The Kills (8 page)

I looked
up at Mike. "Maybe you could shut my door. There's a screamer on her way
upstairs. Tiffany's mother just blasted past the guard's desk when they tried
to stop her at the metal detector."

"I
had a pet water buffalo once had a better disposition than Mrs. Gatts. He was
smaller than she is, too." Mike walked toward the door but he was a few
seconds too late.

All 280
pounds of Etta Gatts blocked the doorway of my office.

"Where
do I find Alexander Cooper? Where is he?"

The three
of us spoke at once. As I identified myself to her and corrected my name, Mike
was saying that he wasn't here just now, and Mercer was doing his best to step
between the woman and me to diffuse the situation, telling her to calm down and
back off.

"Where
you got my baby at?" She was breathing fire.

I hadn't
even asked Mike that question. I assumed they had the sixteen-year-old in
custody, but I didn't know for what.

"Take
it easy, Mrs. Gatts," Mercer said, towering over the large woman. He
explained to her how important it was to stay quiet so she didn't get thrown
out of the building.

While he
tried to soothe her I talked to Mike. "I've got a case to try. What the
hell is going on here? Where's the girl?"

"Downstairs,
in the holding pens."

"Charged
with?"

"Criminal
possession of stolen prop-"

I
interrupted him before he could finish. "You can't make out felony value
with this old thing," I said, pointing to the fur coat. "It's not
worth twenty-five hundred dollars at this point."

"And
aiding a fugitive-"

"Better."

"And
felony-weight possession of crack cocaine. A white patent leather bag full of
little vials."

I turned
back to Mrs. Gatts. "I think the best place to wait for your daughter
would be downstairs, inside the entrance to One Hundred Centre Street, where
the judge will see her later this evening and set some bail."

"What
you mean 'this evening'? It's not even two o'clock yet. What you mean 'bail'?
Tiffany's just a baby. You got no right to hold her where I can't see
her."

Mercer
reached out his hand to steady Mrs. Gatts's flailing arms. She took a step back
and kicked at my door with all her considerable might.

I tried
to follow Mercer's lead and be diplomatic. I took a step toward the woman but
Mike blocked me with an outstretched arm. "You could make things much
easier for Tiffany, ma'am. We just need her to help us. She's been keeping some
dangerous company."

"Like
who?"

"Kevin
Bessemer."

"Bessie?
That man in jail. He old enough to be her father. What she doing with
him?" Etta Gatts clucked her tongue in disbelief, and I let Mercer try to
explain why Tiffany was in trouble.

"Don't
mean a damn thing. The lieutenant told me my baby was too young to have sex
with a thirty-two-year-old man. That it's rape. Well, in this state she too
young to vote and too young to drink. That makes her too young to go to
jail."

"Three
out of four ain't bad, Mrs. Gatts. Sixteen years old and she gets treated like
an adult in criminal court. You oughta do like Ms. Cooper says and have a
serious talk with Tiffany. She's the only one," Mike said, pointing at me,
"who can give your daughter a break."

"I
don't want no break from you," the woman said, kicking the metal door
again. Mercer reached for her elbow but she raised her voice a few decibels as
she twisted loose and kept hollering.

"Take
it easy."

"Don't
touch me," she screamed at Mercer. "And you, you skinny-ass bitch,
you watch yourself. My hand to the heavens, my people ain't through with you
yet."

"Look
on the bright side, Coop. At least she called your tail part 'skinny,'"
Mike said, tossing his napkin across the room into the wastebasket. "I'm
going to take this coat over to the photo unit to get it shot, along with some
close-ups of the label and monogram."

"First
you could escort Alex up to the courtroom," Mercer said. "She needs
you to eyeball a couple of funny-looking feds, get a make on them. I can't go
because the jury panel will be hanging out, and I'm going to testify next
week."

"Guard
my pelts, pal." Mike picked up my case file and followed me out the door.

We weaved
our way around and between the potential jurors, who waited impatiently outside
the courtroom in the airless corridor. One of the court officers saw us coming
and opened the door to admit us.

Five
minutes later, at two-fifteen sharp, the group of sixty was allowed in. Twelve
resumed their seats in the box and the others obeyed directions to fill the
benches in front.

The two
men in dark glasses parked themselves in the back row.

I walked
to the rear of the courtroom with Mike to try to get an overheard. As we neared
the pair, Mike looked up and broke into a smile, surprised to spot an old
acquaintance.

"Hey,
good to see you. I'm Mike Chapman." He extended his hand to the guy
farther away from the aisle, who shook it but didn't say a word.
"Sheehan's bar, right? Didn't I catch you there just before the summer?
You bought the last round."

The man
shook his head. "I think you got that wrong."

"No,
no, I didn't. Must have been another watering hole, but I'm sure you're the guy
I was talking to. You're a G-man, aren't you? Used to work out of
Langley."

The
second guy looked at his partner to see whether he blinked.

"Good
try, but you're wrong. Must have been talking to my twin brother."

"The
better-looking one, yeah. Probably so. You here to testify?"

"Nope."

"Look,"
Mike said, "I'm a cop, a detec-"

"No
kidding. And last I knew these were public courtrooms, so I hope you don't mind
that my buddy and I just sit and watch."

Mike just
shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're in the wrong seats. The judge has a
couple of places saved for you two."

Again the
younger one, closer to me, furrowed his eyes and checked his partner while Mike
pointed and spoke. "Right over there. First two behind the dark-haired
little broad with the dandruff on her shoulders, there's a label that says
'Reserved for ass-holes.' Must be a really top level assignment to be
baby-sitting one of your former whackjobs at his trial. Next time you guys
oughta ask for a clothing allowance. That polyester is so flammable. C'mon,
Coop, get to work. I'll split."

"I
didn't invite you here to stir up a hornet's nest," I said as we walked
away. "Moffett is barely tolerating me as it is. Now you have to go and
mouth off to these characters."

"Those
two are completely useless. What's the difference if I agitate them a little
bit? You needed a pro to tell you those guys are CIA? Check your peepers with
an eye doctor." Mike turned away and let the courtroom door swing shut
behind him, and I walked back up to the well just as Harlan Moffett stepped
into the courtroom.

"All
rise. Hear ye, hear ye," the clerk droned on, announcing the entrance of
the judge and reading the case into the record.

Moffett
explained the procedure. In the old days, most of the questioning of the panel
was done by the lawyers. In high-profile cases, or matters with sensitive
issues, it could drag on for days. More recently the state courts had adopted
the federal procedures, in which the judge controlled what was asked. We would
have our jury sworn by the end of the afternoon.

He began
with general information, reading the names of all the participants and
witnesses in the case. "You know anybody, recognize any of these names?
Just raise your hand and I'll call on you." Jurors took the opportunity to
look each of us over but none responded.

"You're
going to hear from three police officers during the trial. Anybody here have
cops in the family?" Six hands went up around the room. "No reason to
make you believe them any more or any less than other witnesses, is there?
You'll evaluate their testimony the same way you would any other person, isn't
that right?"

Robelon
and I were making notes next to those names we had of people already sitting in
the jury box, how they responded to the inquiries, whether aloud or with facial
expressions and physical gestures. We would probe them on personal information
that seemed relevant to either side. In this case, Paige Vallis carried far
more weight than the few police officers, who would be subject to more intense
scrutiny as witnesses in drug sales or gun possession cases. They had nothing
to offer that would shed light on the events in Andrew Tripping's apartment.

Moffett
had reached the point at which he talked about the crimes with which the
defendant was charged. "You got any problems with any of these?" he
asked, trying to get past the word "rape" without raising any red
flags. In my dozen years at the prosecution table, I wagered this would be a
first if he succeeded.

Two hands
went up in the jury box. I looked over my shoulder and saw more scattered
through the rows.

"Your
Honor," I said, getting to my feet, "may we take these at the
bench?"

Moffett
wasn't pleased with my suggestion. It would waste precious minutes, and would
result in more people being excused than he wanted. He knew that if he denied
my request to approach him and hear the personal revelations one by one, fewer
women would discuss their concerns in the open courtroom, among strangers. Both
Robelon and I would have less opportunity to make challenges for cause.

He was
about to deny my request when my adversary rose to agree with me. Always better
for the defense to let the jurors think they were truly sensitive to the issue.

Number
three stood between Robelon and me, at the front of the courtroom, telling
Moffett she could not possibly serve at this trial. "I was a victim of
rape myself, Judge."

"When
was that?"

"Five
years ago. Raped and beaten."

"Was
it here, in New York? Miss Cooper or one of her colleagues handle your
investigation?"

"No,
sir. No one was ever caught."

"And
Mr. Tripping didn't commit the crime, did he?"

She
stared at her shoes and tears filled her eyes. "No, sir."

"And
you know he's presumed innocent and has the right to a fair trial?"

She was
choking up and couldn't talk. She nodded her head in the affirmative.

"So
what's your problem?"

Robelon
got the point and was eager to have the judge let her go. He had no desire to
waste one of his limited number of peremptory challenges on someone who was
clearly not going to be sympathetic to his client, or anyone else charged with
this offense.

"All
I'm asking is why you can't give this defendant a fair shake. Tell me."

"Judge,
I think she's-"

"Don't
tell me what you think, Ms. Cooper. I'm trying to move this along."

The juror
looked at me, obviously hoping I would intervene again so that she could regain
control of her emotions.

"Let
me get you a cup of water," I said, stepping back to counsel table.

"I'm
afraid I'm the wrong person for this kind of trial, sir. You may not think it's
rational, but I can't sit here and listen to another woman describe a forcible
assault. It's-it's still too raw for me. I'm sorry, I'm just not able to do
it."

The judge
had heard enough. "Report back to the central jury room tomorrow morning.
Tell 'em to mark your ticket for civil court next time."

In all,
seven women approached the bench to talk about their personal experiences. Four
asked to be excused, and three felt they could not honestly know how they would
react to sitting through the emotionally charged testimony of another survivor.

"Nobody
says she's a victim yet," the judge growled at the last one on line.
"That's what the jury's got to decide."

I checked
my watch. Moffett would keep us till seven or eight in the evening to complete
our selection. Nothing would move him from his schedule.

When he
finished the general questioning, he passed the long green seating chart over
to me so I could continue on with the more personal inquiries. I placed it on
the small podium in front of the box and took a few seconds to match the
jurors' faces to the names and addresses on the small printed summons
representing each person before me.

By
five-fifteen we had agreed on eleven jurors. I had bounced the butcher whose
two teenaged sons had been arrested for a variety of crimes they didn't commit,
the department store customer-complaint representative who thought it was
impossible for women to be raped by men they knew and dated, and the acting
student who thought O. J. Simpson was misunderstood by the media.

Peter
Robelon made the classic mistake that defense attorneys often did while
handling their first rape cases. He struggled for ways to get rid of all the
women on the jury, figuring that men would place themselves in Andrew
Tripping's shoes, find them too close a fit, and walk him out the courtroom
door.

Little
did he know the sad lesson I had learned over the years, that women were far
more likely to criticize the conduct of others of their sex and blame them for
their own victimization. I used to knock myself out trying to stack the box
with a dozen intelligent women, until a small delegation of men told me, after
a trial, that the ladies had been far too judgmental about the victim's
conduct.

I watched
my adversary knock off the avowed feminist with three unmarried sons in college
and graduate school-not likely to vote with me when it came time to reach a
verdict-and get rid of five or six young women whom he didn't happen to notice
were making eye contact across the room with Andrew Tripping or Robelon himself,
almost flirtatiously.

I didn't
see my paralegal, Maxine, enter and walk up to the clerk's desk on the front
side of the room opposite the jury box. She was distracting Moffett, and he
called her on it. "You got something you need to disturb us for,
missy?"

"She's
got to talk to Ms. Cooper, pronto, Judge," the clerk said.

He stood
behind his chair and waved me in Maxine's direction. I was no happier than
Moffett and my expression must have showed that.

"Sorry,
Alex. Mercer told me to get to you immediately. He wants to know if you can ask
the judge to revoke the defendant's bail and remand him overnight."

"What
possible reason would I have to do that?" I asked.

"A
woman called your office a little while ago, looking for you. She claims to be
the foster mother of Dulles Tripping. She says the principal sent the boy home
with a note this afternoon, telling her that there was a man hanging out in
front of the school yard at seven-thirty this morning, asking other kids if
they knew where Dulles was."

"Did
the woman leave her name and number? Did the teacher describe the guy?"

I was
snapping at Maxine for answers that I knew I should not expect her to have.

"From
what she said to me, it sounds kind of like the defendant," Maxine said.

"If
it happened first thing this morning, why did the principal wait so long to
tell her?"

I was
trying to recall what time Tripping had gotten to the courthouse.

"He
didn't wait. The woman had some medical appointments in the morning, after she
dropped Dulles off at school. They'd been looking for her all day but she never
went back to the house until after she picked up the boy."

I was
over a barrel again. I couldn't make a bail application alleging that the defendant
might have violated the order of protection without at least a firsthand
ability to assess the foster mother's credibility. One more player I hadn't yet
met. I needed to get the details from the principal. If the request for remand
backfired, I would have aggravated the judge unnecessarily. If I erred on the
side of caution, I might be giving Tripping one more opportunity to
intercept-or even to harm-his young son.

"I'll
ask for ten minutes so I can call her. Give me the woman's number," I said
to Maxine.

"That's
just it. She was spooked. Said you didn't know her name and she wasn't about to
leave it with Mercer or anyone else who could track her down. She just wanted
you to know that she was taking Dulles and leaving town with him. She'll be in
touch."

We
finished picking our jury shortly after seven.

"Ten
o'clock sharp, ladies and gentlemen," Moffett said, dismissing the twelve
we had selected, along with two alternates.

"Tell
you what I'm gonna do with regard to the boy," he announced to Robelon and
me after the courtroom was cleared of the group. "I'll tell Ms. Taggart to
have Dulles produced in my chambers after school tomorrow. Miss Cooper can try
to talk to him and that other lawyer, what's his name?"

"Hoyt.
Graham Hoyt."

"Yeah.
He can sit in on it, too, on the boy's behalf. I'll hang around to iron out any
problems that come up. How's that sound?"

I
couldn't concentrate on the conversation. My mind was spinning, wondering
whether the child was in any actual danger, where the foster mother might have
taken him, how Nancy Taggart would respond when I told her about the call from
the school, and why everyone in this case-except the victim-seemed to have his
or her own agenda.