Prosecutorial Responsibility
Office of Cabfair Inc
466 W 51st St
1 pm Wednesday May 9th 2007
"I appreciate you coming in to talk to me, Mr. Rodriguez," Connie said.
The cab driver shrugged. "I don't want no trouble," he said. "I am legal. I have no problem with the police. And I don't want to have problem, you know? I have two girls, they do good in school, maybe one of them grows up to be a lady lawyer like you, if I don't have a problem and everything goes okay. So here I am."
"You won't have a problem," Connie assured him. "Mr. Rodriguez, I am with the District Attorney's Office here in Manhattan. I am investigating a crime that was committed last Thursday night. You picked up a fare that night, around a quarter to ten?"
"I picked up a lot of fares," Rodriguez said, and shrugged. "Quarter to nine, quarter to ten, who knows?"
"Okay," Connie said, "But according to the records here, and according to the cab voucher, you picked up this particular fare at 8.37pm, just near the Lord Roberts in Manhattan."
"Cab voucher, yes," he said. "I remember that one, it was the only voucher fare I had that night. And I thought, nice for some, eh? To go out and get drunk and have your work pay for you to get driven home."
"Can you tell me about it?" Connie asked.
"They were two, two people, a man and a woman," he said. "A little woman, hair kinda red, nice looking. And he was older, maybe fifty? And she was okay, but he was totally out of it. I didn't want to pick them up. You know, you pick up drunks, they throw up on your seats, on the floor, sometimes they piss themselves, and who has to pay for the cleaning? I do, that's who."
"But you did pick them up?" Connie prompted.
"Yes. The woman, she said she would pay if the man was sick, she let me hold a fifty to prove she was good for it. He was hardly able to stand up, she had to push him into the cab, and he passed out right away. Must have been some party!"
"Where did you take them?" Connie asked.
"Just like the log says," Rodriguez said. "I don't remember the address. An apartment building in Manhattan."
Connie looked down at the log and read the address out to him, the address she had confirmed as Jack McCoy's with a phone-call to Colleen Petraky.
"If that's what it says," Rodriguez said. "I remember I check it when I call it in. I don't remember what it was. But I know it's right."
"Okay. And that was at ten past nine," Connie said. "Did you see them go into the building?"
"See them?" Rodriguez said, and snorted. "Lady, he was so far gone I have to help the girl carry him inside. I told her she should think about getting him to the hospital. You know, drunk is one thing, but when a man can't even open his eyes with a lady slapping his face to wake him up, well … Is that why you're here? Did something happen to him?"
"Something happened," Connie said vaguely. "So you helped the woman carry him into the building?"
"And then the doorman took over and I went back to my cab," Rodriguez said.
"Mr. Rodriguez, do you think you could recognize them again?' Connie said. "I mean, if you saw them?"
"Like a line-up?" Rodriguez said. "Sure. I got a good look at the two of them. And I have a good memory for faces."
"Okay," Connie said. "Someone will be in touch with you, Mr. Rodriguez, to arrange a time for you to look at some photographs. They'll come to you, at a time that suits you, so you won't need to lose any time working, okay?"
"Okay," Rodriguez said. "Are you going to tell me what she did, this girl? She didn't look like the kind."
Connie paused. "What do you mean? And why do you think she did something?"
"That man, he was dead to the world. What, you want me to think he maybe robbed a bank or something in his sleep? Maybe I should have – well, but the doorman was there, you know, and what should I do? She didn't look like she was going to rob him or nothing. I mean, you hear about that, the hookers? But she didn't look like a hooker. I just thought they were a couple having a nice night out that maybe got too nice for him, right?"
"It was a reasonable assumption," Connie reassured him. "No-one thinks you were at fault."
"Okay," Rodriguez said. "Because, I don't need to have – "
"A problem, right," Connie said.
On her way to McCoy's apartment building Connie called the Investigator's unit, gave them Rodriguez's details and asked for him to be shown a photo-array including pictures of Jack McCoy and Keri Dyson.
Probably unnecessary, she thought as she dropped her phone back in her handbag. She didn't have any doubt that the couple Rodriguez had picked up had been McCoy and Dyson. The cab voucher was confirmation enough. Pays to be thorough, though.
As she hurried up the steps to the front door of McCoy's building, Connie was taken aback to see McCoy come out of the door. She paused, trying to decide whether or not she should turn around and hope he didn't see her or just brazen it out. While she was hesitating, McCoy looked up and their eyes met.
He stopped dead. "Ms Rubirosa," he said formally. Connie thought he looked almost as exhausted as he had when they had worked together the previous summer.
"Mr. McCoy," Connie said. He was above her on the steps and she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
"Do you have papers?" he asked her, and Connie realized he assumed she was there to serve a subpoena.
"No," she hurried to reassure him. "No – I – " It would be completely inappropriate for her to discuss the case with him.
"You can't tell me," McCoy said, nodding. "I assume you're here to talk to my neighbors? Or along those lines? If you are, I can tell you that I plan to be out for half-an-hour. Is that enough time for you, or would you prefer me to take a few turns around the block?"
"No, Mr. McCoy, you don't need to – " Connie said quickly. "I can do my job whether you're here or not – "
"I'm sure you can," McCoy said. He came down the steps towards her and she turned to let him past. "But I've always found it easier to talk to neighbors, family members, when the suspect or the defendant is out of the way."
Connie nodded. He had passed her when she called out impulsively: "Mr. McCoy!" He turned. "I didn't ask for this case, I wanted you to know, I didn't ask for it."
He smiled, and Connie thought he was trying to be charming, but his eyes were bleak. "You should have, Connie. It's a career-maker."
She watched him walk away down the street, the same purposeful stride she'd seen around the office and the courthouse on many occasions. He had a buff envelope under his arm and she wondered where he was going.
You've got more relevant things to wonder, Connie reminded herself, and hurried inside.
The doorman was helpful but useless. No, he hadn't been working that night. Yes, of course he could give her the name of the man who had been rostered on – but he doubted it would do her any good. Joe (that was his name, Joe Evatt) had called in on Monday to say he wouldn't be back for a while. Sure, Connie could have his address and phone number – but no-one had been able to get an answer from him that week. The phone just rang and rang. No, Joe didn't have a cell phone. He thought they caused –
Connie cut off the discussion of what Joe Evatt thought was caused by cell phone radiation and whether or not it might be true. She tried his number from her own cell phone, radiation be damned, and got no answer.
What now?
She checked her watch. She had time to talk to McCoy's neighbors.
Neither Louise Farr on one side of McCoy nor Ben Kelly on the other had heard anything on the night in question.
"And I would have, dear," Mrs. Farr added. "Not that I stand up against the wall with a glass to my ear, but you know how it is in apartments."
"Sure," Connie said, nodding.
"I mean, I could tell you the names of every woman he's brought home, probably," Mrs. Farr said. "So when I say, there wasn't any commotion, you can believe me."
Connie nodded again, thinking to herself, Problem is, I do.
I do believe you.
But will Mike Cutter?
.oOo.
