Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

Mercer had been in surgery for more than four hours at this point. Mike and I were running out of things to distract us. Every half hour brought a new wave of detectives who came by-to console, to pray, to offer blood or whatever aid was needed. The mayor and police commissioner had given their sound bites from the hospital lobby, urged all the citizens of New York to keep Mercer in their prayers, and moved on.

When two men in green scrubs that were stained like my suit entered the room smiling, Mike embraced me before they could speak. “Your partner’s going to make it,” one surgeon said. “We’ve just-”

“Well, what the hell took you so damn long to let us know?” Chapman asked. “We’d like to be with him.” He was walking to the door while the surgeon was still talking, and I knew he was fighting back tears that he didn’t want me to see.

“Mr. Wallace is still in the recovery room. Give him another couple of hours there, and when he gets to intensive care, one or two of you can be with him briefly.”

Mike did not turn his face to me but said that he was going down the hall to call Mercer’s father and give him the good news.

“I’m Alex Cooper. I was with the detective when he was shot. What was-”

“The bullet missed his heart by less than half an inch. Lodged in a bone just above it. But there was a huge amount of internal bleeding that posed an even greater danger. I think we’ve got it all taken care of, but the next few hours will be rough.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost four o’clock. Why don’t you go out and grab some lunch? Give the nurses a little time to get your friend settled in.”

“We’ll be here for a while, Doctor. I think we’d like to see Mercer before we do anything else.” Mike and I weren’t moving until we could be with him.

I thanked them for their work and they left me alone in the small room. I lowered myself onto a chair, put my head in my hands, and thought of all the promises I had made to God in these past few hours of things I would do differently and better if only Mercer came out of this okay. Every part of me ached, and I tried to relive the day, thinking of what might have happened had the two of us not gone to the gallery. The throbbing in my head was now a constant, and when it intensified, it reminded me of the sound of the morning’s gunshots. I could not even imagine the physical pain that Mercer experienced when the shot ripped through his chest.

I reached into the paper bag and removed the cell phone, dialing Battaglia’s home number. I was relieved to get the machine and not the person. I didn’t need another rap on the knuckles, and I just left him the good news about Mercer and told him I’d be staying with a friend overnight.

Jake was booked on a seven-fifteen evening flight back to LaGuardia, the same reservation that I originally had. I couldn’t find him on the Vineyard, so I left a message on my machine there and one at his apartment, telling him about the shooting and asking if I could stay with him for a couple of days.

Mike came back about fifteen minutes later with coffee for both of us and a deli sandwich. “Wanna split this?”

“No, thanks.” My stomach was still roiling. “I need to apologize for snapping at you on the phone on Friday.”

Mike’s appetite was directly related to his spirit. He opened his mouth wide to get around the hero, which was stuffed with ham and provolone, lettuce, tomato, and onions. He garbled a “Never mind” through the food. “I know you’re full of crap, blondie,” he said when the first three mouthfuls had been thoroughly chewed. “Hey, you think I haven’t been through this before? You just spent half a day praying over Mercer’s soul, probably had to swear you were even gonna be tolerant of me in the bargain.” He winked at me and shoved the sandwich back in his mouth.

“So, I spent yesterday reading Omar Sheffield’s file.” He was able to concentrate again. “He was really a pro at that scam. Whole bunch of complaints against him to the prison warden. Lowell Caxton may have been right. Looks like Omar hung with the jailhouse lawyers. Pulled a lot of the divorce cases directly out of the Law Journal. One opinion, the judge even wrote which private school the two kids attended. Omar lifts the name of the school from the judge’s decision, threatening that he could have the kids picked off on the sidewalk as they came down the steps after class. Wife went nuts, blaming the husband. All along it was Omar, with the aid of the honorable jurist.”

“Didn’t anybody arrest him for aggravated harassment?”

“Nope. Worst I can see is that he got box time.” Put in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day, denied use of the library and any mail service. “Added a few months against an early parole.

“But the warden told me there’s an even bigger problem now, with the Freedom of Information Act. Prisoners write to agencies like the Board of Elections, and because of the law they can ask for and get the home addresses of anyone they want. One guy just used it to get the new address of the ex-girlfriend he’s been stalking for six years. I’m telling you, the lunatics are really running the asylum when it comes to the criminal courts.” The last sentence was muffled by the remains of the sandwich and by Mike licking the mustard off his fingers before wiping them with a napkin.

“Any record of Denise Caxton in the visitor log?”

“Not that they’ve found yet. But I gotta go through it myself. Maybe she didn’t even use her own name. Meanwhile, you given any thought to where you’re gonna be spending the next few weeks, when you’re not at work?”

I nodded my head. “I’ll stay at Jake Tyler’s apartment. Maybe you can swing me by my place so I can pick up some clothes.”

“I’ll get somebody to do it. I’m not leaving here tonight.”

There was no point in suggesting that Mike do otherwise. He would be at Mercer’s side throughout the critical hours, no matter how long they turned out to be.

It was almost six o’clock when a nurse came to tell us that she would take us to the intensive care unit. “He’s sleeping now,” she said. “Doctor said you wanted to see him. Then I’ll take you to a place where you can be more comfortable.”

Mercer had been placed in a cubicle directly opposite the nurses’ station. I could hear a gaggle of monitors beeping before we reached the entrance to his room, which was guarded by two plainclothes detectives. I stood in the doorway and looked at his long frame, which filled the hospital bed completely. There were tubes coming out of his nose and intravenous lines attached to his forearm. He didn’t move or respond at all to the sound of Mike’s voice saying, “Hey, buddy,” as he lifted the sheet that covered Mercer’s chest to expose the bandaging there and stroked him gently on the blade of his shoulder.

“That’s a lot of anesthesia he’s got to sleep off,” the nurse said. “I’ll come get you in a bit. There’s a room right over here.”

She led us down the hallway and we resumed our vigil with the families of several other critically ill patients. Mike couldn’t stand the company and the prattle of the anxious people. “I’ll be in with Mercer.”

“But there’s no room-”

“I’ll make room. I wanna talk to him.” He shot me a look that had the same effect as adding the word “alone” to his statement and walked away.

It was impossible to drag my thoughts away from the day’s events. I was trying to ignore my pounding headache, and as I covered my eyes with my hands, I didn’t notice the approach of the two men who planted themselves in front of me.

“Alexandra Cooper?”

I looked up as they palmed their gold shields and identified themselves. “Sean Iverson and Tom Bellman, Major Case Squad,” one of them said, pointing first to himself and then to his companion. “We’d like you to come downstairs with us. Hospital director’s given us a room to do interviews in. Just need to go over everything with you.”