Ellie wasn’t persuaded, however, and Rogan knew it. They were nearing their turn onto Worth Street, but he had slowed the car in the right lane. “You never heard the term ‘exculpatory evidence’ on patrol, Hatcher?”
“Of course I did. It’s evidence suggesting that we may have gotten the wrong guy.”
“Nope. All exculpatory evidence means is some bullshit that a defense attorney could use to confuse a jury into thinking we got the wrong guy. And if the prosecutor finds out about so-called exculpatory evidence, they’ve got a duty to turn it over to said defense attorney. But we don’t. And that’s why we don’t give so-called exculpatory evidence to prosecutors.”
She returned the photograph of Lucy Feeney to her bag and zipped it shut.
“So we’re keeping that to ourselves?” he asked.
“Was that a question or a conclusion?”
Rogan pulled the car into a spot across the street from the courthouse. “Let’s get something straight here. I’m not your boss, Hatcher. I’m your partner, so I’ll back you, even when you do something stupid.”
“Don’t you mean if I do something stupid?”
“No. I mean when, whether it’s this or some other thing a year from now.”
“Well, I appreciate that.”
“Wait, I’m not done. I’m saying this because that’s the kind of partner I am, no matter who I’m paired up with. And, I’ll be honest with you, before Casey, I had some problems in the partnership department.”
Ellie waited for an explanation.
“My extra pocket change was an issue for some people.”
“Jealousy?” Then another possibility dawned on her. “You didn’t have another cop go to IA on you? Talk about assuming the worst.”
Rogan shook his head. “I guess you could say they assumed the worst, but they didn’t go to the rat squad. They wanted a piece of the action. And it happened more than once. I became a magnet for trouble. Then, two partners ago, I wound up on IA’s radar for something I had nothing to do with.”
“What happened?”
“I showed them bank records, my grandmother’s will, everything I had to prove I was clean. But it wasn’t enough. It didn’t explain why my partner was living just as well as I was, and they knew I had to have suspected what was going down.”
“So you cooperated.”
“The man deserved it.”
To a lot of cops, that wouldn’t matter: anyone on the job who went along with Internal Affairs was a turncoat.
“Then I got paired up with Casey, and it was all good. And now I’ve got my whole you-think-a-brother-can’t-have-money riff, and that puts the issue to rest.”
“I’m sorry, J. J.” She had a better idea now why Rogan might have been willing to roll the dice as her partner.
He waved off her apology. “All I’m saying is that I want things to work out with you, Hatcher. But, that said, it’s a hell of a lot easier to be a good partner when it’s a two-way street. Just know that any decision you make, it’s for both of us. And I’m telling you, Myers is our guy.”
HE STOOD on the corner of Grand and Ludlow on the Lower East Side, watching Rachel Peck emerge from a four-story brick walk-up. Based on the blankets and stained sheets that served as makeshift curtains for most of the building’s windows, he gathered that it wasn’t the homiest place to live. A bartender probably couldn’t afford much better in Manhattan these days, however.
He had followed Rachel home last night and had come back this morning to check on her. Ten thirty-five. It would take her twenty minutes, max, to get to Mesa Grill on the F train.
She kept her word about covering her coworker’s shift. He liked loyalty. And she was prompt. He liked that, too. Good old reliable Rachel. He was beginning to feel like he knew her. He was looking forward to her night off.
In the meantime, he had places to go. In ten minutes, he would meet a man called Darrell Washington in Tompkins Square Park. It was an important meeting. It would determine whether Darrell lived or died.
CHAPTER 28
SIMON KNIGHT HAD wanted to meet the two cops he was calling his “dream team” on the Jake Myers case before presenting their testimony to the grand jury. Just as Knight had already apparently decided that he loved his investigative team, Rogan had already decided that he hated the team leader.
He made his feelings known in the elevator ride to the seventh floor. “Are you kidding me? The dream team? He sees a black detective, and so his mind jumps to O. J. Simpson?”
“Oy. I wish I’d never mentioned it to you. I think it evolved because Max Donovan was calling us dream witnesses.”
“Correction. I believe your new boyfriend called you his dream witness. And if his boss is now calling us the dream team before he’s even talked to us? It’s because he’s having a wet dream over the idea of a pretty blond girl detective and what I’m sure he’ll deem to be a-quote-articulate black man to testify against a rich, preppy white boy in front of a New York City jury. It’s got nothing to do with who we actually are.”
“J. J. Rogan, I had no idea you were so profound.”
“No, just a pissed-off token,” he said with a smile that indicated he wasn’t really so angry after all.
Simon Knight’s office reflected his seniority over Max Donovan. Not only was it twice the size, it was furnished with leather chairs, a Persian rug, and what at least appeared to be an antique mahogany desk.
The man came across as equally dignified. Ellie took in the dark, graying hair, the fine lines etched into his thin patrician face, and the conservative navy blue suit. If someone had told her he was a four-star army general, she would have believed it, but chief prosecutor of the trial unit of the New York District Attorney’s Office suited him just as well.
Max Donovan handled the introductions, and Ellie and Rogan took a seat across from the two lawyers, who settled into a brown leather sofa. She and Donovan exchanged a glance, and she found herself wondering who had looked first at whom.
“Well, detectives”-Knight clasped his hands together in front of his chest-“there’s nothing better than being able to introduce myself to the both of you with a piece of excellent news. I told the crime lab I wanted preliminary DNA results before grand jury. They said it was impossible, but I got the call half an hour ago-the semen on the victim’s blouse and in the oral swab is a match to Jake Myers’s. One in 300 billion.”