No disrespect, Vanderhoot,” I said, meaning just the opposite, “but this is above my pay grade. I’m only doing what I have been instructed to do. Our boss sent us up here to brief you. Are there any questions that you might have about the murder?”

  Vanderhoot gave me an irritated look and I could almost see the wheels spinning in his head. The fact that Whitaker had sent Myerson and us to speak to him was a clear message. Ordinarily, Whitaker would have had Miss Potts summon Vanderhoot as soon as the Butcher’s name had been mentioned during our briefing. After all, organized crime was Vanderhoot’s specialty and he had extensive connect
ions with the FBI and other organized crime task forces. It seemed obvious that Whitaker’s second-class treatment of Vanderhoot was a rapping on the knuckles, telling him that if he no longer wanted to work in the D.A.’s office, then he wasn’t going to be part of a potentially career-making case. “If District Attorney Whitaker wants you two handling the investigation,” Vanderhoot said, “then by all means, be my guests. I don’t see why you need to bother briefing me.”

  Apparently, if Vanderhoot wasn’t going to be in charge, then he wasn’t going to help us. He was shrewd enough to realize that if he wasn’t going to be given the football, he sure as hell wasn’t going to take any blame if things went bad.

  “I’ll tell District Attorney Whitaker that you didn’t have any questions for us,” I said quietly.

  “No, you won’t,” he replied with a grunt that essentially said, Who the hell do you think you are? “Myerson and I will be talking to him later today. But thanks for stopping by.”

  In the elevator, O’Brien said, “Goddamn it, Dani, why do you get me dragged into this shit?”

  “Get ready for more,” I said.

  He shook his head and let out a sigh. “There always is with you,” he said. “Let me guess. Our next stop is Gallo & Conti in Yonkers.”

  6

  There was no sign outside the five-story office building advertising the mob law firm of Gallo & Conti. The directory in the lobby listed the firm as being on the second floor. A twenty-something receptionist, answering phone calls while smacking gum, greeted us with a cheery “Gud mornin’.”

  “Alberto Bianchi, please,” I said, showing her my identification badge. “Westchester County District Attorney’s Office.”

  A concerned look appeared on her young face and for a moment, I thought she might swallow her gum. She hit a button on her phone and whispered, “There’s two people from the D.A.’s asking to see Alberto.” She waited for a response, then put down the receiver and said, “Take a seat.”