PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
ROBERT K. TANENBAUM
“BAD FAITH IS ROBERT TANENBAUM’S BEST THRILLER EVER. THE CUTTING-EDGE LEGAL ISSUES—RELIGION COLLIDING HEAD-ON WITH MEDICAL ETHICS—SPIKED WITH A STUNNING ASSASSIN INVOLVED IN AN INTERNATIONAL TERRORIST THREAT, ARE A DEADLY MIX FROM ONE OF MY FAVORITE AUTHORS. FANS CLAMORING FOR MORE BUTCH KARP WILL FIND HIM AT THE TOP OF HIS GAME.”
—Linda Fairstein, New York Times bestselling author of Night Watch
“ONE HELL OF A WRITER.”
—New York Post
“A WRITER WORTH KNOWING.”
—The Washington Post
… AND HIS HEART-POUNDING BUTCH KARP THRILLERS
“GRITTILY REALISTIC.”
—Booklist
“VIVID, WITTY, UNFLAGGING, AND ZESTFUL.”
—Los Angeles Times
“GUARANTEED TO KEEP FANS HANGING FROM A CLIFF.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“CHILLING DOWN TO THE MARROW.”
—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of The Devil Colony
A parent’s worst nightmare sets the stage for the exhilarating new thriller in Robert K. Tanenbaum’s New York Times bestselling Butch Karp series.
New York District Attorney Butch Karp has no qualms about putting David and Nonie Ellis on trial following the excruciating death of their young son, Micah. To him, the case is cut-and-dried—reckless manslaughter. Helpless ten-year-old Micah counted on his parents to protect him from the effects of a rare but treatable cancer. Instead, the Ellis family relied solely on prayer and the guidance of snake-oil salesman Reverend C. G. Westlund, of the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected, to save him.
Westlund and his zealous followers set up camp outside the DA’s office, angrily protesting the indictment of their “brother” and “sister,” but the charismatic leader’s true objective is to create a diversion from an alarming fraud. He coerced Nonie Ellis into signing an insurance policy that listed himself and the church as beneficiaries in the event of Micah’s death, but he needs the Ellises to be exonerated to get the payout. When David Ellis discovers the deception, no amount of faith can save him from his gruesome fate.
Amid the firestorm of controversy surrounding the case, Karp’s wife, private investigator Marlene Ciampi, heads to Memphis to uncover Westlund’s past. The evidence she finds is enough to blow the top off the con man’s scheme—if she doesn’t get herself blown away in the process. Back in Manhattan, meanwhile, Karp is confronted by a deadly nemesis from the past who has explosive plans of her own. The edge-of-your-seat action comes to a head at the annual Halloween parade when a merciless struggle between good and evil metes out its own fatal form of justice.
ROBERT K. TANENBAUM is one of the country’s most respected and successful trial lawyers and legal experts. He has never lost a felony case. He has taught Advanced Criminal Procedure at his alma mater, the Boalt Hall School of Law, University of California at Berkeley, and held such prestigious positions as Bureau Chief of the Criminal Courts, Chief of the Homicide Bureau for the New York District Attorney’s office, and Deputy Chief Counsel for the Congressional committee investigations into the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He has also conducted continuing legal education (CLE) seminars for practicing lawyers in California, New York, and Pennsylvania. He is the USA Today, Los Angeles Times, and New York Times bestselling author of twenty-four novels, including Outrage, Betrayed, Capture, Escape, Malice, Counterplay, Fury, Hoax, Absolute Rage, and Enemy Within. He is also the author of the true-crime books Badge of the Assassin and The Piano Teacher: The True Story of a Psychotic Killer. There are more than twelve million copies of his books in print.
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JACKET DESIGN BY JAE SONG
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AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY BLAKE LITTLE
COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON & SCHUSTER
BAD FAITH
ALSO BY ROBERT K. TANENBAUM
Outrage
Betrayed
Capture
Escape
Malice
Counterplay
Fury
Hoax
Resolved
Absolute Rage
Enemy Within
True Justice
Act of Revenge
Reckless Endangerment
Irresistible Impulse
Falsely Accused
Corruption of Blood
Justice Denied
Material Witness
Reversible Error
Immoral Certainty
Depraved Indifference
No Lesser Plea
NONFICTION
The Piano Teacher: The True Story of a Psychotic Killer
Badge of the Assassin
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Robert K. Tanenbaum
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition June 2012
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tanenbaum, Robert.
Bad faith / Robert K. Tanenbaum.—1st Gallery Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Karp, Butch (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Ciampi, Marlene (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Trials (Murder)—New York (State)—New York. I. Title.
PS3570.A52B33 2012
813'.54—dc23
2012000707
ISBN 978-1-4516-3552-2
ISBN 978-1-4516-3559-1 (eBook)
To those blessings in my life:
Patti, Rachael, Roger, Billy, and my brother, Bill;
and
To the loving Memory of
Reina Tanenbaum
My sister, truly an angel
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1:
Chapter 2:
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
Chapter 6:
Chapter 7:
Chapter 8:
Chapter 9:
Chapter 10:
Chapter 11:
Chapter 12:
Chapter 13:
Chapter 14:
Chapter 15:
Chapter 16:
Chapter 18:
Chapter 19:
Chapter 20:
Chapter 21:
Chapter 22:
Chapter 23:
Chapter 24:
Chapter 25:
Chapter 26:
Chapter 27:
Chapter 28:
Chapter 29:
Chapter 30:
Chapter 31:
Chapter 32:
Chapter 33:
Chapter 34:
Chapter 35:
Chapter 36:
Chapter 37:
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my legendary mentors, District Attorney Frank S. Hogan and Henry Robbins, both of whom were larger in life than in their well-deserved and hard-earned legends, everlasting gratitude and respect; to my special friends and brilliant tutors at the Manhattan DAO, Bob Lehner, Mel Glass, and John Keenan, three of the best who ever served and whose passion for justice was unequaled and uncompromising, my heartfelt appreciation, respect, and gratitude; to Professor Robert Cole and Professor Jesse Choper, who at Boalt Hall challenged, stimulated, and focused the passions of my mind to problem-solve and to do justice; to Steve Jackson, an extraordinarily talented and gifted scrivener whose genius flows throughout the manuscript and whose contribution to it cannot be overstated, a dear friend for whom I have the utmost respect; to Louise Burke, my publisher, whose enthusiastic support, savvy, and encyclopedic smarts qualify her as my first pick in a game of three on three in the Avenue P park in Brooklyn; to Wendy Walker, my talented, highly skilled, and insightful editor, many thanks for all that you do; to Mitchell Ivers and Natasha Simons, the inimitable twosome whose adult supervision, oversight, and rapid responses are invaluable and profoundly appreciated; to my agents, Mike Hamilburg and Bob Diforio, who in exemplary fashion have always represented my best interests; to Coach Paul Ryan, who personified “American Exceptionalism” and mentored me in its finest virtues; to my esteemed special friend and confidant Richard A. Sprague, who has always challenged, debated, and inspired me in the pursuit of fulfilling the reality of “American Exceptionalism,” and to Rene Herrerias, who believed in me early on and in so doing changed my life, truly a divine intervention.
PROLOGUE
THE HANDSOME YOUNG NEW YORK FIRE DEPARTMENT paramedic jumped from the back of the ambulance with his gear bag and looked up at the old four-story walk-up on the Upper West Side. Once a haven for junkies, including the infamous Needle Park, much of the neighborhood had been gentrified and cleaned up. However, the West 88th Street building, located between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues, had fallen into disrepair. The steps leading up to the building’s entrance, like the sidewalks along the narrow, tree-lined street, were cracked and uneven; a rusted fire escape climbed the faded red bricks of the façade; what paint remained around the windows was peeling away.
There was certainly nothing charming about the bitter November evening air, nor the three large white men standing in front of the stoop who moved to block the paramedic. “False alarm,” said the man on the left, the words coming out from his bearded lips in puffs of condensation that hung briefly in the chill breeze before dissipating.
“Sorry, but we got a 911 call about a child in medical distress, and I have to check it out,” the paramedic replied. He tried to step past, but the man in the middle—the tallest of the three and ruggedly handsome, with long wavy gray hair swept back from his tan face—placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and stopped him.
“Sorry, brother, but as Brother Frank just told you, your services are not needed here,” the man said, fixing the paramedic with his intense blue eyes. He was smiling wide, his big white teeth flashing in the dusk, but there was nothing friendly about his demeanor.
The paramedic scowled and brushed the larger man’s hand off of his shoulder. “I’m not your, brother, mac, so keep your mitts to yourself.”
“What’s the problem, Raskov?”
The paramedic, Justin Raskov, turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. “Yo, Bails, these jokers won’t let me in the building,” he replied to the other paramedic coming up behind him.
“Well, it ain’t up to them,” Donald “Bails” Bailey Sr. growled as he moved ahead of his partner to glare at the three big men confronting them. “We got an emergency call for this address and we legally have to check it out. And you, my friend,” he added, thrusting his jaw at his opponent’s face, “are breaking the law, and I’m maybe two seconds from siccing New York’s finest on your ass.”
In his experience, Raskov was used to seeing even the most recalcitrant people move out of the way when stared down by his pugnacious partner, a muscular middle-aged black man who’d been a staff sergeant in the army and still carried himself like one. But the three other men closed ranks, two behind the third, who was obviously the leader and now raised his hand palm-outward and thundered, “‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS THROUGH, LEST I COME OUT WITH THE SWORD AGAINST YOU!’”
At the unexpected outburst, Raskov took a step back but Bailey stood his ground and rolled his eyes. “Frickin’ great,” he sighed. “We got us a Bible thumper. Numbers 20:18, right? Yeah, I know the Good Book, too, and I’ll take that as a threat.” He looked back at the ambulance, whose driver had his head out of the window and was listening to the exchange. “Hey, Dougy, call the cops and tell them we got three morons preventing us from responding to a 911 medical emergency, and one of them just said he was going to attack us with a sword.”
When he finished, Bailey looked back at the three men and tilted his head with a slight smile on his face. “Tell you what, asshole. If there’s somebody in that building who needs our help and doesn’t get it on time because of your cute little antics, it’ll be on your head.”
Disconcertingly, the big man smiled back. “The true believers of this household are under the protection of the Lord.”
“Yeah, we’ll see how that works when the cops show up,” Raskov said.
As if on cue, a patrol car swung around the corner and pulled over to the curb behind the ambulance. Two officers got out and hurried up to the knot of men. “What seems to be the problem here?” the older officer asked.
“Hey, Sergeant Sadler, how ya doin’?” Raskov said to the cop. “We got a 911 call that a child has a medical emergency in apartment 3C. But these jokers won’t let us check it out.”
Sadler nodded at the paramedics. “Evening, Justin, Don,” he said before frowning and turning to the three men on the stoop. “One of you want to explain?” he asked.
The man who’d shouted the biblical verse stepped forward. “I am the Reverend C. G. Westlund and God’s emissary at the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected. I speak for the family in apartment 3C. The call was in error and any intervention by these gentlemen would be against the family’s religious beliefs.”
“Well … reverend … is it true there’s a sick kid in there?” the sergeant asked, his voice indicating that his patience was not going to last long.
“The child’s infirmities of the body are being healed by the power of prayer,” Westlund answered. “God’s will and compassion are the only medicine the child needs.”
“Then with all due respect … get your ass out of the way, and let the paramedics do their job,” Sadler barked. “That or you, me, and your pals here are all going to take a little ride down to the precinct house, where I’ll toss your butts in the pokey for obstructing these fine officers of the NYFD in the performance of their lawful duties.”
Westlund turned his head slightly to his right, and the man he’d identified earlier as “Brother Frank” suddenly rushed forward with a growl as though to attack the sergeant. But Trent Sadler, a grizzled old veteran who’d been dealing with street thugs and violent criminals for more than twenty-five years, was ready. He stepped neatly to the side and in one swift motion pulled a Taser stun device from the holster on his belt and applied it to the neck of the would-be assailant.
The smile disappeared from Westlund’s face and he glared at the police sergeant. But he then moved aside, followed by his man. “‘The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God,’” the preacher warned them.
“What?” Sergeant Sadler replied.
“It’s Second Corinthians 4:4,” Bailey said. “The guy is a walking Bible quote. Loony tunes if you ask me.”
“Yeah, well, I like a good sermon on Sunday,” Sadler replied. “But not when it’s wasting our time and there’s a kid who needs help. Follow me; I’ll make sure no one gets in the way. O’Leary, bring up the rear as soon as you hand Brother Frank over to the backup … and tell them to keep the good reverend out of the building, otherwise he and his other goon are free to go.”
With that the sergeant entered the building with the two paramedics hustling along behind him. Reaching apartment 3C, he pounded on the door. “Police, open up!”
An older woman with frizzled hair, poorly dyed to a sort of burnt orange, answered the door. “Are you believers?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Sadler replied. “We believe there’s a sick child on the premises, and these two men need to see him.”
The woman’s eyes widened and she tried to close the door. “No doctors! Blasphemers!” she shrieked. “You can’t come in!”
Bad Faith Page 1