“With laser precision.”
A huge roar from the crowd went up as Lem Howell and Mohammed Gil-Darsin emerged from within the lobby and out onto the top of the steps.
I looked above them at the words carved into the granite of the old courthouse:
EQUAL AND EXACT JUSTICE TO ALL MEN OF WHATEVER STATE OR PERSUASION.
Mercer tilted his head back, too. “1939. A little sexist in those days, don’t you think?”
I laughed. “It’s better now? I hate doing what we did to that woman.”
“She did it to herself, Alex. We gave her every chance, even before you got back to town. Like you said, I’m not really sure she knows what truth is.”
I crossed my arms and readied myself for a speech.
Lem Howell silenced the crowd, one hand raised above his head, by speaking a single word: “Innocent.”
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, putting his hand on the shoulder of Baby Mo. “Since the very beginnings of this case, I have maintained the innocence of my client. Throughout this week, I have argued that there were many reasons to believe that Mr. Gil-Darsin’s accuser was not credible.”
The distinguished-looking WEB head had a more serious expression on his face than the one he’d worn in court just an hour ago.
“You have seen something extraordinary today-something remarkable, something so unusual that I have not seen it at any time since Paul Battaglia’s first election to this job, more than five terms ago. The district attorney stood at this podium and announced-after an indictment was filed, after his star witness had given sworn testimony, after he had asked for the imprisonment of my client without bail-he announced that he had doubts about the credibility of the woman who testified. I tell you that we are fortunate to live in a time and in a place where this kind of justice is available to all who come before the court.”
There was a movement at the bottom of the steps. The door of the limousine opened and the bodyguard closest to the side of the car pulled it back.
Those of us on the steps and some people jammed together at the front of the crowd, along with all the uniformed cops, watched as Kalissatou Gil-Darsin planted her feet-shiny black patent stilettos bearing her long legs-on the pavement of Centre Street and gracefully unfolded from the backseat of the stretch.
“My client and his family-his beautiful wife, Kali-have believed in the American system of justice, despite the unbearable indignity of his incarceration all this week.”
Lem paused so the reporters who were closest could get photographs of Madame Gil-Darsin. She appeared to be at least six feet tall, dressed in a long-sleeved cobalt-blue sheath that complemented her figure as well as her husband’s attire. There was a shawl draped over her left arm, along with an open tote that matched her shoes.
If Baby Mo represented the world of sleaze-a charge of first-degree rape, semen in the hotel room after a sexual encounter with the maid who’d been his accuser, confirmation that a girlfriend had visited his room the night before, and his possible involvement in a ring of escorts and prostitutes-then Kali was the epitome of elegance.
The reunion of husband and wife, on the steps of the hall of justice, would be the money shot to play in newspapers around the world.
“I know you’d like to hear from Mr. Gil-Darsin,” Lem said, “but while the charges are still pending, it would be unwise of me to allow him to address you-despite his strong desire to do so.”
MGD nodded his head up and down.
Reporters began to rumble with displeasure at word that the defendant himself would not speak.
“How’d the semen get on her uniform?” Mickey Diamond yelled out.
“Will you comment on the news out of Lille?” a miked-up reporter with a French accent called out.
“What about the civil lawsuit?” a local TV commentator asked. “How much are you willing to settle for, to make it go away?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off Kali. Her bearing was regal, and in the midst of all the tawdry comments and tacky circumstances, she never winced or evidenced a shred of emotion.
“This is not the end of the matter against my client,” Lem said. “But his freedom speaks volumes about the strength-or may I say weakness-of the People’s case. I want to thank you, on behalf of Mohammed Gil-Darsin, for your fair and open-minded reporting on this matter. I hope you will give my client a few days to make up for the liberty taken from him. A good weekend to you all.”
Lem Howell and Mohammed Gil-Darsin exchanged handshakes and bear hugs. They took the first two steps down, then Lem stood to the side while his client waved to the crowd. MGD clasped his hands together and bowed his head several times.
The defendant-I still thought of him as that, and would continue to do so until we reached a final decision-continued down the last few stairs of the courthouse.
He opened his arms wide, facing his wife and smiling at her, saying the words “thank you” loud enough that they were audible to all of us, even without the microphones.
As Baby Mo stepped onto the sidewalk, just a few feet away from her, Kali reached into her bag and pulled out a small handgun.
Her first shot struck Mohammed Gil-Darsin squarely in the chest and took him down immediately. The three that followed quickly, as she stood over his body and fired before six police officers reached her side and disarmed her, made certain he was dead.
FORTY-FIVE
“I didn’t get the e-mail today,” Mike said, coming into the conference room a little after 10 P.M., carrying two boxes of pizzas which he dropped on the long table.
“Which one was that?” Ryan asked.
“You know. ‘Ignore the sound of gunshots. They’re just shooting a scene from Law and Order on the courthouse steps.’ I don’t know that anybody has ever been so sorry to be ROR’d as Baby Mo,” Mike said. “Or Baby Mort, as they’re calling him now.”
The entire team-Pat McKinney, Ellen Gunsher, Ryan Blackmer, Mercer, and I-was still in shock. It was impossible to absorb that we had witnessed a homicide at our own front door, almost stage-set by the defense counsel for the photo op of his infamous client reuniting with his perfect wife.
Like any group that had gone through a traumatic event together, we were reluctant to leave one another for the weekend, even though our work was done. We kept reliving the day’s events, talking about whether there were any measures that we should have taken that would have changed things.
“Where’s the big cheese?” Mike asked, obviously trying to cut the tension in the room.
“Battaglia? He left about an hour ago,” I said.
“I see you raided the liquor cabinet. Couldn’t wait for me, Coop, could you?”
I’d contributed a liter of Dewar’s that I kept in the bottom of one of my filing cabinets for special occasions. McKinney had vodka and bourbon, and we were making do with plastic cups.
“It was just a horrible sight. A cold-blooded execution, right under our noses,” I said, taking another sip of my drink.
“CSU is still downstairs finishing the job.”
“It took forever to clear the crowd to get Crime Scene and the morgue van in,” Mercer said. “That slowed them down badly.”
“Declared here, or did he make it to a hospital?” Mike asked.
“Before his head hit the sidewalk,” Mercer said, while Ryan handed out slices. “Kali fired four from a LadySmith.38. Then she dropped it and held up her slim wrists to be cuffed and taken away. Stiff upper lip the whole time.”
“Not as stiff as his is.” Mike poured himself a few inches of vodka and touched his cup against mine. “Here’s to Carrie Underwood.”
“Why?”
“Must have been Kali’s favorite song,” Mike said, singing a few bars of Underwood’s hit that scored with the line “maybe next time he’ll think before he cheats.”