(1996) Prosecutor Sam Hagen goes after three men who raped a model on South Beach, then finds out that the participants knew his son, who died the year before.

      Just after dawn on Saturday morning, as the clouds over the Atlantic brightened from pale blue to white, Ali D., who should have been at a modeling shoot on Miami Beach, was instead in the Rape Treatment Center at the public hospital downtown.
      Ali D. was her professional name. Her real name, she told the doctor, was Alice Doris Duncan. Ali made a face, tried to laugh about it. Alice Doris. You can't be a model with a name like that. The doctor smiled. She was young, and her clean dark hair was held back with a gold barrette. She told Ali to sit up now, please, and she scraped under Ali's fingernails and put the scrapings on slides. Still dizzy from too much champagne, Ali closed her eyes to shut out the fluorescent lights and the horrible pink wallpaper. She wanted to go home. Just go home.
       She shared an apartment on Lenox Avenue with two other girls, all of them models at the same agency. Her roommates had the bedrooms, but they let her use the sofa bed for practically nothing because Ali wasn't making much money yet. But someday she would. She planned to establish herself on South Beach, put her book together, then go to New York. But she would have to do it fast, because there wasn't much time. She was almost eighteen. If you don't make it before you´re twenty, forget it. Some girls would keep trying, but really, you had to feel sorry for them.

       Ali had been thinking about this as she left her apartment just before midnight to walk to the Apocalypse, a nightclub over on Washington Avenue. Her current ex-boyfriend, George, had invited her. Some kind of special party. That's what he did-plan parties for the clubs, or sometimes for people with money, like if it was their birthday.
       Red hair bouncing on her shoulders, arms swinging, she made her way through the crowds on the sidewalks. Men followed her with their eyes.
       The agency had called this afternoon with a booking for a German catalog company. Here it was, May already, and the models would be wearing boots and wool coats. Everybody had to show up at the Clevelander Hotel at 6:00 A.M. The production van would take them to the site. No problem. Ali had slept most of the day. She would party at the club till maybe three, go home, shower and change, have some breakfast, then go to work. Make about $500.
       At the door to the Apocalypse, people were jammed up waiting to get in. Ali pushed her way to the front and told the bouncer that George had invited her. The bouncer sat there on his stool, with his huge arms and fat neck, and told her to get in line. A couple of girls said something to their dates, like, Who does this bitch think she is? Just then George came to check on things. Ali held out her arms. "Georgieee!" He had a two-way radio on his belt and a headset looped around his neck. He told the bouncer to unclip the rope, this girl was one of the models, for God's sake.
       "Thought you weren't coming." George kissed her cheek and took her through the foyer, which was an aluminum tube with rows of lights leading into the darkness. Music was blasting from the main room. Ali went to clubs three or four nights a week. The owners wanted models to come; then the good people would show up, not just the college kids or the tourists or the causeway crowd from the mainland. It was getting late in the season, but this party looked okay, Ali thought. The heavy bass beat from the speakers pounded on her cheeks and shook the bones in her chest.
       George pulled three tickets out of his vest pocket. "Drinks," he yelled.
       She put the tickets in her little shoulder purse, then turned around, showing him her dress. "You like it?"
       "Nice."
       Ali yelled, "I heard Madonna was going to be here."
       "What?"
       "Madonna. Is she coming?"
       "Yeah. I think so. But maybe not, you know?
       Ali had been to one of Madonna's parties. She had a mansion on the water, up the street from Sylvester Stallone's place. Madonna herself had run her fingers through Ali's long red hair, asked if it was natural. Yes, it was. Ali had noticed that Madonna had dark roots.
       "I hope she shows up," Ali shouted. "She's really cool."
       Moving with the music now, Ali looked around to see if she recognized anybody in the crowd. The Apocalypse had a bar along one side of the long, high-ceilinged room and another on the second floor, with railings and catwalks. The metallic walls were lit by tiny spotlights. A bank of TV screens flashed with MTV videos.
       George shouted, "Don't get lost. There are some people coming over. Could be good for you. They're having dinner at Amnesia; then they'll come over. Klaus Ruffini."
       "Who?"
       He laughed into her ear. "Moda Ruffini, baby."
       "Brilliant!" Moda Ruffini was a boutique on Lincoln Road, a few blocks north. Ali had seen Klaus Ruffini around the Beach. Mega-rich, always with a bunch of models and artists and celebrities. Ali grabbed George's arm. "Dance with me! I love this song!"
       George looked down at the beeper on his belt. His mouth moved, something like Can't. Later. Frowning, Ali watched him go, then pushed her way to the dance floor. Bodies flashed blue-white in the strobes, stop-action: a girl's hair flying out around her head; a man in a muscle tee and jogging shorts, his body gleaming with sweat. Vents opened in the ceiling and clouds billowed out, settling like blue fog. Alice noticed a funny old leather queen in a biker hat, his round belly showing under an X of studded leather.
       She danced with a booker from her agency for a while, then with some frat boys. They had on T-shirts from Boston College. They wanted her to smoke some weed with them in their hotel room. She laughed and said no way, what did they think she was?
       An hour or so later, things were cranking. Ali looked around for George, hoping he hadn't forgotten she was there. On the main bar a girl in red thigh boots and a corset laced with chains was zapping everybody with a toy laser gun. Ali had a drink, then danced with an agent who booked TV commercials. They went to the men's room, which looked like the inside of a computer. The floor was tiled with green circuit boards. He closed the door to one of the stalls and laid out a couple of lines on the toilet tank, which was made of shiny metal. There were long smudges where people had run a finger to pick up residue. Ali said she didn't want any. She wanted to know if he needed any girls with red hair, blue eyes, five-nine. He said to come by with a reel or her book and talk to him. Then he French-kissed her. And she'd thought he was gay. She had some coke after all to be polite. When they came out, somebody was barfing into the sink, somebody else was wetting a paper towel for his face. The guy who wasn't barfing asked where he could get some downers. Ali said she didn't know. He said she did, that everybody on the Beach knew. He followed her out the door, cursing in German when she gave him the finger.