Leaving Sara’s office, McCabe noticed two fellow officers from his precinct in the hallway. After a quick discussion of their cases and a recap of office news, McCabe headed for the elevators. When he turned the corner at the security guard’s table, someone was blocking his exit through the turnstile. It was Victor.
“Are you Michael McCabe?” Victor asked with a cold stare.
“That depends,” McCabe said. “Are you going to serve me with a subpoena?”
Forcing a strained smile, Victor said, “Nothing like that. I just wanted to introduce myself.” He extended his hand. “I’m Victor Stockwell.”
“So you’re the famous Victor,” McCabe said, shaking his hand. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” Victor said, putting a hand on McCabe’s shoulder, “I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Will it take long? Because I have to get back-”
“Don’t worry,” Victor said. “It’ll only take a second.”
A half hour later, Sara called Patty Harrison. There was no answer. She hung up and dialed Claire Doniger’s number.
“Hello,” Doniger answered.
“Hi, Ms. Doniger. This is Sara Tate calling. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to-”
“What is it?” Doniger asked.
Trying to keep her voice soothing, Sara said, “I wonder if you could set aside some time for us to come up to see your house. As we put together the case, it’d be helpful if we could get the exact layout of your home so that the jury can see-”
“I’m sorry, but as I told you last week, I’ve been quite busy lately. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must get going. Good-bye, Miss Tate.” The line went dead.
Sara stormed over to Conrad’s office. “Can you help me get a detective?”
“Why do you want a detective?” Conrad asked.
“Because if I’m going to figure out what the hell is going on with Claire Doniger, I’m going to need some professional help. I’m not Miss Marple – I can’t do this alone.”
“Calm down,” Conrad said. “Now start over. What’d Doniger do?”
“She hasn’t done anything. She’s just completely unhelpful. She doesn’t want to talk about the case, she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t want to let us into her house. You’d think we’re the enemy.”
“Don’t let her do that to you,” Conrad said, pointing at Sara. “I told you before: You’re the one who’s in control and it’s your job to make her cooperate. If she doesn’t want to make time for you to come over, tell her she has a choice: She can let you take a half-hour tour of the house, or you can show up with an order to examine the scene and six of your closest police pals, a photographer, and a reporter, all of whom would love to take the new and improved eight-hour tour of her house while tearing through her stuff. Who knows what you’ll turn up. And if she doesn’t respond to that, you grab her by the shoulders and shake her until you knock some sense into her brain.” To illustrate, Conrad shook an imaginary person in front of his desk. “Screw her if she doesn’t want to toe the company line.”
Smiling at Conrad’s solution, Sara said, “Y’know, you’re pretty cute when you’re angry.”
“Thank you,” he replied, straightening his tie. “It’s the shaking back and forth part that got you excited, isn’t it?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sara laughed, surprised by Conrad’s reaction. “Who said I was excited?”
“Not me. I didn’t say a word.”
“Good, because I wasn’t even close to excited. At best, I was mildly amused.”
“That’s fine. Back away from it all you want. I don’t want to put words in your mouth. Now is there anything else?”
“I told you,” Sara said, regaining control of the conversation. “I need a detective who’ll help me investigate.”
Twenty minutes later, Guff walked into Conrad’s office. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Sara held her hand up and whispered, “Conrad’s trying to get us a detective.”
“No, I understand,” Conrad said. “I appreciate the help.” He put down the phone and turned to Sara. “Forget it. You’re on your own.”
“He said no, too?” Sara asked.
“I can’t believe it,” Conrad said. “Between the precinct and the squad, no one would assign a detective. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Why’re they being so tightfisted?”
“First and foremost, they’re understaffed. Besides that, it’s the budget cuts. Everyone’s so worried about their jobs, they’re not willing to take a minor case.”
“Or maybe there’s more to it than that,” Sara said. “For all we know, Victor might’ve-”
“Sara, you have to stop,” Conrad interrupted. “Even Victor doesn’t know every detective we’re calling.”
“But he may know all the precinct sergeants who’re in charge of assigning those detectives,” Sara pointed out.
“Big deal,” Guff said from the sofa. “I say we go down there tomorrow and have a look around ourselves. We don’t need some overrated detective to do the work for us.”
“I don’t know,” Conrad said. “I know this may sound strange coming from me, but maybe you should just plead out the case and be done with it. Considering what Monaghan said, it’s far more important that you don’t lose your first case at trial. And based on your witness list, it doesn’t sound like you have much to work with.”
Biting her lip, Sara couldn’t help but agree. But ever since Pop’s accident, she knew it wasn’t about her job. The stakes had been raised. The fight was for Jared. “No,” she insisted. “I can’t plead out.”
“But if you get rid of this, you can take your other cases and-”
“I’m taking care of the other cases.”
“Are you?” Conrad asked.
“I’m taking care of them,” she repeated. “If I can’t get a detective on this one, then I’ll go up there myself. Tomorrow morning, we’ll visit Claire Doniger and see what we can find.”
At one-thirty, Jared headed to “Chez Wayne,” the firm’s private dining room, for lunch. Every day, over three hundred employees swapped stories, shared gossip, and stuffed their faces in Chez Wayne’s enormous dining area.
Sitting alone in the back of the room, Jared ignored the conversations of his fellow employees. He dug into his minestrone soup, his mind focused on the case. Although he didn’t want to jinx himself with overconfidence, he was feeling good about his position. Sara still had almost nothing in terms of information, and her witnesses were becoming even more difficult to work with. Things were finally looking good for the defense, and best of all, his wife would be safe. So when he saw Marty Lubetsky enter the room, Jared waved his hand to get his boss’s attention.
Approaching Jared’s table with a tray of food, Lubetsky asked, “What’s got you so happy?”
“Nothing,” Jared said. “I was just thinking about the AmeriTex case from last week.”
“Jared, don’t fish for compliments.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Sure you weren’t,” Lubetsky said as he set his tray down and took a seat. “Don’t worry, though. I got copies of the motions. It was nice work.”
“Thanks,” Jared said.
“Now tell me about the Kozlow case. How do things look?”
“Good. Very good. I’m still hoping for a dismiss and seal, but I don’t think Sara’s going to go for it.”
“How’s her case?”
“It’s starting to crumble. By the end of the week, I think she’ll realize she’s stuck with a loser. And as she starts getting desperate, I’ve got a few more tricks.”
Resting against the doors of the subway car, Sara knew she was in trouble. From the moment she had taken the case, things had been sliding downhill. And no matter how hard she tried to climb back up, she could feel everything collapsing around her. As the train headed uptown, swarms of commuters packed in and Sara was pushed to the center of the car. With her back and shoulders pressed against strangers, she started to feel claustrophobic. She opened her coat to cool herself off, but the subway’s dry, chalky air caused her to break into an uncomfortable sweat. Closing her eyes, she tried to forget her fellow passengers. She tried to forget about Jared and Kozlow and Sunken Cheeks. And she tried not to think about her parents and her family and what would happen if she lost the case. But regardless of how hard she tried, and how many other things she could shut out, she couldn’t stop thinking about Pop. She’d never forget the fear in his eyes when he was wheeled into the hospital room. She had almost lost him, and he knew it. They had broken Pop. That was what she couldn’t shake, and unless she could prevent it, that was what they were going to do to her husband. Hold it together, she told herself, clutching the handle of her briefcase. It’ll be fine.