'I don't think Lola had anything to do with that one. Nan was brought in as a consultant by King's College on something brand-new. The head of their anthropology department, a guy named Winston Shreve, asked her to head up a small project for them. Shreve had this idea to take a significant urban structure with an interesting architectural history, let Nan lead the excavation, and then combine the students' physical dig with courses about the political and cultural history. Lola was one of four teachers heading up the operation. It's attracted a lot of attention in academia- very substantive, but at the same time very lively for the students. You'd be amazed at some of the things they've found.' 'Where are they working?' 'The Octagon Tower. Do you know it?' 'Never heard of it.'
'You'll have to let Nan take you over to see it-it's quite extraordinary. It was New York's first lunatic asylum. Of course, that's what they called it then, back in the early nineteenth century. It's on Roosevelt Island, the northern end, just south of the lighthouse.'
'Not part of that great-looking ruin you see from the Drive?' The one I had pointed out to Chapman on Saturday night.
'No, not the hospital. You can't see the Octagon from this side of the river. Tell you what. Come over to the house for drinks tomorrow night, and Nan will tell you everything she knows about Lola. Then, when you have a chance, I want her to promise she'll take you out to the Octagon so you can watch what's going on.' We agreed to meet at seven on Tuesday just as Chapman walked in the door, taped a sprig of green plastic mistletoe on the bookshelf overhanging Laura's chair, and kissed her on the back of the neck. 'I'll be bringing a detective with me, if that's okay. See you then.'
'Where are we going?' Chapman asked.
'Right now, we're going to Part Seventy-four for my hearing. Can you believe that the dig Lola was working on was an old lunatic asylum? I'm afraid if the two of us make a site visit, they're likely to keep us. My friend's wife is going to tell us what Lola was up to if we stop by their house tomorrow. This hearing will be short. As soon as I'm finished we can scoot out of here, up to the college.'
Pat McKinney was standing in the doorway, mug in hand, as I gathered my papers and white legal pad. 'Guess I don't need to worry about the direction of your investigation anymore, Alex. They're giving you the big guns to work the case. Detective I've-got-a-ninety-three-percent-clearance-rate-on-my-homicides himself.' These two despised each other. McKinney took any shot he could at Mike, and Chapman felt a constant need to cover my back against McKinney's double dealings.
'Don't dally too long, Pat. You'll be missing your Mensa meeting,' Mike said just as snidely. Over McKinney's shoulder, we could see Ellen Gunsher and Pedro de Jesus on their way down the hall to his office for their daily ritual of coffee behind closed doors.
'I want to be sure you sit down with us before I head upstate for Christmas, Alex. Pedro has some ideas about the trial you're starting in January. The blood-spatter evidence. I think it would be useful to hear him on it.'
'Pedro hasn't tried a case since I was in the academy. He's giving advice to Coop? You two ought to start your own Web site.
She probably even buys into your baloney. Thinks you were a trial dog once upon a time. Gunsher wouldn't know the difference between the inside of a courtroom and the Spring Street Bar. 'We got work to do, buddy. And you, Ms. Moneypenny,' Mike said, winking at Laura, 'I expect you to tell me whether you've been good or bad this year. Don't let McKinney under my mistletoe. His breath's funny. See you later.'
We brushed past Pat and trotted down the staircase across the seventh-floor corridor to take the elevators up to the sixteenth-floor courtrooms. 'How come you were late? I thought you were going to be in my office by eight o'clock.'
'Forgot I had to make a stop at the hospital. See a friend.'
'Sorry. Who's sick?'
'Nobody you know. Just promised to be there for some blood tests. I'll tell you later.'
It was unlike Mike not to respond directly to my questions, so I left it alone for the moment. 'Anything more on the student who killed himself?'
'He was one of the kids that the dean had lined up to talk to us this afternoon. So far, that's all I know about him. People are dying to get out of your way, Coop.'
Truly, a sobering thought. 'The narcotics assistant who has the file wasn't in yet. I left a message for him to call as soon as possible and get a copy of all the police reports over to me.' I pushed through the courtroom door and walked forward into the well.
The judge, defense attorney, and court officers were all waiting for me to appear. I apologized for keeping them waiting as Judge Zavin ordered the defendant produced from the pens. Behind each courtroom was a small holding cell to which incarcerated offenders were delivered from the correction department, brought to the building from the nearby Tombs or the longer bus ride from Rikers Island. From her desk in the far corner, the court clerk called the case for the record.
'Calendar number four. People against Harold Suggs. Indictment number 4362 of 1994. Matter is on for a hearing under the Sex Offender Registration Act. Counsel, state your appearances, please.'
'For the People, Alexandra Cooper.'
'Bobby Abramson for Mr. Suggs.'
Since the murder of six-year-old Megan Kanka in a small New Jersey township several years earlier, every state in the country had responded with legislation mandating that convicted sex offenders be required to register their addresses upon release with a local police agency. In New York, before they could be paroled from prison, a hearing had to be held to establish a level of offender responsibility, which would determine how often that individual would have to report for monitoring of his home and work situations. It would also decide whether the public could be informed that Mr. Suggs had moved into the neighborhood.
These Megan's Laws, as they have come to be called, arose from the facts in that little girl's case. Her killer was a convicted child molester who settled in a home across the street from Megan's house, although no one in her family was aware of his background. After luring her into his yard with the promise that he would show her a puppy, the 'rehabilitated' parolee molested and murdered the child.
'Ms. Cooper, Mr. Abramson-have you each had an opportunity to examine the recommendations made by the review board?'
'Yes, Your Honor,' we answered at the same time.
'Do either of you wish to challenge the findings?'
Again, we each said, 'Yes.'
Of the three possible ratings, Suggs had been evaluated a 2 by the board. I had done a thorough background workup of him and wanted to argue that he was eligible for the most serious monitoring level, or a 3, while my adversary was fighting to reduce his exposure and take him down to a 1.
'I intend to call witnesses, Judge,' Abramson said.
I glanced over to the row of benches behind him and saw a middle-aged woman with a scowl on her face, sitting beside a stack of folders. Just what I needed. An unanticipated witness for the defense to drag out the morning's proceedings.
'I'll hear Ms. Cooper first. Are you personally familiar with this matter?'
'Yes, Your Honor. I tried the case for our office in ninety-four.'
'Perhaps you can give me more detail than the court file has.' It was always an odd experience to appear before Frances Zavin on a sex crime. She was a very stern jurist, nearing retirement age, who had chosen to decorate her courtroom with two oversize canvases that hung on either side of her raised chair. Both were modern paintings in bold colors, and the one situated above the witness box portrayed a large, mangy dog with an exposed, erect penis. It was our practice to warn rape victims not to look up at it as they took the stand for fear that it would unnerve them, and we often wondered what jurors thought as they listened to graphic testimony and stared at the aroused mutt.
I talked to Zavin, framed as she was by her artwork. 'Mr. Suggs was fifty-eight at the time he committed these acts. He is what I would call a classic pedophile, which is the reason-' 'Objection, Judge. That's a prejudicial and conclusory-' 'Mr. Abramson, hold your objections until Ms. Cooper completes her statement. There's no jury here,
