The Kills (2 page)

Peter
jumped in defensively. "Killed herself a few months after he was born.
Typical postpartum depression, taken to the worst extreme."

"Tripping
was in the military at the time, Judge. She was killed with one of his guns.
I've spoken to investigators who think he's the one who pulled the
trigger."

Moffet
aimed his pinky ring in my direction, jabbing it in the air while he grinned
and looked over at Peter Robelon. "She should have charged him with
murder, just like I said. Pretty good self-restraint for Alexandra Cooper. So
why'd Judge Hayes leave me with all these loose ends to tie up when he sent
this over to me? What else are you asking for?"

Peter
answered before I could open my mouth. "Alex, you know I'm going to oppose
any request you make for an adjournment. You answered ready for trial, Hayes
sent us out, and my client is ready to get this over with."

"It
sounds like we got some housekeeping matters to clear up here before we start
picking," Moffett said. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. Let's go
back inside, so I can greet the jurors and give them a timetable. I'll
introduce each of you and the defendant, tell them we need the morning to
complete some business that doesn't involve them, and have them back here at
two
P.M.
Either of you
have a list of witnesses you want to give me?"

I handed
both men a very short list of names. This case rested squarely on Paige
Vallis's shoulders. "I may have one more to add to this tomorrow."

Peter
Robelon smiled again. "I don't want to lose sleep worrying about who that
might be, Alex. Want to give me a hint?"

"I
assume you'd be able to do your usual devastating cross-examination, even if I
conjured up Mother Teresa as an eyewitness. Let me keep you guessing."

Mercer
Wallace, the case detective from the Special Victims Unit, had been contacted
by one of the guys in Homicide at the end of last week. He had a confidential
informant-a reliable CI, he claimed-who had been Tripping's cellmate at Rikers
and had some incriminating information that he'd overheard in the pens in the
hours after the two were first incarcerated together. They were producing this
informant-Kevin Bessemer-in my office tonight, for me to evaluate the
statements he was trying to trade for some years shaved off the time he was
looking at in his own pending case.

Moffett
waved his hand toward the door and the court officer opened it for us. He took
my arm and steered me toward the hallway. "Nice of you to bring me a case
that doesn't have the first three rows of my courtroom filled with reporters
for a change."

"Believe
me, Judge, it's the way I prefer to work, too."

"Do
yourself a favor, Alex." Moffett turned back to look at Robelon, no doubt
winking to assure him the whispering was to benefit his client. "Think
about whether we can make this case go away by this time tomorrow. I'm amazed
it survived the motion to inspect and dismiss the grand jury minutes. I'm not
sure you're going to see a lot of rulings going your way under my watch, from
this point on."

"It's
actually a very compelling story-and a frightening one. I think you'll see that
more clearly when I make my application in the morning."

He let go
and stepped out ahead of me, into the courtroom, taking his place back up on
the bench as Robelon and I walked to our respective tables.

Mercer
Wallace was standing at the rail, as though he had been waiting for me to
emerge from the robing room. Moffett recognized him from a previous trial.
"Miss Cooper, you want a minute to speak with Detective Wallace before I
get started with our introductions here?"

"I'd
appreciate that, Your Honor."

Mercer
reached for my shoulder and turned me away from the jurors in the box, toward
him. "Keep your game face on, Alex. Just got news that you should know
before you spill anything to the judge about how strong your case is. Hope I'm
not too late to be useful."

"Ready."

He leaned
over and spoke as softly as he could. "Heads are gonna roll as soon as the
commissioner gets word about this one. Two guys were bringing Kevin Bessemer
over from Rikers for your interview. The car got jammed up behind an accident
on the FDR Drive, and the prisoner bolted from the backseat, right down the
footpath on One Hundred Nineteenth Street and into the projects. They lost
him."

"What?"

"Poker
face, girl. You promised."

"But
wasn't he cuffed?"

"Rear-cuffed
and locked in tight, the guys say. Stay cool, Alex, the judge is checking to
see what the fidgeting is and why your blood pressure's going up. Your cheeks
are on fire."

"I
can't start picking this jury tomorrow. How the hell am I going to buy myself
some time?"

"Tell
the man what happened, kid. Tell him your snitch is gone."

"Good
afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Moffett said, clearly relishing this
role as he swaggered on his small stage, higher than everyone in the courtroom
and completely in charge. He stood behind his massive leather chair, gesturing
broadly with both arms as he spoke.

"I
trust you each had a good, restful summer, a pleasant Labor Day weekend, so now
you're ready to settle down and get to serious business here."

Jurors
liked Harlan Moffett. He was seventy-one years old, with a full head of thick
white hair and a robust build. His three decades on the bench made him
comfortable with almost every situation that might arise in the Supreme Court
of the State of New York, Criminal Term. He was patient with nervous witnesses,
never tolerated outbursts from sobbing relatives or defendants' girlfriends who
showed up in court with wailing rent-a-babies to elicit the jury's sympathy,
and he was the only person in the room who had not ducked the time a notorious
killer had thrown the water pitcher from counsel table across the courtroom at
his head, rocketing shards of glass all over the well.

When he
finished telling the panel a bit about himself, Moffett extended his right
hand, palm up, and asked me to stand. "This young lady is Alexandra
Cooper. Paul Battaglia-he's the man you people keep reelecting to be your
district attorney-well, he put Miss Cooper here in charge of all the sex crimes
cases that occur in Manhattan."

I nodded
at the group and sat down.

"She's
got a real friendly smile, folks, but you're not going to see it again during
this trial. So when you pass her in the hall or on your way into the
courthouse, don't say hello to her or wish her a good evening. She can't talk
to you. Neither can Mr. Robelon over there."

Moffett
introduced Peter along with his second seat, an associate from his law firm
called Emily Frith. I glanced over at their table and noticed the routine
defense shtick that had become so commonplace at rape trials. The young and
attractive Emily was necessary for one purpose only. She had her seat pulled up
as close to Andrew Tripping as possible, her arm resting on the back of his
chair. It didn't matter if she had a brain in her head or had passed the bar
exam. She was simply there for the visual. Jurors were supposed to see this
interaction and think to themselves that if she was comfortable being so
intimately involved with the defendant, then maybe he wasn't really a violent
sex offender.

Tripping,
when called on, rose to his feet, mustering his most forlorn expression of
presumed innocence, smoothing his tie into place before lowering himself back
down into his seat. Here but for the grace of God goes any one of you, was the
subliminal message he was sending to all the male jurors. He looked paler than
the last time I had seen him, with muddy brown eyes and hair the color of a
well-rusted metal wrench.

"Since
it's already four forty-five, I'm going to let you folks be excused. You can
all sleep late tomorrow while I make these lawyers work on some other aspects
of the case in the morning. You're to be back here at two o'clock sharp, ready
to go. At that time we'll be picking a jury."

Moffett
came out from behind his chair, leaning over the edge of the bench and wagging
a finger at the panel in the box and then expanding his admonition to the rest
of the prospective jurors in the gallery. "And let me remind you people
that those tired, old efforts to get out of your civic duty won't work in my
courtroom. Leave your excuses at home. I don't care if you have two plane
tickets to Rio on Friday, or that nobody will baby-sit for your cat if I
sequester you in a hotel room, or that your cousin's niece's brother is being
bar mitzvahed in Cleveland this weekend. Send him a check, and as far as I'm
concerned, you can bring the kitty with you."

The
jurors gathered their belongings and made their way to the double doors at the
rear of the room. I swept my notepad and case folder off the table and waited
for the judge to excuse me so that I could get downstairs to my office to deal
with the slippery witness and my disintegrating case.

"What
time for us, Your Honor?" Peter asked.

"Nine-thirty.
And Alexandra, you'll have the agency people here?"

"I'll
call over there right now, as soon as you dismiss us."

The
corridors and elevators were packed with nine-to-five civil servants who set
their schedules by the time clock, so as not to give the city an extra minute
of their energy. Assistant district attorneys were swimming against that tide,
making their way back to their offices from the dozens of courtrooms on both
sides of Centre Street, to spend long hours readying themselves for the next
day's legal battles.

Laura
Wilkie, who had been my secretary for seven years, anticipated my return from
the trial part. She was standing in my doorway, steno pad in hand, brewing a
fresh pot of coffee to jump-start me for the evening ahead.

Clipped
to my In box was a wad of telephone messages. "Those you can ignore.
Friends, lovers, bill collectors, snake oil salesmen. This one you can't."

She gave
me the yellow paper with the message she had taken from the district attorney.
See me as soon as you finish in court.

It meant
Battaglia had heard about the escape and wanted an explanation.

I walked
into my office and dropped the files on top of my desk. Mercer was standing against
the window, the dark outline of his six-foot-four-inch frame silhouetted
against the granite gargoyles on the building ledge behind him. He was on the
phone.

"Find
out what you can. Alex is gonna tank on this one."

"I
think it's already happened," I said to Mercer as he turned and saw me,
then hung up. "I'm about to hit bottom. Battaglia wants the story. Any
news on how this happened?"

"Bessemer's
a predicate. Facing the rest of his natural days behind bars for a five-kilo
sale of cocaine. Brooklyn Narcotics made the arrest. Their lieutenant insisted
that they be the ones to transport him here instead of our squad. Everybody
there's playing dumb."

"Sounds
like they have the credentials for it. Any sightings of him yet?"

"I've
called anyone who owes me. I'll get you an answer before the night is
out."

"If
it comes back in little pieces, even if the information is too late to save my
tail, you know I'd be grateful."

I scanned
my security pass to get into the executive wing. Battaglia's executive assistant,
Rose Malone, looked relieved to see me. "Go right in, Alex."

Rose was
my early warning system. Completely loyal to the district attorney, she had a
superb ability to read his moods and transmit the data to me just as the most
accurate barometer at Cape Canaveral could do for Mission Control.

"Do
I get a hint about who ratted me out to the Boss?"

"It's
not who you think."

I thought
McKinney. The chief of the trial division, Pat McKinney was my direct
supervisor. His eagle eye scoured my actions for every misstep and mistake, and
he seemed never to weary of reporting them to Battaglia.