Malice

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Trovisi giu,” Karp told the dog, who wagged the nub of his tail at the visitors—he was a lover, not a fighter, unless commanded otherwise—and then trotted over to the easy chair where Marlene was reading a newspaper and slumped to his belly with a sigh.

  “Holy cow!” the older and larger of the two men exclaimed. “We have bears smaller than that in Idaho. What was that you told him?”

  Karp grinned mischievously. “These guys are not for dinner.”

  “Actually,” Marlene said, rising from her chair with a smile, “that was poorly pronounced Italian for ‘Lie down.’ Otherwise, he would have said, ‘Questi uomini non sono per il pranzo,’ which doesn’t mean anything to Gilgamesh. Unfortunately, my husband’s fluency in Italian is about as well developed as his sense of humor.”

  The first man laughed and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Mr. Karp, it’s been a long time.” He was nearly as tall as Karp, and like his brother, Mikey O’Toole was a redhead with sea-green eyes and a constellation of freckles on his face.

  “Too long, Mikey,” Karp said, nodding and shaking his hand. “And I thought we agreed you’d call me Butch. That Mr. Karp business coming from someone I’ve known since he was nine years old makes me feel older than Methuselah. You remember my wife, Marlene Ciampi?”

  “Yes, sir, Butch,” Mikey O’Toole replied, turning to Marlene. “And of course, I never forget a pretty face.”

  “Ha! I see the apple fell from the same tree,” Marlene said, laughing. “Your brother was a great bullshitter, too. And it’s Marlene, before you ‘ma’am’ me again; then I’d have to hurt you.”

  “I meant every word,” O’Toole said, then turned to the younger man, who stood behind him smiling at the repartee. “I’d like you to meet my attorney and, more important, my friend, Richie Meyers.”

  Shorter and muscularly compact, a former all-American collegiate wrestler and nationally rated chess master, Meyers appeared to be in his midthirties, although his short blond hair and tan face made him look younger. He shook their hands; then his eyes glanced to something behind Karp and Marlene. “And who are those two fine young gentlemen?” he asked.

  Looking back, Karp saw the twins, Isaac and Giancarlo, peering from the hallway that led back to the bedrooms. “Gentlemen is a relative term when it comes to these two rascals, who by the way are supposed to be in bed and asleep,” he growled. “But since they’re here…Zak and Giancarlo, come on out and meet an old friend, Mikey O’Toole, and a new friend, Richie Meyers.”

  Pleased to be invited to join the party, the thirteen-year-olds emerged and shook hands, which gave the visitors a chance to appraise the boys. Born only minutes apart, they were alike and then again, not so much. They both had curly dark hair, like their mother—Giancarlo wore his somewhat longer, while Zak kept his short. The merry brown eyes and cupid-bow lips were nearly identical, and again favored their mother’s Mediterranean looks.

  However, Zak was stockier, more muscular, and carried himself like an athlete. His face was already more rugged than that of his brother, and more olive-colored, like Marlene’s. Giancarlo’s features were more delicate—not effeminate, just leaning toward classically beautiful rather than ruggedly handsome. Like Michelangelo’s David, Meyers thought, an impression heightened by his complexion’s almost translucent quality.

  “Any baseball players between the two of you?” O’Toole asked. “I’m always scouting.”

  “Me,” Zak responded immediately. “Any position, and I can already hit a curveball.”

  “Impressive,” O’Toole commented, then looked at Giancarlo. “And you?”

  “He’s horrible,” Zak answered for his brother. “Can’t field, can’t hit, throws like a girl. He’s afraid he’ll hurt his hands.”

  “At least I have more brains than a golden retriever,” said Giancarlo, then acted as if he were throwing a ball. “Here, boy, fetch. Get the ball. That’s a good Zak.”

  With technique born of long practice, Marlene moved between the two potential combatants. “What my little Neanderthal Zak meant to say is that his brother, Gianni, is a gifted musician. He plays several instruments and prefers not to ruin his chances at playing Carnegie Hall.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” O’Toole responded. “I wish I’d learned to play an instrument.”

  “Ah, you can always do that when you’re old and can’t play ball,” Zak quipped.

  “Out!” Karp commanded before Giancarlo could protest. “You two can continue to impress our visitors with your obnoxious behavior tomorrow. In the meantime, lights out, and I better not hear any squabbling.”

  Giving each other a dirty look, the twins did an about-face and headed back down the hall to their bedroom. If they engaged in any murder and mayhem after that, at least they did it quietly.

  O’Toole gave Karp an amused look. “Quite a handful, those two.”

  Karp rolled his eyes. “Yeah, any more of a handful and we might all end up in the loony bin. If only they’d put as much effort into their bar mitzvah lessons. They’re so far behind, they’ve had to delay the event until next fall when—if we’re lucky—they’ll pass into Jewish manhood only a year behind their peers.”

  It wasn’t an entirely fair assessment of his sons’ efforts. After all, they’d had to deal with their father getting shot recently, not to mention a half dozen run-ins with terrorists, murderers, and psychopaths over their short lives. Not exactly conducive to studying the Torah, Karp thought, but still they seemed to have plenty of time for their Game Boys and Xboxes.

  “They’ll be worse tomorrow if they don’t get to bed,” Marlene said. “Fortunately, it’s Saturday so they can sleep in a little.”

  “Sorry to get here so late,” O’Toole apologized. “There weren’t a lot of flights from Boise International to New York on short notice. You sure you don’t want us to stay in a hotel?”

  “Not at all,” Marlene replied. “We have plenty of room if you don’t mind sleeping on bunk beds surrounded by entirely too much pink, as well as posters of the Backstreet Boys and a hundred or so stuffed animals. It’s our daughter Lucy’s room. She’s currently living in sin in New Mexico with a handsome young cowboy.”

  “I’m sure it will be just fine,” O’Toole responded. “But I got dibs on the bottom bunk. I tend to toss and turn, so the top bunk would pose a hazard.”

  A few minutes later, the four adults were settled on the couch and chairs of the loft’s living room, each nursing a bottle of beer that Marlene had brought from the kitchen. “What’s Sawtooth like?” she asked.

  “What? You mean you haven’t heard of the home of the ‘Fighting Nez Perce’ at the University of Northwest Idaho?” O’Toole responded. “Well, I guess it’s a pretty small town—population maybe forty thousand if you include ten thousand students from the university. The town was originally built in the 1880s to support the timber, mining, and ranching industries of the area. And there’s still a lot of that around. But over the past twenty years or so, it’s gained a reputation as a fly-fishing and hunting destination. More recently, maybe five years, it’s been developing fast as a retreat for city folks trying to get away from it all, mostly from California. The university, of course, plays a big part in the town’s makeup and character. So do the Basques.”

  “Basques?” Karp asked.

  “Yeah, there’s actually quite a population of them in Idaho,” O’Toole replied. “They’re from a region between Spain and France, but ethnically, linguistically, and culturally neither Spanish nor French. Apparently, Idaho’s mountains are a lot like their homeland. Some of the families arrived more than a hundred years ago, mostly to herd sheep, and many still do. They’re good, hardworking people and well thought of in the community, though they tend to stick together and cling to their traditions.”

  “There’s a great Basque cultural center in Boise and a smaller one in Sawtooth,” Meyers interjected, “that you should check out if you ever come out our way.”

  O’Toole s
hot Meyers a funny look, then continued. “There was a large influx of them after World War Two. Apparently, they deal with a lot of prejudice and animosity, particularly in Spain.”

  “Speaking of prejudice,” Marlene asked, “isn’t Idaho one of the states famous, or infamous, for white supremacists?”

  O’Toole’s eyes grew hard. “I know Idaho gets the rap as the home of the Aryans and neo-Nazis and all that crap,” he said. “And for sure, there’s some of it. Starting about twenty or so years ago, they began moving to rural areas in Idaho, Washington, and Oregon with the idea that because there weren’t many people of color living there, they could create an all-white homeland when the inevitable ‘race war’ began. In fact, there’s a big compound about ten miles from Sawtooth that’s home base to the Unified Church of Aryan People. But I’ve lived in Sawtooth for three years now and the vast majority of people aren’t like that.”

  “So what is the state of race relations between the ‘brothers and sisters’ and the townspeople?” Karp asked.

  “Actually, quite good by and large,” O’Toole replied. “To be honest, there aren’t a lot of minorities who have been longtime residents of the community, other than a few American Indians. Most blacks and Hispanics are students at the university, and they’re there because they play for one of the teams, like mine. But most of the locals are really good to the kids; they follow the teams and are great fans. Like I said, Sawtooth is pretty small, so attending games is a major diversion. The fact is, the average citizen doesn’t like these racist assholes—pardon the language—any more than we do, and resent that they moved in from other places and have given Idaho a black eye.”

  “Sometimes they try to run for office—like mayor or the school board,” Meyers added. “But they never get very many votes. A couple of years ago, they held a rally at the city park, and there were maybe ten times more people there telling them to leave town.”

  Karp glanced at a clock on the wall. Damn, twelve-thirty, better get started or we’ll be here all night, he thought. “Tell me about your team.”

  O’Toole beamed. “They’re good kids. Some of them come from pretty rough urban backgrounds, but for the most part have proved that just because you might have an absentee, deadbeat father and live from hand to mouth, it’s no excuse to become a criminal or join a gang. Several of them have the talent to play at the Division I level, but didn’t have the grades to qualify for a big school. But Division I’s loss is my gain. And we’ve done pretty well, too. Last year, we were a couple of games from going to the College World Series and playing against the big boys. That was our goal for this next spring, but…well, unless things change, I won’t be there.”

  O’Toole looked down quickly as he made his comment, but Karp caught the hitch in his voice. “You really love coaching there, don’t you?” he said.

  O’Toole nodded and took a swig of his beer. “Yeah, I do. When I first got there, I saw it as just a step to something bigger, such as a Division I school that always has a shot at the College World Series. Like my brother, I wanted—still want—to win a national championship. But now I want to do it with the kids from this school. What they may lack in polish, they make up for in heart and desire.”

  O’Toole gazed at his beer bottle as if hoping to see a vision of a better future in the brown glass. Then he looked up, ready to answer the questions they all knew were coming.

  “So how’d you end up in hot water?” Karp asked.

  O’Toole took a deep breath, gulped down some beer, and then began. The specifics of the recruiting violations he’d told Karp about were that he’d condoned, even financed with university money, a party at which recruits were plied with alcohol and attended to by girls who’d apparently been paid to have sex with them.

  “I’ll get to those allegations, which are crap, in a moment,” O’Toole said. “But first I need to go back a little ways and put this into context. The main character in this little drama was one of my players, Rufus Porter. He happens to be the prodigal son of one of our wealthiest and most influential citizens, ‘Big John’ Porter, who owns a couple of local car dealerships and is the real estate mogul of Sawtooth. Big John has his hands in just about every civic organization from the Kiwanis to Friends of the Library, and has dabbled in politics at the state level, though not very successfully because people see through the good ol’ boy bullshit.”

  The event at the heart of the matter had occurred the previous spring during Recruit Week at which a half dozen high school players were brought to the campus to get O’Toole’s sales pitch. After the talk and a tour of the facilities, the recruits were sent off to dinner with their potential teammates, who were supposed to return them to the dormitory with lights out at ten o’clock.

  “However, two of the recruits were lured out of the dorm by Rufus and taken to this party,” O’Toole said. “Sometime during this little gathering, Maly Laska, a female roommate of the hostess who was supposed to be out of town—apparently their rooming together was out of necessity, not friendship—came home unexpectedly. The next day, she reported that she’d been raped by Rufus. I had no idea about the party until it hit the local newspaper the day after the cops arrested Rufus.”

  “I hate to be the one to say this, but this wasn’t a case where the girl gets drunk, has sex and regrets it the next day, and then cries rape?” Marlene asked.

  O’Toole shook his head. “No. According to the local district attorney, a good man named Dan Zook, her injuries were consistent with sexual assault and one of the strippers told police that she later saw the girl in her bedroom crying. She told her that she’d been raped by Porter.”

  “What about the recruits?” Karp asked.

  “They both said they saw the girl head back to her room, followed by Rufus a few minutes later. The door was closed and they say they didn’t hear or see anything else until Rufus came out and they then left the party. Rufus, of course, claims that the sex was consensual.”

  “Still, seems like a pretty good case,” Marlene ventured.

  “It was. Zook charged Porter with sexual assault,” Meyers said. “I should point out that doing that was no small act of courage in Big John’s town.”

  “Hell, it took brass balls,” O’Toole agreed. “I immediately suspended the jerk from the team. The university was a little slower. The president, E. ‘Kip’ Huttington III, and university attorney Clyde Barnhill didn’t like it—Big John is the number one alumni club booster—but in the end there wasn’t much they could do about it either.”

  “So they put this Rufus away?” Marlene asked.

  O’Toole shook his head and took a swig of beer. “Nope. He’s free as a bird. The charges were dropped.”

  “Why?” Karp frowned.

  “Well, one thing was that the evidence—the DNA tests and samples—disappeared,” O’Toole said.

  “What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Karp asked.

  “The investigation of the case was originally being handled by the university police,” O’Toole said. “Their office is closed at night except for the guys on patrol, and there was a burglary. A number of files and items from the evidence locker were removed. Funny thing, but the burglars didn’t touch the pot or cocaine that had been confiscated from college kids and was there for the taking, nor was there any sign of forced entry.”

  “The prosecutor could have still gone forward on the victim’s testimony and that of the stripper and recruits,” Marlene pointed out.

  “The stripper changed her story after Rufus Porter’s lawyer talked to her,” Meyers said. “She decided that the victim could have been crying because she’d ‘given it up’ but then got dumped by Porter. Her new statement indicated that the victim was getting back at Rufus by accusing him of rape.”

  “And what about the victim?” Marlene asked.

  “You’d have to talk to Zook about that, but he’s still fuming,” O’Toole noted. “She decided not to cooperate at the eleventh hour. Then she just packed her bags an
d left.”

  “They got to her,” Marlene hissed.

  “That’s what everybody figures—Rufus runs with some of those Aryans we’ve talked about, and they play rough,” O’Toole replied. “Zook had no choice except to drop the charges. And now he’s got to be wondering where his next job will be. Big John doesn’t take kindly to anybody being mean to his baby boy.”

  Karp thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Obviously, a gross miscarriage of justice,” he said. “But there’s nothing we can do about that case. The question for us is how does it tie into your problem?”

  “As I said, Rufus was suspended from the team,” O’Toole replied. “After the charges were dropped, I got a lot of pressure from the university president, Huttington, and the attorney Barnhill to reinstate him. I still refused.”

  “On what grounds?” Karp asked.

  “On the grounds the asshole raped a girl,” Marlene bristled.

  “Come on, Marlene,” Karp responded, “the complainant took off, the evidence was stolen, the corroborating witness flipped. End of case. We know there was factual guilt, but no legally admissible evidence in the offing. Legally, Zook was left with the presumption of innocence unrebutted.”

  Marlene growled something inaudible as Karp continued. “I’m asking what grounds you gave to the powers that be to keep the asshole off the team after the criminal charges that got him suspended were dropped. I’m assuming this has to do with why you’re in hot water now.”

  “I understand,” O’Toole said, “and you’re right. If Huttington and Barnhill had their way, which was to cave in to Big John, Rufus would be back and probably in the starting lineup. However, I was able to keep him off for ‘conduct detrimental to the team’ because there was plenty of evidence that he set up the party, picked up the booze that was served to guys he knew were underage, and arranged for the strippers. Plus, he knew the recruits were to be in bed in the dormitory by ten.”