False Witness (30 page)

Lucy, because of her own particular background and life, had come to respect, love, trust, admire and expect a high degree of performance and ability from women per se many years before I had learned how to do so. She had become my best friend; in a way, my teacher, my confidante, my strength in moments of stress and disaster.

I took a long look at Lucy Capella, who appeared to be enjoying a pleasant dream. Her leg was strung up inside a stiff white plaster cast; her arm rested heavily over her body in a similar cast. As soon as I realized the other bed in the room was empty, that we were alone, I burst out crying. Not softly; not in controlled, contained whimpers. I just leaned against the door I had closed behind me, looked at Lucy and cried.

Lucy’s eyes snapped open, her head came up, her expression was startled. “Lynne. Good heavens, Lynne, come on. It’s not that bad. All this rigging and roping is just for dramatic effect, honestly.”

I came to the side of the bed, leaned over, kissed her forehead, grabbed her good hand and confessed.

“Oh, Lucy, I’m not crying for
you.
I’m crying for
me.
You, for God’s sake, you’ll be fine. You’re tough and strong and you have total absolute faith and confidence ... Lucy, my whole life has just gone right down the drain. My whole future has just disappeared right before my very eyes.”

“Well, in that case, I think you’d better flop down in the other bed or pull over a chair or take a drink of water and settle down to tell me all about it.”

We talked.
I
talked for nearly an hour; about my great lost future as the first woman District Attorney of New York County; of the fact that Jameson Whitney Hale had said
my name would be forever linked in the public’s memory with that of Dr. David Cohen.

Lucy’s dark eyes studied the ceiling thoughtfully. She pulled herself up a little and began asking key questions.

“What exactly do you think Bobby Jones has? Actually?”

“I think ... that he has the actual culprit who attacked Sanderalee. Beat her up, hacked her hand off. The sex stuff, oh God, Lucy, that damn old male cliché:
‘She asked for it.’
In this particular case,
she did. Quite literally.”
I told Lucy everything that Alan Greco had revealed about Sanderalee’s background. “She’s been searching for her murderer, and now she’s come as close as possible to finding him without being dead.”

“Has Bobby told you any specifics yet? About what he’s got?”

“No. But Lucy, he’s been in and out to see Sanderalee. I checked the hospital sign-in sheet. Whatever he’s come up with, she must have verified. She’s backed off David Cohen entirely. God, if she’d admitted the pickup and that the sex was voluntary on her part, but it was still David Cohen, we’d drop the rape and sodomy charges and still have a good case for assault, attempted murder and dismemberment. But she told Alan Greco she wasn’t sure any more about David; doubted it very much, in fact. From the sound of Bobby’s voice, from what he’s said, I feel that he’s shown her pictures of this ... McDonald. That the identification is strong enough to go with.”

“Why, Lynne? Why did he do this? Why didn’t Bobby stop you before you went for the indictment?”

“Because I told him ... because we discussed ... the future. He learned about Jameson’s plan to appoint me as D.A. when he announces for the Senate.” Lucy’s eyebrows shot up; she didn’t know about this yet. I filled her in. “Bobby got this from that Glori-TV documentarian. I told him the truth: that he didn’t have what it takes to be a top prosecutor; that you were a better investigator. That his future was somewhat limited within the service of the District Attorney’s office. That he should start exploring other areas of the law. I wounded him—his ego; his pride; his macho image—when I said he didn’t have the killer instinct. I said he lacked the instinct.”

“Like you and I have.”

“Like you and I have. I sure was wrong about that, wasn’t I? My jugular has just about been ripped open.”

“Bobby’s timing, Lynne. Good grief, his timing. He actually let you go before the Grand Jury and get the indictment and all the ensuing publicity while withholding Sanderalee’s statement from you. Was he that wounded by you? Is he that vengeful?”

For the first time, I said aloud what I had been thinking. “Not by himself; I think he’s been taking ‘getting ahead’ lessons. From some very self-interested, self-assured, manipulative little ... I don’t want to go into this just now, Lucy. I have to think about this for a while. It’s ... personal.”

Lucy nodded. Okay.

“Now, what I want you to tell me: could I throw him to the wolves for this? Bring him up on charges? obstruction of justice by withholding vital information? If it isn’t a criminal matter, is it a Bar Association matter?”

Lucy studied me with her dark and serious eyes. Calmly, rationally, slowly and with great care and consideration, she said, “No, Lynne. Not at this point. Actually, Sanderalee Dawson told Alan Greco a new story about the attack. And Alan Greco told Bobby Jones and Bobby Jones didn’t tell you. Because ... let’s play defense attorney for him for the moment: because he needed time to check it out. In the meantime, you went ahead with your presentation to the Grand Jury in perfectly good faith and, based on your presentation, they indicted. So you’re covered. And actually, so is Bobby. In a way. He had no reason to either believe or disbelieve Sanderalee’s new story; so he undertook an independent investigation. Let’s look at the brightest possible side of the situation.”

“My Lucy-look-at-the-sunny-side.”

“Well, why not? Let’s say that Bobby
has
come up with another suspect. A David Cohen lookalike. And now Sanderalee says, absolutely, positively, without an iota of a doubt: yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s the man I picked up; took home; had all kinds of slightly kinky sex with. And then he turned vicious and beat me up and hacked off my hand. So, you go back to the Grand Jury and get a dismissal of all charges against Dr. David Cohen. I’m making an educated guess, based on everything we know so far, that this second man is a David Cohen lookalike. You acted in good faith, Lynne: your plaintiff said this was the man. You literally had no choice. Not too much corroborating evidence, but one or two little peculiar things, like the wounded cheek, blood type, missing running shoes. You’re in the clear as far as I can see.

“And so is Bobby Jones.” Lucy held her hand up to keep me from interrupting. “We’re looking at the sunny side, Lynne. Not on the personal motive side, all right? Let me finish. So, okay, David Cohen is cleared. Second man—McDonald, you said—okay, he’s charged not with any sex crimes because ugh!—damn and double damn!—‘She asked for it.’ ”

We both made faces and ugly noises but Lucy continued. The longer she spoke, the better I felt. Maybe this whole thing could still be salvaged.

“So, all right, you then ask the Grand Jury for indictments for atrocious assault, attempted murder, dismemberment, and any et ceteras you can throw in.”

“And publicly, Lucy? I have the distinct feeling that the crucifiers will be lined up and waiting. Led by one particularly vivacious and successful young woman who’s gotten more than she bargained for—or maybe exactly what she hoped for—by selecting me for her fucking documentary. Sorry, Lucy. Her darn-old documentary.”

Lucy ignored my slip; we are all generally careful around her, with that twelve-year-old face and those round dark eyes.

“Okay, Lynne. So what do we have to offer to the public? Well, sir, we show them that the prosecutor’s office, the District Attorney’s office, is dedicated
to the truth, to justice, to clearing and protecting the innocent as well as prosecuting the guilty.”

She ended with a huge, triumphant grin. She had
me
totally convinced. What a
marvelous
organization we represented. What
dedication
to the
tradition of justice.
Oh, Lucy,
you
go in front of the cameras.
You
face the world and tell them what you just told me.

“Lucy, you make it all sound so nice and clean and marvelous and noble. But my God. David Cohen’s father dropped dead in court from the stress of seeing his son under arrest and facing arraignment. His brother was apparently a pretty well controlled epileptic and now he’s publicly disgraced. His mother—oh boy, Lucy, she’s put a curse on me forever and ever and you know what? It’s beginning to work full force.”

She ignored that. “First, Lynne: the father’s heart attack was inevitable. From what I’ve read about him, he was on borrowed time. Unfortunate, but there it is. The brother: he lied on his job application. It’s too bad the way it all came out, but let’s face it, the man had no right at all to a job like that with the kind of responsibility his job entailed.”

“So, in effect, you might say that I was instrumental in saving possibly thousands of lives that might have been lost should he have had an attack at a crucial moment and let all that nuclear stuff escape. Right?”

“There you go, Lynne. That’s the line to take. Now, the mother’s curse.” Lucy’s face closed up for a moment as though she were searching for something—anything—to say.

“You saw it on the news? Was it as awful as I think it was?”

“It was as awful as you think it was.”

You ask Lucy a question and you will get a totally honest answer.

“You know it yourself, Lynne. So okay, you learned something. Be very careful of what you say and who you say it to. Never—ever—trust a media person; keep your guard up. They can do whatever they want to with whatever you say so be careful what the heck you say, about anything at all times. Lynne, one more thing. Aside from ‘showing you,’ paying you back for your lack of confidence in his ability, where do you think Bobby Jones is heading with all of this? What does he want?”

I had never even considered. Never thought about it. “Going out in a burst of glory?” I started to laugh; a very gagging sound. “Glory-Glori Nichols. Is he setting me up for her documentary? All my shortcomings to be featured in a one-hour news special? And in gratitude, she’ll bring him into the wonderful world of entertainment? He’s gotten some damn good training in double-dealing if that’s what’s behind all this. I’ll find out tonight, at seven o’clock.”

Lucy pulled herself up a little, hunched closer to me, bit her lower lip. That meant she was making a big decision: ask this next question or not.

“Lynne. Just between the two of us. No matter what happens later, no matter what turns up, no matter how this whole case is resolved. As of right now, your gut feeling. Forget everything else and give me your best intuitive gut feeling:
Dr. David Cohen?”

I answered without a second’s hesitation.

“I think the son of a bitch is guilty.”

“I think so too,”
Lucy said.

W
E DID NOT KNOW
how to behave toward each other. We had been so intimate and free and honest and loving and knowledgeable with each other. I knew that he had spent a certain amount of time deciding to wear his midnight blue suit. Then he had thoughtfully chosen the sky blue shirt, which intensified the color of his eyes, and then he purposely chose the exactly-right tie that I had bought for him at Saks specifically for that suit and that shirt. He was clean and fresh-smelling down to his skin: the soapy quality of a hot shower somehow lingers on Bobby Jones. He had shaved within the hour: faint hint of recently applied, very fight aftershave lotion. I could visualize the motions he had used as he brushed his hair, the way he ran his left palm lightly over each careful stroke.

He had dressed to please me.

I had dressed to please him.

Unfortunately, one look at his blue eyes and smug face was enough to make my choice of clothing a matter of no interest to either of us.

“Bobby.
How the hell could you have done this to me?”
I asked.

There was a careful, tight narrowing of his eyes. He studied me as though calculating, deciding, selecting the proper words. “Actually,” he said, after a pause, “as of right now, as of this exact
minute,
Lynne, I haven’t
done anything to you.”

“All right. Let’s start with this. What have you been doing since you spoke to Alan Greco, last Monday night? When he told you about his conversation with Sanderalee. When he gave you copies of the report he prepared immediately after his conversation with Sanderalee.”

Bobby focused steadily on me. “Go further back, Lynne. About two weeks back. I’ve been conducting my own investigation in another direction altogether. Away from Dr. David Cohen. I told you right at the beginning that I doubted he was the perpetrator. But first, I gave you the background report on Cohen that you asked for, I supervised all the Squad members. I coordinated all their findings and kept you up to date. In all areas but one. Because you more or less weren’t interested in my
tangential investigation.”

“Tangential investigation? What the hell does that mean? Before you spoke to Alan Greco, before he told you what Sanderalee told him, what investigation were you involved in?”

Bobby held up his hand. “Wait, Lynne. I’ll
show
you what I’ve been doing.
Before
the conversation with Alan.” He retrieved his attaché case from the entrance hall. He placed it on my dining table, leaned over, arranging things. “Come on over here, Lynne. I’ve got a lot of things to show you.”

As I stared at the photographs, Bobby stared at me. I looked up, puzzled; pointed to one slightly familiar face.

“Henry. Angel. Henry Angelowitz, our pal from the Jog-gon-Inn. Photogenic devil, isn’t he.” Bobby moved in closer to me; his hand resting lightly, naturally, on my shoulder, no longer shy of touching. His square fingers searched the small faces on the photograph, then stopped at an indistinct bearded man sitting at a table.

As though he were performing a magic act, Bobby produced another picture from the folder he had taken from his attaché case. It was an enlargement of the indistinct man with the beard. Vaguely familiar. And then, he showed me an artist’s drawing of the face in the photograph; then, the artist’s rendition of the same face without a beard: it was David Cohen’s face.