I'm not sure if this has a point, on its own or in the greater context of the novel, which I'm not sure has a point, either.
One of the most irritating disadvantages, Jack had discovered long ago, to having a close relationship to the District Attorney, were forced appearances at political dinners, benefits, whatever, to show support and raise money for legislation Schiff supported, politicians he supported, flex the DA's muscles as DA of New York County. That's what District Attorneys did. It was a political office, after all. Jack hated it. Every time Adam asked him to go to one, he wracked his brain for excuses to avoid going, such as needing to balance his checking account with ATM receipts that he'd kept since ATMs were invented. Or researching every Supreme Court decision and every New York Court of Appeals decision since Betts v. Brady for Sixth Amendment law. Screw Brady. Maybe he needed to research every Court decision since Palko v. Connecticut - a 1937 case --launched all of those incorporation cases; the reason the Supreme Court ruled the way they had in cases like Brady. But Adam remained unimpressed, and thus Jack was forced to go to more of these than was good for his health. He had an assistant to research court decisions reaching back to the thirties, and the entire DA's office knew he didn't have the anal-retentive personality of someone who stored old ATM receipts.
The old District Attorney had always perversely enjoyed schlepping some unfortunate, hapless ADA with him to these dinners, and he'd take whoever was available. No one really knew why, and Adam, the old politician, hedged and tapdanced when you demanded an explanation. It had something to do with exposing ADAs to the political process or forcing them to answer questions about details of cases Adam wouldn't know, or some such disingenuous bullshit.
Tonight, Adam had dragged Jack to a New York Democratic Party campaign benefit for Hillary Clinton's Senate run in 2000. Along with the District Attorney, every prominent Democrat in the City seemed to be there - actors, politicians, corporate executives, rich Upper East Siders, you name it. Jerry Seinfeld was there. So were Al Franken, Martin Sheen, and a dozen others. It was a veritable who's who of rich and famous New York liberals. Democratic Party campaign dinners were as dull as a real estate law course, since Jack couldn't even entertain himself by goading right-wing yahoos into a fight. Everyone there hated Pat Buchanan, Newt Gingrich, George Pataki, and believed in welfare and government programs and environmental protection and abortion rights and civil liberties.
Jack sat at the table with Adam on his left and a state senator from Brooklyn on his right, and the senator was having a discussion with a campaign nobody across the table. The campaign nobody was saying, "So I go to my doctor and he tells me I got something wrong with my uterus, some inter uter, neuter something, and of course like an idiot, I tell my mother, and she starts going off about how I haven't married yet and how I'm not going to be able to have kids, and about what a bum my brother is, and I tell her, 'Mother, leave him alone, you can't change him,' and of course I don't tell her about Vince, with him being in prison in all"
The advantage, Jack told himself, to this close relationship with Adam was that he had leeway push the Canons of Ethics, statutes, and case law to their limits zealously and passionately prosecuting cases. You had to charge any barrier at a full gallop, otherwise the defense lawyer would mop the floor with you during a difficult case, and he had an easier time of it than you did because the system was deliberately stacked in his favor. Jamie Ross' words for usually necessary overzealous prosecutorial behavior were "Being a fucking a twit."
Jamie. He missed Jamie, and he wasn't sure why because the two of them disagreed vehemently over procedure and ethics, and their battles made a debate between Gloria Steinem and Phil Gramm look like a Walt Disney movie. The ADA in the office next door to Jack's complained that he could hear them screaming at each other through the walls.
The Dressler case, Jack recalled, spurred them to some of their more acrimonious, colorful fights. There was that one where Jamie snipped something about Dressler getting twelve months at Mt. MacGregor - the sentence of the guy who'd killed Claire -- as opposed to a death sentence, and Jack lost it and screamed, "You don't know what you're talking about!"
The conversation beside him had shifted subjects. The senator was saying, "Yeah, I met Jerry Seinfeld at lunch the other day. It was actually through a mutual friend. He wanted to express his support for that bill redistricting-"
And the campaign person interrupted, "Did I ever tell you about the time I ran into Richard Belzer? I was standing on East 53rd waiting for the light to change, and I said to my friend, Donald Trowbridge. You know Donald? He does some consulting for one the big pharmaceutical Anyway, I said, 'You know, the traffic in New York really sucks,' and this guy dressed in a long, dark trenchcoat turns around and he says, 'Yeah, it really does suck,' and it was Richard Belzer-"
"I knew this guy who knew David Duchovny. You know, he grew up on the West Side-"
"Everybody grew up on the West Side-"
"Yes, well, anyway"
Their best moment had been the night before Bernie Dressler took the stand. It was like India and Pakistan finally launching their nukes at each other. It was about nine'o' clock, the best time of day to fight since you did not have to put up a facade of professional decorum. The only other people who heard them were two other ADAs finishing up work for the night, and although they were infinitely amused, they didn't give a damn. Jack and Jamie had been in Jack's office discussing the cross-examination, and he must have said something that set her off -- he didn't remember what -- because she'd started screaming, "Goddamn it, Jack! That makes no Goddamned sense! Do you have any idea what you are doing? Do you have any idea? Goddamn it, Goddamn it, Goddamn it. The three of you, you have no fucking idea what you're doing! It's some testosterone thing. Why keep the fact that guy was plastered out of the courtroom? You have got to be kidding! This poor bastard's going to fry because of politics and your weird, fucked up personal issues!" Here, she pounded the desk. "Jack, please, this kind of thing is just ridiculous. This is fucking ridiculous! I mean, this shit cannot happen! The system is supposed to prevent this shit from happening, and you guys are going to get fucked on appeal. When Dressler appeals, I'm going to file an amicus brief on his behalf so fast you won't even be able to say 'reversal.' Goddamn it, Goddamn it, Goddamn it! I cannot be screwing over my own career covering for your sleazy ethics, 'cause the fucking Discplinary Committee's going to start looking at me! Every time I check my answering machine, I expect a call from them! Jesus fucking Christ, I've just about written you off, because one day they're gonna catch you at this crap, and they're gonna disbar you, and that'll be the end of it. Fuck this, man. There is simply no margin for error here. No margin for error." She pounded the desk with each syllable. "No! Mar-gin! For! Err-or! Listen, you know this! And no one's gonna go after Adam or Feldman, they're gonna go after you! And me! So just get a clue, Jack. Get a fucking clue and act like you have some scintilla of common sense. For once!"
Adam was introducing him to someone. He touched Jack's shoulder, engaging his attention, and he said, "This is Senator Durham. Senator, this is Executive Assistant DA Jack McCoy."
And the Senator, an overweight, sixty-something, white fellow wearing black wire-rim glasses, said with a myopic smile, "You were the lead prosecutor on that car-dragging case earlier this year, weren't you?" He sounded like Henry Kissinger with a New York accent.
"Yes," Jack said.
"Awful case," observed the Senator. "You expect that from the LAPD, but our own cops My Committee is interested in strengthening hate crime legislation, and we'd love you to testify in subcommittee hearings about that case"
While the Senator explained the details of the legislation he wanted to pass and how Jack's vivid description of the car-dragging case would give it emotional punch and color when he presented his bill to the Judiciary Committee, Jack remembered yelling at Jamie, "I am well within the parameters of the statute, Jamie! Well within them. He killed three people. That's multiple killings! 125.27( viii) says that's first-degree murder, and that how we're pursuing this! This office needs to take a stand against drunk driving-"
"Are you kidding! You sound like Adam! The statute says 'with intent to cause serious physical injury or death.' With intent! This guy had no intent! You know how much he had to drink! I can't believe this has gotten this far!"
"He made the choice to drink that much. He made the choice to get behind the wheel of that car."
"That's intent? Are you fucking out of your mind? Is that what you're gonna tell the Appellate Division?"
The words, "Ted Parker" derailed Jack's train of thought. The Senator was pontificating, "And what is it with the police in this City? I'd say we need to overhaul the entire NYPD. There's now this whole corruption thing in the Thirty-Third Precinct and Ted Parker, an ex-cop, murdering a witness. Are you pursuing that too?"
On and off, thought Jack, but he replied, "Our office is investigating allegations that Mr. Parker may have been involved in the murder of a witness five years ago."
"What about these allegations of widespread corruption in the Thirty-Third Precinct?"
"That's the business of Internal Affairs. Not me," Jack said irritably. Adam, occupied by a conversation with somebody about six feet away, shot him eloquent warning glances. He wasn't to be a wiseass and piss off the Senator. Right.
"And this other case. These cops killing one of their own officers to cover-up a drug ring-"
"That's within Staten Island's jurisdiction." For now. Give it a week.
"But I do hear that you're going after Parker."
"Yeah?" Jack raised an eyebrow at the Senator, suspicious. Did the whole fucking City have to incorporate this case into their agenda? IAB, the Major Case Squad, Mayor Guiliani, the fruitcakes on the City Council, now this senator. And, well, Jack himself.
"Are you?"
"Pursuing a case against Ted Parker? I can't discuss a pending investigation with you."
"I hear there's a grand jury investigating this matter."
Fuck, thought Jack. His expression must have said as much, because the Senator graced him with a beatific smile. The son of bitch hit a nerve and he knew it. If this Senator knew about his grand jury, who else did? What witness, what juror, opened his or her mouth? Rumor and news spread like a roach infestation, and it somehow crawled out of the justice system rumor mill into the general New York politics rumor mill, and if it exploded in the media before the DA's office could contain it and control it, they'd be up the creek without an outboard. What was with this City? You couldn't have a "secret" grand jury investigation without half the criminal justice system and then every politician with an ax to grind finding out about it within weeks. Jesus.
"You want a soundbite for your next campaign speech?" sneered Jack, dealing with the senator's unwanted and probing questions the best way he knew how. Bristling attitude and biting sarcasm.
"Mr. McCoy, I want to clean up the NYPD."
Everybody has an agenda, he thought. Kind of like the Dressler thing, only worse; everyone's agenda conflicting with everyone else's agenda and in that case, conflicting with the defendant's civil rights and in this one, conflicting with his ability to effectively prosecute a defendant. Why was he thinking of Dressler again? Right. Jamie Ross screaming at him and vicious politics-as-usual.
Hell, Jack didn't have an indictment, he barely had enough evidence for an arrest warrant, and yet the sharks smelled blood and they were gathering and he had to beat them off with a stick. He'd felt so pleased with himself for dissuading those Major Case Squad detectives from his case, and now he had all the New York pols sniffing it out. They were harder to spook. Jack had procedural and legal grounds for restraining MCS detectives, as they shouldn't be investigating corruption and murder anyway since no banks had been robbed, no art stolen, no trucks hijacked, no safes or vaults burglarized - the things MCS was supposed to investigate. Had his threats of going to court failed to convince those damned detectives - a naked lie, since that was the sort of litigation no judge wanted to be bothered with, but the cops hadn't known that -- he would have bitched to their boss and then bitched to the Chief of Detectives. That would have derailed them as effectively as any court order. But most senators weren't as legally clueless as most cops. Only obstinacy would hold them back, not bullshit threats of injunctions and restraining orders.
One thing after another. He was tired of standing here, his back against a wall, lashing out at all of these people, defending his prosecutorial discretion and his investigation's integrity.
"That's great. I'm happy for you," Jack said flatly.
"I think your case would be a great way to spearhead such an effort."
"My case isn't going to be your political piñata."
"Be good for your boss. He'd get to look tough, work on his law-and-order image. Republicans, they've always been the law-and-order party, and people are sick of crime. If we want to take the governor's seat come next election, we need to look tough."
"We don't 'look tough?'" asked Jack, emphasizing the quotes around the words "look tough" with his fingers and raising an indignant eyebrow.
The Senator shrugged.
"Because what? We've only put like three people on death row since you people reinstated the death penalty in '95? Is this a joke? Because if it isn't, I'd sure as hell like to know what I've been doing for the last twenty-four years."
"You've been doing a great job."
"Oh, good. So why are we having this conversation?"
"I just think you could do your city more good with this Parker case than you're doing. That's all."
Oh, my God, Jack thought. This guy was really something. The best he could do for "his city" was put this murderer behind bars. Everything else was not his job and he did not concern itself with it. He hated politics with a passion, and slimy, slippery, sycophantic SOBs like this senator never failed to remind him of why.
Martin Sheen walked past, and the Senator, distracted from haranguing Jack, intercepted him and said that he really admired Sheen's performance in The West Wing and just loved his intensity and power. Jack felt like he was in The West Wing.
The senator's attention diverted, Jack extricated himself from the restaurant and ducked outside and stood on the curb at the intersection of Madison and East 75th, on the opposite side of 75th from the Whitney Museum, watching traffic rush past on Madison; mostly cabs, buses, and cars costing as much as he made in a year. People, well-dressed in long Kashmir coats, fur coats, the real and the fake, three-hundred dollar suits, and illustrious dresses, congregated around the entrance of the museum, open until nine o'clock on Friday nights. Some walked in and others wandered out and then either hailed a cab or dispersed along Madison or 75th. Welcome to the East Seventies on a Friday night, thought Jack, as a Porsche convertible darted between two taxis. When the rich partied and did God-only-knows-and-the-DA-didn't-want-to in their exclusive little clubs. But that Porsche looked like fun to drive.
The air inside the restaurant was stifling, thick with cigar smoke, cigarette smoke, and egos the size of Central Park. The night was fuzzy and warm, relaxing, buzzing with the pleasantly energetic New York City hum. Jack loathed going back inside. An assistant district attorney who grew up in a working-class family on the South Side of Chicago and now lived in New York's Upper West Side, he had nothing to say to anyone in that damned restaurant. Dealing with those people and their pompous attitudes turned his stomach, so he just loitered on the street, people-watching and contemplating the shit hitting the fan this week - Adam demanding an indictment on the Parker thing, Paul Kopell's frivolous 440.10 motion, his other cases simmering on the stove, waiting, just waiting to blow up. He did not have the time to be here, sucking up to New York politicians and other big campaign contributors.
Maybe when Adam left at the end of next year, the new DA wouldn't drag him to these things.
Jack frowned at the door, and the valet parking guy, dressed in a tuxedo and smoking a cigarette under the awnings, met his eyes warily, and then quickly pretended to focus on stubbing out the cigarette. Adam and whose army could stop Jack from leaving? He could either hail a cab here or walk to the subway stop on 77th and Lex. Hailing a cab was less hassle, since getting to the Upper West Side from the Upper East Side on the subway was a pain in the ass. You had to go all the way around Central Park, whereas you could cut straight through it on 79th if you traveled by car.
He really should inform Adam that he was splitting. Sighing, he shouldered open the door, and reentered the restaurant, nearly gagging at the suffocating, eye-watering stench of cigars wafting into his eyes and throat and lungs. Definitely time to go, especially since people were starting to get tipsy on cognac, and Jack didn't want to be in the same neighborhood as half of them when their inhibitions were diminished. He found Adam engaged in a discussion about Guiliani's massive clean-up of Times Square with a city councilman in a far corner of the room.
"I'm headed out," he said with conviction. "I have a lot of work to do."
Adam blinked at him. "It's only eight-thirty."
"I'll take a cab home."
They'd known each other long enough for Adam to read into what Jack really meant: I hate this, I'm leaving, and you can't stop me, can you?
"I'll see you Monday then," the DA said grumpily.