False Witness (16 page)

“What do you think about this, Bobby J?”

“What am I supposed to think about it? A kind of strange way to go, I guess.”

“Did she jump or was she pushed? What was that old song? You remember a song like that?” Funny theme for a folk song; funny way to die.

“Her parents still alive?”

Bobby Jones dug into his notebook, flipped through, held up the address. “I have an appointment with them tomorrow morning at eleven
A.M.
They live in Forest Hills. They own a bakery on Queens Boulevard. Want to come with me?”

“Yes. It might be interesting to meet with someone who has less than a kind word to say about the good doctor Cohen.”

“What makes you think they won’t vouch for him? That they won’t tell you what a saint he was for putting up with their nutty daughter?”

“Oh. Just a feeling. How about this Dr. Calendar? What the hell kind of doctor is he, letting her go off medication when she was still swinging up and down?”

“That gentleman is coming in to the office tomorrow morning at ten
A.M.
Kind of strange: he actually
offered
to come here, rather than have me talk with him at his office at the hospital.”

“The plot thickens, Dr. Watson.”

“And leads where, Ms. Sherlock?”

“Who the hell knows? Listen, I’m having the Honorable Regg Morris in this afternoon. I’d kind of like you to sit in on it. Sanderalee made her accusations to him before she told us. That’s why he was so damned edgy with me that night he dropped me off. I’m a little worried about him. About his tendency to talk very loud to whoever—whomever?—will listen. Particularly media people. We’ve got to impress upon him the importance of keeping big mouths locked shut.”

“He looks like the unimpressionable type, but I’ll back you up all lean.”

The phone rang and the office secretary popped his sweet young head in the door and told me, “Lynne, it was him. The District Attorney. Mr. Hale. He wanted to know if you can come up to his office right away. Something about a TV documentary. I said what you told me to say: that I’d see if I could find you and get back to him right away.”

“Tell him you couldn’t find me. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good boy. Bobby, get out of here and get me those minutes from the inquest. I want a line on this psychiatrist, Dr. Calendar.”

“I’m on my way. Just one more thing, Lynne.”

“Yes, Bobby?”

“Wanna have at it?”

“Bobby Jones, is that what they teach you in Nebraska? That’s a hell of a way to talk to your boss.”

T
HIS MEETING WITH REGG
Morris was different from our previous encounters. Instead of magnetism, he gave off repellent rays. He was wary, watchful, hostile, suspicious and judgmental. What he wanted to know, basically, was what I intended to do with the accusation made by Sanderalee Dawson.

“We are conducting an intensive investigation into all aspects and possibilities of the case,” I told him.

“We are conducting an intensive investigation,” he repeated, mimicking my words. He shook his head and his laugh was very unpleasant. Finally, he looked directly across the desk at me. His black, angry eyes sought to impale me.

“And to what
end
is this intensive investigation into all aspects and possibilities being conducted, Ms. Jacobi?”

“To the ends of justice,” I said, somewhat pompously. We were both having a highly dramatic moment. I have been known, on occasion, to rise to other people’s dramatic moments.

“To the ends of justice. Um. Very, very impressive. Now let’s just examine what we have here. What we have here is one terribly injured, just-about-destroyed young black woman. A black woman in her prime: the prime of her ability, the prime of her power to influence, the prime of her political awareness, the prime of her activism. Cut off and destroyed: mutilated; violated; her effectiveness obliterated. By one man. One
white
man. Whom she has now
positively
identified to you, the representative of the established power, the organization to whom a black woman must appeal. For justice, as you said. For justice. And here we sit, you and I, and your ‘main man’ here, my blond, blue-eyed friend, a paradigm of the American male.”

Coolly, Bobby Jones ducked his head and said, “Thank you, Dr. Morris. Very kind of you.”

“Yes, very kind of me, indeed.” His eyes slid back to mine. There was a tightening, tensing of the large muscles across his shoulders, a stiffening of his body. He softened his voice even more; a good, effective technique. Bobby and I did exactly what he intended for us to do. We strained to hear him.

“So here we sit. And the accused, whom Sanderalee Dawson has
positively
identified, whom she has pointed out to you as the man who assaulted her so viciously, where is he, Ms. Jacobi? Where is he?” Regg Morris looked all around the room. He lifted the corner of a folder from my desk; he ducked his head under the desk. “Is he here? Is he incarcerated somewhere? Is he locked up so that Sanderalee Dawson—and all women like her—are safe from his attack?”

“Dr. Morris, this is all very entertaining and dramatic, but it is all very premature. The reason I asked you here today was to brief you on where our investigation stands at this moment. And to elicit your cooperation so that nothing impedes or interferes with this investigation in any way. We are working toward the ends you want to serve: justice. We are doing it in our own way. Dr. David Cohen is under investigation. Now, all that I am going to tell you from here on is confidential. If you reveal anything you hear in this office, you might very well jeopardize a case we are working to build. I’m asking for your cooperation at this point. That’s why I asked you to come to my office this afternoon.”

We sat poised, watching each other. There are some situations where, to establish dominance, you force the other guy to make the first move, blink the first blink, lick the dry lip. There are other situations where you establish who’s in charge by taking the initiative: deciding to break the contest, deciding when it is to end. Games. Games. More of life’s little games.

I stood up and turned my back on Dr. Regg Morris and looked out toward the street. All I could see was a portion of the brick wall of the building next door: pale gray light; dampish. Two-three-four. Turn; smile; sit down; speak.

“Dr. Morris, you’ll agree that on the face of it, we have a rather delicate situation.”

A grudging nod; more an inclination of his head. An agreement to listen for a while.

“We
are,
I assure you, taking Ms. Dawson’s accusation very, very seriously. But you can understand that an accusation, without backup proof, without any solid physical evidence, is very fragile. I couldn’t even begin to think about taking this to a Grand Jury at this point. What we are doing—what my people are doing—is backtracking. We are researching into every aspect of the accused’s life that might shed some light on what kind of person he is. We know his public credentials. He is world-famous for the techniques he has developed in a very specialized field of surgery. We are looking for the other side of the coin: the unexpected side of the personality. Maybe he is a Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde. That would be one explanation.”

“And in the meantime? Where is this ... eminent ... healer?”

“He is pursuing his daily rounds: whatever that entails.”

I explained that provisions had been made to keep him from Sanderalee.

“Now, I want to ask you some questions that might help us in evaluating Sanderalee’s accusation.” Immediately, the tense, hostile, adversary expression; a raising of his chin, a squinting of his eyelids so that the black-light shone at me like twin beams. “When, what day, at about what time, did she first speak to you about Dr. Cohen? Under what circumstances?”

He spoke carefully in a measured manner. He had spent a night with her when she was in the ICU. Even before we had any idea that she was lucid for more than a minute or two at a time, she was confiding in Regg Morris.

“At first, she talked in disconnected sentences. She moved in and out of time. The very first words to me were ‘He’s here. The man who did this to me. He’s been in and out of this room.’ That was what terrified her; that was why she kept asking you to get me to her side.”

“All right. We are aware of the time lapses and the confusion. We’ll be dealing with that for weeks, to some degree or other. Now, at what point did she identify
Dr. Cohen?
What, exactly, as accurately as you can recall, did she say about him?”

“ ‘He did this to me. That man. The tall one with the thinning hair.’
That’s what she said. On the day she was moved from the ICU to her present room. She asked me who he was.”

“Who was he?” Bobby Jones repeated. “What did you tell her?” Regg Morris slid down low in his chair. His chin resting on his chest, he glanced slowly to his right and focused on Bobby Jones. “I told her I would find out and I did.”

“What did you find out? How did you check on him?”

A brief, unfriendly smile. “I have methods of gathering information, Ms. Jacobi. I am not without resources. I promised her she would be safe with Ms. Capella on guard. I checked out this ... doctor. And came back to Sanderalee and identified him to her.”

“What information did you give her?”

“His name. Where he lived. What his job was. What he had done for her ... once she was in the hospital.”

“And she said? When you told her the man is Dr. David Cohen, of such-and-such an address, et cetera?”

He didn’t bother to look toward Bobby Jones anymore. He directed his words to me.

“She said, ‘I’m pretty sure he’s the man who did this to me.’ ”

We both pounced on this. “She said, ‘I’m pretty sure’?”

“That’s what the lady said.
At that point.
‘I’m pretty sure.’ ”

Bobby caught my signal and leaned back. “And your reaction was?”

Regg Morris came up straight in his chair and glared at me. “And my reaction
was?
My reaction was,
girl,
I wanted to get that muthuhfucker and rip off his goddamn balls, that’s what my reaction was!” I let the silence build for a moment in the shattered air, then leaned forward and went for my deadly voice. It sounded like I meant business.

“Listen carefully. You call me
girl.
Then I’m gonna have to call you
boy.
And then there we’ll be: a
sexist
and a
racist,
sitting here wasting time. I don’t have time to waste, do you?”

His grin was swift and dazzling: a showing of perfectly shaped, neat white teeth. He shook his head at himself, sucked in his breath and raised his hands, palms turned out. A gesture.

“Mea culpa. Forgive me. I became carried away and slipped into the scene. I am very close to Sanderalee and I feel, to a very great extent, not only my anger but her pain. Answer to your question: my reaction was a feeling of tremendous anger. And some bewilderment. Not terribly different from your initial feeling. Your continuing feeling, possibly.”

“And what did Sanderalee tell you about her initial encounter with ... the man who attacked her?”

“That she was running and twisted her ankle. That he had apparently been running behind her and witnessed this. That he approached her at Columbus Circle; told her he was a doctor; offered to help with the ankle. Told her he knew how to manipulate it so that the injury wouldn’t cause swelling. Told her that sort of thing.”

“He told her he was a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“When did Sanderalee say that to you?
Before
or
after
you identified
Dr. David Cohen?”

Regg Morris shook his head from side to side and said, “Games again? All right. I’m not too clear of the sequence myself. She said; I said; she asked; I answered. This is
particularly
difficult for you, isn’t it, Ms. Jacobi?”

“What is particularly difficult for me, Dr. Morris?”

“He is the standard mother-in-law’s dream catch, isn’t he?” He hesitated and then decided to impress us a little. “Except I’m not too sure what his late wife’s mother might have to say about him, are you?”

“No, but I’m going to find out. And I warn you to back off and not interfere in our investigation.” He did a “hands off” gesture with his shoulders, shrugging, his hands open and empty. “Now, get back to what you said before. About it being
particularly difficult
for
me.
What does that mean?”

As if I didn’t know. I knew. Oh yeah. I knew where this was leading.

“The stereotype prize catch for the Jewish-American-Princess: the Jewish-American-Doctor. Not that you fit the former description, Ms. Jacobi. You’re not the princess type.”

“What does that mean?” Bobby Jones asked, getting lost somewhere along the line.

“You find Dr. David Cohen’s religion significant in some way? To
my
handling of this investigation?”

“Yes, I consider Dr. David Cohen’s religion significant. In
every
way. Given Sanderalee Dawson’s recent involvement with the destitute peoples of the Palestinian refugee camps. Yes, I find it significant that the man who
destroyed
her,
physically and possibly emotionally,
is a
Jew.”

“Did you mention to Sanderalee, when you provided her with background information, that Dr. Cohen was Jewish?”

Regg Morris smiled without pleasure. “It would hardly be necessary, would it? With a name like
David Cohen?
Would you find it necessary to mention the fact that I was
black
in introducing me to someone?”

“If he were
blind
and it was
relevant, yes.”
I shot it at him. It stopped him cold. He awarded me his broad, wonderfully warm smile and a nod of approval. I was quick, he gave me that much.

“And when you identified Dr. David Cohen for Sanderalee Dawson, did you make any suggestions to her? As to why this man might have taken it upon himself to assault her? Did you suggest any political motives? Did you suggest that he knew who she was and that the crime against her was not random, but calculated against
her, specifically,
for reasons other than what appear on the surface?”