Marlene glowered at Stupenagel. “You know Butch would blow a gasket if he thought I was trying to ‘get to the bottom of things like this.’”
Russell reached out and touched her arm. “That’s okay, Marlene. You’re right, we need to find a lawyer who’ll represent us and fight this thing ourselves.”
“Let’s forget about it,” Repass added, “and just have dinner and a little conversation between friends. Stupe says she’s been sweating over a hot stove, but we think she ordered out—”
“Lies!” Stupenagel complained. “I’ve been wronged!”
“And the wine is probably homemade.”
Stupenagel laughed and agreed. “Yep, squashed the grapes in the bathtub with my own size-ten feet.”
Marlene looked at the three women who were grinning at her. “Shit,” she swore. “I suppose it can’t hurt to drink a little wine with old friends, can it?”
Somewhere into the third bottle, Marlene decided that letting her two former protégées run through their case also wouldn’t hurt.
One of the most pernicious aspects was the position taken by DA Breman in what Marlene viewed as an improper vacatur of the convictions, based on purely hearsay revelations by Villalobos, which were unsworn and suspiciously documented by Breman.
“The fact that Villalobos was one of the assailants does not answer whether the other five, including Kevin Little, who would testify for the People, weren’t also participants,” Russell said. “We always conceded in the trial that there was a sixth assailant.”
“And nothing he said warranted an outright dismissal of the convictions,” Repass added. “In fact, it’s prohibited under relevant New York legal precedent—Section 440.10 of the Criminal Procedure Law. The law does not permit an otherwise valid conviction to be set aside merely on the basis of a third party’s claim of guilt for a crime for which other defendants were convicted.”
“At best,” Russell said, “such a claim mandates only that the court conduct a full evidentiary hearing—complete with sworn testimony and the right to cross-examine him—to test Villalobos’s allegations that he, and he alone, was responsible for the assault on Liz Tyler.”
“And the court should have decided at such a hearing if Villalobos’s account was trustworthy enough to justify a new trial—not whether the convictions should be set aside,” Repass said.
“Yet, Breman ignored legal precedent and set up you, the NYPD, and the city to take a fall,” Marlene mused as she swirled a red cabernet around in her glass. “But why?”
“Ah, that’s what we’d all like to know,” Stupenagel said.
The women sipped their wine silently for a minute before Repass, who was opening the fourth bottle, spoke. “The thing that really bothers me is that we would have won at trial again, using the defendants’ own words. We went through an exhaustive month-long Huntley Hearing before the trial to determine the voluntariness and admissibility of their confessions, took testimony from over twenty prosecution witnesses, and heard from the defendants and their families and friends. The court concluded that the statements were properly and legally obtained and that no improper methods were employed to secure them.”
There were tears in Repass’s eyes when she looked at Marlene and, slurring somewhat from the wine and emotion, added, “You trained us well, Marlene. We won those convictions fair and square. The only thing that would have changed at a new trial would have been that we’d be able to tell the jury who the sixth man was—although, of course, Villalobos waited until the statute of limitations had run out so he couldn’t be prosecuted for it.”
Stupenagel tossed in her two cents. “From what I understand, there’s no trick that Hugh Louis or any other scumbag defense lawyer could have pulled to simply have those confessions thrown out. The Huntley decision had already been tested at the appellate level and sustained. He had to get Breman to vacate the convictions.”
The reporter, with the two prosecutors’ concurrence, said she suspected that Villalobos had “confessed” as a favor to the Bloods or under threat. “What we can’t figure out is why Breman capitulated so easily—”
“Except that she would do anything to appease the minority population,” Repass said. “But even then there’s got to be more to this.”
Corporation Counsel had set them adrift. As soon as Sam Lindahl settled, they and the individual police officers would be sitting ducks.
“At stake, of course, are our reputations and future job prospects,” Russell said. “But I know Robin agrees with me that the most important issue here is justice for what those pigs did to Liz Tyler.”
Marlene was quiet for a moment and then she asked, “But what do you want me to do?”
Repass brightened. “Maybe you could sign on as our private investigator for the time being. You could back out later, but you could do some of the poking around that Lindahl won’t do,” she said. “We got a tip from an anonymous caller with some sort of Euro accent that there may have been an inmate who heard something that would discredit Villalobos.”
“Maybe you can get that big shot husband of yours to weigh in,” Stupenagel added. “Part of the problem now is that no one is speaking out for the other side and there’s a perception in the public—from which the jury will come—that it’s a slam dunk case against these guys.”
Marlene shook her head. “I’m willing to do a little, as you say, poking around,” she said. “But I wouldn’t hold out much hope that Butch will weigh in through the media. As you know, if the media was a snake, he’d get a stick and beat it to death.”
At about the same time, the man in question was back home, talking to John Jojola, who’d been resting on the couch when they walked in.
“Off to bed,” Karp had ordered the twins, who were tired enough that they didn’t complain, although Giancarlo stopped at the entrance to the hall and said, “Thanks, Dad, I really liked class tonight.”
“Butt kisser.” A voice, Zak’s, had come from farther down the hall. Giancarlo disappeared in that direction and the sound of a brief scuffle ensued.
“To bed!” Karp yelled, but smiled and winked at Jojola, who was shaking his head.
“Hey, I think it’s great they have each other,” Jojola said. “My boy, he’s got me and the extended family of the tribe, but there are things you can only tell a brother.”
“Where’s Charlie?” Karp asked.
“Staying with his Auntie Maria,” Jojola said. “She’s not really his auntie, just a nice neighbor woman who sometimes comes around a lot.”
“Comes around a lot?” Karp said, wiggling an eyebrow.
“Never mind, just a friend,” Jojola said.
“I believe you’re blushing,” Karp said.
“Indians don’t blush,” Jojola said, trying to scowl but not doing a very good job of it. “This is our natural color, remember? Anyhow, this time of year, my tribe sort of pulls into itself. The Taos Reservation is closed to all but our people, and families—most of whom live in modern houses the rest of the year—take up living in the old pueblo. Sort of a way to touch base, tell stories, and remember who we are. I don’t like taking Charlie away from the res during this time, I want him learning the ways of his people.”
“Sounds like something the rest of us have lost,” Karp said a little sadly.
“Oh, you have it, only it’s shorter and the reasons for it sometimes get lost in the other stuff…Christmas and Hanukkah…a time to come together and celebrate the past, and remember who you are as a people. When it gets cold outside, ancient peoples from all lands have always seen winter as a time for gathering together—if for no other reason than body heat and to keep from going stir crazy when the snow gets too deep for going outside. They have also always seen it as a time for introspection and deep thoughts.”
Jojola stopped talking and smiled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pull the Indian medicine man out on you.”
“No, not at all,” Karp said, sitting down in his favorite chair and kicking back wit
h his feet up on the coffee table. “I just came from telling a bunch of Jewish kids about Jesus…you don’t get more controversial than that. I confess that I’m more interested in some of these matters now than I ever was back in the day.”
“It can take an entire lifetime to find out what you really believe in,” Jojola said. “As for the lecture on comparative religions, I find it fascinating that we all have such similar ways of thinking and so much of it is tied to the seasons. In winter, we all seem to have traditions of family gatherings and touching base with our spirituality, if you will. In spring, my people celebrate with the New Corn Festival, which is based around the renewal of the earth and its plants and animals; Christians have Easter, the rebirth of Jesus, following the emptiness of winter. They both represent hope for the future in either culture. Then in fall, we dance in celebration of the harvest that will get us through the winter, and feast; European Americans feast after the harvest, too, at Thanksgiving.
“Yet, for all we have in common, religion is so often at the root of war. But why? Jews, Christians, Muslims all call the same man, Abraham, the father of their religion, and yet they have slaughtered each other for centuries. Hindus slaughter Sikhs. Chinese Buddhists kill Nepalese Buddhists.”
Jojola laughed again and slapped his knees. “There I go again, running off at the mouth,” he said. “Must still be jumpy from the plane flight. Anyway, that was the long answer to your short question asking me about my son.”
Karp laughed too. He felt comfortable around Jojola. It wasn’t just that what you see is what you get with the man—he was certainly deeper than might be expected of the police chief of a small Indian reservation. Karp wondered if the other members of his tribe were as introspective and insightful. Probably no more than the other members of my tribe are all wise as Solomon, he thought.
“Where have you been, my friend?” Jojola said when he saw that Karp was back from his reflection.
Karp chuckled. “Sorry, was just reliving tonight’s bar mitzvah class…all this talk about spirituality. Let me ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“So I take it you don’t like leaving the res either,” Karp said.
“Nope.”
“Then why are you here?”
Jojola pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling. When he looked back down, his dark eyes were glittering like black opals. “Are you ready for another long answer to a short question?”
An hour later, Karp was still sitting in his chair in the dark with only a little light from the streetlamps illuminating the living room. Jojola had gone off to bed in the boys’ room; they’d insisted he take the bottom bunk while they shared the top.
Then Lucy had come bouncing in from whatever adventure she’d been on. He would have liked to remind her that this wasn’t Taos, New Mexico, it was Gotham City, and young women did not flit around its streets unaccompanied at night. But she’d kissed him and said, “I’m going to bed. We can talk in the morning.”
He was thinking about going off to bed himself when he heard a key being inserted in the dead bolt of the front door. Gilgamesh picked up his head and whined. The door swung open, revealing a small, dark figure silhouetted against the light in the entryway.
“Aren’t you getting home a little past your curfew, young lady?” he asked. He looked at the clock in the kitchen; it was ten minutes after midnight.
“You waiting up for me, Pops?” Marlene giggled.
“Yeah, come over here, I want to see if I can smell alcohol on your breath,” he replied, patting his lap.
Marlene kicked off her shoes and in a few quick steps had crossed the room and was straddling him on the chair. She planted a long, warm kiss full of promises on his lips. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Merlot…perhaps masking an earlier cabernet,” he said as she snuggled against his chest. “Glad you weren’t driving. So, what was the very important mystery…or do I dare ask?”
Marlene sat up and put her arms around his neck. “Well, it was kind of a sneaky way to get me together with Robin Repass and Pam Russell,” she said and waited for the reaction. She was almost disappointed that all she got was an arched brow.
“Anyway, they wanted to ask if I would do a little digging around,” she said.
“And?”
Marlene searched his eyes as best she could to see if he was angry. She decided that now was the time to fit as many words as she could into as small a space as possible.
“I think there’s a big injustice coming down on a lot of people, including Robin, Pam, the cops, and the victim,” she said quickly. “I told them that I would consider their request, but I wanted to run it by you first.”
The last was sort of a lie. She’d pretty much agreed to their request. When her husband didn’t answer, she finally asked, “Well?”
“Well what? Since when have you listened to me?” He’d meant it as a teasing remark and immediately regretted it when she tensed up.
“That’s not true,” she complained. “Yes, I do what I feel is right, and we all know that it nearly destroyed me, and nearly destroyed us. But I’ve always listened to you, and even when I didn’t follow your advice, I knew that you were usually right. It’s not fair; after all, I’m not the only one in this family who does what he thinks is right, even if it gets him in trouble.”
Karp raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, it’s okay, I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he said. “I agree it sounds like Robin and Pam are getting a bum rap.”
Marlene was surprised. He almost sounded as if he wasn’t bothered by the thought of her “poking around.” She decided to press her advantage. “You know, Stupe thought that maybe if you made a public statement, maybe wrote an op-ed piece for the New York Times, it might counteract all the negative publicity stirred up by Hugh Louis.”
“It’s not the business of the New York district attorney to be critiquing the decisions made by the Kings County district attorney,” he said to see how she’d react.
It was with anger. “What’s the matter, afraid it might hurt you politically?”
“No,” he said, refusing to take the bait. “But it would be highly irregular.”
Marlene caught the tone of pseudo-pomposity. She cocked her head to see him better with her good eye. “Okay, Butch, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” he said. Delighted, he received her kiss, but then she bit into his tongue and held on. “Ow…’at ’urts,” he complained. “O’ay, o’ay, I’ll ’ell ’ou.”
Marlene released his tongue. “Give it up, buster.”
He told her about the real reason for his meeting with the mayor and then his talk that day with Liz Tyler. “I think I’m going to take the case, but I wanted to run it past you first. You mad?”
Marlene smiled and kissed him again. This time there were no painful bites, but he became aware of the increased pressure she was exerting from her groin to his. She reached down and began fumbling with his belt.
“What about the twins? Lucy? John?” he asked huskily.
“Whatsa matter Big—and I do mean BIG—Boy,” she said as she unzipped his pants. “Afraid of getting caught?”
As an answer, his hands dived beneath her sweater and turtleneck shirt and in one motion removed them all.
“I guess not,” she murmured.
Later as they lay in bed, having decided that prudence was the better part of valor for the second round, Marlene sleepily asked if he’d found out the reason behind Jojola’s unexpected visit.
“Hmmm?” Karp mumbled. “Uh, yeah, a dream.”
“I know that,” she said, nibbling on an earlobe. “What dream? Come on, tell me, I’ll give you a reward.”
“Thought you already did,” he said and pulled her over and onto his chest. But he started to breathe deeply, his prelude to snoring.
“Dream,” she said. “What about the dream?”
“Noth…nothing,” he said. “Impossible.”
“What’s impossible? Karp
, don’t you go to sleep and leave me wondering all night.”
“Grale.”
Marlene tensed. Was Butch the one dreaming? “What about Grale?”
Karp patted her on the back in the way he did when it was time for her to leave him alone and go to sleep. “John thinks he’s alive.”
“What!”
“His dream…he needs to find him, or we’re all going to die. Now…time to sleep.”
“Karp?” Marlene said. “Karp, dammit.” But all she got back was a deep, rumbling snore.
13
IN ANOTHER PART OF THE CITY THAT NIGHT,AHMANZAKIRcaught up to “Mr. Mustafa” in the hall outside the meeting room of the mosque. “It was a warning. Someone knows your plans,” he said. “I think we better call this off…tonight’s event, anyway.”
“Nonsense,” Al-Sistani said. “It was nothing more than stupid American racists getting even for our brothers’ righteous execution of the Crusaders and their lackeys in Iraq. As if this is some tit-for-tat game of revenge. Their inability to see the, as they say, ‘big picture,’ is why we will win.”
Al-Sistani spoke the words with conviction. His Oxford-educated English was clipped and cultivated, his manners in polite company impeccable—on the outside, just another spoiled oil prince, perfect for a mujahideen cell leader. True, he’d initially been shocked and momentarily unnerved when he heard that his bodyguard who’d disappeared that night outside the mosque had been butchered and his head stuck on a spike in Central Park. For that one moment, he felt panic start to rise in his throat like bile, wondering if he’d been betrayed and his plan ruined.
However, the more he thought about it, the more he was sure that he and his men were safe. The American police and even their intelligence agencies were too weak willed, too emasculated by their politicians and civil libertarians, to make such a dramatic statement as killing a wanted terrorist and displaying his head for all to see. Maybe in Saudi Arabia but not here in America with its silly rules against torture and “cruel and unusual punishment.” How could they expect to win?
Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17) Page 21