Bad Blood (27 page)

“I don’t think we’re prepared to tell you exactly how that happened right now. But the important thing to know is that one of the persons of interest in that matter…”

Pat McKinney stalled, making sure he had Gertz’s complete attention. My head was bowed, trying to avoid Lem’s questioning expression. I didn’t agree at all with Battaglia’s suggested tactics and I didn’t want to be part of this bench conference.

“…one of the persons of interest in the manual strangulation of this teenager was Brendan Quillian.”

Lem Howell scowled at McKinney. “What do you think you’re up to, Pat? Your Honor, first of all, are we off-the-record? Is this some kind of joke that the District Attorney’s Office is going to play with my client’s life?” he asked, swinging an arm around the well of the court. “Are you grandstanding for some better ink in this case?”

“Tell me what you know,” Gertz said, cocking his head and letting McKinney sketch an outline of the case for him, calling on me from time to time for details.

“Ask Alexandra why she’s so quiet,” Lem said. “Something tells me she doesn’t have a dog in this fight.”

Gertz checked me out, then turned back to McKinney. “What’s your point?”

“I just thought you ought to know, Judge, that Battaglia may ask the Bronx district attorney to — um — to re-autopsy the case. New forensic technology, a more careful examination.”

Lem’s outrage was growing. For the eight hundred fifty dollars an hour that Brendan Quillian was paying for his services, the defendant would get more than his money’s worth, whether he was here to see the action or not. There was no trace of Lem’s good humor as he pointed his finger at McKinney and demanded some straight talk.

“Re-autopsy? Is that some kind of euphemism for digging up a body in the middle of my client’s trial? Maybe happen to have a reporter trailing along with you, a photographer or two to make sure you hit the tabloids? Have you lost your mind, Pat? Alex, you’ve got better sense than this.”

“I’m not saying it’s going to happen, Lem,” McKinney said in a soft, whining voice. “The DA just wanted me to let Judge Gertz know this might be taken out of our hands.”

“Weasel words, Your Honor. Not the first time I’ve heard them from Mr. McKinney. This — this — this—” Lem said, struggling, as he rarely did, to express himself. “This is absurd. Quite frankly, Judge, I’ve got no idea what the law is on this issue, but even the mere suggestion of an exhumation is a ridiculous reach. I’d like the court to order the prosecutors not to go any further with this until I’ve had an opportunity to do some research.”

“McKinney, this young woman — this teenager — does she have a name?” Gertz asked.

“I’m — uh — I’m not sure I recall,” McKinney stammered, glancing over to see if I would give him up.

I was nodding my head up and down in response to the judge’s question.

“Oh, yeah. Hassett. Rebecca Hassett. That’s right, isn’t it, Alex?” McKinney had recovered the memory quickly in the face of more potential embarrassment.

“That mean anything to you, Lem?” Gertz said, looking back and forth between the men.

“Nothing. Nothing, Your Honor.”

“Ms. Cooper, where are you in all this?” Gertz asked.

“Mr. McKinney and I don’t agree with each other about the propriety of raising this issue with you at this point in time. It has no place in this case, Your Honor. You both need to know that beyond the jurisdictional issue, it’s apparent that Brendan Quillian was out of the country when the young woman Pat has referred to was murdered.”

Lem Howell looked at Pat McKinney, and I could lip-read his clearly articulated “You motherfucker,” which he whispered with his back turned to Gertz.

McKinney didn’t know when to stop. “Now, Mr. Quillian was also out of town when his wife, Amanda, was murdered. Ms. Cooper and a grand jury — and this court that reviewed all of Mr. Howell’s pretrial motions to dismiss on the sufficiency of the evidence — didn’t seem to think that was a bar to prosecution.”

“Pat, we’re off-the-record here, so I won’t say this quite the way I would if a reporter were taking down my remarks. Keep your mouth shut, will you? Not a word of any of this until you package it before some judge in the Bronx, where it belongs — when you’re quite ready to do that. Alexandra, do you understand me?”

“Completely, Your Honor. I think Mr. Howell and I trust each other enough so that he’ll believe me when I assure him that there will be no leaks from my office. He has my word on that.”

Gertz was surprised to see me in agreement with my adversary. “Lem?”

“I do appreciate that, Alexandra, but I’d like the judge to exact that same promise from Mr. McKinney. Unfortunately, Pat has a little less respect for the law than some of his colleagues.”

“Spare me the ad hominem attacks, Lem,” Gertz said, not able to put his finger on what was going on among the three of us. “You listen to me, Pat. Not a word of this to any reporters. I don’t know what your game is here, but I’m not having any of it in my courtroom.”

Gertz stood up again and pounded his gavel for emphasis. “Nine o’clock tomorrow. Be ready to put your first witness in the box at nine fifteen.”

I turned to leave. Pat McKinney was a few steps behind me, muttering under his breath. “I’m trying to help you here, Alex. If Gertz thinks Brendan Quillian is involved in another homicide, even the most subtle rulings would tend to go your way from this point on. It’ll change his whole attitude.”

“Sorry, Pat. You forgot to tell me which hand it is you’ve got the judge eating from, and what it is you’ve been feeding him. I think I can guess, but I’d rather do it the old-fashioned way. Ethically, if it’s all the same to you.”

Lem picked up his briefcase and held open the wooden barrier that separated the well from the courtroom seats. “I wonder about the company you’re keeping, Ms. Cooper. Try to shake loose from that devil before the morning, will you?”

“See you tomorrow, Lem.”

Artie Tramm followed Pat to the door to lock it behind us. As we entered the darkened corridor, I recognized the man walking toward me. He was one of the most prominent litigators in the city — Justin Feldman — whose practice kept him active in the more refined setting of the nearby federal courthouse. Distinguished-looking, in his late sixties, he was taller than I, with thinning hair and a tan that looked as if he’d spent many recent hours on the tennis court. Feldman had mentored a good number of my friends at the bench and bar.

“Laura told me I might find you up here,” he said. “May I take you away from Pat for a minute?”

“Of course.” I stepped into the alcove outside Part 83 and let McKinney go on his way. “I owe you for that. What can I help you with?”

“I’ve just been brought in to represent a guy named Lawrence Pritchard. Do you know who I mean?”

Pritchard was the former chief engineer on the tunnel project, the man whose name had been written on the back of Brendan Quillian’s business card and dropped on the courtroom floor.

“Yes, Justin. I know exactly who he is.”

“An agent from the joint terrorist task force showed up on his doorstep this morning.”

“I’m not in charge of any agents. I didn’t send anyone to Pritchard’s home.”

“I know that. Apparently he’s one of the Feds on the task force. He’s working with a prosecutor in the Southern District.”

Battaglia would have my head if he lost the tunnel investigation to the U. S. attorney for the Southern District of New York.

“The guy wanted to question Larry about his relationship with Duke Quillian, about the explosion in the tunnel last week. I’ve told him not to talk to anyone until I met with you. Battaglia said you’re in charge of the investigation for the moment.”

“We can get you someone to meet with while I’m on trial,” I said, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed with the problems of my own witnesses, the untimely direction from Battaglia and McKinney about Bex Hassett’s case, and my nagging concerns about Carol Goodwin’s hostility, since she had blamed her suicidal ideation on me just a few hours earlier. “What are you looking for?”

I wondered how quickly I could get Battaglia to put a couple of junior assistants on the tunnel case without yielding control of the investigation to Pat McKinney.

“First of all, I’d rather work with your office than the Feds on this. It takes so damn long to run everything past Washington when you’re trying to clear things up for a client.”

Feldman was right. Battaglia was the court of last resort when decisions had to be made on office matters, but the federal prosecutors needed to get authority from the Department of Justice before going forward.

“What else, Justin?”

“Queen for a day, Alex.”

Pritchard had chosen his counsel well. Feldman’s request for a particular kind of interview session that would limit his client’s exposure had come to be known by that flippant name within the criminal bar. His witness was essentially telling him that he had information that would be of value in our investigation. He was offering to cooperate with the state — and, in exchange, I would be giving up my ability to use any statements Pritchard made on that day in any future criminal prosecution against him. The witness may have been helping me build a case against one of the other suspects, but in all likelihood he was trying to protect himself because of some illegal conduct in which he’d been involved.

I was startled by the introduction of Pritchard’s name and that he claimed to have a story to tell. I tried to read Feldman’s face in the darkened hallway. “Lawrence Pritchard wants to talk?”

“He’s got information about Duke Quillian, Alex. What do you say, will you give us queen for a day?”

I had gotten off the elevator and gone directly to Battaglia, confident that Pat McKinney was shut in his office with his girlfriend for their ritual of five o’clock tea behind closed doors. Once I made the DA aware that one of his traditional archrivals, the federal prosecutor, was trying to grab hold of the tunnel investigation, he was quick to accept my suggestion of assigning someone to oversee the case.

“I’d suggest you get Nan Toth to work with the team,” I said. “She’s done everything from high-profile murders to complex white-collar litigation. She can match wits with a guy like Feldman without being intimidated, and the detectives respect her.”

“And she’s loyal to you, too. You like that part of it, don’t you?”

“I like it a lot, boss.”

Battaglia leaned over his intercom, took the cigar out of his mouth, and told Rose to get Nan on the phone. He asked if she could free herself up from whatever she was working on and meet in my office in ten minutes.

Mike Chapman and I spent the next two hours going over everything that we had learned in the days since the explosion with Nan, one of the senior prosecutors, who had been on Battaglia’s staff five years longer than I. Married, with two kids, the striking brunette had been successful with some of the most sophisticated cases in the office, and I had relied on her skilled guidance as much as her friendship.

“Can you hoof it uptown with Coop and me for an hour?” Mike asked, checking his watch.

“You don’t need to take me home,” I said.

“I wasn’t making a social plan, kid. You’ve been so wrapped up in yourself since Ms. Goodwin took a slice out of her wrist that you haven’t even asked me about my day. I saw Teddy O’Malley at the funeral this morning. I couldn’t talk to him until I put Brendan Quillian back in the car with the guys from patrol. You want a chance to check out the three Hassett brothers?”

“Where?”

“They’re working the four-to-twelve shift in the tunnel tonight. Teddy’ll call them up around eight fifteen, to hog house, while they’re breaking for their meal. Figures they’ll want to hear all about the funeral. I said I’d just show up.”

“Let’s not miss this one,” Nan said, eager to get started. “My husband’s turn to help the kids with their homework anyway.”

“Can you imagine what Coop would do with a husband and kids during a trial? The only other living thing in her apartment is a cactus, and she barely remembers to water that once a year,” Mike said. He kicked the leg of my chair. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Nan’ll do the heavy lifting till you go to the jury. Let’s check out Trebek and then we’ll go uptown.”

“You mean I get to lose money in this deal, too?” Nan said. “I’m Mercer’s stand-in?”

We walked around the corner to Brenda Whitney’s office, where her assistant was still at work on the week’s press releases. Mike switched from the local news channel to
Jeopardy!

He left it on mute for several minutes through the end of the double-jeopardy section and a pack of commercials.

“I guess you were too busy carousing with Joan Stafford to watch on Friday night, weren’t you? Movie trivia,” Mike said, a favorite topic for all three of us. “I raised the ante a few times but Mercer whipped me. I was sure it was
Luke
.”

“What was Friday night? Where were you and Joan?” Nan asked me, just as I blushed and tugged at Mike’s sleeve.

“What do you mean about Luc?” I said.

“Back down, girl. Did I hit a nerve?
Cool Hand Luke.
I thought for sure the Oscar went to Paul Newman. He was Luke, remember? The antihero, the loner. But Mercer pegged George Kennedy for Best Supporting Actor. Eighty bucks down the tubes.”

The longer I could keep my love life out of the mix of office gossip, the better my chances for succeeding with a new guy. Battaglia’s morning greeting suggested that it would be no easier a task than usual. I had jumped at the sound of the homophone of Monsieur Rouget’s name when Mike had said it.

“The category tonight,” Trebek said, as Mike boosted the volume, “is Foreign Affairs. Foreign Affairs. That’s it, gentlemen — and lady — so place your wagers now.”

“We start at twenty bucks,” Mike said to Nan. “This one’s probably a trick question. It’s as likely to be how many babies has Prince Albert of Monaco fathered out of wedlock as some political stumper. Where’s your money?”

“Across the street in my office, Mike. Trust me for ten minutes,” Nan said, ruffling his hair.