Karp glanced at Vladimir, who nodded his head slightly. "This was mostly a trade-off for Marlene's efforts to assist his half-brother, Alexis Michalik. But in the process he has learned a thing or two about the better attributes of the American justice system, which may not always be perfect, but in the end, it tends to balance itself out…thanks in large part to people like his cousin. So when it came time to talk to this man you seek about your needs at this trial to keep those monsters from profiting by what they did to that poor woman, you had an ally."
The old man led the way down the stairs. "But do not forget the efforts some people make to secure their freedom…even if they are not always the best of citizens. Isn't that right, Igor Kaminsky?"
A young, one-armed man stepped from the shadows. "I am ready to go with you, Mr. Karp," he said. "I ask only one thing before I am deported."
"What's that?" Karp said, wondering what deal he might have to strike.
"That I am allowed to testify against the man who murdered my brother. Jayshon Sykes."
Karp held out his hand. "You can count on it," he said as they shook.
The appearance of Igor Kaminsky didn't work out quite in the manner Karp had envisioned. Villalobos had cracked, as he hoped, and started blubbering about how "Sykes and his gang, the Bloods, forced me to confess. They were the ones who attacked the woman and raped her. I raped her after they were through."
Once again, the courtroom had turned into a circus of reporters rushing for the door and shouting questions as Klinger banged away helplessly with her gavel. Kaminsky stood and pointed at Sykes, shouting, "That's the bastard who killed my brother Ivan. I demand revenge!"
Sykes seized the moment to strike the distracted bailiff and take his gun. He turned and fired first at Villalobos, the bullet striking him between the eyes and spraying Judge Klinger with blood and brain. He next turned the gun toward Karp but was bumped by a panicked Hugh Louis, and the bullet instead struck the Times reporter Harriman in the stomach.
Stunned by the pandemonium of his own making, Karp stood still as Sykes re-aimed to shoot him. He was pulling the trigger when a bullet spun him around, knocking the weapon from his hand. He looked up and into the eyes of the shooter, Liz Tyler.
Tyler had secreted the gun in her purse that morning. The police officers who escorted her past the lines at the security screening had not even considered checking to see if she had a weapon. She'd intended to kill Sykes and then herself.
"Fuck you," Sykes screamed at her. "You shot me, you dumb…" He never finished the sentence as the next bullet caught him in the mouth and exited out the back of his skull.
Before the monster of her nightmares hit the floor, Tyler pumped two more rounds into his chest. "Liar," she said, and dropped the gun.
An hour later, Karp sat in the nearly empty courtroom still trying to sort it all out. Only Clay Fulton remained, mostly to keep him company. His thoughts were interrupted by someone behind him clearing her throat. He looked over his shoulder and saw Verene Fischer, the judge's clerk.
"How's Klinger?" he asked, not that he cared; she was part of the whole corrupt mess.
"They took her to the hospital and gave her a shot to calm her down, and the trial, what's left of it, has been postponed until the day after tomorrow."
"Okay, thanks," Karp said. He waited for the young woman to leave, but she remained standing behind him as if trying to decide what to do next.
"Yes? Is there something else?"
Fischer nodded. "Yes, there is." She handed him an envelope. "I think you've been trying to find what's inside," she said.
Karp opened it and pulled out a letter. Dated and stamped as received by the Kings County DAO was the letter from Kaminsky to Breman. He looked up at Fischer.
"Thank you," he said. "It took a lot of guts to give me this."
"You'll find the real letter in Judge Klinger's safe, if you can get a subpoena for it." The young woman turned to go.
"Wait, can I ask you why you're giving this to me now?" he said.
Fischer shrugged. "I guess I got tired of hiding."
"Hiding?"
"Yes," she said. "You see, Verene Fischer is not my real name. I changed my name ten years ago. My real name is Hannah Little."
Two days later, Marlene was getting ready to go to court to watch her husband's "grand finale," as he put it, though he wouldn't discuss the details. She was almost out the door when the telephone rang. Sighing, she picked it up.
"Marlene, oh, God, Marlene," her father sobbed.
"What is it this time, Dad?" she said. "Is she missing again?"
"No, Marlene," he cried, and began to sob and wouldn't speak.
Alarmed, Marlene shouted. "Dad, pull yourself together. What's happened? Is Mom all right?"
"No," he said in a voice that was almost a whine. "She's dead. I woke up this morning and she wasn't breathing. Oh, Marlene, please, come help me."
"Dad, are you sure?"
"Yes, oh, yes, her eyes are open, but she isn't breathing and she's…she's cold, Marlene."
"Dad, I'm on my way," she said. "It will be okay. Just go down to the living room and sit down."
Marlene arrived at her parents' home in record time. She rushed into the house and up to her parents' bedroom with her father trailing behind.
"What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" he wailed.
Marlene stopped in the doorway when she saw her mother and then walked over slowly. Concetta Ciampi lay in the bed, her brown eyes fixed on the crucifix above the bed but no longer seeing it.
Marlene felt for a pulse, knowing there would be none. She was going to close her mother's eyelids when she noticed something and bent closer. Hardly noticeable, the small blood vessels in the eyes had ruptured. A sign of asphyxiation. She then noticed a crumpled pillow next to her mother's head. On one side there was a smeared lipstick stain, the same color her mother was wearing, and a damp spot.
"Oh, Marlene," her father cried. "What are we going to do?"
Marlene blinked back the tears, removed the pillowcase from the pillow, and closed her mother's eyelids. "I'm going to take you to my home, Pops," she said. "Then I'm going to come back and take care of Momma."
Karp looked at his watch and then at the back of the courtroom. He'd hoped Marlene would show but it was time to get the ball rolling.
That morning he'd met with Hugh Louis in his office. Louis had begun by blustering that the "mayhem" of two days ago didn't change the fact that his clients were still suing the city. "I'll get a new jury…we'll do it all over again…unless you want to settle this now."
"Shut up, Louis," Karp snarled. "And let me tell you how this is going to go down." He pulled out the Kaminsky letter and shoved it in Louis's face. "You're about to be indicted, but if you want to save your fat ass a few years in the big house, here's the deal."
An hour later, Karp was sitting in the courtroom wishing Marlene would show up when Klinger entered. She looked at the empty plaintiffs' table and demanded to know what was going on.
Karp, who had not bothered to rise, held a finger up-a sign for the judge to hold on for a minute.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Karp," she sputtered. "Since when do you tell this court what to do."
"Hold on a moment, your honor, I'm waiting for some paperwork before we can begin," he said. "Ah, here it is now."
Harry Kipman rushed into the room flanked by U.S. Marshals and NYPD police officers. "Here you go, boss," he said, handing Karp two documents. "Everything went like clockwork."
Karp quickly looked over the paperwork and smiled as he rose to his feet. "Your honor, I have two applications," he said. "The first is that the attorney for the plaintiffs, Hugh Louis, has filed a motion to dismiss the case. I might add that Mr. Louis is now under indictment."
Klinger swallowed hard and nodded. "Very well," she said, her voice trembling, "case dismissed." She got up to leave.
"Your honor, I said I had two applications," Karp replied. The judge
turned slowly to face him. "The second application is that you're under arrest."
"This is outrageous…on what grounds?"
"We'll start with obstruction of justice. Based on the grand jury testimony from Verene Fischer, also known as Hannah Little, and Hugh Louis. Kristine Breman-who was arrested in her office earlier this morning-and you have been indicted by the grand jury down the street in the Criminal Courts building. The U.S. Marshals are present to take you into custody and hand you over to the NYPD."
"I want a lawyer," the judge said.
"You better get a good one," he replied as the marshals rushed past.
Epilogue
Two weeks later, Karp met with the team involved with the Coney Island trial at his office. It was a sort of celebration that had been delayed because of the death of Marlene's mother and her subsequent funeral.
Guma had furnished a cooler with beer on ice, and even Mrs. Milquetost was letting her hair down, so to speak, by sipping on a Coors. He figured they all deserved it as it had been a busy, as well as an emotionally draining, couple of weeks.
Breman and Klinger had been indicted for obstruction of justice and withholding of evidence. Between them and Rachman, he was sure that it wouldn't be long before the press started accusing him of being prejudiced against women in the justice system.
Newbury was in the process of adding on to the current indictment against Hugh Louis a host of charges, starting with conspiracy to commit murder in the death of Ivan Kaminsky. The now Coney Island Three were engaged in a competition for who could spill his guts-all of it properly recorded in the presence of their lawyers-to finger Louis as directing Sykes to kill Ivan.
Newbury had hoped that they might also nail Olav Radinskaya on the conspiracy charge to go along with the indictments facing Zulu, Lindahl, and Ewen for the No Prosecution and Coney Island Four conspiracies, but the Russian had disappeared a few days after the trial. His body had subsequently been found floating beneath the pylons of the Coney Island pier, an apparent victim of a garrote.
In fact, there seemed to be something unhealthy in the air for anyone involved in these most recent cases. Ted Vanders, who, according to a note typed on his computer, was distraught over losing his beloved Sarah Ryder, had apparently committed suicide by throwing himself off the fire escape of his Minetta Street apartment.
The wheels of justice grinding away, Karp thought as he looked around his office. Repass and Russell were over in a corner laughing as they fended off Guma's attempts to get them drunk "and let you take advantage of us." Stupenagel and Murrow were arguing some point with Kipman, while Newbury smirked.
Dick Torrisi walked into the office and was promptly handed a beer by Mrs. Milquetost, who'd finished her first and wondered "why a nice man like you isn't married. Perhaps you'd like to meet my daughter…she's a little on the heavy side but…"
"I didn't get a chance to thank you in person after the trial," Torrisi said, disengaging himself and walking up to Karp with his hand extended. "Things got a little hectic there with all the bullets and bodies flying around. So thanks. And I wanted to add that your approval rating with the PBA has gone through the roof. Arresting Rachman showed them that you'll go after anybody, even in your own office, then taking down a federal judge and the Brooklyn DA…well, let's just say me and the boys, we appreciate you going to bat for us. I think you can count on the membership next fall."
"Thanks, I appreciate that, but I was just doing my job," Karp said.
"Nah, you might have been following your conscience," Torrisi said, "but it wasn't your job."
Their conversation ended when the others in the room started to clap. Karp looked around and saw Liz Tyler standing shyly at the door. She went around the room and shook everyone's hands and came last to Karp and Torrisi, who kissed her on the cheek and excused himself.
"Any idea what you're going to do now?" Karp asked.
Tyler looked up at him sideways with a shy smile. "Well, a couple of days after the trial, I got a call from my ex-husband. Apparently some guy with the newspapers got in touch with him to get a comment and told him what happened," she said. "Anyway, my ex suggested that I move to Arizona so that I can sort of get reacquainted with my daughter."
"Great idea. Any chance there's more to it than that?"
A shadow passed across Tyler's face. "No, not the way you're thinking," she said. "He…he remarried and has two more children. He's just being kind-he was always kind-and said he wants our daughter to get to know me."
"So are you going?"
Tyler bit her lip and nodded. "I bought a one-way ticket to Tucson yesterday," she said. "I'm pretty nervous. But I don't have anything keeping me here, and I don't want to go live with my parents in Iowa." She laughed. "Then I really would go crazy. I leave in the morning so this is good-bye, Mr. Karp." She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you."
As Liz Tyler walked out the door, Marlene came in. The two women stopped, exchanged a few words and hugged. Then Liz was gone.
Those who hadn't attended her mother's funeral walked over to Marlene and expressed their condolences. Karp was glad to see her smile, even if she still looked a little weepy. It seemed she'd been crying since her mother's death.
There was something bothering her about her mother's death but when he asked about it, all she'd say was, "I'm not ready to talk about it." So he left it alone and didn't complain about the time she was spending across the street in her art studio. In fact, he enjoyed looking out the window and watching her as she painted. Sometimes she'd look over and wave. And just the day before, she'd flashed him her tits and laughed at his shocked expression.
Marlene broke away from the others and walked over to give him a kiss on the lips. "I saw you making out with that other woman," she said.
Her sense of humor is returning…a good sign, Karp thought. "You're mistaken; she kissed me in a moment of vulnerability. My lips are yours and yours alone."
"You'll keep it that way if you know what's good for you," Marlene said.
Just then his private line rang. They both looked at the telephone for a moment, neither wanting to answer it. Most everybody who had the number was already in the room, except for the kids and Clay Fulton, who was riding shotgun on the police escort transporting Andrew Kane to the upstate psychiatric hospital for his evaluations.
"I'll get it," Marlene said finally. "It's probably the boys wanting to spend the night with a friend or placing a dinner order."
She leaned over the desk and picked up the receiver. "Butch Karp's office," she said in her sexiest receptionist voice.
A moment later, her face turned ashen and her hand went to her stomach as if she was going to be sick. The other conversations in the room drifted to a stop as everyone turned to her. She looked up at Butch, and he knew that lightning was about to strike again.
"Marlene?" Oh, God, now what? he wondered. One of the kids? Her father? "That was Helen Fulton," she said as she started to cry.
"Andrew Kane's escaped. Some people are dead, and Clay's been shot. He's in the hospital, and it doesn't look good."
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