I was the last one to leave the darkened courtroom, thinking that this had been the worst week of my entire life.
FORTY-FOUR
“Every accuser,” Paul Battaglia said, speaking into the bank of microphones that covered the entire podium, “every victim of a sexual assault who comes forward and reports these heinous crimes, is entitled to be met with the utmost respect by the men and women of the NYPD and my great office.”
Pat McKinney and I flanked the district attorney. The rest of the team lined up behind us, with Mercer over my shoulder, while the district attorney went on to describe the background of Blanca Robles and her odyssey through the week’s interviews.
“Tens of thousands of witnesses come to our office every year, from diverse and frequently difficult circumstances, many with imperfect pasts. If we are convinced they are truthful about the crimes committed against them, and will tell the truth at trial, we will ask a jury to consider their testimony to prove a crime.”
He had added an important riff about the proud history and high priority of his long tenure in seeking justice for sex crimes victims and protecting the vulnerable immigrant population of the city.
“…In this particular instance, the nature and number of the accuser’s falsehoods,” Battaglia said, reading the words I had written, having edited them to fit his personal style, “the shifting and inconsistent version of events she gave surrounding her encounter in room number twenty-eight-oh-six of the Eurotel…”
The sea of reporters packed the entire roadway. Police had blocked off Centre Street from Hogan Place to White Street with the interlocking gray aluminum partitions—ironically known as French barriers—that had replaced wooden sawhorses for crowd control a decade ago. Uniformed officers stood side by side across the length of the curb that bordered 100 Centre Street.
A single car—a black limousine that would no doubt whisk Mohammed Gil-Darsin to his temporary home in Manhattan—was the sole vehicle that was positioned in front of the courthouse.
The only people standing still, not jostling to push closer to the steps from which Battaglia spoke, were the six enormous bodyguards—who looked as though they’d been plucked from some rapper’s entourage and who surrounded the sleek stretch sedan.
The district attorney commented on many of the specifics that had complicated Blanca Robles’s story. He separated those misstatements that were extrinsic to the alleged assault—asylum, bank accounts, tax records, phone calls—from those that related directly to her face-off with MGD and its immediate aftermath.
“…and my team, composed of some of the most experienced, senior lawyers on my staff, and representatives of this country’s pioneering and premier sex crimes prosecution unit, has ultimately been unable to credit the accuser’s version of the events of last Saturday beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Pat McKinney and I stared straight ahead. The late-afternoon sun was beginning to drop behind the Family Court building, but neither the direct glare nor the breeze sweeping in from the Hudson River caused even an eyelash to flutter.
“If we do not believe this accuser beyond a reasonable doubt at this time, then I cannot ask any one of these prosecutors to stand in front of a jury and ask them to require that of twelve good citizens of this county.
“We will press forward with our investigation, ladies and gentlemen. We urge the full cooperation of our witness, who has come to speak to us now only through her lawyer, Byron Peaser.
“We ask again, as we have from the outset, that she participate within the structure of the criminal justice system, rather than holding forth in media interviews and sponsored appearances. We hope that you, members of the Fourth Estate, will respect our need to see that justice is done.
“For today, we are left with no choice but to request the release of Mohammed Gil-Darsin, the defendant in this case, on his own recognizance, while we continue our search for the truth. Thank you very much.”
Two detectives from the DA’s squad moved in on either side of Paul Battaglia and escorted him inside the north entrance hall of 100 Centre Street and toward the back way into the DA’s office.
The brief statement in front of the building had been choreographed so that Battaglia would disappear before MGD was brought down from Part 31 to the south entrance hall of the vast lobby. The podium was left in place for Lem Howell and his client.
“Let’s go,” I said, turning to my colleagues. We were the only ones moving from our positions.
“Don’t you want to see this, Al?” Ryan asked. “Lem Howell dancing on your—”
“Not on my grave, Ryan. Don’t overdo this.”
“You’ve got to see him in action.”
“I’d rather have a drink.”
“We can’t leave now,” Mercer said. “We’ll look like we’re running away from something. Let’s just move off to the side. Prop yourself back against that wall and take it all in.”
Mickey Diamond and the guys from the local papers, who knew all of us, were trying to get our attention. “McKinney! What’s the tagline?”
Pat McKinney shook his head at the group in front.
“Alex!” Diamond screamed out. “Gimme something about how it feels right now, will you? Watching this perv walk out of here, Alex. How can you stand by and just stomach the whole thing?”
“Do you think he really did it?” It was one of the other reporters waving a microphone in midair.
The five of us were no longer standing quite so tall. I leaned against the massive pillar between the two entrances and covered my mouth with my hand to talk to Mercer.
“How I feel right now isn’t fit for print. What about you?”
“Right there with you.”
“The bastard did something to her in those twenty minutes in that hotel room, that’s what’s at the bottom of all this. He just picked the right vic, didn’t he?”
“With laser precision.”
A huge roar from the crowd went up as Lem Howell and Mohammed Gil-Darsin emerged from within the lobby and out onto the top of the steps.
I looked above them at the words carved into the granite of the old courthouse:
EQUAL AND EXACT JUSTICE TO ALL MEN OF WHATEVER STATE OR PERSUASION.
Mercer tilted his head back, too. “1939. A little sexist in those days, don’t you think?”
I laughed. “It’s better now? I hate doing what we did to that woman.”
“She did it to herself, Alex. We gave her every chance, even before you got back to town. Like you said, I’m not really sure she knows what truth is.”
I crossed my arms and readied myself for a speech.
Lem Howell silenced the crowd, one hand raised above his head, by speaking a single word: “Innocent.”
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, putting his hand on the shoulder of Baby Mo. “Since the very beginnings of this case, I have maintained the innocence of my client. Throughout this week, I have argued that there were many reasons to believe that Mr. Gil-Darsin’s accuser was not credible.”
The distinguished-looking WEB head had a more serious expression on his face than the one he’d worn in court just an hour ago.
“You have seen something extraordinary today—something remarkable, something so unusual that I have not seen it at any time since Paul Battaglia’s first election to this job, more than five terms ago. The district attorney stood at this podium and announced—after an indictment was filed, after his star witness had given sworn testimony, after he had asked for the imprisonment of my client without bail—he announced that he had doubts about the credibility of the woman who testified. I tell you that we are fortunate to live in a time and in a place where this kind of justice is available to all who come before the court.”
There was a movement at the bottom of the steps. The door of the limousine opened and the bodyguard closest to the side of the car pulled it back.
Those of us on the steps and some people jammed together at the front of the crowd, along
with all the uniformed cops, watched as Kalissatou Gil-Darsin planted her feet—shiny black patent stilettos bearing her long legs—on the pavement of Centre Street and gracefully unfolded from the backseat of the stretch.
“My client and his family—his beautiful wife, Kali—have believed in the American system of justice, despite the unbearable indignity of his incarceration all this week.”
Lem paused so the reporters who were closest could get photographs of Madame Gil-Darsin. She appeared to be at least six feet tall, dressed in a long-sleeved cobalt-blue sheath that complemented her figure as well as her husband’s attire. There was a shawl draped over her left arm, along with an open tote that matched her shoes.
If Baby Mo represented the world of sleaze—a charge of first-degree rape, semen in the hotel room after a sexual encounter with the maid who’d been his accuser, confirmation that a girlfriend had visited his room the night before, and his possible involvement in a ring of escorts and prostitutes—then Kali was the epitome of elegance.
The reunion of husband and wife, on the steps of the hall of justice, would be the money shot to play in newspapers around the world.
“I know you’d like to hear from Mr. Gil-Darsin,” Lem said, “but while the charges are still pending, it would be unwise of me to allow him to address you—despite his strong desire to do so.”
MGD nodded his head up and down.
Reporters began to rumble with displeasure at word that the defendant himself would not speak.
“How’d the semen get on her uniform?” Mickey Diamond yelled out.
“Will you comment on the news out of Lille?” a miked-up reporter with a French accent called out.
“What about the civil lawsuit?” a local TV commentator asked. “How much are you willing to settle for, to make it go away?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Kali. Her bearing was regal, and in the midst of all the tawdry comments and tacky circumstances, she never winced or evidenced a shred of emotion.
“This is not the end of the matter against my client,” Lem said. “But his freedom speaks volumes about the strength—or may I say weakness—of the People’s case. I want to thank you, on behalf of Mohammed Gil-Darsin, for your fair and open-minded reporting on this matter. I hope you will give my client a few days to make up for the liberty taken from him. A good weekend to you all.”
Lem Howell and Mohammed Gil-Darsin exchanged handshakes and bear hugs. They took the first two steps down, then Lem stood to the side while his client waved to the crowd. MGD clasped his hands together and bowed his head several times.
The defendant—I still thought of him as that, and would continue to do so until we reached a final decision—continued down the last few stairs of the courthouse.
He opened his arms wide, facing his wife and smiling at her, saying the words “thank you” loud enough that they were audible to all of us, even without the microphones.
As Baby Mo stepped onto the sidewalk, just a few feet away from her, Kali reached into her bag and pulled out a small handgun.
Her first shot struck Mohammed Gil-Darsin squarely in the chest and took him down immediately. The three that followed quickly, as she stood over his body and fired before six police officers reached her side and disarmed her, made certain he was dead.
FORTY-FIVE
“I didn’t get the e-mail today,” Mike said, coming into the conference room a little after 10 P.M., carrying two boxes of pizzas which he dropped on the long table.
“Which one was that?” Ryan asked.
“You know. ‘Ignore the sound of gunshots. They’re just shooting a scene from Law and Order on the courthouse steps.’ I don’t know that anybody has ever been so sorry to be ROR’d as Baby Mo,” Mike said. “Or Baby Mort, as they’re calling him now.”
The entire team—Pat McKinney, Ellen Gunsher, Ryan Blackmer, Mercer, and I—was still in shock. It was impossible to absorb that we had witnessed a homicide at our own front door, almost stage-set by the defense counsel for the photo op of his infamous client reuniting with his perfect wife.
Like any group that had gone through a traumatic event together, we were reluctant to leave one another for the weekend, even though our work was done. We kept reliving the day’s events, talking about whether there were any measures that we should have taken that would have changed things.
“Where’s the big cheese?” Mike asked, obviously trying to cut the tension in the room.
“Battaglia? He left about an hour ago,” I said.
“I see you raided the liquor cabinet. Couldn’t wait for me, Coop, could you?”
I’d contributed a liter of Dewar’s that I kept in the bottom of one of my filing cabinets for special occasions. McKinney had vodka and bourbon, and we were making do with plastic cups.
“It was just a horrible sight. A cold-blooded execution, right under our noses,” I said, taking another sip of my drink.
“CSU is still downstairs finishing the job.”
“It took forever to clear the crowd to get Crime Scene and the morgue van in,” Mercer said. “That slowed them down badly.”
“Declared here, or did he make it to a hospital?” Mike asked.
“Before his head hit the sidewalk,” Mercer said, while Ryan handed out slices. “Kali fired four from a LadySmith .38. Then she dropped it and held up her slim wrists to be cuffed and taken away. Stiff upper lip the whole time.”
“Not as stiff as his is.” Mike poured himself a few inches of vodka and touched his cup against mine. “Here’s to Carrie Underwood.”
“Why?”
“Must have been Kali’s favorite song,” Mike said, singing a few bars of Underwood’s hit that scored with the line “maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats.”
“Rough justice,” McKinney said. “I didn’t see that one coming, for sure.”
“How did Battaglia take it?”
“He’s as stunned as the rest of us,” I said.
“Did he get any more airtime?”
“Yeah. He couldn’t do anything on the front steps, but he invited the major press reps in to his office. Said all the right things.”
“And we slipped Byron Peaser and Blanca Robles out the back door,” Mercer said. “Nobody had any interest in what they had to say tonight.”
“Who winds up with Kali’s case?” Mike asked.
“The head of Brooklyn’s DV unit,” I said. “She’s terrific. She’ll be designated a special prosecutor in this county.”
“If she picks her jury right,” Mike said, halfway through his first slice of pepperoni with mushrooms and onions, “those people are likely to pin a medal on Kali. You want twelve angry women in that jury box—the first wives’ club—divorced, dumped, or deserted by the pricks in their lives. They’ll see things just the way Mrs. Mo did.”
“Most women do,” Ryan said, “according to my wife and her pals.”
“The sad thing is she’ll be tortured while she’s a prisoner at the Women’s House. That’s where her elegance and good looks and upper crust will work against her—in a jail cell.”
“Battaglia’s not asking for bail,” I said. “He’s releasing Kali. He figures there’s a whole battered women’s syndrome defense to be worked up here. Psychological abuse and all this public humiliation.”
“How enlightened of him. Are we close to an election year?”
“Must be,” Ryan said.
Pat, Ellen, and I began to nibble at the pizza. The alcohol was starting to calm me, and I could feel a slight buzz replacing the numbness of the afternoon’s experience.
“You should all look a bit more enthusiastic than you do, guys. A day like this one gives new meaning to ‘Thank God It’s Friday,’” Mike said. “Don’t tell me you’re so miserable about MGD’s sudden demise that none of you watched Jeopardy!?”
“There’s nothing funny about today,” I said, getting up from my place at the table. “Do you get that?”
“Where you going, kid? I just got here.�
��
“It’s been a long one, Mike. I’m packing it in.”
“Ellen, what kind of giant lizard was King Kong supposed to fight in the original movie?” he asked.
“What? Why do you want to know?” Ellen said, wiping the red sauce from her chin.
“’Cause it was the final answer tonight,” Mike said. “You know it?”
Ellen Gunsher shook her head. I announced that I wasn’t playing, and neither Mercer nor Pat guessed at the question.
But Ryan Blackmer was as quirky as Mike. “What’s a Komodo dragon?”
“That’s it, pal. I should have known you were a detail man. Have all the pizza you want.”
“Somebody leave the Scotch bottle on my desk when you’re done,” I said. I was ready to go home and go to sleep.
I understood why they were ignoring me. Each of us had retreated into a space from which we couldn’t see the murder unfolding in front of us. Each of us was going to have to deal with it in our own way.
“Here’s the really cool thing about Komodo dragons,” Ryan said. “They’ve got two penises.”
Mike was helping himself to more vodka. “Awesome!”
“Why do you think that’s so awesome?” I asked, almost out the door. “You hardly know what to do with one.”
“If that’s your best shot, Coop, you ought to sit on it.”
“It’s a strange time of night to start getting frisky, Al,” Ryan said.
I shrugged my shoulders and rolled my eyes. “I thought I was making a joke, Chapman style.”
“I’m actually saving up in case they ship your man out,” Mike said.
“What do you mean?”
“Luc. I mean Luc. He’s looking to be a perfect candidate for the French Foreign Legion, kid. No questions asked. That’s always been how they assemble their troops for combat. Cutthroats and crooks, murderers and—I don’t know, maybe they’ve got an opening for shady restaurateurs.”
I’d been one-upped. I stopped in the doorway. “What did you find out today?”
Night Watch Page 32