Dirty Warren said nothing. He just smiled and closed his eyes as he turned his face up toward the sun.
KARP WAS STILL thinking about the Amistad quote when he and Ewin again crossed Baxter Street and approached the side entrance. They’d almost reached the door when someone yelled.
“There you are, you fucking Nazi lover!”
A large bearded man in a tattered Army coat emerged from behind a Dumpster and started walking toward them. “I’ve been waiting for you, Karp,” the man shouted and raised a gun.
Karp felt himself shoved roughly to the side by Ewin, who stepped in front of him, gun drawn. “Drop the gun!” the officer yelled and aimed.
The bearded man stopped and let the gun fall. It made a sound as if it was made of plastic. “It’s fake, just like you, Karp,” the man said just before Ewin tackled him to the ground.
Karp watched as other officers rushed up and helped Ewin subdue the faux assassin. When the man was hauled off, he walked over to Ewin and held out his hand. “Good work, kiddo. You can keep the job, permanent,” he said.
“No worries,” Ewin replied, his face turning red. “It was a toy gun.”
“You didn’t know that when you stepped in front of me,” Karp pointed out.
“As my dear old mum used to say, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ I was just doing my job,” the officer replied. “Now, I believe you have a trial to attend, unless you want me to call you in sick?”
Karp shook his head and laughed. “I guess if you can shrug off thinking you were about to take a bullet for me, I can find my way back up to the courtroom and do my job.” He started to head for the door when Ewin spoke behind him.
“Hey, Mr. Karp, I appreciate what you do, too,” Ewin said. “Somebody’s got to hold the line for the community, and I’m glad it’s you.”
Something about the officer’s comment seemed to return Karp’s sense of calm. Everybody in a healthy, functioning society has to do their job, and mine is to search for the truth and root out those who endanger the community, he thought. Time to refocus on this case.
It wasn’t that he would immediately forget about what just happened. But he had always been a first-class compartmentalizer, and the case, the courtroom, and the chase for justice beckoned him.
When Kenny Katz came rushing into the courtroom and found Karp calmly sitting at the prosecution table, going over his notes on his yellow legal pad, he exclaimed, “I just heard! Are you okay?”
Karp looked up. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Katz was a highly decorated former Army sergeant, but his jaw dropped. “I’ve been in combat,” he said, “and know what it’s like to have a gun pointed at you. I’d still be shaking if that had happened to me outside.”
“Maybe it will catch up to me later,” Karp conceded. “But I don’t have time for it right now. Is there anything you want to ask me about what we’re doing here before the judge returns?”
Apparently the entire courthouse had heard about the incident with the bearded man because when Judge Rainsford returned to the courtroom he, too, was concerned. “Would you like to recess for the day?” he asked. “We can pick this up again tomorrow if you’d like some time to decompress.”
“Yes, boychick,” Mendelbaum chimed in. “Take your time. That had to be traumatic, ach, such a world we live in, my friend.”
At that moment, Karp happened to glance over Mendelbaum’s shoulder and saw Olivia Stone looking at him. She alone seemed to be enjoying the news and sat with a smirk on her face. Their eyes met, and upon seeing her expression, his resolve hardened. “No, I’m good,” he said, still looking at her, only now he was the one who smiled. “I don’t want to slow this freight train down.”
The smirk on Stone’s face vanished, as did the anger and hatred that had been there throughout the trial. Instead, fear jumped into her eyes as the blood drained from her face. She turned away and pretended to be taking notes on a legal pad.
With that, the judge directed his chief clerk Farley to bring the jury in. Once they were seated, he told Karp to call his next witness.
“The People call Francis LaFontaine,” Karp said. He and the rest of the people in the courtroom turned to look at the back of the room, where the two swinging doors were opened by a court security officer. A pasty-faced man in a wheelchair appeared. He was either in great pain, or so disgusted by what he saw that his face contorted into a grimace as another officer pushed him into the courtroom and to the front of the witness box.
“Raise your right hand and swear after me,” Farley said.
Instead of raising his hand in the normal fashion, LaFontaine gave a Nazi salute. Seeing it, Karp’s blood boiled. Earlier that morning, he’d met with the bar owner, who was none too happy about testifying. “I don’t recognize the authority of the United Jews of America,” he had said.
“Be that as it may,” Karp had said, “I will remind you that you pleaded guilty to possessing a handgun and a sawed-off shotgun in New York City. If you testify truthfully, and don’t give everyone a load of your Nazi crap, I’ll tell the sentencing judge that you cooperated and that you told the truth. But if you want to play games, or you lie, and I’ll know it, I will do my best to make sure you get maximum time in state prison.”
That put LaFontaine in his place at the time. Now he was acting up and Karp was angry. But Farley just gave LaFontaine a baleful look. “Do you promise to tell the truth, sir?”
For a moment, LaFontaine looked like he was going to spout off, but he half-glanced over his shoulder at Karp and seemed to think better of it. “Yeah, I’ll tell the truth.”
“He’s all yours, Mr. Karp,” Farley said, rolling his eyes.
“Thank you,” Karp said as he positioned himself in front of the jury, facing LaFontaine. “Mr. LaFontaine, do you belong to the American Nazi Party?”
“Proud, card-carrying member for more than thirty years,” LaFontaine said.
“As part of that group, do you look down on other races?”
“I believe in the separation of races and the inherent superiority of the white race.”
“Does that include a dislike for those of the Jewish faith?” Karp asked.
“Why sure. Anybody with half a mind knows that Jews are behind most of the problems in the world,” LaFontaine said. “Grasping, evil, half-human Jews are trying to establish a One World Order and subjugate everyone else, especially the white race, which they despise.”
“You are aware I am proud to be a Jew and that people like you I find to be repulsive.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“And therefore, you don’t like me?”
LaFontaine’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “You’re just another dirty Jew as far as I’m concerned.”
“Mr. LaFontaine, would you explain to the jury the reason you’re in a wheelchair?”
“Yeah, a son of a bitch named Lars Forsling shot me,” LaFontaine said. “One bullet severed my spine so my legs don’t work, and another tore up my guts so I have to wear a colostomy bag.”
“We’ll come back to that event in a minute. In the meantime, as a result of the police investigation into the shooting, were you also charged with crimes?”
“Yeah, some real penny-ante shit,” LaFontaine replied. “Like some weapons charges?”
“You pleaded guilty to possession of a handgun and a sawed-off shotgun and agreed to testify today, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you offered any sort of ‘deal’ for your testimony?”
“Hell no, ’cause I’m white,” LaFontaine said. “You’d have never even arrested a nigger for the same charges.”
“Were you told anything about your testimony today by me?”
“Yeah, you said if I tell the truth, you’ll tell the judge who sentences me.”
“I believe you already told the jurors that you knew Lars Forsling?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“How did you meet him?”<
br />
“He started showing up at some of our meetings.”
“By ‘our meetings,’ you’re talking about meetings of Nazi party members?”
“Our little local group, yes.”
“And where did you have these meetings?”
“In my bar, The Storm Trooper, over in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Approximately how long had you known Mr. Forsling before the events that put you in a wheelchair?”
LaFontaine thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Six months, maybe a little more.”
“Could you describe for the jurors his personality and demeanor when you first met him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, was he loud or quiet, shy or friendly?”
“At first he was kind of shy. But he warmed up pretty quick, especially when he started talking about how he hated niggers and Jews. That went over well with the rest of the boys.”
“Did he tell you much about his private life?”
“Not really. I know he lived with his mother somewhere over on the Upper East Side and got a job shortly before all this shit happened as a night watchman at some construction site within walking distance of where he lived.”
“Did his personality and demeanor change over time?”
“Yeah,” said LaFontaine who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “A lot of our members ain’t the brightest bulbs in the pack, if you understand my meaning. They’re kind of natural-born followers.”
“But Forsling was different?”
“Well, he was smart, I’ll give him that,” LaFontaine said. “He started reading everything about the National Socialist Movement he could get his hands on, and could spout it all back out. That impressed a lot of the members, though I always thought there was something not quite right about him.”
“Did he start to take on more of a leadership role?”
“Yeah, the guys started looking up to him, especially after he came up with the idea of joining other groups in the city for the American Kristallnacht,” LaFontaine said. “Actually it was supposed to go on all over the country, but that sort of fizzled out. We had one of the better turnouts here in Manhattan.”
“Can you explain to the jurors what Kristallnacht means?”
“Sure, the original Kristallnacht, or the Night of Broken Glass was a great uprising in 1938 in Germany and Austria. Good, hardworking Aryans who were tired of Jews ruining the economy and causing them hardships took to the streets and busted up a bunch of Jewish businesses. Some Jews tried to attack them, and a few people got themselves killed as a result. But mostly it was people saying, Get out. You’re not welcome in a Christian country or among decent human beings.”
“And it was Mr. Forsling’s idea to participate in this reenactment?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did that further his status among the members of your group?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. He was the big man on campus after that.”
“Did Mr. Forsling talk much about his future plans?”
“He was always talking about how he was going to move to Idaho,” LaFontaine said. “He wanted to join up with some of the Aryan communities there. He said it was the place to be during the coming race war.”
“Would you say that Mr. Forsling enjoyed his growing role among the members of your group?”
“Yeah, he was running around with his chest out, all puffed up,” LaFontaine said. “You’d have thought he was the second coming of the Führer himself.”
“Was it his idea to protest at Rose Lubinsky’s book-signing event?”
“Yeah, he saw something about it in the newspaper.”
“Let me backtrack a little here,” Karp said. “What is your opinion of the Holocaust?”
“What Holocaust? Never happened,” LaFontaine sneered. “It’s just another lie perpetrated by the Jews so that everybody will feel sorry for them. They used it to steal Palestine—not that those sand-monkeys are any better; they stole it from its rightful owners, Aryan Christians.”
“So you’re saying that reports of Nazis killing six million Jews and other minorities and political opponents, such as Gypsies, socialists, gays, and Slavic people, never happened?”
“Lies, all lies,” LaFontaine scoffed. “If so many was killed, how come there’s so many left now?”
“So what happened to all those people?”
LaFontaine shook his head as if debating with a not-so-bright kid. “I’m not denying that some people died. There was a war going on, you know,” he said. “But mostly they ran off. And you might ask the Russians what happened to the rest.”
“Would you say those views were commonly held by other members of your group, including Mr. Forsling?”
LaFontaine shrugged. “Sure, the truth is the truth, if you’re not too blinded by Jewish propaganda to see.”
“So, Mr. Forsling organized a protest because of Mrs. Lubinsky’s book about her experiences during World War II?”
“You mean her work of fiction? Yeah, he organized the protest. He thought there was going to be a lot of media there, and even made a few anonymous calls to the television stations to let them know they should send camera crews.”
“Did he talk about inciting any violence at this protest?”
LaFontaine shifted in his seat again and grimaced in pain. “No. He wasn’t much of a fighter. Now Jimmy Gerlach, God rest his soul, he’d have fought the devil if the devil was a Jew or a nigger. But Forsling was more about the publicity.”
“He ever talk about doing physical harm to Rose Lubinsky or anyone else?”
“Nah, like I said, he wasn’t into the rough stuff.”
“Was there any mention of using a bomb?”
LaFontaine laughed. “I don’t think he would have had the balls or the know-how to make a bomb.”
Karp left his position on the jury box rail and slowly walked over toward LaFontaine. “At some point, did Mr. Forsling’s attitude toward violence change?”
The smile disappeared from LaFontaine’s face. He looked angry as he nodded. “Yeah. The afternoon after he was arrested, he came into my bar, all hot and bothered.”
“Who else was present?”
“Just me, Bob Mencke, and Jimmy Gerlach, who worked for me as a bouncer.”
“Did he say why he was all ‘hot and bothered’?”
“Yeah, his mother had been killed in a fire.”
“Did he also say who he felt was to blame?”
“He thought you did it, or had it done, you and that nigger cop sitting behind you.”
Karp turned and pointed to Clay Fulton, who sat impassively. “This man?”
“Yes, the big nigger.”
Karp looked at the judge. “Let the record reflect that the witness is referring to Detective Clay Fulton.” He turned back to LaFontaine. “Did he say why he believed we were responsible for his mother’s death?”
“Yeah. He said you were blaming him for the car bombing.”
“He was referencing the car bombing at Il Buon Pane that claimed the lives of Rose Lubinsky and two young women?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” LaFontaine said dryly.
“Did you think he was responsible for the bombing?”
“At first,” LaFontaine said. “I mean, when I heard about it I was like, ‘Shit, the fucker growed some real nuts.’ So when he first came in, I said something like, ‘Well, here’s the hero . . . good job.’ Something like that.”
“Did he admit that he was responsible for the bombing?”
LaFontaine shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact, he said he didn’t do it.”
Karp turned back toward the jurors, who were listening raptly. “Now, given your testimony about Forsling enjoying his growing leadership role and thinking he was ‘the big man on campus’ and the ‘second coming’ of Hitler, do you think he would have denied it if he’d had a role in the bombing?”
LaFontaine thought about the question. “Well, if he was smart, he’d have
kept his mouth closed. If you want to get away with murder, only two people should know about it; one is the killer and the other should be six feet under. But Forsling liked to talk, and there was only the three of us in the bar, and we was all friends. Or at least we were. I think he would have at least hinted that he was responsible, and he would have probably wanted Gerlach for backup.”
“But he denied it?”
“Yeah, in fact, he was kind of angry that we thought he did it,” LaFontaine said. “And he was angry that you thought he did it and that’s why you burned his mom out when he was locked up.”
“Did he ask you for something?”
“He wanted my old Luger pistol, which I kept around the place in case anyone came looking for trouble.”
“Did you also have another weapon for such an eventuality?”
“Yeah, a sweet little side-by-side twelve gauge.”
“Did you give the gun to Forsling?”
“Yeah.”
“He say what he was going to do with it?”
LaFontaine shook his head. “He said it was better if I didn’t know so that Johnny Law couldn’t say I helped him. He did say he was going to Idaho after he did whatever he had in mind.”
“What happened after you gave him the Luger?”
“He asked for my van.”
Karp walked over to the prosecution table and picked up a photograph that he handed to LaFontaine. “Do you recognize this vehicle?”
“Yeah, that’s my van.”
“How do you know it’s your van?”
“I bought it off a guy who did some welding for me, his name was Woodbury,” LaFontaine said. “You can still see Eric Woodbury and Sons Metalworks on the side.”
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