“I’m going to excuse Ms. Robles and call the next witness. You understand, of course—and I know you’ve been charged on the law earlier in the month—that the defendant has no obligation to say anything at all,” Ellen said.
Ellen excused the witness, who lumbered from the table like she was carrying all her troubles on her broad shoulders. Ellen opened the door to let her out and to bring Mercer in before the jury.
Mercer’s imposing presence always made a strong impression on jurors. There was a subliminal message sent by his size and manner and deep voice that he was a force for right and good and justice. If there were hesitant jurors, he would likely put Blanca’s case over the edge, just by his appearance.
He raised his hand and swore to tell the truth. “Mercer Wallace. Detective first grade. Manhattan Special Victims Unit.”
He wore a navy-blue suit with a yellow silk tie and pocket square, and all eyes were on him as he told the group how long he had been on the job and when he was awarded the top grade in the department and assigned to the elite SVU.
“On Saturday, April 23, did you meet with the complaining witness in this case, Blanca Robles?” Ellen asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“And during the early morning hours of Sunday, April 24, did you arrest the defendant in this case, Mohammed Gil-Darsin?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you advise Mr. Gil-Darsin of his rights?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did he make any statements to you concerning Ms. Robles or the allegations against him?”
“No, he did not.”
I could see the assistant foreman shaking his head from side to side. Although defendants had the right to remain silent, the average citizen hated the fact that they did.
Mercer described being present for Crime Scene’s examination
of the Eurotel room in which the encounter occurred, and the fact that Baby Mo’s semen was on the wall, floor, and maid’s uniform.
He was out of the room within three minutes’ time.
Ellen Gunsher moved to the front and read the charges to the grand jurors from the Penal Law. Then she and I stepped outside while they deliberated.
When cases presented few issues, the vote could take a matter of only seconds, signaled to the waiting prosecutors by the foreman’s buzzer that rang on the warden’s desk. These deliberations would take longer, jurors being certain to bring press accounts into the conversation although they had been admonished not to.
“Can I send Blanca downstairs?” Ellen asked.
“Keep her right here. If they want her back for any more questions, let’s have her standing by.”
I could hear raised voices from within. Probably one team of doubters, led by the retired principal who wanted her rape victim to be screaming, taking on the law-and-order jurors who wanted to vote a true bill.
Mercer, Ryan, and I went out in the hallway and paced together. Fifteen minutes of waiting turned into twenty-five.
“Maybe we got a runaway jury going on,” Ryan said.
“Forty-five minutes in,” Mercer said, “then I’ll start to worry. This is nothing for a case with all this media coverage.”
“Remember the old chief judge, court of appeals?” I asked Mercer. “Before your time, Ryan, but he once bemoaned the prosecutorial control at this stage in the case, saying a Manhattan grand jury would indict a ham sandwich if asked to.”
“Well, maybe they’re not biting on your croque monsieur, Al.”
“Don’t get smug yet,” I said, yanking his necktie.
Now the loud voice I heard came from the waiting room. I poked my head back in to see Blanca Robles facing off with Pat McKinney.
“They don’t believe me? They taking so long because they don’t believe me? I’ll get Mr. Peaser and we’ll go to the other court.”
Pat held the woman by the arm and tried to restrain her as she came our way.
“I didn’t say that at all. Please, Blanca. I was just trying to explain why it sometimes takes them longer.”
“That’s because she was in the room,” the angry woman shouted, pointing at me. “If they didn’t care about what happened to me, it’s because you poisoned them, Alexandra Cooper.”
Mercer blocked the door and worked on calming his witness as only he could do. “Alex is on your side, Blanca. You wouldn’t be here if all of us didn’t agree about this. You’ve got to trust us—”
The sound of the buzzer startled everyone and quieted the commotion.
As Mercer went into the jury room, I hurried over to the warden’s desk to retrieve the slip on which Ellen had written up the charges.
When Mercer returned thirty seconds later, he handed the paper to Ellen and gave me an instant thumbs-up. I read it over her shoulder. Mohammed Gil-Darsin, head of the World Economic Bureau and aspiring president of the Republic of the Ivory Coast, stood indicted for the crimes of rape in the first degree and criminal sexual assault—known by the crude name “sodomy” until recent changes in the law—both committed by forcible compulsion.
There would be little likelihood of a judge any longer releasing Baby Mo on bail.
It was six-fifteen when Laura said good night and Mercer told me that Mike wanted to have dinner with us to talk about things.
The grand jury vote was not a matter of public record until the filing of the indictment with the court, so Battaglia would have no shot at a press conference this evening. The papers would be signed by the foreman at two tomorrow afternoon, and then an arraignment in the higher court would take place on Friday.
“I don’t want to hang out tonight. I’m whipped.”
“I’m all spiffed up with nowhere to go,” Mercer said.
“Take your wife to dinner. She’s hardly seen you this week. Let Mike quiz her about
her
love life, ’cause I’m off duty as of right now.”
“Vickee’s got a girls’ night out, and I think Logan prefers the babysitter’s cooking to mine. Who said anything about your love life?”
“Mike won’t talk to me about the cases. I get that. It’s just—I’m not up for being a punching bag tonight.”
“I’ll give you a ride uptown. You’ve got a few miles of snarled traffic that might make you change your mind,” Mercer said, turning off the light switch and closing my office door behind us.
It was one of those rare nights I could leave all my folders behind on my desk. I was looking forward to a quiet evening alone. I daydreamed about drawing a hot bath and sipping Scotch in the tub while I tried to let myself relax. I needed to make sense of what a train wreck I’d made of my romance.
We took the elevator down and walked around the corner to Mercer’s car. In just a few minutes, with local radio news telling us the FDR was jammed, Mercer began the slow crawl up the Bowery to the East Side. We passed the time talking about everything except what mattered most to me. Mercer was sensitive, as always, to my mood.
My cell rang and caller ID showed it was Mike’s home phone. “You can pick it up, Alex,” Mercer said. “I’m fresh out of interesting gossip. He’s not interrupting anything.”
“He’s going straight to voice mail, my friend. Mike’s interrupting my attempts to get in touch with my saner self.”
“That’s a Herculean task, Ms. Cooper, right at this very moment.”
Now the text function began to vibrate. “Whoops. I love it when he gets desperate and has to communicate with me silently,” I said, pressing the button to open it.
I looked at the message and laughed out loud. We were stopped at a red light and I held the screen up in front of Mercer: C>~~~~~~.
“Keyboard sperm,” he said, also chuckling at the image Mike had sent, a Sex Crimes Unit shorthand detectives often sent prosecutors when DNA results came in. “I hope he’s trying to tell you something professional, not personal.”
“Fingers crossed on that count,” I said, pocketing my phone.
“You’re not even answering the text? C’mon, see what the boy wants.”
“I’m not having dinner with you guys, period. I’m ordering in from Shun Lee and that’s the end of it. I don’t want to talk to Mike or text him or take any of his crap tonight. Over and out.”
Mercer’s phone rang next.
“He’s relentless,” I said, as Mercer answered it.
“Yes, indeed, Detective Chapman. I am holding one beat-up blond hostage in my car, and she wants absolutely no part of you,” Mercer said, pausing for the reply. “Oh, it’s me you wanted?”
He listened while Mike explained something to him, then spoke again. “Okay, so dinner’s not happening?” Another pause. “Yeah, I’ve got the lab report with me. Sure thing. Alex can run it up.”
I assumed I looked as exasperated as I felt.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, girl.”
“I’m sorry to break up your dinner plans, but—”
“Not a problem.”
“But I’m not running anything up to Mike.”
“When he goes in tonight, the lieutenant wants the DNA report on that rape-homicide we’re working together. That was a professional sperm symbol Mike e-mailed to you. I picked up the lab papers today on my way in, when I stopped for the certified copy of Baby Mo’s results.”
“It’s too creepy in Mike’s apartment. It’s still like a shrine to Valerie. He’s got to get her clothes out of there. I’m not going up.”
“Ancient history. Vickee took care of that a couple of months ago.”
“Really? You guys are great. That was a sweet thing to do.”
“And just because I’m asking you to, you’re going to take that gray envelope out of my briefcase and go upstairs. I don’t care if you don’t go inside, I don’t care if you don’t want to see him. Just slip it under Mike’s door while I stay double-parked, then I’ll drop you at home. The dude’s been doing double-duty for you all week, Alex.”
“Guilt me, Mercer. Just lay it on.” I slouched down in my seat. “I’ll take the papers upstairs, okay?”
“I promise to wait for you,” he said, turning up the radio so I could listen to Smokey Robinson tracing the tracks of his tears. The ride from there was chatter bemoaning a Yankee season without Posada and trying to schedule a May weekend on the Vineyard for Mercer, Vickee, and Logan.
Mercer stopped the car in front of a fire hydrant close to the dilapidated brownstone where Mike lived. I got out with the folder and opened the door to the vestibule. Instead of his name on the plate next to the bell for 4A, the typed tag read
COFFIN
. I pressed it, and thirty seconds later the buzzer went off, admitting me to the hallway.
I grabbed the banister and started trotting up the steps. With each flight, the cracks and chips in the paint seemed to be longer and deeper.
I reached the fourth-floor landing and stopped to catch my breath. Mercer was right about Mike’s concern for me this week, and all he had done on my behalf.
I knocked and said, “It’s me, Mike. I’ve got your papers.”
The door opened. Luc Rouget smiled at me and took me in his arms.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh, ssh,” Luc said, wrapping me inside a great embrace, kissing me all over the top of my head. He kicked the door shut while he tried to stop my crying. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“It can’t be. That’s a foolish thing to say, Luc.” I was unable to stop the meltdown. “What are you doing here?”
He stroked my hair and held me close. “We’ll talk about it, darling. Just calm down and—”
“Calm down?” I said, looking up at him. “I had no idea where in the world you were. I’ve had every horrible thought—”
“Just stop thinking, then, Alex.” He lifted my chin and kissed me, long and lovingly. I gave in to him, letting the tears stream down my cheeks, kissing him again and again.
“When did you get here?” I suddenly realized there was barely enough room in Mike’s apartment for two of us to be inside with him. I took a step back. “Where’s Mike?”
“He’s been a prince throughout all this,” Luc said, dabbing at my mascara-streaked face with his handkerchief. “I owe you an apology for the way I talked about him on Sunday.”
I bit my lip, laughing at myself. “Great. And I’ve been an absolute bear to him tonight. Blew him off completely.”
“He’ll recover.”
“Did you send some guy to my apartment the other night, to talk to me? Did you really do that?”
“It was before I had a chance to talk things through with Mike. I was desperate to get word to you. Just one of my old friends. It was a stupid thing to do. Sorry, Alexandra.”
Luc took my hand and started to lead me over to the bed.
“Don’t even think about that here in this apartment,” I said.
“Give me a little credit, darling. I was just going to get you off your feet to talk.”
I went over to one of the two stools in front of the kitchen counter. I could hardly handle the idea of being in Mike’s apartment to meet with Luc about anything.
Luc took the other stool. “It’s the police who kept me from calling you, Alex. You understand that, don’t you?”
I couldn’t look him in the eye. I didn’t answer.
“What? You think I didn’t want to?”
“I’m so confused. What are you doing here?”
“The Brooklyn detectives asked me to come over. You understand there was a man who was killed,” Luc said. “Mike told me you—”
“Luigi Calamari? Do you know him?”
“I don’t know him. I mean, I met him where he used to work, in a professional capacity. I don’t know him outside of that.”
“But you’ve hired him to be at Lutèce?”
“I didn’t hire him. I’ve got a manager and partners who do all that work on the ground over here. I didn’t know anything about Luigi until I got the call from the police.”
I looked away from Luc. A photograph of Valerie on the table next to Mike’s bed caught my eye. She was standing on a steel beam, thirty stories above the city, on the framework of a building she had designed. I wanted a share of the courage she possessed till the very end of her life.
“Listen to me, Alex. I’m as confused as you are.”
“That couldn’t possibly be. Your head would be spinning like mine is,” I said, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “You’d be as dizzy from it as I am right now.”
Luc stood up and put his arms around me, resting my head against his chest.
“I am dizzy, Alexandra, but not because of you. I’m quite clear about that.”