Trap (9781476793177)

by Tanenbaum, Robert K.

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  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

  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 b-ball 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 Natasha Simons and Sarah Wright, the inimitable twosome whose adult supervision, oversight, brilliant copyediting, 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

  ZAK KARP FLEXED AGAINST THE ropes that bound his wrists to the arms of the wooden chair. It did no good. He kicked his legs, grunted, and gasped; the veins in his muscular forearms and one in his forehead bulged from the exertion. With a curse he gave up, his breath coming out in white clouds of condensation in the frigid air.

  Sitting in the chair next to him with his eyes closed, Zak’s twin brother, Giancarlo, let his breath out slowly. “Quit fighting it,” he said quietly, and then opened his eyes. “The more you struggle, the tighter the knots get. I think if I can just relax enough, I might be able to slip out of mine. But I can’t concentrate with you thrashing around like a fish out of water.”

  “Well, you better hurry before our ‘friend’ gets back, oh great Yoda,” Zak replied. “I’m too young to die . . . I’ve never even been past third base with a girl or pitched for the Yankees. And, I was about to become bar mitzvah with every obnoxious, pimple-faced thirteen-year-old Jewish kid on the Upper East Side.”

  Giancarlo couldn’t help chuckling at his twin’s dark humor despite their predicament. But then he frowned. “I thought you gave up on that,” he said. “You didn’t want to identify as being a Jew anymore.”

  As Giancarlo spoke he studied his “older” brother’s handsome face with its strong Italian features and coloring of their mother, Marlene Ciampi. He knew there was some bruising on the other side of his face from blows he’d received from their abductor, but Zak was a tough guy and not about to acknowledge that it hurt. He was Giancarlo’s elder only by a few minutes but all of their lives he’d been first in many ways. Bigger, stronger, faster—the better, more natural athlete. He’d also been born with the fiery temperament of the Mediterranean side of their family, which sometimes worked to his advantage—such as making quick decisions and following through without hesitation—but had also landed them in hot water on occasion. Such as now, Giancarlo thought.

  Giancarlo had the more delicate visage—still leaning more toward their mother’s Sicilian ancestry than their father’s Slavic roots, but more refined and paler than his brother. Although an average, if determined, athlete, he also played a half-dozen instruments from the violin to the accordion, and schoolwork came easily for him. Zak was no slouch when it came to brains, even if he sometimes acted before thinking, but Giancarlo was decidedly the more cerebral, and cautious, of the two.

  “Yeah, well, maybe this Nazi son of a bitch changed my mind for me,” Zak retorted, and then twisted violently against the restraints for what little good it did. He bellowed with helplessness.

  They both knew that no one would hear him. The old tenement building was as solid as the Manhattan bedrock on which it stood. Rust-colored brick walls, thick subflooring, and massive beams that comprised the loft seemed to absorb sound into the shadows. They could hear the outside world through the missing panes of glass in some of the windows. But other than the loud clomping of their heavy-booted captor’s comings and goings, they’d not heard any other sounds of habitation from the floors below them.

  The loft itself appeared to be in the midst of a renovation project that had ground to a halt. Several sawhorses and odd bits of lumber and drywall, as well as the bench, were scattered around the largely empty open space. But no workmen had been by in the two days since their abduction, and the teens had surmised that they were sitting in the detritus of yet another New York City developer who’d run out of money in mid-construction.

  The building itself was near the East River, and they could clearly hear the frequent sounds of water traffic, especially the clarion whistles of the tugboats, which seemed to be both plentiful and close by. Most of the windows in the loft were boarded up or covered with sheets, but by craning their necks, they could see through two large picture windows behind them that weren’t covered. Across a short distance they observed another former tenement that had been converted to condominiums with lots of windows and a new façade partly covering the old bricks.

  “I hope that’s because you’ve had a change of heart about what it means to be a Jew, not because you’re afraid of what might happen,” Giancarlo said. “Because if that’s the case, you’d be better off committing to Mom’s Catholic side of the family. That way you can ask for forgiveness and poof when you die you go straight to paradise. Judaism’s a little nebulous on whether there’s any such thing as heaven.”

  “Up yours,” Zak retorted. “I’m serious. This guy’s an example of what Jews have always had to put up with. If I have to die, like Mrs. Lubinsky said, I’ll choose to do it as a Jew; I’m just saying I’d like to get through my bar mitzvah first.”

  Giancarlo bit off the sarcastic remark he was going to make and nodded. “Sorry I doubted you.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” Zak replied. “I would have doubted me, too. But enough of all this talk about dying; I’m not ready. So start meditating or whatever it is you do and make like Houdini and escape before the Storm Trooper gets back.”

  Giancarlo’s response was interrupted by a moan from their right. They looked over to where an old woman lay on a filthy mattress that had been placed on the floor.

  “I don’t think Goldie’s doing so good,” Zak observed. “She hasn’t opened her eyes since we got here.”

  Giancarlo shook his head, then suddenly shrieked.

  “Jesus! What’s the matter with you?” Zak demanded in anger and alarm.

  “A rat! A rat just crawled up on my shoulder!”


  “Where is it now?”

  “I don’t know; it jumped down when I shouted!”

  “You mean when you screamed like a twelve-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. I thought it was something serious.”

  “I don’t like rats.”

  “You and our pal,” Zak said. “You see the way he freaks when he sees a rat? Anyway, it’s gone now so go back to being calm and get us out of here.”

  Giancarlo had just closed his eyes again when they heard someone stomping up the stairs and knew that their abductor had returned. The door opened, revealing a tall young man in his midtwenties with a shaved, bullet-shaped head and the sculpted body of a weight lifter. His thin lips turned down in a perpetual frown, and his dark eyes had a feral intelligence to them. But his notable features were the “Sieg Heil” that had been tattooed in black letters two-inches high across his forehead, and the swastikas inked onto the temples on either side of his head.

  The young man trudged into the room and stopped next to the workbench. “Looks like the old Jew bitch isn’t long for this world anyway, ja mein kleiner Juden?”

  “Give me a break with the lousy German,” Zak scoffed. “You’re just a muscle freak from Brooklyn, and you sound like a bad Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.”

  The young man’s face flushed dark red as he stormed over to where the twins sat. “Great, now you’ve done it again,” Giancarlo said dryly. This wasn’t the first time his brother had antagonized their abductor, hence the bruising.

  However, just as the young man raised his hand to hit him, Zak yelled, “Hey creep, you see the rat?”

  The young man stopped in his tracks and his eyes grew round with fear. He whirled in the direction Zak was nodding. In the shadows over by the wall, a large gray rat sat on its haunches watching them. Looking around wildly, the young man picked up a piece of wood from the floor and flung it at the rodent. The rat easily dodged the missile and scampered back through a hole in the wall of one corner of the room.

  Turning back toward the twins, the young man sneered. “I’m not afraid of a fucking rat.”

  “Yeah, sure you’re not. That’s why you’re shaking like a leaf.”

  This time the young man backhanded Zak across his face. The teen absorbed the blow without a sound, except to spit blood out from his now-split lips. He glared up at his assailant. “You’ll regret that.”

  The young man raised his hand again but hesitated when their eyes met. He quavered ever so slightly and lowered his hand. “We’ll see who has regrets here in a minute when you’re begging for your life,” he laughed. He held up a cell phone as he typed in a number. There was a pause as he listened to the line ringing.

  “You there, Karp?” he snarled. “I’m putting you on speakerphone.”

  “I’m here,” a voice replied. “Let the boys and the woman go; they had nothing to do with what happened to your mother.”

  The young man laughed derisively. He picked a gun up off of the table, an older model Luger, and walked toward the twins. “Are you listening, Karp?” he shouted. “I want you to hear me shoot your sons.”

  “They didn’t do anything to you,” Karp replied evenly.

  “No, but you did,” the young man repeated. “My mom’s dead because I wasn’t there to save her. And you know why, Karp? Because you and your nigger cop had me locked up.”

  “You were arrested for refusing a lawful command.”

  “I was arrested because I’m white, and I was exercising my right to free speech,” the young man retorted. “And then you kept me in jail because you think I planted that bomb.”

  “I was asking you questions,” Karp said. “That’s my job. Look, I know you didn’t plant that bomb.”

  “You’re lying; all Jews lie,” the young man yelled into the phone. “You’re trying to trick me. Besides, it is too late and you and I both know it. But you made me do it, Karp. I told you my mom needed me, but you wouldn’t listen. Instead, you decided I was guilty and went after my mom.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you fucking burned my mom’s apartment while I was in jail!”

  “That’s not true. She was smoking in bed and her cigarette started a fire.”

  The young man’s face contorted in rage. “More lies! I’m not listening to any more lies. So I’m going to give you a choice, Karp, which kid gets it first?”

  “Please, as a father I’m asking you not to do this . . .”

  “Dad?” Giancarlo said.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  “See, you’ll even lie to your kids,” the young man said. “It’s not going to be okay. But I am going to give you a choice, Karp, which one do I shoot first?”

  “Me, shoot me.” The old woman’s voice surprised them all. Goldie Sobelman was standing unsteadily on her feet, her hands bound at the wrist in front of her. “I’m old. Shoot me if you must kill someone for your mother.”

  The young man pointed the gun at her.

  “No, me,” Giancarlo said. “I’m not afraid of you, you Nazi son of a bitch.”

  The young man’s eyes blazed with rage as he swung the gun back toward Giancarlo. “Well, you should be,” he snarled.

  “Hey, asshole!” Zak yelled.

  “WHAT?” the young man shouted back.

  “Catch.”

  1

  Brooklyn, weeks earlier

  THE LARGE MAN IN THE Brooks Brothers suit sitting in the back of the bar on Jay Street in Brooklyn nudged the nicely dressed younger man next to him. “There’s the bitch now.” He then rose from his seat and lifted his hand as the slightly stooped, elderly, gray-haired woman bundled against the cold in a long wool coat walked in the door.

  She spotted him and grimaced as if she’d just smelled something rotten before she noticed the young man. A look of pain and sorrow crossed her face, but when he couldn’t look her in the eyes, she took a deep breath and let it out with the shake of her head. Her mouth was set in a firm, hard line as she navigated through the other patrons to their table.

  When she arrived, the older of the two men stuck out his hand, but she ignored it and turned toward his younger companion. “I can’t say I approve of the company you keep these days, Micah, but it is nice to see you,” she said as she sat down.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Rose,” Micah Gallo replied quietly.

  A waitress strolled over and Rose Lubinsky asked for a glass of water. Shrugging, the older man tapped the rim of his highball glass to indicate that he wanted another Old Forester bourbon. Pricey stuff, but the president of the largest teachers union in New York State, with his quarter-of-a-million-dollar salary and under-the-table perks, could afford it.

  Despite his expensive tastes in clothes, cars, women, and bourbon, Thomas “Tommy” Monroe came from the old Irish-Italian neighborhood of Bensonhurst, the son of a schoolteacher mom and a truck-driving father. A big guy, he’d played football for a second-tier college team until he got kicked off the squad for fighting with his teammates and coaches, and then walking out on an “anger management” class he’d been ordered to attend if he wanted to stay. Following an “incident” in which he’d been accused of raping a coed at a fraternity party, he’d then been invited to leave the college altogether and had to finish his degree and get his teacher’s certificate at a small liberal arts college in New Jersey that didn’t care about his character as long as he paid his tuition.

  After graduation, he took a job as a PE teacher and wrestling coach at Public School 238 in Brooklyn but found his true calling working for the Greater New York Teachers Federation. Like all other public school teachers, he’d had to sign up with the union when he first got hired—there was no choice in the matter and dues were automatically taken out of his paycheck. But as the son of a teamster and a proud member of the teachers union, he’d been fine with it and soon found out that his penchant for cracking heads and kicking asses on behalf of the GNYTF was useful to the hierarchy. He could turn on the macho char
m when necessary, but it was his ruthlessness and street smarts that helped him climb the union power ladder and eventually got him elected president.

  That had been twenty years ago and now in his early sixties, the former athlete had gone to seed. His ruddy Irish face and red nose belied his affection for booze and the good life, as did the beer belly that hung over the top of his expensive, tailored pants. And he’d long since lost his sense of duty to union members, except as pawns to manipulate in order to stay in power and fund his lifestyle.

  “Whatever works” was his motto when dealing with opponents, both those inside the union—including reform-minded individuals—and those on the outside. One of the most tenacious of the latter, and the reason for this meeting with Rose Lubinsky, were the proponents of charter schools. The charter school movement in New York got its start in 1998, and after being held in check—mainly due to union lobbying—for ten years, had been expanding ever since thanks in large part to Lubinsky, the president of the New York Charter Schools Association and the heart and soul of the movement. Limited to a hundred schools in that first decade, there were four times that number now and a serious threat to the union and thus to Monroe.

  The reasons were simple. First of all, the charter schools, although public and taxpayer-funded, were nonunion. This diluted the power of the traditional large teachers unions like the GNYTF to control education in New York State. And every one of those nonunion teachers represented a loss in union dues. Fewer bucks meant losing political clout by curtailing lobbying, or outright buying of, politicians and the leaders of the union-funded, anti-charter parent groups. It also meant less money for the union president’s salary and bonuses, as well as the hidden slush fund available for his “expenses.”

  For the first time in years, Monroe felt his position as union president was being threatened by increasingly unhappy members. Every student sitting in a charter schoolroom instead of the union-dominated public school rolls meant less money from the state and federal governments which based their financial support on enrollment. Losing funding affected raises and bonuses for union teachers, too. However, the members’ dissatisfaction was as much about working conditions as it was money. Public school classes were overcrowded, filled with indifferent and even hostile students, and lacked any support from most of the parents.