Pat McKinney said when I entered the conference room with Mike shortly before seven o’clock Monday evening. He was standing at the head of the long table, flanked by the team of prosecutors and investigators he had patched together to work on the case. “Welcome back.” “Thanks.” “You want to take over the hot seat? I’ll step aside.” “You’re in charge, Pat.” The lawyers and cops seated between us were studying the interplay. McKinney ruled by fear, often mocking the young assistants who reported to him. I never understood why Battaglia tolerated that kind of leadership, so I worked hard to keep our personal animosity from spilling into public view. “I guess that’s it, Mr. Chapman,” McKinney said. “You wanted to play taxi driver and bring Alex to us, but now I think we don’t need your services any longer.” Mike didn’t have a real role in this investigation or any reason to argue with McKinney. “I got places to go, people to see,” he said, with his hand on the doorknob.
