Linda Fairstein - Cold Hit

“Are there job openings?” Mike asked. “I suppose by now someone’s come up with my time-tested solution. Two cocktails, get laid, roll over, and smoke a cigarette-guaranteed to put you out for hours. Maybe I could be a consultant.”

“Is this one of the legitimate operations, Patti?”

“Yes, Alex. It’s affiliated with Saint Peter’s Hospital. It’s located in a large office building which houses all their clinics up on Amsterdam Avenue. This is actually run by the head of their Department of Psychiatry, so they treat the whole thing very seriously.”

“Your victim?”

“Her name is Flora. Very fragile twenty-two-year-old who lives with her mother in Flatbush. Met the defendant a couple of years ago when he was her psychology professor at Brooklyn College. She began to see him for therapy after the school year, but was smart enough to stop the sessions when he started coming on to her sexually.

“Now, almost two years have gone by and she was suffering from depression. Found his number in the book, called him, and he made an appointment for her to come in to the clinic, where he told her he’s currently working. Said he still did therapy on the side.”

I was taking notes as Patti continued the narrative.

“Flora got to the office at eight o’clock on Tuesday night. Paid the therapist-his name is Ronald-for the session, and at the end he advised her that she needed to get a job, to engage herself in something serious. He offered her a position as a computer analyst at the clinic. Took out a contract for one year’s employment from his desk, signed it, and had her do the same.”

I had dozens of questions to ask, but rather than punctuate Patti’s story, I would let her tell it and assume she would cover most of what I needed to know.

“Finally, Ronald took the contract back and told Flora that he wouldn’t make his boss, the chief physician, enforce it unless she thanked him right now by performing oral sex.”

“I am definitely in the wrong line of work,” Chapman mumbled.

Patti went on. “Ronald waved the contract back and forth in front of her and kept repeating, ‘No blow job, no job.’ He reduced Flora to tears in about five minutes, and she complied with the condition. Meanwhile, in a few of the cubicles attached to Ronald’s module, people were sleeping-naked, of course, with monitors attached to measure their breathing, their blood pressure, their REMs, and so on. So when Ronald handed her back her half of the contract, he told her this was better than usual. He said that most of the time he stood there and masturbated while he watched the struggling sleepers try to find the Land of Nod.”

Chapman was on his feet. “You mean these idiots are paying big bucks to have this frigging pervert get his rocks off watching them toss and turn? That’d cure my insomnia instantly. I’d like to tie him to a chair by his testicles and make him listen to lullabies for twenty-four hours. See how he sleeps. I don’t get it, Coop. This stuff you people work on makes murder look comprehensible.”

“How’d she come forward, Patti?”

“When Flora called Ronald yesterday to ask when she could start to work, he told her that there was no job because he really didn’t have any power to hire or fire employees. She stormed right into the clinic and showed the contract to the physician in charge, who said it was bogus. So she went directly to a pay phone on the corner and called the cops. I thought you ought to know about it before I did anything on the case.”

“Good thinking.” Brownnosing worked with me almost every time. Patti knew that if we, as prosecutors, could direct the course of an investigation prearrest, we could usually build a stronger case for trial.

“What’s to think about?” Chapman asked. “Cuff him and put him in the can, now.”

“What’s the crime, Mikey? What does Patti charge him with?” I stood with my back to the air conditioner, trying to cool down as we talked.

“Sodomy in the first,” Mike suggested.

“I didn’t hear you describe any force, did I?” Patti shook her head in the negative in response to my question.

“Public lewdness,” Mike spat out at me.

“It’s not a public place. Ronald’s sitting right in his own office when he’s playing with himself. Expectation of privacy and all that,” I countered.

“I told you murder is easy. You got a dead body, an unnatural cause of death, and it’s one kind of homicide or another. You girls gotta sit here and play Find the Crime.”

“Here’s what you do,” I suggested to Patti. “Bring Flora in and get all the facts. See if you can make out a coercion charge. Try section 135.60 of the Penal Law, sub 9 – compelling her to perform an act which might be harmful to health, safety, reputation, et cetera.

“Also, there’s a good chance he’s been holding himself out as a doctor or some other licensed position at the clinic. Figure on next Wednesday-that’s my calendar day, so I’m free to go with you. You can have a search warrant prepared and ready by then. We’ll have a couple of guys from the squad take us up to the clinic, and we’ll go in that morning with the warrant. That way we can seize all his personnel records, Flora’s files, his appointment book, any documents he has on his walls- with credentials that can be checked out-and any other information you can develop during your interview with Flora. No one will be on notice that we’re coming, so none of the records will be destroyed. Let’s keep this one quiet. No need to embarrass the legitimate part of this operation at Saint Peter’s, okay?”

Patti picked up her folder and was gone. I found my list of topics I needed to update Battaglia about and added this one to it. I had to remember to ask his executive assistant, Rose Malone, whether he had accepted the invitation I heard he had received to be Saint Peter’s Hospital Humanitarian of the Year, for his charitable work on behalf of underprivileged kids.

“Don’t you have anything to do?” I asked Chapman after I told Laura to get Ryan Blackmer over to see me. Mike was lifting things up from the piles on top of my desk and reading them. Some were complaint reports and investigation updates, others were personal notes and messages.

“Nothing till the autopsy this afternoon. I was hoping you’d come with me to Forlini’s and grab a bite to eat. I’m always more content in the morgue when I’ve got a full stomach.”

“I don’t have time to go out for lunch today. Call Kindler or Holmes-just get out of my hair for a while so I can catch up on everything here.”

“Have you returned yesterday’s call to Jacob Tyler yet?” Chapman asked, fanning out a handful of messages from Laura’s telephone pad. “And does that one have anything to do with the fact that the white lace camisole you ordered is out of stock but will be shipped by FedEx as soon as-”

I lurched across the desk and ripped the papers from Mike’s hand as Ryan entered the office.

“Well, I can’t imagine that the underwear delivery would upset you, so there must be something about the call from the newscaster that has you jumping, Ms. Cooper. Go easy on her, Ryan, it’s been a long morning.” Mike always liked to tease me about my social life, but I hadn’t yet told him that I had been dating Jake and knew this wasn’t the right moment to explain the relationship to him.

Ryan was as good-natured as he was competent, and for every serious case that he indicted, five or six more bizarre situations wound up on his desk. “You got any time next week to help me with an interview?” he asked me. “I’d really like your opinion.”

“Sure, which one?”

“Remember the Cruise to Nowhere you assigned to me? Four girls from Jersey celebrated their high school graduation by taking a weekend cruise,” Ryan reminded me. “Boarded the ship in New York harbor, then it sails out past Long Island for three days. I didn’t know there was anything that could float capable of holding the amount of liquor on board this thing. Or that any land-roving mammal could imbibe as much as these kids did and still be alive.”