Killer Heat (9 page)

We know that DNA is good science,“ I told the jurors the next
morning. ”It works when it exonerates the innocent, and it works
just as well when it points a finger directly and reliably to
those who are guilty.

“You could fill the 56,546 seats at Yankee Stadium every day for
the next fifty thousand years,” I said, speaking to the majority
of jurors who had listed themselves as baseball fans, “and the
possibility simply doesn't exist that you will find another human
being who could be linked to the seminal stain that Floyd Warren
left behind the night he raped Kerry Hastings.”

Just in my time in the practice of law, science had changed the
way sexual assaults were being tried. That was not true for the
victims of acquaintance rape or domestic violence, who were still
subjected to rigorous crosses about their relationships with the
alleged abusers and the degree to which they had consented to some
kind of sexual encounter.

But in cases of stranger rape, victims had historically been
vulnerable to defenses of mistaken identification. DNA took that
issue completely out of the line of attack.

The crime that had condemned Kerry Hastings to self-doubt for
thirty-five years had been retried in a day and a half.

I was grateful that none of the Latin Princes had appeared in
the courtroom this morning. I was hoping that no juror had been
affected by the chanting gang member who had screamed out that I
was a liar. Judge Lamont took the jury through the legal
definitions of firstdegree rape and sodomy. I could recite those
lines as easily as a three year-old could sing the alphabet.

“The penal law defines dangerous instrument as follows: any
instrument-like a knife-under the circumstances in which it is to
be used, attempts to be used or threatens to be used, is readily
capable of causing death or other serious physical injury.”

I watched the jurors absorb the information. How had I missed
the nut-a well-educated housewife and mother-who had hung one of
my cases two years earlier because the victim had not been stabbed
by the knife-wielding rapist? Using a knife, she had argued to her
eleven frustrated colleagues, didn't mean just holding it against
someone's neck. If the defendant had wanted to use it, he
would have killed the woman against whose throat he had held the
blade.

The charge went on for more than an hour. Often, at this point
in the trial, I used my legal pad to make lists of the groceries I
had run out of during prolonged litigation or the names of friends
whose calls I'd neglected because of the intensity of the
case.

Today, glancing up from time to time to try to read the
expressions on the jurors' faces, I was charting the
similarities-and the distinctions-in the circumstances of the
deaths of Amber Bristol and Elise Huff.

"You have the obligation to deliberate, ladies and gentlemen,
and to attempt to reach a verdict that will be fair, both to the
people of this state and to the defendant, a verdict that will
reflect the truth based on the evidence in this case that you
believe and on the law as I charged it, whether you agree with
that law or not.

“Now, Ms. Cooper and Mr. Grassley, will you approach the
bench?”

Several jurors stared at Floyd Warren as he shifted his chair to
face them. He tapped his pencil on the table and then again
started picking at his front teeth with the lead point. If they
were trying to discern what had driven this man, who had never
opened his mouth to speak throughout the trial, to commit such a
brutal crime, they would have to do a lot more than consider his
now benign appearance. “Any exceptions to the charge? Any
requests?”

Each of us answered, “No.”

“Then I'll send them inside to begin. Their sandwiches have
already been delivered, so they'll start out with lunch,” Lamont
said. “This could be a quick one. You both in the building this
afternoon?”

Gene Grassley and I nodded and stepped back to our places.

“That concludes all our business, ladies and gentlemen. You will
now retire to begin your deliberations.”

We waited until the twelve jurors were excused and the judge
asked the four alternates to wait in the witness room. “I'll see
you both later,”

Lamont said as he dismissed us.

“Locking up?” I asked Louie Larsen. “Yep. You can leave your
files. Mercer's in the hallway to take you downstairs.”

“None of my amigos lurking today?”

“Three of them showed up in the middle of Gene's argument,”

Louie said, shrugging his shoulders. “I didn't have the
personnel to do any manual searches, and they're the jerks that
broke the machine, so I told 'em they'd just have to wait. Guess
that didn't suit them.”

“You get that group ID'd yesterday?”

“Only the ringleader, the kid we locked up. The others ran too
fast. I gave Mercer the information about Ernesto Abreu.”

“Priors?” I said, opening the courtroom door.

“Drugs, drugs, and more drugs. Felony arrests all knocked down
to misdemeanors.”

“How'd it go?” Mercer asked. “You got a slam dunk this
time?”

“Fingers crossed. Don't jinx me.”

“Kerry's in the conference room. She wanted to be here this
afternoon, to wait out the verdict with us.”

“I like that. Have you spoken with Mike today?”

“Yeah. He's home, waiting on the results of the Huff autopsy.”
The phone was ringing as I stopped at Laura's desk for my messages.
“Hold on,” she said. “Alex has just come in. Let me ask her.”

“Who's that?”

“It's Ed, the intake supervisor from the Witness Aid Unit,” she
said to me, holding the receiver aside. “A young woman tried to
get in to see you this morning. Lobby security knew you were in
trial and sent her around to them to see if they could offer her
some counseling.”

“Why does she want me?”

Laura started to repeat the question but the person on the other
end had obviously heard what I asked. “Ed's telling me she wants
to report a rape. That the advocate at St. Luke's told her to ask
for you specifically, because she's ambivalent about going forward
and they want you to encourage her. Doesn't want her parents to
know, so you'll have to explain the realities of a
prosecution.”

“Can it hold for another day?”

Ed was talking to Laura, who repeated to me what she
learned.

“Yeah, that's fine. She's been examined and all. Wants answers
about what's involved before she makes her decision about pressing
charges.”

“You're the keeper of my book this week. What have I got?” The
only thing I knew for certain was that Friday evening-the next
day-the new guy I had met a couple of months ago was coming to
town and I was determined to make time for dinner with him. Laura
had my appointment book open in front of her.

“For tomorrow, there's still a big question mark next to Floyd
Warren's name. I guess that's in case the jury's still out. Then
you've got it highlighted from eight to four, if the trial's over.
Says you're accompanying Mike to the range. Rodman's Neck.”

“I can put that off.” The notation referred to the NYPD's
shooting range, where officers were required to go twice a year to
qualify with their handguns.

“Not again,” Mercer said. "You made a solemn promise,
Alexandra.

Joe Berk and his cronies almost put your lights out. Mike
insisted he'd teach you how to use a gun at the end of that case
and I do believe I heard you say 'amen.' "

“Just a minute,” Laura said to Ed, the social worker who was
trying to book the date. “We're just checking Alex's availability.
Let's try for next week. Can it wait until Monday, at eleven? And
why don't you tell me the young lady's name?”

“I hate guns,” I said to Mercer. “You know that.”

Laura was penciling in the appointment. “Clarita Munoz. That's
confirmed. You'll send up the paperwork and her contact
information, Ed? Thanks a lot.”

“You're around guns too much not to know what to do with
one,”

Mercer said as I opened the door and went to my desk.

The red light on my telephone hot line-the intercom that linked
the district attorney directly to my desk-was flashing as I walked
in the room.

“Paul?”

“What the hell went on between you and Herb Ackerman?”

“I had no time to tell you. You weren't in yet when I went up to
court this morning.”

“Come on over right now,” Battaglia said. “I need to know what
he's got to be so sorry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's the note he left. 'Sorry for everything.' Herb Ackerman
walked out your door, went up to his office at the Trib,
and swallowed a bottle of pills. I didn't tell you to kill the
man, Alex, did I?”

Madam Forelady,“ Judge Lamont asked at 5:22 p.m., after waiting
for Gene Grassley and me to arrive back in the courtroom, ”has the
jury agreed upon a verdict?

“Yes, sir, we have.”

“Please rise, then, while my clerk records it.”

The jurors had filed in like a prosecution panel. None of them
were smiling and none attempted any eye contact with the defendant.
I stared straight ahead, my heart pounding as the first juror rose
to deliver the news

How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with robbery in the
first degree?"

“Guilty.” Her voice was strong and clear.

Off to my right, Warren moved his chair closer to Gene Grassley
and mumbled something.

“How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with rape in the first
degree?”

“Guilty,” she said, even louder this time.

“Bullshit.” I could hear Warren clearly now, and so did the two
court officers standing behind him. Each took a step closer in.

For Kerry Hastings, who had never expected to see it, there
would be some belated satisfaction. Floyd Warren would spend the
rest of his life in prison.

The word guilty was repeated again and again. Sodomy,
robbery, possession of a dangerous instrument-they had convicted
him of every count in the indictment.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, hearken to your verdict as it
stands recorded,” the clerk said, continuing the official business
of the trial.

Lamont made short work of thanking the jurors and dismissing
them. He wanted the defendant put back in the holding pen as
quickly as possible. Tomorrow, they would all read newspaper
stories reporting the conviction and the links to more than fifty
other brutal crimes from this city south to his adopted home in
Georgia.

“I'm going to suggest to you, Gene, that we put this matter on
the calendar for Monday,” Lamont said.

It was the practice to have three to four weeks between the
verdict and the sentencing. “I've got more than enough to work
from, and I'm not going to ask Ms. Hastings to make another trip
cross-country to present her impact statement. Ms. Cooper says her
witness is willing to stay for the weekend and get this whole thing
behind her. You going to fight me on this?”

“I hear you, Judge. That's fine.”

Floyd Warren pounded his fist on the table.

“I'll take your motions then. If there's nothing further,”
Lamont said, “we stand adjourned.”

I didn't break a smile until Mercer came into the courtroom and
embraced me. “This one must feel good,” he said.

“Especially sweet when you tally up the years and the number of
victims. I want you to be the one to tell Kerry.”

He helped me pile my case folders and trial exhibits onto the
shopping cart and wheeled it off to the elevators. “We'll do it
together.”

“Did you get an update from Mike on Herb Ackerman?”

“He'll live. They pumped his stomach at Roosevelt Hospital. His
shrink told Mike it's the classic 'cry for help.' We should be able
to see him in twenty-four hours. Don't let Battaglia's
finger-pointing get to you. Take your victory lap tonight.”

Kerry Hastings was waiting for us at the elevator bank when the
doors opened. She reached out to put her arms around Mercer's neck
when he gave her a thumbs-up, crying as she buried her head against
his chest.

“Let it out,” Mercer said. “You've had all that emotion bottled
up for way too long.”

“I may actually sleep through the night. You two have given me
that privilege again.” Kerry Hastings was sniffling, still, but she
was smiling through her tears. “I know there used to be a tradition
here, Alex. I never got a chance to participate in it the first
time around.”

“What's that?”

“There was a little restaurant behind the courthouse. The cops
said if we got a conviction, we'd all go there to celebrate. Does
it still exist?”

“Forlini's. It was just a little hole in the wall back then,” I
said. “You bet it's still the best place in town to celebrate.”

Every DA in the office and every cop who'd ever testified at a
trial had lifted glasses after victories, drowned their sorrows
when bad guys beat the rap, and awaited verdicts late into the
night at the restaurant that had been run by four generations of
Forlinis since it was first established opposite the detention
center known as the Tombs.

“Only if I can buy the drinks,” Hastings said.

“By the time we cross the street and walk in that bar,” Mercer
said, “the whole Sex Crimes Unit will be waiting for Alex. They'll
be drinking to you whether we show up or not, Kerry. That's a tab
you don't want.”

Laura had been fielding calls from my friends in the unit most
of the day. Catherine Dashfer and Marisa Bourgis, Ryan Blackmer and
Evan Krupin, Sarah Brenner and Nan Toth-one of the perks of
Battaglia's office that outweighed the low salaries was the
intensity of the camaraderie. These lawyers had seen me through the
darkest hours of my career and were always available to cheer for
one another when the guys in the white hats won a round.

It was almost six thirty by the time I closed up my office and
took the short walk to Forlini's with Kerry, Mercer, and Laura.

We walked in the main door to the restaurant, but I could hear
the crowd in the bar as soon as we entered. Mercer led Kerry past
the jukebox and into the back room, jammed with regulars who
stopped in most days for a cocktail on their way home, as well as
with the people waiting for us.

When Ryan saw Mercer he started to cheer, and most people who
recognized the popular detective joined in with applause. He got
our drinks, rapped on the bar to quiet everyone, and held up his
glass to clink against both of ours. “To Kerry Hastings-for your
courage. And your patience.”

She was overwhelmed by the reception, pleased to take her place
on a stool and be congratulated by prosecutors and cops, most of
whom were too young to fully comprehend the enormity of her
triumph.

Mercer and I were making dinner plans with Hastings when the
bartender handed me the portable phone.

“I tried your cell,” Mike said. “You probably can't hear it over
the noise of all those ice cubes knocking around in your glass.
Nice job, Blondie.”

“This was a good win. You want to meet up with us?”

“I'm working. I just asked Dempsey to turn on the TV for you.
You're in for twenty bucks.”

“Mike, forget it. We'll do it another time.” I looked up at the
small screen mounted on the wall above the end of the bar. The
Final Jeopardy answer was about to be posted.

“I gave you a pass last night. What's your bet?”

“Tonight,” Trebek said, “the category is 'Leading Ladies.'
'Leading Ladies.' ”

“Double or nothing,” Mike said. If he wasn't reading treatises
on military history in his downtime, he was watching old
movies.

“You're on.”

“Put your money on the bar where Mercer can see it.”

I took two twenties out of my pocket as I explained to Mercer
what the call was about and pointed at the screen. Both he and
Kerry laughed and put up forty dollars each.

Just as we saw the printed statement against the bright blue
square of the game board, Trebek read it aloud. “Hernando
Cortés proclaimed that God and this woman were responsible for
the Spanish conquest of Mexico.”

Mercer and I shook our heads, while the bartender interpreted
the cash on the bar as a request for another round of drinks and
served us a refill.

“How misleading is that?” Mike said. “They're not talking about
a film.”

“I thought you knew every bit of history from the conquistadores
to the Alamo.”

Kerry Hastings offered a question, just as the three contestants
were chided for their faulty guesses. “Who is La
Malinche?”

“What'd she say?” Mike asked.

“The correct question is, 'Who is Doña Marina or, as the
Aztecs called her, the traitorous La Malinche?' That's
right, the young woman given to Cortés as a slave, who became
his mistress and helped with his conquest of Mexico. She's very
controversial, folks, but an important figure in history.”

Mercer handed Kerry Hastings the money. “We'll get the rest of
the pot from Mike.”

“I read all I could find about strong women who overcame
adversities when I was trying to grope my way out of the dark,” she
said. “Cortés' mistress was one of them. She was called a
harlot, too.”

“What do you say to dinner, Mike? I've got to get off the
phone.”

“I hope you don't think the only reason I called is to keep you
up to speed on your trivia. Dinner is you and me, kid. I'll buy
whatever you want from the vending machines in the Twentieth
Precinct. Looks like you messed up another interview.”

“Thanks for letting me have a couple of hours to relish my
verdict. What now?”

“I'm trying to broker a peace. I've got Elise Huff's father
here,” he said. “And her best friend.”

“Barbara Gould? Mr. Huff's known her forever. She told me
they're very close.”

"Maybe they were-until she lied to you last week, Coop. You'd
better get up here right now and straighten this mess out.