“Dead man walking,” said Zader, as I closed the door to his office in 1 Hogan Place.
I took a seat and admired the headlines in the newspapers he’d spread out in front of him. Most of them were speculating on his next move in the David Child case and when the grand jury would hear the evidence. The DA looked tired; his eyes were heavy and his collar was undone.
“So, think your client will be ready to face the grand jury next week?” he said.
I opened my bag, removed the three envelopes, and set them on top of the papers.
“Say, can I get a drink?” I said.
He converted a sneer into a half smile and pressed a button on his desk phone.
“Miriam, two coffees please. Oh, sorry, cancel that. One coffee for me, and see if you can rustle up a scotch for Mr. Flynn. He looks like he could use it.”
“I don’t drink anymore,” I said. “But you knew that.”
“Miriam?” said Zader into the intercom. “Miriam, are you there?”
“Maybe she’s picking up your dry cleaning?” I said.
He leaned back in his leather chair and said, “We’re going with your client as an accomplice to the murder. It’s not the full beans, but…”
I could see his eyes focus on something behind me, which cut him off in full flow. Miriam entered his office with two coffees on a plastic tray. She placed one coffee in front of me and the other beside it. She pulled up a seat and took the second cup of coffee for herself.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked me.
“Thanks,” I said.
Zader stared at both of us.
“There isn’t going to be a grand jury,” I said, picking up the first envelope and tossing it to Zader. He opened it, began to read the two-page document, and was about to say something pithy when I cut him off.
“The Justice Department, the State Department, and the Treasury want the whole David Child case to go away quietly. It’s too messy for them. I can’t tell you why, but I’m sure you already know this; somebody on high has probably already had the same conversation with you. I’ll save you the trouble of reading this for now. It’s a press statement that your office is releasing this afternoon. It confirms that as a result of your extensive inquiries, David Child is innocent of all charges in relation to the murder of Clara Reece. It hasn’t been released yet, but Clara didn’t actually exist. The dead girl in David’s apartment is Samantha Harland, matching tattoos and all. There’s a full public apology to David Child, which I want you to read out, on camera. You’ll notice this statement is drafted by the Justice Department. They’re sending you a clear message to make this go away—you mess this up, you’re making an enemy of the US government.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me if you think I’m going to be pressured into—”
“You put pressure on innocent defendants to plead guilty to crimes they didn’t commit. You do this every day of the week by dangling plea agreements in front of them. Take five years on a plea, or fight the case and risk a twenty stretch. This is what it’s like, this pressure. Open this…” I said, handing him the second envelope.
This was a bulky package, and he tipped the contents onto his desk. He saw photographs of dry-cleaning receipts, e-mails ordering Miriam to reduce her caseload by handing her most serious cases to junior ADAs. There were video stills of Miriam bringing him coffee, cleaning his office, vacuuming the carpets, washing the coffee cups. In among the photos and e-mails were also several microcassettes with recordings of Zader’s juiciest sexist remarks.
“When you ran against Miriam for district attorney, you gave an interview stating how much you admired her skills as a lawyer and how honored you would feel if she agreed to stay on as a senior prosecutor in the event of your victory in the election. Yet there’s a mountain of evidence here to show you’ve treated her like shit. And you’ve done it because she’s a woman. The tapes are particularly good. My favorite is the conversation you had with Miriam three weeks ago, where you tell her female trial attorneys will always be beaten by male attorneys in court because men are more credible. Nice. I’m thinking that statement alone is good for a hundred grand from the jury.”
Miriam smiled at him.
“Miriam, this is outrageous. If I’ve treated you poorly, it’s simply because you were my opposition. I would’ve done the same thing if you were a man,” said Zader.
“That’s a great defense,” I said. “Your Honor, I didn’t harass Ms. Sullivan because she’s a woman. I demeaned her simply because I’m an asshole, and I would’ve done the same thing to a man.”
I heard Miriam tutting.
“You’ll also find, in that pile, two documents that you will need to read. The first is the copy of my draft sexual harassment suit, for my client, which I’ll file this afternoon if you don’t sign the agreement right now.”
“What agreement?” said Zader.
I found the agreement on his desk, handed it to him.
“The highlights are that you will resign first thing tomorrow morning. You can say it’s for personal reasons and you’ll give your full backing to Miriam Sullivan, whom you’re appointing as acting district attorney until a new election can be called. If you refuse to call the press conference for David, or if you refuse to sign this agreement, I’ll file suit for Miriam, she’ll win, and your career will be over. This way you get to walk out of here without a court judgment against you.”
His gaze flickered between the photographs and the agreement. A drop of sweat hit the desk, and he wiped at his forehead, pulled at his tie even though it was already loose.
“I’ll fight this the whole way. You think you’ve won, but you’re wrong. I don’t scare easy.”
I turned toward Miriam and said, “You were right. He is stupid.”
“Told you we’d need more,” said Miriam.
“You called it. You do the honors,” I said.
From her inside jacket pocket, Miriam produced two pages and handed them to Zader without another word. The first page was an affidavit sworn by Assistant District Attorney Billy Brown. He stated that he had been asked by Zader to contact a private investigator in order to obtain confidential, and highly sensitive, personal and financial information on every single judge in New York. The private stock information Zader had used to get rid of Judge Knox was already in his possession when the case began, and he didn’t bring it up until it looked like Knox was going to find for the defense. This alone would be enough to launch a state inquiry into prosecutorial misconduct, but the fact that he’d illegally obtained personal information and built dossiers on every judge would end his career in a heartbeat and probably send him to jail. The second page was clearly labeled as a draft e-mail. It was addressed to the FBI and the current governor. The e-mail listed Billy Brown’s affidavit as a single attachment. The draft e-mail was just as good as pulling back the hammer on a pistol and holding it to Zader’s temple.
“You can’t be a felon and a DA. Mayor maybe?” I said.
“You’re a bastard, you know that?” he said. “I can’t possibly call a press conference today. It would take…”
“The press are already in the briefing room,” said Miriam. “I took the liberty of calling them. You want me to hit send on that e-mail?”
He shook his head. I ignored him and waited.
He spotted the last envelope, sitting unopened before me.
“What’s in that?”
“That’s option B,” I said.
He held out his quivering hand. I gave him the envelope, drained my coffee, and stood. I buttoned my jacket and said to Miriam, “It’s good to have you back.”
She smiled.
Zader ripped open the envelope just as his office door closed behind me. Silence. Then I heard Miriam’s stern tones. Before I left the open-plan office, I waited for a spell at the coffee machine. I’d left because this was Miriam’s victory. She left Zader’s office, caught my eye, smiled, and gave me an excited thumbs-up. The signed agreement and press release were in her hands. In the third envelope I’d given Zader the same option he’d given David Child—the envelope was empty.
I stepped into the elevator, waved goodbye to Herb Goldman on the reception desk, and hit the button for the ground floor. Zader appeared at Herb’s desk, watching me leave with a look of utter contempt on his face. His skin shone under the lights; fear and hate danced in bulbs of sweat. He slapped Herb’s desk and swore at me.
I said nothing.
Herb’s keen eyes passed over both of us, and he chuckled to himself. Somehow Herb knew that he’d soon be serving under yet another new district attorney.
The elevator doors began to close. Before they shut, I heard Herb offer some final advice to the departing DA.
“You know what they say, Mr. Zader,” said Herb. “You can’t hustle a hustler.”