Bad Faith

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Go on,” Karp said.

  “Well, I don’t believe that Nadya Malovo sees herself fitting into the witness protection program,” Grale said. “I’m not sure how she plans to pull it off, but I think her plot is much grander than that. And I think I have a way of foiling her, and at the same time giving you and me what we want.”

  “I’m all ears,” Karp replied.

  An hour later, Karp arrived outside of his loft. He tipped Farouk handsomely and got out of the taxi. He looked over the top of the cab at the officers in their patrol cars and waved.

  Just as he turned, a dark shadow emerged from the alley next to the building and moved swiftly toward Karp. Something in the figure’s hand flashed.

  “Look out!” Farouk shouted. “He’s got a knife!”

  Karp turned and warded off the downward slash of the knife with his forearm. The blade tore through the arm of his trenchcoat. With his other hand, he punched his assailant in the face, knocking him back.

  “Stop, police!” an officer shouted from across the street.

  The hooded attacker looked over at the police cars and then ran back into the alley as two officers came to the rescue. One of them pursued the attacker into the dark while the other stopped to check on Karp.

  “You okay?” the officer asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Karp replied, then held up the sleeve of his coat. “That was pretty close.”

  The sound of a gunshot came from the alley. Karp and the other officer ran to the entrance and peered into the dark.

  A moment later, Officer Eddie emerged from the shadows. “He got away,” he said. “The guy ran like he can see in the dark. I got a shot off but I don’t know if I hit him.”

  The other officer spoke into the radio transmitter on his shoulder. “All nearby units respond to Crosby and Grand. Be on the lookout for a white male, dark hooded sweatshirt. Suspect is armed.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?” Officer Eddie asked.

  Karp nodded. “Yeah. I know him.”

  “Great! What’s his name? We’ll have a dozen cars surrounding this place in two minutes.”

  “His name is Grale. David Grale. There’s a few warrants out for him; he’s wanted for a half-dozen murders.”

  The other officer pointed to Karp’s sliced coat. “And now attempted murder of the district attorney. Guy’s moving up in the world.”

  29

  FULTON ARRIVED THE NEXT MORNING TO DRIVE HIM TO THE courthouse. “After your little incident with David Grale last night, the press is going to have the place surrounded like Fort Apache,” the detective said. “I talked to Murrow and his phone has been ringing off the hook.”

  The detective held up a copy of the New York Post. HOLY GRALE SLASHES DA, the detective read. “Butch, the Post devoted four pages to Grale, his background, the Mole People, and all the killings he’s responsible for. They even quoted your cab driver.”

  Karp smiled. “You mean the press cares if a mad killer tries to assassinate the district attorney?”

  “So when you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “You drive, and I’ll fill you in.”

  Five minutes later, Fulton knew the story but it didn’t make him happy. “It’s risky as hell,” he said. “You’re relying on a half-mad sociopath who has his own agenda.”

  “Half-mad?” Karp replied with a smile as he got out of the car at the Hogan Place exit, ignoring the shouted questions of the media who were camped outside the security barrier. “I think you’re giving him some credit that may or may not be due. But I think in this case, his agenda meshes with ours. And it may be our best bet to avert a disaster.”

  “I still don’t have to like it,” Fulton said.

  “Neither do I, my friend, neither do I. But get a call in to Jaxon and see if he’ll meet at lunch.”

  Karp was still thinking about Grale and his conversation with Fulton an hour later when Judge Temple asked him to call his next witness.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said, rising. “The People call Monique LaRhonda Hale.”

  A minute later, Fulton escorted the woman into the courtroom. She saw LaFontaine and his lawyer staring at her and immediately burst into tears.

  Karp’s heart went out to her as she approached her seat in the witness box like a condemned prisoner going to her execution. But he needed her; he had fought tooth and nail to have her testimony admitted under the “prior bad acts” doctrine to show that what had happened to Micah Ellis and his parents was part of a pattern of criminal behavior engaged in by the defendant—a sinister scheme to defraud vulnerable moms and dads in search of a “miracle” to save their ailing child.

  Now he had to take the frightened, weeping woman, who’d lost her child and her husband, through the painful memories that began when her daughter, Natalie, got sick and went to the Children’s Hospital to be treated. And that led to the day LaFontaine had shown up at her doorstep shortly after Natalie’s final chemotherapy session had ended.

  “He seemed to know everything about us,” Hale testified. “He even knew that my husband had some run-ins with the law, but he said he knew that Charlie had turned his life around and that if we had total faith in the Lord, Natalie could be cured. But we had to stop taking her to the hospital.”

  “Why not just continue the medical treatments?” Karp asked.

  “She was just so sick, and the doctor said he couldn’t guarantee that she would get well,” Hale replied. “But John—Reverend LaFontaine—was so sure of himself. He said that God would work through him to cure her if we proved we believed in Him.”

  “Did Natalie seem to get better?”

  “Yes, we prayed a lot and it seemed to work.”

  “Did the defendant ever bring anyone else over to your house to help with these prayers?”

  “Yes. Sometimes Nonie Ellis was with him, and sometimes Sister Sarah. They both had little boys who were also being healed through prayer.”

  “Did Sister Sarah have a last name?”

  “I’m sure she did, but I didn’t know it.”

  Karp showed her a mug shot of Sarah Westerberg and asked, “Do you recognize the individual depicted in this photo, People’s Exhibit Thirty for identification?”

  “Yes, that’s her, that’s Sister Sarah.”

  He then showed her a photograph of Nonie Ellis.

  “That’s Nonie.”

  “Did you ever meet their little boys?”

  “I met Micah,” Hale responded. “She brought him over a couple of times to play with Natalie. He was such a nice little boy, and Nonie was a dear.”

  “How about Sarah’s child? Did you meet him?”

  Hale shook her head. “I think his name was Kevin. But no, she never brought him over.”

  “Mrs. Hale, at some point did your relationship with the defendant become more than just that of a spiritual adviser and one of his followers?”

  Hale, who had been doing better since the questioning started, bit her lip and started to cry again. “Yes, one day when my husband, Charlie, was out, he came over and said that he had fallen in love with me. That Jesus had appeared to him in a dream and said that God blessed our love. He said that our union in Christ would prove how committed I was and that it would help Natalie.”

  “So you became lovers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And at some point did your lover, the defendant, come to you with a proposal regarding life insurance for Natalie?”

  “Yes. He asked if Brother Frank, one of the men in his church, could talk to me about life insurance.”

  “Were Brother Frank and LaFontaine close?”

  “Oh yes, Brother Frank came with him to the house several times. They seemed like good friends.”

  “And did Brother Frank talk to you about life insurance?”

  “Yes. He said that someday a policy would be worth a lot of money and we could use it for Natalie’s college education or her—” At that point Hale broke down again and need
ed a few moments to recover before going on. “Or for her wedding.”

  “But it was a life insurance policy that would pay in the event of Natalie’s death?”

  Hale shook her head. “Yes. He said that as long as we kept the faith we didn’t have to worry about that. But he said that if something did happen to her—he made it seem like Charlie couldn’t be trusted—at least some good could come of it by helping LaFontaine’s ministry.”

  “So the death benefits were assigned to LaFontaine and his church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did your husband go along with the plan?”

  “No. He was suspicious of LaFontaine … I think he knew that there was something going on between us. But anyway, he wouldn’t sign it.”

  “So how did you get the policy?”

  “John talked me into letting Frank pretend to be Charlie and Frank signed it.”

  “Did an insurance salesman ever come to your house and ask for the family’s medical history?”

  “Yes. But John said that I shouldn’t tell him about Natalie. He said that it would be the same as saying that the doctors had cured Natalie, and that would be an affront to God.”

  “To your knowledge did the insurance agent learn about Natalie’s condition?”

  “I guess not,” she replied. “Because they gave me the policy.”

  Karp had walked over to the witness stand and poured her a cup of water from the pitcher next to the witness box. He handed it to her.

  Then, standing in close proximity to the jury rail, the judge’s dais, and the witness box, Karp said, “Mrs. Hale, I know this has to be very hard on you; your daughter, Natalie, passed away.”

  “Yes. My little girl died.”

  “And the life insurance company paid the death benefits?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which were signed over to the defendant, John LaFontaine, and his church?”

  “Yes.”

  As the woman cried quietly, Karp gently asked, “Mrs. Hale, did there come a time when your intimate relationship with the defendant ended?”

  Hale nodded and dabbed at her eyes. “I felt so guilty,” she said. “I told him it was over, which didn’t seem to bother him. Then I told Charlie about the affair and the life insurance policy.”

  “What was Charlie’s response?”

  “He was angry, so angry. He went to confront LaFontaine.”

  “Were you there when the confrontation took place?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know firsthand what was said?”

  “No.”

  Karp left it at that. There were some things he could not bring up. He couldn’t talk about what had happened to Charlie Hale. Nor, after vigorous pretrial arguments from Rottingham, was he allowed to enter the underlying facts into evidence, because of its collateral nature, including questioning Monique Hale about the night of the shootings. The judge had agreed with Rottingham that there was not enough evidence connecting the event with LaFontaine and that it would be highly prejudicial and outweigh any probative value.

  With Hale on the stand, Rottingham now did his best to portray her as an adulteress who had been spurned by her lover and had wanted the insurance money for herself and her husband.

  “Mrs. Hale,” he said, emphasizing the “Mrs.” “You were married at the time you began having sex with the Reverend LaFontaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he force himself upon you?”

  “No, he said he was in love and that Jesus told him it was a beautiful thing in the eyes of God and it would help Natalie.”

  “That’s your take,” the defense lawyer said scathingly. “But you don’t have any letters or e-mails to that effect, do you?”

  “No. That’s just what he—”

  “And did the Reverend LaFontaine somehow force you to stop taking Natalie to the hospital for treatment?” Rottingham interrupted.

  “No. But he said that if we did, it would show we didn’t have faith in God and that he wouldn’t pray with us anymore.”

  Rottingham questioned Hale as to whether it was possible that she was confusing Sister Sarah with Nonie Ellis—the two women did resemble each other—and that the former had never visited her home with LaFontaine. But Hale was adamant that Sarah Westerberg had been with the defendant.

  “Was my client with Frank Bernsen when he came over to talk about the life insurance policy?” Rottingham asked.

  “No, he just asked if Frank could talk to me about it and said that he would consider it a personal favor.”

  “And was my client present when Frank Bernsen pretended to be your husband and signed the agreement with the representative of the life insurance company?”

  “No.”

  “And are you aware that as the financial officer of the Holy Covenant Church of Jesus Christ Reformed, Frank Bernsen had complete access to the church bank account?”

  “No. I was never told any of that … I wouldn’t have cared.”

  “Yes, all you cared about was your sexual liaisons outside of your marriage with my client, isn’t that true?”

  “No, I—”

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Rottingham said, cutting her off.

  Karp rose quickly and said, “I believe before your answer was clipped by Mr. Rottingham, you were going to answer his question regarding what you cared about. Would you please answer that question now?”

  “Yes, I cared about my little girl,” Hale said, and burst into tears.

  “Did the defendant convince you that the only way to save your daughter was to stop seeking medical attention and place your faith in him?” Karp said, letting the anger rise in his voice.

  “Yes. And I believed him.”

  30

  “SO EVERYONE IS CLEAR ABOUT THEIR RESPONSIBILITIES FOR tomorrow’s event?”

  Nadya Malovo asked her question in Chechen and then looked at each of the three men sitting across the table from her in the dimly lit basement of a run-down house occupying the middle of a trashed neighborhood in Brooklyn’s Bedford-Stuyvesant.

  “All are ready for the glorious attack,” one man replied, also in Chechen, while a second typed a reply into the laptop computer in front of him and then pressed a button to send his message.

  Malovo looked down at the laptop in front of her as the second man’s message appeared. “We will move into place at the sound of the explosions,” the message read, “and wait for you there.” She smiled and nodded.

  Although the four had been speaking for fifteen minutes, the real conversation was being carried out on the laptops. Sometimes Malovo would ask a question out loud and the first man would give a carefully scripted answer, while the other typed out what she really wanted to know. Sometimes she would ask a question aloud for the first man as well as type another on her laptop to send to the second man.

  She found it humorous that she and the second man were “chatting” on Facebook. The reason for the subterfuge waited in a utility company van parked down the street from the house. Inside the van, federal agents listened in on the spoken conversation with directional microphones that she’d been assured would capture every word—a device she’d anticipated and used to her benefit.

  Two of the men across from her were longtime associates, ex–Russian military special forces and now paid assassins. Both spoke Chechen and English flawlessly, the former helpful when trying to pass as Islamic terrorists from the breakaway Muslim country of Chechnya. With a big payoff looming, she knew they could be trusted and she respected their skills.

  The third man, the traitor, she felt nothing but scorn for, but she needed him and so turned on the charm. “Are you okay, my friend?” she typed, and then smiled in a way that had melted harder hearts than the one this little man possessed.

  The man licked his thin lips nervously but smiled and nodded. “I’ll be ready,” he typed.

  “So what will you be wearing for Halloween?” Malovo said aloud.

  The first man laughed. “Wh
y, we will be dressed as terrorists,” he said, reading from the script. “We hope the infidels will appreciate the irony.”

  The second man didn’t bother to type. She already knew the real answer.

  “How many mujahideen?” she asked aloud.

  As instructed, the first man hesitated before answering her, as though suspicious of the question. “Enough,” he said. “We have spread out so in case one group is discovered, there will be more to carry out the glorious mission. They will wait for your signal and then begin the attack. You will be on the northwest corner of Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street.”

  “Yes,” Malovo replied. “Dressed as Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “Little Red Riding Hood?” the first man asked in English, as if he didn’t understand the description.

  “Yes, a fairy tale,” Malovo replied. “A hooded red cape, carrying a basket. I will be standing with a man dressed as a wolf. Never mind … it is part of the fairy tale.”

  “Who is this ‘wolf’?” the first man asked suspiciously.

  “One of our benefactors,” Malovo replied. “He wishes to observe the event firsthand. I vouch for him, and remember we are all working for Allah’s glory.”

  “Praise be to Allah,” the man replied.

  Finished with the conversation, Malovo got up and climbed the stairs from the basement into the kitchen, where a half-dozen young black men pieced together suicide vests. “Allahu akbar, Ajmaani,” said one of the men nearby, who was stuffing ball bearings into the pockets and lining of one of the vests.

  “Allahu akbar,” Malovo replied. “It appears that you are almost ready for martyrdom!”

  “Yes,” the man answered. He pointed to boxes stacked next to the kitchen door. “We will be wolves among the sheep.”

  “Um, yes, a wonderful blow for Allah,” Malovo said. “Remember, at my signal, rush the float with the enemy Karp on board.”

  “How will we know him? Will he be wearing a costume?”

  “He is the grand marshal and will be on the last float. A tall man, but I do not know how he will be dressed. Now make your peace with Allah, and someday soon, we will all meet again in paradise.”