with that foreign policy wonk and c’mon home to me. It’s lonely here without you-just the Cooperwoman to give me orders all the time. What’s with the emergency beep, kid-half-price sale at Schlumberger you gotta tell her about?”
Chapman looked up at Mercer and me as he repeated Joan’s answer. “You wanna dish about a dead woman? Well, now that it’s been on CNN this morning, I guess all you art mavens will be calling in with useless information.” He paused to listen to something Joan was telling him, then glanced back at us as he said good-bye and turned off the phone.
“It’s not enough we gotta deal with
Joan was a playwright, just back from London, where her latest satire had opened to brilliant reviews and full houses. “Go to the bank with her on this one. It’s the world she was raised in. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she knew most of the players in the gallery scene-she’s got a marvelous collection herself, plus she’s been shopping the auctions to redecorate Jim’s place in Washington.”
I looked at the list on my pad. “I need to do a search warrant for some of Deni’s things and have it ready in case you connect with her partner by tomorrow. The appointment book and calendar, records of sales and purchases-”
Mercer interrupted me. “We’ve got to assume a lot of this stuff is on computers. Be sure you draft the warrant so we can walk out of there with the hard drives, disks, and anything else in the office. The guys can download the data and get information that way, too. We’ll search the gallery first to let you know what’s there.”
“I can always amend the warrant if you see more than we’ve thought of by the time you go in,” I said.
“I’ll reach out for Daughtry,” he continued, “and call the funeral home for details on the memorial service.”
I finished my Raisin Bran while Mike worked his way through an omelette, home fries, a side order of bacon, and toast and Mercer picked at a bagel with cream cheese. “Who’s going to check out Lowell Caxton’s shooting incident in the Nineteenth?”
“I’ll swing by there later tonight,” Chapman said, barely coming up for air between bites of his breakfast. “I’ll also take care of the ladder manufacturer-see how common the brand is and who sells it.” He aimed his fork at Mercer. “You see if you can run raps on all the employees at both galleries, and work on the art hijacking in June. What was it-Della Spigas? Who’s Della Spiga, Coop?”
“I’ve got to go back to the books for that one. Ask me again at the end of the day.”
“What’s your schedule like this week?”
“Once I knock off the brief on Reggie X this afternoon and argue it tomorrow, I’m free. It’ll take the judge a couple of weeks to make a decision and write his opinion. The sooner I get downtown, the faster I get it out of the way.”
Mercer pushed off from the table and took the check from the waitress, while Mike dredged the last few fries through the ketchup.
“No point in you taking me,” I said. “My car is right up the street. Just keep me posted.” I waved good-bye and walked to my garage. I pulled the Jeep out and made my way over to the FDR Drive, while the all-news radio station wedged the story of Denise Caxton’s identification as the murder victim between the Yankees’ doubleheader victory last night and reviews of the Spice Girls’ concert in Central Park. Maybe Chapman wasn’t entirely crazy-live fast, die young, and be a good-looking corpse. Deni’s fortune hadn’t seemed to offer her very much more.
I escaped the rest of the hot afternoon and evening by immersing myself in completing the court papers I had to submit on Monday morning. The case was an old arrest of Mercer’s, and my adversary had used his skills to challenge every aspect of the police procedures used in the investigation. The hearings we had just ended included the propriety of the arrest tactics, the legality of the search and seizure of evidence linking the perp-Reggie Bramwell-to the beating and rape of his estranged lover, and the admissibility of statements that Bramwell made to Mercer in the hours after he was taken into custody.
The case was pending in front of Harry Marklis, a jurist from the old school who didn’t get domestic abuse at all. My last pretrial motion was an effort to convince the judge to allow my victim, Mariana Catano, to testify to two earlier episodes that involved the same defendant. One was an attempted assault that he had pleaded guilty to a year before, and the other was a confrontation in which he had threatened to set fire to her so that she’d look ugly enough that no other man would want her.
I had argued myself blue in the face, but Marklis was clueless. “So, why didn’t she just leave him, Miss Cooper? What the hell’d she take him back for?” If I hadn’t been able to explain the complex dynamic of a relationship of battering to a justice of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, I could only imagine how the average juror would respond to the same issue. Yet over and over again, my colleagues and I would see the cycle of violence escalate in these cases, and attempt to understand the complicated panoply of emotional, familial, and economic binds that kept the partners in place.
Mercer Wallace joined me in my office at nine o’clock on Monday morning. He was keenly interested in the outcome of Mariana’s matter and wanted to hear my argument on this final pretrial issue. Marklis had directed our appearances for 10 a.m., although he was known for taking the bench late in the morning and quitting early in the afternoon.
“Anything develop last night?”
“Nope. Wasn’t able to reach Daughtry anywhere. Gallery’s closed on Sunday and Monday all through the summer, and his answering service just kept telling me they’d given him my message several times. Trying to get his home address so we can pay him a visit, but I’ll wait till you’re done upstairs. Allnighter?”
“Not too bad. I was home before midnight. Polished this off and started a rough draft of a warrant on the word processor, ready to go when you guys come up with something.”
“All work and no play…”
“Don’t go there, Mercer. You’re as bad as Mike.” I gathered up my file folders and motioned to him to move so we could head upstairs to Marklis’s court part. “I’m fine. Got stood up for the weekend ’cause this guy I’ve been seeing was sent out of town on assignment. But thanks for asking.”
The only people in Part 59 were the three court officers and Rich Velosi, the court clerk. I placed my files on the counsel table and asked if there was any word from the judge.
“Yeah, Ms. Konigsberg just called,” Rich answered, referring to the judge’s law secretary. “He’s working in chambers, she says, so he won’t get up here for another half hour.”
The court officers all laughed, knowing that “working in chambers” was just a euphemism for “The judge hasn’t arrived yet.” But neither had my adversary. “Prisoner produced?”
“He’s in the pens.”
Mercer began to schmooze with the officers while I reviewed my notes. From baseball they went to golf, from golf to the first pro football exhibition games, and from the games to the Bramwell case. “Y’think Cooper’s got a chance to get a decision on this motion before Labor Day?”
“Marklis make a decision? Listen, he’s got two toilets in the robing room and it usually takes him twenty minutes to figure out which one he wants to use. All depends on the troll factor.”
Mercer and I both smiled. The officers referred to the petite law secretary, Ilse Konigsberg, as “the Troll.” Whatever she whispered in Marklis’s ear was bound to be the law of the case.
It was exactly eleven twenty-eight on my watch when Marklis, short and stout, waddled through the door and took his seat at the bench as the clerk called us to order and asked everyone in the courtroom to rise. The defendant had been brought out from the pens minutes earlier, when his lawyer had entered the well.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Miss Cooper. Why don’t you all state your appearances for the record, and then we’ll get started.”
“Alexandra Cooper, for the People.” I spoke aloud and remained standing while the defense attorney, Danny Wistenson, spelled his name for the stenographer.
“It’s now nine thirty-five, and we’re going to resume argument in the Bramwell case.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Mercer and rolled my eyes in disgust. Marklis had long protected himself by making a phony record of the time of the proceedings. My colleagues and I had challenged him on any number of
