Adversarial Relationship
By Elizabeth McCoy
The phone call awakened me from a deep sleep.
“Liz?” a frightened voice said. “Annette. Look, I’ve gotten myself into some trouble, and …”
“Nette? How you could be in trouble?” I yawned as I sat up in bed. “You and I went to that play in Soho, and then you dropped me off. What’s the matter? Your car die?”
“No, but someone did.” There was a shiver in her voice that snapped me awake.
“What do you mean?” I was already pulling off my nightshirt and groping around for my clothes.
“I mean—look, the whole thing’s freaked me out, and I’m down at the 27th Precinct. Come soon. Fast.”
“I’m there,” I said, and hung up the phone. Ever since I’d been in the Big Apple, Annette Grayson had been my friend. She was an advertising executive, and was the perfect companion for a driven defense attorney out to make her mark in the world. I’d recently left the big firm where I had been an associate, and was working on my own. Annette had been the one to encourage me. We worked out at the same gym, we went out together when we didn’t have dates. Like tonight. What in the world could have happened between my house and hers?
I took a taxi to the 27th Precinct, and went up to the desk sergeant.
“Liz McCoy here, representing Annette Grayson,” I said.
The desk sergeant nodded. “This one’s in more trouble than drugs,” he muttered. “Interrogation Room One.”
I went on back, and saw the police lieutenant, Anita Van Buren, waiting for me.
“Ms. McCoy,” she said. “Your friend has been waiting for you. I want you to know that she was picked up near the Park, where she admitted attacking a police officer.”
“WHAT?” I said.
“If Officer Harris doesn’t make it, we’ll be charging her with murder,” Van Buren continued coolly.
“Let me in to see my client,” I said, pushing past her and opening the door. Two detectives, one white and one black, were leaning over Nette, glaring at her.
“You-out of here,” I said, pointing to the door. “I’m going to have a private chat with my client.”
“You’ve got to be Jack McCoy’s daughter,” the white cop, a guy about my dad’s age, said.
“If you know Jack McCoy, you know you’ll catch hell if you screw this up,” I replied. “And don’t get any cute ideas of pressing that intercom, either.”
The black man looked at me and sighed. “Lennie, let’s leave them alone.” The two detectives left.
I sat down beside Nette, who was shaking. I put an arm around her and said, “It will be ok. Tell me what happened.”
“I-decided to take a spin through the Park before I went home,” she said. “And suddenly, there he was.”
“Officer Harris?” I asked.
She shook her head. “He never told me his name, or that he was a cop. He wore jeans and a dirty tee shirt. I asked for some id, and he flashed a wallet. There may have been a badge in it, but I couldn’t tell. We weren’t near a street light.”
“I see,” I said, making a note. “What happened next?”
“He ordered me out of the car. I asked why, and he said none of my –ing business.” She blushed. For all her sophistication, she didn’t like cursing. “When I refused, he pulled my hair. It still hurts.” She pointed to the top of her scalp.
“My God, he pulled it out!” I exclaimed, examining the bald spot about the size of a quarter. It was still red. “I’ll get a camera and we’ll get a shot of this for evidence!”
“That wasn’t the worst of it,” Nette said softly. “He forced me out of the car. I was sure it was a carjacking. And then he drew out a knife.” She shuddered, and I noticed her black jacket was covered in blood.
“Are you hurt?” I asked.
“Just on my hand—here—and on my wrist,” she said, pointing to some bandages.
“Defensive wounds. We’ll make sure we have photos of them, too,” I said, making another note. “But you’ve got a lot more blood on you than –“
“I know,” she said, starting to tremble.
“Take a deep breath,” I said. “I know this is hard, but you’ve got to go on.”
“He said I was under arrest and got out handcuffs. Liz, I was freaked. I was sure he was some sicko sex fiend who was going to—“
“So what did you do?” I asked.
“I kicked him where it counts,” she said. “And when he doubled over, he dropped the knife. I grabbed for it—“
“Wait. Why not just get into your car and leave?” I asked.
“Because this happened right by the car. I mean, the door was open, and he fell back against it. I couldn’t get out of there until I moved him.”
“So you got the knife.”
“Yeah. And then he lunged up and took it from me. He had me pinned back against the back door of the car, grabbing for my hands. That’s when he cut me, I guess. Then, somehow, I grabbed hold of his hand. I didn’t know I had the strength to do it, Liz. But I turned that knife and he got cut—deep—in the chest. He staggered away from the car, and I started to get in, when a cruiser came up. I said, ‘Help, this man was attacking me!’ The two patrolmen got out. One looked down at the man and said, ‘It’s Harris.’ The other said, ‘This time his hotshotting got him hurt,’ or something like that. They went back to the cruiser and radioed for an ambulance. I waited by the car, too scared to move. The man they called Harris lay on the ground, moaning, but I wasn’t going to let down my guard. After what seemed like ages, one patrolman came back and said, ‘The ambulance is coming. We’ll have the EMTs check you out, and then you’ll have to come down to the station with us. You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer.’ I thought he was nuts—I hadn’t hurt them, I’d welcomed their arrival. But I came here, and—“
“Did you get the patrolman’s name?” I asked.
“It was too hard to see,” Nette said. “But one’s badge number of 8663. Silly, isn’t it, how I can recall numbers?” She started to giggle, and I shook her.
“No time for hysterics, now,” I said. “From what you’ve said, you shouldn’t be in any trouble. The officers were just being careful. But I still want to get those photographs and talk to those policemen. You may have the basis for a lawsuit.” I patted her hand and then went outside.
“When are you releasing my client?” I asked Van Buren. “It wasn’t very nice, scaring her with threats of arrest after she was assaulted.”
Van Buren raised her brows. “That’s not what Officers Laverty and Reynolds said,” she replied coolly. “Does your client have a statement to make?”
“They were the arresting officers?” I asked, ignoring her question.
“Yes,” she replied. “And we are holding Annette Grayson until we hear on the status of Officer Harris.”
“Well, if we’re waiting, how about letting me talk to your officers?” I asked.
“They are on patrol,” she answered.
“Then when they come off duty,” I said. I looked at Van Buren. “What can you tell me about Officer Harris? Was he the type that you’d call a hotshot?”
Her eyes grew wide, and it took Van Buren a moment to compose herself. “Does your client have a statement she’d like to make?” she asked again. I could see I was getting nowhere.
“Yes,” I said. “On two conditions. I need an instant camera to photograph her wounds. And I want a representative of the DA’s office to hear the statement as well. Should expidite matters.”
Van Buren’s mouth twitched. “The prosecutor’s on his way,” she said. “I think we’ve got a digital camera that you can use.”
“Only if I get the disk,” I replied. She nodded, and I went back into Nette.
“It will soon be over,” I said. “They are trying the Blue Wall thing, but I’ve asked for a DA to be around for your statement. That should keep things from getting out of hand. And I’m getting a camera to take photos—“
The black detective came in with a camera.
“Stay,” I said. “I want a witness to what I’m doing.” I had Nette bow down her head so I could get a shot of the bald spot. Then I had her hold up her wrists. When I was done, I gave a sheet of blank paper to the detective. “Write, ‘witnessed taking of photographs of head and wrists of Annette Grayson, this date. And sign your name.”
“I know the drill,” the detective said, as he wrote the words and signed ‘Ed Green’ in small but neat handwriting. “Let me look at the photos in the camera’s memory.”
“So you know computers,” I said, handing him the camera. “Well, so do I, so don’t try anything fancy.”
“Oh, I’d never dream of it,” he said as he looked through the viewfinder. “OK, here they are, back safe and sound. Take out your disk, and I’ll insert mine. We’ll have our shots as well, and you can sign as witness.” He looked at me and grinned.
I decided not to be mad. “Turnabout’s fair play,” I said. I began writing my statement. “By the way, how well do you know Officer Harris?”
“He’s undercover, in narcotics,” Green said as he snapped the pictures.
“Does he have a rep?” I asked.
Green looked at me. “Ask me on the witness stand, but not here,” he said. He picked up my statement. “Look at my photographs so you can tell I didn’t do anything fancy.”
I nodded. His shots were almost duplicates of mine. “Ok, as soon as the DA arrives, we’ll make a statement, and then my client can go home,” I said, sitting down beside Nette.
“Won’t be long now,” Green promised, and left.
I patted Nette’s hand. “Just tell them what you told me,” I said. “Plain and simple. No embellishments. But be sure the DA hears that hotshot remark one of the patrolmen made. I want him to take pause before he decides to book you.”
“It won’t come to that, will it?” Nette asked anxiously. “Have those patrolmen lied about what happened? Why I am still here?”
“Calm down. It will be ok,” I said. Then the door opened, and I wondered if things would be ok. For there stood EADA John James McCoy.
“Dad,” I said, rising and extending a hand.
“Elizabeth,” he said gravely. He ignored my hand and sat down. He looked at Nette. “You are Annette Grayson?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nette said in a small voice.
“And you wish to make a statement about the assault upon Officer Harris tonight?”
“No, she wishes to make a statement about the assault upon her,” I said, looking right in his eyes. He met my gaze; it was as if two boxers were assessing each other before the main event began.
“Make your statement,” he said finally. “It will be recorded and notarized.”
And Nette began. Basically, she told Dad the same thing she’d told me. When she was done, Dad started in.
“According to your statement, you were driving through the park. But your driver’s license says you live the lower West Side. What were you doing there?”
“I’d just dropped off a friend. We’d been to the theater,” Nette replied. “I wanted to go home a different way, so I decided to drive through the Park.”
“And who was your friend?” Dad asked.
“Me,” I said. “I live across from the Park. But you wouldn’t know that.”
Dad looked at me sharply; he didn’t like the dig. But ever since I’d come to New York to practice law, he’d kept his distance. Mom was happy, and remarried, down in Florida, but there was too much sun and sand there to suit me. And somehow, I thought, if I lived in the City, there was a chance at some parental reconciliation. That impromptu dinner after work the day I blew into town set the tone for our relationship. I’d come by his office with the news I’d been hired by Douglas, Ferguson, and Hendricks, and I thought he’d be surprised and pleased. Instead, he’d been busy with some case or another, and had barely found time to squeeze in dinner at about nine. And he’d spent the whole time talking about the case. After that, I sort of avoided him. We’d only met when I was trying a case in the courthouse the same time he was there.
“Why didn’t you get out of the car when Officer Harris showed you his badge?” he asked.
“I wasn’t sure it was a badge,” Nette replied. “All I saw was a blur and a flash of gold. For all I knew, it was a fake badge. I’ve heard of men getting women out of their cars using fake badges and raping and murdering them. I wasn’t going to be a victim.”
“Why didn’t you run away when you disabled Officer Harris with a kick to the groin?” Dad continued.
“And where was I to run? I mean, he was right there—I’d have to step over him to get away!”
“According to the arresting officers, you were behind the wheel, ready to go, when they arrived on the scene.” Dad looked into Nette’s eyes carefully.
Nette looked flustered. “I was trying to get away-to get some help. When I saw the cruiser, I didn’t start the car.”
“No, you got out and said you’d got the bastard,” Dad said.
“I said no such—“ Nette began.
“—so say the arresting officers. They said you showed no sign of fear, and walked right over to Officer Harris with them.”
“Well, I wanted to know how he was,” Nette said. “And I figured that I had two policemen to protect me. Besides—“
“Would you submit to a urine and breathalizer test?” Dad asked suddenly.
Nette’s eyes grew wide and she looked at me. “Do I have to stand for this?” she asked. “Are they saying that I was drunk, or a drug fiend?”
“Then the best way to prove them wrong is to take the test,” I said. I glared at Dad. “Did the arresting officers think she was under the influence? If so, why didn’t they do sobriety tests in the field after the EMTs came? Or is this something the police cooked up once they found out that I was on the case?”
“Calm down, Elizabeth,” Dad said. “It wasn’t anything the officers thought of. It was something I was interested in.”
“You?” I asked. “Why? Because the majority of my clients are up on drug charges? They’re not all guilty, you know. And Mom talks about when you were young, you used to smoke—“
“Elizabeth.” His voice was quiet, and I calmed down. Just like when I was a little kid, excited and angry over something. I looked at him warily; I didn’t like the feeling of being four years old again. He sighed. “Look, I was suggesting it for the same reasons you wanted your client to take the tests. To show everyone that she was sober and clear-headed when the incident occurred.”
“In other words, you’re believing Nette and not the officers,” I said cautiously.
A smile played on his lips. “Let’s put it this way. After Ms Grayson submits to the tests, I’m willing to let her go home. If we need to question her about this matter later, I think she will be available and will want to cooperate.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, and looked at Nette. “Let’s get the tests over with and then let me take you home. I’ll get a cab from your place.”
“Thank God,” Nette said.
An hour later, I was walking in my door when my phone rang. I got it out of my purse and turned it on.
“Elizabeth?”
“Dad.”
“Wanted you to know that the tests came back showing no trace of drugs, and her blood alcohol was within legal limits.”
“The wine we had with dinner,” I said. I paused. “Thanks.”
“No, thank you. I got to see you in action, and I was really pleased. You defended your client, and brought up some questions that Intenal Affairs will be investigating for a while.”
“What about Harris?” I asked.
“He’ll pull through,” Dad said. “At least, that’s the last word from Columbia Medical. I had that information just before I went in to talk with you. I knew that as soon as he could, Harris would be making a statement, and I wanted to be sure that Ms Grayson had fully defended herself. Of course, with you there, I knew she was in good hands.”
“Skating close to the line, weren’t you? I mean, helping someone on the other side of the aisle?”
“I wasn’t really helping,” he insisted, though I could picture him grinning. “After all, those tests could have come back positive for speed or crack or even pot.”
“Yeah. Dad---thanks,” I said. There was a pause.
He finally spoke. “Look, I know I don’t take the time—don’t seem to have the time—but I want you to know, I am proud of you.”
“I love you too, Dad,” I replied.