“No, those are the very ones,” said Dan in a plummy voice. “Let’s explore among them. Who knows? Maybe we can find important artifacts of white imperialist hegemony.”
They went up through the line of low dunes and sat down with their backs against the warm sand. Below, the three children raced in circles with the dog. Their screaming came back in snatches on the sea wind. They goofed some more about historical obsessions, about the scene in Boston, about their school life. Lucy mentioned that she had often been at MIT.
“Taking courses?” he asked.
“Oh, right—I can barely do fractions. No, I have sort of a job with the computational linguistics people. They pay me to inspect my brain.”
“You’re kidding.”
She had an urge to say yes. She did not want to interrupt in any way this unexpected pleasure, sitting here on the dunes with a luscious boy who did not seem afraid of her—not of her height or of her face or of her other peculiarities. Of course, he did not know about those yet. For an instant, she was aware of an intense desire to be someone else, before she said, “No, I’m not. I’m a language prodigy. My brain is a national resource.”
“Like the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge?”
“Except smaller. What kind of prodigy are you?”
“Oh, you know, the usual MIT crap—grades, boards, Intel Scholarship. Except I come from West Virginia and I’m not Asian.” A little bitterness here, she thought. She didn’t know anything about West Virginia. Coal? Hillbillies? That song. It must not have been fun growing up a nerdy, pretty boy in a rural high school.
“So . . . are you going back to Boston?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I have a job up there if I want it, you know what I mean, just computer shit, but it pays. I kind of like the idea of kicking back here for a while. I mean I’ve been working my butt off this year.”
That was interesting, she thought: his accent was drifting from middle American to something more regional. This yee-a. Y’know whut a mean. He’s relaxing a hair.
She said, “So? Kick back.”
“Can’t do it. I need the money. And if I’m not working, he’s going to want me to go back home. My father.” Dan looked blankly out at the Sound. “We all have to support the struggles of the working folks.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“Do I? I was raised in the faith, but it’s hard to keep on believing in it nowadays. Or anything. I guess I still do. Have you ever been in southern West Virginia? The Kanawha? No, nobody has. Everyone uses the stuff they make there, plastics and chemicals, and all kinds of toxic shit, and we all use electricity from the coal, and we don’t think about the poor bastards who have to live there and make it and breathe it in and taste it in their water every day, and dig out the coal while their houses get slowly demolished around them from the blasting. It sucks, yeah, and we ought to do something to change it. But . . .”
More interesting, she thought. The accent reverts to mid-American when he goes into speech mode, plus something else. A little roll in the r. Irish?
They both listened to the wind for a long moment, and the calls of the children.
“But, what I like to do is to hang out with smart people in Boston, and do science.”
“And feel guilty,” she said.
He turned to look at her, frowning, and saw from her eyes that she was not needling him, or mocking him, but just reflecting what was in his own mind. It was faintly irritating nonetheless.
“Jesus, I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I just met you. You don’t need to hear all this crap.”
“No, we could talk about celebrities, instead.” She pitched her voice up and added a slight Valley drawl. “I think Jennifer Lopez is like totally cool. Or sports. How about those Sox!”
He laughed and she joined him. She had a throaty, full-belly laugh that he found surprising in a skinny girl, but pleasant.
“Okay, deep and serious—so what do you believe in?”
Oh, well, Lucy thought, here it comes. All things must end.
“I’m a Catholic.”
He snorted. “Yeah, right. Luckily, I was spared all that crap. I think my mom is some kind of Episcopal, but of course Dad is a devout atheist. He used to sing ‘Pie in the Sky When You Die,’ whenever we drove past a church. That’s another thing that endeared our family to the McCullensburgians.”
He would have chattered on in this vein, but it dawned on him that the social smile had quite faded from her face, which now bore a curious expression of resignation, a slight tightening of the jaw, as if anticipating some attack.
“Wait, you mean you’re actually Catholic?” A little frown creased his brow. “You believe all that God and the saints sh—business? And the pope?”
“Uh-huh. It’s a package.”
“Wow. Why?”
She shrugged. “Why is the sky blue? I don’t know. I’m just a believer. Mom says I have the God gene.”
“So . . . by the whole package you mean, um, virgin birth, raising the dead? Abortion? Birth control? Lourdes?”
“Well, it’s a very big package. I’m not sure the pope buys the whole package. But pretty much, yeah.”
“But you’re smart.”
“And you’re insulting,” she snapped. She got to her feet, stuck two fingers into her mouth, and produced an amazingly loud whistle. The dog leaped from the shallows and started up the beach, followed by the twins and Lizzie.
“I’m frying. I’m going to take the kids for a swim.” She turned and walked away.
After a moment, he followed, attracted, as was his pattern, by rejection, although this was a new, and actually a more interesting, variety.
* * *
Karp did not have to go to jail anymore. Although it had never been a place he liked to visit in the days when he had to go a lot, he still went from time to time. Usually, he went because he thought it was good for his soul to immerse himself in the literally stinking part of the system he administered. It was particularly stinking today because it was hot, stinking with the unmistakable penetrating stench produced when large numbers of male primates are kept confined. It had been hot for several weeks and was going to get hotter according to the smiling weather-persons on the news. Karp would not have minded if they air-conditioned the jail, but he understood that his fellow citizens did not, by and large, agree. That would be coddling criminals, a practice now many years out of fashion, and it did not help to explain that the people in the Tombs were not criminals but the accused awaiting disposition, entitled to a presumption of innocence. But not to comfort.
His visit today was more than mere responsibility. Karp was visiting a prisoner named Woodrow P. Bailey, who was in the Tombs because he had beat up his girlfriend, using in the attack a forty-ounce beer bottle and a metal chair. Serious disfigurement had resulted, which put the alleged crime into the first-degree-assault category. Karp was visiting Bailey not because of this crime but because Karp had a little list, and Bailey was on it. The list contained the names of the employees of Lenox Entertainment who had made significant contributions to the congressman’s campaign. Karp sat down in the hard chair the interview room supplied and dabbed his face with his handkerchief. Karp was not much of a sweat hog, but the heat and humidity in the place could have drawn moisture from a brick. The door opened and Bailey came in, accompanied by his lawyer. Karp kept his face from showing surprise. The man with Bailey was not some kid Legal Aid assignee, but David Douglas Root, a criminal lawyer who specialized in high-profile cases. If you were a hip-hop artist and you got wasted and knocked down a nun with the Navigator, Root would be your choice.
“Well, well, Butch Karp!” cried Root affably, pumping Karp’s hand. “A little shorthanded at the DA? Or are we just keeping our pencil sharpened?”
Karp gave him a thin smile. Root was a big, medium-brown man in a charcoal Zegna suit, a dazzling silk shirt, and round gold-rimmed glasses. He was sweating, too, Karp was glad to see, but not as much as his clien
t, whose jail-orange jumpsuit was soaked dark under the arms and around the collar. Bailey was heavy, dark-faced, with a dull, confused look. A drinker, Karp thought. He had a towel around his neck, with which he dabbed nervously at his dripping face.
“Christ, it’s like a fucking Turkish bath in here,” said Root, taking his seat. “I’m like to lose twelve pounds. So, Butch, what do we got?”
Karp looked at Bailey, not the lawyer, and said, “Mr. Bailey, as I’m sure your lawyer has told you, you’re charged with a very serious offense. It’s what we call a class B violent felony, and if convicted, it carries a sentence of from six to twenty-five years in prison.”
“I was drunk,” said Bailey in a low, resentful voice.
Karp ignored this. “How the case gets handled is really up to the district attorney’s office. We have a lot of discretion. Now, sometimes when a person helps us out with an important prosecution, we’re able to cut him some slack on his own case. Helps us with information, or testimony.”
Karp saw the prisoner’s brow knit with concentration. “I don’t know . . . I mean, what kind of case?”
Karp pulled out a notebook and read off a list of contributions Bailey had made to the congressman’s reelection war chest. A thousand dollars in August directly to the candidate, and five thousand in September to the Harlem United Political Action Committee, an organization the congressman controlled. The same in the previous year and in the three years before that.
“Where’s this going, Butch?” asked Root. “What’s this got to do with the case here?”
“I’m just curious how a man who works cleaning up theaters can afford to spare six grand a year on political contributions.”
“It’s no crime,” said Root. “Besides, since when is the DA interested in federal election law?”
“We’re not. We’re always interested in money laundering, though.” Karp spoke again to the prisoner: “Mr. Bailey, money laundering is a crime. It’s when someone gives you cash they earned at a criminal activity and you help turn it over, convert it into honest money. So I have to ask you, did someone give you money to make political contributions?”
Bailey opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Root said, “Don’t answer that!” Bailey closed his mouth and wiped his dripping face.
Karp said, “You could do yourself some real good here, Mr. Bailey. You also might want to think about whether Mr. Root here is representing your best interests or somebody else’s.”
Root shot to his feet. “This interview is over. Come on, Woodrow, we’re out of here.”
Bailey looked back and forth between the two men and then got to his feet. Root signaled for the guard and then turned to Karp. “I intend to lodge a complaint with the bar.”
“Oh? Gosh, what did I do?”
Root held up his hand and counted off on stubby, tan fingers. “One, you accuse my client of a crime out of the clear blue sky without a shred of evidence. Two, you impugn his political liberties, on the theory that a workingman of color can’t possibly have enough interest in politics to contribute to a campaign. Three, you use the coercive power of the state to pressure him into assisting you in a political vendetta against a distinguished political leader. A distinguished black political leader, which is no accident coming from you.” Root turned to Bailey. “This man is a well-known racist. I don’t want you ever talking to him or anybody from his office if I’m not in the room.”
“I’m a big fan of Harry Belafonte,” said Karp.
The guard came. The door swung open. Root said, “And don’t think I won’t go public with this outrage.”
“Who’s picking up your fee, counselor? Pennant? Soames?” Karp asked as they left, but received no answer.
* * *
They had AC in the DA’s office, but it was creaky and barely competent to deal with El Niño, or whatever was turning New York into Brazzaville. Little reciprocating fans hung in the corners of the larger offices, relics of the days before air-conditioning. Karp had his turned on. He had his feet up on the desk, his coat off, his collar open, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, none of which helped very much. Across the desk from him sat a small, dapper man in a beige linen suit, jacket and all, with his collar buttoned. His name was Murrow and he was Karp’s special assistant.
“That line about Harry Belafonte was probably unwise,” observed Murrow when Karp had finished telling him about the Bailey interview. “You’ll read about it in the papers.”
“Oh, fuck the papers! Besides, I do like Harry Belafonte. I used to have all his albums.”
“Albums?”
“Yes, albums. Music used to come on shellac discs that had only one song on a side, and they sold them in books that looked like photo albums, and when LPs came out, they still called them albums.”
“LPs?”
“Fuck you, Murrow. Young fart.”
“So what are we going to do about the congressman?”
“Well, personally, I am going to leave the office right now and catch the early bird out to the Island. The congressman will keep, and since we’ve conquered crime, I don’t think anything important is going to come up over the weekend. In fact, I might take a day or two off.”
Murrow affected gaping wonderment. “You mean . . . you mean . . . not come into the office at all? On a work-day?”
“Yeah, but I’ll leave the key to the front door under the mat, in case anyone wants to try a malefactor in my absence.” To the astonishment of all his colleagues, he actually left.
On the train, Karp dropped his tray and set out some files, more to assuage his conscience than because he intended to do any useful work. As chief assistant DA, he had general responsibility for the professional work of the office, which amounted to insuring, to the extent possible, that the four-hundred-odd attorneys employed there did not lose too many cases through incompetence or win too many through cheating. He also had a hand in recruiting and training, which he enjoyed, and in routine administration, which he loathed.
He picked up one of the case files and read. A murder case, this one, and typical: a couple of dumb kids in their early twenties had held up a convenience store and shot the owner. It was a good case. Ten years previously they might have gone with a plea in a case like this because they were so jammed with murders, and the bad guys knew it, and the DA’s office had figured it was better to be sure the villains served eight for manslaughter than go for the expense of a felony murder trial and risk an acquittal. Now, with the drop in murders, they were set to try nearly everything. The People were in the catbird seat again. Karp should have been happy.
Karp was not. He knew he was a competent enough bureaucrat; he did his job with few complaints from either high or low. But he was not a great bureaucrat. He did not love bureaucracy. A thrill did not spring in his heart when he gained a 3 percent increase in the furniture budget. Political dealing bored him. He did not like manipulation, and he positively despised attempts to manipulate him, which were constant. He took his pen and made a notation on a pad. There was a flaw in the chain of evidence affecting the murder gun, which was the chief piece of physical evidence linking the defendants to the crime. It was not a case wrecker, but it had to be looked into, and the ADA in charge had missed it. Or maybe it wasn’t that important; maybe he was just a pettifogging pain in the ass, which he knew was getting to be his rep among the younger ADAs. He wrote a stiff little note to the ADA and closed the file. Screw them, let them learn to do it right! He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Coaching was fine if you were a coach. But Karp wanted to play. Suppressing this thought, and the desire, for the ten thousand and somethingth time, ever the good soldier, he opened his eyes, shoved the file back into the tattered cardboard wallet he used instead of a briefcase, and pulled out another one.
* * *
“What’s with Lucy?” Karp asked his wife. He had not seen his daughter since the Easter break. He had been at the farm for barely an hour, most of which time he had spent with the t
hree children. Now they were alone together in the kitchen packing things for the cookout.
“What did you notice?”
“I don’t know. She’s more . . . um . . .”
“Normal?”
He laughed. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Lighter, maybe. More like a college girl, less like a nun. It must be the away-from-home effect.”
“It’s a boy,” said Marlene. “Could you grab those beers?”
Karp heaved a stack of cold cases up to his waist and staggered out to the truck.
Returning, he said, “That’s a lot of beer. How many people at this cookout?”
“Just us and the Heeneys. The Heeney men are beer people.”
Then it hit him. “Did you say a boy?”
“Uh-huh. Rose’s younger.”
“Lucy?”
“Yes, Lucy. She’s passed through puberty, although I think you had a trial that week, you might have missed it. Anyway, now she’s eighteen, she’s old enough to have a date, and she actually has one. Several.” And here Marlene clasped her hands together and looked to heaven with a hearty “Thank you, Jesus!”
“Well, yeah,” said Karp. “I’m glad. This is, this kid is like, you know, a regular kid, right?”
“Perfectly regular. Looks like an angel in fact, if angels are ever horny and eighteen. He’s a freshman at MIT, so he can tie his shoes. I haven’t run his sheet but I assume it’s clear of major violent felonies, unlike you-know-who last year. STDs I would bet negative, too, a mom’s prayer. Most of all, I think she’s just barely beginning to understand that he’s interested. That would be a first.”
“Why? She’s a great kid,” said Karp defensively.
“Yes, and your daughter’s primary belief, besides the one, holy, catholic, and apostolic Church, is that she’s an ugly sack of shit and a freak. That tends to send the suitors running unless they have the prescience to whack her smartly with a ball-peen hammer.”
“What suitors?”
Absolute Rage Page 6