“Marie Curie,” said Marlene out loud, whipping mentally through the pages of her NOW calendar, “umm, Rebecca West, and writers, lots of women writers—Anne Tyler, Margaret Drabble …”
“Oh?” said the prosecuting attorney. “And are you intending to become a writer? If so, you’d better hustle and establish your reputation in the next five months, so you can live on your fat royalties and hire a nanny. But you’re not a writer, are you, Miss Ciampi? You’re an assistant D.A. with $234.12 in your bank account and a fifth-floor walk-up loft in an industrial neighborhood. How do you intend to keep working once the baby comes?”
“I’ll think of something,” said Marlene, without conviction.
“Will you, now? Like what? Carrying a baby on your back while you run from courtroom to courtroom or out to crime scenes? Not likely! No, your career, such as it is, is over. It’s diapers and the soaps on TV, and waiting for him to say, ‘Hi, honey, I’m home!’ You’ll be dependent.”
This last word seemed to reverberate in the courtroom of Marlene’s mind like a cheap echo effect in a horror movie. Dependent. The jury in her mind, twelve aged Italian women in black, with cameo pins, rubbed their mustaches and nodded. It served her right, the crazy girl, what scandal … che pazza ragazz’. Che vergogna!”
This was too much. Marlene jumped to her feet, rapping her knees painfully against the bottom of her desk. The flash of agony cleared the court in her head. She grabbed her bag and an armload of current-case jackets and limped out of her office toward the hall to where the Criminal Courts Bureau had one of its main blocks of cubicles for junior staff.
Tony Harris was in his cubicle, on the phone. He was a gangly and engaging youth in his mid-twenties, with bright blue eyes, bad teeth, and no haircut. Seeing Marlene, he smiled and motioned with a helpless gesture to the only other chair in the tiny space, which was filled to overflowing with case jackets and stacks of green-and-white computer printouts. Marlene did not, in any event, wish to sit. She paced and smoked while Harris managed to convince a reluctant witness to appear in court for the third time.
When he finished, Marlene asked him, without preamble, “Will they do it?”
“What, your rape case correlations? Yeah, Data Processing farted around about it for a while, but I finally got them to admit it was a legit run.”
Marlene brightened. “They’ll do it? Great! When can I get the results?”
Harris crinkled his face. “That’s the problem, Marlene—the when part. It’s got—your job’s got—no priority; it comes after the bookkeeping, the trial schedules, the rosters, the clearance stats, everything …”
“So, when?” Marlene snapped.
“Months. Maybe three, maybe four … and it can get bumped by nearly anything.”
“But it’s important!” Marlene wailed, and ran a hand through her thick tresses. “We’re talking about finding criminal patterns, catching multiple rapists. And they’re worried about bookkeeping?”
“Yeah, but bookkeeping is what they do, Marlene. Maybe you’d have better luck with the cops.”
“Oh, sure! I tried that already. They want money to do the programming. Then maybe they’ll think about it, the fuckers! I can’t fucking believe this! How much time could it take? I thought computers worked like in no time at all.”
Harris coughed and waved his hand against the smoke cloud. “Yeah, they do when they run,” he explained, “but you got to put a lot of time in up-front to tell them what to run and make it all work. You would have to keypunch all those cards, for starters. Then you’d have to write the program, debug it, make your run, fuck with it some more, and run it again until it was right. Then, if you had any more questions, based on what you learned from the first run, you’d have to write a mod and then go back to the end of the line and wait again.”
“That’s outrageous,’ cried Marlene. “I thought the goddamn things were supposed to make life easier!”
Harris grinned. “Your first mistake. But really it’s not the machines, it’s the people. And let me say that anyway these guys in D.P. are not exactly the cream of the crop when it comes to programming the kind of stuff you want to do. I mean, they can do tweaks on big standardized COBOL programs, and keep the payroll going, but correlations, social-science packages, ANOVA—it’s out of their league.”
“You sound like you know something about it. Could you—?”
Harris shook his head strenuously, held up both hands, palms out, and affected an expression of horror. “No, no way!”
Marlene said, “Tony, what, am I losing my charm? Wait, let me moisten my lips …”
“Marlene: N. O. Look, this is a serious piece of work, weeks at least for one guy. And I don’t really know it. I mean, I made the stupid mistake of telling Karp that I knew something about computers from school and now he’s got me riding herd on the numbers, so we can keep the data weenies honest, but that doesn’t mean I could do a program like this right off the bat. I’d have to hit the books again—and then you still have the scheduling problem. Unless …”
“Unless what?”
“If your bureau chief went to data’s bureau chief and did a deal.”
“My bureau … you mean Karp? And Wharton? Not in a zillion years. God! If Wharton ever thought that Karp was connected with this …”
“Yeah, its priority might drop even further, like they’ll do it right after they solve Fermat’s Last Theorem. Which reminds me, maybe a university would be your best bet.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s an intrinsically interesting project; it might make a good dissertation—an analytical method of discovering serial rapists. Get a criminology professor up at John Jay or NYU involved, and you’re home-free. Universities got better computers than we do, and the people who can use them.”
Marlene nodded without really listening. Tony said something about being sorry he couldn’t be of more help, and she thanked him vaguely and left.
It was too much, another thing to think about, to set up, to marshal barely willing people into doing something that was so obviously important. Or maybe not … who, after all, gave a shit? Women got raped? Hey, baby, might as well relax and enjoy it, right? If somebody was going around town grabbing middle-class white guys and pulling their pants off and fucking them up the ass, then there’d be priority. The fucking cops would work on nothing else for a year! Thinking these and similar thoughts, Marlene stomped off to meet her lover, boss, and fiancé, Butch Karp.
Horace Jordan, the pimp, called Slo Mo by his many friends, was not hard to find. Pimps are public figures. They must see and be seen, show their flash on the street, monitor and discipline their whores, and recruit new ones. The King Cole Trio found him at just past eleven that night, on the Deuce, the strip of 42nd Street between Sixth and Eighth avenues that is New York’s semiofficial sex, drug, and mugging emporium, standing under a sex-show marquee, talking with a black woman in tiny vinyl shorts and a pink bra.
The conversation must have been gripping, because Slo Mo did not notice Jeffers and Maus until they had grabbed him, each by an elbow, and were carry-dragging him out to the curb, with the tips of his white Guccis just bobbing along the concrete.
Without a word spoken, the two detectives threw him up against their unmarked Plymouth, patted him down, and emptied his pockets. “Hey,” Slo Mo said mildly, “what the fuck’s happening, man? I got no beef with you guys.” Jeffers opened the rear door of the car and tossed Slo Mo in like a bag of laundry.
Art Dugman was sitting in the back seat of the car. Jeffers settled his huge form on the other side of Slo Mo and Maus drove off.
“Hey, wha’ you doin’, man? Wha’ the fuck’s goin’ down? Hey …” said the pimp, to no response. After a while, he shut down, adjusted his gold chains and his lavender do rag, and waited philosophically for what might happen. Maus drove west on 42nd, south on Eleventh Avenue to West Street, where he pulled into an alley between two deserted warehouses.
Dugman fli
cked on the dome light. “What do we got?” he asked Maus. Maus said, “A switchblade knife, a vial of a suspicious-looking white powder, keys, a roll of ill-gotten gains, looks like eight, nine hundred. It’s enough.”
Slo Mo said, “What you talkin’ about ‘enough’? You ain’t got shit on me! Hey, what you doin’?”
Jeffers had opened the door of the car and yanked the pimp out. He threw him against the alley wall. Maus followed them out. “Fuck this shit, man!” shouted Slo Mo. “Po-lice brutality. I wanna see my lawyer!”
Jeffers spread his legs and stood in front of the pimp and hooked his thumbs in his belt, revealing his service revolver where it rested in its holster on his left hip. Slo Mo saw the gun and seemed to register his situation for the first time. His thin tan face turned ashy gray and his knees sagged. “No, man, I ain’t no dealer, man. Shit, I just got that stuff for the girls, man. I never … I never … oh, Jesus, fuckin’ shit … not me, man.”
Jeffers said, “You got a girl for Larue Clarry last night.”
Slo Mo looked at him blankly, his teeth set in a grimace of terror. Jeffers could see several gold teeth, one set with a small diamond, glittering in the faint light from the car lamp. He repeated the question. This time Slo Mo seemed overjoyed to answer. “Clarry, yeah, yeah, Haze … he like Haze.”
“You sent Haze up to him last night.”
“Yeah.”
“What does she look like?
Slo Mo had recovered some of his initial cool. He straightened himself and said, “What she look like? What you think, man? She look like a damn ho.”
“Redhead?”
“Yeah, curly hair, short, little tits, nice ass. Wear that purple lipstick. Got real white skin.”
“How old?”
“Fuck I know, man. Old enough to fuck.”
“Sixteen? Fifteen?”
“Yo, aroun that. She fresh, whatever.”
“Where is she now?”
“What you want with her? You homicides. She ain’t killed no one. What, they bust you down to vice now?”
Jeffers reached out and grabbed a handful of the gold chains that looped around the pimp’s neck and lifted him a half-inch clear of the ground. “Where she at, scumbag?” he asked softly.
The pimp made a strangled reply, the address of a hotel on Eighth Avenue. Jeffers let go; the pimp staggered and fell against the alley wall. Maus got out of the car, took the switchblade out of his pocket, snapped the blade off and threw it away, crushed the glass vial of cocaine under his heel, dropped the ring of keys, pulled the rubber band off the roll of bills and tossed them into a puddle of greasy water. The two detectives entered their car. Dugman flicked the dome off and they drove off, leaving Slo Mo scrabbling in the alley after his drifting loot.
“That was real cruel, Maus,” said Dugman.
“That’s our motto, Dr. D.,” Maus replied. “Cruel, but fair. Shit, that little mutt was scared, wasn’t he, Mack? What the fuck did you say to him?”
Jeffers shrugged. “Didn’t say shit. He just started whining that he wasn’t no dealer. But you’re right, I thought he was gonna wet his drawers.”
Maus laughed. “Must have a guilty conscience, I can’t figure why. Where to, Mack?”
Jeffers gave them the address. But the wretched little room, when they arrived, was empty. Back in the car, Dugman said, “OK, let’s knock off for tonight. We’ll pick her up— she ain’t gonna go off to college. Circulate the description and get the word out we want her.”
They drove north, talking little, listening to the calls on the police radio. In the rear seat, Art Dugman sat thinking about why a tough little pimp like Slo Mo should have been so frightened of two police detectives, and why he should have been so desperate to convince them that he was not a drug dealer.
Karp was not, to Marlene’s no great surprise, in his office (his “palatial office,” as she always referred to it). He never was, if he could avoid it. To Karp, the office meant paper, and irritating phone calls from upstairs, and the attentions of those few of his staff who still thought that hanging around Karp and flattering him was the way to get ahead in the D.A.’s office. In fact, the opposite was more nearly true.
When Marlene asked Connie Trask where Karp was, she shrugged helplessly and rolled her eyes. Marlene knew that Karp was not in court, because it was already late afternoon, past the time when tradition declared that the judges of the city should be in their sedans on the way to the suburbs.
Marlene did not feel up to chasing Karp through the warrens of the bureau’s staff, one of his favorite haunts. Instead, she took the elevator down to the main floor of the Criminal Courts Building, where she knew he would eventually show up. And it was a place where she could probably catch up with some of her own business.
This zone was known to the inhabitants of the criminal justice system as the Streets of Calcutta. Even this late in the day, the corridor was crowded with the human material of justice: the accused, their defendants and prosecutors, the victims, the witnesses, friends and families of all of these, plus wandering cops and the various officers of court. Besides these the long hallway held a changing group of people for whom the courthouse represented a source of free entertainment and a refuge from the street: bag ladies, defectives, zanies, homeless families, retired lawyers, bureaucrats on the coop.
In this medieval atmosphere was accomplished much of the real business of the building, the actual courts being used largely as a form of record-keeping. Since most of the people arrested for criminal offenses in New York are indigent and since the immense majority of such offenses are disposed of without trial, criminal justice in New York County is largely a business of conversations between assistant district attorneys and the men and women of the Legal Aid Society, who act as public defenders in the city’s courts.
These people met throughout the day in the corridors and offices of Centre Street, which they made into a continuous legal bazaar. Things were especially bazaarish toward the end of the day, when the overworked representatives of both the accused and the People attempted to dump whatever they could of the next day’s business before the resumption of court in the morning, and the new intake of cases from the coming night’s criminal escapades.
Marlene bought a cardboard cup of coffee from the snack bar and opened her stand in the hallway just outside its steamy portal. Word got around; Legal Aids with cases for which she was designated prosecutor found her and made their offers, which Marlene either accepted or rejected. Within broad limits, the rest of the ponderous system would support her in these decisions. The Legal Aids understood that too. Those who played hard-ass for their clients would be brought up short by their own management, who just as much as the ADA’s had to stay on the good side of the judges, who insisted above all else on the expeditious clearing of their calendars.
So Marlene flipped through the case files with practiced speed, looking for the decisive detail. Was there serious violence, was this the second or the thirty-second arrest, did the cops seriously want the guy off the street, was the guy in jail, and for how long?
Here was a kid, ripped off a tourist’s gold chain in front of Grand Central, arrested, in Rikers Island for six weeks. The tourist was back in Missouri. OK, go for a six-months-suspended, the weeks in Rikers were enough. Thus spake Marlene, playing judge and jury with the authority and aplomb of an Ottoman pasha.
After an hour or so, the crowd thinned out. Marlene stepped into the main hallway. One of the advantages of having an enormous boyfriend, Marlene reflected, was that you could spot him at a mile: he was, in fact, standing at the opposite end of the block-long hallway. She waved to him, but he was locked in a Mutt-and-Jeff tableau with a short portly man in a pin-striped suit.
As she approached, she heard Karp say, “In that case, I guess I’ll see you in court, Mr. Simoney.” The man opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, nodded curtly, and stalked away.
As Marlene walked up, she was struck once again by the
haggardness of Karp’s face, like that of a fighter about to lose a fifteen-round decision. There were circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there a few years ago, and lines carving down from the high cheekbones. He was looking Lincolnesque, in a Jewish sort of way. The pile of her own crap that she was about to lay on him drifted away, and she put on a happy face.
Karp brightened when he saw her. “Hi, cutie,” he said. “Having a nice day?”
“Assistant D.A.’s never have a nice day, as you well know,” replied Marlene grumpily. “I see you made Simoney mad again. He ran away without even saying hello, and he’s one of my favorite slime molds.”
“He’s the defense for Lattimore.”
“The pusher who shot his partner? Is there a problem? I thought you had a good confession.”
“We do,” said Karp. “But while he was resisting arrest the cops bopped him a couple on the head. He came to, the cops were there, read him his rights, and he voluntarily confessed. Good procedure for a change. Simoney is now claiming the confession was offered when Lattimore was not in his right mind due to the severe beating he got. He’s waving Jackson-Denno at me.”
“I thought the decision in Jackson was based on coercion—the guy was in pain, the cops wouldn’t give him water—like that.”
“Yeah, it’s horseshit legally, but I still don’t love taking it to a jury. It’s too easy for the defense to make the case be about the injuries at the time of arrest and the validity of the confession, not about the murder. Also, I don’t have a good witness, the physical evidence is ambiguous, the vic was a scumbag … what I have is a confession with a cloud. Another ‘he did it, but …’ ”
“So you’ll cop him?”
Immoral Certainty Page 36