False Witness (13 page)

She was the female version of Bobby Jones: wonderfully clearcut features, small straight nose, firm jawbone, huge light gray eyes with a fluttering of thick lashes; what could be called—what was—a cute chin. Wide upturned lips, deep dimples in her rosy cheeks; clear, healthy complexion. Her hair looked like a television commercial for shampoo: you could almost see smiling strangers ask how that shoulder-length, amber-honey, straight-cut gleaming hair could smell so delicious. You just knew she’d brush it back casually with long fingers—as she did while waiting for me to acknowledge her—grin hard enough to flash those dimples and show those perfect, square white teeth, and shrug: just lucky I guess.

She looked so
American,
without the slightest hint of any ethnics lurking in the background. She was tall, long-legged, with small but rounded breasts, slim of waistline, flat of hip and totally at ease with herself. She was accustomed to being the standard against which other people measured themselves. Her manner was self-assured, brisk, just this side of abrupt. What must it feel like to look into the mirror and see a Glori Nichols looking back?

“How do you do, Ms. Nichols. Seems I have about eight or six or something messages to get back to you, but I haven’t had an opportunity.”

Her handshake was timed for a sudden release, which left my hand hanging awkwardly in the air. “Is this a good time for you? Say, the next five minutes, just to set things up?”

She sat down and crossed her legs. Bobby, standing behind the chair, could not possibly miss my signals. He shrugged helplessly. Glori Nichols turned and gave him a quick once-over, then looked back at me. “My God. Was this by prearrangement?” She waved airily at us: I felt as though we were wearing matching clown suits. Bobby Jones remembered some telephone calls that had to be taken care of immediately. He closed the door, and Glori Nichols turned back to me and smiled.

“M-mm. He’s yummy. Is he any good?”

“You’ll never know.”

What the hell was going on here? We were introduced three seconds ago and we’re behaving as though we’ve been in the middle of an ongoing game.

I flipped through my appointment calendar without looking at it and shook my head. “I’m pretty tied up. I can’t arrange for an appointment right now and ... My phone rang. I deliberately made an unimportant phone call sound classified and urgent. “As you can see,” I told her.

“Tell you what,” Glori Nichols told me. “How about if I just follow you around for a day or so. Just me—no crew, no staff. Just so I can get a
feel
for the sort of thing I’ll be wanting to shoot. What point of view I want to develop.”

I stood up. “What we haven’t decided yet is
if
you’re going to include me in your documentary. That’s priority number one for discussion, and
that’s
what I’m going to need time to decide.”

Glori Nichols cocked her head to one side. She could get away with cocking her head; it made her look very inquisitive and bright. “Well, we apparently
are
missing signals somewhere along the line. I was under the impression that Jameson ...
Jameson Whitney Hale ...
the District Attorney ...”

“I know the man.”

“Yes.
I do, too.
I was under the impression that you and Jameson ... Mr. Hale ... had already discussed the preliminaries and that it was a matter of
when
I could arrange to ...”

“Then you were under the
wrong
impression. The question is
whether
you
will
arrange ...

“But you see, I’ve been researching you. I’ve worked up a sort of preliminary background and I’ve decided you’d be perfect ...”

“
I am perfect. In every way.
And every day, I just get more and more perfect. Talk to me next week, you’ll see how much more perfect I am than I am today. Ms. Nichols, I don’t have time for any of this crap right now.”

Her voice switched to deep frozen steel; nice and smooth, no chipping along the edges.
“Then set a time.
Which will be mutually satisfactory to both of us.”

“No time will be satisfactory to me. Maybe you’re easier to satisfy than I am.”

By now, she was standing, too, which was a disadvantage to me. I am five-foot-a-little-something-and-a-half and she, standing straight and marvelously indignant, was about eight feet tall. Whatever her height, five-seven or five-eight, it was perfect for
glaring down upon.
Which is the real reason that witnesses testify sitting down in an American courtroom:
glaring down upon
is very effective. I walked around my desk and sat down and glared
up
at her. Also effective.

“You want to discuss this with me on ... say Wednesday, at say three o’clock?” she asked brightly.

“No.”

“How about Friday ... no. How about Thursday. Lunch? Four Seasons? Look, Ms. Jacobi. I don’t quite know what set this whole thing off between us but it seems foolish. Very foolish. I am a professional documentarian-film producer. What I am working on—what Jameson ... Whitney Hale ... cleared and expressed enthusiasm for—is something that could be extremely helpful to you. I could arrange to have it shown sometime in the early fall. Strategically near election time. The exposure for you would be priceless. I’m sure I can answer any of your questions, relieve your mind of any doubts. ...”

“Would I have
final cut?”
It was what Jhavi had told me to ask. I wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but it brought forth a strong reaction.

“Final cut? You? Are you crazy?
This is my project, not yours. I’ll be glad to sit and discuss my point of view, what the thrust of the documentary will be: why I have chosen my three subjects, what direction I will take. You’ll get a feel for what we’re doing as we do it. No tricks, no games, nothing derogatory to worry about. But
final cut?
Ha! That’s ridiculous.”

“I think we’ve just had our meeting. Ms. Nichols, I’ve got a heavy schedule today.”

“I’ll set up an appointment with you through Mr. Hale’s office. At your convenience, of course.” Her voice was flat and deadly.

“Mr. Hale, the
District Attorney,
is
not my secretary.”

She glared down a little bit more, then did a great turn, her long honey-amber, shining hair flying around straight out from her shoulders.

Quite truthfully, I’m not exactly sure what the hell it was all about. Except for an intuitive warning. I’m not comfortable with the knowledge that someone has been researching me; backgrounding me; making decisions about me.

That’s
my
job. That’s the sort of thing
I
do. Regardless of any prearrangements with
Jameson.
That’s
Whitney Hale.
The District Attorney. Jameson? What the hell was going on there?

S
ANDERALEE DAWSON WAS PARTIALLY
awake for longer periods of time. She was still existing most of the time in some deep, dark, far-down place. She was transferred from the ICU unit on Wednesday, March 14, and established in quarters just as secret, just as secure, but far more comfortable for the personnel assigned to protect her. It was a suite of three rooms with a large entrance hall furnished with a desk and chair for the uniformed police officer; a smartly modern sitting room for visitors and hopefully for the patient when she became strong enough to seek a little sunshine.

There was a convenience kitchenette sunk into one wall: a minuscule refrigerator, two-burner electric hot plate, cupboard with a small collection of china dishes and cups. A teapot; a coffeepot. Bare necessities.

The patient’s room was large and cheerful. It looked like a fairly expensive hotel room, except for the hospital bed and the battered, injured woman, whose bandaged left hand rested on contoured pillows, whose face was turned from the light.

Jim Barrow and I had a meeting with Dr. Roger Fernow, an internist who was now in charge of Sanderalee Dawson’s case. Although she was out of intensive care, she would still receive around-the-clock medical attention. He had conferred with all physicians who had worked on the case so far and they were all in agreement with Dr. Fernow’s plan: he was assigning a female psychiatrist to spend some time each day with Sanderalee Dawson.

We met and spoke with Dr. Martha Chan. She was as fascinating as an ancient ivory figurine. Serene, tiny, beautiful, glowing, her voice was a soft wave of assurance. Her words, pure New York, which was good: which was what Sanderalee was used to. We were allowed to sit in on a meeting with Dr. Chan and Regg Morris.

“After spending a short period of time with Ms. Dawson, after speaking with the doctors, after listening to Ms. Jacobi here, and Ms. Lucy Capella, I feel very strongly, Dr. Morris, that you may be the connection that Sanderalee needs, to get her over the terrible reluctance to face the horror of the attack.”

She turned to Barrow and me. “Now I know, from your point of view, what is important in all of this is determining as much as you can about her assailant. My point of view is quite different. My concern is assisting Sanderalee to deal with what has happened to her in the least painful way possible.”

“You mean, if it’ll be better for her to just forget the whole thing, to not answer any questions, that’s
okay
with you?”

“Easy does it, Chief Barrow,” Dr. Chan said with a smile. “I’m on your side, pal. I want to get the bastard who did this, maybe not as badly as you do, but pretty badly. Just in my case, time is not quite so important. What I am advising is that she not be pressed too much. Dr. Regg Morris here has the best chance with her. They are friends. She trusts him, can lean on him, confide in him.”

Regg Morris’s face was expressionless. He glanced away, stared through the window behind Dr. Chan’s head. She reached out and tapped his clenched hands.

“Yes, we’ll be
using
you. But not for a cruel reason. Sooner or later, she’ll have to deal with it. Better sooner; here, in this environment, where we can all help her.”

Regg Morris nodded.

“And Lucy Capella. I’ve noticed that Sanderalee seems to have great trust in Lucy. I understand it has been arranged for Lucy to be right near by, around the clock?”

Barrow looked at me. “You’ve got Capella doing round-the-clock time? How come you didn’t tell me that?”

Barrow was getting a little edgy. He felt we were withholding things from him.

“It’s in the report Bobby Jones dropped at your office last night. Read your reports, Jim. Yes, Dr. Chan. Lucy is set up in a connecting room on the other side of the bathroom. Sanderalee has a signal button directly to Lucy.”

Regg Morris went upstairs to sit with Sanderalee for a while. Jim Barrow and I had a quick hospital-cafeteria supper. I checked upstairs with Lucy, who was settled into her own room, snug as a nun in a cell. She didn’t require much: a few books, a radio, some knitting. She didn’t even want a television. Sanderalee Dawson was in a deep sleep by the time Regg Morris offered me a ride home. His limousine was very large and very comfortable.

“Ms. Jacobi,” he began as my doorman waited for me to emerge. “Lynne, when you catch this ... beast, will you prosecute him
no matter what?
No ... ‘crazy’ pleas? No ... ‘extenuating circumstances’?
I want to know.
Because if you people let him get off, I promise you ...
he will be gotten.”

His voice stretched tight with certainty and in the shadows, his face was set into something far deeper than anger or hatred or determination. There was something singular and primal and deadly in his expression.

I pressed his hand and said, “Regg. Go home. Go to sleep. You look wiped out with exhaustion.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“What the hell do you expect me to say at this point? Let’s get him. That’s priority number one, all right?”

The doorman reached his hand for me and before I could turn and wave goodbye, Regg had slammed the back door and his driver had pulled the long black Mercedes into traffic.

At two-thirty in the morning, Lucy Capella woke me up. Her voice on the telephone was as shocking as cold water and as snappy and startling as crackling ice.

“Lynne, get up here as quickly as you can. I’ll call Bobby. Lynne, get here right away. And bring a tape recorder.”

B
OBBY AND I MET
in the lobby of the hospital and didn’t even compare possibilities. We were both trying to remember when, if ever, we’d heard Lucy Capella’s voice that urgent, that commanding. When the elevator door slid open, Lucy was there. She grabbed us each by an arm, hurried us past the nurses’ station where one very busy nurse glanced at us, then back to her work. Instead of taking us directly into the suite, Lucy whirled around, stepped into a phone booth, sat down and spoke to us.

“Now, listen. She’s dozing but she’ll come out of it as soon as I call her name. She’s been talking to me all night. Since about just before midnight. When she finally fell asleep, it was the first chance I had to call you.”

“Lucy, what ... ?”

Lucy looked from me to Bobby Jones, then back to me. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, Mother Mary, if this doesn’t knock you on your asses, nothing will.”

Sanderalee’s room was semi-dark, shadowy, mysterious. Lucy went to the bedside and quietly called to her. “Sanderalee? Are you awake?”

A cool, clear voice, stronger than we’d heard since the attack, responded. “Are they here? Lynne Jacobi? And her assistant? Bobby Jones? Have you told them anything?”

“Just to come over.”

We moved closer to the bed. Her right hand held a filmy paisley-patterned chiffon scarf over her mouth and chin. It fluttered lightly as she spoke. Her eyes looked larger now; the swelling had receded and her lashes, as she slowly blinked, were long and thick. She looked and sounded alert and aware.

My God, what sort of exorcism had Sister Lucy performed? Sanderalee was not only back among the living, she seemed strong and certain and as she spoke, anger came through the words that were forced through her wired jaws.

“A miracle of restoration, isn’t it?” Her right hand reached across her body, flat beneath the covers, the intravenous tubing pulling at her arm. With her index finger, she tapped lightly at the heavy bandages on her left hand, resting on a pillow. She wriggled the ends of the encased fingers slightly. “This hand, they tell me, is warm. Almost human-body temperature. The fingers are able to move a little now. This hand might one day function, but they won’t say to what extent: just that they are hopeful. Those three microsurgeons. The miracle team, I think
The New York Times
called them: Dr. Adam Waverly, Dr. Frank Esposito and Dr. David Cohen. They sound like a political ticket, don’t they? The Wasp, the Italian and the Jew.”