The Advocate's Devil (39 page)

Abe looked at his watch as the plane touched down: it was 3:45. How much time until Campbell got her alone in the hotel room?

It was nearly five o’clock when Abe finally worked his way through the Midtown Tunnel traffic, onto the FDR Drive, and over
to the downtown brick building that was headquarters to the New York City Police Department. In the cab, Rendi had a brainstorm.
Why not notify all the local TV and radio stations and have them show both Campbell’s and Emma’s faces? That way they would
surely be identified by restaurant patrons, hotel desk clerks, and others. Campbell was one of the most recognizable figures
in New York. Rendi’s plan made sense.

When they arrived, Abe pleaded with Rothman to implement Rendi’s plan. Burt Riley, the police department’s lawyer, wouldn’t
hear of it.

“We don’t even have probable cause here. We’ve got a guy who was
acquitted
by a jury. A lawyer who now says he
believes
his own client is guilty, even though he made his name telling everyone in the world he believed the man was innocent. A
nervous father who is understandably concerned about his daughter’s taste in men, though he doesn’t even know for sure who
she’s out with tonight. And so far no crime.”

“I don’t give a shit about the technicalities,” Abe shot back. “We’re talking about my daughter’s life here.”

“I’ve always said that a conservative is a liberal whose kid just got mugged,” Riley said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, and a civil libertarian is a cop who’s been asked to take a urine test for drugs,” Abe replied. “That’s got nothing
to do with whether you call the TV stations.”

“No way I’m gonna call with what you’ve got,” Riley said.

“Then
I’ll
call the TV stations myself,” Abe insisted.

“Don’t waste your time, Mr. Ringel,” Riley said. “No TV station is going to risk a libel suit by accusing one of our leading
citizens—and one who was acquitted, to boot—of planning another rape or murder. It just won’t happen. Not without an arrest
warrant, which we can’t get, at least not in time for the six o’clock news.”

“We’ve got to try, damn it!”

“Okay, if you want to waste another precious hour,” Rothman said with a sigh. “Look, I believe you. I think you’re on to something.
And I’m willing to put my ass on the line for you by getting a dozen or so cops working this case—but discreetly. If we go
public, we’ll get our ass kicked in. No judge is going to give a warrant on the basis of this crap.”

Abe knew that Riley and Rothman were right. He also knew that if he could get the story out, it would stop Campbell. Campbell
would, of course, deny he had any evil intentions toward Emma, and Abe would be in the position of having blown the whistle
on his former client for
past
crimes. But Abe couldn’t care less. All that consumed him was the need to help his daughter—at any price.

He called his friend Howey Green at the local CBS station and told him the story.

“Wow, what a great TV show that would make,” Howey said. “But we can’t go with it as news, Abe. Certainly not without checking
with our lawyers first, and that always takes time. If it turns out to be true, we would be interested, of course, but not
on the basis of what you’ve got.”

Panic was beginning to set in as Abe again checked his watch: it was 5:50, time to try Zoe’s parents again. Maybe she was
home early.

No luck. Nor had the Barnard security cops had any more luck. They had searched Emma’s room and had come up empty. Nothing
on her desk calendar except a heart, drawn by red felt pen next to September 1. Several people had seen Emma leave her room,
dressed in a short red dress. She was going out for the day and wouldn’t be back till morning, she had told a friend in an
adjoining room. She’d been whistling as she left, carrying a small pocketbook.

Rothman had secured ten cops—eight men and two women—to make the rounds of several of the city’s most popular large hotels.
They had given up on the restaurants, because there were so many. If no one was spotted by ten
P.M
., a few of the police would drive around the theater district, looking at the crowds as they exited the shows. They were
carrying the photograph of Emma and a newspaper picture of Campbell.

Abe decided that he would remain at police headquarters and continue to work the phone. Rendi ran down to a local bookstore
and bought a restaurant guide, then started to call every fancy restaurant in the city. Pretending she was one of the paparazzi,
she offered each maître d’ $1,000 for the tip if Campbell showed up.

At 6:45 Abe again called Zoe’s parents. She was still not home.

Finally, at 7:25
P.M
., Abe reached Zoe. He asked her whether Emma was out with Joe Campbell.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ringel. I can’t tell you that. You should ask Emma.”

“This is an emergency, Zoe. Emma doesn’t know that Campbell is a rapist. You must tell me.”

“Oh, my God!” Zoe shrieked. “Emma told me that Joe was innocent, that he was a real sweet guy.”

“I have evidence that he’s not so sweet. I couldn’t tell Emma. It never occurred to me that she would go out with him.”

“She’s gone out with him a few times already—in Boston. I guess you didn’t know that. She was afraid that if you found out,
you’d object because he was your client and he’s so much older.”

“She’s right. There’s no time for that now. I take it you’re telling me that they’re out together.”

“Yeah, only you don’t have to worry about him raping her, Mr. Ringel.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr. Ringel. I guess I have to. Emma
wants
to spend the night with Joe. She’s all prepared. Birth control and all.”

“Zoe, you don’t understand. Joe Campbell is a real sicko. Emma’s life is in danger. Did she tell you which hotel they were
going to?”

“Emma didn’t know. Joe told her it would be a surprise. A very romantic hotel. He had a room all reserved under a friend’s
name—to avoid a lot of gawking.”

“Do you know whether they’re having dinner?”

“Yeah, at some small Italian restaurant in midtown. She told me the name, but I can’t remember.”

“Are they going to a show?”

“Yeah, a matinee.”

“Thanks, Zoe. Let me give you my number in case you think of anything else, or in case Emma happens to call. If she does,
please tell her to get away from Campbell and not to go to his room.”

“She’s not going to call me until she’s alone.”

“Just in case. My associate Rendi is going to call you and read the names of all the Italian restaurants in midtown. See if
that jogs your memory.”

Abe immediately dialed his old friend Alex O’Donnell, Campbell’s agent. He remembered that Alex had mentioned the pseudonym
Campbell sometimes used when he checked into hotels.

No answer. Alex’s secretary told him that her boss was on a plane going to Europe.

“Does he have a sky page?” Abe asked her.

“Yes, but I don’t know whether it will work halfway across the Atlantic.”

“Try, please.”

Abe racked his brain and finally remembered that Campbell had used a name that was somehow related to his nickname, the White
Knight. But he still couldn’t remember the precise name Campbell had used to register in the Boston hotel.

However, he
did
remember the name of the Boston hotel: the Four Seasons. He called Justin and told him to call over to the hotel and find
out the name Campbell had used to register there. In the meantime, Rendi had gotten Zoe to narrow down the list of restaurants
to half a dozen. She called each of them. No Campbell. It was now 8:45.

The phone rang.

“Bad news and good news, Abe,” said Justin. “Bad is that I can’t break into Campbell’s files. I’ve tried everything. He’s
probably randomized his password. Good news is I found out what name he uses to register in hotels: ‘Mitch White.’”

Abe and Rendi quickly started to call all the large hotels on the list provided by the police. New York Palace: no luck. Park
Lane: no luck. Regency, Waldorf-Astoria: no luck. Emma’s life was quickly ticking away, and she didn’t even suspect it.

In desperation, Abe turned to Rendi. “Please, do whatever you have to do. Whatever they taught you in the Mossad. No limits.
We’ve got to stop him.”

Even before he’d completed the last sentence, Rendi was out the door, a look on her face that Abe had never seen before.

B
ROOKLYN
—
F
RIDAY,
S
EPTEMBER
1

Peter Luger’s Steak House is tucked under a bridge in Brooklyn, right over the East River from Manhattan. It is one of Brooklyn’s
major attractions for sophisticated Manhattan residents and a steak lover’s paradise. Joe Campbell loved beef. Although he
had made reservations at Gianini’s in Midtown, after the show was over he’d decided that he was in the mood for a steak. So
off they went in a taxi over the Brooklyn Bridge.

The restaurant seemed like an oasis in the middle of an asphalt desert, steaming with poverty, drugs, and homelessness. Normally
Emma would be consumed by the disparity of wealth inside and outside the restaurant. However, this was her day, a time to
think only of the pleasures that awaited her. It was her first real date with Joe Campbell, not an afterthought of one of
her father’s meetings. Joe had called her and asked her if he could be her “first date” in New York. Somehow he also knew
that it was her birthday. Her father must have mentioned it once, Emma thought.

“I can’t believe how good you look,” her new roommate, Zoe, had said as Emma was dressing for her date. While shopping at
Zoe’s uncle’s boutique in SoHo, they had picked out a frothy short red chiffon dress, cut below the bust. High-heeled pumps
completed the outfit. Emma was used to wearing Dr. Martens and Birkenstock sandals, so she had to practice walking on the
heels for a while before getting dressed. She couldn’t believe that her study dates with Jon had been enough to satisfy her
all this time.

Emma’s secret was too terrific not to share with someone. So Zoe knew of her plans, but she was sworn to secrecy. No one would
learn from Zoe’s lips where Emma was spending the evening. Emma had made one promise before she’d left: “I’ll call you as
soon as I’m alone, no matter what time. Wish me good luck.”

Now she was alone with Joe Campbell—well, alone among hundreds of diners. Soon she would really be all alone with him.

“You really look sexy, Emma. I knew you would when you started dressing like a woman.”

“It’s fun to get dressed up every so often, though I feel a lot more comfortable in my usual clothes.”

“Does anyone know you’re out with me?” Campbell asked, reaching over to touch Emma’s hand.

“No, I would never tell my father. He’d freak.” Emma giggled, not volunteering that she had shared the secret with Zoe.

“Good. We can tell him about us if and when we become an ‘
us.
’”

During dinner Joe was a perfect gentleman, thoughtful, funny, complimentary, and commanding. Emma asked him to order for her.
He selected porterhouse steak, roasted potatoes, sautéed okra, and a 1989 Pomerol, of which they each had only one glass.
Both were anticipating a long, sensual night.

After cheesecake for dessert, Emma excused herself to use the ladies’ room. In it she saw a pay phone and decided to call
Zoe and report on the progress of the evening.

Zoe’s line was busy, so she decided to redo her makeup and then try again. Checking her watch, Emma saw that it was eight-thirty,
just a little more than three hours left on her birthday. A few minutes later she dialed again. This time she got Zoe’s answering
machine and left a message: “Wow, Zoe. Am I having a great time! We went to a film festival at the Museum of Modern Art. Then
we decided to go to Peter Luger’s for dinner over in Brooklyn. Joe felt like steak, not Italian. Now I’m in the ladies’ room
and we’re about to leave for his hotel. He still won’t tell me where. But he said it would be romantic. Near Central Park.
I can’t wait. I promise I’ll tell you everything. Everything. See you soon.”

Emma hastened back to the table.

While Emma was crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on her way back into Manhattan, Abe was sitting in police headquarters, almost
in view of the bridge, waiting for the phone to ring with some news of Emma. Finally it rang.

It was Zoe. Her voice was shaking. Emma
had
called her while she’d been in the shower. She played back Emma’s message. Abe listened to Emma’s giggly voice, wondering
if he would ever hear his daughter happy again.

“Mr. Ringel, God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could have missed her call.”

“That’s okay, Zoe, it’s not your fault.” It seemed to Abe he’d been saying that a lot lately. “I’ve got to go.”

“Please have Emma call me as soon as you get her away from that creep. Please, I won’t sleep a wink.”

“Sure.”
If
he got her away.

He called Peter Luger’s. Yes, Joe Campbell had been there. Yes, he had been with a woman. They had called a cab—to take him
and the young lady he was with to Manhattan. No, they didn’t know where, but they knew the name and number of the cab company.

A call to the cab company turned out to be a dead end. They had sent half a dozen cabs to Peter Luger’s. However, they agreed
to send out a message on the car radio.

Abe continued to call the hotels, limiting himself to the dozen or so that bordered Central Park. Still no luck.

Finally, as 10
P.M.
approached, Abe decided to go up Central Park South and make the rounds of the hotels. Maybe Joe had used a third name. Maybe
the cabbie hadn’t recognized Joe Campbell.

Rothman drove Abe uptown in a squad car while another cop manned the phones. It was 10:15
P.M
.

M
ANHATTAN
—
F
RIDAY,
S
EPTEMBER
1