Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel (11 page)

“Lying? You’re accusing me of lying? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know what I saw. Hitchins never had a chance to resist arrest because your guys threw the first punch. And after he was handcuffed—well, do I really have to go into details here? You and I both know what happened.”

“And what’s that, Counselor? What exactly do you believe you saw yesterday outside O’Toole’s?”

“Your buddy Carl used Hitchins as a punching bag after he was handcuffed and smacked him in the side of his head with a pistol grip.”

For a moment, O’Brien didn’t respond, and then he asked, “And tell me, Counselor, who owned that little Saturday night special? The one Carl—excuse me, Detective Carl Jones—allegedly used to hit poor Rudy Hitchins in the head after he was cuffed?”

“It was his. You took it away from him.”

In one of the coldest voices that I’ve ever heard, O’Brien said, “That’s right. Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job.”

Without raising my voice, I replied, “Don’t you tell me how to do my job, either. I’m going to try the assault charge but I’m not going to file these new charges because they aren’t true.”

“Not true? I know three White Plains police officers who will each testify that Rudy Hitchins attacked first. They’ll also testify that no one put a finger on him after he was handcuffed. Not one finger. You might want to think about that. You also might want to think about whose side you’re on here.”

It was his final sentence that stung the most. Although O’Brien was twice my age and had years of experience on the street, I was not going to have him lecture me. “I know whose side I’m on. Listen, I became an assistant district attorney to prosecute criminals. I’ll work harder than anyone in this office to get a conviction. But I’m not closing my eyes for you or anyone else just because you’re a cop. I don’t work that way. You give me a good case and I’ll try the hell out of it and protect your back eight days a week. But I don’t go for what I saw yesterday. I don’t lie for anyone. You think I’m giving Rudy Hitchins a pass here but you’re wrong. I’m giving your friend Carl a pass. The real question is why did you put me in this position? Whose side are you on, Detective?”

O’Brien slammed down the receiver.

Well, I thought, at least I took Mom’s advice. O’Brien definitely knew how I felt. I’d drawn a line.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“District Attorney Carlton Whitaker III would like to speak to you,” Hillary Potts announced, summoning me to his office.

As I made my way, I tried to predict what might be happening. I couldn’t imagine O’Brien had stormed over from the White Plains police station in person to complain. First of all, the district attorney would never have met directly with the detective because both of them would have been usurping the bureaucratic chain of command. O’Brien would first need to complain to his direct supervisor, who then would talk to the chief of police, who then would decide if he wanted to complain to the district attorney. The chief and D.A. were bureaucratic equals.

I wondered if O’Brien had been so angry that he’d orchestrated all this in a mere fifteen minutes.

A queasy feeling began churning in my stomach. I’m generally not the nervous type but I sensed this was not going to be a pleasant encounter.

Hillary Potts looked stern, as always, when I arrived. She motioned toward a chair and said, “Let me see if he’s available.” She called him on her intercom and then quietly opened one of the doors for me to enter his office, saying, “The district attorney will see you now.”

I expected to be greeted by an angry Whitaker, but the D.A. was all smiles when I entered his cavernous chamber. I gave the room a quick once-over, half expecting to see O’Brien and the police chief, but the only other person in the room was Paul Pisani.

Damn, I thought. Does this guy ever do anything else but hang out in the boss’s office?

As soon as Miss Potts shut the door behind me, Whitaker said, “Take a seat, Miss Fox, and tell us how the Rudy Hitchins prosecution is going.”

Was Whitaker playing dumb? If he was, so would I.

Trying to appear relaxed, I said, “Actually, sir, it’s going really well. I just interviewed Mary Margaret and she’ll make a great witness.”

“Good, glad to hear it. Now, what the hell is this nonsense about you not filing additional charges against Hitchins after he resisted arrest and assaulted White Plains police officers?” His smile was gone. His voice had turned ugly.

Wow, I thought, O’Brien really had pulled strings.

“Sir, I don’t believe we need these new charges to successfully prosecute Rudy Hitchins for first-degree assault.”

“Oh,” he said in a mocking voice. “Miss Dani Fox, who has never officially tried a criminal case in Westchester County, has decided that it’s perfectly okay to resist arrest and assault White Plains police officers now. She’s decided that those charges don’t matter because she’s already charged this suspect with beating up his girlfriend and that’s enough.”

Without giving me a chance to explain, Whitaker continued: “You realize the police are on
our
side, don’t you, Miss Fox? You understand that when a criminal resists arrest and assaults an officer, the police really don’t like that. And when a prosecutor decides to blow off those charges, it doesn’t sit well with the officers who were in danger or with the chief of police. You do understand that, right?”

He was lecturing me much like a kindergarten teacher speaking to a five-year-old. Once again, Whitaker didn’t let me answer. “Now, Miss Fox, I realize how eager you are to go to trial on this case, but let me give you a quick lesson on how justice works here in Westchester County and in every other prosecutor’s office in our glorious nation—just in case you missed this crucial bit of illumination in Albany Law School. The police charge a suspect with as many serious felonies as possible each and every time they make an arrest. A prosecutor then uses those charges as leverage to negotiate the best plea bargain for the public good. This avoids wasting taxpayers’ hard-earned money on frivolous and expensive trials and also eliminates the chances of a jury of complete fools releasing someone to the streets who needs to be locked up.” He paused, apparently to give me time for this to soak in, and then said in a ridiculing voice, “
Am I making this simple enough for you, my dear?
”

My dear? Who did he think he was, my mother? I really was going to have to find a coffee mug with the word PRICK printed on it. Keeping my temper in check, I replied, “Yes, you are.”

With his voice still dripping with sarcasm, Whitaker said, “Well then, Miss Fox, perhaps you can explain to me why I just got a call from a very angry White Plains chief of police telling me that you are being a real—” Whitaker caught himself midsentence and said, “How can I put this more delicately?”

He glanced at Pisani, who was clearly enjoying my dressing-down.

“Perhaps you can substitute the word ‘witch,’” Pisani volunteered.

Whitaker nodded. “Let’s just say, the chief of police feels you are showing a certain lack of esprit de corps.”

“Sir, I was standing there when they arrested Rudy Hitchins. I saw what happened.”

I hoped my reply would be enough for Whitaker to understand why I didn’t want to move forward on the extra counts. I was trying to warn him that O’Brien hadn’t told his boss the real story and that his boss hadn’t told the police chief the entire truth about what really had gone down outside O’Toole’s. I hoped my admission—that I had been there when Hitchins had been arrested—would be enough for Whitaker to read between the lines. But judging from the expression on his face, Whitaker was used to reading unlined paper.

He said, “If you were at the scene, then you realize how serious these charges are and why the White Plains police are furious and want them filed against Mr. Hitchins.”

Okay, I thought, I’m going to throw out another bone. “Sir, as I just mentioned, I was there. I saw what happened and I would not ever want to be in a position in court where our office might be embarrassed.” I paused and said, “
How can I put this more delicately?
Let’s just say ‘questionable criminal charges.’”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pisani smirk. He apparently found my response entertaining.

This time Whitaker got it. Being a politician first and district attorney second, his survival instincts kicked in. He understood that I was warning him. Something had happened during the arrest that he really didn’t need to know and didn’t want to know, especially if it could come back and bite him later on the campaign trail.

The district attorney leaned back and thought about what I’d just hinted. After a moment, he said, “Miss Fox, why are you making this so difficult? It doesn’t need to be. It’s the police who will be describing what happened on the witness stand if they get called to testify. And if the defendant claims he was the victim of, let’s say, alleged police misconduct, then it would be up to a jury to decide who’s lying. It has nothing to do with you.”

His comment surprised me. “Sir, I realize the easiest thing for our office to do is to charge Rudy Hitchins with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. It would make the police happy and the additional charges would give us more legal pressure to apply. I’m sure we could then plea-bargain this matter. We would win. But as an officer of the court, I cannot in good conscience file those charges.”

“Your good conscience?” Whitaker howled in a condescending voice. “What the hell did they teach you at Albany Law? I don’t give a rat’s ass about your conscience. No one does. You’re a prosecutor—an assistant district attorney—not a priest. Just do your job and park your conscience outside the courtroom door. Do you think the attorney defending Rudy Hitchins has trouble sleeping at night because he knows his client is guilty of turning his girlfriend’s face into a meatball? Your job is simple here, Miss Fox. You bring bad people to justice. The cops arrest them and bring them to us. We prosecute them. If they don’t want to plea-bargain, then a judge or jury decides their fate. None of this should have anything to do with your conscience.”

“With all due respect, sir, I disagree. I believe my conscience does matter in a courtroom. It matters a great deal.”

At this point, Pisani decided to interject himself into our conversation. “Ms. Fox, I’m curious. Why do you believe your conscience matters?”

“Because my conscience is why I became a prosecutor. And I don’t plan on checking it at the door when I go in to a trial.”

Pisani, who apparently felt this was amusing, said, “Can you elaborate on that, Ms. Fox? I’d like to hear more and I’m sure District Attorney Whitaker would as well.”

He was baiting me and I realized I was going toe-to-toe with both of them. How smart was that, especially since Whitaker could fire me on the spot?

“I think of this office as a moral battleground. I believe there is a war being waged here between good and evil every day. We are the good guys. Our job is to protect the victims and make certain that the victims—not the criminals—have their day in court.”

“Interesting,” Pisani said. “A battle between good and evil. I find that very noble. And romantic. Please continue. I’m actually getting excited.”

“No one asks to be a victim,” I said. “No one asks to be preyed upon. A woman could be going about her normal routine when bang, like a thunderbolt, a criminal wreaks havoc. She comes to us for help. That’s our job. Helping those who have been victimized. But we don’t do our jobs by getting down in the gutter and acting like the very people we are putting on trial. We do what it takes to convict them, but we do it by upholding the sanctity of the law, not with dirty tricks, fists, and billy clubs. We don’t do it by accusing people of crimes that they did not commit, no matter how horrible those criminals are.”

Pisani slowly began clapping. He was ridiculing me. “Ms. Fox, you told me that I was your mentor. So let me give you some mentoring advice. This courtroom is not a battlefield. It’s a back-alley street fight. We do not compete on a level playing field. Our glorious U.S. Supreme Court under Justice Earl Warren gave the criminal an upper hand, an unfair advantage—a knife when we must fight with only our bare hands. To counter that, we should use every advantage we have to win.”

Pisani continued, “Because of your inexperience and naïveté, there is a practical matter that you’re overlooking here. The moment Hitchins’s defense attorney discovers our office is not going to pursue these new counts against his client, he is going to wonder why. It is not unusual for our office to file additional charges after someone is arrested. But to drop charges of resisting arrest and assault on a police officer is a clear sign of dissension within the ranks. It’s a sign of weakness and he is going to exploit that fracture if he can.”

I knew Pisani had faced hundreds of defense attorneys. He’d prosecuted hundreds of scumbags like Hitchins. By contrast, I’d tried thirteen cases in night court.

“A good defense attorney,” Pisani said, “is going to accuse the cops of beating up his client. He’s going to find a way to tell jurors that you refused to file charges because you knew what the cops did was wrong. He’s going to make the police look like vigilantes with badges and he’s going to cast a shadow over this office. If you don’t file these charges, it’s possible that you’re going to hand a defense attorney and his dirt-ball client the reasonable doubt that he needs to get Rudy Hitchins off. Because unlike you, a defense attorney has no conscience. Absolutely none. In fact, it is his legal duty to prepare a logical defense and what that translates into is that a good defense attorney is going to make up any fiction that he wishes—anything, no matter how ridiculous—to sway a jury. If he believes telling jurors that aliens came down in a spaceship and little green men jumped out and beat Mary Margaret, then, by God, that’s what he’ll tell the jury. Are you prepared for that? Are you prepared to look Mary Margaret Finn in the eyes and tell her that you blew it because of your conscience? Are you willing to let Rudy Hitchins go free, when this office could have charged him with not just beating her up but a half-dozen other felony charges?”