False Allegations (11 page)

I hit the button sequence on the cell phone in my pocket, still waiting.

Kite took a breath. “Do you have any…reaction to what I just said, Mr. Burke?”

“I heard it before,” I said. “That backlash stuff has been around for years.”

“It’s
worse
than that now,” he said, still leaning forward. In America today, what’s going on is nothing less than the Salem witch hunts! Am I right or wrong?”

“You’re wrong.”

He snapped back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his knees. “How so?” he asked, the superior tone back in place, a law professor dealing with a not–too–bright student.

“In Salem,” I said softly, “there
were
no witches. And child sexual abuse isn’t the nuclear weapon in divorce cases— lying is.”

He went quiet, watching me. I felt the hologram shift form somewhere to my left, but I kept my eyes straight on him. A minute passed. “Yes,” he said finally, the superior tone vanishing. “That’s right. And that’s the problem. That’s why I asked you to come here.” He stood up suddenly, turned his back to me, looking out the window. “Now we can talk. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”

“A glass of water.”

“Certainly,” he said, still looking out the window. “Heather!”

I heard the tap of her heels as she walked out of the room.

S
he was back in a couple of minutes, holding a brass tray in one hand. On the tray, a glass tumbler, a bowl, and a pitcher, all in the same shade of pale blue. The bowl was full of ice cubes, the pitcher held what looked like water. She bent so sharply at the waist that she had to look up at me from under her eyelashes, showing me a flash of orange and some remarkable cleavage. “Ice?” she asked.

“Please.”

She plucked three cubes from the bowl with her fingers, orange fingernails catching the light from the window. Then she carefully poured from the pitcher until the glass was full.

“Thank you,” I said.

She took the full glass off the tray, held it to her mouth, tilted it back and drained it dry. “It’s very good water,” she said in that husky voice. “Good for you.” Then she filled the glass again and handed it to me.

I took a sip just as Kite got to his feet, pulling a thin silver tube from his jacket pocket. He nodded at Heather. I heard the clack of a slide projector and a giant color photograph appeared on the flat black wall over the computer display. An infant, maybe a year old? Facing away from the camera, wearing a diaper. On the baby’s back, two heavy lines parallel to his spine. And radiating from the spine, heavy dark marks— as though a giant had placed his thumbs on the baby’s chest, wrapped his hands around the little body and
squeezed
.

The silver tube was a laser pointer. The hair–thin red line pointed out the marks, tracing their path down the baby’s back. “What do you see, Mr. Burke?” Kite asked.

I told him.

He made a sound like a contemptuous snort. “What you are
in fact
seeing, Mr. Burke, is the result of an Oriental practice known as ‘cupping.’ It is called
cheut sah
, or, occasionally,
cao gio
. The practitioner, usually an elder, takes a coin— often coated with Tiger Balm— and scratches specific patterns in the skin. Notice how dramatic and symmetrical the marks are?” he said, using the laser pointer to emphasize his crisp words. “This is a time–honored treatment for infant illness. The opposite of child abuse. What you see is a centuries–old cultural practice, but the amateur— some
caseworker
, for example— would certainly conclude otherwise.”

Kite walked back to his chair like a defense attorney who had just scored a major hit on cross–examination, basking in the glow of Heather’s admiration. I used the opportunity to glance at the white wall. Now the image was a bird, a raptor of some kind, hovering high above a seascape, hunting with its eyes.

Suddenly, he looked up to face me. “A child, say a boy, four years old. He says a man down the street, a neighbor who has lived in the community for years, told him he had a puppy in his house and would show it to him. The man took him into his basement and fondled him,” Kite said suddenly, looking at me. “Medical examination is negative. A therapist says the boy is suffering from some form of depression. He’s blunted, mopes around, doesn’t like to play with his friends anymore. Mother says he has nightmares, wakes up screaming. The man says he’s talked to the boy a few times, but he never took him into his house. And never laid a hand on him. They ask you to talk to the boy, find out what really happened. What’s your move?”

“That’s all the information I’ve got?” I asked him, my voice as flat as his.

“That’s all.”

“You want me to go through the whole routine? Winning the kid’s confidence, making him feel safe, taking my time…all that?”

“No. In fact, let’s make it you get to ask him one question. One question only. What would that be?”

I took a minute, pretending I was thinking about it. Finally, I tilted my head back so I was looking at the ceiling. A pure, uniform off–white, as seamless as a sociopath’s story. “What did the basement look like?” I said.

“Yes!” Kite said, clenching a fist. “Didn’t I tell you?” he challenged, looking over my shoulder at the woman. “Mr. Burke is our man. Good research never lies.”

The woman bowed her head, like she just heard the Truth.

“I have been told you are a master interrogator,” he said, turning his gaze back to me.

“By who?” I asked him.

“Mr. C.,” he said smoothly, laying down a trump card with a flourish. Mr. C., the Mafia don who paid me ten thousand dollars once. Just to come to a meal, listen to what some man I didn’t know said. And tell Mr. C. if he was saying the truth. He wasn’t.

“Anyone else?” I asked him, not showing he’d scored a hit. Not on my face, anyway.

“Oh yes, Mr. Burke.
Numerous
others. Heather…”

I heard the tap of her spike heels again. Another tapping then. Computer keys. Then the quiet whirring of the laser printer. I worked the cell phone signal again. The woman walked briskly past me, a long piece of paper in her hand. She handed it over to Kite, not bending over this time. Stood standing next to him, hip–shot, arms folded under her breasts. The backs of her arms were thick with muscle, her legs were power–curved, calves bulging hard against her stockings. He glanced over the paper, gave her a curt nod. She walked off. When I heard her heels stop clicking, I knew she was back in position again, somewhere behind me.

He handed the paper to me. A list.

A baby–raper sitting in the Brooklyn House of Detention. His 18–B lawyer thought he was innocent. Asked me to come along on an interview so I could get the facts, start looking around. I talked to the freak. And he finally told the lawyer all about what he’d done. A sick man, he said he was.

A Teflon–slick pedophile, computer–networked. In a lovely brownstone, safe and secure. We danced and dueled. Ended up trading. I got what I needed. He got what he thought was a free pass the next time he fell.

A guy who hired me to find out who raped and killed his wife. He thought he could trust me— after all, I was working for him. Twice stupid.

A long list. And you couldn’t get that stuff just by having a friend on the force or bribing some clerk.

“Good job,” I said, not pretending.

“I always do a good job,” he said.

“Say what you want,” I told him, glancing at my watch, making sure he saw the move.

“Can’t you guess?”

“Somebody said they were sexually abused. Some kid, I guess. And you want me to prove they’re lying.”

“No, Mr. Burke,” he said, talking in measured tones, making sure I heard every word. “I want you to prove they’re telling the truth. I know your time is valuable. And I’ve used a good deal of it this afternoon. Heather will give you a representative sampling of my work on the syndrome. I’d like you to look it over. When you’re ready, give me a call. Then we’ll talk again. Fair enough?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for your time,” he said formally. He got to his feet and walked out of the room.

I sat there, waiting. The woman came over to me, handed me a thick red folio, its flap anchored by the string looped between two circular tabs. “It’s all here,” she said.

I got up, followed her to the wrought–iron door. She didn’t say goodbye.

“Y
ou okay, mahn?” Clarence asked, as I climbed into the back seat.

“Yeah,” I told him, not sure myself.

“What did the man want, then?”

“Offered me a job. At least, that’s what he said.”

“Our kind of work?” the West Indian asked. Meaning: did he want something stolen or someone scammed. Or shot, maybe.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Hard to tell. But I think I know who to ask.”

I
never opened the red file folder. It sat on my desk like an ashtray a kid makes for his mother in school— a mother who doesn’t smoke. No point reading the stuff until I knew who wrote it.

It took four days to set up the meet. Wolfe wasn’t chief of City–Wide Special Victims anymore. Couple of years ago, three college boys slipped a little chloral hydrate into a sorority girl’s drink at a frat party. When she passed out, they took her down to a basement they had all fixed up. When she came to, she was tied up, penetrated by all three of them at the same time. The games went on for a long time. Thirty–six minutes, to be exact. Easy enough to prove that. Easy enough to prove it all— the boys had it on videotape.

When they were done, they dumped her on the front lawn of the sorority house. Naked. Bleeding a little bit from where they used the broomstick. The house mother called everybody except the police, but one of the other girls finally got the victim to a hospital.

The rape kit came up aces. Lots of sperm, and the boys were all secretors. The hospital took nice close–up photos too. You could see the bruising and the inflammation so clearly that some freak would probably pay a good price for it— good torture–porn stuff is always in high demand.

Nobody thought to test the victim’s blood. They figured she’d been drunk, never suspected anything else. Everything was quiet until one of the rapists’ frat brothers saw the video at a beer party. It didn’t turn him on. It made him sick— he had a sister of his own. He took it to the cops.

Wolfe played the video for a grand jury. The boys were indicted for the whole boat–load: Rape One, Sodomy One, Aggravated Sexual Abuse, Unlawful Imprisonment….They were looking at about a thousand years apiece on paper— maybe eight and a third to twenty–five in real life…if some whore judge didn’t give them probation.

The boys said she was a nympho. Begged them to do it. Hell, told them
how
to do it. The video…well, they had that lying around, sure. But making the movie, that was her idea. Even asked them for a copy. “SHE ASKED FOR ROUGH SEX, SAY COLLEGE BOYS!” screamed the headline from the same paper that called a thirty–five–year–old teacher “Classanova” for having sex with one of his fourteen–year–old students. New York: No jungle was ever so savage. Or so cold.

The boys’ parents put together a whole team of lawyers— a white–shoe firm to negotiate a civil settlement, a couple of hardball criminal defense guys to explain what was going to happen to the girl if she was stupid enough to take the stand. They offered a sweet package— let the boys plead to a bunch of misdemeanors, take probation, do some community service, maybe even some sensitivity training in “gender boundaries.” And they’d pay for whatever therapy the girl needed, say a quarter–million dollars’ worth. After all, she was a sick kid, but the boys were still willing to take responsibility for their part in the whole sad affair.

Wolfe had the girl with a therapist. A good, strong therapist who was a warrior in her own fashion. She got the girl ready to face it all— ready for war. Wolfe told the pack of lawyers she was going to do to the boys what they’d done to the girl. Only it was going to last a lot longer.

Then Wolfe got taken off the case. In fact, they pulled the whole thing right out of her unit. Gave it to a kid who’d never tried a sex case before. A kid who’d gone to the same school where it all happened.

Wolfe told them they were tanking the case. They told Wolfe to shut up. Wolfe told them where to stick it and went to the papers.

Accusations flew.

Wolfe got fired.

The case went to trial.

The boys were acquitted.

Wolfe was the best sex crimes prosecutor anyone had ever seen. Every cop in the city knew it. They all said if Wolfe had handled the Simpson case, O.J. would be working on a life sentence instead of his golf game. But nobody would hire her after the unpardonable sin of standing up. If you work for the D.A.’s Office, you can be a drunk or a fool, a moron or a pervert. You can be late to work, screw up cases, have sex with your secretary…it doesn’t matter, if your hooks are good. But you have to go along to get along, fall to your knees when the bosses snap their fingers.