Linda Fairstein - Bad blood

“You knew she was out of the country when you called Brendan to ask your little favor, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Did your nanny and the children stay on there with you and Mr. Quillian?”

“No.” I could barely hear the word. “She took them to a movie.”

“But you chose to remain?”

No answer.

“Did you stay at the Quillian home?”

Kate Meade was having a meltdown before my very eyes. I’d asked her about every one of her conversations with Brendan Quillian, and she had not remembered-or not offered to me-the details of this one.

“Yes. To talk about Amanda.”

I glanced across at Lem. He was standing next to his client, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other jabbing through the air at Kate Meade. He had his most serious expression on display as he savored his moment, the witness pinned to the ropes as Howell made it clear to the jury that he was fighting for his client’s life.

“Did you indeed talk about your best friend, Amanda Quillian, that early evening?”

She swallowed hard and coughed to clear her throat. “Yes, we did.”

“By the way, in which room did you have this discussion?”

She coughed again. “Brendan’s den. On the second floor of the house.”

Howell paused, letting go of Quillian and taking a few steps closer to the witness stand. He poured a cup of water from my pitcher-Kate had not touched the one in front of her-and held it out to her. “You seem parched, dry, thirsty, perhaps. May I give you this?”

She pushed his arm away and shook her head from side to side. The internal butterflies seemed to be multiplying at a furious pace in my gut. Kate Meade, Brendan Quillian, and Lem Howell knew facts that I did not.

“Did you ask my client for something to drink that evening?”

Kate looked at Brendan with contempt, almost sneering at him in full view of the jury. “I did.”

“And what did you drink?”

“Wine. Too much red wine.”

“Did there come a time when your conversation stopped?”

“Yes.”

“Is that when you left, Mrs. Meade? Is that when you left Brendan’s home?”

Artie Tramm moved closer to the stand. It looked as if my witness was going to faint.

“Did you leave the Quillians’ house after your chat with my client, to go home to your ill husband and your precious little girls?”

“Not immediately.”

“You remember what you did next?”

“I was drunk, Mr. Howell. I can hardly remember-”

“I’m relying on the fact that you told all of us today what a very good memory you have, Mrs. Meade. Isn’t that when you-”

Kate clamped a hand on the railing in front of her and raised her voice. “He-he took advantage of me-of my condition, Mr. Howell.”

“Would you tell these good people, please.” Lem stood behind me, sweeping his left arm in a wide arc across the front of the jury box. “Isn’t that when you quite voluntarily engaged in an act of sexual intercourse with Brendan Quillian, the husband of your lifelong best friend?”

“The sign on the door still says LADIES, doesn’t it?” I asked Mike.

The four stalls behind me were empty in the dingy gray-tiled bathroom around the corner from my eighth-floor office. I had filled a sink with ice-cold water and was splashing it on my face while he watched.

“I just came in to make sure you hadn’t flushed yourself out of the building. What the hell’s taking you so long?”

“I needed a quiet place to think. No Monday-morning quarterbacks, no phone calls from the boss, no excuses from Kate Meade. I’m trying to cool down.”

“It’s like a hot box in here.”

“I’m adjusting my temper, not my body heat. Keep that woman away from me or I’ll kill her.”

Judge Gertz had recessed the proceedings for lunch and I was trying to regroup after the shock of Meade’s testimony. I dried off and picked up my pale yellow suit jacket from the wooden table below the mirror.

“I thought broads don’t sweat.”

“We don’t. I perspired. I sat in front of those jurors while my star witness was eviscerated in silken-smooth form by Lem Howell, turned crimson from the top of my scalp to the soles of my feet, and willed the tears I was holding back not to fall so that they trickled out through every pore of my body instead.”

“I got lunch sitting on your desk. C’mon.”

“I’m too nauseous to eat.”

I had waited in the courtroom until the judge declared a recess and Artie Tramm had cleared it of all spectators. I called my paralegal, Maxine, from my cell phone and asked her to send Mike up with Mercer Wallace, the six-foot-six first-grade detective who was Mike’s closest friend and former partner.

They had flanked me as I walked down the long corridor to the elevator, past the more aggressive members of the press corps who wanted my reaction to the testimony.

I obeyed Mercer’s direction to walk on without turning my head, ignoring the questions reporters tossed at me about Kate Meade and whether the shocking information would affect the rest of my case.

“Hey, Alex-you look like you just got hit by a Mack truck. You call that leading off with your best shot or what?” one reporter yelled out as he tried, with no luck, to thrust a microphone past Mercer’s arm, while another asked if I expected to keep things as lively as this every day of the trial.

Mike opened the door of the restroom and walked me the short distance to my office. My secretary, Laura, would screen my calls while I’d try to regroup with the advice of the two detectives, who had as much experience in the courtroom as I did.

Mercer was standing in the doorway talking to Laura but grabbed my arm as I walked by. “I’ve got Kate in the conference room down the hall. You’ve got to see her.”

“What I really have to do is revise my strategy for the afternoon. This witness blew up in my face, taking her dignity-and all her credibility-with her. Lem stuck it to me right before we started this morning, and now I’ve got to think about the wisdom of using any of Amanda’s other friends on the stand. I need to get some forensics before this jury today. I’ve got to make them understand what a brutal killing this was. Kate Meade can take a hike.”

I picked up the phone and dialed the medical examiner’s office.

“You’ve got to calm her down, Coop,” Mike said. “You can’t just let her walk out the door to the wolves.”

I shook a finger at him. “I should take lessons in etiquette and interpersonal relationships from you? Forget it. You deal with her. You be the diplomat for a change.”

Jerome Genco, the pathologist who had autopsied Amanda Quillian, came on the line. “Sorry to do this to you, Jerry, but I need you in one hour. You’re going to have to testify this afternoon.”

“You told me next week. I have it on my calendar for Thursday.”

“Is there a body on the table?”

“No. I’m working up some frozen slides-”

“Jerry, I’ve got to have you today. Max is sending a patrol car from the Fifth Precinct to pick you up-lights and sirens. Put the slides back on ice and save me, okay? You’re going on right after the first cop who found the body.”

I hung up and headed for the file cabinet that held the rest of the medical evidence.

“Alex,” Mercer said, “Kate’s your witness. She’ll be wailing all afternoon.”

“A little time for reflection might be good for her conscience. I’ll put Genco on first and then you have to help me figure out something else that will make a strong impression before the end of the day.”

“Don’t be stubborn, now. She’s hysterical and she’s scared to death. Can’t even imagine facing her husband tonight.”