Linda Fairstein - The DeadHouse

I didn't know in which direction to move the conversation. Every angle I started with met a dead end. I stared out the window as the wipers swished the soft flakes from side to side and waited for Mike to take this where he wanted.

We were in the underpass beneath the United Nations Building now, stuck in the middle lane behind three cars that had piled up in a fender bender. When Mike spoke, I couldn't see his face because of the darkness in the short tunnel.

"I guess Sloan-Kettering isn't the best place in the world to pick up a girl."

The superb cancer facility occupied a city block on York Avenue, midway between Mike's apartment and my own. Many of my friends had been treated and saved by the phenomenal medical staff that served its patient population. I looked at the shadow of Mike's profile while he talked to me.

"After Mercer was hit, I made it a point to donate blood, to replace all the pints that had been used in his surgery. All the guys did it. I decided to go to Sloan-Kettering. Just seemed like the best place to give. First time I was there, in the blood center, I saw her. She was resting on one of the recliners, like she was at the beach. Had a bright blue silk scarf tied around her head, knotted at the nape of her neck, with a big smile on her face while she chatted with the nurse. Just the most luminous skin I'd ever seen.

"We only talked for about fifteen minutes that day. She had to give some of her own blood to be tested for a kind of experimental treatment. She was finishing her juice, getting ready to leave, and they were prepping me to start. Long enough for me to find out what her name was and where she worked."

Mike maneuvered out from behind the stuck cars and into the right-hand lane, crawling back out onto the wet highway. "She wouldn't see me for more than a month. I hadn't realized that there was no hair under her scarf, and she was afraid to tell me. Afraid I wouldn't want to take the next step."

I thought back to my glimpse of the woman in Mike's bed. I had only seen the slender outline of her body beneath the sheet, and the short-cropped brunette hair against the pillow. "What kind of cancer does she have?"

"I'm using the past tense. Had. Val had breast cancer. A very aggressive kind, no family history. They did a mastectomy last year and some radical chemotherapy. She's healthy now."

He paused and looked away from me, out toward the river. "I'm betting on her, Coop."

"Of course you should be. You've got a whole built-in cheering section, for chrissakes. Why wouldn't you think Mercer and Vickee and Jake and I can't be part of this?"

He didn't answer me aloud but nodded his head in assent. Perhaps it had more to do with Mike exposing his own vulnerability to us than keeping Val away from his friends.

"How about next weekend, Jake and I can do a dinner party?"

Mike took his eyes off the road, looked over at me, and chuckled.

"See, I knew I could make you smile. Jake can cook, I'll do the dishes."

"You'll like her. You two can go on and on about Chaucer and Malory and the Cursor Mundi -all that Middle English literature you guys thrive on." The familiar grin was gone now. "She just gets tired easily. We'll make the first one an early night, if you don't mind."

I cursed myself for my glibness about Mike's mysterious woman. I knew and appreciated the blessings of good health and good genes. Last night, while Val was cradled safely in the arms of the man who adored her, I was tramping around the darkened streets of Manhattan in a petulant tantrum, thinking I could enlist Mike's aid like Guinevere summoning her knights. Why wasn't I content to stay at home and talk things through with Jake?

Mike let me out in front of the courthouse and I stopped to b uy coffee for both of us before going upstairs to my office. There was a voice mail from Laura telling me that she wouldn't be in today from Staten Island because of the bad weather, and two messages from Jake, asking me to call. The earlier one was solicitous in tone, the second was stern and somber. I ignored both.

This would be a quiet week, with many assistants taking vacation leave during the court hiatus between Christmas and New Year's.

Sylvia Foote was the first to call, confirming the meeting she had set for one o'clock and asking whether I had heard about last night's burglary. Police were once again working their way through the King's College building, even as Foote's animosity toward me once again increased.

Mike walked in as I hung up the phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed Information, asking for Michael's restaurant. The automated voice connected him directly, at the additional cost of thirty cents to the district attorney.

"Good morning. This is Jake Tyler, NBC News. I called last night to book a table for lunch."

"He wanted that private table in the alcove, under the window," I reminded Mike in a whisper.

"That's right, that nice one up front. I won't be needing it after all. I'd appreciate it if you cancel my reservation." He hung up, then took off his trench coat and threw it on a chair. "Make you feel better? At least when he shows up with his secret source, they won't be holding a special place for him."

Mike picked up the phone when it rang again. "Hey, Jake." He looked at me for guidance.

I mouthed the word "no" as clearly as I could.

"Nope. Haven't seen her yet. Think she spent the night with David and Renee. You really put her in some kind of snit, man. Nothing that about three dozen yellow roses and the sight of you on your knees in the slush can't correct. Oh, and the whereabouts of that broad who got whacked this weekend. Call back when you got that, Jake. I'll tell her to give you a buzz when she gets down here."

He pressed the plastic button to end the call and stood with the receiver in his hand as the phone immediately rang again. "Ms. Cooper's office and she really doesn't want to talk to an asshole like you." Mike paused. "Whoops, sorry, Your Honor. I'm new here. Thought you were just another crank caller for the lovely prosecutor."

Mike passed the call to me. "Yes, sir, I do recognize the name. No, I think she's away for the week but I'll be right down. Yes, I'll handle it myself." I gave the phone back to Mike. "Make yourself useful. I've got to go down to AP3. There's a bit of a crisis on one of our old cases and the assistant has the week off."

I slipped the chain with my identification badge around my neck and went to the staircase to wind my way over to the elevator bank that descended to the misdemeanor courtrooms on the fourth floor of the building. My deputy, Sarah Brenner, had been on maternity leave since her baby was born in the middle of the summer, and it wouldn't be soon enough until she returned to the unit. It was impossible to stem the daily flow of incoming mayhem, even in the midst of an ongoing murder investigation.

I entered the rear of All-Purpose Part 3 through the double-swinging doors, and scanned the rows of benches for Juan Modesto. I couldn't spot him anywhere. Judge Fink had asked me to speak with the clerk, and the court officer guarding the entrance to the well of the courtroom unhooked the metal chain and let me through.

When I approached the clerk's desk, she motioned me to lean in so that she could speak to me without disturbing the judge during his plea negotiations with a defendant on a buy-and-bust case.

"Are you familiar with this one?"

"Pretty well," I said, trying to pull up the facts from my memory. "Modesto beat and raped his girlfriend. He's out on bail, pending the indictment. She's been uncooperative, claims he's been threatening her to drop charges or he'll kidnap the baby and take him back to the Dominican Republic. The judge issued an order of protection last time the case was on. I think we asked for an adjournment to late in January, figuring we might be able to change her mind after the holidays.