Terminal City

SEVENTEEN

“Don’t mess with him, Alex. Hand off the Dominguez case to Catherine or Nan,” Mercer said, referring to two of my closest friends in the bureau.

“Let me run up to the courtroom and see what Drusin is filling the judge’s head with. It’s just some motion nonsense, I’m sure. If there are immediate issues to deal with-substantive ones-I will put someone else on it.”

“I hear you.”

“Would you mind getting an update from the team at the Waldorf? Do we have any idea whether they’ve seen anything on the surveillance cameras they’ve been checking? We should certainly know more by now.”

“We’d have heard something for sure if they’d gotten lucky. I’ll do the catch-up.”

Over the years, the route to the courtrooms from the DA’s office had become more circuitous, even though we occupied several floors in the massive building. I jogged down the staircase one flight from the executive wing on eight, since the only direct entrance was by way of the lone security guard at the seventh-floor desk.

The thirteenth-floor hallway-which held eight trial “parts,” as they were called-was beginning to fill up with defendants, lawyers, families and friends of the accused, and some of the court-watchers who hung out, hoping for salacious proceedings to fill the long, quiet days of their retirement. Some of them were like Sex Crimes Unit stalkers who knew if one of my colleagues showed up, there might be enough references to sexual acts to keep them awake and engaged-better than the best soap operas on television.

I headed for Judge Aikens’s part, although I saw no sign of my adversary.

As I pulled open one of the double doors, there was a sudden burst of laughter behind me. I turned to see a group of eight or ten men emerging from the restroom, led by Gerardo Dominguez. I didn’t look long enough to study faces. One of the old men who followed my trials for all the wrong reasons-perverse sexual acts, foul language, and endless talk of body parts-was calling to me, coming at me from the other direction.

“Ms. Cooper! Ms. Cooper! I didn’t see your name on any of the calendars today. What have you got going?”

I pretended I didn’t hear him and let the courtroom door swing shut behind me.

David Drusin was standing at the bench, talking with the judge.

“Good morning, Alexandra. Thanks for coming up so promptly,” Judge Aikens said. “It’s apparent from the news that you have a lot on your plate.”

“Not a problem, Judge. Thank you both for waiting. I see, David, that your client made bail.”

“COMET.”

“Did you say comet?” I asked.

“I did. Cannibals of Metro New York-Cooper Chapter. I formed a new nonprofit yesterday, to make it easier for you to find these guys. There are so many flesh-eating figments of your imagination out there, ready to chomp on the ladies, that they all chipped in to raise Gerry’s bail. Dinner is at eight tonight, if you’d like to join them.”

I smiled at Drusin. “Nice way to get rid of me.”

“You’re too tough to eat, Alex. Though a bit of grilling might tenderize you.”

“Step back, both of you,” the judge said. “Let’s go on the record.”

Officer Dominguez had entered the courtroom. Half a dozen men sat in the front row as he made his way to counsel table to sit beside his lawyer.

I glanced around at the group. Each man had his police officer’s shield flapped over the pocket of his sports jacket. I was not at all surprised that the solid blue line of cops would support a colleague in trouble. I was in for some stonewalling should I need anything from the precinct in which Dominguez patrolled.

“Once again, good morning to you all,” the judge said, after the case was called into the record. “It appears that the issue of bail has been resolved, Mr. Drusin. I’m going to remind your client that there are orders of protection for his wife and child. There is to be absolutely no contact between them. None attempted.”

Gerry Dominguez clasped his hands together in front of him, fidgeting in place, nodding his head to let the judge know that he understood the terms of his release.

The cops in the front row were whispering to one another, trying to unsettle me. Judge Aikens banged his gavel and demanded silence.

“I understand, Mr. Drusin, that you’ve prepared some of your motions already. Quick work.”

“I told you I’d have them to you as soon as possible. First is the motion for the dismissal on First Amendment grounds. All we have here is speech, which is supposed to be free.”

“May I give you examples of the language, Your Honor?” I asked, pulling documents from the folder. “E-mails that said Mr. Dominguez was looking forward to ‘cramming a chloroform-soaked rag’ in his wife’s mouth. A document titled ‘A Blueprint for the Abduction and Devouring of Alba Dominguez.’”

“He was sending these e-mails as part of a fantasy, Judge. A game.”

“His cyber life was bleeding into reality. He wasn’t just chatting with these men, he was the provocateur of the conversations. Mr. Dominguez took overt acts,” I said. “I will respond to these motions with all the supporting documentation so the court can see what the facts are.”

“On an expedited schedule, Ms. Cooper,” Judge Aikens said, playing to the cops in the front row. “I’m not dragging my feet on this one. If Dominguez is a good officer-and if you cannot prove any overt acts in this conspiracy charge-then we need to get him back on our streets as soon as possible.”

There was applause from the defendant’s supporters. I looked over my shoulder. My sole cheerleader was the elderly court-watcher, a staple in my small posse of regulars, who leaned forward in hopes of more specifics from me.

“Thank you for that, Your Honor. And most important, I would very much like to have you remove Ms. Cooper from the prosecution of this case, as I mentioned yesterday. Let me give you some of the reasons I have to add to my preliminary remarks.”

My spine stiffened at the idea of Drusin throwing any more personal venom into the formal court record.

“Actually, Judge Aikens, I’ve just come from Mr. Battaglia’s office, as you know. Mr. Drusin may withdraw his motion and keep his litany of personal peeves to himself.”

“But, Judge, I’m entitled to make a record about Ms. Cooper in support of my application.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve been assigned to handle a breaking double homicide that will require my complete attention, around the clock, until a suspect or suspects are apprehended and then swiftly charged. I’m in the process of reassigning the Dominguez matter to a colleague in the Special Victims Unit.”

“Very wise of you, Ms. Cooper,” the judge said. “I assume this won’t delay the proceedings?”

“Wait a minute,” Drusin said. He seemed upset not to be able to throw some ad hominem attack about me on the record. “I’m not finished.”

“No, but you’re defanged on this issue, Mr. Drusin,” I said. “By noon today, there will be a new prosecutor handling this matter. And no disruption in the expedited-motion schedule. Anything else I need to deal with, or am I free to step out of the well?”

“We’re officially adjourned,” the judge said, banging his gavel to underscore that point. “Thanks for coming up, Alex. And, you, David, got half of what you wanted right off the bat. You ought to stop being so vituperative.”

I stepped away from the table and turned to walk out of the room as the judge left the bench.

The six officers stood up as I passed them, muttering epithets at me, causing my lone supporter to try to catch up with me.

“Ms. Cooper,” he called after me, “you shouldn’t have to give up the case. You could nail this guy.”

I gave him a thumbs-up as I left the courtroom but walked faster to avoid the conversation he wanted to have. There was still a small pack of men huddled in the corner of the long hallway, and I assumed they were Dominguez supporters. I wanted to get away from the entire crew.

I pressed both DOWN buttons on each side of the elevator bank, hoping one of the eight oversized sets of doors would open before the old guy caught up to me and tried to bend my ear.

The one farthest from the corridor-closest to the window-creaked apart, and I ran to get on it. There were several prosecutors and witnesses in it, descending from one of the higher floors. The heavy steel doors, several inches thick, started to close as I greeted the others and pressed for the seventh floor.

Before the doors could shut completely, a man whose footsteps I’d heard coming up behind me-I thought it was the overanxious court-watcher-thrust his arm between the two sides.

I reached for the OPEN button before the viselike grip of the solid doors could cause any injury to the man’s forearm, which was too well muscled and too dark-skinned to be that of my elderly admirer.

The doors sprung several inches apart. The man withdrew his arm and the doors slammed shut again before I could see his face and apologize to him. But not before I saw the words KILL COOP tattooed on the skin of his hand.