“How did Ms. Robles hold up today?” Battaglia asked.
Ellen Gunsher took the lead. “Quite well, all things considered. She wasn’t expecting to become the center of a media maelstrom.”
“No victim would,” the district attorney said. “What’s the answer to the question the Times keeps coming back to us with? I know we’ve still got a case whether she’s in this country legally or not, but what’s her immigration status?”
“Blanca was granted asylum nine years ago. She’s Mayan, Boss, and her village was destroyed by the Guatemalan Truth Commission-an intentional policy of genocide against certain ethnic groups like hers.”
“She witnessed the murder of her parents and two siblings,” Pat said, interrupting Ellen Gunsher. “I mean she literally watched them being slaughtered like pigs, Boss. She was gang-raped by a militia unit that burned her family’s farm to the ground. I couldn’t even stay in the room for some of her story.”
“You told me this morning she’s a very religious woman,” Battaglia said, addressing Ellen again. He wanted that information, but wouldn’t expend the emotional energy to empathize with most victims. “What parish? Where in the city does she worship?”
“I mean she wears a crucifix, Boss. I didn’t ask which church she belongs to,” Ellen said. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”
Tomorrow was always the wrong answer to give Paul Battaglia. He didn’t care about Blanca’s faith. He was more interested in the political currency of the information. If the woman was part of the flock, then the archdiocese would be checking up on her well-being in the hands of my colleagues. There would be a district leader with whom to exchange promises of favors for embracing the accuser against such a powerful perpetrator, and a state assemblyman who might later weigh in on a particular vote if his constituent was well supported. The district attorney wanted to make those phone calls tonight, not tomorrow.
“Is that housekeeping position she has a union job?”
“I think so,” Ellen said.
I’d learned long ago and trained all my assistants never to be short on the details that would engage Battaglia’s interest. He’d leave the case management to his legal staff, but the politics that arose out of these situations was what he thrived on.
“Find that out first thing and let me know. I’m not looking for any rallies on the courthouse steps by thousands of hotel workers in this city.”
“Sure, Boss. In the morning.”
“Have you made her safe?” Battaglia asked.
“Yes, we’ve put her up at-”
He held his arms straight out. “I don’t need to know where. I just want to be able to say she’s out of harm’s way. When do you go to the grand jury?”
The criminal procedure law of the state of New York dictated the time line the case had to follow. At Gil-Darsin’s arraignment this morning, the People had requested remand without any opportunity for bail. There were apparently millions of dollars at his disposal-his own, Papa Mo’s fortune, and the great wealth of his supermodel wife-the defense had argued. But the judge agreed that as a foreigner bound for a country with no extradition treaty with the United States for sexual assault, the powerful WEB head would remain incarcerated.
The NYPD-not the district attorney-had started the clock running by arresting Gil-Darsin late Saturday night. The arraignment had occurred at 10 A.M. today-Monday-and by Friday of this week, 120 hours after our filing of the felony complaint charging first-degree rape, our team would have to present the evidence, the testimony of Blanca Robles, to a grand jury composed of twenty-three citizens who would then vote a true bill-an indictment-if they believed her story.
“We need most of the day tomorrow to go over the facts more carefully and make Blanca comfortable about telling her story to the jurors. Alex can help with that.” Ellen spoke rather tentatively, but I nodded to reassure her that I was on board. “Then we expect to go ahead on Wednesday afternoon. Get a vote and be ready to file immediately. The next court date is Thursday. If we go in before the judge with an indictment in hand, I can’t imagine that he’ll change the bail conditions, even with Lem Howell pushing for it.”
“Sounds good.” Battaglia had a dozen questions about issues external to the crime itself for Mercer Wallace and the prosecutors. Was the Eurotel management cooperating with the police investigation? Had any other victims called in to the hotline set up by Brenda Whitney’s office? Were the preliminary DNA results reliable enough to put before the grand jurors? Yes. No. Yes. The answers came as quickly as he asked them.
“I know it’s tempting to leak when your favorite reporters lean on you,” Battaglia said, the cigar held firmly between two fingers as he pointed around the room at each of us. “But this has to be a completely clean operation. I’m the only one talking to the media, is that understood? You get any inquiries from the UN or the French government or the WEB offices, nothing is too minor to bring to my attention.”
The door opened, and Battaglia stopped talking till he saw that it was June Simpson coming back in to rejoin us.
“You’re up against just about the best lawyer in the business,” Battaglia said. “He’ll be doing everything you can’t do, including trying his case at impromptu press conferences in front of our office doors or WEB headquarters. Any overtures from Lem yet, Pat? Any sense he wants to sit down with you and hammer something out?”
“Nothing but silence, Boss. My guess is he’s figuring all this media circus will freak out the victim and we’ll never get her prepped to testify by week’s end. He doesn’t have to say a damn word.”
“Maybe Lem will try to use Alex to soften you up. Let me know the minute he reaches out to you, young lady, okay?”
“Unlikely to happen,” I said. I could feel the color rising in my cheeks. Lem had always played favorites, and I was one of them. He was inappropriately tactile, even in the most professional settings, rubbing my arm or my back, suggesting a physical intimacy that had never existed.
“I want somebody on this team designated to report to Rose every hour. I want updates with whatever you’ve got,” Battaglia said, then jabbed his cigar in the direction of Ellen Gunsher. “And answers tomorrow morning on everything I asked you about Ms. Robles.”
June Simpson was standing with her back to the closed door and her arms crossed.
“I’m not sure we’ll be getting the answers you want. And certainly not tomorrow.”
Every head in the room turned to June.
“That was Blanca Robles who called?” Pat McKinney asked.
“Sort of. That was Blanca Robles who called-but from the law offices of Byron Peaser. I think our victim’s been hijacked.”
There was a collective groan from the group assembled at the table. Peaser the Sleazer had long been the nickname of the greediest ambulance chaser in the city, a negligence lawyer who handled civil suits that lined his pockets with at least a third of the millions of dollars he sought for his victims.
“I thought this woman told you she wasn’t looking for money,” Battaglia said, facing off to Pat McKinney.
“That was yesterday, Boss. She told me this was all about justice, not money.”
“And tomorrow?” Battaglia directed the question to June Simpson.
“Peaser says he’s calling the shots. He’ll bring Blanca in to meet with us, but he’s demanding to sit in on the interviews. He wants to vet all the questions we ask her.”
“No way,” I said. “He’ll get his turn after we’re done in criminal court.”
“I’m telling you, Alex, Byron’s going to make this difficult for all of us. He’s taken her out of the safe housing we placed her in and relocated her as of an hour ago. Won’t tell me where. He’ll bring her in here only if we play by his rules,” June said. “What do I tell him?”