Fairstein, Linda - Silent Mercy

“May we step inside for a few minutes? That’s all I need of you.”

“You must think I’m insane. Say what you want, right here. Then go.” It was no surprise that a well-dressed businessman had gotten through the concierge desk where our doormen stood. There was a steady flow of traffic in the large building, and I was certain Borracelli had used his charm to convince one of them he was attending a cocktail party or dinner.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Gina’s father.”

He laughed, and I sensed the same arrogance that Laura had when he left his message earlier that afternoon. “That, of course, Ms. Cooper. I mean, do you know—”

“How important you are? Is that what you’re trying to tell me, by trapping me here in a hallway tonight? Do you think I give a damn about whatever it is that you think entitles you to threaten and harass me?”

“Have I threatened you, young lady? That’s nonsense. You were rude not to return my phone call.”

“I had a bad day at the office, Mr. Borracelli. Two women are dead and—”

“And that’s reason to abuse my child?”

I took two steps back toward the swinging door in the service area. There was an elevator inside that was for the maintenance crew, although it was the slowest-moving piece of machinery in the world. I didn’t speak.

“I’m the CEO of a major international telecommunications company, Ms. Cooper. Once I had your phone number, it was easy for me to get the rest of your personal information.”

“Everybody seems to know how to find me. A house call really wasn’t necessary, Mr. Borracelli. I’ll be at my desk all day tomorrow. Now, press the down button by those two elevators or I’ll scream.”

“I don’t imagine you as a screamer. Just listen to me. Two minutes.”

I continued backing up, closer to the service area, and just a few steps away from David Mitchell’s door.

“Gina is my baby. She’s a very, very sensitive child. I know she has issues.”

“Issues” was one of those dreadful weasel words that didn’t begin to articulate what Borracelli referred to. Binge drinking, substance abuse, sexual promiscuity, and the ability to look someone in a position of authority straight in the eye while lying. Gina had more issues than her box of bad things could begin to contain.

“She’s trying to act like one of the big girls. You’d better rethink the whole ‘baby’ idea.” The law still protected Gina, but she had chosen to start playing with fire.

“There was an urgency to my phone call, Ms. Cooper. Anyone who works for me and didn’t return a call by day’s end wouldn’t have a job.”

“I apologize.” Days like this, I’d be willing to give up my job too.

“Gina has been talking to my wife about hurting herself. She’s distraught about having to face this boy at school. She said she has pills. She has razor blades,” he said, his anxiety apparent for the first time in this confrontation. “She says that she’d rather kill herself than face the embarrassment of seeing Javier at school.”

“That’s quite serious, Mr. Borracelli. I can get her a counseling appointment first thing in the morning.”

“And until then, Ms. Cooper? If she hurts herself tonight, it will be all your fault.”

I closed my eyes and took a breath. It wasn’t the kid’s doing that her father was a horse’s ass. “What is it you expect of me right now?”

So far today I was responsible for everything from the next Holy Wars to a teen suicide.

“I promised my Gina I wouldn’t come home until you telephoned. Until you apologized for your mishandling of the case, to keep her from hurting herself — with pills, or with something sharp. Gina has tried to cut herself before this. My wife is with her now, keeping watch. They’re waiting up for your call.”

This wasn’t the moment for me to stand on principle and defend my actions if a kid’s life was hanging in the balance.

“And for your promise that in the morning, you’ll speak with the headmaster and insist that Javier be expelled.”

Vincenzo Borracelli took a step in my direction and I recoiled.

“It’s just the phone I’m handing you, since you won’t let me come inside. No need to back away. Just press on it and it will dial Gina’s number.”

I took the handheld from him and waited while it connected. It went directly to voice mail. “Gina? It’s Alexandra Cooper, from the DA’s Office. I’m here with your father. We’re concerned about you, of course. I’d like to apologize for anything I said or did to make you unhappy. We can put this entire event behind you and get you on a safer path. I’d like you to meet one of the counselors we work with. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

I flipped the phone shut and handed it back to Borracelli.

“You didn’t say anything about the boy, Ms. Cooper. Something has to be done about the boy.”

Vincenzo Borracelli took another step forward and I reached for David Mitchell’s doorbell, pushing against it repeatedly. I had awakened a large, sleeping dog that began to bark fiercely and scratch at the door with his front paws.

“David!” I screamed for my friend and Vincenzo Borracelli turned to the two elevators and pressed the button between them.

I could hear David shouting the command to his dog to get down, opening up just as the out-of-bounds Borracelli disappeared behind the sliding elevator door.

“ALEX— my God, you look frantic. Come on in. Is everything all right?”

“I know that ‘I’m sorry’ is woefully inadequate at this hour of the night,” I said, explaining the bizarre situation to my neighbor and good friend, who had a thriving practice as a psychiatrist. “Go back to sleep. I’d just love to borrow Prozac for the night.”

“You want to talk?” David asked, belting his bathrobe around his waist.

“Not right now, thanks. I’m fine. It’s been a tough week and I need a good night’s rest,” I said, bending down to stroke the smooth back of the gentle dog for whom I frequently babysat. “A cold nose beside me and the security blanket of her loud bark, just in case that prick tries to come back, will lull me to sleep. I’ll walk her in the morning before I return her.”

“No need. I’ll pick her up at seven,” David said. He often took the dog with him to his office.

I was truly ready to crawl into bed and put my head on the pillow. Prozac curled herself into a ball beside me and I was sound asleep before I relived even half of the day’s events.

I was showered and dressed by six forty-five, and brewed a pot of coffee. David came in and I gave him a summary of what was going on over slightly well-done English muffins and a strong Colombian roast. His insights into the psychopathic personality were often useful to me.

“I’ll stay in touch. Let me think about the pathology here, Alex. I’m sure I can find you some things to read over the weekend. Take care, will you?”

I checked myself out in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. I felt better than I had in two days, and dressed for comfort in a navyblue double-breasted jacket and jeans, for dress-down Friday. The cashmere turtleneck I wore beneath, for warmth, matched the pale lavender pinstripes in the dark fabric.

My BlackBerry was beginning to load up with the usual morning spam. I refilled my mug and answered the handful of personal messages.

I was almost ready to leave for the office when my landline rang at exactly eight a.m.

“Alex? It’s Justin Feldman.”

“Do I have you to blame for last night?” The prominent litigator was one of the most distinguished lawyers and political advisers in the city. He headed a successful white-collar defense team in a large corporate firm, so rarely crossed professional paths with my sordid category of crimes. “I should have figured Borracelli to be in your client bank.”

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Justin asked, making light of the situation with his throaty laugh. “What’s a Borracelli?”

I took my tone down a notch. “Vincenzo Borracelli. He’s not yours?”

“Should he be? What am I missing?”

“Never mind, Justin. A family member of a witness got out of line last night. I’m not sure how he got the information to find me at home.”

“Not my usual approach Alex. I’m trying to give you a hand, actually. Don’t bite it.”

“A hand with what?” Feldman had advised presidents, senators, and high-profile clients of every variety. He was well respected for his wisdom and legal acumen, and there were often cadres of young lawyers in the federal courthouse studying his storied cross-examinations when he was on trial with a high-stakes case.

“The late Ursula Hewitt.”

My loud sigh must have been audible.

“I thought as much. I took the liberty of calling because I wanted to get you before you were on your way downtown.”

“Are you in this, Justin?”

“No. But I’ve got someone who wants to talk to you about her, Alex. Someone in a bit of a delicate situation.”

“Delicate situation” was often a euphemism for guilty. “I’m not making any deals.”

“I wish I could walk your perp in the door, but that’s not what I mean.”

“Who is it?”

“She’s a minister. An ordained minister.”

Another country heard from, as my grandmother loved to say. We had Baptists, Jews, Catholics. Now a Protestant in the mix.

“I thought most Protestants were good with that,” I said. My mother had been raised as an Episcopalian until her conversion to Judaism when she married my father.

“I think many of them are. Do you have time to meet with her today? I’m sure it will be worth your while.”

“If she can afford your fees, I guess I’ll have to meet with her.”

“Glad you still have your sense of humor. We’ve taken her on pro bono. I think you’ll really like each other. She’s one of the smartest people I know.”

I grabbed a pad to take down the information. “Who is this woman?”

“Her name is Faith Grant.”

“You’re kidding me. Faith?”

“Her father was a minister too. She came by it naturally.”

“Can she meet me at the office?”

“Would you mind very much going to see her?”

“Where?”

“The seminary. Union Theological Seminary.”

I didn’t want to tell Feldman we had just been to its Jewish counterpart as part of this investigation. “I don’t know it.”

“Uptown on Broadway. The entrance is at 121st Street.”

Harlem again. Just north of the Columbia campus, and one block away from JTS, where Mike would be arriving just about now. I could ask him to meet me for this conversation.

“Mind telling me what’s so delicate about Faith’s situation?”

“She’s a graduate of Yale Divinity School and taught there for fifteen years. Now she’s in contention to be president of Union — you know it’s more than 175 years old — which is an enormously prestigious post.”

“And probably never held by a woman,” I said.

“Exactly. I’d just like to shelter her a bit from the controversy of the two homicides, so we don’t spoil her chance of an appointment. She may have something to offer you in terms of a lead — she apparently knew this new victim — or she may just want to do what she thinks is the right thing. May I tell her to expect your call?”

“I’ll grab a cab and be to her in half an hour, Justin. Will that do?” This way we could see what Faith had and I’d still be at my desk by midmorning.