Linda Fairstein - Final Jeopardy

I got the number of the hotel from Information and asked the desk for Johnny’s room. He answered the phone and sounded as though I had awakened him. I reminded him that we had met once at Mortimer’s, expressed my less than-enthusiastic sympathy for Isabella with exaggerated sincerity, and suggested that we might meet for drinks or dinner to commiserate about her loss. He told me he’d been napping because of his jet lag, and that he had a date with a dancer from one of the Broadway shows who couldn’t meet him till almost midnight. Yeah, he’d be glad to do dinner with an old friend of Isabella’s.

“Want me to suggest a restaurant, or do you know New York?”

“You got any problem with Rao’s?”

“Only getting in. I adore it, but you’ll never get a table for tonight.” A New York classic, but impossible to get into. The tiny place four booths and a handful of tables was one of the hottest tickets in New York, despite its unlikely location on the corner of Pleasant Avenue and 114th Street in the heart of East Harlem. It was one of the last remaining vestiges of the Italian neighborhood that,ey once flourished there. Run almost like a club, regulars had On their own tables for designated nights of the week and there was no room for reservations for unknowns unless every as politician, actor, writer, and hotshot were marooned on the;er same remote island. Great food, no menus, and the most he incredible jukebox in the city light on Smokey, but lots st of Sinatra and the Shirelles. ier “Not a problem. Stallone told me I could have his table if I wanted it tonight. I was just about to give it up this girl I’m being set up with doesn’t get off till it’s too late to eat. I’ll meet you there at eight.”

Lucky for me. I get the good meal, and the showgirl gets Johnny Garelli for dessert.

When my lunch was delivered, I closed the door to the office and ate by myself, enjoying the solitude. It never lasted long.

The first knock on the door was Mark Acciano. I waved him in.

“What did you think?” he asked eagerly.

“Great summation, really good job. Thoughtful, thorough, impassioned. You gave it your best shot. Now you’ve got to let the jurors go to work you’ve given them all the tools they need to reach the right result. The rest is in their hands.” We chatted about the case and I told him I would try to be with him when the verdict came in, to beep me when he got the call. Then came Phil Weinfeld, aka The Whiner. He had two traits that made Sarah and me cringe every time he loomed in the doorway of my office. First was what we called the “I knew that‘ problem. He’d call and urgently plead for ten minutes of my time, come over and present a hypothetical, and then ask for guidance. The ten-minute presentation never took less than half an hour, and at the end, when Sarah or I made a suggestion which obviously caught Phil by surprise, he’d say, ”I knew that.“ Then what did you bother me for in the first place?

The other thing he was known for, much to the aggravation of most of his colleagues, was his insistence on seeking advice from eight or ten of us on exactly the same issue, without revealing that he had already consulted the others. We used to joke that if he got hit by a bus on his way home in the middle of the trial, the case wouldn’t even need an hour’s adjournment. There’d be at least a dozen of us who knew the facts every bit as well as he did who could pick up the file and carry on to the verdict.

He had worn out his welcome with Sarah, who’d begin every conversation with him by asking, “How many other assistants have you asked about this already?” If he’d been through it with half of the bureau, she’d point to the door and tell him to get lost.

“What’s up, Phil?”

“Have you got a few minutes for a question, Alex?”

“A few.”

“I’m having a problem with the witness in the case that you assigned me in September, the woman whose old boyfriend came back to her apartment to pick up his clothes, and then beat her to a pulp when she wouldn’t have sex with him? You know which one I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she canceled three appointments with me. Kept telling me that she didn’t want to prosecute ‘cause she still loved him. I was trying to work out a plea with his lawyer, figuring I’d rather take a misdemeanor assault than have him walk away with no record.”

“What’s the problem?”

“She just called me in hysterics. Changed her mind completely. She went to a psychic this morning for a consultation.

Didn’t tell the psychic any of their history, nothing about the guy, and the psychic does her reading and says, ”There’s a man in your life who’s very dangerous.“ She flipped. She’s terrified. Now she wants to go all the way with the case.”

“You mean the ex puts her in the hospital with two fractured ribs, a loose tooth, a broken nose and a black eye, but it took a swami to convince her the guy is dangerous?Unbelievable. I’m sure she’s sitting in front of the psychic with a huge shiner and her nose relocated next to her ear, and the genius figures out that a dangerous man hit her.Maybe we ought to put a psychic on the payroll to help with recalcitrant witnesses.”

“What should I do about the plea offer I made?”

“Withdraw it. If the schmuck was too stupid to take it and run, bring her in tomorrow while she’s still hot to testify and put the case in the Grand Jury. Assign the arresting officer, even if it’s his RDO‘ regular day off’ and I’ll authorize the overtime. Indict him and let’s get the felony instead of the misdemeanor. Be sure her order of protection is renewed.” I “Yeah, I know that. I’ll take care of it.”

“Anything else today?”

“Nope that’s it. I’ll let you know what happens.”

The rest of the day passed quickly with the usual array of cases and customers. Every time the phone rang I feared it would be Battaglia, and I played with the idea of asking him whether I should keep the meet with Johnny Garelli.

But he didn’t look for me once, and since I knew he would have been disapproving, I simply avoided having to deal with the issue.

Mike called me a little before four o’clock when he reached the squad.

“What a wimp you are,” I chided him.

“Couldn’t even call me to tell me about the Quinn sisters making the hit on the photo of Jed, could you?”

“Frankly, I didn’t want to tell you, you’re right about that.

You didn’t seem to want to accept the obvious from the first time we talked about it.“

“Have you told his lawyer about the photo ID yet?”

“Nah. I just got in. I’ll call him later. Meanwhile, the lieutenant tells me you’ve accepted our mission gonna throw some moves on Johnny Garelli tonight. Did you find him?”

“Piece of cake. It’s all set.”

“Where’s the meet?”

“Rao’s. Can you do it?”

“Way to go, blondie. We’re both in for a good evening.”

“You can get a table at Rao’s? I can’t believe it.”

“No way. But I can get a seat at the bar. And once I’m in, the whole joint is so small I can scope it all pretty easy.

Joey’s aces, the best. He’ll let me sit there all night, and Vie will keep my glass looking full.“ The restaurant was owned by Joey Palomino a real charmer, who not only ran the business, but also acted in a number of movies and TV series, usually playing cops and detectives. He was good to the industry luminaries who frequented Rao’s, but just as nice to the guys who let him hang out at precincts and squad rooms to learn the ropes. And Vie was one of those astounding bartenders who would see a customer like me walk in someone who wasn’t likely to get there more than twice a year point a finger at me, raise an eyebrow, and say, ”Dewar’s on the rocks, am I right?“