Sodomy,
robbery, possession of a dangerous instrument-they had convicted
him of every count in the indictment.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, hearken to your verdict as it
stands recorded,” the clerk said, continuing the official business
of the trial.
Lamont made short work of thanking the jurors and dismissing
them. He wanted the defendant put back in the holding pen as
quickly as possible. Tomorrow, they would all read newspaper
stories reporting the conviction and the links to more than fifty
other brutal crimes from this city south to his adopted home in
Georgia.
“I'm going to suggest to you, Gene, that we put this matter on
the calendar for Monday,” Lamont said.
It was the practice to have three to four weeks between the
verdict and the sentencing. “I've got more than enough to work
from, and I'm not going to ask Ms. Hastings to make another trip
cross-country to present her impact statement. Ms. Cooper says her
witness is willing to stay for the weekend and get this whole thing
behind her. You going to fight me on this?”
“I hear you, Judge. That's fine.”
Floyd Warren pounded his fist on the table.
“I'll take your motions then. If there's nothing further,”
Lamont said, “we stand adjourned.”
I didn't break a smile until Mercer came into the courtroom and
embraced me. “This one must feel good,” he said.
“Especially sweet when you tally up the years and the number of
victims. I want you to be the one to tell Kerry.”
He helped me pile my case folders and trial exhibits onto the
shopping cart and wheeled it off to the elevators. “We'll do it
together.”
“Did you get an update from Mike on Herb Ackerman?”
“He'll live. They pumped his stomach at Roosevelt Hospital. His
shrink told Mike it's the classic 'cry for help.' We should be able
to see him in twenty-four hours. Don't let Battaglia's
finger-pointing get to you. Take your victory lap tonight.”
Kerry Hastings was waiting for us at the elevator bank when the
doors opened. She reached out to put her arms around Mercer's neck
when he gave her a thumbs-up, crying as she buried her head against
his chest.
“Let it out,” Mercer said. “You've had all that emotion bottled
up for way too long.”
“I may actually sleep through the night. You two have given me
that privilege again.” Kerry Hastings was sniffling, still, but she
was smiling through her tears. “I know there used to be a tradition
here, Alex. I never got a chance to participate in it the first
time around.”
“What's that?”
“There was a little restaurant behind the courthouse. The cops
said if we got a conviction, we'd all go there to celebrate. Does
it still exist?”
“Forlini's. It was just a little hole in the wall back then,” I
said. “You bet it's still the best place in town to celebrate.”
Every DA in the office and every cop who'd ever testified at a
trial had lifted glasses after victories, drowned their sorrows
when bad guys beat the rap, and awaited verdicts late into the
night at the restaurant that had been run by four generations of
Forlinis since it was first established opposite the detention
center known as the Tombs.
“Only if I can buy the drinks,” Hastings said.
“By the time we cross the street and walk in that bar,” Mercer
said, “the whole Sex Crimes Unit will be waiting for Alex. They'll
be drinking to you whether we show up or not, Kerry. That's a tab
you don't want.”
Laura had been fielding calls from my friends in the unit most
of the day. Catherine Dashfer and Marisa Bourgis, Ryan Blackmer and
Evan Krupin, Sarah Brenner and Nan Toth-one of the perks of
Battaglia's office that outweighed the low salaries was the
intensity of the camaraderie. These lawyers had seen me through the
darkest hours of my career and were always available to cheer for
one another when the guys in the white hats won a round.
It was almost six thirty by the time I closed up
robbery, possession of a dangerous instrument-they had convicted
him of every count in the indictment.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, hearken to your verdict as it
stands recorded,” the clerk said, continuing the official business
of the trial.
Lamont made short work of thanking the jurors and dismissing
them. He wanted the defendant put back in the holding pen as
quickly as possible. Tomorrow, they would all read newspaper
stories reporting the conviction and the links to more than fifty
other brutal crimes from this city south to his adopted home in
Georgia.
“I'm going to suggest to you, Gene, that we put this matter on
the calendar for Monday,” Lamont said.
It was the practice to have three to four weeks between the
verdict and the sentencing. “I've got more than enough to work
from, and I'm not going to ask Ms. Hastings to make another trip
cross-country to present her impact statement. Ms. Cooper says her
witness is willing to stay for the weekend and get this whole thing
behind her. You going to fight me on this?”
“I hear you, Judge. That's fine.”
Floyd Warren pounded his fist on the table.
“I'll take your motions then. If there's nothing further,”
Lamont said, “we stand adjourned.”
I didn't break a smile until Mercer came into the courtroom and
embraced me. “This one must feel good,” he said.
“Especially sweet when you tally up the years and the number of
victims. I want you to be the one to tell Kerry.”
He helped me pile my case folders and trial exhibits onto the
shopping cart and wheeled it off to the elevators. “We'll do it
together.”
“Did you get an update from Mike on Herb Ackerman?”
“He'll live. They pumped his stomach at Roosevelt Hospital. His
shrink told Mike it's the classic 'cry for help.' We should be able
to see him in twenty-four hours. Don't let Battaglia's
finger-pointing get to you. Take your victory lap tonight.”
Kerry Hastings was waiting for us at the elevator bank when the
doors opened. She reached out to put her arms around Mercer's neck
when he gave her a thumbs-up, crying as she buried her head against
his chest.
“Let it out,” Mercer said. “You've had all that emotion bottled
up for way too long.”
“I may actually sleep through the night. You two have given me
that privilege again.” Kerry Hastings was sniffling, still, but she
was smiling through her tears. “I know there used to be a tradition
here, Alex. I never got a chance to participate in it the first
time around.”
“What's that?”
“There was a little restaurant behind the courthouse. The cops
said if we got a conviction, we'd all go there to celebrate. Does
it still exist?”
“Forlini's. It was just a little hole in the wall back then,” I
said. “You bet it's still the best place in town to celebrate.”
Every DA in the office and every cop who'd ever testified at a
trial had lifted glasses after victories, drowned their sorrows
when bad guys beat the rap, and awaited verdicts late into the
night at the restaurant that had been run by four generations of
Forlinis since it was first established opposite the detention
center known as the Tombs.
“Only if I can buy the drinks,” Hastings said.
“By the time we cross the street and walk in that bar,” Mercer
said, “the whole Sex Crimes Unit will be waiting for Alex. They'll
be drinking to you whether we show up or not, Kerry. That's a tab
you don't want.”
Laura had been fielding calls from my friends in the unit most
of the day. Catherine Dashfer and Marisa Bourgis, Ryan Blackmer and
Evan Krupin, Sarah Brenner and Nan Toth-one of the perks of
Battaglia's office that outweighed the low salaries was the
intensity of the camaraderie. These lawyers had seen me through the
darkest hours of my career and were always available to cheer for
one another when the guys in the white hats won a round.
It was almost six thirty by the time I closed up
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