Night Watch

by Linda Fairstein

  “I said that. I know I said that.”

  “But then you changed it to tell us you went next door to number twenty-eight-oh-eight. That you opened that door with the key card, so you could go in to clean that room up.”

  “Yeah, that one is true.”

  “So even though you’d been raped, you were going to continue working and make up the adjacent room, like you were fine?”

  Blanca looked to Peaser and back at Mercer. “No. No, no. I just went back to get my cleaning supplies. I couldn’t work. Too upset.”

  “Do you remember telling me that you went to that room to get back to work?”

  “Okay, so I was going to go to work there, but then I decided to go back to number twenty-eight-oh-six. To go back to twenty-eight-oh-six and change the linens, like they sent me to do originally. I didn’t want to go near the bed, like I told you the other day,” she said, looking to Mercer for approval—as though she remembered that it might have compromised any finding of DNA. “But I had to get the towels from the bathroom. That’s part of my job.”

  “So you went into the bathrooms?” Mercer asked.

  “Only one of them. The big one with the shower and all. Not the powder room,” Blanca said. “I never went into that. Nobody used that one.”

  “Did you remove any of the towels?”

  “That’s why I went there, Detective. To clean it up.”

  I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I sat up straight and my spine stiffened. I didn’t want to look at Mercer or Pat, but from the movements each made, I was sure they’d caught the latest change.

  “I’m sorry,” Mercer said. “You went back into the room where Gil-Darsin attacked you?”

  “Yes,” Blanca said firmly, standing her ground like she was sure it was the right decision.

  “And at that time, you went into the bathroom, too. And you took the towels out of the bathroom with you?”

  So that if there was any trace evidence linked to Blanca Robles anywhere in that bathroom, it would no longer be possible for us to know whether she had actually had the opportunity to clean herself up in the moments after the alleged assault—which she had denied all along—or on this later visit to clean up the room.

  “Have you told anyone that fact before right this very minute?”

  “What fact?” Blanca asked.

  “That you entered the bathroom of suite twenty-eight-oh-six after Mr. Gil-Darsin left the room?” Mercer said. “That you removed potential items of evidence from that suite?”

  “Why do I have to tell people? It’s my job, to send things to the laundry. It has nothing to do with this man assaulting me.”

  “And that’s what you did with the towels? Sent them to the laundry?”

  “Yeah. All the washcloths and towels. They went down to the basement with the linens from the other rooms.”

  Six days after the alleged attack and countless interviews later, and a critical new fact had just emerged. If Gil-Darsin were to claim at the trial that after their consensual encounter, Blanca had used the bathroom to clean herself up, there would be no way to refute the argument.

  “Did you tell that to the grand jury on Wednesday?” Mercer asked.

  “Ms. Ellen didn’t ask me that. None of you did.”

  “Let me understand this, Blanca,” Mercer said. “When you went back to number twenty-eight-oh-six this second time, did you let yourself in?”

  “With my card, yes. My key card.”

  “Was Gil-Darsin still there?” Mercer asked.

  “No,” Blanca said, with a wave of her hand. “He was in a big hurry. He left fast.”

  She had flip-flopped again on this fact. At first she told police she had concealed herself in the hallway to make sure he had left. Then, two days ago she put herself back in the room from which she could not have known about MGD’s departure, and just now, she told us that she removed property from the crime scene.

  She had just given Lem Howell an opening in her story—and in the police crime scene work—wide enough for the defense to drive through in a Mack truck.

  Mercer continued with a list of questions about both times that Blanca was in room 2806. Some of the answers were different than they had been on previous days—a problem for the case and a larger problem for the accuser herself.

  Pat McKinney stood up and signaled to me. “Can we talk in your office, Alex?”

  “Sure.”

  I let Ryan take my place at the table while Mercer’s quietly effective cross-examination moved ahead. I stepped in front of Ellen Gunsher, who had the same stupefied look on her face that she usually did—this time for good reason.

  McKinney and I walked down the hallway, past Laura, and sat around my desk.

  “What do we do, Alex?” he asked. “I have to say, I have a whole new respect for what the lawyers in your unit deal with every day. There’s nothing like these cases.”

  Pat McKinney had rarely complimented my staff before, and it might be a long time before he did it again. The fifty prosecutors who handled sex crimes, domestic violence, and child abuse dealt with the most sensitive issues imaginable in the life of the accuser. Every report teetered on becoming “high-profile”—because of the crime or the victim or the location or the vagaries of the press.

  “Thanks, Pat. I don’t think Blanca leaves us any choice about what to do.”

  “Let’s go tell Battaglia. You’ll appear in front of Donnelly and suggest releasing MGD on his own recognizance?”

  “Okay.”

  “You can take the pressure better than Ellen,” McKinney said. “You’ve made big mistakes before.”

  “This isn’t anyone’s mistake, Pat. Blanca Robles has done this to herself.”

  Paul Battaglia’s mantra had always been to do the right thing. He drilled it into his assistants from the moment they came on board.

  “Well get ready to suck it up, Alex. Someone’s got to take the heat for this one.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Battaglia was stone-faced when McKinney and I gave him the news. “How fast do you have to move on this?”

  “I called Lem Howell, and my paralegal is processing the papers so that Gil-Darsin can be produced from the Tombs,” I said.

  “They didn’t ship him back to Rikers yesterday?”

  “No. He’s still next door. Lem wanted time for him to have a visit with his wife today, so we’re lucky he’s still close by.”

  A quick walk across the Bridge of Sighs, from the short-term detention center attached to the courthouse, would bring Baby Mo back to get the news of his release.

  “Stall it till Monday,” Battaglia said. “It’ll give me time to write something.”

  “I won’t delay it, Paul.”

  When I first came to the office more than a decade ago, a colleague of mine had failed to file a dismissal on a grand jury vote reached late on a Friday afternoon. The seventeen-year-old defendant had been falsely accused by a rival gang member of participation in a robbery. That weekend, taunted by fellow inmates about his first arrest and his fierce denials, he tied two towels together and hung himself in his cell.

  “What will I say?”

  “I can script something if you’d like,” I said.

  “How much time do we have?” Battaglia asked, looking at his watch to confirm that it was now 11:30 A.M.

  “The judge wants us there at four. The press pool has asked for cameras in the courtroom, and they need time to set up.”

  “Can I make my remarks in here, as usual?”

  “You won’t be able to, Boss,” McKinney said. “It’s not just the locals. You’ll have reps from all the foreign press here as well. By mid-afternoon, you’ll have several hundred correspondents and photographers. It’s got to be the courthouse steps.”

  Paul Battaglia crushed his cigar in the ashtray on his desk. “Tell Brenda to make sure there’s a podium out there. All the equipment I need. Get to work on my comments, Alex. And be sure not to steal any of my thunder for
your bail app.”

  “Of course not, Paul. You’ll have all the best lines.”

  I told Laura to hold any calls or visitors. I got to work on the district attorney’s statement before I crafted a few short paragraphs to explain to the court the reversal of our bail position.

  I knew that Lem would be spinning the media all day about why our team was walking back the cat on MGD. This was not the time to go head-to-head with him. I needed to retain whatever dignity Blanca Robles had left herself and to think about the impact of this change on the victim advocacy community I respected so much.

  At one o’clock, Laura opened my door and put a turkey sandwich and soda on my desk. “You’ve got to eat something, Alex.”

  I smiled at her. “You’re not old enough to be my mother.”

  “But she called an hour ago, and I did promise to make sure to put lunch in front of you. I couldn’t swear I’d get you to put lipstick on before you faced the cameras, but food I could do.”

  I blew Laura a kiss and got back to work.

  Half an hour later, Ryan and Mercer came in together. They both looked distraught.

  “Where’s the funeral?” I asked.

  “It can’t get worse than this, Al,” Ryan said.

  I threw my pen on the desk. “Something change? I’ll be out of ink before I get to the courtroom. What have you guys been up to?”

  “I’m trying to keep Blanca and Byron here for as long as I can. I moved them out of the conference room, because the commotion is starting in front of the courthouse.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’ve got them up on the fifteenth floor, facing the rear of the building—no access to anything or anybody. Ordered in lunch and Blanca is watching some soaps on the tube. I don’t want them leaving the building until after Gil-Darsin is released. I figure the first shot at spin control goes to Battaglia,” Mercer said. “Then Lem. By that time, Byron Peaser will just sound like a bag of wind.”

  “Why do they think they’re being kept here?” I asked.

  “I told them you’re redrafting paperwork for her to sign. Blanca’s okay with it, and Peaser doesn’t want to let her out of his sight.”

  “Then why are you two looking so miserable?”

  “If you’re building the coffin for this case,” Ryan said, “I just came up with the last nail.”

  “Let me guess. Her real name isn’t Blanca Robles and she doesn’t work at the Eurotel.”

  “She’s good on both those counts. It’s her application for asylum.”

  I looked up at Ryan and nodded. “That wasn’t going to be available to us until next week. Who’d you impersonate this time? The secretary of state?”

  “I thought about it, but she has such a distinctive voice.”

  “Thanks for your discretion.”

  “Look, Al, I explained the situation to one of the deputies. They’d already pulled it from the system when they got the subpoena, but it was sitting on his desk until legal got to authorize its release,” Ryan said. “He read me through the whole thing.”

  “Okay. I’m expecting some exaggeration. I’ve seen dozens of these. Unless there’s a bombshell, then—”

  “There’s a bombshell,” Mercer said.

  “It’s got everything Blanca told us the first day we talked to her, Al. The day you were still in France. So Mercer and I just went back over all the facts again with her.”

  I put my elbows on the desk and started massaging my aching head. “What now?”

  “The stuff about her parents and brothers—she swears that’s all true,” Mercer said. “And when I asked her to tell me one more time about the militia—”

  “You mean the soldiers who gang-raped her?” I asked. “The story that brought everyone on the team to tears?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That very one. It turns out that’s the story that she made up out of whole cloth.”

  I dragged my hands down over my mouth, thinking of the consequences. “Blanca Robles fabricated a story of rape?”

  “Completely. She admitted that to us just now.”

  “That woman could have lied about almost anything else and still have a chance of being believed,” I said. “I could have argued to the jurors that all the financial crap and taxes and the asylum stuff in general was extraneous to the facts of the Gil-Darsin assault. But to look every one of us in the eye and make up the story of a sexual assault? We’ll never be able to sell this one to a jury that’s faced with convicting a man of rape in the first degree. Never.”

  “We just thought you and Battaglia ought to know.”

  “Thanks, guys,” I said, picking up my pen to do the edit on both my statement and the district attorney’s. “Hey, Mercer? You willing to walk the plank with me?”

  “My distinct honor.”

  “Quarter to four? Pick me up here and take me to Judge Donnelly’s part?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I honed and sharpened my words. If ever there was a time that less was more, this would be that moment.

  At the appointed hour, I dragged myself out of my office and walked through the great hallways with Mercer beside me. We took the elevator from the DA’s office wing to the thirteenth floor, Part 31 of the Supreme Court of the State of New York.

  As we stepped off, flashbulbs started popping, and the reporters who were waiting to be admitted to the locked courtroom were screaming out questions.

  The court officers let Mercer and me in. Directly ahead I could see Lem Howell, preening in the well, gloating at the victory we were handing him.

  “Alexandra Cooper,” Lem said, “I taught you well, young lady.”

  “If you want to claim the credit for all this, just hop right on my back. That’s where everyone else seems to be.”

  The judge came out of the robing room, ready for the sideshow that would have media clowns jockeying for seats as the pool cameraman set up his equipment, focusing on the two counsel tables. We’d all be in high def for the evening news. Since Donnelly tolerated no nonsense, the proceeding would be mercifully short.

  “Mr. Howell, Ms. Cooper—good afternoon. As you know, Mr. Howell, Ms. Cooper contacted my clerk late this morning. I understand we’re going to have a change in bail status for Mr. Gil-Darsin. Has your client been produced?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Before we go on the record, do we have any housekeeping to do?”

  “No, Judge,” I said. “I intend to be brief.”

  “Very good. Does your client have any family members who wish to be seated in the front row, before I let the reporters in?”

  “No, ma’am,” Lem said, barely able to suppress an enormous grin. “Madame Gil-Darsin would prefer to greet her husband outside the courthouse—when he is a free man.”

  “This will be rich,” I whispered to Mercer. “Lem’s staged a grand reunion, played out for all the world to see. I should have figured as much.”

  The officers led Baby Mo into the courtroom. Lem had provided him with yet another suit from his vast collection of bespoke clothes, and a fresh shirt in cerulean blue, perfect for the television cameras.

  The defendant tried to say something to me—thank you, I’m sure—but I turned my back to him to avoid the impropriety of that discussion.

  “How the worm turns, Alexandra,” Lem said, positioning himself between me and the bench so that he could watch the press corps jam themselves into the empty seats.

  “All’s fair in love and war, Lem,” I said, “and don’t forget that every dog has his day. That’s three, isn’t it? A triplicate of platitudes for you.”

  “Don’t go bitter on me, young lady. Plenty of room for Paul Battaglia to do that. I have no agenda but to praise your fairness.”

  “Save it for another time, Lem. It rings too hollow today.”

  Judge Donnelly banged her gavel. “May I have your appearances, please?”

  “Alexandra Cooper, for the People.”

  “Lemuel Howell the Third, for Mr. Gil-Darsin
.”

  “You have an application, Ms. Cooper?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. At this time, I’d like to request that Mr. Gil-Darsin be ROR’d—released on his own recognizance. We’d also like the court to consider asking to secure his passport, at least until the next court appearance.”

  “Just to be clear, Ms. Cooper, this is the same matter on which your office requested a remand of this defendant just twenty-four hours ago?”

  “It is, Your Honor.”

  “Would you mind detailing some of the changed circumstances?”

  “Of course,” I said, picking up my list of Blanca’s lies to read into the record.

  I could barely hear myself speak over the rumble of the reporters behind me.

  “Thank you, Ms. Cooper. Three weeks? Do you think you can resolve some of these issues in that time, Mr. Howell?”

  “I am most certain, Judge Donnelly, that we can figure out the misunderstanding between the two parties by then.”

  I wanted to scream out loud at Lem’s choice of the word “misunderstanding.” Buried in Blanca Robles’s twisted telling of the short encounter I was pretty sure there was a crime.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “Three weeks is fine.”

  “May 20,” she said. “Are you able to arrange the surrender of your client’s passport, Mr. Howell?”

  “If Detective Wallace would be so kind,” Lem said, reaching out his hand to me. “I believe the police, in their haste to detain my distinguished client, seized both his personal and his diplomatic passports.”

  Lem underscored his point about MGD’s international prominence. Mercer passed both documents to Lem, who gave them to the clerk.

  “Mr. Gil-Darsin, you’ll be taken in the back by the officers and processed for immediate discharge,” the judge said, with one more bang of her gavel after she announced that court was adjourned.

  The defendant wrapped his arms around Lem Howell and gave one emphatic fist pump to the audience.

  Reporters scrambled over one another to dash out of their seats and phone in their headlines.

  I called Pat McKinney to urge him to move Battaglia to the front steps of 100 Centre Street as quickly as he could, before the unruly crowd assembled. I wanted him to make his remarks with as much dignity as possible, before Gil-Darsin played to the cameras.