Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

The chief of the Trial Division was a perennial thorn in my professional side. McKinney was a few years my senior, and although he was reputed to have capable investigative skills, his rigid and humorless manner made him an unpopular choice to lead the hundreds of smart young lawyers who staffed the division that was the heart of every good prosecutor’s office.

“Good morning, Paul,” I said, closing the door behind me. “It’s so rare for you to compliment my outfit, Pat. I’m flattered.”

“How’d it go at City Hall?” the DA asked.

“I left the mayor and Scully bickering over staging the next phase of things.”

“Really? Bickering about what?”

“The commissioner wants to use Gracie Mansion because it’s so convenient to Salma Zunega’s apartment. Statler said no and asked us to leave.”

“Why won’t he let Keith use the mansion?” Battaglia asked, sitting up straight and making eye contact with McKinney.

“He wouldn’t talk in front of Mike or Mercer or me. I don’t know.”

“You don’t usually defer to authority so meekly, Alex,” McKinney said. He saw Battaglia reaching for a new cigar and stood up to strike a match for him.

“She barely said a word yesterday,” the DA spoke out of the corner of his mouth, as he dragged on the Cohiba to get it lighted.

I didn’t realize Battaglia had lifted the gag order he had imposed for my meeting with Mayor Statler. “Just depends on whether I respect the person giving orders, Pat.”

“There’s something very serious I’ve got to tell you, Alexandra. I’m going to take you into my confidence on this, because it may impact what’s going on with Ethan Leighton and, well, even with his mistress. Obviously, Pat knows about it too. Can I trust you with this?”

I stood up to leave. “Maybe that’s a leakier boat than I want to get in, Paul.”

“Sit down. Sit right down.”

McKinney’s affair with Ellen Gunsher, who ran the office GRIP unit-Gun Recovery Information Program-had not only broken up his marriage, but it had also made him the laughingstock of many of the lawyers and cops. Gunsher’s mother was a former newswoman whose career had washed up due to her own carelessness and unprofessional behavior. But McKinney was always trying to stay in her good graces by feeding her exclusives on crime investigations that should never have been discussed.

“Did the mayor bring any other politicians into the conversation today?”

“No. No, he didn’t.”

“The reason I wanted you to go over there this morning without me-and without Tim-was that I thought Statler might have let down his guard and mentioned names in response to what you told him.”

“That didn’t happen. Of course, he and the commissioner were still together when I left.”

“How about Lem Howell, Alexandra? I’m sure he’s tried to speak to you since yesterday.”

“Actually, yes, Paul. Laura says he called me this morning. I expect he’s peeved because Salma Zunega didn’t show up for his first meeting with her today.”

“That’s the way to go, Boss,” McKinney said. “Lem Howell. Lem thinks he taught Alex everything she knows. Maybe she can get something out of him?”

I watched carefully as they talked between themselves. McKinney’s sharp, pointed nose and pinched mouth morphed into a rodentlike face when he schemed, especially in regard to someone he disliked.

“That’s an idea.”

“What’s an idea?” I asked.

Paul Battaglia stowed his cigar on the edge of an ashtray, a sign that he was ready for a serious talk. “Have you met the lieutenant governor yet?”

“No, Boss.”

Eliot Spitzer, the New York governor who resigned after the scandal caused by his involvement with the ultra-high-priced prostitutes of the Emperors Club VIP ring, had also been a prosecutor in Battaglia’s office in his first years out of law school. When he stepped down, Lieutenant Governor David Paterson was sworn in as his replacement.

A year later, in a special statewide election, a powerful former state senator from the Albany region named Rod Ralevic succeeded Paterson as the new lieutenant governor.

“Ralevic. You know the name?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you know that the feds have had him under investigation for months?”

McKinney was like the cat that swallowed a canary and then washed it down with a bald eagle. He loved being in the know while I looked dumbfounded.

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you want to know why?” McKinney said.

“I assume Paul’s about to tell me. Don’t forget to wipe your mouth, Pat. I think there are some bird droppings on your lip.”

McKinney lowered his beak and actually tried to see if something was wrong.

“Ralevic’s been trying to sell patronage in Albany for years now. Probably has. He’s already starting bragging that for the right price, he can control the party’s pick in the special election to replace Ethan Leighton’s congressional seat.”

“It’s only been a little over twenty-four hours since Leighton went belly-up on the FDR Drive,” I said.

“And every couple of hours that go by represents a two-year ticket to Congress or some other vacant post, Alex.”

Paul Battaglia had won reelection term after term using the slogan “You can’t play politics with people’s lives.”

“It’s not Ralevic’s position to give, is it?”

“Not exactly, but it’s Ralevic’s style to claim he can influence the party endorsement,” Battaglia said. “It’s not like a vacant Senate seat, where the governor can choose someone to finish out the term. For the House of Representatives, Paterson has to set an election date-usually one hundred twenty days out-then each party nominates a candidate. Theoretically, the district leaders here in the city would try to control the apparatus that does that, but Ralevic’s trying to flex his muscle-and his pocketbook.”

“Not with the governor’s approval?” I asked.

“Certainly not, Alex. Paterson’s a thoroughly straight shooter, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t people who would pay dearly to show on his radar screen, to try for an advantage, whether it gets them there or not.”

“So you think Leighton is in on this scheme?”

“Leighton or his old man. The father would sell his grandkids if they brought the right price. Don’t shudder, Alex. That’s why they call it hardball. Leighton’s father has always been his fixer. I’m sure he’d like a say in who succeeds Ethan. Someone who may be willing to step aside when all this is over, if his son’s name is eventually cleared.”

“If the feds have been all over Ralevic about this, Paul, what do you need from me?”

“Lem Howell would follow you if you jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge,” McKinney added.

“Oh, please, Pat. Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “And Pat? Don’t hold your breath too long, because I’m not jumping.”

“I need you in this, Alex, because I have to come out of this clean as a hound’s tooth,” Paul Battaglia said.

There had never been a whisper of a scandal surrounding the district attorney. “But you are that, Paul. I don’t understand.”

“It’s about Tim Spindlis, Alex.”

Something happened between Battaglia and Spindlis after I got out of the DA’s car last evening. There must have been a reason the chief assistant hadn’t piggybacked with me to City Hall this morning. There must have been something he told Battaglia that meant he couldn’t be in the room with us right now.

“What about Tim?” I asked.

Spindlis was in his sixties, with little to show for a thirty-eight-year career in law enforcement except an endless series of lesser decisions that Battaglia had sloughed off in his direction.