Likely To Die

8

DON IMUS MAY NOT BE EVERYONE’S IDEA of a wake-up call but he worked like a charm on me.

The alarm went off at seven and the radio came on automatically. Imus was doing the news and led with the story of Mid-Manhattan, referencing everything from the murder to the teeming underground life in the medical center’s bowels. “Sounds like the Bates Motel has nothing onthis joint,” he said, launching into his imitation of one of the Stuyvesant Psych patients giving a tour of the place. I hated to turn off the radio and walk out the door when I finished dressing, fearful that he and his crew, who had carried more insightful daily commentary on the Simpson trial than the entire national news corps, would divine the killer’s identity before the cops did.

I wrapped myself in my black shearling coat and prepared for the brisk, thirteen-degree temperature as I walked from the building to Third Avenue to hail a cab to the office. The driver knew the route to the Criminal Courts Building in Lower Manhattan, so I sat back and looked over the headlines in theTimes.

Gemma Dogen’s death had claimed her a front-page position, not the usual Metro section. Some of that might be attributed to her prestige, but more had to do with the geographic location of the brutal act.Times readers were generally at a fair remove, physically and emotionally, from the housing projects and street gang turf that were so often killing grounds, the expected backdrop for violence and homicide. But knock off somebody in a milieu that “we” frequent-a major city hospital, Central Park, or the Metropolitan Opera House-and the death always took on a different dimension. Page one, above the fold.

I read the story carefully to see how accurately the facts had been reported and whether anyone from within the NYPD had leaked information. So far the plugs were still in place and no one had made the mistake of naming likely suspects, including our eight precinct “guests,” or of pointing a finger prematurely.

By the time I read the editorials, the book review, and the Thursday Living Section feature on an upcoming auction of antique samplers, my taciturn driver had pulled in front of 100 Centre Street and opened the plastic safety partition to collect his fourteen dollars and thirty cents.

“The usual?” my guy at the coffee cart asked as I approached.

“Make it a double, please. Two black coffees, large.”

Most of the support staff would clock in after nine, but a dribbling of young lawyers and paralegals were making their way toward the building from a variety of directions as different subway and bus routes let them out on streets all over the courthouse area.

Johanna Epstein followed me onto the elevator. She hadn’t been in my unit very long but was aggressively picking up cases and preparing them for trial. “Do you have time to go over an indictment with me today? The case I picked up last weekend, do you remember the facts?”

“The burglary on East Ninth Street -your girl’s a crackhead?”

“That’s the one.”

“Go in to the jury okay?” The woman’s apartment had been broken into by another junkie who knew that his victim might be reluctant to deal with the police because of her own substance abuse. She had surprised him, and surprised Johanna, with her candor and her cooperation. Yesterday, she had been scheduled to testify before the grand jury in our effort to obtain an indictment.

“Yeah, she was fine. I just have a few questions about how many counts of rape to charge. I mean, he kept assaulting her, then he’d get up and walk into the kitchen to get a beer, then he’d come back and go at her again. Are those all separate crimes or is it just one ‘rape’?”

“Bring up your paperwork around eleven. I’ll look it over and listen to the facts more carefully so we can make a decision. It’s pointless to overcharge him, but if there are distinct sexual acts, punctuated by other events, you’ll definitely have some multiple counts.”

She got off the elevator on six as I continued up to the eighth floor, where my office had been since I took over the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit. It was across the main hallway from Battaglia’s suite and on the corridor with other executives of the Trial Division who supervised the thousands of street crime cases police officers brought to our doorstep every single day and night of the year.

I turned on the light in my secretary’s cubicle, the anteroom to my office, and unlocked my door. My space was neater than usual as I glanced around, which pleased me. I knew how cluttered it would soon become with the reams of paperwork, police reports, diagrams, notes, and news clips that were the staples of a major investigation. I liked to start out with a spot of visible green blotter under the piles of case reports so that I didn’t lose control of any matter that required action or attention.

My first call was to David Mitchell’s office.

He had read the morning papers and knew that I was assigned to the Mid-Manhattan case, “I would never have left the note about Zac last night if I had known you would be this busy. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Are you kidding? It will be a pleasure to have her to come home to, David. Plus, she may even coax me out for a jog over the weekend. You know I like her company. If I’m not home when you leave, just let her in with your key.”

“Great. I’ll walk her tomorrow morning, then take her back to your place.”

“Have time for a favor before you go?”

“Always. What do you need?”

I outlined what was going on in the medical center and explained that we wanted Maureen to be inside as an observer-unknown to administration or staff.

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem as long as they have available beds. And as long as you’ll back me when the AMA tries to lift my license for-”

“No problem. The Police Commissioner has to approve the whole thing, so you’ll be acting at his direction once we tell him about it. And I know there are beds. Two of the homeless guys were sleeping in private rooms the past four days. For a change, no complaints about the food, either.”

“Okay, here’s what I suggest. Have Maureen call me so we can discuss some of her symptoms. Then I’ll call a neurologist I’ve done some work-”

“No, David. Dogen was a neurosurgeon. We want Mo on the neurosurgical floor.”

“Don’t worry, it is the same floor at Mid-Manhattan. The first referral would be quite naturally to a neurologist.”

“I don’t know the difference. Why don’t you start with that?”

“Of course. Neurologists are the physicians who study and treat the structure and diseases of the nervous system. A neurosurgeon wouldn’t be involved at this stage unless you’re ready to wheel Maureen into the operating room.”

“Do they work with each other, the neurologists and neurosurgeons?”

“Yes, but the neurologists can’t perform operations, they can’t do the surgery themselves.”

“Dogen did mostly brain surgery.”

“So I see from her obituary. Remember, Alex, that the brain, the spine, and even the eye are part of the central nervous system. That’s why there’s so much overlap among some of these specialties-psychiatry, ophthalmology, and orthopedics. We’ll give Mrs. Forester enough pains, tics, and twitches to keep the whole crew looking her over until I get back to town on Monday. Will that help?”

“Thanks, David. Mercer’s calling to get Mo on board and I’ll connect her to you as soon as she agrees.

“So now that I’m done with business may I ask who’s your traveling companion?”

“I’ll introduce you when we get back. Renee Simmons-she’s a sex therapist. I think you’ll really like her.”

I had the feeling that our Sunday evening60 Minutes viewing session and cocktail hour was about to expand to a threesome. “Was she the slim brunette with the perfect smile and great legs who was waiting for you at the bar at Lumi last Tuesday?” I had been on my way out the door of one of my favorite Italian restaurants one night last week when David had whipped past me on his way to claim a late reservation.

“That’s the one. Between her business and yours, you can probably mop up a few of the dysfunctionals around town.”

“I look forward to it. I’m sure I’ll speak with you again before the end of the day.”

By the time I hung up the phone and threw out the empty coffee cups, Marisa Bourgis and Catherine Dashfer had walked into the office. Both were longtime members of the unit as well as my pals. Like Sarah, they were a few years younger than I. Each was married and the mother of a toddler, and all three balanced their personal and professional lives with admirable form and boundless reserves of humor.

“So much for our plans for lunch at Forlini’s today,” Marisa said, pointing to the headline in the paper on top of my desk.

“It may be the only virtue of a high-profile case, but it’s a big one. Immediate weight loss, guaranteed.” Meals on the fly, liquid diets of coffee and soda, rattled nerves, and more running around than anybody needs in a day-stretching into weeks or months. “Perhaps a mental health shopping day at the end of all this, ladies, when I am hoping to be back to my law school size six. Takers?”

“That’s a deal. Need help with anything in the meantime? Marisa and I can help Sarah with your overflow while you get started on the murder.”

“Great offer. I’ll go through my book this morning. There may be a couple of interviews you could do for me next week. Of course, if we don’t pick up any leads by the time the weekend is over, it’ll all be in the hands of the task force, not mine.”

Laura Wilkie, my secretary of many years, peered into the room, said good morning, and told us that Phil Weinberg needed to see me before he went up to court. Urgent.

Marisa, Catherine, and I exchanged smirks as Weinberg “the whiner,” our alias for him, skulked into my office. Nothing was easy with Phil. Although he was a good lawyer and compassionate advocate, he needed more hand-holding to get through a trial than most victims ever did.

Phil was less than pleased to see that I had company. He knew we’d be talking about him the minute he left the room but he reluctantly told me the problem.

“You won’t believe what happened with one of the jurors yesterday afternoon.”

“Try me.” There was no end to the curious stories my colleagues could tell about Manhattan veniremen and -women.

“I’m in the middle of the direct case in the Tuggs trial.”

Sarah and I had spent the better part of Monday and Tuesday taking turns watching Phil in the courtroom. We did it at most proceedings with the junior members of the unit, so that we could give detailed critiques and advice about technique and style to improve the performance of these promising litigators.

I knew the facts of the case well. It was an acquaintance rape in which the victim had accepted an invitation to the defendant’s home after meeting him at a party. The twenty-three-year-old photographer was a compelling witness on her own behalf, adamant about her nonsexual reasons for choosing to go to visit Ivan Tuggs.

But this category of case still remained inherently difficult to try, despite the fact that our unit had prosecuted hundreds of them within the last ten years. It wasn’t the fault of the law but rather the general societal attitude about this kind of crime, which often made unenlightened jurors reluctant to take the issue seriously.

The basic problem faced by women who are raped by acquaintances is that the classic defense relies on painting them as either liars or lunatics. The crime never occurred and therefore the woman is fabricating the entire story. Or “something happened” between the two parties but she’s just too weird to believe.

For the prosecutor, then, more than half of the battle is in the successful selection of a jury. Intelligent citizens, who are blessed with common sense and a lot of the liberal instincts acquired by daily exposure to urban social life, handle these matters pretty well. But unsophisticated women, who tend to be far more critical than men are of the conduct of other women, are usually better candidates for judging stranger rape cases than for assessing most dating situations. That had been my own experience too many times to count and I had tried to pass on that wisdom to my troops.

“You saw the jury, right, Alex?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, what did you think?”

“More women than I like for this kind of case, but you told me that your panel was uneven.”

“I swear, Alex, it was a sea of women in that jury pool. There was nothing I could do about it.”

Stop whining, Phil. “What’s the problem?”

“Everything was going fine ‘til the end of the day. It was so cold in Part 82 that the jurors asked the judge to turn up the heat, just before the first cop on the scene took the stand. An hour later, it was so overheated that we were all sweating. Juror number three stood up, right in front of everybody, gave out a big ’ ‘scuse me,’ and pulled off her sweatshirt.

“What’s she got underneath? A T-shirt the size of a billboard, spread around her 44D chest, emblazoned with big fuchsia letters:FREE MIKE TYSON. ”

It was hard to stifle my laugh, but Marisa and Catherine were ahead of me.

“It’s not funny, guys, really. Tyson was tried in, what, ‘91? That means this woman hasn’t bought a lousy T-shirt in more than half a dozen years and had no choice but to wear this one, or else she sincerely believes in her cause. And if that’s the case, I think we’re screwed.”

“What did the judge say?” Marisa asked.

“Well, nothing. We just kind of exchanged glances, but-”

“You mean you didn’t ask her to examine the juror in chambers? Get your ass up there immediately, Phil. I heard the part of your voir dire when you questioned them about whether they believed the nature of the relationship between the parties made this a ‘personal matter’ and not a crime. You got all the right answers.

“You’re in front of a really good judge for issues like these. Tell her you want a sidebar and that you’d like her to ask number three some questions before you get under way today.”

“Don’t you thinkI should be the one to ask them?”

“No way. We’ll give them to you now, and you write them out for the judge. The last thing you want the juror to think is thatyou’re singling her out to pick on her. If she survives this challenge and stays in the box, let her believe it was the judge who didn’t like her taste in casual wear, not you. We don’t want her taking it out on your case.”

Catherine offered to go up and give Phil a hand with his application so I could get on with what I had to do.

Laura buzzed me on the intercom. “Mo just called while you were dealing with Phil. Count her in. She’s already feeling achy and dizzy, just from talking to Mercer.”

I picked up a legal pad, checked my watch, and told Laura that I was on my way to the grand jury rooms on the ninth floor to officially begin the investigation into Gemma Dogen’s death. New York County seated eight grand juries a day to hear the scores of cases that required their decisions every month. Four of them convened at 10A.M. No felony could proceed to trial in New York State without the action of the grand jury.

But before I even had to worry about how and when we would be able to identify a suspect to indict for the crime, I had a more pressing need to be before the twenty-three people who constituted the grand jury. It is only through their power that a prosecutor has the legal authority to issue subpoenas to request evidence in a criminal investigation. Although more than half of the states in this country have abolished the system in recent years, it remains very much in place in the State of New York. No D.A. here has the power to demand the production of documents or the presence of witnesses in his or her office. Police reports and pathologist’s findings would be forwarded to me with a couple of phone calls. But medical records, telephone logs, security guard sign-in sheets, and the other paper links to potential evidence in a case like Dogen’s all had to be obtained with the permission of the grand jury.

Most citizens have no reason to know the purpose or function of this body, called “grand” to distinguish it from the “petit” jury of twelve that sits on criminal cases. Derived from British common-law practice, it was created to serve as a rein on prosecutors whose investigations were politically motivated or unjustified. And its rules are entirely different from those of the trial jury. It is a secret proceeding, to which no members of the public can gain admission; the defendant is entitled to testify, although he rarely does; the defense has no right to call witnesses; and those that the prosecution calls are not cross-examined. The duty of the grand jurors, after listening to the state’s evidence, is to vote a true bill of indictment when enough evidence exists to warrant a trial.

The waiting room was full of assistant district attorneys and their witnesses. The former were mostly bright-eyed and eager, busily picking up their caseloads of human misery on the first step toward a preparation for trial. It is what young lawyers came to offices like Battaglia’s to do, and they were generally happiest when juggling a lot of balls in the air at any one time. I watched them write out their charges in triplicate on forms that would be submitted by the warden to the member of each jury who had been designated to serve as the foreman. They stood shoulder to shoulder at an oversized counter in the front of the room as they worked against each other and the clock, to seek indictments on their cases.

Witnesses were a more somber accumulation-people who had been mugged or stabbed, relieved of their wallets or their cars, conned by strangers or kin, and who were anxious about both their victimization and their anticipated hours of frustration dealing with the court system.

Only two of my dozen colleagues scowled openly when I walked past them to the warden, who controlled the sequence of cases that were presented during the session. My presence in the waiting room, and my new assignment to a high-profile case, meant that I had come up to ask to be taken out of order and jumped over the line of grand larcenies and drug busts whose crews had been assembled for more than an hour.

“Relax, Gene. I’ll only be a minute. No witnesses. I’ve just got to open the investigation so we can start serving some subpoenas. I won’t hold you up.”

“Debbie’s got a five-year-old in her office down the hall. Father’s girlfriend scalded her with boiling water when she wouldn’t stop crying. She’s really a mess-”

“That goes first, obviously. I’ll just slip in after she’s finished.”

When the warden gave the signal that the jurors had a quorum, I phoned Debbie’s extension and suggested she bring the child down to testify. The badly scarred kid, her hair missing and her skull scorched on the left side of her head, clutched the hand of the prosecutor as she walked the gauntlet of lawyers, cops, and civilians. They paused together at the heavy wooden doorway of the jury room as Debbie looked the child in the eye to reassure her and ask if she were ready.

An affirmative nod was the reply and the door opened for Debbie to lead her by hand to the witness chair in the front of the room. The court stenographer brought up the rear. I had done it hundreds of times over the last decade-with women, men, adolescents, and children. I had seen the mouths of the twenty-three jurors drop open in gapes of horror, repelled by the damage one human being had inflicted on another. I recognized the traditional importance of the body and respected its power. But in addition, I understood how a manipulative district attorney could use the inherent imbalance of the process to his or her own end, so I also credited the more modern maxim that most prosecutors could indict a ham sandwich if they chose to do so.

The child was out after six minutes, having told her tale. Her father testified next, followed by the two police officers who had responded to the scene and made the arrest. A clean presentation-bare-bones, as we teach it-just the essential elements of the criminal act laid out by the assistant district attorney for the jurors. No need to try the case to them, as there is neither judge nor defense attorney nor defendant himself in attendance.

Debbie and the steno rejoined us in the waiting room so that the jurors could begin the process of deliberating and voting. The buzzer, which signaled their decision, rang within seconds. No one who saw the child doubted that a true bill had been returned-the defendant was indicted for attempted murder.

The warden waved me into the room. I walked to the front and placed my pad and Penal Law on the table provided.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Alexandra Cooper. I’m an assistant district attorney and I’m here to open an investigation into the death of Gemma Dogen.”

So far, no bells went off. I was facing the jurors, who were arrayed in amphitheatrical fashion opposite my position. Two rows of ten sat in a double-tiered semicircle, capped by three seats at the top from which the foreman, his assistant, and the secretary ran the proceedings. As usual, they were still holding newspapers in their laps and chewing on the bagels and muffins they had smuggled in past the posted signs that cautioned that no food was allowed.

“I am not going to present any evidence to you today, but I will be back throughout your term on the same matter. I’d like to give you a code name by which I will refer to the case whenever I appear before you. I think that will help you remember it since you’ll be hearing so many different presentations. The code will be ‘ Mid-Manhattan Hospital.’ ”

Not as clever as some of our reminders but it had the virtue of clarity. Jurors began to sit up and look more attentive. Several whispered to their neighbors, obviously explaining that this must be the stabbing of that woman doctor they had heard about on the news and read in their papers. Brown bags with breakfast remains were crumpled and stowed under seats. Two men in the front row leaned forward and gave me a careful once-over, as though it might make a difference when I finally returned later in the month to offer them up a murderer.

“I would like to add a special reminder today. As some of you may be aware, there are accounts of Dr. Dogen’s death in the newspapers and on television. When you come upon those stories, I must direct younot to read or listen to them.”

Fat chance, I thought to myself as I said the words aloud. Now that they’re sitting on the case, most of them will be surfing the channels looking for coverage they would never have bothered with before.

“The only evidence you will be asked to consider in this case is the testimony of witnesses who appear here before you or documents that are properly qualified and submitted to you in this room. News accounts and opinions of your family and friends are not evidence. And of course, you must not discuss this case among yourselves.

“I’m going to leave some subpoenas here for the signature of the foreman, and I will be in again sometime next week. Thank you very much.” Unless the detectives had some lucky breaks in a day or two, it was unlikely that I would begin to present testimonial evidence until the time a suspect was targeted.

I was out of the room quickly and turned the jury back to my colleagues. “You coming to the party for Broderick tonight?” Gene asked as I swept by on my way back to my office. Another classmate was leaving the office for private practice.

“Yeah. I’ve got a lecture to do at seven-thirty, but I’ll swing by when I’m done, assuming this case doesn’t heat up.”

Laura met me at the foot of the staircase on the eighth floor and told me that Battaglia wanted me immediately.

I turned toward his wing instead of my own, and was admitted by the security officer on the desk.

“Hey, Rose, great suit. I love that color on you.”

“Good morning, Alex. Thanks. Just wait a few minutes ‘til he gets off the phone, then go right on in.”

Rose was turned to her side, pounding away at the word processor. I glanced over the mounds of correspondence on her desk, trying not to “do a Covington.” Rod Squires had often ridiculed one of the guys who used to work in the office, Davy Covington, who had taken the surreptitious reading of Battaglia’s mail to an art form. He used to stand opposite Rose, pretend to engage her in pleasant conversation, and scan the District Attorney’s letters upside down. Battaglia had caught him at his own game more than once. When Davy gossiped about a local congressman’s fraud investigation before the matter was even officially brought to the office, the District Attorney gave him some very warm references for another job about fifteen hundred miles away. The temptation to peek was overwhelming, but the penalty made it much easier to resist.

I picked up the day’sLaw Journal and skimmed the headline decision. The Court of Appeals’s reasoning on a ruling about a police officer’s search of an abandoned suitcase in Port Authority looked interesting and I made a note on my pad for Laura to clip the opinion for my files.

The familiar odor of a Monte Cristo No. 2 wafted out to announce that Battaglia was on his way to summon me into his office. It was one of the features that Rod and I most appreciated when the D.A. made his unexpected forays onto our end of the corridor. The inevitable cigar smoke and smell always preceded him by a few seconds, time enough for Rod to get his feet off the desk or for me to slip back into my shoes.

“Anything new, Alex? C’mon inside.”

He had an amazing facility for doing four things at once. Not a word that I said would be missed or forgotten, while at the same time he would be scrutinizing a handful of the letters that Rose had just printed out for his approval and prioritizing the calls on two of his six telephone lines, which were blinking on hold as he led me in.

“You need to take those calls, Paul? I can wait.”

“Nah, the senator can call back later. He’s pressing me on that victims’ rights legislation, and I just like to keep him guessing. The other one will just take a minute. Sit.”

Battaglia pressed the clear Lucite button and resumed the conversation. “I’ve got her in here now. What do you need to know?” Pause. “Hold on.”

He looked up at me. “What do you know about Dogen’s husband and family?” Three similar questions followed, all innocuous.

I gave him the information I had, and wondered which newspaper he was favoring with it. He was a master at this, never giving out anything inappropriate, but serving up to a rotating group of reliables a couple of bites that would soon be available through ordinary channels. I listened as he controlled the conversation with ease and assurance. Something his caller said to flatter him caused him to break into a wide smile. I smiled, too, looking at his lean face, strong aquiline nose, and thick graying hair. The man was a genius at his dealings with the press.

“That ought to hold them for a while. Now, any leads I don’t know about?”

I told him what had gone on throughout the evening and what my plans were for the day.

“Y‘ know, nobody at the medical center is very happy with all the articles being printed about the security problems.”

“Well, Paul, you’ve got to admit-”

“Just try and keep a lid on these stories, Alex. People desperately in need of surgery and treatment are checking out like it was a leper colony. It’s not just Mid-Manhattan-I’m getting calls from Columbia-Presbyterian and Mount Sinai. You’d think they were writing about Grand Central Station or the Bowery Mission, not a medical center.

“And another thing, Pat McKinney was in right before you. Says Chief McGraw called him to gripe about something you did last night at the precinct.”

It figures that one asshole would find the other. And McKinney, one of my supervisors who welcomed any opportunity to embarrass me, ran right in here like a washerwoman to bad-mouth me to the D.A. I squirmed but held my tongue, knowing how much Battaglia hated infighting among his staff.

“All I can say, Alex, is that you must have been doing something right. McGraw’s a real pain in the neck. He crossed me twelve years ago, when he was commanding Manhattan South. He’s never been able to work with women-quite a Neanderthal. So don’t let him get to you.”

He stood up and walked in the direction of the door, marking an end to my audience. The cigar was clenched in his teeth and he was smiling even more broadly as he saw me out: “If he gives you a hard time, send my regards. Tell him I said he should zip up his pants and get out of your way.”

I picked up the messages that were stuffed into the clip on Laura’s desk, flipping through them until I found the one I wanted. David Mitchell had called back to confirm that he had made a referral of Maureen Forester to a neurologist affiliated with Mid-Manhattan Hospital. On the basis of her complaints to Mitchell and the results of his preliminary exam, he had recommended that she be admitted to the hospital Friday morning at 10A.M. Dr. Mitchell had insisted, of course, that no invasive tests or procedures be performed until his return to New York at the beginning of next week. Just observation and lots of rest.

I called Sarah to tell her the news and ask her if she could spend Friday afternoon “visiting” with Mo. Then I phoned Bergdorf’s personal shopping department and ordered a mocha-colored vicuña robe, to be delivered to the neurological floor the next day-“You’re our devil in disguise-stay well, with love from your pals-Mike, Mercer, and Al.”

Gina Brickner waited until I hung up the phone before she came in with her legal pads and a cassette recorder. She looked miserable.

“Laura told me you’re leaving at noon, but you gotta hear this tape before you go. I got an indictment on that Columbia University frat party rape last month. The 911 tape was just delivered this morning, with the printout.

“Jessie Pointer, the victim, told me she’d only had one or two beers that night. Said she was cold sober by the time she got back to her girlfriend’s dorm room to make the call. I played the tape-Alex, she’s so damn drunk that she’s hiccuping all the way through it.”

“Unbelievable.”

“It gets worse. Every time the 911 operator asks for a response address, Jessie can’t answer the question. She can’t remember the name of the dorm. Then the dispatcher wants the telephone callback number in case the address she finally came up with was wrong. Jessie gives her six digits, and then the two of them keep arguing over whether phone numbers have six or seven figures. I can’t believe how intox’d she sounds.”

“Get her back in here tomorrow. Read her the riot act. Make her listen to the tape. Tell her she’s got one chance-and only one chance-to correct her story. And she’ll have to admit to the jury, at the trial, that she wasn’t honest with you or with the cops about her condition.

“I’ll never understand why some of these women lie about the circumstances leading up to the attack but then expect us to believe that everything else they testify to is true. This isn’t a goddamn game-it’s people’s lives at stake. We’re here to help them, and they think we’re stupid enough not to know how to find out what really went on. If she wants us to salvage the rape case, every other detail she tells you has to be confirmed.”

Nothing infuriated me more than the real victims who compromised their own cases by trying to shade the events. The few who did it made everyone more skeptical of the scores of legitimate victims who followed in their footsteps.

By the time I had finished returning the calls and reassigning interviews, Mercer had arrived to pick me up.

“Beep if you need me, Laura. We’ll be at the morgue.”