"Did you know there was only one other woman in the entire courtroom in 1973? Just one juror, a few years older than I."
"The legal system wasn't very friendly to us back then. This office had a staff of two hundred lawyers, and only a handful were women. That district attorney didn't think lady lawyers should be exposed to the blood and guts elements of violent crimes or to any discussion of sexual predators. There were very few women on the bench or at the bar, and it was still a novelty for them to serve on juries. Not much different than in your field."
Kerry Hastings had been in the first year of a master's program in neurobiology at NYU-a brilliant student who excelled in a specialty dominated by men-when the break-in and rape occurred. She was one of the first women in her field to get a doctorate, returning to school after a three-year hiatus when Warren's mistrial-and his subsequent flight-caused her to leave Manhattan for the West Coast, fearful that he would find her again.
I held up the clear plastic sleeve that contained the pale blue cotton underpants in which the evidence was found that linked Floyd Warren to scores of cold cases.
"I'll ask if you can identify these."
Kerry bit her lip as she looked at the panties and nodded. She had worn them to the hospital after the attack, where they were taken from her. Her initials were written on the label in black marker, and a hole was cut in the crotch where the semen stain was found.
"I've tried so hard to forget all this, and now the memories come flooding back in," she said, closing her eyes and taking several deep breaths. "It's amazing that someone had the foresight to save my underwear all these years."
"I wish we could tell you that's what happened," Mercer said. "The guy who used to have Alex's job? Just thank your lucky stars he was sloppy. When Warren jumped bail, the prosecutor dropped the trial folder in the back of his file cabinet. If he'd followed protocol and returned the evidence to the property clerk, it would have been thrown out years ago."
The telephone rang and before I could reach for the receiver, I could see from the light on the console that Laura Wilkie had answered. Seconds later, she opened the door and greeted us. "Mercer, it's for you."
"Have any other women come forward, Alex? I mean, here in New York?"
"Let's talk about that after you're off the stand."
There had been a perp walk when Floyd Warren arrived in New York in police custody from his home in Georgia. Mercer Wallace had escorted him from Central Booking to the street, where an eager group of paparazzi waited to take pictures to run alongside his original mug shot. Women who had never dared report the crimes decades ago called the Special Victims Unit to unburden themselves of the pain of their experience.
"The whole thing's so damn unfair," Kerry said. "His lawyer was free to make up the most outrageous lies about my life, yet I'm not allowed to mention that Warren raped God knows how many other women-stabbed two of them. They were allowed to think that he's the virgin and I'm the roundheel. Your legal system makes no sense."
Battaglia had appointed me to head this specialized bureau after my rookie years in the criminal court. All the groundbreaking work on these issues had been done by prosecutors who preceded me-the tedious labor of changing laws and the harder task of educating the public about these highly charged crimes.
Mercer opened the door and signaled me to join him.
"I promise you, you'll know everything I do by the end of the day," I said as I walked past her to leave the room.
"That's the warden at Attica, returning my call about Pablo Posano," Mercer said. "We've got to look somewhere else inside the Latin Princes for the problem. Looks like this monster has grown a new head."
"Why?"
"The order to stalk you couldn't have come from Posano. He's been in solitary confinement since two weeks after he got there. Tried to jump a guard and they jammed him up. Twenty-three hours a day under bright lights-no reading material, no communication with the outside world. If he hated you before that, imagine how it's festered now."
"So he didn't give the orders himself this time," I said. I thought of the tall, solidly built Posano, with dark curly hair that had undoubtedly been shaved by the guards, and the intensity of his light eyes, which bored through me when he stared me down. "One of his homies is looking to make points by getting back at me?"
"Bank on it, Alex," Mercer said. "You're the devil who put Pablo Posano in a black hole.
EIGHT
"Alex, there's a gentleman waiting for you-he says he's been here for an hour, but he won't give me his name. I've got him in Maxine's office," Laura said. "He says you're expecting him. And he's terribly nervous". Max, my paralegal, was on vacation. Her quiet office around the corner was the ideal place to meet with Herb Ackerman.
"Mercer, why don't you explain to Kerry that there may be some ringers in the courtroom this morning and that it has nothing at all to do with her case?"
"Fine. And I'm calling Lamont's clerk. I want to make sure they'll have your back covered." Because Mercer was a witness in this trial, he was not allowed to be in the courtroom while the other witnesses testified.
The corridor was busy with the nine o'clock arrival of lawyers and support staff, most with cardboard coffee cups and paper bags stuffed with bagels or doughnuts in hand. This floor of the huge criminal court building housed the executive wing, public relations, the trial division chiefs, and the bureau that handled appeals for the six hundred prosecutors who served at the pleasure of the district attorney.
I opened the door of Max's office. Herb Ackerman had helped himself to her telephone, standing behind her desk, talking to someone in his office about the fact that he'd be late.
"I'm sorry. Sorry. Ms. Cooper?" he said. "I'm Herb Ackerman."
"Good to meet you."
He was a short man in his early sixties with a pasty complexion and a receding chin. His neck stretched up and out at me as he talked, like a turtle extending its head out of the shell. He had reddish brown hair that looked like it had been dyed with shoe polish and eyeglasses whose lenses hadn't been cleaned in months.
"Have a seat, please, and tell me why you're here."
"Didn't Paul explain?" he asked, preferring to stand and pace.
"He told me that you wanted to see me. About Amber Bristol."
"No, I didn't want to see you, frankly. I wanted to meet with him," Ackerman said, jabbing his finger in the air.
The ratty tweed jacket he wore with a button-down shirt, too tight at the collar and frayed at the cuffs, seemed a poor choice for yet another hot, humid day.
"Well, then, perhaps I should just direct you to his office," I said, rising from my chair.
"No, no. He told me you'd have to handle this. It's just, well, it's embarrassing to discuss these things with an attractive young lady."
I'd made a career dealing with men who'd done embarrassing things. "This is my job, Mr. Ackerman. For the moment, whatever it is you're going to talk about stays between us."
His neck elongated itself as he peered around the dingy room, ringed with old green government-issue metal file cabinets, which held a history of the depravity of Manhattan's sex offenders since the unit was created. "You're not taping me, are you?"
"No, sir. I'm not."
"I suppose you know who I am?" His nose wrinkled and he pushed his glasses back in place.
"I do."
"I've known your boss since he was a kid, Ms. Cooper. I've been very good to him over the years," Ackerman said, hiking his pants up over his potbelly and tightening his belt. "I hope that counts for something."