“I feel anyone in that building at that time might be the killer. It has to be checked out.”
“You’re in a bind, Lieutenant. If Dominguez gives you the name and it is the killer, you haven’t gotten that information legally and your investigation is tainted.”
“Once I get that name, I can go for the suspect on other grounds.”
“What grounds?”
“I’ll be in a better position to know that when I have the name.”
“Aren’t you going at this bass-ackwards, Lieutenant?”
“Got a better way to suggest?”
“You have no choice. At this point you have to charge Dominguez with withholding.”
“Why? I can hold him eight hours. The threat of that cage could change his mind. It’s changed other people’s.”
“You realize the odds are very strongly against you.”
“I’ve been on the force twenty-two years. I’m immune to the odds by now.”
He met her eyes. They were deep green and speculative, and he knew the thing they were speculating about was Vince Cardozo.
“Maybe you don’t remember who’s on night court,” she said. “Judge Joseph Martinez.”
Martinez, one of seven Hispanic judges in New York County, claimed that city police discriminated against Hispanics. Waging a one-man campaign to redress the wrong, he routinely dismissed all but the most heinous charges against Hispanics, and when he did not dismiss, he set ludicrously low bail. Cops had nicknamed him Let-’em-Go Joe; prosecutors had attempted through three city administrations to unseat him. He had the mayor’s protection because he delivered the Hispanic vote.
“Unless you charge Dominguez,” MacGill said, “Martinez will grant habeas.”
“If I charge Dominguez he has a right to talk to Kane and I’ll never get that name.”
“If you don’t charge him, Kane teams up with Martinez and they get you on false arrest. We’re talking about your skin now, Lieutenant.”
Cardozo stared at the green print on the screen. “Okay. Withholding evidence in a felony.”
MacGill rose and approached the bench. Her untroubled gaze met the judge’s. “Your Honor, Hector Dominguez is withholding important evidence in a murder case.”
Judge Martinez had a bored, square-jawed face, silver hair, and a sleepy Pancho Villa moustache. He folded his hands on his breast and closed his eyes.
“I was not informed of my client’s detention,” Ray Kane said. His madras jacket flopped open, exposing a well-rounded swell of shirtfront. “I was denied visitation. Hector Dominguez was not even questioned, but was held incommunicado for four hours. The police are harassing, plainly and simply, and violating my client’s constitutional right to protection against unreasonable search and seizure.”
Judge Martinez opened his eyes. “Counselor Kane, a dull roar will suffice. Is any of this true?” he asked MacGill.
“Your Honor,” Lucinda MacGill said, “the people have probable cause to believe that Hector Dominguez—”
“Your Honor,” Kane interrupted, “Lieutenant Vincent Cardozo had the audacity to call my client a Spic meathead.”
Judge Martinez leaned back wearily in his chair, gazing down into the courtroom, at the benches rustling with handcuffed hookers and pushers, cops, defenders, A.D.A.’s. His eyes found Cardozo and black lightning went out from them.
“I have two grounds for throwing this out. One, Lieutenant Cardozo’s behavior constitutes a prima facie case of police brutality. Two, Mr. Dominguez should have been charged before and not after four hours of detention.”
Not even a ripple disturbed Counselor MacGill’s surface. She had perfect control of her face. “Your Honor, police interrogation would be impossible if every potential or unwilling witness had to be charged before questioning.”
“Tell it to the Supreme Court, Counselor.” Judge Martinez brought his gavel slamming down. “The Spic meathead walks. Next case.”
25
THE SENIOR PARTNERS’ CONFERENCE room contained an enormous oval table and pictures of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty on one wall and a yellowed photograph of the Stock Exchange after the anarchist explosions of 1894 on the other.
Davis Hobson and Michael Williams, seniors of the firm, were waiting, looking grayer and a good deal heavier than Babe remembered them, and in addition to Bill Frothingham there were three junior associates.
“You’re looking well, Hadley,” Davis Hobson said. “How are you exercising?”
“By mixing my own martinis,” Hadley said, and there was laughter.
“And you, Babe,” Davis said. “You’re looking younger than ever. As are you, Lucia.”
“There should be place cards at this table,” Lucia said. “Where are we supposed to sit?”
“Our team’s on the north side,” Bill Frothingham said, “and Scottie’s is on the south.”
Scottie, Babe realized with a sudden thickening in her throat. She looked at the man she had assumed to be an associate and she felt the shock of seeing someone she ought to have recognized and had not.
He came toward her, tall, dark-haired, easy-striding, the man who had once been the most important force in her universe. His dark, wide-set eyes and high cheekbones still combined into a strikingly handsome face. Perhaps it was the fault of the ceiling light throwing shadows into his eye sockets, but Babe wasn’t prepared for the gauntness, the lines.
“It’s been a long time.” Scottie’s voice was soft, and his mouth widened the promise of a smile just a fraction.
“Babe, have you met Ted Morgenstern?” Davis asked. “Ted’s representing Scottie and we thought he ought to be here too.”
The man she had taken to be the third junior associate stepped forward. “A great pleasure to meet you at last,” he said, taking her hand. He had a deeply tanned face, and his glowing eyes seemed to probe into her, trying to read her intention.
Babe forced a smile.
“Shall we get on with it, then?” Davis Hobson said.
Those who were standing sat, and E.J. positioned Babe’s wheelchair at the table next to Lucia.
Davis Hobson suggested changes in various clauses of the divorce agreement “in view of the fact that Babe Devens is alive and well, thank God.”
Ted Morgenstern agreed to the changes in a flat voice.
Babe tried to follow the discussion. She saw the room as though from far away, through opera glasses that had accidentally been reversed.
Scottie was looking across the table at her. She pushed her wheelchair back.
“Beatrice,” her mother said, “you asked for this meeting, now don’t drift away. This concerns you.”
“I’m listening,” Babe said.
She wheeled to the window. She listened quietly for several minutes as Bill Frothingham suggested further changes in wording, and then she turned her chair around.
“Scottie,” she said, “take me to lunch.”
Scottie knew of a decent French restaurant two blocks away. E.J. steered Babe’s wheelchair through the midtown mob thronging the sidewalk. Only a few people bothered to recognize Babe and stare. At the restaurant door Babe asked E.J. to be a sweetie and vanish for an hour.
E.J. hesitated. “You’ll be all right?”
“Of course I’ll be all right. I’m with Scottie.” Babe reached back and touched his hand.
E.J. cast a doubtful look at them both. “All right.”
It was a wise choice of restaurant: there was a wide entrance hall, no stairs, a darkly gleaming bar on the left. The main room had a high ceiling and walls painted a soft orangey pink, like the inside of a perfectly ripened melon.
The luncheon crowd was beginning to thin out. Scottie was able to get a nice table by the window; the maître d’ removed a chair and Scottie angled Babe and her wheelchair in its place.
“Something to drink?” the maître d’ offered.
“Just wine with the meal for me,” Babe said.
Scottie nodded, indicating he’d take the same.
And then there were just the two of them, silent at their table.
For Babe, it seemed only hours since she and this man had clung to each other and felt the deepest oneness of body and soul. And now Scottie was remote, sitting stiffly in his chair, regarding her wordlessly with his deep-set brown eyes. She couldn’t even guess at his feelings.