by David Carnoy
Now it was Cogan’s turn. When Madden first saw him, the only thing that surprised him was how tall he was. Later, he realized his mistake. He was wearing clogs, which added a good two inches to his height. But the height had thrown Madden for a second. He had seemed bigger than he really was, and everything else—his looks, his demeanor, his smile, even the way he walked—seemed exaggerated as a result. As they walked down the hall toward Cogan’s office, Madden felt a flush of anger: he understood exactly why those girls had gone to the trouble of befriending the kid next door just so they could create an opportunity to run into Cogan. For a second he hated him for that ability, and for his strong jaw and disarming smile. And then he hated himself for thinking that way, for being the least bit jealous.
To clear his mind, he looked over at Burns, who was already looking at him. Burns nodded, and looked away.
Whenever they went to a hospital, he could sense Burns was watching him. Madden had gotten over his fear of hospitals long ago, but every once in a while a smell or sound would get to him and he’d feel his throat tighten. Today, in the waiting room, it had happened. The tightness came and it must have showed on his face because Burns turned to him and asked, “You all right?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said.
And as soon as he said he was fine, he was. They had a strange understanding, Burns and him. Burns took the lead on many of the cases that came out of Belle Haven. He had a chameleon-like quality that had always impressed Madden. “He has range,” Pastorini once said. And it was true. In Belle Haven and East Palo Alto, Burns was black. But west of the freeway he was all white.
He’d been good today. The perfect supporting player, Madden thinks as they make their way out of the hospital. He keeps seeing the look on Cogan’s face when Burns asked him about having sex with the girl. And when they told him about the diary. Had it been genuine disbelief? Hard to say, he thinks. Very hard. He doesn’t know what kind of actor Cogan is. Doesn’t know him well enough to know that. Not yet. But he will, he promises himself.
Neither of them speaks until they get outside. Then, at the bottom of the entranceway’s steps, Burns asks, “What do you think, Hank?”
Madden doesn’t say anything at first. He just stops at the curb and looks at his watch. His timer is at thirty-five seconds, ticking down from two minutes.
“I think we’ve got a ball game,” he finally says. Then he pulls out his cell phone and speed-dials the sergeant’s number. “We’re done,” he tells Pastorini. “Wait thirty seconds and have the girl call.”
Cogan is alone in his office no more than two minutes when the phone rings. For a moment, he sits there staring at it as if it’s some mysterious foreign object that he’s seeing and hearing for the first time. Nothing has changed: the room is exactly as it was when he entered it. And people are still moving around outside his office, doing their jobs as if nothing had happened. Yet everything seems intensely askew. He doesn’t know where to begin, who to call or what exactly to do. He knows he has to get a lawyer, but which lawyer? Who’s good? And who to call to find out who’s good?
The phone rings again. His initial impulse is not to answer it, but suddenly he hopes it’s Klein or Reinhart or anybody he knows. So on the fourth ring, just before the call slides into voice mail, he picks up.
“Cogan,” he says.
“Hello, Dr. Cogan?”
“Yes?”
“This is Carrie Pinklow. I don’t know if you remember me.” Her voice wavers nervously, “Kristen’s friend. I tried to reach you earlier today but you were out.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know how to say this, but something terrible has happened.”
“I know. The police were just here.”
“Oh, my God. So you know. It’s just awful,” she says, speaking in an irritating staccato. “I can’t believe she killed herself. The police talked to me, too.”
“And what did you say when they came to talk to you?”
“I didn’t know what to tell them. It was all in her diary. Everything that happened that night. You know about the diary, don’t you?”
His tone suddenly turns sharp. “They said you made some comments. What did you tell them, Carrie?”
“I told them—I had to. I told them we went to your house. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you going to get in trouble?”
He lowers his voice. “Did you say anything about Kristen having sex with me?”
“They asked me about it.”
“Shit.”
“It was in her diary. There was nothing I could do. And then they said she called you Saturday afternoon. What did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything. Why on earth would she kill herself? Over something I said? Is that what they were implying?”
“I know. It’s just awful,” she repeats.
“Christ. Why didn’t you tell them she made the whole thing up?”
“I don’t know,” the girl says.
Cogan covers his face with his hand, exasperated. Rubbing his eyes, he lets out a long sigh.
“Do you think it would help if I did?” she says suggestively.
“It’d be a good start, don’t you think?”
Just then he hears voices outside his door. A nurse talking to a doctor. “Look, I have to go,” he says. “But this is bad, Carrie. Really fucking bad. I’m very sorry about your friend, but I’m in a heap of trouble here. A huge heap. And it’s my own goddamn fault.”
19/ PROFESSIONAL ADVICE
April 2, 2007—3:35 p.m.
THE FIRST PERSON COGAN CALLS IS KLEIN, THOUGH HE DOESN’T actually call him; he pages him. Klein gets back to him quickly, in less than a minute.
“Hey, buddy, you getting out of here?” he asks when Cogan picks up.
“Soon. You busy?”
“Just got a couple things to finish up. Why? What’s up?”
“Can you come down? I need to talk to you.”
“Sure. What’s up? Girl troubles?”
“You could say that.”
“Really. Which one? Do I know her?”
“This one’s serious, Kleiny. Real serious.”
“Oh,” he says, taken aback. Then, after a beat, “I’ll come right down.”
When Klein arrives a few minutes later, he enters the office hesitantly, almost gingerly, as if he fears he’s about to be reprimanded by a superior. Cogan knows he’s scared him a little. As long as he’s known him—about five years—he’s never used the word “serious” to describe a situation he had with a woman, even his worst break-ups.
“Sit down,” he tells Klein in a low voice. And then, when he’s seated, “Look, I can’t tell you everything right now, because I don’t know where this thing’s going. But I’ll give you the truncated version. You remember that girl I was telling you about, the girl I treated, who was in the car accident? The one I kept running into?”
“Yeah, the one I met that day I stopped by.”
Cogan had forgotten about that. “That’s right. She and her friend were out in front of the house with my neighbor’s kid when you drove up. Well, I never told you this but one night two or three months ago they stopped by my house late at night. The girl was drunk, practically unconscious. They’d been to a party—”
“The same girl you treated?”
“Yeah. Same one. It was the night of your birthday. After we went out.”
Klein vaguely remembers something about it. “I called you after I came home. I heard them in the background and asked you who they were, and you said ‘No one, just an old girlfriend and her friend.’ That was them?”
“Actually, there were three.”
Cogan explains why the girls had come—that Kristen’s friend had brought her there because she remembered where he lived and hadn’t wanted to take her to a hospital because they were afraid they would get in trouble with their parents.
They pleaded with him to help them. At first, he said no—he could get in trouble if he did. But they begged him
to, and he gave in. Under normal circumstances he would have sent them on their way. But the truth was he was pretty buzzed himself after their outing that night. He’d actually had more to drink than he thought—even more than Reinhart—so his judgment wasn’t a hundred percent.
“How bad was she?” Klein asks.
“She wasn’t good. But compared to some of the shit that comes through here, she was OK.”
He decided he’d take a quick look and if he couldn’t handle it, he’d send them to the hospital. Well, they walked her around and gave her water. An older girl—a college girl—was there, too, helping. They basically babysat her for half an hour, and she started to get better. Then, at some point, they stuck her in the guest room and she went to sleep. At eight-thirty the next morning, the friend came back and picked her up and that was the end of that. He didn’t hear anything about it until today.
“So the girl spent the night?”
“Yeah.”
Klein makes a face and shakes his head.
“Look, it was incredibly poor judgment. I know it was. But at the time, I was just trying to help. I mean, we’ve all been in a situation like that when we were kids.”
“The thing is,” Klein says, “when you become a parent you stop thinking like a kid.”
“Please, I don’t need any of Trish’s high-and-mighty crap right now. And if you tell her about this, I’ll kill you. Not a word to anyone.”
“Sorry, man. So, go on, what happened?”
It got worse. A lot worse. As he said, he hadn’t heard anything about it until today. The girl, Kristen, who’d spent the night had come to see him once after that night. She thought she might have left her earrings in his house. She’d brought him a present, which he thanked her for, but told her he couldn’t accept. Afterward, he told her she couldn’t come to his house again, that he could get into trouble if she did. She seemed to understand his position. And when he ran into her at the Safeway the next week, everything seemed fine. They said hello. Everything was cordial.
That was back in March. Then about half an hour ago he got word there were two cops looking for him. He couldn’t imagine they had anything to do with the incident. He’d worried about it for a couple of weeks, but when nothing came of it, he’d put it out of his mind. As far as he was concerned, it had never happened.
“How’d they find out about it?”
He looks at Klein. “You’re not going to believe this,” he says, not believing it himself. “The girl kept a diary. And her mother found it and read it.”
“You’re kidding. Online? On MySpace or something?”
“No. On paper. In a notebook, I guess.”
“I didn’t know kids did that anymore.”
“Apparently so.”
“And she wrote about how she was over at your house?”
He lowers his voice even more, almost to a whisper. “Not only that. She wrote about how she had sex that night—with me.”
“Jesus.”
“No, wait. It gets worse. On Saturday, she killed herself.”
Now it’s Klein’s turn to be shocked.
“She’s dead?”
“That’s what they’re telling me. And it just so happens she called me a few hours before it happened.”
“And you spoke to her?”
“That’s just it. I told her I couldn’t speak to her. I think she was about to tell me what had happened—you know, warn me about her mother finding the diary—but I cut her off. I mean, I was nice about it. I told her she was a terrific girl and all but I really couldn’t have any more contact with her. I wasn’t an asshole, I swear. But I guess I was kind of abrupt. I had a call on the other line. Who knew? Who fucking knew?”
Klein sits there silently for a moment, staring at the ground. Maybe he’s thinking about what it would be like if the same thing had happened to him, thinks Cogan. Or maybe he’s considering whether I slept with the girl.
“I didn’t do it,” Cogan says, suspecting the latter. “This is something she fabricated. She made it up.”
Klein looks up at him and nods. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got to get a lawyer.”
“Have they charged you with anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Is that enough proof, the diary?”
“I don’t know. Apparently, the girl told her friend that it happened. And now the friend told the police that she saw us having sex.”
“Christ.”
“Do you know who represented Hanson?”
Hanson was a doctor who’d been accused of examining a patient’s breasts unnecessarily. In the end, he hadn’t been prosecuted, but the hospital let him go.
“I don’t remember,” Klein says. “That was like three years ago.”
“Do you think Reinhart would know somebody?”
“Didn’t you date a criminal lawyer?”
“Which one?”
“The one with the BMW convertible. Carol. Karen—”
“Carolyn,” Cogan says.
“Yeah. Didn’t she do sexual-harassment-type cases?”
“You know,” he says, pulling his Blackberry out of his pocket, “I think you’re right.”
“You still got her number?”
“I’m looking.”
He does a listing by first name and sure enough, there it is: Carolyn Dupuy.
“Carolyn Dupuy,” he says to Klein, who mutters something that sounds like, “Thank God for technology.”
Cogan looks at his watch. It’s a quarter to five. He may still be able to catch her. He picks up the phone and dials the number he has for her office.
Klein says, “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“I don’t know. Two, two and a half years ago.”
“How’d you leave things?”
“She’d take a call,” Cogan says. “I think.” Just then the receptionist at Stevens, Clark, & Kirshner comes on and he raises his hand, signaling Klein to keep quiet.
“Does Carolyn Dupuy still work there?”
“Yes,” says the receptionist. “Transferring.”
A secretary picks up. “Carolyn Dupuy’s office.”
“Is she in?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Ted Cogan. Tell her it’s important.”
The line goes silent. A few seconds later, he gets the secretary’s voice again: “Hold on, she’ll be with you in a moment.” And in a moment, Carolyn comes on.
“Is this the world-renowned Dr. Ted Cogan?” she says in her smooth, deep broadcaster’s voice.
“I think infamous is more apt at this point.”
“To what do I owe the honor?”
“I need professional advice, Carolyn.”
“I told you that a couple of years ago.”
“I’m serious. I’m in a bit of trouble here. Actually, it may be a lot of trouble. And I’m looking for an attorney—a criminal attorney. I was hoping you might be able to recommend someone. Are you still doing sexual harassment cases?”
There’s a short silence. “This is interesting,” she says after a moment. He can practically see her smiling. “What have they got you on?”
“It’s complicated,” he says, echoing Madden’s words. “But I’m basically about to be charged with having sex with a minor.”
“How old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t do it. She was a patient.”
“This really does sound interesting. Who’s on the case? Did they send someone to talk to you yet?”
“Yeah, a couple of detectives. They showed up here about two hours ago.” Cogan glanced at Madden’s card, which was sitting on his desk next to the phone. “Some guy named Henry Madden.”
“Hank Madden,” she says. “You should be honored. They usual put him on the bigger stuff. Major crimes. Even homicides.”
“Yeah, I know. I didn’t tell you the other part. The
girl’s dead. They found her Saturday. They said it looks like she killed herself.”
“Oh, boy.”
Suddenly, she isn’t so cheery.
“This Madden,” he says. “You know him?”
“Sure. He’s good. Very good. And he’s not so keen on doctors.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was an article about a year ago in the Mercury. I’ll have to dig it up for you. Did you say anything to him?”
“Too much I’m afraid. Look, can I come talk to you? Or can you refer me to someone? I need to get the ball rolling here.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Or soon. Over the weekend. I’ve got to get someone by Monday.”
Silence again. He hears her flip the page on her calendar. “What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks. “Say, around ten?”
He looks at Klein. They’re supposed to play tennis at eleven. “Nothing,” he says. “That’s fine. Where do you want me to meet you?”
“Where else? Your favorite.”
“The Creamery?”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “Ten.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Cogan hangs up the phone. Then he puts his elbows on his desk and covers his face with his hands.
“You OK?” Klein asks.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Do me a favor. Don’t tell Kim why I can’t make tennis. I’ll talk to Reinhart tonight.” Then, after a beat: “I’m sorry, man. I’m really sorry.”
20/ PROBABLE CAUSE
April 3, 2007—10:06 a.m.
THE NEXT MORNING COGAN AWAKES WEARY AND ANXIOUS after a night of the worst kind of sleep. He’d gone to bed early, around eleven, and though his body was exhausted his mind was full of energy, and it kept waking him even when his body had shut down. Once, he thought he’d slept several hours, but he looked at the clock and it only read twelve-thirty. He’d slept twenty minutes. Finally, at two, he turned on the television, and gradually drifted away to a roundtable of talking heads rehashing the political crisis du jour, only to wake again for good at six-thirty.