Hoax

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Sure,” Guma said, rising stiffly with the pain of it written clearly on his face. “Where we off to?”

  “To buy some more time,” Karp replied. “And maybe stir up a hornet’s nest?”

  Guma smiled. “I think the stirring has already occurred,” he said. “Now, we’ll see who gets stung.”

  • • •

  A few minutes later, Karp and Guma entered the courtroom of Judge Friedman. Guma took a seat in a back pew, while his boss proceeded forward and sat down next to the surprised Terrell Collins at the prosecution table.

  “Where we at?” Karp asked, leaning close so he could speak quietly.

  “We just got started, but the judge suddenly called a recess,” the assistant district attorney whispered. “By the way he was moving, I think he was hearing the call of Mother Nature. However, we’ve already won the first skirmish…without firing a shot.”

  Collins nodded toward the pear-shaped public defender sitting next to Alejandro Garcia. “If you can believe it, Garcia’s lawyer, McMichaels, didn’t oppose my motion to allow the videotape of Paglia’s interview to be shown to the jury. I explained that the witness was no longer with us, but that we would put Detective Flanagan on the stand to testify about the veracity of the tape. But McMichaels actually said that he agreed that there were extenuating circumstances and he didn’t want to, and I quote, ‘waste this court’s time fighting a motion I’m going to lose.’ The judge thanked him for his consideration, and I’m thinking about sending him a get-well card. But any way you look at it, the whole damn thing is in.”

  Karp ignored his prosecutor’s gloating and looked over at the defense lawyer. Since when does a PD worry about wasting the court’s time? he thought. Half of their practice is creating a mountain of motions and causing delays—especially in murder cases—for the express purpose of wasting time to try to wear us down and hope we’ll offer a good deal just to be done with it. Something stinks like the city during an August garbage strike. He turned his attention back to the ADA. “Doesn’t it bother you that our witness may have lied about his involvement?”

  Collins looked hurt by the question. A tall, graceful, coffee-colored man, he had been the lead on the case against the two cops accused of shooting the immigrant the previous fall until he was injured by a car bomb. At the time, Karp had wondered if he would return to the DA’s office when he recovered, or if he’d decide the frustrations—not to mention the danger—weren’t worth the low pay and backbreaking hours.

  It took a special sort of attorney to stay in the New York District Attorney’s Office. As he told each incoming batch of newbies fresh out of law school, “Welcome to the priesthood. Why do I say that? Because like a priest, you have to really want to be here to put up with all the deprivation and sacrifice. No one gets rich—legally—in public service and there will be times when you will curse this job and me and probably the mother who bore you but didn’t talk you into private practice. But stay and I can promise you the perks of job satisfaction, learning how to evaluate and try a case, and do something that matters to a whole lot of people. If that’s not enough, you don’t belong here.”

  For most of them, it wasn’t enough. They’d spend a couple of years buffing up their résumés, all the while trying to catch the eye of private firms, and that was okay with him. Those who stayed, for the most part, were the ones he hoped would. So he was glad when Collins returned and asked for his former position with the homicide bureau. He was a thorough, dedicated prosecutor, and when he lobbied for the high-profile Garcia case, Karp had talked it over with Sakamoto and tossed him the plum.

  However, Collins was also the sort who bridled at any hint that the boss was looking over his shoulder. He was already feeling the stress of having a slam-dunk case showing signs of unraveling. It had made him that much more determined to dig his heels in to show that he could win the tough case, too.

  When the boss had asked if the witness’s questionable honesty bothered him, he had replied somewhat testily. “I’m not here to try Vincent Paglia. Of course, I don’t like that the defense attorney—if one shows up—will have all sorts of innuendo to try to discredit my witness. But I have a defendant who made threats against the victim. I have, at least on videotape, a witness who was at the scene and says he saw the defendant with a gun. I also have the .45 with Garcia’s fingerprints…. I think we get this to trial, and maybe see what shakes out on the witness stand. Heck, with the death penalty hanging over his head, perhaps Garcia rolls over and gives us the other shooter, and maybe we learn the truth about who did what to whom and why.”

  Karp patted Collins on the arm. “I’m not questioning your abilities or decisions,” he whispered. “Just playing devil’s advocate.” From a purely tactical standpoint, the assistant district attorney was right. He could win a conviction in this case, especially if McMichaels was as much of a nonentity as he’d demonstrated so far.

  Karp looked around. The courtroom was filled to standing room only, most of it by the press. Normally a preliminary hearing, even in a murder case, didn’t receive much attention. But this one involved a celebrity, plus the added sex appeal of the murdered hookers, and all of it iced with the death of the prosecution’s star witness. He recognized the usual pack that hunted for the city’s dailies, plus the talking heads from the television stations, as well as representatives of the media from Los Angeles and even a reporter from Court TV.

  As they’d filed in, the spectators had indicated their allegiances by where they sat. In the pews behind the prosecution table were personnel from the district attorney’s office—some of whom were squirming as they wondered if the boss of bosses was checking up on them. There were a few civilians he assumed were fans of the dead rapper, some of them wearing red gang clothing and staring daggers at the defendant. He saw no one he recognized as belonging to Johnson’s family, although he assumed one or both parents would be brought to New York during the trial to testify, especially if Garcia was convicted and the court moved to a death penalty phase.

  As he was surveying the scene, Karp saw Flanagan and Leary enter the courtroom and sit down in the same pew as Guma, though they didn’t seem to notice him. The older detective, however, nodded at Karp, and he nodded back, being careful not to let his face reveal the revulsion he felt.

  Directly behind the defense table were Garcia’s supporters, most of whom appeared to have made the long trip down from Spanish Harlem. A half dozen of the younger men were dressed in the Latino gang uniforms of plaid shirts, baggy pants, and wide bandanas bound around their foreheads. They were staring back across the courtroom at the gangsters looking at them and Garcia. He wondered if one of them could have been the second shooter.

  Leaning close to the wooden barrier between the pews and the defense table was Father Dugan, who was chatting with Garcia. The defendant was dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit, his manacled hands attached to a chain that ran around his middle. Karp felt somewhat unsettled when Garcia and Dugan stopped talking and turned their heads to look at him.

  Karp’s attention snapped back to the front of the courtroom when the court clerk entered and announced the imminent arrival of the honorable judge Alan Freidman. The audience, lawyers, and defendant sprang to their feet, at which point the judge showed up and told them they could return to their seats.

  Friedman was a short, balding man with bushy black eyebrows and a scowl to match intense brown eyes. “All right people,” he said. “Sorry about the interruption. Now I believe we are here in the matter of the people versus Alejandro Garcia for a preliminary hearing to determine if probable cause exists to charge the defendant with murder. Is there anything either side would like to bring up before we go forward?”

  Karp leaned over to Collins. “I want you to tell the judge that we are not ready to proceed,” he said. “Tell him we’d like to take this to the grand jury.”

  “What?” Collins whispered incredulously. “We have enough for probable cause. Why wait?”

>   “Because for as long as I am running this office,” Karp replied, “we will not bring a case unless we truly believe that the defendant is 1000 percent factually guilty, and we have legally admissible evidence to convict beyond a reasonable doubt. I have concerns about that right now. We need time.”

  “Gentlemen of the prosecution, would you care to let me in on your little confab?” Friedman glowered at them. “And good afternoon, Mr. Karp, will you be assuming the lead in this case?”

  “Good afternoon, your honor,” Karp said, rising to his feet. “I want to assure the court that this case will be presented to the grand jury. Accordingly, your honor, the People request that this preliminary hearing be put over for one week as a control date. We will report back at that time or sooner with respect to how the case is proceeding before the grand jury.”

  The courtroom immediately started buzzing with a hundred voices, causing the judge to bang his gavel down hard. Karp glanced over at the defense table where McMichaels sat stunned with what looked to him like an expression of panic or fear. Looking past the defense attorney, Karp locked eyes with Garcia who frowned slightly but inclined his head.

  “SILENCE!” the judge roared, which had the desired effect. “You will conduct yourselves with decorum or you will be removed bodily from this courtroom.” He turned back to the prosecutors. “Would you care to explain why we left it to the last possible moment to make this decision, Mr. Collins, or perhaps, Mr. Karp, as it seems the confusion arrived with you.”

  Karp again stood. “No, your honor,” he said. “I apologize for taking your time. Within the last twenty-four hours we learned of the death of one of our witnesses as well as other facts that require a full and complete presentation to the grand jury.” He sat back down and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder to see Flanagan’s reaction.

  The judge checked his calendar. “Very well, we’ll put the case over to the time you request. What about bail, Mr. Karp?”

  In response, Karp stood and spoke loud enough for everyone in the court to hear. “Your honor, the People do not oppose a reasonable bail on the condition that the defendant, Mr. Garcia, not leave the city and be remanded to the custody of Father Michael Dugan, whom I believe this court knows and who is present here in the court.” He motioned toward Dugan.

  Judge Friedman with pen in hand noted instructions on the court file and then stated matter-of-factly, “Bail is set at fifty thousand dollars—10 percent of it payable before release, the rest forfeit should Mr. Garcia not appear when this court so orders—with the conditions as set forth by the prosecution. Is that all right with you, Father Dugan?”

  Dugan practically jumped to his feet. “Yes, your honor. He will not be out of my sight.”

  Friedman stood and intoned, “This court is now in recess.”

  With the judge gone, the courtroom once again exploded in a cacophony of voices. The press tried to crowd toward Karp, but with a head signal from the DA, the court security officers cleared the room.

  With the crowd dispersed, Karp looked over at the defense table where a pale-looking McMichaels was gathering his papers. Must have hoped for a big show on television, he thought. He noticed that Garcia was standing next to the barrier where Dugan had placed an arm around his shoulders. He couldn’t be certain, but the boy appeared to be crying. Then the court security led Garcia off. “We’ll post bail right away,” Dugan called after him.

  Suddenly, Karp was aware of another presence behind him. He turned to see Flanagan. “Can I have a word with you?” the detective said through clenched teeth.

  “Certainly,” Karp replied calmly. “How can I help?”

  “What in Jesus’ name was that about?” the detective hissed, barely in control of his anger. “We don’t need no grand jury. We got this guy dead to rights. And you let him go? He’ll be out of town by sunset.”

  “I guess now you’re in the business of telling us how to prosecute cases,” Karp replied coldly. “I think I have a pretty good track record on homicide cases, detective.” He let his voice warm up a little. “I would just like to see how the grand jury reacts to the videotape—let them tell us what parts are strong and what we can leave out. When we go to trial, I don’t want to bore the trial jury or overdo it. Whatever he didn’t do today, the defense is sure to raise the issue of the defendant’s right to cross-examine—if not at trial, then on appeal. The less we use—while using enough—the less an appeals court will think we tried to base our whole case on Paglia’s testimony.”

  “What about not opposing bail?”

  “Well, detective,” Karp said, summoning a conspiratorial grin, “have you ever heard of the expression, ‘Give him enough rope and he’ll hang himself’? I figure that if you and your guys stay with him, maybe he’ll lead us to the second shooter. If we got both of them, one of them is bound to roll over on the other. Mystery solved and maybe Paglia’s testimony won’t be such a big deal. Eh? Meanwhile, if he tries to leave the island you pick him up.”

  Flanagan bit his lip and considered what he’d been told. Then he nodded. “Yeah, maybe. I kind of think the second guy might have been this pal of his, Pancho Ramirez; the guy’s a bad actor from the word go. Still, you might have let me in on the strategizing. I’m feeling a little lost out here.”

  Karp slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, man, ol’ Vinnie just got fished out of the drink yesterday, and I didn’t know the public defender was going to pass on fighting admission of the videotape. It just occurred to me that he might be doing that to set up an appellate lawyer to argue later that Garcia did not have adequate counsel. These PDs can be pretty damn sneaky. Let’s do this right, go to the grand jury, get an indictment, and come back and convict his ass.”

  He noticed that Flanagan flinched uncomfortably with the use of the words damn and ass…a real Bible banger, he thought. “I wish I could have let you in on it sooner, but there wasn’t time. We’ll try to communicate better in the future.”

  Mollified, Flanagan managed a half smile. “Yeah, guess I should keep my big yap out of your business. Like you said, me and my partner,” he nodded to where Leary was standing in the back of the courtroom, “will keep an eye on him, see if he leads us to the second shooter or maybe talks to someone who’ll squeal.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Karp said, leading the way to the aisle and out of the doors in the back of the courtroom. “Now I got to get back to the office where the sky is falling. I take it you’ve heard about these bodies in Central Park.”

  Flanagan grimaced. “Yeah, a real sicko, from what they’re saying down at the shop. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s some sex pervert who hurts kids. You sort of hope that when they catch him, he resists arrest, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh, I do indeed,” Karp said. He walked away with the plastic grin on his face until he got into his office and returned to his more normal scowl, which is how Collins found him.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” Collins asked, obviously angry.

  “Yeah, I just couldn’t right there,” Karp replied, and told him in general about the caller and the box of files that had showed up. “Garcia’s lawyer threw me for a loop, and I wanted some time for us to get this thought out. So we go forward with the grand jury, even if it’s just for the trial run. Look, it can’t hurt.”

  Collins sighed but nodded his head. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “Something stinks. But damn, I was looking forward to getting back on the horse and winning one.”

  “I understand,” Karp said. “And I also appreciate what you bring to the job; it’s a rare commodity. I promise, if this one doesn’t go the way we want, you get the next really juicy one. In the meantime, you get to practice your technique in front of the GJ. Okay?”

  Collins grinned. “Yeah, okay.”

  As the ADA left the office, Karp thought, Good boy, Collins, know when to cut your losses and get what you can in exchange.

  A minute later, Mrs. Boccino announ
ced the arrival of Clay Fulton. “Heard about what happened,” the detective said. “The files and the courtroom thing. What’s the next move?”

  Karp pursed his lips. “Good question, have a seat while I call V.T.,” he said. A moment later he had Newbury on the phone and asked for a preliminary report.

  “Well, just shooting from the hip,” Newbury said, “I think we’ve just been handed the tip of the iceberg that sank the Titanic.”

  “Why just the tip?”

  “‘There are too many years between the first and last cases. They all follow the same pattern too much for me to believe that this is all there is over that amount of time. But I guess the big clue is the note saying ‘More to follow,’ and the caller’s warning that it’s only going to get worse. Right now, I recommend that we ask for the complete Internal Affairs files on the cases we have. Some of them have passed the statute of limitations as far as criminal charges, but others have not and bear at least further investigation and maybe prosecution. I’m sure you saw that the common denominator with all these files is that they were all signed off on by Kane or one of his hired guns, which means the caller wants us to draw the same conclusion. But why not just spell it out? Why the games?”

  “Good questions,” Karp said. “Is it just some political enemy of Kane wanting us to do the hitting before the election? I’m sure Kane will say that his firm was just doing its job—protecting the city and the NYPD from lawsuits. As far as any conspiracy to cover up criminal conduct, he can argue that interpretation is subjective and that his recommendations were forwarded on to this office. I spouted off about racketeering, but it would be tough to prove. Now I feel like I’m sitting here with my head on the chopping block as I wait for the ax to fall with this third test.”