Robert Browne - Trial Junkies

"Overruled," Judge O'Donnell said immediately. "Read the passage Detective."

Meyer once again shifted in his seat and stared down at the page. All the fight had gone out of him. "'Meyer: Yeah, I'm dissatisfied, because I don't think the guy and his brother were the only ones involved. I think that little slut manipulated him into murdering her kid, so she could go out and party all night and screw anyone who winked at her.'"

The courtroom was silent. Even though Meyer had read it in a weary monotone, the statement said more about him than the hours of testimony preceding it, and his claim of not being a woman hater had been rendered as hollow as a bamboo saxophone. The women on the jury were looking at him in a whole new way now.

This didn't negate the fact that the prosecution still had some pretty damning evidence against Ronnie, but Waverly had successfully managed to remove Meyer's teeth and set the stage for a wrongful prosecution rap. And everything Meyer had said, everything he would say from here on out, would be regarded with deep suspicion.

Bravo, Hutch thought. She had played it expertly.

"Isn't it true, Detective, that you were reprimanded and suspended for this remark?"

"Yes," Meyer said.

"And didn't Ms. Tyler's attorney threaten a lawsuit against both you and the department for defamation of character against his client?"

"Cops get threats all the time," Meyer said. "Most of them don't amount to much."

"What about this one? What was the outcome?"

"It was eventually withdrawn after a deal was made by the city's Corporation Counsel."

"And what were the terms of that deal?"

"Objection, Your Honor. I doubt those terms are for public consumption."

"Overruled."

"The terms, Detective?"

Meyer shifted once again. "Ms. Tyler agreed to forego the suit in exchange for a small sum of money and a personal apology."

Waverly arched a brow. "I think you've left something out. What else did Ms. Tyler ask for?"

Meyer clearly didn't want to answer, but knew he had no choice. "My enrollment in a two-week gender sensitivity class."

"Gender sensitivity," Waverly said with a nearly imperceptible smile. "I think I'll leave it to the jury to decide whether or not it was effective."

"If you ever need a helping hand," Matt's father used to say, "you'll find one at the end of your arm."

It was a Yiddish proverb that his old man, a strong believer in self-sufficiency, would drag out whenever times were tough. And Matt's family had certainly seen their share of tough times over the years.

Matthew Isaacs, Sr. was a bank clerk who never quite worked his way up past the halfway point of the ladder, and when Matt was fourteen years old, his father was laid off in the midst of a restructuring deal. A couple of very lean years had followed, with Matt Sr. struggling to get any job he could find-mostly temporary day labor that involved his hands more than his brain, and paid just enough to keep them a half-step ahead of the bill collector. But he was a proud man who refused to take any kind of assistance.

Matt himself wasn't a stranger to tough times. Two marriages and divorces in the span of eight and a half years tend to take their emotional toll. And with the death knell of the newspaper business ringing loudly around the world, and his year-long relationship with a married woman coming to an abrupt and messy end (surprise, surprise), he felt as if he needed to regain some control of his life.

Channeling his energy into Ronnie's survival was his way of doing just that.

Last night, when Hutch had proposed that they all do what the cops had failed to do-what the cops had no real interest in doing-that Yiddish proverb had immediately come to mind.

If you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm.

In short, Hutch was right. They couldn't rely on fate or Waverly's legal team to get Ronnie out of this mess. They'd have to do it themselves.

So, first thing this morning, as the others cued up at the courtroom to watch the trial, Matt paid a visit to the Wyndham Academy of Pet Grooming.

The place was run by an officious little bitch (and, yes, that was the appropriate word here) whose disdain for reporters, or men, or both, seemed to run very deep. It was a case of detest at first sight, and all the ammo in Matt's charm locker couldn't penetrate this woman's Kevlar. Matt didn't know who had done her wrong, but he'd done it good.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Isaacs," she'd said through lips pursed so tight you could use them for a band seal, "but I don't see how that's any of your business."

He had just finished showing her his Post credentials and a photo of Frederick Langer, telling her (to the accompaniment of several barking dogs) that he was trying to locate the man for a human interest story. Did she perhaps remember Langer or anyone he may have interacted with while he was a student at her school?

"Our records are private," she said. "And they'll stay that way as long as I'm here."

The woman wouldn't acknowledge that Langer had even attended the academy, and Matt had left the place with nothing but sympathy for anyone who did.

His next stop was a late breakfast meeting with a retired FBI agent named Jerry Galvin, whom he had profiled several years back for a story on bank robberies. They'd been friends ever since.

They met at the Over Easy and played catch up over coffee, eggs and red potato hash. Galvin had retired only on paper and was currently consulting for a private security firm. His connections to the Bureau were still strong, however, and Matt, being Matt, was hoping to exploit those ties.

"I'm looking for information on a man who seems to be a ghost," Matt told him. "I can trace him back a few months, then I've got zip."

"What's your interest?" Galvin asked.

Matt had debated whether or not to tell Jerry the truth, and had decided he'd rather not compromise their friendship by lying. So he filled him in on what he and Hutch and the others were up to, and Galvin huffed a chuckle.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"The cops aren't gonna help us. Ronnie's already been tried and convicted in their minds."

"And you're sure she didn't do what they say she did?"

"I wouldn't be sitting here if I wasn't."

Galvin sighed and shook his head. "You realize I can't endorse this kind of witch hunt. The chances of this guy Langer being your man are about as likely as the Pope showing up at a bar mitzvah."

"There's definitely something hinky about him."

"Hell, you ask me, there's something hinky about the Pope, too, but you don't see me running a background check on him."

"Maybe you should," Matt said.

Galvin chuckled again and sipped his coffee. "I like you, Matthew. Have since the minute we met. But if this thing blows up in your face, I don't want my name anywhere near it."

"No reason it should be."

"I assume you have a photo of this man?"

Matt dug into his satchel and brought out a photocopy of Langer's state ID-the same one that Ms. Wyndham Academy had scowled at.

Galvin squinted at the photo and said, "I'll need something clearer than this, but I can download the original, no problem."

"Then what's the next step?"

"I've got a friend at the Bureau who'll run this through facial recognition, no questions asked. It might take some time, but if this guy's in any of the usual databases, we're bound to get a hit."

Galvin had mentioned biometric facial recognition in the past. The software compared key features of a subject-nose, eyes, eyebrows, mouth, face shape-to the faces stored in law enforcement and DMV databases, and when a requisite number of features matched, it spit out the results. The software wasn't perfect, but its proponents called it a breakthrough as significant as the introduction of fingerprint technology.