Cold Hit

4

Mike spent most of the short walk over to my office, three blocks north of One Police Plaza, trying to worm his way back into my good graces. I was used to being the butt of Chapman’s humor and had long ago stopped letting it get to me. It was not even ten thirty and I was already more bothered by the oppressive heat that had blanketed the ugly stretch of asphalt that ran in front of the city and state buildings along Centre Street.

“Aren’t you going to be late for court?” he asked me as we rounded the corner and I stopped at the cart to buy us each another round of coffee. Mike called up to the vendor to throw in a cruller for him, too. “Couldn’t eat a thing last night. Kept looking into that hole in the back of Gert’s head every time I closed my eyes.”

“No court on Friday. The defendant’s a Muslim. Today’s his holy day,” I answered, hanging my identification tag on a chain around my neck as we approached the entrance to the District Attorney’s Office.

“Reggie Bramwell’s a Muslim? I collared him on a gun case five years ago, and he was a full-press Baptist then. I’m sure of it.”

“Jailhouse conversion, Mike,” I said, pushing through the revolving doors and holding the security gate open for one of my colleagues who was on her way out of the building, headed toward the other courthouse, pushing a shopping cart loaded with evidence. “A week ago Thursday, in fact. Must have been a deeply religious experience. Someone at Rikers Island convinced him of the joys of the three-day workweek. The judge uses Wednesday as a calendar day, and the prisoner-Reggie Bramwell, now also known to the court as Reggie X-gets to worship on Friday. Just prolongs my agony for a few days. In fact, I think he’s just doing this because he knows I wanted some vacation time this month-and if he can’t go to the beach, why should I?”

We waited for one of the three elevators to return to the lobby floor, while a small commotion started behind us. “Alex, tell this jerk who I am, will you please?” a familiar voice called out.

My colleague Pat McKinney was standing in front of the security counter dressed in his running clothes, which were drenched with sweat, arguing with the officer on duty. Pat’s already reddened complexion was deepening and appeared to spreading to the tips of his ears and down his neck.

“I’m telling you I left my I.D. on top of that pad next to the telephone before I went out at nine thirty. Now, if somebody moved it or walked off with it, that’s your problem and not mine.”

The cop, obviously a summer replacement who was stuck with this security detail, didn’t recognize the deputy chief of the Trial Division. Most of us who jogged from time to time during our lunch hours had taken to leaving our photo identification tags at the entrance desk and picking them up on our way back in. The officers from the Fifth Precinct who regularly worked the desk knew most of us by sight and held the tags in a pile on the corner of the counter, behind the bank of telephones. I had no time for running these days, because of my hearings, and no inclination either, because of the intense heat. McKinney, who liked to take his daily jog earlier than the lunch hour break during the hot summer months, was probably more aggravated by the fact that this police officer didn’t recognize him than that the officer had misplaced his only means of official access to the building.

I held the bucking elevator door open with my left arm and started to explain to the officer that I would vouch for McKinney, despite the fact that he hated my guts.

Chapman nudged me out of the way by bumping his hip up against mine and clamping his hand on the button that said Close. He was also calling out to the cop as the doors came together in front of my face. “Hey, Officer. Don’t let that guy in. He’s a whack job-comes around here all the time, looking to get in. The real McKinney has a huge wart on the tip of his nose and foams at the mouth a lot.”

“That’ll do wonders to break the ice between me and my supervisor, don’t you think?” I asked as I pressed the button for the eighth floor and replaced my sunglasses in their case.

“What’s the difference? McKinney hasn’t had a decent word to say about you in the entire time you’ve been here. Screw him. Who’s going to miss him for the next half hour, his girlfriend?”

“What girlfriend? You mean Ellen? She just works for him, she’s not his girlfriend.”

We got off the elevator and headed for my office.

“Don’t tell me you’re as gullible as his wife, Coop. All that platonic crap? ‘Beep me, darling, I’m working on a gun bust tonight with the cops. Field assignment. Midnight grand jury.’ You know anybody else in the Trial Division who gets the kind of close supervision Ellen does? One on one, behind closed doors? Trust me. Next time he gives you any trouble, I’ll run interference for you.”

My secretary, Laura, had a smile on her face by the time we came into view, no doubt hearing Mike’s voice as we made our way down the hall together. He broke into his best Smokey Robinson imitation as she began to go through the morning’s messages with me. She sailed through the first six, all of which could be returned later, accompanied by Mike’s humming and finger snapping. When he broke out his modified lyrics-“And in case you go to court, then a lawyer is the one you want to see… but in case you want love, Laura… call on me”-I gave up the battle and went in to my desk to see what else awaited me.

I opened the desk drawer and took three extra-strength Tylenols. The fatigue of the trial schedule on top of my usual duties supervising the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit had been wearing me down. Sarah Brenner, my close friend and second in command, had been ordered by her obstetrician to stay at home, since she was already three days overdue with her second child. I had all weekend to complete the legal memorandum the judge in the Reggie X case expected from me on Monday, so I decided to focus first on the queries from the other lawyers in the unit.

“Who sounded more critical?” I called out to Laura.

“If I were you, I’d get Patti down here first. Want me to call her?”

“Yeah. Then back her up with Ryan, please.”

Mike took off his navy blazer and hung it on the back of one of the chairs before picking up the pile of morning newspapers that had been delivered to my desk. He was looking to see whether any clever reporter had scooped him on some aspect of the Gert murder that he might have missed.

Patti Rinaldi was one of my favorite young assistants-a solid lawyer with sound judgment and dogged courtroom style. Her enthusiasm for her work, and for resolving the plight of her victims, seemed to emanate from her when she entered my small office carrying the case file of her latest problem.

“A vision in lavender, Ms. Rinaldi,” Chapman said, eyeing the tall, thin brunette carefully over the top of his New York Post. “You look ravishing today. You’re not cheating on me, are you?”

“Cooper doesn’t leave me any time to even think about it, Mike. I worked the four-to-twelve shift on intake last night. Thought you’d want to know about this one, Alex. Have you had any cases at a sleep disorder clinic yet?”

“Not so far.”

“I think we got our first.”

Mike’s interest was piqued. “What’s a sleep disorder clinic?”

“Latest psychobabble moneymaker. Almost every medical center has one at this point. Patients who have trouble with sleep-insomniacs, sleepwalkers, snorers, you name it-come in to be ‘examined’ while they sleep. Idea is to find a cure for the problem.”

Patti added to my description. “And they pay dearly-a thousand, fifteen hundred dollars per visit-just to spend the night on a cot and let somebody ‘watch’ them sleep, measure their dream time and the intervals between dream segments.”

“Are there job openings?” Mike asked. “I suppose by now someone’s come up with my time-tested solution. Two cocktails, get laid, roll over, and smoke a cigarette-guaranteed to put you out for hours. Maybe I could be a consultant.”

“Is this one of the legitimate operations, Patti?”

“Yes, Alex. It’s affiliated with Saint Peter’s Hospital. It’s located in a large office building which houses all their clinics up on Amsterdam Avenue. This is actually run by the head of their Department of Psychiatry, so they treat the whole thing very seriously.”

“Your victim?”

“Her name is Flora. Very fragile twenty-two-year-old who lives with her mother in Flatbush. Met the defendant a couple of years ago when he was her psychology professor at Brooklyn College. She began to see him for therapy after the school year, but was smart enough to stop the sessions when he started coming on to her sexually.

“Now, almost two years have gone by and she was suffering from depression. Found his number in the book, called him, and he made an appointment for her to come in to the clinic, where he told her he’s currently working. Said he still did therapy on the side.”

I was taking notes as Patti continued the narrative.

“Flora got to the office at eight o’clock on Tuesday night. Paid the therapist-his name is Ronald-for the session, and at the end he advised her that she needed to get a job, to engage herself in something serious. He offered her a position as a computer analyst at the clinic. Took out a contract for one year’s employment from his desk, signed it, and had her do the same.”

I had dozens of questions to ask, but rather than punctuate Patti’s story, I would let her tell it and assume she would cover most of what I needed to know.

“Finally, Ronald took the contract back and told Flora that he wouldn’t make his boss, the chief physician, enforce it unless she thanked him right now by performing oral sex.”

“I am definitely in the wrong line of work,” Chapman mumbled.

Patti went on. “Ronald waved the contract back and forth in front of her and kept repeating, ‘No blow job, no job.’ He reduced Flora to tears in about five minutes, and she complied with the condition. Meanwhile, in a few of the cubicles attached to Ronald’s module, people were sleeping-naked, of course, with monitors attached to measure their breathing, their blood pressure, their REMs, and so on. So when Ronald handed her back her half of the contract, he told her this was better than usual. He said that most of the time he stood there and masturbated while he watched the struggling sleepers try to find the Land of Nod.”

Chapman was on his feet. “You mean these idiots are paying big bucks to have this frigging pervert get his rocks off watching them toss and turn? That’d cure my insomnia instantly. I’d like to tie him to a chair by his testicles and make him listen to lullabies for twenty-four hours. See how he sleeps. I don’t get it, Coop. This stuff you people work on makes murder look comprehensible.”

“How’d she come forward, Patti?”

“When Flora called Ronald yesterday to ask when she could start to work, he told her that there was no job because he really didn’t have any power to hire or fire employees. She stormed right into the clinic and showed the contract to the physician in charge, who said it was bogus. So she went directly to a pay phone on the corner and called the cops. I thought you ought to know about it before I did anything on the case.”

“Good thinking.” Brownnosing worked with me almost every time. Patti knew that if we, as prosecutors, could direct the course of an investigation prearrest, we could usually build a stronger case for trial.

“What’s to think about?” Chapman asked. “Cuff him and put him in the can, now.”

“What’s the crime, Mikey? What does Patti charge him with?” I stood with my back to the air conditioner, trying to cool down as we talked.

“Sodomy in the first,” Mike suggested.

“I didn’t hear you describe any force, did I?” Patti shook her head in the negative in response to my question.

“Public lewdness,” Mike spat out at me.

“It’s not a public place. Ronald’s sitting right in his own office when he’s playing with himself. Expectation of privacy and all that,” I countered.

“I told you murder is easy. You got a dead body, an unnatural cause of death, and it’s one kind of homicide or another. You girls gotta sit here and play Find the Crime.”

“Here’s what you do,” I suggested to Patti. “Bring Flora in and get all the facts. See if you can make out a coercion charge. Try section 135.60 of the Penal Law, sub 9 – compelling her to perform an act which might be harmful to health, safety, reputation, et cetera.

“Also, there’s a good chance he’s been holding himself out as a doctor or some other licensed position at the clinic. Figure on next Wednesday-that’s my calendar day, so I’m free to go with you. You can have a search warrant prepared and ready by then. We’ll have a couple of guys from the squad take us up to the clinic, and we’ll go in that morning with the warrant. That way we can seize all his personnel records, Flora’s files, his appointment book, any documents he has on his walls- with credentials that can be checked out-and any other information you can develop during your interview with Flora. No one will be on notice that we’re coming, so none of the records will be destroyed. Let’s keep this one quiet. No need to embarrass the legitimate part of this operation at Saint Peter’s, okay?”

Patti picked up her folder and was gone. I found my list of topics I needed to update Battaglia about and added this one to it. I had to remember to ask his executive assistant, Rose Malone, whether he had accepted the invitation I heard he had received to be Saint Peter’s Hospital Humanitarian of the Year, for his charitable work on behalf of underprivileged kids.

“Don’t you have anything to do?” I asked Chapman after I told Laura to get Ryan Blackmer over to see me. Mike was lifting things up from the piles on top of my desk and reading them. Some were complaint reports and investigation updates, others were personal notes and messages.

“Nothing till the autopsy this afternoon. I was hoping you’d come with me to Forlini’s and grab a bite to eat. I’m always more content in the morgue when I’ve got a full stomach.”

“I don’t have time to go out for lunch today. Call Kindler or Holmes-just get out of my hair for a while so I can catch up on everything here.”

“Have you returned yesterday’s call to Jacob Tyler yet?” Chapman asked, fanning out a handful of messages from Laura’s telephone pad. “And does that one have anything to do with the fact that the white lace camisole you ordered is out of stock but will be shipped by FedEx as soon as-”

I lurched across the desk and ripped the papers from Mike’s hand as Ryan entered the office.

“Well, I can’t imagine that the underwear delivery would upset you, so there must be something about the call from the newscaster that has you jumping, Ms. Cooper. Go easy on her, Ryan, it’s been a long morning.” Mike always liked to tease me about my social life, but I hadn’t yet told him that I had been dating Jake and knew this wasn’t the right moment to explain the relationship to him.

Ryan was as good-natured as he was competent, and for every serious case that he indicted, five or six more bizarre situations wound up on his desk. “You got any time next week to help me with an interview?” he asked me. “I’d really like your opinion.”

“Sure, which one?”

“Remember the Cruise to Nowhere you assigned to me? Four girls from Jersey celebrated their high school graduation by taking a weekend cruise,” Ryan reminded me. “Boarded the ship in New York harbor, then it sails out past Long Island for three days. I didn’t know there was anything that could float capable of holding the amount of liquor on board this thing. Or that any land-roving mammal could imbibe as much as these kids did and still be alive.”

“I don’t remember any of the facts. Sorry, but I’ve been preoccupied with my hearings.”

“The girls started drinking mimosas at breakfast Saturday morning. Stacey, the victim-and I am using that word loosely, Alex-got seasick and went down to their cabin to throw up for a couple of hours. Bounced back in the afternoon for some Bloody Marys and beer. Wine and champagne with dinner. Doesn’t remember anything after ten p.m. She was a bit surprised to find the ship’s magician in her bunk with her- starkers-when the ship pulled into the dock on Sunday morning. She’s screaming rape. And by the way, suing the cruise ship.”

“The Love Boat, ” said Mike.

“Well, that’s what her bunk mates say, but she’s insisting she would never have done anything like that if she were sober. Personally, I don’t even think we have jurisdiction if this happened more than three miles out of the harbor, but I know you believe in seeing everybody who makes a complaint.”

For far too long, when rape laws prevented prosecutions and the system was not open to its survivors, women had no place to turn for justice or advocacy. One of our goals in setting up a special unit was to see all those women who wanted to report cases, and give them the appropriate guidance- whether their matter belonged in the criminal court or elsewhere.

“Make an appointment with her for the Friday after next and have Laura put it on my calendar. Just give me all your witness interview notes before then, so I know where the inconsistencies are when we start talking to Stacey. Be sure you check with Laura on Thursday, ’cause if I’m still tied up with this new homicide, I’ll have to move you back a couple of days. And Ryan, what are you doing for lunch?”

He brightened and looked back at me, waiting for the offer. “Take Chapman across the street and feed him. Stick it on my tab. I’ve got work to do.”

“I’ll give you a call when we’ve taken care of Gertie, Ms. Cooper. Personally, I’m a little bit worried about you, though. I think your father’s right-listening to stories about all this sex and violence day in and day out can’t be very good for you. C’mon, Ryan.” Mike was almost out the door when he turned back and threw me the last question. “Whatever happened to romance? Doesn’t anybody believe in dinner and a movie anymore?”