Office of Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy
10th Floor
One Hogan Place
Thursday 28 September 2006
7.30 pm
Jack McCoy closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids as if that would ward off the threatening headache. He hoped it wasn't the beginning of a migraine, although he knew it was probably a vain hope given how frequently they had plagued him over the summer.
Trial starts Monday, he thought, with none of the usual anticipation that the thought of the arena of the courtroom usually brought. Trial starts Monday. Instead, he was oppressed by a grinding weariness at the idea of going through the motions once more. Opening statement, witnesses, cross-examination, summation … Once, he had wanted to win and had wanted justice and had found prosecution the perfect marriage of the two. It seemed so long ago he could barely imagine it from under the blanket of lead that weighed him down, but he knew it had been mere months before. Before … Before what was a thought he would not allow himself to complete.
McCoy dropped his hands and opened his eyes, staring down at the witness statements. The witnesses were prepped – well prepped. He'd done it himself. They would say exactly what they were supposed to on the stand, they would hold up under cross-examination. He should be pleased to know it, but he felt only relief.
Once, he had wanted to win and had wanted justice.
Now, if he was honest with himself, all he wanted to do was lock them up. All of them. Off the streets. Out of his courtroom. Out of my life.
A knock on his door made him look up. Regan Markham, arms full of files, stood awkwardly half-in and half-out of the doorway. McCoy suppressed a flash of irritation at her, at the way she tiptoed around him as if he frightened her, at the simple fact that she was there.
"Is this a bad time?" she asked.
"What does it look like, Ms Markham?" McCoy snapped.
"I'll come back," she said quickly.
"No, come in," McCoy said, shutting the folder in front of him and returning it to the file where it belonged. "What do you have for me?"
"The three felony arraignments this afternoon?" Markham came fully into the office, sat down across the desk when McCoy waved her to the chair. "Carrachi took the misdemeanour plea we offered, sentencing in two weeks. Shevsky and Michelson entered not guilty. Adjourned to Part F."
"Okay," McCoy said. He hoped Markham had looked a little more presentable in court than she did in his office. "You'll be presenting to the Grand Jury. Are you up to it?"
Markham paused.
"Yes or no, Ms Markham, it isn't a trick question!" McCoy said.
"Yes, of course, Mr McCoy," Markham said quickly.
"Alright. Make sure you're a little tidier for the Grand Jury – you need them to respect you. What else?"
Markham looked down at herself and coloured, obviously noticing how creased her suit was for the first time. "Uh, I deposed Frank Lowson, Marjorie Lowson and the housekeeper, Louisa Almedo, as you asked. I've made a list of notes for witness prep and attached it at the end of the file."
"I'll look at it."
"And you'll be pleased to know Lionel Forrest accepted a plea on Murder Two this morning. We should have him all the way through to sentencing by the end of next month."
" Lionel Forrest – remind me?" McCoy said.
"Shot Peter Downer four times in the back, took his wallet." Markham said.
"And you thought that was worth Murder Two?" McCoy said, incredulous, voice rising despite his headache.
"You said – " Markham stuttered, started again. "No weapon, no witnesses, no forensics, you said to make the deal if I could. He confessed on condition of the deal. I don't think we could get a conviction if it went to trial and – "
"Alright!" McCoy cut her off with a raised hand. "Alright. Sounds like you did the right thing. Are you convinced the confession is honest?"
"I think he's trying to make himself look better about the whole thing," Markham said, and shrugged. "No surprises. He picks up tricks in that park, and Downer's mother said her son used to come home sometimes with wallets and money. An associate of Downer's said he used to hang in the park. Forrest says that Downer was robbing the rent boys and their johns, and beating them. Forrest started carrying his gun for protection. One night he sees Downer starting to attack another one of the working boys and shoots him."
"And his lawyer let him plead with that story?" McCoy was surprised. "That could make a jury think about self-defence."
"He doesn't have a lawyer. Signed a Miranda waiver when he was first picked up, too. Plus, four bullets in the back, robbing the body, tipping Downer still alive into the water, disposing of the weapon …" Markham smiled. "I pointed out how much juries like to hear about consciousness of guilt."
"Okay. Anything else?" McCoy asked, then belatedly realised he should have said something more approving of the deal. Good job. Well done. He had used to be the kind of man who didn't need to think of that in advance. He had used to be the kind of boss whose ADAs looked to him as a mentor, albeit a demanding one, not a monster.
And my guidance did Alex so much good.
Fuck it.
Markham was still sitting in front of him like a frog on a log.
"I asked if there was anything else?" McCoy prodded.
Markham hesitated. "Kind of," she said. "Kind of about the Walker case."
"What's gone wrong?" McCoy asked. "Conroy retract his plea?"
"No, no, nothing like that. It's – it's about Serena Southerlyn."
"What about her?" McCoy asked immediately.
"She came to see me last week, she said that she'd made a bunch of reports about being harassed, her and Jenny Walker, before Walker got killed. When we locked up Conroy she thought that was that, but it's still going on."
"She didn't say anything," McCoy said. "What's been going on? Has she been to the police? Have they put a car on her? Have – "
"She's been to the police. And that's the problem. No joy from the 5th Precinct. She was thinking that maybe if the police had acted a little more forcefully, they might have noticed Conroy."
"But it wasn't Conroy?" McCoy asked.
"Well, obviously, not all Conroy," Markham said. "But Walker knew he was stalking her and knew who he was and she went to the police as well. And the cop she dealt with – the same one Southerlyn dealt with, Officer Otis Langdon – marked it all 'no further action'."
McCoy closed his eyes, saw scene of crime photos, saw a woman in a drift of leaves with her mouth full of newspaper, saw the trunk of a car, and – opened his eyes, feeling nauseous, tasting bile.
"You okay?" Markham asked.
"I'm perfectly fine, Ms Markham," McCoy said, glaring at her. He was about to add something involving the words your own business, but Markham didn't give him the chance.
"It's just that you're in your shirt-sleeves in an air-conditioned office, and you're sweating," she said carefully, her tone so neutral McCoy could detect not even a trace of nosiness or condescension to take offence at. "Would you like some water?"
"Yes," McCoy admitted, and while Markham was at the water cooler in the hall he dug his bottle of Sumatriptan out of his drawer.
He took two with the water Markham brought him, scowl defying her to say a word. She was smart enough to keep quiet.
"Call the 2-7," McCoy said once he was sure the pills were staying down. "Ask Anita Van Buren to put a car on Serena's home, as a favour to me. Tell her to make sure Serena's safe."
"I'll do that right away, Mr McCoy," Markham said. "I told Serena I would call her once I had looked into her questions about her complaints. Should I –"
"No." McCoy said, cutting her off. "I'll talk to her. But not yet. I want to know more about this police officer – Otis Langdon. Pull his jacket first thing in the morning."
"Yes, Mr McCoy," Markham said.
"Anything else?" he asked her.
"No, s- no." She hastily gathered up her files and stood. "I'll be in my office, if you need anything else."
McCoy glanced at the clock. Past eight. No wonder Markham looked like she'd been through the wringer today. "Go on home," he said, and when she looked at him in obvious surprise he felt a twinge of guilt.
"I'm fine, Mr McCoy," she said, and then smiled. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"
"Maybe," he retorted, "but we're on the side of the angels. Call the 2-7, and then go home."
And when she had done just that, McCoy sat in silence for a moment, listening for any other noise on the 10th floor. Nothing. He was, again, the last one here.
As Markham said, no rest for the wicked. The biblical verse came back to him, resurfacing from a long-ago Sunday school lesson.
"For the wicked are like the troubled sea," McCoy said aloud, his voice swallowed by the darkness outside his office door, "whose waters cast up mire and dirt."
As good a metaphor as any.