Killer Heat

THIRTEEN

Madam Forelady," Judge Lamont asked at 5:22 p.m., after waiting for Gene Grassley and me to arrive back in the courtroom, "has the jury agreed upon a verdict?

"Yes, sir, we have."

"Please rise, then, while my clerk records it."

The jurors had filed in like a prosecution panel. None of them were smiling and none attempted any eye contact with the defendant. I stared straight ahead, my heart pounding as the first juror rose to deliver the news

How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with robbery in the first degree?"

"Guilty." Her voice was strong and clear.

Off to my right, Warren moved his chair closer to Gene Grassley and mumbled something.

"How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with rape in the first degree?"

"Guilty," she said, even louder this time.

"Bullshit." I could hear Warren clearly now, and so did the two court officers standing behind him. Each took a step closer in.

For Kerry Hastings, who had never expected to see it, there would be some belated satisfaction. Floyd Warren would spend the rest of his life in prison.

The word guilty was repeated again and again. Sodomy, robbery, possession of a dangerous instrument-they had convicted him of every count in the indictment.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, hearken to your verdict as it stands recorded," the clerk said, continuing the official business of the trial.

Lamont made short work of thanking the jurors and dismissing them. He wanted the defendant put back in the holding pen as quickly as possible. Tomorrow, they would all read newspaper stories reporting the conviction and the links to more than fifty other brutal crimes from this city south to his adopted home in Georgia.

"I'm going to suggest to you, Gene, that we put this matter on the calendar for Monday," Lamont said.

It was the practice to have three to four weeks between the verdict and the sentencing. "I've got more than enough to work from, and I'm not going to ask Ms. Hastings to make another trip cross-country to present her impact statement. Ms. Cooper says her witness is willing to stay for the weekend and get this whole thing behind her. You going to fight me on this?"

"I hear you, Judge. That's fine."

Floyd Warren pounded his fist on the table.

"I'll take your motions then. If there's nothing further," Lamont said, "we stand adjourned."

I didn't break a smile until Mercer came into the courtroom and embraced me. "This one must feel good," he said.

"Especially sweet when you tally up the years and the number of victims. I want you to be the one to tell Kerry."

He helped me pile my case folders and trial exhibits onto the shopping cart and wheeled it off to the elevators. "We'll do it together."

"Did you get an update from Mike on Herb Ackerman?"

"He'll live. They pumped his stomach at Roosevelt Hospital. His shrink told Mike it's the classic 'cry for help.' We should be able to see him in twenty-four hours. Don't let Battaglia's finger-pointing get to you. Take your victory lap tonight."

Kerry Hastings was waiting for us at the elevator bank when the doors opened. She reached out to put her arms around Mercer's neck when he gave her a thumbs-up, crying as she buried her head against his chest.

"Let it out," Mercer said. "You've had all that emotion bottled up for way too long."

"I may actually sleep through the night. You two have given me that privilege again." Kerry Hastings was sniffling, still, but she was smiling through her tears. "I know there used to be a tradition here, Alex. I never got a chance to participate in it the first time around."

"What's that?"

"There was a little restaurant behind the courthouse. The cops said if we got a conviction, we'd all go there to celebrate. Does it still exist?"

"Forlini's. It was just a little hole in the wall back then," I said. "You bet it's still the best place in town to celebrate."

Every DA in the office and every cop who'd ever testified at a trial had lifted glasses after victories, drowned their sorrows when bad guys beat the rap, and awaited verdicts late into the night at the restaurant that had been run by four generations of Forlinis since it was first established opposite the detention center known as the Tombs.

"Only if I can buy the drinks," Hastings said.

"By the time we cross the street and walk in that bar," Mercer said, "the whole Sex Crimes Unit will be waiting for Alex. They'll be drinking to you whether we show up or not, Kerry. That's a tab you don't want."

Laura had been fielding calls from my friends in the unit most of the day. Catherine Dashfer and Marisa Bourgis, Ryan Blackmer and Evan Krupin, Sarah Brenner and Nan Toth-one of the perks of Battaglia's office that outweighed the low salaries was the intensity of the camaraderie. These lawyers had seen me through the darkest hours of my career and were always available to cheer for one another when the guys in the white hats won a round.

It was almost six thirty by the time I closed up my office and took the short walk to Forlini's with Kerry, Mercer, and Laura.

We walked in the main door to the restaurant, but I could hear the crowd in the bar as soon as we entered. Mercer led Kerry past the jukebox and into the back room, jammed with regulars who stopped in most days for a cocktail on their way home, as well as with the people waiting for us.

When Ryan saw Mercer he started to cheer, and most people who recognized the popular detective joined in with applause. He got our drinks, rapped on the bar to quiet everyone, and held up his glass to clink against both of ours. "To Kerry Hastings-for your courage. And your patience."

She was overwhelmed by the reception, pleased to take her place on a stool and be congratulated by prosecutors and cops, most of whom were too young to fully comprehend the enormity of her triumph.

Mercer and I were making dinner plans with Hastings when the bartender handed me the portable phone.

"I tried your cell," Mike said. "You probably can't hear it over the noise of all those ice cubes knocking around in your glass. Nice job, Blondie."

"This was a good win. You want to meet up with us?"

"I'm working. I just asked Dempsey to turn on the TV for you. You're in for twenty bucks."

"Mike, forget it. We'll do it another time." I looked up at the small screen mounted on the wall above the end of the bar. The Final Jeopardy answer was about to be posted.

"I gave you a pass last night. What's your bet?"

"Tonight," Trebek said, "the category is 'Leading Ladies.' 'Leading Ladies.' "

"Double or nothing," Mike said. If he wasn't reading treatises on military history in his downtime, he was watching old movies.

"You're on."

"Put your money on the bar where Mercer can see it."

I took two twenties out of my pocket as I explained to Mercer what the call was about and pointed at the screen. Both he and Kerry laughed and put up forty dollars each.

Just as we saw the printed statement against the bright blue square of the game board, Trebek read it aloud. "Hernando Cortés proclaimed that God and this woman were responsible for the Spanish conquest of Mexico."

Mercer and I shook our heads, while the bartender interpreted the cash on the bar as a request for another round of drinks and served us a refill.

"How misleading is that?" Mike said. "They're not talking about a film."

"I thought you knew every bit of history from the conquistadores to the Alamo."

Kerry Hastings offered a question, just as the three contestants were chided for their faulty guesses. "Who is La Malinche?"

"What'd she say?" Mike asked.

"The correct question is, 'Who is Doña Marina or, as the Aztecs called her, the traitorous La Malinche?' That's right, the young woman given to Cortés as a slave, who became his mistress and helped with his conquest of Mexico. She's very controversial, folks, but an important figure in history."

Mercer handed Kerry Hastings the money. "We'll get the rest of the pot from Mike."

"I read all I could find about strong women who overcame adversities when I was trying to grope my way out of the dark," she said. "Cortés' mistress was one of them. She was called a harlot, too."

"What do you say to dinner, Mike? I've got to get off the phone."

"I hope you don't think the only reason I called is to keep you up to speed on your trivia. Dinner is you and me, kid. I'll buy whatever you want from the vending machines in the Twentieth Precinct. Looks like you messed up another interview."

"Thanks for letting me have a couple of hours to relish my verdict. What now?"

"I'm trying to broker a peace. I've got Elise Huff's father here," he said. "And her best friend."

"Barbara Gould? Mr. Huff's known her forever. She told me they're very close."

"Maybe they were-until she lied to you last week, Coop. You'd better get up here right now and straighten this mess out.