"Don't get carried away with this buddy stuff," Karp growled. Then he grinned and gave her a wink. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Ariadne, I got a trial to win."
"No problem," she said. "I've got to go check in with the press pool. I'm covering the trial so you better be good, Karp, or I'll fry your ass."
Walking off, Karp heard her laugh. He chuckled himself. He hadn't been lying…not entirely. Jaxon, Kluge, and Albert had dropped by his office as a courtesy call to fill him in on the final details of the New Year's Eve escapade.
A Haz Mat team had been flown up from the FBI campus at Quantico to dismantle the bomb and dispose of the nuclear material. "They had enough to level most of Times Square, not to mention throw up a cloud of radioactive dust that might have covered half the island. The leader was that guy I told you about, Al-Sistani. Professionally, I wish we could have captured him and seen if we could get him to talk. Personally, I'd pin the Congressional Medal of Honor on the cowboy," Jaxon said.
All told, twenty foreign terrorists, as well as two-dozen American recruits, had been killed. "The bodies of twice that many-what I can only call street people-"
"-You might try patriots; they didn't have to fight," Karp interjected.
"You're right, patriots, though I'd like to know how they got there, but…," he said when he got a sharp look from Karp, "…we stuck with our deal and didn't go looking for anybody. Your boy's 'kingdom'…what was that guy's name…Grale? Yeah, Grale…anyway, his little kingdom is off-limits as far as we're concerned. I just hope you know what you're doing there, the guy is bonkers. And the grapevine informs me that he still may be breathing-how they do it down there is beyond my comprehension."
"Yeah, maybe," Karp said, "but not all that bad by New York standards."
Jaxon laughed, then pursed his lips. "I'd also like to ask you about the Asian guys with all the high-tech gear who fought with the…patriots," he said, "but I'm guessing you won't say much there."
"I didn't know them," he said truthfully. "But they did a good thing."
"And the Asian guy who was with Marlene but slipped away?"
"What Asian guy?"
"Thought you'd say that. What about the Indian and the cowboy?"
"An old friend and Lucy's…," he hesitated, the word coming hard, "fiance out here visiting for Christmas. They've all three gone back to New Mexico. Guess you could try to talk to them there."
"Already have; they aren't saying much about the street people and Asian commandos, either."
"Vietnamese."
"What? Oh really? Anything else?"
"Didn't know them…except that they were Vietnamese and their bodies should be turned over to the Vietnamese community."
"I'll see to it," Jaxon said, standing up and shaking his hand. "Well, if you see any of these guys, tell them thanks. A lot of people owe them their lives and this country owes them a debt of gratitude."
"If I see them I'll tell them that."
Walking toward the courtroom, Karp reflected that all in all the incident had turned out surprisingly well. As he'd told Marlene, he'd only waited a half hour before he called Jaxon and, after making him promise that he'd give his wife and the others another hour, filled him in.
Jaxon had at first been angry for the delay. But when he listened to the plan, he'd conceded that "Ciampi's Commandos," as he called them, might have been right. He then summoned his SWAT team and picked up Karp on the way to the theater.
The FBI agent tried to get him to wait in the command truck but Karp shook his head. "No way," he said. "That's my family in there. I'll stay out of the way, but give me a gun; I'm going."
They reached Marlene and Tran, who'd taken up a defensive position behind a pile of rocks just as the terrorists were closing in. They'd run out of ammunition and drawn their knives for a last stand when the SWAT team arrived and routed them.
"Well, if it ain't John Wayne and the Seventh Cavalry." Marlene grinned. "But come on, the job's not finished. The rest of them are up the tunnel…" Marlene paused and listened to her headset. She took off running, waving the SWAT team to follow. "We have to move fast…the leader is retreating toward the bomb, he may blow it!"
Meanwhile, after climbing out of the sewer drain, Jojola and Ned had found the going easy until they'd almost reached the tunnel entrance, where Ned had to shoot two guards. Jojola told them, "The guy was just finishing the fuse-little electric hookup-didn't see me until I slit his throat. We were trying to figure out how to get to Zak with all those armed guys when Grale flies from the ceiling like some kind of vampire, then goes after them."
When it was over, Marlene rushed back to her dog. Gilgamesh turned out to be as tough as his namesake and survived, but not everyone was as fortunate. They'd attended the funeral for Rashad Salaam at the twins' insistence. Afterward, Khalif had come over to shake his hand. "Rashad wasn't bad," he said. "He died saving me."
"So what are you going to do now?" Karp said.
"Funny you should ask," Khalif said. "My lawyer is filing papers on your ass-nothing personal-and I'll use the money to go to college. Maybe someplace where I can walk on and play ball."
Marlene had been upset about the death of the street people and especially Tran's men. "I know the older one had been with him since Vietnam," she said. "And one was his cousin's son, a doctor. They all died heroically."
Well, that's one wild story that Stupenagel will never get…at least not from me, he thought. But he really did owe Stupenagel, and for more than just keeping her mouth shut, or at least keeping a story out of the newspapers-although that was partly due to the deal they'd struck that she'd get the whole Coney Island Four story first. When it was appropriate for him to talk about it, he'd give her the inside scoop.
Sometimes you have to trade with the devil, he thought, to get a deal made in heaven. And this deal was working out to be just that.
With the New Year, Bill Denton had been sworn in as the mayor of New York City. One of his first acts was to fire Corporation Counsel Sam Lindahl. Having served through a half-dozen administrations, Lindahl was completely caught off guard and hardly had time to stand up-much less remove anything from his office-when Clay Fulton walked in, told him the mayor wanted to see him, and then to come back to "remove personal effects only."
Denton had then named his own Corporation Counsel, a quiet but extremely competent civil attorney and Columbia law professor named Randall Canney. Then Canney's first public act-in concert with the timing worked out with Karp-announced that the District Attorney of New York County had been appointed by the governor to defend the city from the "spurious" lawsuit filed by the Coney Island Four and their attorney.
Hugh Louis had a nuclear meltdown on Brooklyn Insider with Natalie Fitz. He was so hot that the pint of pomade he'd combed into his hair for the show ran in greasy-looking rivulets down his neck as he mopped furiously at his face. "It's all part of the white racist military-industrial complex's conspiracy to undermine justice when it comes to the black man in this country," he said. "They pull out the biggest white man they got to stomp on my clients yet again."
"And you, Jayshon, what do you think?" Fitz asked the young man at Louis's side.
That I'd like to stick it up your white ass, he thought. "Mr. Karp has characterized me and my friends as 'vicious animals' and 'thugs' in newspaper articles," he said, placing a hand on his chest as if grievously wronged. "I'd just like to remind him that I was my class valedictorian that spring when I graduated from high school. I was also president of Young Businessmen of America-Brooklyn Chapter and the debate team. I planned to go to college to become a doctor so that I could return to my neighborhood and establish a clinic. But I guess Mr. Karp believes that all black people are animals and thugs. If that doesn't say 'racist,' I'm not sure what does." Word was that the television station had to cut to an unscheduled commercial break because Natalie Fitz was crying and couldn't continue for several minutes.
Louis had appeared at Karp's office in a more conc
iliatory mood. "Listen, Mr. Lindahl and I had reached a settlement…pretty much everything except the signatures," he said. "We were willing to accept a flat $100 million-"
"No," Karp said flatly.
"However, considering things have changed, I believe my clients would consider $40 million-that's only $10 million each-to have this little matter go away."
"No."
"Now, look here, Karp, you're going to be running for office next year, and I don't think you want the black and Hispanic communities pegging you for a racist-"
"No. Not one red cent," Karp said, trying to keep his voice level and to resist the urge to stand up and kick the shit out of Louis. "I'm busy. I think you can show yourself out."
"Enjoy the year, Karp," Louis said as he stood up. "It's the last one you'll spend in the NY DAO."
Karp had then thrown another brick at Louis at a pretrial hearing a few days later when he didn't ask for a continuance. "We're happy with the current trial date, your honor," he said to Klinger. "In fact, if you'd like to move it up that would be fine with us."
The tumblers were all falling into place. The day after Louis's visit, Police Captain Tim Carney's lawyer called and left a message with Mrs. Milquetost asking for a meeting. He had Newbury call with his response. "Come on down. We'll listen to what he has to say."
"What about a deal?" the lawyer said. "What can I go back to him with?"
"Nothing," Newbury shot back. "We'll hear him out and decide where to go from there."
Carney showed up with his young lawyer, Christopher P. Ferguson III, a cheap ambulance chaser in a Sears coat, who immediately began making demands. "He gets complete immunity or we walk."
"Walk," Karp said and pointed at the door. "You know the way."
The lawyer started to bluster, but Carney said, "Sit down, Chris, and shut up. They got us bent over a barrel." He turned to Karp and Newbury. "Sorry, my wife's sister's kid, just out of law school. Okay, here's the part you get for free; you don't have to give me a deal to listen. But if you think it's worth something to you and would like me to testify, then let's talk. And I'll throw in something you'll like a whole lot on an unrelated but very big case."
Carney then laid out how Lindahl had been steering the big-enchilada cases alleging police malfeasance and corruption to a few big law firms for years-"mostly Louis, Zulu, and Radinskaya."
Newbury shrugged. "We already have that."
"Yeah, but do you have proof that Lindahl was taking kickbacks for his kindnesses, as well as when he signed off on the payments and forwarded the No Prosecution files to your office?"
"We're listening," Karp said. He could almost feel the excitement boiling out of Newbury, though his old friend hadn't moved or said a word. The smoking gun is a friggin' cannon, he thought.
Carney smiled and said, "Yeah, I bet you are. There's more. Shakira Zulu was also paying some of her fellow city councilmen to sign off on the settlement payments, which, as you know, is required by law."
"So where do you and the esteemed union boss, Ewen, fit in?" Newbury asked.
"I'd advise you not to answer that," Ferguson said. "Not until we have a deal."
"Shut up, Christopher, you got a mouth on you like your mother," Carney said. "Essentially, I was paid to look the other way and make sure that Internal Affairs didn't poke our noses into certain cases and rubber-stamped whatever these law firms said. Some bad cops got off, the 'victims' got big settlements-part of which would also go to these firms that were supposed to be representing the cops. So they were double-dipping right there."
"And Ewen?" Karp asked, thinking he'd never liked the toad-like man.
"He kept the PBA membership in line if they started asking questions about the bad apples and made sure they were protected and kept on the force. No matter what anybody thinks, good cops don't like dirty cops."
"Dirty cops like you," Newbury said.
Carney looked down at his hands. "Yeah," he said, his voice breaking, "like me. I ain't got no good excuse, but I guess I was looking at the end of the line for my career, and what did I have except mortgage payments and college tuitions for five kids. I wanted more for my family…and, yeah, more for a dirty cop like me."
Karp felt sorry for the man. He knew Carney had a half-dozen medals for heroism, and Newbury's research seemed to indicate that he'd come to this point only within the past five years. Still, you agree to accept the pay when you sign up, he thought. You want to make more money, sell real estate. "It was still a crime," he said.
Carney nodded. Ferguson cleared his throat, and, when no one told him to shut up, proceeded. "I think now would be a good time to talk about a deal if you want my client to testify to what he just told you, as well as supply you with a sizable amount of documentation to back up these allegations."
"What do you want?" Karp said, looking at Carney, whose eyes were glued to the floor.
"No prison time-I wouldn't last two minutes in the general population. Whatever else you may think of me, most of my career was spent putting bad guys behind bars. A lot of them are still there."
"What else?"
Carney cleared his throat but at first couldn't speak, then muttered. "I'll sell the place in the Keys and give the money, and everything else I got through these deals, back to the city."
"That would happen whether you said so or not," Karp said.
"I'd like…I'm begging to be allowed to retire from the force, the way I imagined when I first went to the academy," he said. "I'll need my pension to support my family and make sure my wife can stay in our little place in the Bronx. She's a good woman who doesn't deserve to be hurt because I fucked up-pardon my French."
"You'll be required to testify at the trials," Newbury said, "which means the press is going to be all over you. You're not going to be able to protect her from what comes out."
"Yeah, I know," Carney croaked, tears running down his face. "I figure if it gets bad, we can sell the place and move to Seattle, where our oldest daughter is living. She's been after us to move out there. Says it's safer."
Karp had already made up his mind to agree to the deal, but he wanted the information on the other "big case." Feeling like a hard-ass, he said, "The price is too steep."
"That's outrageous!" Ferguson sputtered. "Uncle Tim is a good man. He made a mistake… I guess this is why they refer to you in the public defender's office as Saint Karp."
Karp ignored the young lawyer and kept his eyes fixed on Carney. "I think you know as well as I do that holding back for a deal is not going to help relieve the guilt that's sitting on your shoulders."
"I'll never be out from under it," Carney said, "but you're right, I have to tell you. It's about the Coney Island case. Some of the guys on the force who are getting screwed by Breman are old friends. I wasn't sure what I was going to do about it. We were going to make a bundle from our share of whatever those fuckers won. But it didn't feel right, so I had some of my specialists plant a bug in Breman's office. I got her on tape telling that pile of crap Hugh Louis about some letter a guy named Kaminsky sent her from prison. It said Villalobos was lying about being the only one there who raped that woman."
"So, we got a deal?" Ferguson asked.
"Shut up, Christopher," Carney and Karp said at the same time. The two looked at each other for a long moment until Karp at last spoke. "I hear it rains a lot in Seattle."
"Don't I know it," Carney replied. "It'll be hell on the arthritis."
"There are worse things."
"Don't I know it."
A week later, Karp whistled as he entered the courtroom and saw Murrow and Kipman sitting in the row behind the table where he'd be sitting. Behind them were Robin Repass, Pam Russell, and Dick Torrisi. He exchanged little nods as he walked past and placed his briefcase on the defense table.
There were very few other people sitting on his side of the aisle, mostly those who looked as if they wished they were sitting on the other side, which was packed with spectators and the press.
Louis was chatting amiably with that worm of a reporter for the New York Times, Harriman, who lorded his exalted position over his colleagues in the press with a disdainful smile as he bent his head toward Louis and laughed over some private joke.
The four plaintiffs were sitting at their table, all of them watching Karp with baleful looks. He smiled at them until they looked away.
The nest of reporters went nuts when Brooklyn DA Kristine Breman entered the courtroom, walked to the front row behind the plaintiffs' table, and took a seat. The reporters ran up to her or leaned over the other benches to ask her questions. But she demurely shook her head no. "Not at this time, please," she said, obviously enjoying the attention. "I'm just here to see that justice be done."
The press quickly lost interest when a police officer entered with a frail, frightened-looking woman with gray hair. Her eyes locked on Karp's and she looked nowhere else as she walked to her seat next to Torrisi, who took her hand and patted it between both of his. She gave Karp a thin, wavering smile.
"Thank you for taking the case, Mr. Karp," Tyler said. "I know this isn't your job."
"I wouldn't say that…but you're welcome. And please, call me Butch. How are you doing with all this?" he asked, waving at the crowd of press who hovered on the other side of the aisle, hoping to catch her attention.
"Okay," she replied. "I just want this to be over with…again. My nightmares have grown worse; my psychologist says it's the stress."
Karp was the consummate prosecutor. And one of his strengths was that he could put aside the emotional aspects of a case and concentrate on what he would need to convince a jury. However, this case had his stomach tied in knots. He knew that it was a load of crock, and he was reasonably sure he could persuade the jury to see it that way. However, the two things he needed to make it a lock were still missing. He knew that Kaminsky sent a letter to Breman impeaching Villalobos that had then been handed on to Klinger. But he couldn't prove it, didn't have a copy of the letter, and Kaminsky had disappeared.
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