"We think Santiago was living in New Jersey."
"You have an address?"
"Nope. But we have a girlfriend. Or at least we think she's a girlfriend. A friend anyway."
"How did you find her?"
"That empty cell phone. She called it looking for him."
"So who is he really? Manolo Santiago, I mean?"
"Don't know."
"The girlfriend won't tell you?"
"The girlfriend only knew him as Santiago. Oh, something else important."
"What?"
"His body was moved. I mean, we were sure of that in the first place. But now we have it confirmed. And our ME says, based on the bleeding out and some other nonsense I don't quite understand or care to, Santiago was probably dead an hour before he got dumped. There are some carpet fibers, stuff like that. Preliminary shows that they're from a car."
"So Santiago was murdered, stuck in a trunk, and then dumped in Washington Heights?"
"That's our working theory."
"Do you have a make on the car?"
"Not yet. But our guy says it's something old. That's all he knows. But they're working on it."
"How old?"
"I don't know. Not new. Come on, Copeland, give me a break here."
"I have a pretty big personal interest in this case." "Speaking of which."
"What?"
"Why don't you jump in and help?"
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I have a psychotic caseload. We now have a possible New Jersey connection -Santiago probably lived there. Or at least his girlfriend does. And that's where she saw him exclusively, in New Jersey." My county?
"No, I think it's Hudson. Or maybe Bergen. Hell, I don't know. But its close enough. But let me add something else into the mix."
"I'm listening."
"Your sister lived in New Jersey, right?"
"Yes."
"That's not my jurisdiction. You can probably claim it as your own, even if it's out of your county. Open up the old case, it's not like any body else wants it."
I thought about that. I was being played, in part. He was hoping I'd do some of his legwork and hand off the glory, all of which was fine for me.
"This girlfriend," I said. "Do you have a name?"
"Raya Singh."
"How about an address?"
"You're going to talk to her?"
"You mind?"
"As long as you don't screw up my case, you can do whatever you want. But can I give you a piece of friendly advice?"
"Sure."
"That lunatic, the Summer Slasher. I forget his real name."
"Wayne Steubens," I said.
"You knew him, didn't you?"
"Have you read the case file?" I asked.
"Yep. They looked at you hard for it, didn't they?"
I still remember that Sheriff Lowell, that look of skepticism. Understandable, of course.
"What's your point?"
"Just this: Steubens is still looking to overturn his conviction."
"He was never tried for those first four murders," I said. "They didn't need them, they had better evidence in the other cases."
"I know. But still. He was linked. If it really is Gil Perez and Steubens was to hear, well, it would help him. You know what I'm saying?"
He was saying to keep it quiet until I knew something for sure. I got that. The last thing I wanted to do was help Wayne Steubens.
We hung up. Loren Muse stuck her head in my office.
"You got anything new for me?" I asked.
"Nope. Sorry." She checked her watch. "You ready for your big direct?"
"I am."
"Then come on. Its show time."
"The People call Chamique Johnson."
Chamique was dressed on the conservative side but not ridiculously so. You could still see the street. You could still see the curves. I even had her wear high heels. There are times you try to obstruct the jury's view. And there are times, like this, when you know that your only chance is for them to see the entire picture, warts and all.
Chamique kept her head high. Her eyes shifted right and left, not in a dishonest, Nixon way but in a where-is-the-next-blow-coming-from way. Her makeup was a little heavy. But that was okay too. It made her look like a girl trying to look like a grown-up.
There were those in my office who disagreed with this strategy. But I believed that if you are going to go down, go down with the truth. So that was what I was prepared to do now.
Chamique stated her name and swore on the Bible and sat down. I smiled at her and met her eye. Chamique offered me a little nod, giving me the okay to go ahead.
"You work as a stripper, isn't that right?"
Opening up with a question like that, without any preliminaries, surprised the gallery. There were a few gasps. Chamique blinked. She had some idea of what I was going to do here, but I had intentionally not been specific.
"Part time," she said.
I didn't like that answer. It seemed too wary.
"But you do take off your clothes for money, right?"
"Yeah."
That was more like it. No hesitation.
"Do you strip in clubs or at private parties?"
"Both."
"What club do you strip out of?"
"Pink Tail. It's in Newark."
"How old are you?" I asked.
"Sixteen."
"Don't you have to be eighteen to strip?"
"Yeah."
"So how do you get around that?"
Chamique shrugged. "I got a fake ID, says I'm twenty-one."
"So you break the law?"
"Guess so."
"Do you break the law or not?" I asked. There was a hint of steel in my voice. Chamique understood. I wanted her to be honest. I wanted her to-pardon the pun, her being a stripper and all-expose herself totally. The steel was a reminder.
"Yeah. I break the law."
I looked over at the defense table. Mort Pubin stared at me as if I were out of my mind. Flair Hickory had his palms pressed together, his index finger resting on his lips. Their two clients, Barry Marantz and Edward Jenrette, wore blue blazers and pale faces. They did not look smug or confident or evil. They looked contrite and scared and very young. The cynic would say that this was intentional-that their lawyers had told them how to sit and what expressions to wear on their faces. But I knew better. I just didn't let it matter to me.
I smiled at my witness. "You're not the only one, Chamique. We found a bunch of fake IDs at your rapists' frat house, so that they could all go out and do a little underage partying. At least you broke the law to make a living."
Mort was on his feet. "Objection!"
"Sustained."
But it was in. As the old saw goes, "You can't unring a bell."
"Miss Johnson," I continued, "you're not a virgin, are you?"
"No."
"In fact, you have a son out of wedlock."
"I do."
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen months."
"Tell me, Miss Johnson. Does the fact that you're not a virgin and have a son out of marriage make you less of a human being?" "Objection!" "Sustained." The judge, a bushy-eyed man named Arnold Pierce, frowned at me.
"I'm just pointing out the obvious, Your Honor. If Miss Johnson were an upper-class blonde from Short Hills or Livingston-"
"Save it for the summation, Mr. Copeland."
I would. And I had used it in the opening. I turned back to my victim.
"Do you enjoy stripping, Chamique?"
"Objection!" Mort Pubin was up again. "Irrelevant. Who cares if she likes stripping or not?" Judge Pierce looked at me. "Well?" "Tell you what," I said, looking at Pubin. "I won't ask about her stripping if you don't."
Pubin went still. Flair Hickory still had not spoken. He did not like to object. By and large, juries don't like objections. They think you're hiding something from them. Flair wanted to stay liked. So he had Mort do the hatchet work. It was the attorney version of good cop, bad cop.
I turned back to Chamique. "You weren't stripping the night you were raped, were you?"
"Objection!"
"Alleged rape," I corrected.
"No," Chamique said. "I was invited."
"You were invited to a party at the frat house where Mr. Marantz and Mr. Jenrette live?"
"That's right."
"Did either Mr. Marantz or Mr. Jenrette invite you?"