by Robert Daley
That left only the democratic nomination undecided, and Commissioner Malloy probably thought she was out of that too.
Although she had received a number of phone calls from party leaders, and had even met with them over dinner, Karen had as yet made no public announcement of her intentions. Nor at any of the meetings did the leaders, Kauffman and O'Reilly, offer her anything. They were just sounding her out, they said.
She was busy reorganizing the Manhattan DA's office, Karen told them. This was true. It was taking most of her time. Also true. Her office, which had not been reorganized in over twenty years, had to be made to work more efficiently. She had not yet given a thought to the election, or to her future, she said. Hadn't had time. This was a lie, but she told it with a smile, and perhaps they believed her. She was certainly not going to beg them to put her on the ballot, and she continued to watch and to wait.
So word circulated that she did not want to run, that she did not see herself as a politician, that she could not face the weeks, even months, of campaigning. Family problems were hinted at. Karen saw this happening and decided to do nothing about it.
Her office had grown enormously in the last several years as hundreds of new prosecutors were added. The divisions had become huge and were almost unmanageable. Beneath them the bureaus had become so big that unimportant cases sometimes got mislaid, lost. She studied the problem, then persuaded senior supervisors to break most of them into smaller parts, adding bureau chiefs and section heads as needed. Once this was done she instituted in each bureau a training program for newly hired young lawyers.
She added an intelligence unit whose job was to identify habitual criminals; she wanted prosecutors to know who they were prosecuting. The complaint and indictment bureaus, which were where every case started, had become bottlenecks; she beefed them up. Soon cops were wasting less time in the complaint room; indictments began coming down quicker. She reinstituted the old elite homicide bureau, reasoning that it was good for any organization to have an elite unit to which every one else could aspire.
She ordered every assistant DA on a regular basis to visit not only Rikers Island but the upstate penitentiaries too; it seemed clear to her they should know first hand what they were condemning defendants to. She sent out teams to the universities, and to the major law firms as well, to recruit more and better blacks, Hispanics, and other minority lawyers.
Her confidence increased every day. According to Tananbaum and others around her, morale was greatly improved, the office was working better, and she was gratified one day to pick up the New York Times and read an editorial about what a fine job she was doing. She loved her job and had decided that she was good at it, and wanted to keep it.
But it was not certain she could. Kauffman and O'Reilly had begun casting about for a candidate among state senators and city councilmen. When their search turned up no one of stature, Karen received additional phone calls from them. But they still did not offer anything, or make their intentions clear.
In the face of this she continued to make bland answers to their overtures, if overtures they were. Did this make them somewhat frantic? Did she detect anything in their voices, in their questions? If so, it was perhaps not so surprising. She remembered being importuned for dates as a teenager. This was perhaps similar. Politicians in the role of suitors. The more she put them off, the more attractive to them she became. So she hoped.
Muldoon's trial had lasted two hours. Barone's, since there were so many other defendants, lasted three days. But the verdict was the same: dismissal with loss of all pension rights. Well, Barone had had no pension rights to lose, having served only twelve years so far.
The news, though she knew it was coming, upset Karen more than she had ever expected, and it pushed her toward a decision of her own. She closed the door to her office, asked her secretary to hold all calls, and for some minutes sat brooding. Barone was out of law enforcement now, but she was not. Not yet.
Picking up her phone she made some calls and some appointments, one of them with the governor.
She met him two days later in an office he kept in the World Trade Center.
It was a big office high up in the south tower with a sofa and chairs by the window and a splendid view over New York harbor. A male secretary showed her in. The governor came toward her all smiles and outstretched hand, but before withdrawing the secretary said: "You have ten minutes until your next appointment, Governor."
"Sit down," the governor said, leading her toward the sofa, "take all the time you want," .
Nice trick, Karen thought. All the time I want for ten minutes. I'll have to remember that trick.
"So nice to see you again," the governor said, sitting across from her, "how can I help you?"
She had not seen him or communicated with him since her swearing in ceremony, and so she began by thanking him for his support when the Epps verdict was announced.
He nodded. "You didn't come over here just to thank me.” And he gazed at her with those dark brown eyes.
"I have something to tell you," she said, "and then a favor to ask you."
The governor waited.
"I've decided to run in the democratic primary. As a courtesy I thought you should be the first to know."
"It's pretty late," he said. "Is there still time?”
"I've checked on that. There's still time."
He nodded. "And the favor?"
"I'm asking for your support."
"Does that mean without my support you won't run?"
"No. If you oppose me, that would make it harder. My decision would not change."
They gazed at each other. "I've heard all kinds of things," the governor said. "I've heard you were having trouble at home."
"That," Karen said, "is not one of your concerns."
"No, of course not.” The governor paused. "I don't know what you think I can do for you."
"You're head of the party in New York State."
"I'm the governor. Kauffman and O'Reilly run the party."
Karen smiled at him. "Do they still take your phone calls?"
To her relief the governor smiled back. Though she might look to him relaxed she was as tense as she had ever been. To have any chance of winning she needed endorsements. If she could get the governor's, others would be easy. The next few minutes were vital.
"In a primary I really shouldn't support anyone," he said. "It's up to the voters to pick a candidate."
"In a primary, mistakes can get made. A candidacy can get undermined either accidentally or on purpose. I would like to eliminate those possibilities as much as possible."
The governor had both hands flat on his knees. He looked defensive. "They might have other ideas over at party headquarters. They might ask me why I'm supporting you."
"You appointed me," said Karen. "You want to see the voters validate your choice."
"It's not in my interest to back a candidate who might lose," the governor said.
"I'm the obvious candidate," Karen told him, "and also the most attractive one. The one most likely to beat the republican candidate. You must have thought that too when you appointed me over him." Abruptly, the governor said: "What happened between you and Harbison? Did he resign or did you fire him?"
The male secretary stuck his head into the room. "Governor--"
The governor waved him out again.
"He resigned," Karen decided to say.
"The reason I asked him to stay on originally was because I thought he had experience running the office that you did not have. That you needed him.”
"I think I've proven that I didn't need him."
"He's already blaming you for losing the Epps case. Blaming me for appointing you as well. If you run against him," the governor said, "that will be his whole campaign. Most of it anyway."
They gazed at each other. Karen's eyes did not drop.
"I've heard rumors," the governor said, "that he tried to sabotage your case against Epps."
He waited, but Karen said nothing.
"Missing files, that sort of thing."
Still Karen said nothing.
The governor got up and peered out the window. "Information like that--if it's true--leaked to a serious investigative reporter, could have an impact on the election.” He turned and faced her.
"So it could," Karen said. "If it's true.”
They studied each other. "Without me," Karen said, "the party could well lose the election, couldn't it?"
The governor sighed. "Tell me why you want the job.”
This was a political negotiation. It was not the time or mood for Karen to expose her deepest feelings to this man. "You were an assistant DA yourself years ago," she said. "You know what the office is like, what law enforcement is like. I want to make a difference in the world. You know very well why I want it."
The governor nodded. He was perhaps remembering the earliest years of his career. "Yes," he said, "I guess I do."
There was another long silence.
"I liked the way you handled the grand jury in that riot situation," he said finally, and he nodded at her several times.
"So do I have your support?"
The answer, it seemed to Karen, was a long time coming. As she waited, she had to force herself not to squirm.
"Alright," the governor said, "I'll make some calls in your behalf."
"Thank you," said Karen, and she could not stop a smile coming on. Neither could the governor, apparently, and for some seconds they stood there smiling inanely at each other.
She met with Kauffman and O'Reilly and signed the papers that same afternoon, asking only that no announcement be made until the following day.
The problem now was to inform Hank. She had once thought her marriage invulnerable but had learned this was not so. It had become as fragile as anyone else's. There was a crack in it that had not been there. She did not know how big a crack, but she felt it was no longer something she could base her life on. There was no one she could depend on now but herself.
Although she was going forward into the election no matter what, she wanted to stay married as well, if she could, and she went home and cooked dinner and afterwards sat down with Hank in their living room and told him she was thinking of entering the democratic primary.
His assistant professorship at NYU had recently come through. He would start with the fall semester. He was feeling much better about himself lately, she believed. There was a new confidence about him, and this was something she was counting on. "It has to be a joint decision," she said, "It can't just be me."
Hank's reaction was to laugh. "You don't like Harbison, do you?"
"No, but it's not only that."
"What is it then?"
To work in law enforcement was to work for the common good at its most basic level, she said. There were tremendous satisfactions.
Here she faltered. How was she to say what she felt? She hadn't tried to explain herself to the governor and wasn't sure she could make even her own husband understand. Law enforcement was a place where one lived in constant contact with the extremes of human conduct, she said. Emotions were touched over and over again that a woman didn't even know she had. One felt on the side of the angels every day. One helped hold society together. She did not want to switch now to the defense side of the law, and find work in a law office defending criminals, which is what she would have to do if Harbison were elected. Her thoughts came spilling out in no particular order, and only the plainest of them, she supposed, made sense to Hank. Having once served as district attorney, she could not just step back into the ranks of assistants and stay on, she said. That was asking too much. No one would know how to treat her, she wouldn't know how to behave herself, and Harbison would never permit it anyway. If she were defeated for election she would be out of law enforcement forever on Jan. 1, and she did not want to be. She would be out of work altogether, and this had to be considered too.
Again her voice faltered. It was complicated, she said.
"You like your job," Hank said. "It's as simple as that."
"Yes, perhaps it's as simple as that.
So far Hank was offering less opposition than she had dared hope.
He said: "You'd have to run twice, first in the primary, then in the election itself."
"Yes."
"You'd have to campaign," Hank said. "You'd have Harbison campaigning against you.
"I realize that."
"You know how politics is these days."
"Yes."
"He'll fight dirty."
"Probably."
"He'll subject you to all kinds of scurrilous attacks."
"Yes, I imagine he will."
"He'll attack you personally."
"On what grounds?"
"He knows all about you."
"He knows nothing about me."
"He'll find something in your past."
"There's nothing to find," she said.
"You'd be amazed what people can dig up."
She took her husband's hand. "There's nothing there," she said.
"If you run it will disrupt our lives," he said after a pause.
"I'm aware of that."
Well," Hank said finally, "I have the impression you mean to run whatever I say."
Karen said nothing.
"If you want to run," Hank said, "I think you should do it."
She met Barone one time more.
It was summer by then. He was coming out of a courtroom on the fourteenth floor. They nearly bumped into each other and it stopped them in their tracks, both of them startled, even shocked, neither one sure what to say. Then a smile came onto Barone's face. Karen thought it the warmest, most loving smile anyone had ever given her. His face was wreathed in it, and his hand shot out and she took it.
He said: "I certainly am awfully glad to see you again."
Of course she was moved by such a reaction. How could she not be? "Me too," she said.
This was followed on both sides by embarrassment.
Barone gestured toward the courtroom behind him. "I was in there testifying."
Jurors, spectators, lawyers moved by them along the hall.
"And you," Barone said. "What are you doing up on this floor? Not still trying cases, are you?"
"It's a Mafia guy," Karen said. "We want him held without bail. We thought maybe if I appeared personally it would carry some weight with the judge."
They nodded at each other.
It was an extremely hot day. Karen was wearing a short sleeved linen suit, blue with green piping. She had on medium high heels and carried the inevitable dossiers in her arms.
Barone wore a lightweight tan suit over a pink button down shirt, and a dark brown tie. Still the sharp dresser, Karen thought.
She said: "So what are you doing these days? When you're not testifying, I mean."
"I took a job with a construction company near where I live. We build schools, shopping centers. We're pretty big. I meet with customers, plan jobs.”
He saw that she had been concerned for him. He said: "I'm doing fine."
"I'm glad, Mike."
"You can cross me off your list of worries."
He gave her another fond smile.
"It was an auto theft case," he said, gesturing at the courtroom behind him. "I think it was the last case I had left."
Karen digested what this meant. After today there was nothing to bring him to this courthouse, or even to New York. Most likely they would not meet again.
"By the way," Barone said, "I want to thank you for the letter you wrote the PC on my behalf."
"You saw that?"
"It was introduced by the department advocate at my trial. The PC must have sent it over."
Karen was surprised. Malloy had not seemed to her that fair a man.
"I wanted to do more than just write a letter," she said.
"There was nothing ~you could do. You probably shouldn't even have written the letter."
"I want
ed to help."
"You did help. More than you know."
Karen gave a wry smile. "I didn't do any good at all."
"Your letter meant everything to me. It was the only thing got me through that trial."
Again both of them fell silent.
"How's your wife?" said Karen. "How are your daughters?"
"Fine. How is your husband and your children?"
"Fine."
Barone did not know what to say next, apparently. Neither did Karen.
He said: "I read that you're going to run in the primary."
"Yes. I've never run for office before. I don't know what kind of politician I'll make."
"Well, you've got my vote."
She laughed. "You don't live in the city. You don't have a vote."
"You know what I mean," he said. "You'll always have my vote."
This caused another silence.
"Harbison is a stiff," Barone said. "You'll beat him easy."
"You think so?"
"Absolutely."
"You don't know a thing about it," Karen said, and they both laughed.
They looked at each other.
"Do you ever think of me?" Barone asked.
"No," Karen lied.
"It wouldn't hurt," Barone suggested. "Just once in a while."
"I'll try."
They stood smiling at each other. "I have to go," Karen said. "I was due in court ten minutes ago."
"I have to go too. To be this close to you and not grab you is agony."
She was surprised at how nice this was to hear. But she was careful to give no reaction. Instead she put out her hand. "Goodbye, Mike."
"Goodbye, Karen."
He started away from her down the corridor but she called after him. "Thank you for your vote.”
He gave a smile and a wave, and continued toward the elevators. After a moment Karen opened the door and went into the courtroom.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Daley has written 28 books, seventeen of them novels, including Year of the Dragon, A Faint Cold Fear; The Enemy of God and Wall of Brass; and eleven non fiction books including Prince of the City, An American Saga, Target Blue. and Portraits of France.