The Kills (36 page)

"Is
he-?"

"He's
going to live. Out of danger, just a few holes in his back."

"Bellevue?"

"Nope.
New York Hospital."

York
Avenue and Sixty-eighth Street. My neighborhood, not Tripping's.

We each
threw some bills on the table to cover the drinks and dinner. The rain had
stopped but the wet pavement still glistened against the headlights of the
oncoming traffic as we weaved our way north and east to the hospital entrance.

The
triage nurse was surprised to see us, particularly once we displayed our
identification shields to her. She tipped her head in the direction of a small
cubicle that was separated from her station by a green curtain. "He's been
sedated. Let me check. I'm not sure it's a good idea to try to talk to him
now."

She
walked away and I whispered to Mercer, "I'm not sure it's a good idea for
us to talk to him at all. He's represented by counsel and he's supposed to show
up in Moffett's part tomorrow morning to take a plea."

"I
can ask him about the stabbing, can't I? This time, he's in as a victim."

"Check
with the nurse. Wouldn't you think he's already been interviewed? I assume he
came in here by ambulance after a 911 call."

I walked
out to the waiting area while Mike and Mercer entered the cubicle. They were
with the patient almost fifteen minutes before they came back to me.

Mike was
shaking his head. "I don't know what to make of him. He's a nutcase to
begin with, isn't he?"

"Diagnosed
paranoid schizophrenic."

"So
people are always after him, right?"

"Most
of the time."

"In
case you didn't have enough to worry about, Mr. Tripping was on his way to try
to find where you live, Coop."

"But,
why?"

"Guess
he just couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. I didn't throw him any questions
about your case, I just asked what happened this evening."

"What'd
he say?"

"He's
a little incoherent. I don't know if that's him or the drugs. Mumbling all
kinds of conspiracy theories. The lawyers are out to get him, there are
terrorists after him, the CIA wants him dead, and he's never gonna see his kid
again. Now which of those make sense?" Mike asked.

"Don't
I wish I knew. Why me?" I said. "That's the only thing I'm
concentrating on at the moment."

"He's
telling us he wants you to put him in jail. That's why he's looking for
you."

"Happy
to help," I said. "But all he needs to do is show up in court to get
that done. I don't like this one bit. And who's following him while he's
looking for me? Who does he say attacked him?"

Mercer
waved his hand in a circle. "Wasn't sure, couldn't see, can't
describe-"

"Well,
that's ridiculous. He claims he used to be a CIA agent, for chrissakes."

"You
didn't do any better last night with your attacker," Mike said.

I flapped
around for an answer but had none. "What does the doctor say? How serious
is it?"

"Not
very," said Mercer. "In fact, the resident's got the chart all marked
up for psych observation. He won't rule out that the stab wounds may be
self-inflicted."

"Why?"

"There
are a lot of small jabs in the upper back. Nothing life-threatening, nothing
terribly lethal, and all are high enough that you could reach them yourself
with a knife."

"Great.
This is a surefire way for him to buy a little more time before he bites the
bullet and takes the guilty plea. There must be a reason he wants to stay out
of jail."

"That's
not what he's saying tonight, Alex. He's telling us that jail is the only place
he thinks his life is safe."

"How
did it get to be ten-thirty?" I asked Mike and Mercer, as they followed me
into my apartment after we left the hospital. "Somebody fix me a drink
while I check my messages."

They went
to the kitchen while I went to the bedroom to put on jeans and check the
answering machine. There were a few personal calls, Jake among them, and a
rather cool voice mail from Peter Robelon.

"It's
Peter, Alex. Just had a call from the emergency department at New York
Hospital. Andrew Tripping was assaulted tonight. They're going to treat and
release him, but I don't think he's going to be in any shape for court
tomorrow. I'm going to ask for an adjournment," he said, explaining the
reasons why. "And Alex, keep your cops away from Andrew. This has nothing
to do with your case, okay?"

By the
time I got to the den, the guys had poured the drinks, made themselves
comfortable, and turned on the Yankees game-which was only in the fifth inning
because of an initial rain delay. I had lost my partners to the pennant race,
so I stretched out on the sofa and enjoyed my scotch.

When I
put the two of them out the door at midnight, Mercer arranged to pick me up and
take me to the office, and to be there for the plea proceedings.

We walked
into Judge Moffett's courtroom together at nine-thirty sharp. The lawyers for
the child welfare agency and the foundling hospital had beaten us to the part,
but everyone else was late. I didn't appreciate all my adversary's
conversations with Moffett that had been conducted out of my presence, so I
decided not to tell the judge about the stabbing incident ex parte.

Fifteen
minutes later, the court officer held open the door and Peter Robelon walked
in, pushing Andrew Tripping in a wheelchair. Graham Hoyt was a step or two
behind, carrying Robelon's trial folders.

I rolled
my eyes at Mercer and waited for the clerk to call the case into the calendar.

"What
have we here, Mr. Robelon? A little accident?"

"I
wish that were the case, Your Honor. Unfortunately, it's a lot more serious
than that. My client was attacked last night-a vicious street crime-repeatedly
stabbed in the back in a senseless act of violence."

"You
know about this, Alexandra?" the judge asked.

"I
don't think it's quite as serious as it looks, Your Honor."

"Now
Ms. Cooper's a doctor, too," Robelon said. "Mr. Tripping was released
from the hospital at two o'clock this morning. He's in great pain, and he's got
a schedule of follow-up medical care that has to be kept. He-he can't even get
out of this chair."

"That's
ridiculous, Judge. He's got some superficial wounds in his upper back. I know
all about this. If you'd just order him out of the chair, he's perfectly able to
stand up and go forward with the plea that counsel and I have discussed."

Moffett
pointed his gavel at me and shook it. "The last time I tried that, young
lady, at the direction of one of your buddies, I was censured by the appellate
court."

I had
struck the wrong chord. Years ago, in an incident that had made tabloid
headlines, cops had been pulling the leg of one of my rookie colleagues. The
perp being arraigned was a notorious career criminal, who had frequently been a
malingerer and faked diseases to avoid judicial proceedings. The night he was
brought up on charges of homicide, the arresting officer insisted to the
assistant district attorney that despite his protestations, the killer could
get out of his wheelchair and stand before the court.

The prosecutor
passed the message along to the judge, neither of them knowing that the
victim's brother had just broken the defendant's kneecaps with a golf club.
Moffett barked at the guy to stand up, five or six times, threatening to hold
him in contempt if he refused. When the man tried to stand, he collapsed on the
floor of the courtroom, and the Legal Aid Society brought a complaint against
Moffett that almost caused him to be denied reappointment.

"Your
Honor, there has actually been some progress to report, if you'll give us some
breathing space here. I've had a conversation with Ms. Cooper. My client has
authorized me to accept an offer of a misdemeanor plea. We had every intention
of going ahead with that this morning, but in light of Mr. Tripping's physical
condition-his injuries-"

"Judge,
this is ridiculous. Yes, we had plea discussions. And this-this sudden bunch of
scratches on the defendant's back are nothing more than an insurance policy for
the strategy planned by Mr. Robelon. Although he told me he thought there could
be a disposition of the case, he wanted additional time out of jail for his
client. When I told him I would not go along with that condition, this sham is
apparently the solution they devised to buy some time out of Rikers."

"What
does he need time for, Alexandra? He pleads guilty, so he gets a week or two to
tie up loose ends. What's the big deal?"

"I
have no idea why he wants it. Maybe he doesn't intend to surrender himself.
Maybe he has plans to abscond. Maybe-"

Robelon
was livid. "Stop with the fantasies, Ms. Cooper. Where do you come off
throwing out these absurd ideas to prejudice the court against this
defendant?"

"Look
at him, Alexandra," Moffett said, pointing at Tripping. He had slumped
down in his wheelchair and both arms were hanging over the sides. "He
can't even hold himself together. They give you any medication, Mr.
Tripping?"

Tripping
looked dazed. He was nonresponsive.

Moffett
tried again. "You, Mr. Tripping. You with me?"

"I'm
sorry, Judge. I'm in terrible pain-"

Robelon
interrupted. "I really don't want my client speaking on the record, Judge.
Yes, he's been given MorphiDex. It's a morphine derivative, Judge.
Obviously," he said, sneering at me, "someone believes he's in
pain."

"Here's
what we're gonna do. You lose, Ms. Cooper. I can't take a plea from somebody
who's doped up on narcotics."

"You
do it every day of the week, Judge. Just different narcotics."

"The
boy, Dallas-"

"Dulles,"
I said.

"Dallas,
Dulles, whatever-he's out of harm's way?"

"Doing
very well," Robelon said. Hoyt, Taggart, and Irizzary all nodded up and
down, like a row of bobble-head dolls.

"Let's
put this over till the beginning of October. I try and allocute him today, and
he'll come back wanting to withdraw the plea. It'll be a complete waste of
time."

I didn't
have a prayer in this skirmish, but there was one more fact for the court to
know. "Your Honor, are you aware that this incident-this charade-happened
less than two blocks away from my home?"

"You
really are over the top, Alex," Robelon said quietly before standing up
again to address the court. "Judge Moffett, this attack happened a block
away from the Frick Museum, it happened a block away from the Ukrainian
embassy, it happened a block away from the Nineteenth Precinct. Fortunately, none
of the occupants of those buildings has any reason to be paranoid either. We
don't have martial law in this city, do we? Mr. Tripping was enjoying an
evening on the Upper East Side."

"He
told the police, Your Honor, that he was coming to find
me.
I think you know I'm not an alarmist
about these things, but it is quite disturbing to think the defendant believed
he had any legitimate reason to be talking to me."

"Is
that true, sir? You couldn't wait for this morning to see Ms. Cooper?"

Robelon
leaned over and grabbed Tripping's arm, telling him not to answer. He
straightened back up. "My client says that's absolutely ridiculous. That's
a lie."