“Let me get this straight. If I pass this second test and whatever it entails makes me want to take the third, I have to release the defendant in a homicide case?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you but I don’t make deals with the number one suspect in a murder case…unless he wants to plead to the top count? Now if you, and he, want to quit playing games and let me in on what’s really going on and that somehow helps him, then I’m all ears.”
“Sorry, Mr. Karp,” the voice said. “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information at this time. To be honest, Mr. Garcia does not entirely trust you to do the right thing. That’s why these tests are being administered piecemeal. Unfortunately, the materials for the third test will not be handed out until Mr. Garcia is out of jail. This is not an attempt to coerce the justice system, but a reflection that while he is in the Tombs, his life is in danger. And make no mistake, Mr. Karp, if you even see the third test, all of our lives will hang in the balance. You have no idea who or what you’re dealing with, but I can tell you this—your career, your political aspirations, everything you care about will be at risk.”
So what else is new, Karp thought dryly. “I’ve been threatened before,” he said. “But I don’t make decisions based on spy games and ambiguous threats.”
“Ignore my warning at your own peril, and if something happens to that boy…it will be on your head,” the caller said. “Now I really must go; your people are coming. But we’ll be watching.”
“Wait, dammit,” Karp shouted but got only a dial tone in response. He slammed the receiver down.
“Mind sharing with your favorite reporter?” Stupenagel said, smiling sweetly.
“Walter Cronkite’s dead,” Karp groused. But the reporter’s response was cut off by the intercom’s buzz. “There’s a UPS package out here,” Mrs. Boccino said. “Security brought it up after it was X-rayed.”
“Is it a heavy box?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then would you please bring it in here?”
The secretary appeared, followed closely by Guma, whose eyes were firmly fixed on her ass. Karp had to admit that she was one of those women who walked as if she was constantly thinking about having sex, but he wondered if the extra little shimmy was to further incite the Italian Stallion.
Karp turned to the box that she placed on the desk before exiting the room with another dirty look directed at Guma. He let it sit on the desk for a moment. He knew it wasn’t a bomb, but he wondered if the contents might not be more explosive.
“Well,” Stupenagel complained, “aren’t you going to open it?”
Karp stood and began to slice through the packing tape with his letter opener. He took his time just to irk the reporter and Guma, who also sat on the edge of his chair, having momentarily forgotten the charms of Mrs. Boccino. But at last he had it open and looked inside. There surrounded by foam peanuts was an accordion file that held a half-dozen manila file folders bearing on the outside what he recognized as the case numbering system used by the NYPD. A quick glance told him that the files were from a number of different years, but the most interesting marking was a large red stamp on the outside that stated No Prosecution. A sticky note attached to the outside of the accordion file read “This is just a sample.”
Karp pulled out the first file with the feeling that he was the little Dutch boy who pulled his finger out of the dike. Somehow he was not surprised to see that the header read Little, Jumain. Ignoring the various sighs and throat-clearing emanating from Stupenagel and Guma, he opened the file and began to read.
Several minutes later, he closed the file and shut his eyes. The file contained the report of the police Internal Affairs Division’s investigation into the shooting of Jumain Little. It didn’t contain all of the details, such as the actual police and witness statements, ballistics tests, and autopsy; he assumed they would be contained in a larger file kept at IA. The report was more of an overview, an executive summary, assembled so that those in charge could make a decision on how to proceed. But it had enough.
Several things had jumped out at him. First, there were the statements. The contention by the detective that Jumain Little was armed and had threatened him with a gun when ordered to throw down his weapon. But also the assertion of the witness, who told the investigators what Bernard Little had repeated for him at the church—Jumain was shot in the back as he was running home on a cold winter night. Nor were there fingerprints on the gun found on Jumain’s body. How many teenagers with a gun wouldn’t have handled the thing, even just to show it off for friends? he thought.
Something else that jumped out at him was that the IA investigators had recommended that the case be handed over to the district attorney’s office for “further investigation” and possible charges against the detective who did the shooting, and possibly his partner for lying. More important was the name of the detective, which had caused the knot in the pit of his stomach to tighten into a rock: Michael Flanagan.
Capping it all was a letter that had been attached to the outside of the IA report. It was a recommendation by the private law firm of Plucker, Bucknell and Kane, apparently hired by the NYPD to review the report, overruling the IA recommendation and insisting that no criminal charges against “the officers involved” be pursued. “A proposed civil settlement with the family of the deceased has, at this time, been postponed. However, no further action is deemed necessary.” It was signed by the future mayor of New York City, Andrew Kane.
Karp quickly glanced through the remaining files in the box. They contained more of the same—different instances of police malfeasance, recommendations by the IA to pass the buck to the DA for further investigation, all of them overruled by the law firm of Plucker, Bucknell and Kane, and either signed by Kane or one of his associates. In most of the other cases, the law firm noted that the victims or their families had been paid off out of the city coffers to the tune of nearly a hundred million dollars.
Whoever sent the files wanted him to see more than just the overall picture. Another of the files involved Detective Robert Leary, who had apparently applied the prohibited “sleeper” choke hold on a belligerent intoxicated man until well after the man was unconscious. At least according to witnesses. His partner, however, Michael Flanagan, swore that the victim—who’d never regained consciousness and died several days later in a hospital—had continued to pose a threat “to the officers involved, as well as citizens” even after he had apparently stopped struggling. The man’s family had accepted $750,000 to sign papers that they would hold the city and the department harmless.
Karp wondered absently when and how the files had disappeared from his office. Probably in all the confusion after the bombing.
“So what have we got?” Stupenagel said, craning her neck and trying to read the files upside down.
Karp looked at her and a plan began to form in his mind. Obviously, in addition to the general corruption, the anonymous caller was trying to draw a connection between past misdeeds by Flanagan, and his partner Leary, and their involvement in the Garcia homicide investigation. The reasonable inference was, of course, that these were two bad cops who for one reason or another had it in for the defendant.
He thought about the caller’s warning that the third test would be more difficult and more perilous. If this was the second, he wondered if the third would be more No Prosecution police files or—as he’d gathered from the intimation that the ante was going to go up—something worse. If so, he couldn’t imagine what it could be. Just in the box that had arrived that morning there was the making of a scandal for the NYPD to match the Serpico revelations. The department was engaging in covering up alleged criminal and unethical conduct by its officers, and using tax dollars for hush money.
However, the guilt lay not just with the police department. It was evident that the district attorney’s office had failed in its obligation to review the reports and not just accept the recommendation of Plucker
, Bucknell and Kane.
As such, the fallout would be pervasive. He knew that just as a matter of habit, the police department would circle the wagons if its members believed that the department was being picked on. Then there was the small matter of Flanagan being a certified hero in the eyes of the public and his own department for his actions when the World Trade Center was bombed. Nobody liked their heroes to be tarnished.
Yet there were bigger fish than Flanagan who wouldn’t appreciate winding up in the same frying pan as a disgraced cop. The Jumain Little case and several others in the accordion file occurred during the reign of Sanford Bloom. But that wasn’t what worried him—everyone already knew he was a crook.
Karp was more concerned about the fallout from the cases that had been mishandled under the watch of Jack X. Keegan. He respected his former boss, and was greatly disappointed to see that he’d ignored his duty. But he also knew that Keegan would look at an investigation as a personal attack, done for political gain. An ambitious federal district court judge could be a powerful enemy, especially one caught by a scandal that might ruin any future aspirations for a seat on the Second Circuit Court of Appeals and thereafter—who knows, maybe the big enchilada, the U.S. Supreme Court.
Yet there was one shadow that loomed over the rest. It belonged to one of the richest, most powerful movers and shakers in Manhattan—the man who would be mayor, Andrew Kane.
Karp passed a hand over his eyes, feeling the warning of an off-the-charts headache. Now he knew why the caller insisted on calling these revelations tests. To pass, he would have to pursue this blatant abrogation of the public trust and risk his chances of getting elected district attorney. His dream of returning integrity to the office might be ruined by the integrity it would take to reveal what was in the files and put a stop to the practice. However, if he failed the test by ignoring the files, he might as well not run for the office anyway. He had only one choice.
His decision made, he grabbed a green Magic Marker from his desk and crossed out the No Prosecution stamp on the Jumain Little file. Next to it, he wrote FI for FURTHER INVESTIGATION in four-inch-tall letters that he circled. There was no statute of limitations on the grief of Bernard Little and his wife, but there was also no statute of limitations on murder. If they could find the witness who’d disappeared, the case against Michael Flanagan might be reopened.
Karp then called Newbury and Murrow and asked them to come to his office. When they arrived, Karp directed them to sit down and turned his attention back to Stupenagel, who was bouncing up and down like a child about to receive a birthday present.
He smiled…a wicked, competitive grin. It was time to take control of this little drama. Time to stop acting the puppet and start pulling strings of his own choosing. Still, he wasn’t ready to just lay it all out there. He didn’t understand all the connections yet—especially between Flanagan and Garcia and the files. Nor did he know how much worse the third test might be. Other people were operating behind the scenes and he didn’t understand their motives or their identities. Until he did, he wanted to keep his cards close to the vest so that his adversaries would not know that he was watching, and maybe they could be lured into making mistakes and showing their hands.
Karp rested a big hand on top of the accordion file. “What I have here are files that contain reports of police misconduct and payoffs by the city to make the problems go away,” he told the salivating reporter and his two colleagues. “I believe these reports—as well as others that may be out there—reveal not just instances of police malfeasance and criminal behavior, up to and including murder, but a pattern of deception by a prominent Manhattan law firm that smacks of racketeering.”
Stupenagel couldn’t contain herself a moment longer and squealed with excitement. “Okay, okay, I know what I want for playing nice,” she said, reaching for the files.
Karp pulled them back and just out of reach. “I’m going to let you see these, before turning them over to V.T. for further review,” he said. “However, here’s the deal. These cases are now officially under investigation and it is the policy of this office not to reveal specifics of ongoing investigations. At least for your story tomorrow, you cannot cite the details, including the names of the parties involved, or that you have actually seen these files. When you read these, you will understand why I need to be careful here.” He laughed to see how his statement let the air out of the reporter. “However, you may take any notes you want in preparation for a future story, the publication of which you and I will discuss later.”
“Ah, come on, Butch,” Stupenagel whined. “I’ve been doing all the giving, and as Mick Jagger once sang, I can’t get no satisfaction…”
Karp held up his hand to shut her up. “You may, however, reveal the generalities of what these contain. That is, this office has come into possession of materials indicating that for at least a dozen years, possibly longer, allegations of police misconduct—including major felonies—have been ignored by the department and this office in collusion with one another. What’s more, scores of millions of dollars of taxpayer monies have been paid to the victims and/or their families of this police misconduct. In exchange for getting to look at these, you will pass this portion of your story through Murrow, who will bring any concerns about inappropriate material to me.”
“That’s prior censorship,” she scowled.
Karp shrugged. “Take it or leave it. Take it and I promise, none of your competitors get anything more out of this office than that, and you’ll have it first. You’ll also have first crack when it’s appropriate to reveal the details of these cases. It’ll cost me with your so-called mainstream competitors, but what else is new—in any event, you’ll get your exclusive.”
“You’re using me,” she said. “And not in a way I like. There’s something else going on here, what gives?”
Karp pulled the files closer. “I have my reasons and that’s all I can say on the matter. Think of it more as a matter of timing instead of censorship. You’ll get the story, but not all at once. I’d also suggest, in case you were thinking of missing it for a bar date, that you attend the preliminary hearing for Alejandro Garcia this afternoon.”
Stupenagel squinted at him, as if to see through his camouflage. But she said, “Okay, it’s a deal.” Even with the restrictions she was already giddy with visions of Pulitzers and Nobels. Her story on the DA’s office for the next day’s Village Voice was already finished and with the editor. She couldn’t believe that just two weeks earlier, she’d been complaining that she would be killing thousands of trees to make the newsprint on which to publish “the most boring crime story ever.” Then suddenly she had an embarrassment of riches: missing priests; the gangland style murder of a reasonably famous musician and three others; the subsequent disappearance and mysterious demise of the state’s star witness in the case; and the ritual slaying and burial of two boys from the Vietnamese community in the heart of Central Park. Now to top it off, she got to break the news of pervasive corruption involving the police and the district attorney’s office. Christmas had indeed come early.
Stupenagel picked up the Jumain Little file and read the cover letter from the law firm. “Oh, God, Butch, I’m absolutely wet,” she purred. “This was signed off on by none other than Andrew Kane…” She quickly looked at the other files. “And this one…and that one by an associate…Oh, Butch, can I have your baby, or maybe we just practice making babies?”
Murrow, whose mouth had assumed its recent habit of hanging open, woke up out of the stupor that taking Andrew Kane’s name in vain seemed to have created. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Can’t have Butch Karp making bastard children while he’s running for district attorney.” He looked at his boss. “And are we sure we want to trust a member of the press with this sort of sensitive information. It could damage a lot of people.”
“You mean me,” Karp acknowledged. “You’re right, taking on Kane—not to mention some of the others involved in this—could blow the
good ship USS Karp right out of the political waters. She can’t use that name right now, but sooner or later we’re going to lock horns.”
“Why, Murry,” Stupenagel purred, “I do believe you’re jealous of my offer to have Butch’s baby.”
Murrow crossed his index fingers in the sign of a cross as if to ward off the Undead. “Back Vampira! I’m just trying to protect my employer from negative publicity.”
Karp seized the moment to tell Newbury to take the files, Murrow, and the reporter with him back to his office. As she got up, Stupenagel pulled out her cell phone and called her editor. “Hold the story,” she said. There was an angry buzzing from the editor, which she waited to subside before adding, “Believe me, when you see what I got, you will piss all over yourself to thank me.”
• • •
With the three gone, Karp sat at his desk a little longer to gather his thoughts. He looked at Guma, who was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. “What do you think, Goom?” he asked.
For a second his friend didn’t answer. Karp sat up with a start, thinking that his friend might have died quietly while all the excitement was taking place. But then Guma opened his eyes.
“What do I think?” he said. “I think you’ve got a tiger by the tail, but how big a tiger and whether you’ll be able to hold on and keep him from sinking his teeth into your ass, that’s the real question. But I don’t think—knowing you—that there’s any other way to go than the one you just took.”
Karp nodded and looked at his watch. “Shit!” he exclaimed. It was almost one o’clock; the Garcia case was scheduled to be called right after the lunch break. He remembered the caller’s warning that he wouldn’t receive the third test until the defendant was out of jail and away from danger. He didn’t like that the first part of that sounded like blackmail, but he could understand why the second might be true. One did not cross the NYPD lightly, especially when imprisoned on their turf in the Tombs. “Care to take a walk?” he asked.
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