“Talk about arrested development. Guess he never got past the sixth grade.”

“Now he says he can sell them to a Web site. It’s called U.S. Videos-only, the initials stand for ‘Up-Skirt.’ Lots of videocam voyeurs, he claims. Cops checked it out. Each tape sells for forty bucks.”

“And that’s exactly what’s on ’em?” I asked incredulously. “I’m not sure there’s anything criminal to charge him with. Let me call Mark.” The usual response for any of us in the Trial Division when we were stuck on legal issues a lot thornier than this was to reach out for the head of the Appeals Bureau, our in-house lawman. We waited for his callback, which confirmed that there was no recourse in the criminal justice system for the Trekkie’s actions. Craig used my phone to tell the Javits security force to let the guy go. The Internet was creating more opportunities for perverts than most of us had imagined, and law enforcement agencies were less aggressive than the cyber-geeks in coming up with solutions.

Mike called from Mercer’s room at eleven thirty. “Forget those surgeons you saw yesterday. There’s a lady doc here today, and a posse of very attentive nurses, and I think Mercer Wallace is really on the mend.

“I’m gonna scoot up to the squad at one. The pain medication makes Mercer pretty sleepy. His father wants to sit with him this afternoon. Varelli’s assistant is going to come in for an interview. Wanna be there?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll swing by and pick you up, since I’m so close to your office,” Mike said. “Then I can bring you back here to the hospital tonight. The D.A.’s Squad can take over your chauffeuring duties from that point on.”

I called the Special Victims Unit to see who would inherit the day-to-day work on the West Side rapist matter and was relieved to hear it was in the capable hands of two veteran detectives who had worked with Mercer for years.

Then I stopped at Rose Malone’s desk so that she could see that I was physically unharmed and tell Battaglia that Mercer’s shooting had not unhinged me completely. Now that I was an eyewitness to the attempted murder of a police officer, I knew that the district attorney would assign another prosecutor to take over at least that part of the inquiry, just in case the crime was unrelated to our probe of Denise Caxton’s killing.

“Would you ask Paul to let me have a say in who McKinney assigns to Mercer’s shooting?” I asked Rose when she told me that Battaglia had just gone to lunch.

“Sure. I know he won’t get to it today. He’s got to polish up a speech he’s giving tonight, and I don’t think he’ll have time to speak to Pat McKinney,” she said, looking through the crammed schedule sheet that she kept on top of her desk.

“Great. If he wants me for anything, I’ll be up at Manhattan North.”

When I reached Laura’s office to pick up my case folder and wait for Chapman, she told me to call Marjie Fishman, my counterpart in the Queens District Attorney’s Office.

“Are you okay?” Marjie began the conversation.

I assured her that I was and gave her the update on Mercer’s condition.

“You don’t have any racetracks in Manhattan, do you?”

“No.” I waved Mike in when I saw him standing with Laura outside my room.

“Well, we’ve finally got a situation that you haven’t seen yet.”

“Try me.” There were days when my colleagues and I were sure there was nothing left that one human being could do to another that could shock us. And then, without fail, something else came along to prove us wrong.

“Last Monday, out at Aqueduct, a cop patrolling the stables in the middle of the night came upon, shall we say, an intimate encounter between one of the grooms and a horse. The defendant’s name is Angel Garcia. The officer heard a loud thud, which was the sound made by the naked Garcia falling off the plastic bucket he’d been standing on.”

“How’s the horse?”

“The vet says she’s fine. If you pass an OTB office on your way uptown, tell Mike to put some money on Saratoga Capers. Last Friday, after a thorough examination and clean bill of health, our horse came in third. That’s her best start in weeks.”

I hung up shaking my head in amusement, although I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor creature. Fortunately, there were laws against inhumane treatment of animals, and Marjie’s Special Victims Unit was prosecuting Garcia for abusing Saratoga Capers. Mike laughed out loud when he heard the story.

“Just feature sharing a jail cell with Angel Garcia,” Mike said. “Every other prisoner has pictures of Cindy Crawford or Julia Roberts or Penthouse centerfolds on the wall. Meanwhile, Angel’s got giant-size pinups of Trigger and Mr. Ed. Go figure. C’mon, blondie. Let’s blow this joint.”

“Wait a minute. Has anybody explored that part of Omar Sheffield’s background?”

“Whaddaya mean? Horseplay?” Mike asked.

“Cell mates-just what you were joking about. When Omar was in the can doing time upstate, who did he share a cell with? Do we have any names?”

Mike stopped and double-backed to my desk to use the phone. “I don’t think I asked that question. I’m not sure anybody did.” He dialed the squad and reached Jimmy Halloran, a baby-faced cop who’d been on the Homicide Squad for more than a decade but looked like he was still in high school. Jimmy had been added to the Caxton team last night, after Mercer was injured. He bristled every time Mike called him by the nickname he’d been given by his team-Kid Detective.

“Hey, K.D.,” Chapman said. “Squirrel around on the lieutenant’s desk. See if you can find the paperwork on Omar Sheffield. You know, the bad boy who forgot his mother told him not to play on the tracks. See if anyone checked the names of his roommates in state prison. Coop and I are on our way uptown. If you don’t find anything in the file, call up to the warden at Coxsackie and get some answers. And if they need a subpoena, call Cooper’s secretary and she’ll crank one out for us and fax it up for her signature. Make yourself useful.” He hung up the phone.

“Where are you parked?” I asked.

“Behind the courthouse, on Baxter Street.”

“Good. Let’s slide out the back door. The fewer people I have to talk to about yesterday’s events, the better off I’ll be.” We went downstairs and took the elevators from the seventh floor to the lobby, walking past the arraignment parts and the roach coach, as the building’s snack bar was affectionately dubbed. It was half an hour before the courts recessed for the afternoon lunch break, so we navigated the hallways and went out onto the street without much delay.

As we walked into the squad office, Jimmy Halloran took his feet off the desk and stood to greet us, pointing out a young man who was reading a newspaper at a desk across the room. “That’s your one o’clock. The guy from Varelli’s studio.

“And those names you wanted from the warden? He said Omar Sheffield spent some of his time in solitary.” Halloran looked down at his notes. “Had three cell mates while he was upstate. Kevin McGuire, who’s done mostly burglaries, and Jeremy Fuller, who sold heroin to an undercover cop. They’re both still in jail.”

Again, he glanced at his notepad. “Third one is named Anton Bailey. Does this stuff mean anything to you?”