Linda Fairstein - Hell Gate

“Ah, murder,” Lem said. He got to his feet, raising a finger in the air. “Now it becomes clear, Alex. That’s your plan? To use the m word every time Ethan Leighton’s name comes up?”

“I don’t have a plan, Lem. It’s up to Mike, to Mercer, to the NYPD, to solve this.”

“This? By this you mean Salma’s death as well as the shipwreck? You think they’re connected?”

I glared at Mike.

“You don’t want to tell me how. I get it,” Lem said. “You can’t do this to Ethan. You can’t tar him with this crime while he tries to get his good name back.”

Now I was following a tugboat’s progress downstream. “How well I remember standing next to you during one of my first arraignments on a felony case, Lem. AR-three, night court. The judge was Irving Lang. The defendant had drugged and raped a woman and I was requesting substantial bail. His lawyer started screaming at me-how could I do this to his client?”

Lem cocked his head and squinted, like he was trying to remember the event.

“Don’t you hate screamers in the courtroom? Well, that guy was really wailing at me about how I was hurting his client. I remember the sharp tone of his voice as clearly as I can still see the perp’s monogrammed shirt and his rep tie, stained with blood.”

Mike and Lem were walking back and forth in front of me, both trying to get me to make eye contact. But there was enough going on in the river to keep me engaged while I talked.

“I must have been at a loss for words that night, Lem. Never your problem, is it? You were supervising me and you stepped in and gently pushed me aside. Made this wonderful record for me, about how the prosecution didn’t ‘do this’ to that jackass standing before the court. You described how the defendant himself plotted the evening, selected his victim, bought the drugs, sprang for an expensive bottle of wine, and then spiked the drink,” I said. “Well, I haven’t done anything to Ethan Leighton. He seems to have created his problems all by himself. His greed, his infidelity-”

“People don’t go to jail for infidelity, Alex. Half your colleagues in the office would be behind bars.”

“Just let me slap the cuffs on Pat McKinney myself when that day comes,” Mike said. “Don’t give me that look every three minutes, Coop. Stop rolling your eyes.”

“We’re talking a car accident, Alex,” Lem said. “Have you lost your focus? Keep that separate and apart from the murder case.”

“I guess this is about the Ethan Leighton press conference that you’re undoubtedly scheduling, isn’t it?”

“I’ve got to get him in front of a microphone before the weekend’s over. He needs to speak to his constituents and assure them that he’s ready to apologize and put this all behind him.”

“So, you responded to Mike ’cause you’re hoping I’ll tell you that when the reporters run from your office to Battaglia’s, the DA doesn’t say that the newly repentant congressman is the prime suspect in our murder case.”

Lem smiled. “That would be helpful.”

“We’ve got an office pool, Lem. I hate to cheat, but I can be the big winner if I bet them all that Claire Leighton will actually stand by his side through this, sunglasses covering her tear-filled eyes. Do the forgiving wife thing,” I said facetiously. “We’re just dying to know.”

“I was working with Claire this morning when Mike called. I’m trying to get her there, but don’t bet all you’ve got on it.”

“Go me one better. Tell me she was in on the plot, Lem.” I said. “And her father-in-law? How much has Moses offered her to hang tight?”

Lem slapped Mike on the back. “You’re spending too much time with Chapman. I’ve never heard you be so cynical, my dear.”

I buried my hands in my jacket pockets. Mike’s hair was blowing wildly in the strong wind, catching the occasional spray as water splashed against the seawall. Lem was ramrod straight and serious, his coat belted tightly around him against the chill.

“What do you know about the baby?” I asked.

“I understand you, Alex. You’re not giving me anything without a ‘get.’ ”

“Did Ethan believe that he had fathered a child with Salma?”

“He wasn’t happy about it. He denied it at first. Salma actually left New York for almost five months. That’s when she gave birth, somewhere in Texas. He made her do DNA testing, of course, at some lab near Brownsville. When that proved he was the father, he flew her back to the city and bought her this apartment.”

“Did it ever occur to him that the whole baby thing was a scam?” Mike asked.

“What do you know that I don’t?” Lem asked.

Neither Mike nor I answered.

“I see. Not my turn to ask questions today, is it? Ethan’s quite distraught about the child’s disappearance. I assume you know the Leightons have posted a huge reward for information about the little girl.”

I was glad that Mike apparently had not told Lem about Salma’s autopsy findings.

“You must know something about Salma’s background,” I said. “Was she trafficked into the country? Who brought her here?”

“Don’t know, Alex. I don’t know.”

“Come back when you do,” I said, getting up from the bench. “I’ll see you guys next week. I’d like some answers, Lem.”

“I can do better than that, Alex. If you come with me into the park right now, I can give you a second chance. You can get them from Ethan Leighton.”

“She does stubborn better than anyone,” Mike said to Lem. “Relax, will you, Coop?”

“There’s a proper way to do this.”

“And that would put more pressure on both you and Leighton than either of you needs, Alex,” Lem said. “I’ve always had your trust. Queen for a day-right here, right now.”

“No, Lem.”

“I can’t walk Ethan into the District Attorney’s Office. The press would be all over him-and all over you. ‘What did he say, who did he implicate, why’d they make a deal?’ You have my word-whatever you want. Talk to him, Alex. Get a sense of the man.”

“I heard him snap at you in the car the other night. I felt his eyes cutting through me like lasers. And I saw Salma Zunega’s body. I have a damn good sense of Ethan Leighton.”

“Bad attitude, blondie. We got nothing to lose.”

“Queen for a day” was the name for a process in the criminal justice system that had been developed over the years. Defense attorneys would agree to present their clients-suspects, targets, or mere witnesses in a criminal investigation-to a prosecutor for a proffer of evidence, a sneak preview of what they might say under oath in a court of law.

“Mike’s right, Alex. It’s Ethan who’s got the exposure here.”

The proffer would lead to a written agreement, in which I’d assure the congressman that anything he told me couldn’t be used against him at a later time. It wouldn’t prevent me from getting derivative evidence, developing leads from any information he might give to us.

“I’m not the front man on this, Lem. Donovan Baynes has to call the shots.”

“Look at me, Alex. Donny Baynes is one of Ethan’s closest friends. If you don’t think I placed a call to him before coming over here, you’re forgetting how I work.”

The feds had far more formal rules for accepting proffers in cases than we did. And Baynes’s relationship with Leighton would have disqualified him from handling the matter.

“You’re telling me Baynes wants me to take this meeting?”

“Baby steps, Alex. You’ve got to start somewhere. Donny’s hands are tied but, yes, he wants you to do this.”

“Has he been talking to Leighton?” I didn’t know who was next in line to betray whom.