False Witness (26 page)

“It’s all right, Lynne. I get this way sometimes. Tell Lucy ...” She stopped speaking and her eyes glazed over. She was having some kind of battle about Lucy. I sensed an anger: that Lucy had let her down. She blinked rapidly and then said, “Tell Lucy that I am
sorry
this happened to her. Really sorry. Tell her that ... tell Lucy that I can feel her pain.” She spoke very quickly and there was concern now in her voice. “You know, that’s what she said to me once and it’s very peculiar but I believed her and it helped. She shared my pain and made it easier, if that makes any sense.

“Listen, tell the nurse I want to go to sleep now,” she said abruptly. “I don’t want to talk about anything else. When it’s done and over, when you’ve gotten the indictment, come and tell me, okay?”

I promised that I would. The nurse came and Sanderalee settled in bed, her right arm extended for the injection that would free her from this moment.

I walked quickly from the room, was called back by the police officer who was established at the desk in the outer room of the suite. I had forgotten to sign out. She was young and pretty and she looked like a recruiting poster in her sharp, well-tailored navy blue uniform. She’d been assigned through Jim Barrow’s office since I had no people available for this kind of desk duty. I absently scanned the list of visitors: Sanderalee’s network friends; one or two familiar show business names.

“Is it true that all these people party it up here, Ms. Jacobi? I mean, we’ve heard all kinds of stories.”

Her fresh young face was hopeful.

“I hope you’ve got a good book to read.” It was nearly midnight. “What sort of tour have they got you on?”

“I’ve only been assigned; came on about eleven-thirty. We’re all on twelve-hour duty. Emergency overtime.” She looked around the pleasantly furnished, hotel-like room. “This beats the streets.”

I rode down in an elevator with a couple of cute, sleepy-looking young residents and couldn’t help wondering what they’d been up to: they reeked of formaldehyde. My head began to reel and I was grateful for the cold blast of air as I exited into the circular driveway at the main entrance of New York Hospital. My driver drove me down Fifth Avenue to my apartment building. He told me that the city seemed to be settling down. There were only sporadic bursts of violence, destruction and arson. The perpetrators now were being pounced on and dragged off.

It had gotten colder and started to rain and the rain was turning to sleet and the sleet was turning to snow, which was turning to ice on the streets. The sociologists and criminologists and all the other experts in mass behavior could put forth all their theories about the natural flow and movement of massive disorders and how to predict the severity and direction of mob behavior. I hold with the cop’s prayer: for a good rain storm or a good blast of cold weather. That generally winds things up in a hurry.

F
IRST, IT WAS JAMESON
Whitney Hale’s voice in my ear, the very tone—low pitched, soft, overly controlled—advising me of some terrible, if unknown, dereliction.

“My God, Lynne, how could you have allowed this to happen?”

“Allowed what to happen?” It could have been anything; my mind was blank. There was nothing specific for my guilt to focus on.

“You mean you haven’t seen the
New York Post?”
As he asked the question, the early edition of the
Post
was stuck under my face by one of my Squad people. I blinked, drew back, found my reading glasses.

Exclusive!

FIRST PHOTOS OF SANDERALEE’S INJURIES

More photos pg. 3 and centerfold

The featured front-page photograph was of Sanderalee Dawson in her hospital bed not long after her initial surgery. It was a very raw, clear and cruel picture: a closeup of her as she lay semiconscious and wounded, her beaten face distorted by swelling; her jaws wired into place; her lower mouth with totally exposed gums, broken teeth and ripped flesh giving her face the appearance of a fright mask.

Inserted into the corner of this page-sized photo was a small, cleanly printed reproduction of Sanderalee at her most
Vogue
beautiful: an Alan Greco photo. Beneath the large photograph were the words
“DO THE POLICE KNOW WHO DID THIS?
Yes, says Dr. Regg Morris, friend and mentor of Sanderalee. They know
exactly
who did this. He charges that the D.A.’s office is sitting on the case for political and/or racial/religious reasons. Pg. 3.”

There were indeed more pictures on page three and in the centerfold. Directly from the camera of good friend and mentor Regg Morris.

As soon as the D.A. rang off, Jim Barrow’s telephone voice was booming with self-righteousness and accusation. “Lynne, how the hell did
you
let this happen? How the hell did
you
slip up like that?”

Thank you, Chief of Detectives Jim Barrow, but as long as you’re on the line: “Jim, who have you got over there with Sanderalee right now? Any chance we can keep her from seeing this paper?”

Which was why he was calling in the first place. There was trouble at the hospital. There had been a disturbance of rather serious proportions.

No one had instructed the police personnel on duty, specifically the young officer subbing for injured St. Lucy of Assisi, that Regg Morris was to be judiciously and diplomatically discouraged from visiting with Ms. Dawson.

“He arrived at about nine-thirty, I guess to prepare her for the pictures in the newspaper. The girl, I mean the policewoman, police
officer
on duty says Regg just signed in, same as any other visitor is required. She heard them arguing, she thought. She checked it out and Sanderalee herself said everything was okay, they were just having a ‘discussion.’ Morris stayed for about an hour all told and then some twenty minutes after he left, a nurse went to check on Sanderalee routinely, and ...”

And apparently her good friend, Regg Morris, had prepared Sanderalee for the newspaper photographs. Maybe he even thoughtfully brought along an early edition for her to see. Maybe he even explained to her
why
he had done such an awful thing to the lady he alleged to love so dearly.

The nurse found Sanderalee lying on the floor, in a coma, which was the natural result of her having ingested a collection of Demerols, Valiums, Tuinals, Quaaludes, aspirins and—for good measure—cold tablets. Belted down with a swig of Scotch, which had been stored in a large-sized My Sin bottle.

It was no great mystery as to how Sanderalee had come by all these goodies. Her steady stream of “cleared visitors,” good-wishers all, in lieu of candy, which is fattening and we all know that sugar-is-poison, provided the lady with whatever she might like to have on hand in case needed to face a long and scary night. In addition to the lightweight stuff that the hospital people dispensed with such measured caution.

“What’s her condition as of right now?”

“Well, thanks to the timing, she was caught almost before any of that junk was effective. There is one serious complication, however. When she fell from the bed, she injured her reattached hand. Might have to go back into surgery. And her state of mind is not exactly what you’d like it to be. That Chinee-shrink was being paged, last I heard. Jeez, Lynne, she should have been placed in protective custody as a material witness long before this.”

Jeez, Lynne,
why did you allow this to happen?

“Just hold it, Jimbo. This was the first fucking night that Lucy Capella wasn’t around. Why the hell did
your
people allow that fucking-a bastard Regg Morris in to see her?”

“There’s no need to curse, Lynne.”

He meant it. Goddamn it, he meant it. Ole Jim Barrow going soppy on me.

“As a matter of fact, Chief Barrow, I am waiting for a signed court order to the effect that Sanderalee is to be held in just such custody. Probably within an hour it will take effect. It is just unfortunate that
your people
weren’t
properly
briefed.”

“I would have assumed there were standing instructions.”

“Blast off, will you, Jim. I have some problems of my own. I really can’t get involved with your lax and problematic chain of command.
You
find the
weak spot yourself.”

I cursed softly
after
I hung up. I wasn’t looking for trouble. I had enough as it was.

Lucy Capella had suggested the protective custody some time ago; with Lucy on the job, it hadn’t been necessary. The first time she’s out: bingo. Fiasco.

“Ms. Jacobi there?” Interesting lilt; Dr. Chan.

“I have just visited with Sanderalee Dawson. She is in a very bad way. She really blew her mind with all that garbage. However, I’m not too sure how much of her behavior at this point is for real, how much is to get what she wants.”

“Which is?”

“Lucy Capella. She’s insisting that Lucy come and see her. She refuses to sign the required consent papers for the surgery that seems indicated on her hand.”

I tried. No reason why Lucy couldn’t convalesce and work at the same time. We could set her up in a bed in the adjoining sitting room and Sanderalee could stagger in and give Lucy her troubles and Lucy could yank on her various pulleys and give a kind and sympathetic ear. Why not? Because Lucy Capella was undergoing surgery on her broken leg and was not in very good condition to listen to anyone else’s problems just now.

I had assigned one of our young law-student interns to field telephone calls: several from very angry and irate reporters who thought “we had some sort of understanding with Lynne. Then she lets some jerk of a photographer in right after the beating and now still wants to keep Sanderalee under wraps. What the hell’s going on?” The intern, Jeffrey Perfect or something, was a speedwriting expert and not only took down complaints verbatim, he swiftly typed them up and delivered them to me in record time.

Bobby Jones appeared and had two things to tell me.

“First, the protective custody order is signed, sealed and delivered. I’ve sent Carlson and Kennedy to the hospital to set it up quietly and confidentially with the hospital administrator. The plan is to move Sanderalee out of her room late tonight, when we won’t attract any attention. There are so many wings and sections in that hospital that a person could totally disappear without a trace. Until then, Kennedy will stand by: no visitors, except authorized medical people, unless cleared by either you or me.”

Bobby delivered his information smoothly, professionally, and impersonally: good soldier reporting in. We both avoided direct, prolonged eye contact but in a fleeting glance, I could see the tight control, the contained anger and calculation shining from his blue eyes.

“Very good, Bobby,” I told him. Even to myself, I sounded patronizing. He was in no mood for a pat on the head.

“Second thing,” he told me sharply, “Regg Morris caught the early morning Concorde flight from Kennedy to Paris. France. For a meeting with some very heavy money men from a mysterious country where the main problem is getting street vendors to cash thousand-dollar bills.”

“Run that by me again, Bobby.
What?”

“Regg is fronting for some oil sheiks. Who have just purchased a five-hundred-acre estate in northern Westchester County under the name of ‘The Wisdom of Allah School of Greater Nations.’ Incorporated. President and General Director, the Honorable Dr. Regg Morris. A cash deal, Lynne. Allegedly for setting up a country version of his city brownstone private school. The IRS is on this and I’ve established a liaison with a couple of other federal people. There’s going to be all kinds of tax evasion schemes—
i.e.,
that this is a religious enterprise. It’s a little fringy for us. But I thought you’d like to know how Allah rewards his favorite loud-mouth troublemakers.”

“I’ll think about all of that later. Tomorrow. Or on Saturday when there’s nothing on TV but cartoons.” It was really too much and too unexpected to fit into anything that was happening at my office at the moment.

A call from Mr. Whitney Hale; fielded, as instructed, by Jeffrey Speedwriter: Ms. Jacobi just left the office, sir. Good boy, Jeffrey.

Dr. Chan: “Lynne, Sanderalee is really messed up. She must have corrective surgery on her hand almost immediately. It’s quite urgent. There was some terribly serious damage done when she fell.”

“Dr. Chan, I am sorry but surgery is not among my many skills. The only recommendation I can make is
don’t
call
Dr. David Cohen.”

“Lynne, the problem is that Sanderalee absolutely refuses to sign the release for surgery until she talks to someone. I’ve suggested she talk to you, but no dice. And she won’t talk to me, so where do we go? Positively no chance for Lucy?”

No chance. At all. Brief conference with Bobby Jones.

“Dr. Chan, ask her if she’d talk to Alan Greco and get back to me.”

Two more phone calls and then Dr. Chan.

“Okay on Alan Greco.”

I sent Bobby Jones out to find Alan and bring him to Sanderalee so that she would then consent to the surgery needed to save her hated left hand.

Throughout the past two weeks, other concerns had been crossing my desk. I had Squad members working on various cases and I took a few hours’ vacation from Sanderalee Dawson, Regg Morris, David Cohen et al. for briefings and updatings on several pending sex/violence cases. There had been the matter of serious assaults on several homosexuals in a gay bar by on-the-town thugs whose hometown families described them as good boys; good baseball players; one wonderful potential professional hockey player whose arrest might jeopardize the poor kid’s entire future. There were depositions from nearly an entire town as to the healthy, happy family backgrounds, the good citizenship displayed in the home suburban community, the leadership qualities of a couple of the eighteen-year-olds; past membership in Boy Scouts; industrious contributions to community fund-raising events where some of them displayed their skill with basketballs or their strength and dedication by the hard physical labor contributed.

Nowhere, in any of the statements, was the alleged crime referred to: six young men, aged seventeen to twenty, had taken the time, trouble, effort and skill required to carefully stud baseball bats with heavy nails at the hitting ends; had taped the narrow ends for a good grip. They had boarded their local bus to big bad New York City; drifted around while searching for their targets; invaded a pleasant, low-key, social-type gay bar whose regulars were local shop owners, antique dealers, artists, actors: definitely non-violence-prone tax-paying citizens.