Killer Heat

THIRTY-FOUR

Cops came running from every direction, in uniform and plainclothes, throwing cardboard coffee cups and brown paper bags filled with doughnuts and bagels to the sidewalk as they dashed to Kerry Hastings's side. On any given day, hundreds of officers were scheduled to appear in the DA's office-to testify in old cases, to participate in trial prep of new matters, to transport prisoners or bring them to be arraigned, and to kibbitz with courthouse friends.

The cabdriver, sobbing, had stepped out and raised his hands over his head. He was mumbling some kind of prayer in an unintelligible dialect

It's fine," I told him. "It's just an accident. I unbuckled my belt and got out on my side to check on Kerry, who'd been surrounded by detectives, two of whom were squatting, reassuring her and checking her vital signs. Before I could get around the tail of the cab, I realized that several cops had set out to chase after the occupants of the car that had smashed into us.

Their guns were drawn and they were yelling at two young men and one woman to stop. On the asphalt park behind the office, scores of Asian children in a summer school gym class scattered as the cops ran among them and dashed between their kickballs.

I got to my knees beside Kerry. The men who were comforting her recognized me and moved back

I'll be fine," she said, closing her eyes as she winced in pain. "I've been through worse."

"We got a bus on the way, Miss Cooper," one of the men said to me. "I just called for an ambulance."

There was blood all over Kerry's arm, and a large stain growing on the fringes of her pants leg, which had ripped apart from her thigh down to her ankle. She tried to put her scraped hands down on the ground to boost herself up.

"Don't try to move, miss. Something may be broken."

She looked up at the cop. "I think it's just a lot of cuts and bruises. I didn't let go of the door because I was afraid I'd wind up under the wheels."

"I'll wait with her," I said. "Would you go into the lobby and tell the security officer to call my secretary? Ask her to send Mercer Wallace down here, please."

A crowd had gathered along the length of the block-prosecutors, defense attorneys, civilian witnesses, support staff. I could see that the front end of the old green Plymouth that had hit us was completely crumpled, and beyond the car, I could hear the commotion of all the onlookers watching the chase.

I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, and then a familiar voice spoke to me. "I never thought I'd be offering myself as a witness for the prosecution, Alex. The kid that hit you must have been going forty miles an hour. How's your head?"

Justin Feldman was one of the best lawyers in New York. We had crossed swords occasionally, but most of his work was in the federal courthouse one block away, with corporate clients who relied on his great expertise in securities litigation.

"I'm fine, Justin. Lucky I was belted in. That car came out of nowhere."

"Actually, it didn't," he said, pointing to the empty parking space at the corner of the street, where our cabbie had made the turn into the block. "I was on my way down Baxter Street, coming from federal court. Those kids picked a pretty dumb place to pull a stunt like this, but your cab passed by, made a full stop right in front of them-it would have been hard to miss you-when the driver floored it and crashed right into you. It sounded like sirens were close by. Within seconds, an ambulance pulled in the wrong way, stopping nose to nose against the cab.

The attendants jogged over to Kerry's side as I stood up and we all moved back so they could make an initial determination about her condition.

Mercer came through the revolving door of the building and greeted Justin and me. "What's happening?"

"An accident. They're checking Kerry out now."

"She's being generous," Justin said, as Mercer got close to the EMTs so that Kerry could see he was there. She smiled when he caught her eye.

A cheer went up from the crowd. The five or six cops who had taken off after the occupants of the car were coming back in our direction. Two of them had someone by the arm. I could see only the dark hair-heads bowed-of the male and female who were being pulled along by the officers.

The courthouse crowd, including defendants on their way to calendar dates and hearings, was boisterous, and a handful of uniformed court officers were trying to clear a path for the cops.

I turned back to Kerry. The medics were helping her to her feet, telling Mercer that it didn't appear anything was broken.

"We're going to take you over to the hospital, okay?" one of them asked her. "Let the docs clean you up, maybe give you a tetanus shot in case any of these scrapes came from the metal on the cab."

"I'll come for the ride," I said. "I'd like to keep her company."

Mercer took Kerry's hand. "I've got her. You get to work."

"What's everyone shouting about?" Kerry asked. "Haven't they ever seen an accident before?"

"The driver fled the scene," Mercer said. "It's not only stupid, it's against the law."

"Please don't make me testify at another trial," Kerry said, looking at me as she started to limp toward the ambulance. "And don't start that sentencing till we get back here. I want the judge to listen to me."

Justin Feldman steered my elbow toward the entrance as Kerry and Mercer walked away. "Why don't you get out of this crush? Go on up to your office," he said, his quiet elegance a sharp contrast to the rowdiness of the spectators lingering on Hogan Place.

I climbed the three steps and stopped to look back.

A heavyset black teenager wrapped in a layered chain collar of bling with matching gold caps on his front teeth called out to the young woman who was being marched to the building between two cops. "Hey, shortie! I'll see your ass after court. I'll teach you how to run, mama! I'll teach you good."

Half of the onlookers cheered again, while the girl shouted a stream of obscenities at him in Spanish.

Her cohort was a few paces behind her, being pulled along by two other plainclothes officers. I was about to push the revolving door to go inside, when he picked up his head-clearly angered by the situation and the fact that she was rising to the bait-to tell her to keep her mouth shut.

"Callate la boca, puta!"

We locked eyes and a wave of nausea bubbled in my stomach. The young man threw his head back and laughed, exposing the tattoo on his neck.

He was a Latin Prince, one of the leaders who had disrupted the courtroom during Kerry Hastings's trial.