Linda Fairstein: Final Jeopardy

Mike laughed: “Whew! Women in the workplace!”

“Listen, Mike, I don’t know what happens in parochial schools – most of the guys survive the nuns and come out with a sense of humor some a little more tasteful than yours, but humor nonetheless. This guy came out like Mother Superior himself, with a stick up his ass that should have punctured his brain by now.”

Pat McKinney was one of Rod’s deputies. He was senior to me by a couple of years, and as rigid and humorless as any man could be. I’ve never figured what made him such an angry person, but something seethed inside him and most frequently found its outlet when directed at the women professionals in the office.

“Laura thinks he blames the crab incident on me, don’t you?”

She nodded as I told Mike the story.

“Pat refused to sign off on an extradition request for one of the assistants in the Asian Gang Unit, who wanted to fly in a witness from Los Angeles and put the kid up in a hotel during the trial.

McKinney said it was too expensive and that there was a strong enough case without the witness. I told the assistant that Pat was just crabby that day, and if he wrote up a new request I would walk it in to Rod for approval.

Rod signed and the jury convicted. You know those fish stores on the corner at Canal Street?“

Our office was smack in the middle of the part of Lower Manhattan where Little Italy overlapped with Chinatown, and the south side of Canal Street was lined with Chineserun fish stores that daily displayed open crates of live fish on the sidewalks.

“Well, a few days after the trial ended, Pat arrived to find his office door unlocked. He flew to his desk to call Security to come upstairs, and when he pulled open the top drawer, about forty live crabs came rushing over the lip of the drawer onto his lap – frisky little suckers that had been packed in on top of each other all night. I’m surprised you didn’t hear his screams on Ninety-fourth Street.”

Mike liked the story.

“You do it?”

“Are you crazy? I assume it was the cops from the case, but he knows that I’m the one who called him ”crabby“ that time, so he blames me.”

We were interrupted by the appearance of a uniformed cop in the doorway beyond Laura’s desk. He looked like a rookie – baby-faced, polished shoes, new equipment, and a sheaf of arrest papers in his hand.

“I’m looking for Mr. Cooper,” he announced to the, three of us.

“You got him. Only I’m Cooper. It’s Alex Alexandra.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Officer Corchado. They sent me up from the complaint room – I’ve got a new case.”

Laura moved to her desk to start working the phones and I waved Corchado into my office and introduced him to Mike as we seated ourselves.

“I won’t be able to write this up for you ‘cause I’m involved in something else today, but my assistant, Sarah Brenner, will work on it with you as soon as she gets in.”

“Yeah, but my lieutenant told me I had to see the bureau chief. There’s a problem with a cross-complaint and he said you’d know what to do. You’re the chief, right?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“What’s the problem? Tell me what kind of case you’ve got.”

Corchado explained that he and his partner had responded to a 911 call shortly after eleven last night.

“Neighbors had called it in housing project in the two-three.” East Harlem.

I asked if he’d met the victim.

“Yeah, she was a mess. A kid, fifteen. Taken to the rooftop from the elevator on her way home. Put up a struggle. Lots of blood, mostly from her nose, I think, when he punched her to shut her up.”

“Did he rape her?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what she said. She was crying so bad we didn’t talk to her a lot. Ambulance took her to the hospital.”

“How did you get the guy?” I asked.

“Easy. She knew him. Said he had gone to junior high school with her older brother. So when they took her to the hospital my partner and me went to the apartment to get her brother. We told him what happened and that his sister said that it was Otis who did it.

“Her brother, Kenny, was wild, ma’am. He knew exactly who Otis was and what apartment he lived in. Told us the guy’s real name was Herman Myers, but they called him Otis ‘cause he used to ride up and down in elevators, waiting for old ladies to get on so he could rob ’em. Just got out of jail on the robbery cases a few weeks ago. Took us right to the apartment, we knocked on the door, and when Otis came out into the hallway to talk to us, we locked him up.”

“Nice collar,” I told Corchado.

“Is it your first felony?”

“Yeah, actually it is.”

“Well, congratulations. You can feel good about this one.

Laura will send you down to Sarah’s office and you’ll have him indicted by the beginning of next week.“

“Yeah, but there is a problem. Otis… well, his lawyer called the precinct and wants to file a cross-complaint.”

“What?”

“Well, Miss Cooper, Kenny hit the defendant in the head with a baseball bat. Otis is in the hospital – took a bad crack to the head. That’s why the lieutenant told me to see you.

Do we have to lock Kenny up, too?“

“Christ, how did you let this happen?” I asked, as my pleasure over a good arrest turned to annoyance.

“Kenny followed along with us to point Otis out,” Corchado explained, ‘and I guess he was carrying the bat. He just came back from playing ball so I didn’t think nothing of it. He was real quiet until we put the cuffs on Myers, then he started to cry and all. He kept saying, “Why’d you do it to her, she’s just a baby. Man, Why’d you have to do it? She was a baby.”

“Right before we got him to the patrol car, me and my Partner on each side of him so nobody could interfere, Otis turns back to Kenny and says, ”Shit, she was no baby. Her hole was so big I almost fell into it.“

I closed my eyes at the thought of the way that must have stung poor Kenny, whoever he was.

“Miss Cooper, it was so fast I never saw it coming. Kenny just reeled back and landed the bat square on Otis’s head, and he fell to his knees like he was a sack of sugar.

“Give Kenny a medal,” mumbled Mike from his chair in the corner.

“Lucky you don’t have to worry about brain damage – it doesn’t sound like Otis’s elevator went to the top floor to begin with. When I came on the job, kid, taking a defendant to be arraigned with his head wrapped in bandages was the sign of a good cop – we didn’t have to let civilians do it for us we could whack ‘em ourselves.

Stand ’em in front of the judge with their heads wrapped in bandages. Turban jobs. ”Yeah, Your Honor, he resisted arrest, sir. Put up quite a struggle.“ Before all the ACLU crap started you could really get some street justice.”

I rolled my eyes as Mike played with the rookie.

“Ignore him, Corchado. Just go see Miss Brenner for the rape arrest.

She’ll take good care of you. As for the cross-complaint, give me the papers.“ I took the package and found the D.A.”s data sheet, the space for the write-up of the case summary. Across the top of the complaint made by Myers for assault, I scrawled in large letters: “Decline to prosecute.

Reason: Interest of justice as per Alexandra Cooper, Chief, SCPU.“

“What do I tell his lawyer, Miss Cooper?” Corchado asked.

Oh, the beauty of prosecutorial discretion.

“You tell him that Miss Cooper said that he hopes Otis’s head hurts so bad and for so long that the next time he even thinks about having an erection, it’s so painful that he thinks twice and can’t get it up.”

“Way to go, blondie,” Mike cheered as Corchado left the room.