Lem leaned over to whisper something to him. I scanned the row behind their seats and was surprised that Baby Mo’s wife wasn’t there in his support—not even as a prop, to weigh on the conscience of the judge. Knowing Lem, he was saving her for a more dramatic appearance at a later time.
The judge introduced herself to the defendant. The clerk read the charges from the indictment and asked Mohammed Gil-Darsin what plea he wished to enter.
“Not guilty.” Two words, spoken firmly in his best upper-class British accent, with a twinge of his native Ivorian French.
“Please be seated, sir,” the judge said. “I’ll hear the People on bail.”
Ellen rose to her feet, armed with a detailed list of facts in support of her request to keep the defendant remanded without bail. She did well until she ventured into today’s news of the Lille-based prostitution scandal.
“Do the French authorities intend to charge Mr. Gil-Darsin with a crime, Ms. Gunsher?” Donnelly asked.
“I don’t have that information at this time.”
There were six more rapid-fire questions that Ellen could answer only with guesses and gossip. “Sit down then, Ms. Gunsher. Save those arguments for a day when you’re more properly informed of the facts. Mr. Howell?”
“Good afternoon, Judge Donnelly. My client and I thank you for this opportunity to correct the terrible injustice of the original bail application,” Lem said, grandstanding for the audience at the same time as he struck a pose for the scribbling sketch artists. “As you can see from the criminal court arraignment proceedings, my client—who commands, who deserves, who enjoys worldwide respect for his financial acumen and diplomacy—has been deprived of his liberty when he most needs it: to help to prepare for his defense in this case that apparently takes—let me see—four, four prosecutors to shepherd through the treacherous waters of the criminal justice system.”
“What’s your point?”
“Remand status, Your Honor, is generally reserved for the most heinous of criminals, for homicides and murder cases—like the one in which my dear friend Ms. Cooper finds herself entangled today.”
Low blow, Lem. I fixed my eyes on the portrait of Lady Justice hanging on the wall behind the judge.
“Strike that remark from the record,” Donnelly said. “Go on. Any circumstances of which the court was not aware on Sunday, when bail was set at remand?”
“First, Your Honor, my client’s family was not able to be here with him at that time, which presents a very different picture of any man. But now his wife has arrived in New York. Madame Gil-Darsin—Kalissatou, as she is known—is an exceptional woman, an international superstar, and a woman of great character as well as independent means. The only reason she is not present today is that she is actually securing a lease—a twelve-month lease—on a furnished apartment on Central Park South. So we can assure you that my client will indeed have roots in this community—very expensive roots, I might add—for as long as it takes to dispose of the allegations against him.”
“Is that all, Mr. Howell?”
Lem covered every angle. He went on about Blanca Robles’s fifty-million-dollar civil suit, the connection to an imprisoned lover, the possibility that she had lied to police about her grounds for asylum.
“How about DNA, Mr. Howell? How does DNA lie?” Judge Donnelly asked. “Do you care to offer any explanation about how it came to be on the uniform of the complaining witness, as well as the walls and floor of your client’s hotel room?”
Unlike me, Lem never gave the slightest hint that the wind had been taken out of his sails. He bent his head in the direction of the judge and in a clipped voice said, “Not at this very moment, Your Honor. I’ll save that conversation for another day, after the prosecution has provided me with their lab reports so that our own experts can advise about any improprieties. We all know that mistakes can happen.”
“Very well then. You’re welcome to return to me when the ink dries on your client’s lease and you have any new grounds for reconsideration of his bail. I agree with you that remand on these charges, for a first offense, is a highly unusual position for Mr. Battaglia’s office. Feel free to renew your application when you think it’s appropriate.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Until such time, however, the defendant is remanded.”
Mohammed Gil-Darsin stood up, appearing far less sanguine about the news than did his lawyer. Lem chatted with him, and patted him on the shoulder as he sent him off to the holding pens behind the courtroom to await the bus ride to Rikers Island, then tried to make his apologies to me before we could follow the crowd out into the hallway.
“Well, at least Donnelly didn’t close the door on me entirely, did she?” he asked.
“Not so hard as I’d like to do.”
“How about I buy you a cocktail at the end of your long day, Alex? I think you and I have a lot to talk about.”
“It’s such a tempting offer, Lem,” I said, holding my arms out, palms up, imaginarily weighing each side like Lady Justice over my shoulder. “A drink with you tonight or root canal? Tough choice, but I think I’m leaning toward the latter.”
We were interrupted by Mickey Diamond, who’d come forward from the press section to select for tomorrow’s paper one of the sketches the Post artist had rendered.
“It’s not my fault, Alex,” he said. “I wasn’t working last night. I hated what they did to you with that headline this morning.”
“I know it wasn’t you. Don’t even think about it.” It was my own damn fault—the entanglement, as Lem called it, in the two murders that had occurred, the fact that Mike had been drawn in to help Luc on my behalf, and my bickering with him last night in the driveway in front of my building.
“How’s this?” Diamond said, holding several drawings in his hands. “Pick your favorite one. I’ll make it up to you. Your best angle, Alex.”
I laughed. “I’d prefer to be left out of it all together. Use this one of Ellen—it’s very flattering. Or this one of Lem, posturing like a peacock. I’ll even write the caption for you.”
“They’re going with the line I got already. I mean, it’s not my fault. I texted it in after Lem made his crack about you to the court.”
“Dare I ask?” I was so low on adrenaline that I couldn’t even muster the juice to blush with embarrassment or engage my bad temper.
Diamond lifted his pad to show me. SEX CRIMES PROSECUTOR DINING IN HELL’S KITCHEN?
THIRTY-SIX
I made it through Battaglia’s press conference without taking any personal hits, then went back to my own office to continue working on his op-ed piece.
When I showed him a partial draft of the essay at 6:40 that evening, he told me the language wasn’t strong enough and I should stay at it. He had clearly given up the idea of placing it in the next day’s paper, so I felt no need to struggle with it any longer after he left.
Mercer was still waiting for me when I returned to my desk. “I neglected to feed you last night, after all that talk at ‘21.’”
“I’m not very good company. I’ve got no focus at all.”
“Mike wants to meet us for dinner.”
“Didn’t we just try that routine? It had a miserable ending for all concerned.”
“You owe it to him, girl. This week you just do. He has some things to tell you, and he wants to pick your brain.”
“There’s nothing left in it to pick. It’s like a flock of vultures went at it on empty stomachs. Is this with or without Luc?”
“Without.”
“No surprises again? Because I couldn’t bear it.” I opened the door to the narrow coat closet in my office and took a look at myself in the mirror.
“No surprises.”
“Do either of you plan on telling me whether Luc’s on his way to Sing Sing already or just keeping busy around town?”
“Luc’s fine. He had another session with the Brooklyn cops today, along with both of his partners.”
/> I brushed my hair and put some lipstick on, but nothing was going to help the drained look my face had taken on during the week, or the despair I felt tonight.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Whatever’s left of me, I’m all yours.”
The elevator came down from the ninth floor, half-full of lawyers from one of the bureaus in the Trial Division. Two complimented us on the MGD indictment, while two others made gentle fun of the morning’s headline. I couldn’t wait to get out on the street, away from the office.
Colleagues were coming out of both buildings the DA’s office occupied on Hogan Place—five hundred lawyers strong, with thousands on the support staff as well. Those on trial would burn the midnight oil, but others split off in groups of two and three, headed for the bar at Forlini’s or an affordable dinner in Chinatown to relive the day’s work.
“Hey, Mercer,” Tom Curran, a senior litigator, called out. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Rain check,” the popular detective said, leading me toward his car on Canal Street.
“What’s the matter? You Coop’ed up tonight?”
I waved back at the group that guffawed at his joke. “The next dog of a case that finds its way to my desk will have your name written all over it, Tom.”
“Bring it on, Alex.” There was nothing about a courtroom contest that scared my good-natured friend. “What happened to your boy-toy? Today’s Post read like Chapman quit the force to write copy for them. You need a backup? ’Cause I’m almost as good-looking as he is.”
Tom and Mike had the same distinctively handsome Irish faces, both with thick heads of black hair and winning smiles.
“You’ll be the first to know when I’m on the market.”
“Then go a round with us at Forlini’s right now.”
“You heard Mercer. Next time.”
“Tell you what,” Tom said. “When Lem knocks you out with an acquittal on MGD, I’ll throw the party.”
“I’ve had ten better offers than that just this afternoon. See you tomorrow.”
We got into the car and Mercer made a U-turn to drive uptown on Lafayette Street.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Patroon.”
I was happy for the first time all day. Ken Aretsky had been a trusted friend to Luc and me and would protect me in his superb restaurant, with all the care and comfort that went along with his great food.
“I love this idea. Thanks a million.” I knew Mike had a purpose—beyond his palate—in this venue. He, too, had benefitted from Ken’s generosity, and he undoubtedly wanted to get the restaurateur’s insights on what had been happening in Luc’s world.
We cruised uptown and found parking easily on East 46th Street, right in front of Patroon. Ken and his wife, Di, one of my dearest friends, were greeting guests in the main dining room. The chic-looking crowd in the plush banquettes reflected the glow of the understated lighting from the wall sconces, showing off one of the most distinguished photography collections in any public space in the country.
Stephane, the stunningly efficient captain who had been with the Aretskys for the fifteen years since they’d opened their doors, directed us to the Humidor Room on the second floor. Although he and I always addressed each other in his native French, I didn’t want to hear a word of that language this evening.
The entire level on two was a suite of handsome rooms of different sizes, all for private parties. The intimacy of this one, with its Spanish cedarwood and spotless mirrors, was one of my favorites.
“Totally my fault last night,” Mike said, hands up in the air like he was surrendering to the local sheriff.
“My idea to take your quarrel out onto the street,” Mercer said. “My bad.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s not all fall on our swords at one time. I’ve been pretty stupid about some of this.”
“Damn right you have, kid. We’ll regroup tonight.”
“Up here?” I asked.
“No, but behind that sleek bit of cabinetry, there’s a door with a flat-screen TV.”
Mercer opened it and turned on the television, muting the set while we waited for Final Jeopardy!
“So my day was as busy as yours,” Mike said. “And I’d need a flying carpet to keep up with Luc’s partners.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Peter Danton for starters. The guy can’t sit still. He’s gone for two weeks every month. His usual flight pattern is New York to Ghana. Roams around West Africa.”
“That’s his business, Mike.”
“Don’t be so thin-skinned, Coop. I’m just laying out the facts,” Mike said. “He picks up again from Senegal to the south of France, before going on to Paris and home.”
“Nothing unusual about that.”
“Then you got Gina Varona. South of France, Paris, Milan.”
“All fashion and cosmetics.”
“And friends and food, Coop. I get it.”
“Do their trips overlap?”
“Rarely,” Mike said. “But the Brooklyn techs got a new name from Luc today. A new player. Jim Mulroy.”
“That’s not new at all. I know Jim. I mean I met him on Sunday. He’s the wine buyer. That’s his business.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s been all over the place, too. And begging for a piece of the action.”
“How do you mean?”
“He wants a cut of the partnership, behind Varona and Danton. His last trip was Paris, Lyons, Mougins, Bordeaux,” Mike said, flipping through his pad.
“Everywhere I’d expect a wine merchant to be,” I said.
“Lille, too?” This time, it was a question, no doubt prompted by today’s news about MGD.
“Beer country,” I said, crestfallen. And then, hoping to save Mulroy from any hint of the scandal, I added an idea. “Although Lille’s right in the heart of where the best champagnes come from—between Reims and Troyes.”
Mike looked at his watch and then the television.
Trebek had already revealed the blue screen with the final category and was reading it aloud for the second time as the volume came on. “Presidential Shelter.”
“Who knows what they mean by that one,” Mike said. “Twenty only.”
Stephane reappeared with a drink for each of us. We clinked glasses and Mercer toasted to a speedy solution to Luc’s predicament.
“Here’s your answer, folks,” Trebek said. “‘These two islands were the sites of fallout shelters built in 1961 for JFK during soviet face-offs.’ We’re looking for two islands.”
The musical timer ticked away while the three contestants scratched their heads and screwed up their noses.
“You got any fallout shelters on the Vineyard, Alex?” Mercer asked. “That would have been close to the summer White House in Hyannis.”
“No such thing on my little island. I’ve never heard of this. Doesn’t the White House have its own bunker?”
“Built during WWII,” Mike said, “to protect FDR. You got it.”
“So where could these be?” I asked, grateful for the diversion from the serious work of this week.
“Is that an ‘I give up,’ Coop?”
“Why, is your Cold War trivia as good as the real military stuff you know? And yes, I’ve given up on just about everything.”
“What is Nantucket?” Mercer asked. “That has to be one of them.”
“You’re halfway there,” Mike said.
Trebek was shaking his head at the three women, who seemed frozen behind their podiums. None of them were writing.
“What are Nantucket—and Peanut Island?” Mike asked.
“Now, that one comes straight from your twisted imagination,” Mercer said to him.
“No takers?” Trebek said. “What are Nantucket—the island off the coast of Cape Cod, where the president and his family summered—and Peanut Island? Peanut Island, for those of you who didn’t know, is a tiny strip directly opposite Millionaire’s Row in Palm Beach. Nobody guessed that, did you?”
> Mike turned off the television. “Yeah, Navy Seabees built the shelter at the end of ’61, as we were ramping up to the Cuban Missile Crisis. Just a helicopter hop from the Kennedy home, on this little island that was meant to be a terminal for shipping peanut oil.”
“Just hearing the word ‘peanut’ makes me hungry,” Mercer said.
“Then let’s chow down.”
“Up here?” I asked.
“Nope,” Mike said. “Follow me.”
The three of us took the tiny elevator down two flights, to the basement. Patroon, too, had a wine cellar with a dining table. It was far more intimate than the space at ‘21,’ and without all the sinister hidden doors and locked rooms. Luc and I had surprised Vickee and Mercer with an anniversary dinner for eight in the divine, candlelit space several months earlier.
“What’s the point of this?” I asked. “Déjà vu, all over again?”
“Ken thought it would give us privacy. I’ve got to bring you up to speed, and he said he’d help us with some answers.”
Stephane brought menus down to us, but we’d eaten at Patroon so many times that we really didn’t need them to order.
“I’ll have the rack of lamb,” Mike said. “Onion rings, whipped potatoes, grilled asparagus.”
“Very good choice, Detective. Did I forget to say ‘ladies first’?” Stephane asked, pointing his pen at Mike. “He just jumped right in ahead of you, Alexandra.”
“He’s a growing boy. And I’d like the thirty-five-day dry aged sirloin, please. Black and blue.”
“Mercer?”
“Dover sole. Grilled.”
“It’s sublime,” Stephane said. “We’re serving it tonight with a caper meunière sauce. Will that be okay for you?”
“Just perfect. Mike’s side dishes will do us all fine.”
“Mr. Aretsky wants to send you a bottle of wine, with his compliments. He said to tell you he’ll be down here shortly.”
Night Watch Page 26