He let go and stepped out ahead of me, into the courtroom, taking his place back up on the bench as Robelon and I walked to our respective tables.
Mercer Wallace was standing at the rail, as though he had been waiting for me to emerge from the robing room. Moffett recognized him from a previous trial. "Miss Cooper, you want a minute to speak with Detective Wallace before I get started with our introductions here?"
"I'd appreciate that, Your Honor."
Mercer reached for my shoulder and turned me away from the jurors in the box, toward him. "Keep your game face on, Alex. Just got news that you should know before you spill anything to the judge about how strong your case is. Hope I'm not too late to be useful."
"Ready."
He leaned over and spoke as softly as he could. "Heads are gonna roll as soon as the commissioner gets word about this one. Two guys were bringing Kevin Bessemer over from Rikers for your interview. The car got jammed up behind an accident on the FDR Drive, and the prisoner bolted from the backseat, right down the footpath on One Hundred Nineteenth Street and into the projects. They lost him."
"What?"
"Poker face, girl. You promised."
"But wasn't he cuffed?"
"Rear-cuffed and locked in tight, the guys say. Stay cool, Alex, the judge is checking to see what the fidgeting is and why your blood pressure's going up. Your cheeks are on fire."
"I can't start picking this jury tomorrow. How the hell am I going to buy myself some time?"
"Tell the man what happened, kid. Tell him your snitch is gone."
2
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," Moffett said, clearly relishing this role as he swaggered on his small stage, higher than everyone in the courtroom and completely in charge. He stood behind his massive leather chair, gesturing broadly with both arms as he spoke.
"I trust you each had a good, restful summer, a pleasant Labor Day weekend, so now you're ready to settle down and get to serious business here."
Jurors liked Harlan Moffett. He was seventy-one years old, with a full head of thick white hair and a robust build. His three decades on the bench made him comfortable with almost every situation that might arise in the Supreme Court of the State of New York, Criminal Term. He was patient with nervous witnesses, never tolerated outbursts from sobbing relatives or defendants' girlfriends who showed up in court with wailing rent-a-babies to elicit the jury's sympathy, and he was the only person in the room who had not ducked the time a notorious killer had thrown the water pitcher from counsel table across the courtroom at his head, rocketing shards of glass all over the well.
When he finished telling the panel a bit about himself, Moffett extended his right hand, palm up, and asked me to stand. "This young lady is Alexandra Cooper. Paul Battaglia-he's the man you people keep reelecting to be your district attorney-well, he put Miss Cooper here in charge of all the sex crimes cases that occur in Manhattan."
I nodded at the group and sat down.
"She's got a real friendly smile, folks, but you're not going to see it again during this trial. So when you pass her in the hall or on your way into the courthouse, don't say hello to her or wish her a good evening. She can't talk to you. Neither can Mr. Robelon over there."
Moffett introduced Peter along with his second seat, an associate from his law firm called Emily Frith. I glanced over at their table and noticed the routine defense shtick that had become so commonplace at rape trials. The young and attractive Emily was necessary for one purpose only. She had her seat pulled up as close to Andrew Tripping as possible, her arm resting on the back of his chair. It didn't matter if she had a brain in her head or had passed the bar exam. She was simply there for the visual. Jurors were supposed to see this interaction and think to themselves that if she was comfortable being so intimately involved with the defendant, then maybe he wasn't really a violent sex offender.
Tripping, when called on, rose to his feet, mustering his most forlorn expression of presumed innocence, smoothing his tie into place before lowering himself back down into his seat. Here but for the grace of God goes any one of you, was the subliminal message he was sending to all the male jurors. He looked paler than the last time I had seen him, with muddy brown eyes and hair the color of a well-rusted metal wrench.
"Since it's already four forty-five, I'm going to let you folks be excused. You can all sleep late tomorrow while I make these lawyers work on some other aspects of the case in the morning. You're to be back here at two o'clock sharp, ready to go. At that time we'll be picking a jury."
Moffett came out from behind his chair, leaning over the edge of the bench and wagging a finger at the panel in the box and then expanding his admonition to the rest of the prospective jurors in the gallery. "And let me remind you people that those tired, old efforts to get out of your civic duty won't work in my courtroom. Leave your excuses at home. I don't care if you have two plane tickets to Rio on Friday, or that nobody will baby-sit for your cat if I sequester you in a hotel room, or that your cousin's niece's brother is being bar mitzvahed in Cleveland this weekend. Send him a check, and as far as I'm concerned, you can bring the kitty with you."
The jurors gathered their belongings and made their way to the double doors at the rear of the room. I swept my notepad and case folder off the table and waited for the judge to excuse me so that I could get downstairs to my office to deal with the slippery witness and my disintegrating case.
"What time for us, Your Honor?" Peter asked.
"Nine-thirty. And Alexandra, you'll have the agency people here?"
"I'll call over there right now, as soon as you dismiss us."
The corridors and elevators were packed with nine-to-five civil servants who set their schedules by the time clock, so as not to give the city an extra minute of their energy. Assistant district attorneys were swimming against that tide, making their way back to their offices from the dozens of courtrooms on both sides of Centre Street, to spend long hours readying themselves for the next day's legal battles.
Laura Wilkie, who had been my secretary for seven years, anticipated my return from the trial part. She was standing in my doorway, steno pad in hand, brewing a fresh pot of coffee to jump-start me for the evening ahead.
Clipped to my In box was a wad of telephone messages. "Those you can ignore. Friends, lovers, bill collectors, snake oil salesmen. This one you can't."
She gave me the yellow paper with the message she had taken from the district attorney. See me as soon as you finish in court.
It meant Battaglia had heard about the escape and wanted an explanation.
I walked into my office and dropped the files on top of my desk. Mercer was standing against the window, the dark outline of his six-foot-four-inch frame silhouetted against the granite gargoyles on the building ledge behind him. He was on the phone.
"Find out what you can. Alex is gonna tank on this one."
"I think it's already happened," I said to Mercer as he turned and saw me, then hung up. "I'm about to hit bottom. Battaglia wants the story. Any news on how this happened?"
"Bessemer's a predicate. Facing the rest of his natural days behind bars for a five-kilo sale of cocaine. Brooklyn Narcotics made the arrest. Their lieutenant insisted that they be the ones to transport him here instead of our squad. Everybody there's playing dumb."
"Sounds like they have the credentials for it. Any sightings of him yet?"
"I've called anyone who owes me. I'll get you an answer before the night is out."
"If it comes back in little pieces, even if the information is too late to save my tail, you know I'd be grateful."
I scanned my security pass to get into the executive wing. Battaglia's executive assistant, Rose Malone, looked relieved to see me. "Go right in, Alex."