Bad Faith bkamc-24

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  As he spoke, LaFontaine kept a wounded expression on his face, occasionally wiping a hand across his eyes. Then as Rottingham finished his summation and began to walk back to his seat, LaFontaine wiped at his eyes. “God bless you, my brother,” he called out.

  Karp frowned and stood to deliver his summation, changing his opening on the spot in response to LaFontaine’s remarks. “Words come easily to some people,” he said as he turned toward the defense table and pointed at the accused, “especially to that man, who wields words like weapons. Not as sharp as a knife, nor as brutal as a bullet, but just as effective, and for Micah Ellis, just as deadly.”

  For a long moment, Karp let his words sink in as he stared down at LaFontaine, who couldn’t hold his gaze and looked away. Karp then walked slowly out into the well of the court until he stood in front of the jurors, gathering his thoughts for the final push. He began, piece by piece, going over the evidence and testimony, until he ended with Nonie Ellis.

  “Mr. LaFontaine was fond of calling all of these people liars,” Karp said. “But let’s examine who’s the liar here. Would it be paramedic Don Bailey or Sergeant Trent Sadler? And what would Dr. Holstein gain by lying? He’s admitted his culpability in the fraud and lost his wife, his freedom, and his medical license in the process. And why would Monique Hale lie? Revenge of a scorned woman? She was hiding in her house in Memphis when investigators found her and convinced her that LaFontaine needed to be stopped before more mothers lost their children. And what about Nonie Ellis? Why didn’t she just keep moving? Why come back and plead guilty to reckless manslaughter and face years in prison? So that she could lie about this man she had given her soul to?”

  Karp held up his arm and pointed to LaFontaine. “There is only one liar in this tragedy, and he’s sitting at the defense table.”

  Dropping his arm, Karp shrugged. “Mr. Rottingham would have you believe that there’s a question of whether a crime was even committed,” he said. “But I assure you that there was and that its chief perpetrator, the defendant, knew what he was doing. Why else erase the medical records of children from the hospital computer files if not to prepare the way for insurance fraud? And what would it take to collect on that fraud?”

  Karp walked over to the prosecution table and picked up a school photograph of Micah Ellis. “It took the long, slow, horrific, terrifying, painful death of this frightened child whose parents had been convinced by that man,” he said, pointing at LaFontaine, “to not seek medical help and place their faith in him. That man counted on a child’s death so that he could collect on an insurance policy.”

  Karp put the photo down. “But the defense also wants to hedge its bet. Mr. Rottingham would like you to believe that even if the crime of murder was committed, there’s no proof that his client was responsible. But who knocked on the doors of vulnerable parents, armed with the knowledge of their child’s disease and the family’s history, and then callously used that information to convince them that only he, as God’s emissary, could provide a ‘miracle’ that would save their child? And who stood in front of the paramedics and police officers rushing to save a sick child? The defense would point at Frank Bernsen. But Sergeant Sadler, who has no reason to lie, said it was the defendant who was in charge, and the defendant who motioned for his man to attack. That same man incited the crowd to confront the men trying to load the dying boy in an ambulance.

  “And that same man incited the crowd across the street from this courthouse last April until a lonely widow named Kathryn Boole, who had never committed a crime in her entire life, pulled a gun from her purse and, yelling, ‘Judas,’ killed David Ellis. And what a windfall her subsequent death proved to be for Mr. LaFontaine and his simple lifestyle.”

  Karp returned to the prosecution table and picked up the manila folder containing LaFontaine’s criminal record. “Until that moment, Kathryn Boole was a model citizen. But not John LaFontaine. He has a criminal history as long as my arm, a violent history, a history of robbery, larceny, and fraud, including impersonating a police officer-pretending to be something he is not. And I would put it to you today, ladies and gentlemen,” Karp said as he walked over to stand in front of LaFontaine, “that this man is still pretending to be something he is not.”

  Karp turned back to the jurors. “I believe that if you piece together all that you’ve heard and all that you’ve seen, and all that you will see in the deliberation room, you cannot help but conclude that as surely as a knife or a bullet, John LaFontaine’s words and actions ended the life of Micah Ellis.”

  Karp looked from one juror to the next, saw tears in their eyes and their mouths set grimly. “The People are asking you to return a verdict of murder because we now know beyond any and all doubt, from the evidence, that this defendant acted under circumstances evincing a depraved and wicked indifference to human life by recklessly and deliberately deceiving and lying to claim that he was a man of God, all the time plotting the death of a child. And how do we know he evinced this depraved indifference? Remember the testimony of AME Dr. Gail Manning and pediatric oncologist Dr. Charles Aronberg as they described the torment and fear Micah went through, without so much as an aspirin to relieve the pain, before he died. And why did he have to face such a horrible death at the hands of the defendant? For the most venal, despicable, and depraved reason of all … money.”

  One last time, Karp faced LaFontaine and then walked back to the jury rail. “Ultimately, each one of us will face final judgment, and how ironic it will be for this defendant who pretended to be a man of God. He mocked the very content of the Bible he was thumping. How will he answer when he is judged by Him and asked, ‘For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his soul?’”

  EPILOGUE

  Butch Karp sat alone on the bench set back from the subway platform, staring across two sets of tracks at the wall opposite. Colored tiles set into a white tile background proclaimed that this was the South Ferry station, the southernmost on the island of Manhattan.

  A little farther down the platform, Fulton talked quietly with Capers and Jaxon; beyond them four plainclothes cops waited. Every once in a while the others glanced his way, but for the most part they left him alone with his thoughts.

  Karp glanced at his watch-it was one A.M.-and sighed. It had been a long day, beginning with the sentencing of John LaFontaine.

  It had taken only six hours of deliberation before the jury had returned a guilty verdict. Standing as the jury foreman read the decision, LaFontaine had suddenly started cursing the jurors, the judge, and particularly Karp with a stream of invective that surprised even those who had not believed him to be a man of God. But then the rant had suddenly stopped as LaFontaine clutched at his chest and crumpled to the ground, his face turning purple as he fought for air.

  “A doctor,” he begged. “Get a doctor.”

  LaFontaine had survived the heart attack and today, two months later, was brought before the court for its judgment. This time he sat sullenly in his seat, occasionally glaring hatefully at Karp, while Judge Temple listened to his lawyer plead for leniency. Calling LaFontaine a “despicable human being,” the judge sent him away for the maximum allowable, life with a mandatory minimum of twenty-five years.

  As for Nonie Ellis, Judge Temple had given her a three-year suspended sentence. Part of her probation was that she work at the East Village Women’s Shelter.

  One of the bigger surprises was that Karp learned that Bruce Knight had reported himself to the New York State Bar Association for violating attorney-client privilege with his erstwhile client Nadya Malovo. Karp had informed the bar hearing officer about the beneficial role that Knight had played in preventing the terrorist attack. The bar determined that Knight would keep his license and set up a program to teach newly admitted lawyers a course in ethics at state bar headquarters in Manhattan.

  In order to keep his law firm afloat and pay the bills, Marlene retained his services as her investigator in chief in her pri
vate practice, focusing mainly on protecting abused women and working in conjunction with the women’s shelter.

  After the sentencing and the end of the workday, Karp had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home with Marlene and the twins. But Warren Bennett had been waiting for him when he exited the Hogan Place side of the building.

  “Hi, Butch,” the little man greeted him. “David says he’s ready to … oh boy fuck me … keep his side of the deal. Be on the downtown side of the South Ferry platform tonight at one. Oh, and you may want to … whoop whoop oh boy … bring Fulton and maybe a couple other guys. She can be a handful, you know.”

  As he sat now waiting, Karp wondered what he’d given up for this deal. That night at the Bowery Mission, Grale had proposed that if Karp and his friends allowed Malovo to escape so that he could spring his trap, he would eventually return her to Karp’s custody to be tried.

  In exchange, Grale wanted to “entertain” the femme fatale assassin long enough to get her to tell him everything she knew about the terrorists and criminals preying on New York City so that he could ramp up his vigilante war against evil. “I think the threat of spending her golden years in my loving care will be enough to get her to talk,” he laughed. “Of course my inclination is to slit her throat and send her back to hell. But I understand that there is a ‘greater good’ of seeing her exposed by you in a New York courtroom.”

  Grale had apparently been a convincing host, as evidenced by the dead bombers and gangsters and other nefarious types the police kept finding with their throats cut. One of his alleged victims, however, was harder to figure out. The nude body of a man named James Blankenship had been found hanging by the neck from a tree in Central Park. “JUDAS” had been carved in his chest, and his dead hand clutched a small leather pouch containing thirty bright shiny dimes.

  Karp became aware of the rumble of an approaching train. He stood up as the others in his party walked toward the yellow caution line on the platform and peered down the track. A headlight appeared and then an apparently empty train slid into the station.

  The train was not, however, completely empty, nor did Karp see what he expected when the door in front of him opened. As agreed, Nadya Malovo was there, a dog collar around her throat and fastened by a leash to a pole. Her eyes were wild and darting, and judging by the bruises and other marks on her filthy body, her stay with the King of the Mole People had not been a pleasant one.

  But there was also another passenger, also collared and leashed. In a corner, the beast that used to be Andrew Kane snarled and cowered, one insane eye glaring out of his devastated face.

  There was an envelope pinned to his threadbare coat. Fulton removed it and handed it to Karp who opened it and read the letter he found inside.

  “An early wedding present for Lucy. With love, David Grale.”

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