He lowered the paper and looked up as if expecting applause.
I said, “Barry Marantz’s semen was found in her.”
“Ah, yes, but young Barry—a handsome boy, by the way, and we both know that matters—admits to a consensual sex act with your eager, young Ms. Johnson earlier in the evening. We all know that Chamique was at their fraternity house—that’s not in dispute, is it?”
I didn’t like it, but I said, “No, that’s not in dispute.”
“In fact, we both agree that Chamique Johnson had worked there the week before as a stripper.”
“Exotic dancer,” I corrected.
He just looked at me. “And so she returned. Without the benefit of money being exchanged. We can agree on that too, can’t we?” He didn’t bother waiting for me. “And I can get five, six boys to say she was acting very friendly with Barry. Come on, Cope. You’ve been around this block before. She’s a stripper. She’s underage. She sneaked into a college fraternity party. She got nailed by the handsome rich kid. He, what, blew her off or didn’t call or whatever. She got upset.”
“And plenty of bruises,” I said.
Mort pounded the table with a fist that looked like roadkill. “She’s just looking for a big payday,” Mort said.
Flair said, “Not now, Mort.”
“Screw that. We all know the deal. She’s going after them because they’re loaded.” Mort gave me his best flinty-eyed stare. “You do know the whore has a record, right? Chamique”—he stretched out her name in a mocking way that pissed me off—“has already got a lawyer too. Going to shake our boys down. This is just a big payday for that cow. That’s all. A big friggin’ payday.”
“Mort?” I said.
“What?”
“Shh, the grown-ups are talking now.”
Mort sneered. “You’re no better, Cope.”
I waited.
“The only reason you’re prosecuting them is because they’re wealthy. And you know it. You’re playing that rich-versus-poor crap in the media too. Don’t pretend you aren’t. You know what sucks about that? You know what really burns my butt?”
I had itched an ass this morning and now I had burned a butt. A big day for me.
“Tell me, Mort.”
“It’s accepted in our society,” he said.
“What is?”
“Hating rich people.” Mort threw his hands up, outraged. “You hear it all the time. ‘I hate him, he’s so rich.’ Look at Enron and those other scandals. It is now an encouraged prejudice—to hate rich people. If I ever said, ‘Hey, I hate poor people,’ I’d be strung up. But call the rich names? Well, you have a free pass. Everyone is allowed to hate the rich.”
I looked at him. “Maybe they should form a support group.”
“Up yours, Cope.”
“No, I mean it. Trump, the Halliburton guys. I mean, the world hasn’t been fair to them. A support group. That’s what they should have. Maybe hold a telethon or something.”
Flair Hickory rose. Theatrically, of course. I half-expected him to curtsy. “I think we’re done here. See you tomorrow, handsome. And you”—he looked at Loren Muse, opened his mouth, closed it, shuddered.
“Flair?”
He looked at me.
“That Cal and Jim thing,” I said. “It just proves she’s telling the truth.”
Flair smiled. “How’s that, exactly?”
“Your boys were smart. They called themselves Cal and Jim, so she’d say that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think that will fly?”
“Why else would she say that, Flair?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, if Chamique wanted to set your clients up, why wouldn’t she use their correct names? Why would she make up all that dialogue with Cal and Jim? You read the statement. ‘Turn her this way, Cal.’ ‘Bend her over, Jim.’ ‘Whoa, Cal, she’s loving this.’ Why would she make that all up?”
Mort took that one. “Because she’s a money-hungry whore who is dumber than dirt?”
But I could see that I’d scored a point with Flair.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said to him.
Flair leaned in toward me. “Here’s the thing, Cope: It doesn’t have to. You know that. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it doesn’t make sense. But see, that leads to confusion. And confusion has the major hots for my favorite hunk, Mr. Reasonable Doubt.” He smiled. “You might have some physical evidence. But, well, you put that girl on the stand, I will not hold back. It will be game, set, match. We both know that.”
They headed to the door.
“Toodles, my friend. See you in court.”
CHAPTER 4
MUSE AND I SAID NOTHING FOR A FEW MOMENTS.
Cal and Jim. The names deflated us.
The position of chief investigator was almost always held by some male lifer, a gruff guy slightly burned out by what he’d seen over the years, with a big belly and a heavy sigh and a well-worn trench coat. It would be that man’s job to maneuver the guileless county prosecutor, a political appointee like me, through the rings of the Essex County legal system.
Loren Muse was maybe five feet tall and weighed about as much as your average fourth grader. My choosing Muse had caused some nasty ripples among the veterans, but here was my own private prejudice: I prefer hiring single women of a certain age. They worked harder and were more loyal. I know, I know, but I have found this to be true in almost every case. You find a single woman over the age of, say, thirty-three, and she lives for her career and will give you hours and devotion the married ones with kids will never give you.
To be fair, Muse was also an incredibly gifted investigator. I liked talking things out with her. I would say “muse”-ing them over, but then you’d understandably groan. Right now she was staring down at the floor.
“What’s on your mind?” I asked her.
“Are these shoes really that ugly?”
I looked at her and waited.
“Put simply,” she said, “if we don’t find a way to explain Cal and Jim, we’re screwed.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“What?” Muse said.
“Those two names.”
“What about them?”
“Why?” I asked for the umpteenth time. “Why Cal and Jim?”
“Don’t know.”
“You questioned Chamique again?”