“I’d like to see him on the bench this year. I’d like to get him named to the Court of Claims. And I don’t want that designation snarled up in any monkey business or pay-for-play talk that sleazeball Ralevic brings into the picture.”
That gubernatorial appointment to the Court of Claims was an absolute plum for a lawyer under any circumstances, but for Spindlis it would cap his lackluster career and ensure that he would have job security until he reached the mandatory retirement age, as well as top-tier pension benefits.
Battaglia had been close enough to Spitzer when he was governor to make the kind of behind-the-scene deals that placed many protégés-most of whom were well-qualified-in important jobs. Scores of former prosecutors were staff for the attorney general and the governor, dozens more wore judicial robes or ran administrative agencies. There were no bribes or illegal payments ever at issue, just the traditional political back-scratching, and the all-important blessing of Paul Battaglia.
But Battaglia didn’t have that relationship with the new governor, couldn’t call in the chits that a mentor might request of the kind of protégé Eliot Spitzer had been.
“You think Ralevic and Ethan Leighton have some kind of relationship?” I asked.
I could see now why Battaglia had been in such a foul mood yesterday. He didn’t want these events to queer the deal he had made for Spindlis. And of course Pat McKinney was in on this political positioning, because he would be the likely successor to the role of chief assistant that Spindlis now held-the consigliere to Battaglia.
Something in it for almost everybody.
“The less detail you know the better, Alex.”
“I take it someone’s been wearing a wire.” I wondered if either one of them noticed that I was beginning to squirm.
“Like I said, the feds have been after Ralevic for quite a while.”
“So you’re worried where Tim comes out in all this?” I said that, although I was well aware that Battaglia never actually worried that much where anyone else came out except himself. But Tim Spindlis was too connected to him not to expect fallout close to home.
Battaglia crushed the cigar in the ashtray, like he was stomping the life out of a venomous bug. “Someone is going to try to hurt Tim in all this. Maybe Leighton himself, maybe Ralevic, or maybe even a smart mouthpiece like Lem Howell.”
I was thankful that Mike had told me to keep my limo ride with Lem and Ethan to myself. I was trying to sort out all the players and their positions.
“You listen to me on this, Alex. There’ll be no letting Chapman off the leash during your investigation-none of his antics, no one going rogue on me here. You get a whisper of anyone trying to trash my name-or Tim’s-you’re on my doorstep before you blink your eyes.”
“I understand, Paul,” I said, ignoring the smirk on McKinney’s face. “Am I off-base asking why you think Tim’s at risk in all this maneuvering?”
“Rumors. Only that. No substance to them, but he’s apt to get bitten in the ass by an ugly rumor.”
“I’d like to be prepared. Don’t you think it makes sense to tell me what it’s about? I understand it’s just garbage.”
Battaglia got up from the table and walked to the window. The gargoyles that crested the building across Hogan Place stared back at him, some with fierce expressions of defiance, others mocking him with their tongues sticking out in derision.
“Tim was Eliot Spitzer’s supervisor when Eliot was a young prosecutor here. Both Harvard Law, both bright young men interested in public service. God knows Eliot couldn’t keep up with Tim’s drinking habits, but who the hell can figure what else they did together when they bonded here?” Battaglia said.
“Both were very loyal to you, Boss,” McKinney added, trying to get his pointy nose as close to the DA’s rear end as possible.
“I’d rather not be reminded of Eliot’s connection to me at all, Pat,” Battaglia said, turning around to look at me. “Client Number Nine, Alex. You know what I mean?”
When Governor Spitzer had been identified by the feds as one of the regular customers patronizing high-priced prostitutes, he’d been cited as Client 9 in the criminal complaint.
“There aren’t many of us who missed that, Paul.”
“Whatever it is those girls were giving away at five thousand bucks an hour,” Battaglia said, pounding his forefinger into a pile of briefs that sat on his desktop, “I didn’t need every reporter in town trying to make a name for himself asking whether Tim and I knew anything about Eliot’s-well, proclivities is the nicest word I can come up with.”
“Nobody believes Eliot was involved in that mess at the time he was working here. That all came much later.”
“You and I know that. But it won’t stop the media from noting their professional relationship when Tim’s name comes up for consideration.”
“What’s the rumor about Tim, Paul?” I asked again.
The district attorney knew that despite my disrespect for Spindlis, he’d have to trust me to be on the lookout to run interference for him in case things got ugly. Reluctantly, he repeated the malicious story.
“There’s someone out to get him. Someone who claims Tim’s the one who introduced Eliot to the Emperors Club, to all his high-priced whores.”
I caught my breath before assuring Battaglia that the story couldn’t possibly be true. It wasn’t that I thought better of Spindlis than that, I just knew he didn’t have the money to cavort with the former governor at five thousand dollars a shot.
“No one will believe that about Tim. Those rumors simply won’t fly.”
“Of course Tim wasn’t in that game, Alex. You understand that, don’t you? Of course none of it’s true.”
FOURTEEN
Laura left me alone in the conference room with Nan Toth and two hot cups of coffee. I had given her orders not to disturb us for anything until Mercer arrived.
“Have you heard any gossip about Tim?” I asked Nan.
“Not a peep. He’s on the way to the bench, isn’t he? A done deal?”
“Would you figure him for a sex scandal?”
“Socks or no socks?” Nan burst into a laugh. Eliot Spitzer was alleged to have kept his footwear on during all his sexual engagements. “It’s frightening to even think of Tim engaged in any kind of intimate act.”
“That’s the party line. Battaglia’s one hundred percent in his corner, so that’s my position too. Personally, I think it would humanize the stiff if he’d been right at Eliot’s side as Client Number Ten. But it’s only wishful thinking on my part.”
“Can you imagine anything worse?”
“Yeah. A ménage with him and McKinney.”
“You need to see a good doctor, Alex. That’s a sick thought.”
“Well, I’m betting Ellen Gunsher has been there,” I said. “Humor me, Nan. It’s been a withering twenty-four hours.”