Linda Fairstein - Likely To Die

“The usual?” my guy at the coffee cart asked as I approached.

“Make it a double, please. Two black coffees, large.”

Most of the support staff would clock in after nine, but a dribbling of young lawyers and paralegals were making their way toward the building from a variety of directions as different subway and bus routes let them out on streets all over the courthouse area.

Johanna Epstein followed me onto the elevator. She hadn’t been in my unit very long but was aggressively picking up cases and preparing them for trial. “Do you have time to go over an indictment with me today? The case I picked up last weekend, do you remember the facts?”

“The burglary on East Ninth Street -your girl’s a crackhead?”

“That’s the one.”

“Go in to the jury okay?” The woman’s apartment had been broken into by another junkie who knew that his victim might be reluctant to deal with the police because of her own substance abuse. She had surprised him, and surprised Johanna, with her candor and her cooperation. Yesterday, she had been scheduled to testify before the grand jury in our effort to obtain an indictment.

“Yeah, she was fine. I just have a few questions about how many counts of rape to charge. I mean, he kept assaulting her, then he’d get up and walk into the kitchen to get a beer, then he’d come back and go at her again. Are those all separate crimes or is it just one ‘rape’?”

“Bring up your paperwork around eleven. I’ll look it over and listen to the facts more carefully so we can make a decision. It’s pointless to overcharge him, but if there are distinct sexual acts, punctuated by other events, you’ll definitely have some multiple counts.”

She got off the elevator on six as I continued up to the eighth floor, where my office had been since I took over the Sex Crimes Prosecution Unit. It was across the main hallway from Battaglia’s suite and on the corridor with other executives of the Trial Division who supervised the thousands of street crime cases police officers brought to our doorstep every single day and night of the year.

I turned on the light in my secretary’s cubicle, the anteroom to my office, and unlocked my door. My space was neater than usual as I glanced around, which pleased me. I knew how cluttered it would soon become with the reams of paperwork, police reports, diagrams, notes, and news clips that were the staples of a major investigation. I liked to start out with a spot of visible green blotter under the piles of case reports so that I didn’t lose control of any matter that required action or attention.

My first call was to David Mitchell’s office.

He had read the morning papers and knew that I was assigned to the Mid-Manhattan case, “I would never have left the note about Zac last night if I had known you would be this busy. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Are you kidding? It will be a pleasure to have her to come home to, David. Plus, she may even coax me out for a jog over the weekend. You know I like her company. If I’m not home when you leave, just let her in with your key.”

“Great. I’ll walk her tomorrow morning, then take her back to your place.”

“Have time for a favor before you go?”

“Always. What do you need?”

I outlined what was going on in the medical center and explained that we wanted Maureen to be inside as an observer-unknown to administration or staff.

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem as long as they have available beds. And as long as you’ll back me when the AMA tries to lift my license for-”

“No problem. The Police Commissioner has to approve the whole thing, so you’ll be acting at his direction once we tell him about it. And I know there are beds. Two of the homeless guys were sleeping in private rooms the past four days. For a change, no complaints about the food, either.”

“Okay, here’s what I suggest. Have Maureen call me so we can discuss some of her symptoms. Then I’ll call a neurologist I’ve done some work-”

“No, David. Dogen was a neurosurgeon. We want Mo on the neurosurgical floor.”

“Don’t worry, it is the same floor at Mid-Manhattan. The first referral would be quite naturally to a neurologist.”

“I don’t know the difference. Why don’t you start with that?”

“Of course. Neurologists are the physicians who study and treat the structure and diseases of the nervous system. A neurosurgeon wouldn’t be involved at this stage unless you’re ready to wheel Maureen into the operating room.”

“Do they work with each other, the neurologists and neurosurgeons?”

“Yes, but the neurologists can’t perform operations, they can’t do the surgery themselves.”

“Dogen did mostly brain surgery.”

“So I see from her obituary. Remember, Alex, that the brain, the spine, and even the eye are part of the central nervous system. That’s why there’s so much overlap among some of these specialties-psychiatry, ophthalmology, and orthopedics. We’ll give Mrs. Forester enough pains, tics, and twitches to keep the whole crew looking her over until I get back to town on Monday. Will that help?”

“Thanks, David. Mercer’s calling to get Mo on board and I’ll connect her to you as soon as she agrees.

“So now that I’m done with business may I ask who’s your traveling companion?”

“I’ll introduce you when we get back. Renee Simmons-she’s a sex therapist. I think you’ll really like her.”

I had the feeling that our Sunday evening60 Minutes viewing session and cocktail hour was about to expand to a threesome. “Was she the slim brunette with the perfect smile and great legs who was waiting for you at the bar at Lumi last Tuesday?” I had been on my way out the door of one of my favorite Italian restaurants one night last week when David had whipped past me on his way to claim a late reservation.

“That’s the one. Between her business and yours, you can probably mop up a few of the dysfunctionals around town.”

“I look forward to it. I’m sure I’ll speak with you again before the end of the day.”

By the time I hung up the phone and threw out the empty coffee cups, Marisa Bourgis and Catherine Dashfer had walked into the office. Both were longtime members of the unit as well as my pals. Like Sarah, they were a few years younger than I. Each was married and the mother of a toddler, and all three balanced their personal and professional lives with admirable form and boundless reserves of humor.

“So much for our plans for lunch at Forlini’s today,” Marisa said, pointing to the headline in the paper on top of my desk.

“It may be the only virtue of a high-profile case, but it’s a big one. Immediate weight loss, guaranteed.” Meals on the fly, liquid diets of coffee and soda, rattled nerves, and more running around than anybody needs in a day-stretching into weeks or months. “Perhaps a mental health shopping day at the end of all this, ladies, when I am hoping to be back to my law school size six. Takers?”

“That’s a deal. Need help with anything in the meantime? Marisa and I can help Sarah with your overflow while you get started on the murder.”

“Great offer. I’ll go through my book this morning. There may be a couple of interviews you could do for me next week. Of course, if we don’t pick up any leads by the time the weekend is over, it’ll all be in the hands of the task force, not mine.”

Laura Wilkie, my secretary of many years, peered into the room, said good morning, and told us that Phil Weinberg needed to see me before he went up to court. Urgent.

Marisa, Catherine, and I exchanged smirks as Weinberg “the whiner,” our alias for him, skulked into my office. Nothing was easy with Phil. Although he was a good lawyer and compassionate advocate, he needed more hand-holding to get through a trial than most victims ever did.