“The interview. Pedigree and case facts. Ryan did that, right?” Rape cases were like no other kind of crime. You were asking a woman to reveal facts about the most intimate kind of trauma forced on her, when often she had never spoken of such acts to anyone outside her personal relationships. There was an art to doing this work well, and while we hand-selected and trained our unit assistants, not all prosecutors had the manner to bond patiently—yet firmly—with rape victims and get the full story of what occurred.
One side of Ryan’s lip pulled back. He wanted to answer me but didn’t dare with McKinney driving the discussion. “I let Ellen do it, actually,” Pat said. “Woman-to-woman kind of thing.”
“Ellen? Really?” I looked across the table at McKinney’s lover. “I didn’t think you’d ever spoken with a rape victim before.”
“She’s done some of the most difficult work in this office, Alex. She’s—”
“It’s not the same thing, Pat.” The gender of the cop or prosecutor didn’t matter a fraction as much as his or her sensitivity to the specific issues, an ability to connect to the victim and earn her trust in eliciting nuanced details. “Did you use our screening sheet to get the background and pedigree?”
“I didn’t know there were screening sheets until Ryan gave me one. But I’d already started my questioning, so it was too late,” Ellen said.
The screening tool had been developed when the unit was founded by my predecessor, and it had been fine-tuned over the last two decades. It provided a pretty thorough means of getting information from a witness, including prior arrests, psychiatric history, drug use, any other history of sexual assault—which sometimes colored the way a victim responded to the incident at hand—and a detailed primer that resulted in giving the assistant DA an arsenal of facts before the case debriefing even began.
“We can get whatever information you want tomorrow if you think it’s so important, Alex. Blanca’s a damn impressive witness, I can tell you that,” Pat said. “No question about what happened in that hotel room. Are you skeptical already?”
“Of the accuser?” I asked. “Not at all. I’ve just come from a part of the world which views these crimes and our system very differently. The French are up in arms about the arrest.”
“What else do you need to know?” Ellen asked. “I mean, she’s obviously a very religious person. She’s widowed, with a teenage daughter. Soft-spoken and demure. Wait till you hear the story of what happened to her in Guatemala during the civil war there. It’ll break your heart.”
“Do you know whether she’s ever been the victim of a crime before?”
“Tomorrow, Alex,” McKinney said before Ellen could answer.
“What do you have on her medical history?” I asked, seeing a reference to a special housing situation in the police reports.
“Mañana. Get it? Everyone on this team has been working like a dog, so don’t come in here punching holes in the air like you could have done it better.”
“Good job, then, to all of you. That’s what I should have said first.” A half-assed job was more likely the reality, if I knew Ellen Gunsher’s work, but Blanca Robles had certainly convinced everyone who met her after the assault that it had occurred. Now we needed to get her in to the grand jury and through the gauntlet that had been stirred up by the frenzied media. “I look forward to meeting her.”
“Thanks, Alex,” Mercer said. “We all know what it’s like when a case breaks and you’re a million miles away and all you want to do is come back and work it from the inside with your buddies. I’m glad you’re here.”
June Simpson came back into the room. “Mr. Battaglia needs fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s take a break,” McKinney said. “Back at the table at seven-thirty, all your answers at the ready for the Boss.”
Paul Battaglia wouldn’t micromanage cases in his office—not even the big ones—but he was ruthless about the need to know any bit of intelligence that might connect to something he could use to manipulate a political situation. Ready with answers was exactly what everyone in the room needed to be.
My office was on the same corridor as the conference room. I nodded to Ryan, and he and Mercer ambled out to follow me there.
I went to my desk and sat down. I had missed only two business days, and my secretary had stacked the messages from Friday—a quiet day while I was in flight—along with the enormous pile from today, mostly related to the MGD case.
“I hated to break up your vacation, Alex,” Mercer said.
“Don’t even think about that. You know I’d go crazy over there second-guessing everyone anyway,” I said, smiling up at him, “except you and Ryan. Blanca’s good?”
“Real good. She had the docs in tears yesterday afternoon, telling them her life story.”
“Did you get everything you need from her?”
“We didn’t press too hard on Sunday. Her coworkers believed her, and they’ve known her for three years. Steady employment record. It wasn’t like some woman walking in off the street with no one to vouch for her. The medical team and advocates all thought she presented well.”
“I mean Ellen’s workup today.”
Ryan Blackmer had a great sense of humor. “May I be heard, Your Honor?”
“Sure.”
“It was the most pathetic interview I’ve seen in my six years here. Gunsher has no ear for fine-tuning, doesn’t understand that in a rape case it’s all in the details.”
“Did she let you get into it?”
“I’ve pranked her too many times. She iced me out.”
“Well, that changes in the morning,” I said. “You’re with me.”
“Awesome.”
“Did Gil-Darsin say anything at all?”
“Mike took him off the plane. He was sitting in the first seat on the aisle. Looked up when Mike showed the attendant his shield, sort of grimaced, and went along without a scene when asked to step off. Gracious, pleasant, not a word.”
“Miranda?”
“They read him his rights in the Air France boarding area. Drove him back to the city. Mike tried to schmooze him along the way but got nothing. When they reached the SVU offices and advised him he could make a call, he woke up his lawyer.”
“He already had a lawyer?”
“The suit who handles all his business matters. White-collar crime type, not street stuff. Good mouthpiece. I think his name’s Krovatin.”
“Gerry Krovatin? He’s first-rate. I’ve never gone up against him before. It’ll be a real challenge.”
“No, no, Coop. He’s conflicted out. Runs all the WEB matters internationally, so he can’t rep Baby Mo on this caper.”
“Well, that gives us some breathing time.”
“Rethink that one, Alex,” Ryan said, “because the black panther is roaming back in your sights. You want to see Ellen Gunsher’s knees wobble like jelly, you should have been at the arraignment when Lem showed up.”
The picture was coming into focus now. It was one thing for Mercer to want my help, but clear to me that Battaglia picked up the phone to order me back when Lemuel Howell III entered a notice of appearance with the court.
I let out a low whistle. “What a smart move. The Ivorian economist and rising political star represented by one of the top-tier trial lawyers in the country, who happens to be African American. Lem won’t just play the race card, he’ll have a whole deck of tricks up his sleeve.”
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.
“Y
ou 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 m
ore 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.
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