And I'm calling Lamont's clerk. I want to make sure
they'll have your back covered.” Because Mercer was a witness in
this trial, he was not allowed to be in the courtroom while the
other witnesses testified.
The corridor was busy with the nine o'clock arrival of lawyers
and support staff, most with cardboard coffee cups and paper bags
stuffed with bagels or doughnuts in hand. This floor of the huge
criminal court building housed the executive wing, public
relations, the trial division chiefs, and the bureau that handled
appeals for the six hundred prosecutors who served at the pleasure
of the district attorney.
I opened the door of Max's office. Herb Ackerman had helped
himself to her telephone, standing behind her desk, talking to
someone in his office about the fact that he'd be late.
“I'm sorry. Sorry. Ms. Cooper?” he said. “I'm Herb
Ackerman.”
“Good to meet you.”
He was a short man in his early sixties with a pasty complexion
and a receding chin. His neck stretched up and out at me as he
talked, like a turtle extending its head out of the shell. He had
reddish brown hair that looked like it had been dyed with shoe
polish and eyeglasses whose lenses hadn't been cleaned in
months.
“Have a seat, please, and tell me why you're here.”
“Didn't Paul explain?” he asked, preferring to stand and
pace.
“He told me that you wanted to see me. About Amber Bristol.”
“No, I didn't want to see you, frankly. I wanted to
meet with him,” Ackerman said, jabbing his finger in the air.
The ratty tweed jacket he wore with a button-down shirt, too
tight at the collar and frayed at the cuffs, seemed a poor choice
for yet another hot, humid day.
“Well, then, perhaps I should just direct you to his office,” I
said, rising from my chair.
“No, no. He told me you'd have to handle this. It's just, well,
it's embarrassing to discuss these things with an attractive young
lady.”
I'd made a career dealing with men who'd done embarrassing
things. “This is my job, Mr. Ackerman. For the moment, whatever it
is you're going to talk about stays between us.”
His neck elongated itself as he peered around the dingy room,
ringed with old green government-issue metal file cabinets, which
held a history of the depravity of Manhattan's sex offenders since
the unit was created. “You're not taping me, are you?”
“No, sir. I'm not.”
“I suppose you know who I am?” His nose wrinkled and he pushed
his glasses back in place.
“I do.”
“I've known your boss since he was a kid, Ms. Cooper. I've been
very good to him over the years,” Ackerman said, hiking his pants
up over his potbelly and tightening his belt. “I hope that counts
for something.”
“Mr. Battaglia told me that you knew Amber Bristol. Why don't we
focus on that?”
He paced again, away from me, and lowered his head. “I'm not a
crime reporter, Ms. Cooper. I've written about significant cases
when they've had an impact on social issues. My experience is more,
shall we say, global than street-smart.”
“How did you meet Ms. Bristol?”
“At a cocktail reception. Yes, about a year ago. A cocktail
party.”
“Where was the event, Mr. Ackerman?” There was no need to scare
him off yet by taking notes. “I need to know exactly how you became
acquainted.”
“Um. Let me think. Must we be that specific?”
“We certainly must.”
“No, I guess it was online. I must have met her online. I'm
mistaken about the party.”
It was going to be a contest with Herb Ackerman. He was going to
test me to figure how much he could fudge without giving me the
facts I needed.
“Do you remember the site?”
“Probably she just began a correspondence because she admired
something I'd written. One of my columns,” he said. “People write
to me every day, Ms. Cooper. I couldn't possibly keep track.”
This interview was clearly not going to finish before I had to
go to court with Kerry
they'll have your back covered.” Because Mercer was a witness in
this trial, he was not allowed to be in the courtroom while the
other witnesses testified.
The corridor was busy with the nine o'clock arrival of lawyers
and support staff, most with cardboard coffee cups and paper bags
stuffed with bagels or doughnuts in hand. This floor of the huge
criminal court building housed the executive wing, public
relations, the trial division chiefs, and the bureau that handled
appeals for the six hundred prosecutors who served at the pleasure
of the district attorney.
I opened the door of Max's office. Herb Ackerman had helped
himself to her telephone, standing behind her desk, talking to
someone in his office about the fact that he'd be late.
“I'm sorry. Sorry. Ms. Cooper?” he said. “I'm Herb
Ackerman.”
“Good to meet you.”
He was a short man in his early sixties with a pasty complexion
and a receding chin. His neck stretched up and out at me as he
talked, like a turtle extending its head out of the shell. He had
reddish brown hair that looked like it had been dyed with shoe
polish and eyeglasses whose lenses hadn't been cleaned in
months.
“Have a seat, please, and tell me why you're here.”
“Didn't Paul explain?” he asked, preferring to stand and
pace.
“He told me that you wanted to see me. About Amber Bristol.”
“No, I didn't want to see you, frankly. I wanted to
meet with him,” Ackerman said, jabbing his finger in the air.
The ratty tweed jacket he wore with a button-down shirt, too
tight at the collar and frayed at the cuffs, seemed a poor choice
for yet another hot, humid day.
“Well, then, perhaps I should just direct you to his office,” I
said, rising from my chair.
“No, no. He told me you'd have to handle this. It's just, well,
it's embarrassing to discuss these things with an attractive young
lady.”
I'd made a career dealing with men who'd done embarrassing
things. “This is my job, Mr. Ackerman. For the moment, whatever it
is you're going to talk about stays between us.”
His neck elongated itself as he peered around the dingy room,
ringed with old green government-issue metal file cabinets, which
held a history of the depravity of Manhattan's sex offenders since
the unit was created. “You're not taping me, are you?”
“No, sir. I'm not.”
“I suppose you know who I am?” His nose wrinkled and he pushed
his glasses back in place.
“I do.”
“I've known your boss since he was a kid, Ms. Cooper. I've been
very good to him over the years,” Ackerman said, hiking his pants
up over his potbelly and tightening his belt. “I hope that counts
for something.”
“Mr. Battaglia told me that you knew Amber Bristol. Why don't we
focus on that?”
He paced again, away from me, and lowered his head. “I'm not a
crime reporter, Ms. Cooper. I've written about significant cases
when they've had an impact on social issues. My experience is more,
shall we say, global than street-smart.”
“How did you meet Ms. Bristol?”
“At a cocktail reception. Yes, about a year ago. A cocktail
party.”
“Where was the event, Mr. Ackerman?” There was no need to scare
him off yet by taking notes. “I need to know exactly how you became
acquainted.”
“Um. Let me think. Must we be that specific?”
“We certainly must.”
“No, I guess it was online. I must have met her online. I'm
mistaken about the party.”
It was going to be a contest with Herb Ackerman. He was going to
test me to figure how much he could fudge without giving me the
facts I needed.
“Do you remember the site?”
“Probably she just began a correspondence because she admired
something I'd written. One of my columns,” he said. “People write
to me every day, Ms. Cooper. I couldn't possibly keep track.”
This interview was clearly not going to finish before I had to
go to court with Kerry
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