“Is that all, Mr. Howell?”
Lem covered every angle. He went on about Blanca Robles’s fifty-million-dollar civil suit, the connection to an imprisoned lover, the possibility that she had lied to police about her grounds for asylum.
“How about DNA, Mr. Howell? How does DNA lie?” Judge Donnelly asked. “Do you care to offer any explanation about how it came to be on the uniform of the complaining witness, as well as the walls and floor of your client’s hotel room?”
Unlike me, Lem never gave the slightest hint that the wind had been taken out of his sails. He bent his head in the direction of the judge and in a clipped voice said, “Not at this very moment, Your Honor. I’ll save that conversation for another day, after the prosecution has provided me with their lab reports so that our own experts can advise about any improprieties. We all know that mistakes can happen.”
“Very well then. You’re welcome to return to me when the ink dries on your client’s lease and you have any new grounds for reconsideration of his bail. I agree with you that remand on these charges, for a first offense, is a highly unusual position for Mr. Battaglia’s office. Feel free to renew your application when you think it’s appropriate.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Until such time, however, the defendant is remanded.”
Mohammed Gil-Darsin stood up, appearing far less sanguine about the news than did his lawyer. Lem chatted with him, and patted him on the shoulder as he sent him off to the holding pens behind the courtroom to await the bus ride to Rikers Island, then tried to make his apologies to me before we could follow the crowd out into the hallway.
“Well, at least Donnelly didn’t close the door on me entirely, did she?” he asked.
“Not so hard as I’d like to do.”
“How about I buy you a cocktail at the end of your long day, Alex? I think you and I have a lot to talk about.”
“It’s such a tempting offer, Lem,” I said, holding my arms out, palms up, imaginarily weighing each side like Lady Justice over my shoulder. “A drink with you tonight or root canal? Tough choice, but I think I’m leaning toward the latter.”
We were interrupted by Mickey Diamond, who’d come forward from the press section to select for tomorrow’s paper one of the sketches the Post artist had rendered.
“It’s not my fault, Alex,” he said. “I wasn’t working last night. I hated what they did to you with that headline this morning.”
“I know it wasn’t you. Don’t even think about it.” It was my own damn fault-the entanglement, as Lem called it, in the two murders that had occurred, the fact that Mike had been drawn in to help Luc on my behalf, and my bickering with him last night in the driveway in front of my building.
“How’s this?” Diamond said, holding several drawings in his hands. “Pick your favorite one. I’ll make it up to you. Your best angle, Alex.”
I laughed. “I’d prefer to be left out of it all together. Use this one of Ellen-it’s very flattering. Or this one of Lem, posturing like a peacock. I’ll even write the caption for you.”
“They’re going with the line I got already. I mean, it’s not my fault. I texted it in after Lem made his crack about you to the court.”
“Dare I ask?” I was so low on adrenaline that I couldn’t even muster the juice to blush with embarrassment or engage my bad temper.
Diamond lifted his pad to show me. SEX CRIMES PROSECUTOR DINING IN HELL’S KITCHEN?
THIRTY-SIX
I made it through Battaglia’s press conference without taking any personal hits, then went back to my own office to continue working on his op-ed piece.
When I showed him a partial draft of the essay at 6:40 that evening, he told me the language wasn’t strong enough and I should stay at it. He had clearly given up the idea of placing it in the next day’s paper, so I felt no need to struggle with it any longer after he left.
Mercer was still waiting for me when I returned to my desk. “I neglected to feed you last night, after all that talk at ‘21.’”
“I’m not very good company. I’ve got no focus at all.”
“Mike wants to meet us for dinner.”
“Didn’t we just try that routine? It had a miserable ending for all concerned.”
“You owe it to him, girl. This week you just do. He has some things to tell you, and he wants to pick your brain.”
“There’s nothing left in it to pick. It’s like a flock of vultures went at it on empty stomachs. Is this with or without Luc?”
“Without.”
“No surprises again? Because I couldn’t bear it.” I opened the door to the narrow coat closet in my office and took a look at myself in the mirror.
“No surprises.”
“Do either of you plan on telling me whether Luc’s on his way to Sing Sing already or just keeping busy around town?”
“Luc’s fine. He had another session with the Brooklyn cops today, along with both of his partners.”
I brushed my hair and put some lipstick on, but nothing was going to help the drained look my face had taken on during the week, or the despair I felt tonight.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Whatever’s left of me, I’m all yours.”
The elevator came down from the ninth floor, half-full of lawyers from one of the bureaus in the Trial Division. Two complimented us on the MGD indictment, while two others made gentle fun of the morning’s headline. I couldn’t wait to get out on the street, away from the office.
Colleagues were coming out of both buildings the DA’s office occupied on Hogan Place-five hundred lawyers strong, with thousands on the support staff as well. Those on trial would burn the midnight oil, but others split off in groups of two and three, headed for the bar at Forlini’s or an affordable dinner in Chinatown to relive the day’s work.
“Hey, Mercer,” Tom Curran, a senior litigator, called out. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Rain check,” the popular detective said, leading me toward his car on Canal Street.
“What’s the matter? You Coop’ed up tonight?”
I waved back at the group that guffawed at his joke. “The next dog of a case that finds its way to my desk will have your name written all over it, Tom.”
“Bring it on, Alex.” There was nothing about a courtroom contest that scared my good-natured friend. “What happened to your boy-toy? Today’s Post read like Chapman quit the force to write copy for them. You need a backup? ’Cause I’m almost as good-looking as he is.”
Tom and Mike had the same distinctively handsome Irish faces, both with thick heads of black hair and winning smiles.
“You’ll be the first to know when I’m on the market.”
“Then go a round with us at Forlini’s right now.”
“You heard Mercer. Next time.”
“Tell you what,” Tom said. “When Lem knocks you out with an acquittal on MGD, I’ll throw the party.”
“I’ve had ten better offers than that just this afternoon. See you tomorrow.”
We got into the car and Mercer made a U-turn to drive uptown on Lafayette Street.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Patroon.”
I was happy for the first time all day. Ken Aretsky had been a trusted friend to Luc and me and would protect me in his superb restaurant, with all the care and comfort that went along with his great food.