but the person on the other
end had obviously heard what I asked. “Ed's telling me she wants
to report a rape. That the advocate at St. Luke's told her to ask
for you specifically, because she's ambivalent about going forward
and they want you to encourage her. Doesn't want her parents to
know, so you'll have to explain the realities of a
prosecution.”
“Can it hold for another day?”
Ed was talking to Laura, who repeated to me what she
learned.
“Yeah, that's fine. She's been examined and all. Wants answers
about what's involved before she makes her decision about pressing
charges.”
“You're the keeper of my book this week. What have I got?” The
only thing I knew for certain was that Friday evening-the next
day-the new guy I had met a couple of months ago was coming to
town and I was determined to make time for dinner with him. Laura
had my appointment book open in front of her.
“For tomorrow, there's still a big question mark next to Floyd
Warren's name. I guess that's in case the jury's still out. Then
you've got it highlighted from eight to four, if the trial's over.
Says you're accompanying Mike to the range. Rodman's Neck.”
“I can put that off.” The notation referred to the NYPD's
shooting range, where officers were required to go twice a year to
qualify with their handguns.
“Not again,” Mercer said. "You made a solemn promise,
Alexandra.
Joe Berk and his cronies almost put your lights out. Mike
insisted he'd teach you how to use a gun at the end of that case
and I do believe I heard you say 'amen.' "
“Just a minute,” Laura said to Ed, the social worker who was
trying to book the date. “We're just checking Alex's availability.
Let's try for next week. Can it wait until Monday, at eleven? And
why don't you tell me the young lady's name?”
“I hate guns,” I said to Mercer. “You know that.”
Laura was penciling in the appointment. “Clarita Munoz. That's
confirmed. You'll send up the paperwork and her contact
information, Ed? Thanks a lot.”
“You're around guns too much not to know what to do with
one,”
Mercer said as I opened the door and went to my desk.
The red light on my telephone hot line-the intercom that linked
the district attorney directly to my desk-was flashing as I walked
in the room.
“Paul?”
“What the hell went on between you and Herb Ackerman?”
“I had no time to tell you. You weren't in yet when I went up to
court this morning.”
“Come on over right now,” Battaglia said. “I need to know what
he's got to be so sorry about.”
“What do you mean?”
“That's the note he left. 'Sorry for everything.' Herb Ackerman
walked out your door, went up to his office at the Trib,
and swallowed a bottle of pills. I didn't tell you to kill the
man, Alex, did I?”
THIRTEEN
Madam Forelady,“ Judge Lamont asked at 5:22 p.m., after waiting
for Gene Grassley and me to arrive back in the courtroom, ”has the
jury agreed upon a verdict?
“Yes, sir, we have.”
“Please rise, then, while my clerk records it.”
The jurors had filed in like a prosecution panel. None of them
were smiling and none attempted any eye contact with the defendant.
I stared straight ahead, my heart pounding as the first juror rose
to deliver the news
How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with robbery in the
first degree?"
“Guilty.” Her voice was strong and clear.
Off to my right, Warren moved his chair closer to Gene Grassley
and mumbled something.
“How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with rape in the first
degree?”
“Guilty,” she said, even louder this time.
“Bullshit.” I could hear Warren clearly now, and so did the two
court officers standing behind him. Each took a step closer in.
For Kerry Hastings, who had never expected to see it, there
would be some belated satisfaction. Floyd Warren would spend the
rest of his life in prison.
The word guilty was repeated again and again.
end had obviously heard what I asked. “Ed's telling me she wants
to report a rape. That the advocate at St. Luke's told her to ask
for you specifically, because she's ambivalent about going forward
and they want you to encourage her. Doesn't want her parents to
know, so you'll have to explain the realities of a
prosecution.”
“Can it hold for another day?”
Ed was talking to Laura, who repeated to me what she
learned.
“Yeah, that's fine. She's been examined and all. Wants answers
about what's involved before she makes her decision about pressing
charges.”
“You're the keeper of my book this week. What have I got?” The
only thing I knew for certain was that Friday evening-the next
day-the new guy I had met a couple of months ago was coming to
town and I was determined to make time for dinner with him. Laura
had my appointment book open in front of her.
“For tomorrow, there's still a big question mark next to Floyd
Warren's name. I guess that's in case the jury's still out. Then
you've got it highlighted from eight to four, if the trial's over.
Says you're accompanying Mike to the range. Rodman's Neck.”
“I can put that off.” The notation referred to the NYPD's
shooting range, where officers were required to go twice a year to
qualify with their handguns.
“Not again,” Mercer said. "You made a solemn promise,
Alexandra.
Joe Berk and his cronies almost put your lights out. Mike
insisted he'd teach you how to use a gun at the end of that case
and I do believe I heard you say 'amen.' "
“Just a minute,” Laura said to Ed, the social worker who was
trying to book the date. “We're just checking Alex's availability.
Let's try for next week. Can it wait until Monday, at eleven? And
why don't you tell me the young lady's name?”
“I hate guns,” I said to Mercer. “You know that.”
Laura was penciling in the appointment. “Clarita Munoz. That's
confirmed. You'll send up the paperwork and her contact
information, Ed? Thanks a lot.”
“You're around guns too much not to know what to do with
one,”
Mercer said as I opened the door and went to my desk.
The red light on my telephone hot line-the intercom that linked
the district attorney directly to my desk-was flashing as I walked
in the room.
“Paul?”
“What the hell went on between you and Herb Ackerman?”
“I had no time to tell you. You weren't in yet when I went up to
court this morning.”
“Come on over right now,” Battaglia said. “I need to know what
he's got to be so sorry about.”
“What do you mean?”
“That's the note he left. 'Sorry for everything.' Herb Ackerman
walked out your door, went up to his office at the Trib,
and swallowed a bottle of pills. I didn't tell you to kill the
man, Alex, did I?”
THIRTEEN
Madam Forelady,“ Judge Lamont asked at 5:22 p.m., after waiting
for Gene Grassley and me to arrive back in the courtroom, ”has the
jury agreed upon a verdict?
“Yes, sir, we have.”
“Please rise, then, while my clerk records it.”
The jurors had filed in like a prosecution panel. None of them
were smiling and none attempted any eye contact with the defendant.
I stared straight ahead, my heart pounding as the first juror rose
to deliver the news
How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with robbery in the
first degree?"
“Guilty.” Her voice was strong and clear.
Off to my right, Warren moved his chair closer to Gene Grassley
and mumbled something.
“How say you as to Floyd Warren, charged with rape in the first
degree?”
“Guilty,” she said, even louder this time.
“Bullshit.” I could hear Warren clearly now, and so did the two
court officers standing behind him. Each took a step closer in.
For Kerry Hastings, who had never expected to see it, there
would be some belated satisfaction. Floyd Warren would spend the
rest of his life in prison.
The word guilty was repeated again and again.
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