Mike and I were driving up Third Avenue toward East Forty-Sixth Street, where Patroon was located, squaring the block so that he could park in front.
“What did Zach Palmer do in the Weldon Baynes case that was so unusual?” Mike asked.
“Back at the time of Baynes’s rampage, Zach was a civil rights lawyer for the Department of Justice,” I said. “He had always been a political activist, with a great record at NYU Law School. When the double murder happened in Salt Lake City, the attorney general assigned Zach to prosecute the case.”
“You mean, just that one case?”
“Yes, that’s how it started,” I said. “But when he looked at the big picture, it was obvious that Welly Baynes was a white supremacist who had terrorized the country by going around shooting blacks, especially when they associated with white people. He did the same thing with Jews.”
“Jews? But he didn’t get tried for that in Utah,” Mike said.
“Not then. Because Zach was smart enough to hone his issue down for the purpose of getting leverage for the trial,” I said. “Look, Baynes even shot the white guy who published True Hustling magazine, because he printed articles showing interracial couples having sex.”
“That guy who was paralyzed? Still in a wheelchair?”
“That’s the one. Also a different issue and a separate trial,” I said. “But in putting together the Salt Lake case, Zach came up with a novel theory. Instead of a murder case, he found an unusual statute that made it a federal crime to kill people—because of their race—in a public park.”
“So the Civil Rights Division got to handle these cases,” Mike said. “That’s why Zach was able to bring in other incidents, like Lucy’s.”
“Yes. He was successful in arguing that the cases be joined—since he had federal jurisdiction in all of them—and tried together, in Salt Lake City.”
“So he dragged Lucy all over the place with him—wherever there were pretrial hearings and opportunities for him to keep her close,” Mike said.
“And everybody in her life—from her aunt to Agent Crain to the Palmer’s Posse team—thought he was watching out for the girl and taking great care to prepare her for the rigors of her testimony,” I said.
“The bastard fooled a lot of people,” Mike said, checking the time on his watch. “You’re way early.”
“I figured this gives us a chance for the Jeopardy! question,” I said, “and also a chance for Stephane to find me the quietest table so I can record the conversation.”
Mike slammed his foot on the brake and the car jolted. I braced myself against the dashboard. “Record Zach Palmer?”
“Don’t say it. I’m nuts, right? Join the parade.”
Mike reached across me and grabbed my tote from the floor of the car, beneath my feet.
“Bad guess. You’re not even warm,” I said as he rummaged through it.
“Where’s the recorder?” Mike said, having lost every trace of his characteristic humor. “You can’t tape a lawyer, kid. You’ve refused to do it with sleazebag after sleazebag whenever I’ve asked you to.”
“This is different.”
“Yeah, it’s different,” Mike said. “Because you want to do it. That’s the only thing that makes it different.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “The rules have changed.”
“You always told me that taping another lawyer would smack of trickery,” Mike said, turning in the driver’s seat so that he was facing me. “That lady and gentleman lawyers wouldn’t behave like that to each other. That—what was it—the New York City Bar Association forbids it, and you didn’t want to be sanctioned by them.”
“You just said it yourself. Zachary Palmer is apparently everything but a gentleman. He had a sexual relationship with his star witness in a federal case,” I said, “and she was under the age of consent at the time. And I don’t even know yet, but some of the contact may have been forcible.”
“What about ethics, Coop? Did you throw them out the window with your good judgment?”
“The bar association woke up to the fact that everyone has the ability to record conversations with commonplace devices like phones,” I said.
“Then put your phone on the table and go to town,” Mike said.
“Zach’s likely to check me out on that,” I said. “He’s not stupid. He’ll play with my phone and tell me he has to make a call.”
“Then skip it.”
“The ethics rules now say a lawyer is permitted to tape another lawyer in pursuit of the common good—and you can bet the good is on my side. I’m wired up for a super-clear recording I can use if this case goes forward.”
“Where’s your recorder?”
“It’s a professional hookup, Detective,” I said, sitting up straight, my shoulders back and my breasts standing at attention. “The tech guys in the DA’s Squad put the teeniest device possible—a microcamera with an audio recorder—right inside the top button on my blouse.”
“That, kid, was one stupid fucking idea,” Mike said.
He reached over, holding my shoulder with one hand, and using the other to rip the top button off my pale pink shirt.