Page 18 of The Wife

Corrine had to admit, the woman had a point. In a world where DNA evidence could make or break a case, sex offenders could grab and grope and grind and gratify, as long as they didn’t leave behind physical evidence.

In theory, handfuls of people could have leaked the complaint against Jason Powell. Records clerks. Her lieutenant. Friends of Rachel. Rachel, of course. But Rachel had already called Corrine twice this morning, wondering how thePostfound out about her complaint.

Corrine had another theory.

It was the way she and Brian King had left their last conversation. After King concluded they didn’t have anything close to enough evidence to take to trial, Corrine had suggestions for investigating further. King had rejected every one of them. “You’d be wasting your time,” he insisted. “We know how this plays out. It’s her word against his, with no way of meeting our burden. Not with her word alone.”

Not with her word alone.

That was the phrase she remembered when she saw Jason Powell’s name pop up on her phone’sNew York Postalert this morning.

She tried King’s number again, and this time he picked up.

“King,” like he didn’t know who was calling.

“You could have given me a heads-up,” she said.

There was silence on the other end of the line. She was used to this—ADAs who liked to play boss over the police. There was something about Corrine—black, female, grown-up, straightforward—that threw them off their game.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Two days ago, you sounded perfectly willing to let the case go.”

“I called a law school friend of mine who works in the career services office of NYU law school. She asked around. No official complaints, but there are rumors.”

“Of?”

“Something off. Maybe he’s just the hot professor who students dream about, but some people get a bad vibe off him. A little too cute, a little too flirty. A guy on the prowl.”

Corrine thought about King’s initial comment about his ex-girlfriend’s celebrity crush on Powell.

“You heard from anyone yet?” she asked.

“It’s only been a few hours,” he said.

She’d seen this before when weak charges were filed against someone with the profile of a potential serial offender. King had let the police report leak in case any other women might want to come forward about incidents they had written off as “misunderstandings.”

“Any calls on your end?” King asked.

Thanks to an offshoot series ofLaw & Order, an increasing number of sex offense victims contacted the special victims unit directly.

“Nothing yet,” she confirmed. “I guess I better call Rachel back—and, no, I won’t tell her it was you. I’ll make sure she knows to stay in touch. It’s possible that Powell will try to silence her.”

King didn’t respond, and for a second, Corrine wondered if she’d lost the connection. “You there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I got an e-mail from Olivia Randall.” Corrine recognized the name of one of the biggest pain-in-the-ass defense lawyers in the city. “She says she represents Jason Powell and has information I might be interested in. That sounds fun.”

“You’re the one who wanted to stir up some trouble. Looks like you may have found the wrong kind.”

“Whatever. Let me know if you hear from other women.”

12

I was doing my monthly shuffle of the dry cleaning—from wire hangers to real ones—when Jason found me in the bedroom.

“The lawyer’s gone?” I asked.

He nodded. “I didn’t want to explain who she was to Spencer.” He’d be home any minute.

---