Bad Faith

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “I’m sorry, but she’s mistaken.”

  “What about Nonie Ellis,” Rottingham said, “did she go with you to prayer sessions at the Hale residence?”

  “Yes, of course,” LaFontaine said. “I’ve found it very beneficial for these families to comfort one another and encourage each other to seek the true road of Jesus Christ.”

  “Would you say there is a resemblance between Nonie Ellis and the woman identified as Sarah Westerberg?”

  LaFontaine frowned and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I’ve never thought about it, but yes, there is. They are about the same age and build. Both have brown hair and brown eyes.”

  The defense attorney returned the photograph. “Reverend LaFontaine, you sat here patiently while Monique Hale described having had a sexual relationship with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you care to respond to that accusation now?”

  LaFontaine’s eyes flashed with anger. “I have never had sex with that woman!”

  Guma nudged Karp and whispered, “What’s next? ‘What’s the meaning of “sex”’?”

  “Is this the first time you’ve heard that accusation?”

  “No,” LaFontaine answered. “After the death of Natalie Hale, Monique’s husband approached me and accused me of having sex with his wife and said he was going to expose me unless I returned the money paid by the insurance company.”

  “And what was your response?”

  “I, of course, told him that it was untrue,” LaFontaine said. “But I also said that I was not going to be blackmailed and that if he wanted the church to give him the money, he could request that in a civilized manner and I would see to it.”

  “What happened?”

  LaFontaine shook his head. “I’m afraid that Mr. Hale was involved in some nefarious activities and my understanding is that he was murdered, possibly as a result.”

  “Did Monique Hale ask for the money back or attempt to blackmail you with this allegation of a sexual liaison?”

  “No,” LaFontaine said. “To be honest, I thought we remained friends and brother and sister in Christ. I have no idea why she has chosen to say these things about me. But greed can be a powerful motivator.”

  Rottingham was quiet for a moment, as though absorbing the wisdom of his client. He walked thoughtfully over toward the jury box before turning back to face LaFontaine. “Reverend LaFontaine, did you ever tell the Hales or the Ellises to quit taking their children to see the physicians who were treating them?”

  “I did not,” LaFontaine replied.

  “How do you talk to people who need spiritual help like the Hales and Ellises?”

  LaFontaine looked from juror to juror before answering. “When someone invites me into their home to talk about the Good Word, I am careful to explain that I am just relaying my beliefs,” he said. “I truly believe that all healing comes from God and that if we place our faith in God, He will reward us with His compassion and love. I do believe that you cannot say, ‘I place my faith one hundred percent in God to heal my child,’ and then turn around and hedge your bets. But that’s just what I believe, and I don’t demand that others believe as I do.”

  “What of those who place their faith in God, and yet their child still dies?”

  LaFontaine looked sadly at his defense attorney and then up at the ceiling as he mouthed some words before looking down. “I do not claim to know why God sometimes calls these innocent angels back to Him even when we ask that they be saved. I am just a man and do not know His purposes; I can only help these families ask for His mercy.”

  “Thank you, Reverend LaFontaine,” Rottingham said quietly before turning to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Temple looked at the clock hanging over the entrance to the courtroom and then addressed counsel and the jurors. “We have reached the lunch hour,” he said. “Mr. Karp, will you be cross-examining this witness?”

  Karp rose from his seat to answer. “Without a doubt, Your Honor, without a doubt.”

  32

  KARP LOOKED AT HIS WATCH AS HE ENTERED HIS OFFICE. “Okay, gang,” he announced. “I have forty-five minutes before I’m due back in court.” He looked around the room at the people gathered there. Espey Jaxon. Jen Capers. Lucy. Ned Blanchett. Clay Fulton.

  Jaxon shook his head. “Listen to the man,” he said. “By tomorrow morning, the world may have gone to hell in a handbasket with him first in line, but he’s working on his summation.”

  “We all do what we can to fight the good fight, Espey,” Karp replied. “Right now I’m trying to deal with one evil man. I’ll leave it to you spooks to handle the hordes from hell.”

  “We’ll try,” Jaxon said. “By the way, you okay?”

  Karp frowned. “Yeah, sure, why?”

  “The attack by David Grale,” Jaxon replied. “I mean, it’s not every day that a serial killer leaps out of the shadows and tries to knife the district attorney of New York County.”

  Feeling the eyes of the others boring into him, Karp shrugged. “He wrecked a favorite trench coat, that’s about it. … So I take it the reason for this visit has to do with tonight’s festivities?”

  “Nice deflection,” Jaxon replied. “And yes, this has to do with tonight.”

  “But Malovo and her handler aren’t part of the conversation?” Karp asked.

  “They must not have seen the memo,” Jaxon replied.

  “I see,” Karp replied, gathering more from the statement than was said. “So what’s the memo regarding?”

  “This has to do with a meeting Malovo had last night in Bed-Stuy with at least some of the elements of this threat,” Jaxon said. “We know that there were at least eight men in the house. At some point, she broke away from the others with one, maybe two, of the men, who appear to be leaders of this cell, or cells, and carried on a conversation for about twenty minutes.”

  “They reveal any details?” Karp said.

  “Some,” Jaxon said, “which we were able to pick up with directional microphones, but we don’t have a complete picture, and for some of it we have to rely on Malovo’s observations, which are always suspect.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Karp said. “For instance?”

  “For instance, she claims that the attack will be made with exploding vests—suicide vests—packed with C4 and ball bearings,” Jaxon said.

  Karp grimaced. “I’ve been wondering how long it was going to take someone to pull a Tel Aviv–shopping mall attack here,” he said. “A lot of casualties, indeterminate casualties. These bastards don’t care who they kill. What else?”

  “Apparently, they’ll be dressed as terrorists,” Jaxon answered. “And the irony is that they’ll probably walk right into the crowd on Halloween and nobody will think twice.”

  “So why don’t we pick them up now?” Karp asked. “Disrupt their plans.”

  Jaxon shook his head. “I wish it was that simple,” he said. “But some of what we heard indicated that there is more than one cell and that the Bed-Stuy group isn’t alone. We’re tracking them, of course. Anybody goes out of that house and we’ve got a tail on him. But as of a half hour ago, they were mostly lying low and there’s been no other contact. If it’s all we got, we’ll grab these guys before they hit the street, but we’re hoping there’s a staging area where the cells will get together and we can round up the whole lot.”

  “One thing we picked up,” Capers interjected, “is that they are all going to wait for a signal from Ajmaani, a.k.a. Malovo, who will be dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and standing on the northwest corner of Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street.”

  “What’s supposed to happen then?” Karp asked.

  The others all exchanged a look. “They’re supposed to rush the float you’re on, and when they get close enough, blow themselves up.”

  “There could be a few thousand people in the area around the float,” Karp noted.

  No one said anything until Jaxon spoke again. “I think we hav
e time to play the recording of this conversation,” he said. “Then Lucy would like to say a few words.” He pulled a small digital recorder from his coat pocket and pressed the Play button.

  Most of the recording had to do with Malovo asking if the preparations were complete and the attackers knew what to do.

  “So what will you be wearing for Halloween?”

  “Why, we will be dressed as terrorists. We hope the infidels will appreciate the irony.”

  “How many mujahideen?”

  “Enough. 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. Dressed as Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “Little Red Riding Hood?”

  “Yes, a fairy tale. 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’?”

  “One of our benefactors. 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.”

  Jaxon stopped the recording for a moment. “At this point she leaves the man she has been talking to and goes upstairs, where, according to her anyway, the others are busy making bombs.” He pressed the Play button again.

  “Allahu akbar, Ajmaani.”

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

  “Yes. We will be wolves among the sheep.”

  “Um, yes, a wonderful blow for Allah. 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.”

  The recording ended and Jaxon placed the machine on the table. “By the way, how will you be dressed?” Jaxon asked.

  Karp smiled. “The Grim Reaper of course.”

  “I hope there’s not much business for you tonight,” Jaxon replied, then turned to Karp’s daughter. “Lucy, you want to take it from here?”

  Lucy nodded and turned toward her dad. “I’ve listened to that recording dozens of times,” she said, “and every time confirms what I thought when I was first hearing it in that van. Something’s not right. In the van, it was just a hunch. But now I’m sure. My first clue was that although Malovo and that first male we heard both speak excellent Chechen, neither of them is, in fact, Chechen. They are so good they could even fool someone from Chechnya who might think any small irregularities were regional differences, like the difference between a Bronx accent and someone from Texas. And these irregularities are so slight that at first I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was troubling me.”

  “Help your old man out here,” Karp said. “What are you getting at?”

  “That Malovo and her pal are both native Russian speakers,” Lucy said. “They’re very well trained, and I’d bet the guy has lived in Chechnya so long that he’s even picked up some of the nuances that are native to the southern part of the country. But every once in a while, he slips; a little bit of Russian creeps in. So the question becomes: Why is Malovo pretending that this guy is from Chechnya?”

  “To fool you guys who are listening,” Karp said.

  “Certainly, if he’s something more than he seems—such as a Russian-trained agent,” Lucy said. “But I think it’s also to fool those other men in the house.”

  Karp glanced at Jaxon, who acknowledged the look with a smile. “Your kid never ceases to amaze,” the agent said.

  Lucy blushed and then continued with her discoveries. “It was nothing really. Any polyglot fluent in Russian and Chechen could have picked up on it.”

  “Yes, but there’s more,” Jaxon said. “Please continue.”

  “Well, my next observation isn’t so much about the telltale markers for native speakers,” Lucy replied, “as it is about speech patterns. Anybody who spends their life listening to and absorbing languages will tell you that there is a huge difference between someone who is responding to questions off the cuff and someone who is reading something aloud. I think the guy responding to Malovo is reading his answers.”

  “But why?” Karp asked.

  “Well, obviously Malovo knew we were listening in, so she could have been making sure we heard what she wanted us to hear,” Lucy said. “But I heard more than she bargained for. When I was trying to pick up what was off about the guy’s Chechen and speech patterns, I turned up the volume. That’s when I heard it, and confirmed it by getting our audio techs to cut the voices out.”

  “Heard what?” Karp said, playing along.

  “Espey, would you replay some of that recording, please, and play it loud?” Lucy said.

  Jaxon picked up the recorder and turned up the volume before playing it again. “There, did you hear that?” Lucy said after the man responded to one of Malovo’s questions.

  “Hear what?” Karp said.

  “Play it again, Espey,” Lucy said. “And, Dad, this time try to tune out the voices and listen to what’s in the background.”

  Jaxon played the recording again. This time, Karp nodded. “I hear some sort of tapping.”

  Lucy laughed. “Espey, tell him how you figured out what the tapping is.”

  Jaxon grinned. “Well I guess this one shows my age, but when she was just starting out, Janis Joplin made a recording in which someone can be heard typing in the background. It’s a classic.”

  “It’s typing?” Karp said. “But who’s typing?”

  “A third person,” Lucy said. “I think it was too much for the first speaker to carry on the faux conversation and type at the same time. What I think is going on is Malovo has one conversation for our ears, and in the meantime, she’s looking at responses from a second guy on a computer—something she doesn’t want us to know about, something she’s cooking up with her fellow Russians. And I don’t think it’s martyrdom.”

  Jaxon gave Karp an appraising look. “I can see the wheels turning in that head,” he said. “You want to let us in on what you’re thinking?”

  Karp sat for a moment looking at the others, then leaned forward. “I’ve been debating whether to talk to you about this—not because I don’t trust you; you know better than that,” he said. “But because I didn’t want to compromise your positions.” He looked at Capers and added, “Especially yours, Jen.”

  “Oooh, this sounds intriguing,” Lucy said.

  “Maybe so,” Karp agreed. “Anyway, I think I had better tell you about a conversation I had with our favorite serial killer the other night.”

  “We were wondering when we were going to hear the real story,” Jaxon said. “Go ahead, I believe you have our undivided attention.”

  33

  LAFONTAINE SETTLED HIMSELF IN THE WITNESS CHAIR AND smiled across the well of the court at the jurors. He then swiveled toward Temple as the judge banged his gavel.

  “I’ll remind you, Reverend LaFontaine, that you are still under oath,” Temple said.

  “Yes, thank you, Your Honor. And God bless you,” LaFontaine said before turning back to the jurors, adding, “And God bless you folks for taking time out of your busy lives.”

  Without changing his expression, Karp glanced at the jurors to see how they reacted to the defendant’s words. He noted that two older women, one black and one white, smiled in return and nodded their heads slightly toward the defendant. He remembered from the jury-selection process that both were regular churchgoers, and it had been clear that the defense wanted them on the jury, which Guma had noted with trepidation.

  However, Karp argued that the strategy could backfire on the defense. “No one likes to have their faith sullied by a charlatan,” he had pointed ou
t. “It’s our job to prove that’s what he is, and we’ll be okay.”

  Now was the moment he would try to do that, and hope that he could help the jurors see through LaFontaine’s veneer of deceit. As he stood waiting for the judge’s okay to begin, he wondered if the defendant was as confident as he appeared on the stand. Probably, he thought. His ego has him convinced that he’s pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes.

  Judge Temple looked at him. “Mr. Karp, are you ready to begin your cross-examination?”

  “I am, Your Honor.” Time to remove the wool. He walked over to stand next to the jury rail. “Mr. LaFontaine—”

  “Reverend LaFontaine.”

  “Mister LaFontaine, you’ve testified that while you express your belief—if it truly is your belief—that faith healing requires complete devotion to the power of prayer while eschewing commonly accepted medical intervention, you do not require your followers to do the same?” Karp asked.

  “That’s correct,” LaFontaine replied. “I explain what I believe and why, as it is outlined in the Bible, and then leave it to others to choose their path.”

  “You do not threaten to withhold your spiritual guidance, or threaten to excommunicate followers from your church if they choose to seek commonly accepted medical intervention?”

  “I do not.”

  “So if Monique Hale says that you do, she is lying?”

  LaFontaine shrugged. “Perhaps she misunderstood.”

  “I see. And did the paramedics and police officers who testified earlier in the trial that you attempted to block their efforts to reach Micah Ellis, who would subsequently die from lack of medical attention, misunderstand you?”

  “I disagree with the characterization that I blocked their way,” LaFontaine said. “I was trying to impart that the wishes of the family were to rely on prayer as opposed to doctors to save their son. But they didn’t care to listen.”

  “Did you threaten to come at them with a sword?”

  “I was speaking biblically,” LaFontaine said. “It isn’t me who will come down with the sword of righteousness on the heads of sinners. It is the Lord.”