Cold Hit

15

Battaglia was drinking apple cider and puffing on a cigar as he waved me into his office an hour after I left Lowell Caxton on Wednesday morning. I could tell there was no urgency to the district attorney’s questioning of me by the fact that he removed neither the cigar from the corner of his mouth nor his feet from the edge of the desk.

“Any progress in this art dealer’s murder?”

“Developments, yes. Progress, no.”

“I’ve got to give a speech at the Department of Justice next week on the significance of the drop in the crime rate in New York. Rose is typing it up today. Any figures you can give me to throw in on sex crimes?”

“Nothing that will help you. Rape is the only crime in which the rate of reporting has increased in the last three years. Stay away from those numbers, unless you think Justice will give us more money if we can show how the volume has gone up.”

“Suppose they ask me why it hasn’t dropped like the other violent crime categories?”

“Not complicated at all. A lot of the credit for the reduction goes to aggressive community-policing policies, right? Most people don’t realize that almost eighty percent of reported rapes occur between people who know each other. The stranger rapist-the guy who jumps out from behind trees in the park or breaks into homes-he’s only responsible for about twenty percent of the cases. But he’s the guy most women fear.

“So, while violent street crime is way down, the acquaintance-rape victims aren’t at all affected by the presence of the cop on the beat. They trust their assailant-so they walk right past the officer into the apartment or dorm or hotel room of the man they’re with-and then the attack occurs.”

Battaglia went back to the report he was reading. “Get me a memo on that before the end of the day, will you? Flush it out a bit so I can use it in Washington.”

I was almost out the door. “Hey,” he called after me, “what’s with you and this news guy, Jacob Tyler? I’d like to meet him. Maybe we could get him to do a story on the new Welfare Fraud Unit we’re setting up.”

It was impossible to keep a secret from Paul Battaglia. He never even had to leave his spacious office on the eighth floor of the building to get the most complete intelligence- professional and personal-from a cadre of loyal and talented men and women who served him in his distinguished career in public service.

“I’ll be sure to let him know, Paul. May I ask how-”

The cigar was parked squarely in the middle of his gritted teeth now. “Tell him I said I never divulge my sources. He’ll appreciate that, as a good reporter.”

I stopped at Rose’s desk, knowing that I could learn from her what Battaglia had been told about the status of my new romance, but she had stepped away, so I went back to my office.

“Mike’s on hold. I tried to transfer him over to Battaglia’s wing but they said you were on your way back,” Laura said.

I went into my room and picked up the phone.

“Just checked with the morgue,” he said. “No autopsy done on Marco Varelli. Didn’t have to. He was eighty-four, with a serious heart condition, and under a doctor’s care. Once his own physician signed off on the death certificate, that’s it. By the end of the day he’ll be resting at a funeral parlor down on Sullivan Street. We’ll go over for tonight’s visiting hours and see if we can turn up some employees or friends.

“Also,” he continued, “spoke to the Feds on the auctionbid-rigging investigation. Can you meet us at Kim McFadden’s office at five? They’ll fill us in on that, and update us on the Gardner Museum heist, too.”

The United States Attorney’s Office for the Southern District was a four-block walk from my office, set back behind the old federal courthouse, near Police Headquarters, and the New York City offices of the F.B.I. “Fine, that gives me the rest of the day to catch up on the things I need to do. See you at five.”

“Is this a bad time?” Carol Rizer asked as she stood in the doorway. She was new to the unit, and although her skills were good, it was important that she be supervised on complicated matters.

“If I told you to wait for a good time, your witness is likely to die of old age. What do you need?”

“I’m having a lot of trouble with a victim in a case I picked up last night. The defendant’s got a really bad record-three felony convictions-but there’s something wrong with the victim’s story and I just can’t break her on it. Can I bring her in for you to talk to?”

“Yes. Give me the background.”

“Her name is Ruth Harwind, and she’s nineteen years old. Lives in Queens with her mother. Has a boyfriend named Wakim Wakefield-he’s waiting up in my office. The defendant is Wakim’s roommate, and his name is Bruce Johnson. Ruth claims that she stayed in their apartment one day after Wakim left for work. She says Bruce forced her bedroom door open with a knife and dragged her into his room. That’s where she says he raped her.”

Carol knew how I handled these interviews. She had written out a list for me identifying all the inconsistencies in the story Ruth had told, first to the police and then to her. She had also highlighted for me the facts that didn’t make much sense.

“What do you find troubling?”

“Start with the point that in the middle of the rape, the boyfriend came back to the apartment, knocked on Bruce’s bedroom door, and asked where Ruth was. Bruce said he didn’t know, and Wakim left. My first problem is why she just didn’t scream out for help when Wakim was right there in the next room.

“Now, if she’d told me it was because he’d threatened her again with the knife, it might have been credible. But all she says is that it didn’t occur to her.”

“What else?”

“The cop examined the door that she claims was pried open with a knife. There’s no sign of any disturbance on the paint or to the wood. Also, there’s no immediate outcry. When she left the apartment and went outside on the street, she ran into Wakim. She went back upstairs with him, showered, and made love. Nobody mentioned the word ‘rape’ until Bruce’s girlfriend came home and told Wakim that Ruth had been cheating on him. He’s the one who challenged her to go to the police if the story was true.”

Frequently the motive in a false report can be gleaned from the circumstances of how and why a sexual assault gets related to the police. In many cases like this, an angry boyfriend dares the victim to prosecute if the crime really happened.

“Did Bruce make any statements?”

One of my favorite bureau chiefs, Warren Murtagh, had a list of training rules, and Murtagh’s Rule # 3 was a good one. “No defendant ever says absolutely nothing.” Everyone arrested makes some comments to the cops, spontaneously or in response to questioning, which is usually useful in sorting out the facts.

Often the perp’s remarks can be discarded as self-serving and of no value, but just as often there are kernels of truth that can be used to shed light on the victim’s version of events. Every now and then, the real story lies somewhere right in between.

Carol answered, “Johnson says it was consensual. Says he gave her ten dollars to come in his bedroom and have sex with him. Even told us they watched a porno movie together. And that he used a condom, ’cause she asked him to.

“Also, Alex, she’s lied about some of the basic stuff. Said she worked at the Victoria’s Secret store in the World Trade Center for six months. I called over there and got the woman who’s been the manager for two years. She’s never heard of Ruth.”

“Bring her in.” Once a witness has lied about facts that are not essential to the case and that can be easily verified or disproved, there is reason to be suspicious about the underlying allegations in the criminal complaint. Until caught in a direct lie, every witness who walked in the door was presumed to be telling us the truth.

Ruth Harwind was not happy to be ushered into my office. At five foot eleven she was a couple of inches taller than I, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and directing her defiant pout toward the floor.

I began with a series of pedigree questions to get as much background knowledge about the young woman as I could. “Why you need to know all this business about me?” she asked, balking at the personal information for which I was probing.

“Because I need to know as much about you as Bruce Johnson knows, as much about you as he’s going to tell his lawyer to use against you. It may be the only way that Carol and I can protect you when you go to court.

“Who do you live with in Queens?”

“My mother.”

“What’s her name?”

Ruth’s annoyance level was growing. “What’s that got to do with me being raped?”

“Like everyone else who’s been the victim of a crime, you walk through my door and tell a story that could keep Bruce Johnson in jail for the next twenty-five years of his life. That’s longer than you’ve been alive. And that’s what he deserves, if everything you told the police about him is true.

“But Carol doesn’t know you and I don’t know you, so I’m going to ask you a series of questions that are really simple to answer and that are a very easy way for us to be able to prove that things you tell us are true. So, let’s start over. Would you please tell me your mother’s name?”

“No, I won’t.” Ruth had dug her heels in. Slouched down in the chair, she stared at a small vase of flowers on my desk, refusing to make eye contact with me.

“Why won’t you tell me?” I asked. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, please.”

“ ’Cause I don’t want my mother to know I’m here, that’s why.”

“That’s fair. I can accept that.” Since Ruth was nineteen, there was no legal requirement that her parents be notified. “Why don’t you tell me what you do? Do you go to school? Do you have a job?”

“Like I told her,” Ruth said, jerking her head in Carol’s direction, “that’s nobody’s business but mines. This is about me and Bruce. Why don’t y’all ask me questions about that, huh?”

“You’re not going to be able to give the answers you’re giving me to the judge, when he asks the same things in the courtroom. He’s going to insist on a little respect and make you respond to whatever he needs to know.”

“Well, let’s just drop the whole thing and lemme outta here.” Ruth slammed her hand on my desk and stood up. “Wakim can take care of Bruce.”

“Sit down, Ruth. You’re not going anywhere. There’s a man who’s been held in jail since last night, and based on what you tell me today, the judge is going to decide whether to keep him in on high bail any longer.”

We glared at each other for a couple of seconds before she took her seat again. The questioning continued at the same pace and with similar results. When we got to the part at which Bruce forced Ruth into his bedroom, I asked whether he had turned on the television or a movie.

“Yeah, he put on the VCR, but I wasn’t watching.”

“That’s not what he says.”

“Well, who you gonna believe, him or me? Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“What kind of movie was it?” I asked, ignoring her questions to me.

“I seen it before, at Wakim’s. Some kind of dirty movie with two girls sucking on each other. I only looked at it from time to time.”

Great. Already Bruce’s version was making more sense than Ruth’s.

My intercom buzzer went off and Laura asked me to step out to her desk. “If there’s anything else about your story that you remember now that’s different than what you told the police, this is the time to tell Carol. Once we put you under oath and you swear to the judge about something, if it turns out not to be true, then it will be too late for Carol and me to help you.” I excused myself and said I’d be right back.

“Alex, this is Mrs. Harwind, Ruth’s mother. One of Ruth’s friends told Mrs. Harwind that her daughter was coming down here today, and she’s asked to talk to you.”

The middle-aged woman in the hallway outside Laura’s cubicle was agitated and tearful. I introduced myself and took her into the conference room to explain what was going on. Since Ruth had asked me not to tell her mother about the case, I was avoiding the fact that her daughter was fifteen feet away, inside my office.

“Miss Cooper, you’ve got to help me find my child. I’ve got a warrant for her in Queens Family Court, ’cause she ran away from the group home they put her in.”

“How long ago was that?” I was confused, since Ruth was too old to be a candidate for court placement in a group home.

“Just back two weeks. This guy Wakim, he’s got her hid in his apartment. My girl looks big, but she’s only fifteen.”

“Fifteen?”

I sat Mrs. Harwind down and explained that Ruth was with me. Since there was a warrant issued in her case, I was legally obliged to return her to court.

“Laura, call the D.A.’s Squad. Ask for Sergeant Maron, and tell him I need a detective down here immediately. Get two, and tell him to make sure that one is a female.”

This would not go down easily, and I expected that the girl would get confrontational. With Ruth and Carol in my office, and Mrs. Harwind in the conference room, I waited at the foot of the staircase for the detectives from the squad to come downstairs. Before they appeared, a man who seemed to be forty years old got off the elevator holding two cans of soda and headed straight for Laura’s door. I heard him ask for Ruth.

“Excuse me, are you Wakim? I’m Alex Cooper, one of the D.A.’s working on Ruth’s case. We’re almost done, but I’m going to need you to go back to Carol’s office until we finish the interview, okay?” Without protest, he handed me a soda and asked me to give it to Ruth, and walked back to the elevators. I didn’t want him anywhere around when I explained to Ruth that she wasn’t going home with her boyfriend.

Sergeant Maron and Detective Kerry Schrager arrived within minutes. “This could get ugly. I’ve got a very unhappy teenager here who needs to make a court appearance in Queens. Just stand by while we break it to her, okay? And then you can help me get transportation for her.”

I opened my office door to walk in. Maron and Schrager stayed in the doorway, and Ruth immediately sensed this was trouble.

“Why don’t we go back to a couple of basic questions, Ruth. What’s your date of birth?”

“I told you, I’m nineteen,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at the cops. “Why are these people here?”

“I didn’t ask how old you were, Ruth. Tell me the year you were born.”

She was smart, but like many of us, lousy at math. The subtraction was off, and the year she gave would have made her sixteen.

“Your mother tells me that you’re only fifteen. Is that true?”

Ruth picked up a copy of the Penal Law from the top of my desk and threw it toward the window, missing my right ear by a couple of inches. “I hate my mother. All right, y’all, is this what you want to hear? Bruce Johnson didn’t rape me, okay. Bruce Johnson gave me ten bucks to get him off, and you know what? I did it. And you know what else? It wasn’t the first time.”

The tears began to flow. “Wakim woulda killed me if he caught me in that room with Bruce. And Wakim don’t ever give me nothing. No money, no clothes, no presents. You woulda made up a story, too, if it was your ass that woulda got broke.”

I spoke softly to Ruth as I tried to give her some tissues. “You just can’t go into a court of law, swear to tell the truth, and then lie about something. I realize Bruce is a bad guy, but you can’t put him in jail to save yourself. How old does Wakim think you are?”

She was sniffling. “He know the truth. He know I’m fifteen.”

“You understand that he can be arrested for having sex with you, because you’re underage? When you try to act like a big girl, Ruth, you’re gonna get stuck with the consequences.” I paused. “Your mother’s down the hall.”

She got up from her chair, shouting curses at the top of her lungs and trying to push past the detectives. I told Kerry to stop her. I made her sit down and explained that she had to go before the judge in Family Court, since she had absconded from the program and was wanted, AWOL.

“You can do this the easy way, like a young lady. I’ll let you leave here with your mother, and put you in a taxi to go to Queens. Or you can do this the hard way. That means the detectives would have to handcuff you and take you there like a prisoner.”

“Well, you can all go screw yourselves, ’cause I’m not going anywhere with her or with any of you.” She was screaming again and kicking the side of my desk. “I don’t care what you do with me, ’cause I’ll just run away again and Wakim’ll take me home.”

Sergeant Maron raised a pair of handcuffs and looked at me questioningly. “I guess that’s the way our customer wants to go.”

Ruth looked me straight in the eye and spat across the desk, hitting an old indictment on top of a pile of papers. “And you, you bitch, I hope you get what’s coming to you. I hope you-”

“Attitude,” I said. “Attitude from a fifteen-year-old. Save your breath, Ruth. You know how lucky you are to have a mother who cares about you and who-”

“Where’s Wakim?” She was screaming now, at full pitch. “I wanna go home with Wakim.”

While Kerry Schrager cuffed Ruth behind her back, I called Witness Aid to make sure that Margaret Feerick, one of our social workers, could go with the detectives and Mrs. Harwind to Family Court. Pat McKinney came to my doorway and started yelling over Ruth’s wail. “What the hell is going on in here? This is an office, Cooper, and the rest of us are trying to get some work done.”

I asked Sergeant Maron to go to Carol’s waiting area, find Wakim, read him the riot act about hanging out with a minor, and send him on his way.

Eventually, the miserable troupe of characters was ready to leave the office, with Ruth Harwind in tow. By the time I got them off to court, contacted Bruce Johnson’s parole officer to find out if we could have his parole revoked for statutory rape-the sexual acts with an underage teen-wolfed down a light yogurt, and dealt with the stack of messages on Laura’s desk, it was a quarter of five and time to go to the U.S. Attorney’s Office.

With summer vacations in full swing, the elevators were practically empty as I rode down to the lobby. I chatted with some of the secretaries who were walking out onto Hogan Place with me, then made the left turn onto Centre Street for the short walk to McFadden’s office.

The area in front of the Supreme Court, Civil Division, had been under renovation for almost a year in an effort to convert a cement triangle into a small green park.

I crossed with the light and had just passed in front of the plywood frame of the construction area when a dilapidated livery cab with tinted windows veered across the sparse line of cars moving north on Centre Street. Brakes squealed and horns blasted, so I picked up my head to see what was happening.

The gypsy cab was coming directly at the sidewalk, where I was trapped between a parked police car and the wooden fencing behind me. The driver slammed into the patrol car, which jumped the curb and was catapulted toward me, as I flattened myself against the plywood boards. The marked police vehicle caught its right fender on the fire hydrant in its path, but as the left fender made contact with the lumber, the fencing gave way and I fell backward into a small ditch.

My embarrassment was greater than my discomfort as I lay on the ground in the dirt, my heart racing and my lip quivering. Three court officers had seen the accident from the steps of the courthouse and came running down to check if I was all right.

“Are you a juror, ma’am? You’re gonna have some great lawsuit against the city,” the first one to my side remarked.

“I’ll be fine,” I said as they helped me to my feet. I wiped pebbles out of my hair and brushed the soot off the rear of my pale aqua suit. There were long scratches on my calves and one of my elbows was bleeding.

“Did you get a license off that car?” one of the men asked me, as onlookers gathered to see what the disturbance was about. “We’ll help you make out the police report.”

“No, thanks. I couldn’t see the plate at all.” But I had no trouble making out the face of the driver.

“Must’ve been a madman,” the second guy said. “Did you hear him?”

I shook my head to indicate I had not. But as I thanked the officers and continued on my way to Kim’s building, the driver’s words-“You’re dead meat, bitch”-were still reverberating in my ears.