He
explained to her how important it was to stay quiet so she didn't get thrown
out of the building.
While he
tried to soothe her I talked to Mike. "I've got a case to try. What the
hell is going on here? Where's the girl?"
"Downstairs,
in the holding pens."
"Charged
with?"
"Criminal
possession of stolen prop-"
I
interrupted him before he could finish. "You can't make out felony value
with this old thing," I said, pointing to the fur coat. "It's not
worth twenty-five hundred dollars at this point."
"And
aiding a fugitive-"
"Better."
"And
felony-weight possession of crack cocaine. A white patent leather bag full of
little vials."
I turned
back to Mrs. Gatts. "I think the best place to wait for your daughter
would be downstairs, inside the entrance to One Hundred Centre Street, where
the judge will see her later this evening and set some bail."
"What
you mean 'this evening'? It's not even two o'clock yet. What you mean 'bail'?
Tiffany's just a baby. You got no right to hold her where I can't see
her."
Mercer
reached out his hand to steady Mrs. Gatts's flailing arms. She took a step back
and kicked at my door with all her considerable might.
I tried
to follow Mercer's lead and be diplomatic. I took a step toward the woman but
Mike blocked me with an outstretched arm. "You could make things much
easier for Tiffany, ma'am. We just need her to help us. She's been keeping some
dangerous company."
"Like
who?"
"Kevin
Bessemer."
"Bessie?
That man in jail. He old enough to be her father. What she doing with
him?" Etta Gatts clucked her tongue in disbelief, and I let Mercer try to
explain why Tiffany was in trouble.
"Don't
mean a damn thing. The lieutenant told me my baby was too young to have sex
with a thirty-two-year-old man. That it's rape. Well, in this state she too
young to vote and too young to drink. That makes her too young to go to
jail."
"Three
out of four ain't bad, Mrs. Gatts. Sixteen years old and she gets treated like
an adult in criminal court. You oughta do like Ms. Cooper says and have a
serious talk with Tiffany. She's the only one," Mike said, pointing at me,
"who can give your daughter a break."
"I
don't want no break from you," the woman said, kicking the metal door
again. Mercer reached for her elbow but she raised her voice a few decibels as
she twisted loose and kept hollering.
"Take
it easy."
"Don't
touch me," she screamed at Mercer. "And you, you skinny-ass bitch,
you watch yourself. My hand to the heavens, my people ain't through with you
yet."
6
"Look
on the bright side, Coop. At least she called your tail part 'skinny,'"
Mike said, tossing his napkin across the room into the wastebasket. "I'm
going to take this coat over to the photo unit to get it shot, along with some
close-ups of the label and monogram."
"First
you could escort Alex up to the courtroom," Mercer said. "She needs
you to eyeball a couple of funny-looking feds, get a make on them. I can't go
because the jury panel will be hanging out, and I'm going to testify next
week."
"Guard
my pelts, pal." Mike picked up my case file and followed me out the door.
We weaved
our way around and between the potential jurors, who waited impatiently outside
the courtroom in the airless corridor. One of the court officers saw us coming
and opened the door to admit us.
Five
minutes later, at two-fifteen sharp, the group of sixty was allowed in. Twelve
resumed their seats in the box and the others obeyed directions to fill the
benches in front.
The two
men in dark glasses parked themselves in the back row.
I walked
to the rear of the courtroom with Mike to try to get an overheard. As we neared
the pair, Mike looked up and broke into a smile, surprised to spot an old
acquaintance.
"Hey,
good to see you. I'm Mike Chapman." He extended his hand to the guy
farther away from the aisle, who shook it but didn't say a word.
"Sheehan's bar, right? Didn't I catch you there just before the summer?
You bought the last round."
The man
shook his
explained to her how important it was to stay quiet so she didn't get thrown
out of the building.
While he
tried to soothe her I talked to Mike. "I've got a case to try. What the
hell is going on here? Where's the girl?"
"Downstairs,
in the holding pens."
"Charged
with?"
"Criminal
possession of stolen prop-"
I
interrupted him before he could finish. "You can't make out felony value
with this old thing," I said, pointing to the fur coat. "It's not
worth twenty-five hundred dollars at this point."
"And
aiding a fugitive-"
"Better."
"And
felony-weight possession of crack cocaine. A white patent leather bag full of
little vials."
I turned
back to Mrs. Gatts. "I think the best place to wait for your daughter
would be downstairs, inside the entrance to One Hundred Centre Street, where
the judge will see her later this evening and set some bail."
"What
you mean 'this evening'? It's not even two o'clock yet. What you mean 'bail'?
Tiffany's just a baby. You got no right to hold her where I can't see
her."
Mercer
reached out his hand to steady Mrs. Gatts's flailing arms. She took a step back
and kicked at my door with all her considerable might.
I tried
to follow Mercer's lead and be diplomatic. I took a step toward the woman but
Mike blocked me with an outstretched arm. "You could make things much
easier for Tiffany, ma'am. We just need her to help us. She's been keeping some
dangerous company."
"Like
who?"
"Kevin
Bessemer."
"Bessie?
That man in jail. He old enough to be her father. What she doing with
him?" Etta Gatts clucked her tongue in disbelief, and I let Mercer try to
explain why Tiffany was in trouble.
"Don't
mean a damn thing. The lieutenant told me my baby was too young to have sex
with a thirty-two-year-old man. That it's rape. Well, in this state she too
young to vote and too young to drink. That makes her too young to go to
jail."
"Three
out of four ain't bad, Mrs. Gatts. Sixteen years old and she gets treated like
an adult in criminal court. You oughta do like Ms. Cooper says and have a
serious talk with Tiffany. She's the only one," Mike said, pointing at me,
"who can give your daughter a break."
"I
don't want no break from you," the woman said, kicking the metal door
again. Mercer reached for her elbow but she raised her voice a few decibels as
she twisted loose and kept hollering.
"Take
it easy."
"Don't
touch me," she screamed at Mercer. "And you, you skinny-ass bitch,
you watch yourself. My hand to the heavens, my people ain't through with you
yet."
6
"Look
on the bright side, Coop. At least she called your tail part 'skinny,'"
Mike said, tossing his napkin across the room into the wastebasket. "I'm
going to take this coat over to the photo unit to get it shot, along with some
close-ups of the label and monogram."
"First
you could escort Alex up to the courtroom," Mercer said. "She needs
you to eyeball a couple of funny-looking feds, get a make on them. I can't go
because the jury panel will be hanging out, and I'm going to testify next
week."
"Guard
my pelts, pal." Mike picked up my case file and followed me out the door.
We weaved
our way around and between the potential jurors, who waited impatiently outside
the courtroom in the airless corridor. One of the court officers saw us coming
and opened the door to admit us.
Five
minutes later, at two-fifteen sharp, the group of sixty was allowed in. Twelve
resumed their seats in the box and the others obeyed directions to fill the
benches in front.
The two
men in dark glasses parked themselves in the back row.
I walked
to the rear of the courtroom with Mike to try to get an overheard. As we neared
the pair, Mike looked up and broke into a smile, surprised to spot an old
acquaintance.
"Hey,
good to see you. I'm Mike Chapman." He extended his hand to the guy
farther away from the aisle, who shook it but didn't say a word.
"Sheehan's bar, right? Didn't I catch you there just before the summer?
You bought the last round."
The man
shook his
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