Malice

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Karp, who’d brought out a legal notepad, quickly got to the point. “So, tell me about the hearing.”

  As he had the night before, O’Toole deferred to Meyers, who began by shaking his head and saying, “It was a procedural nightmare, a modern-day Star Chamber. Even the room was set up to intimidate anybody with the temerity to challenge the high and mighty American Collegiate Athletic Association: Big, empty white walls with no art, not even a sports poster, and blindingly bright fluorescent lights.”

  “Bring on the rubber hoses, eh?” Karp said.

  “Exactly,” Meyers replied. “We were told to sit on one side of a table long enough to seat twenty per side, and even then they kept us waiting fifteen minutes before anyone else appeared.”

  When they did arrive, the seven members of the hearing panel, their attorney, investigator, and the university’s representatives—Huttington and Barnhill—all sat on the opposite side. “I was thinking, ‘Now I know how a dying rabbit feels when the vultures start gathering,’” O’Toole said. “I would swear that even their chairs were taller so that they were looking down on me.”

  The panel was headed by a retired federal judge, George Figa. “He had a reputation in Boise for being strict but fair,” Meyers noted. “So I felt pretty good about that, at least until later.”

  “I recognized one guy, too,” O’Toole interjected. “You might remember him, Butch, J. C. Anderson. He was the head football coach at one of the Big Twelve universities for decades…retired, I think, in the eighties. He’s got to be a hundred years old.”

  “I do remember Anderson,” Karp said. “The man won two national titles, and God knows how many bowl games. But tell you what I remember most was hearing him give a talk once at a camp when I was still a high school basketball player. It was this great, impassioned speech telling us to remember that the real goal of participating in sports wasn’t winning, or self-promotion, but the lessons it taught us for later in life about playing fair, following the rules, and sacrificing personal glory for the betterment of what he called ‘the team we call our community.’ I remember him saying, ‘Do that and you’re a champion in anybody’s book and will go far long after you hang up the cleats.’ I never forgot that speech.”

  “Well, he must have,” Meyers said. “Because any hope we had for due process went out the window about as soon as the hearing began.”

  They’d known the basis of the ACAA case going in because Meyers had been sent the association’s investigative file, which contained the complaint, the “evidence, such as it was,” and copies of the witness deposition transcripts. “Though as you’ll hear in a moment, those were somewhat less than complete,” Meyers noted.

  The ACAA had been represented by attorney Steve Zusskin. “What’s he like?” Karp asked.

  “Tall, distinguished-looking,” Meyers replied, “wavy, silver hair with deep-set, dark eyes, great voice, almost sounds like he’s singing when he talks. Apparently, he used to be a senior partner with a big firm in Boston before deciding to resettle in Idaho. He’s about as good as it gets in our neck of the woods. Have to admit, I was a little intimidated.”

  The hearing began with Zusskin reviewing the accusations brought by Rufus Porter and the contents of the ACAA file by questioning his investigator, James Larkin, a former college football player.

  “I nearly lost it and started laughing the first time Larkin started to talk,” Meyers said. “The guy’s probably six foot four and three hundred pounds, though a lot of it looked like blubber, but he has a voice like a twelve-year-old girl. It was really incongruous to listen to him talk in this high, shrill tone about how under his ‘tough’ questioning, he got Rufus Porter to ‘confess’ that he’d taken underage recruits to a party where he knew alcohol would be provided. But, of course, Porter claimed that he only did it at Mikey’s suggestion and poor little Rufus felt, and here I’m quoting, ‘that his place on the team depended on his doing what the coach asked.’ Larkin also said that according to Porter, Mikey even gave him credit for alcohol from the baseball department’s petty-cash fund.”

  The questioning was a real “dog and pony show,” according to Meyers, “with Zusskin leading Larkin like a trainer with a St. Bernard at the Westminster Dog Show. For instance, Zusskin asked if women were paid to strip at the party and have sexual relations with the two recruits. Of course, Larkin agreed, and at his master’s coaxing added that according to Porter, Mikey paid for it with his university credit card.”

  “Did they happen to bring up the rape charges brought against Rufus?” Marlene asked.

  Meyers rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah. Zusskin made a big show of rustling through his papers and then asked Larkin if during the course of his investigation, he’d turned up allegations of Porter committing sexual assault at the party. Larkin said oh yes, it was that allegation that caused the removal of Porter from the basketball team so he gave it extra special attention. However, as he told the panel, the allegation turned out to be false.”

  “False!” Marlene sputtered. “The charges were dropped because the evidence in the case mysteriously disappeared and the victim for some reason left town in the middle of the night. I’d hardly call that false even if the charges had to be dropped.”

  Meyers nodded. “I essentially said the same thing…or started to when Judge Figa brought the gavel down and told me I’d get to speak later but I was to refrain from making any more statements while Zusskin and Larkin were trotting around the ring…. Well, he didn’t put it exactly like that, but you get my drift.”

  “What did you say to that?” Karp asked.

  “Oh, just, ‘Fine, your honor, I’ll wait for my chance to cross-examine the witness.’”

  Karp chuckled. “Bet that went over well.”

  “Yeah, like a match in a fireworks factory,” Meyers said with a grin. “I got an angry glare from the judge, and some nervous glances from the rest of the panel and Huttington. Barnhill was shooting daggers with his eyes, but Zusskin just smiled and went on with the show.”

  Following Zusskin’s lead, Larkin told the panel that he’d interviewed the two recruits in question. “Then he handed out a nine-page transcript.”

  “Nine pages?” Karp said, furrowing his brow. “Obviously, men of few words. Or are you indicating that this was a somewhat truncated version of a transcript?” The smell of rat from the night before had returned even stronger.

  “Yeah,” Meyers replied, “for what was supposedly a couple of hours’ worth of interviews. But when I complained that the transcript was incomplete, Zusskin said that for the purposes of the hearing, it wasn’t necessary to present the entire transcript—only those statements made by the recruits that had bearing on whether Mikey knew about the party and paid for booze and strippers. Oh, and whether he asked the recruits not to cooperate with the ACAA investigation and to lie if questioned. I, of course, asked for the entire transcript and a copy of the tape recording of the interviews. But Figa gaveled me again and told me that the hearing would go forward according to the rules and regulations of the ACAA.”

  When he finished with the transcript, Zusskin wrapped up his presentation by submitting for the panel’s examination his “hard evidence,” a telephone record showing that a call had been placed from O’Toole’s office to the Pink Pussycat Escort Service on the evening in question and a receipt for five hundred dollars paid to the escort service using O’Toole’s university credit card.

  “Then the judge asked if there was anything Mikey wanted to say in his defense,” Meyers explained.

  “Wait until you hear Richie’s reply,” O’Toole interjected. “He was awesome.”

  “Not really,” Meyers replied. “To be honest, I felt a little over-matched. I’d never dealt with anything like this and had no idea what our rights were.”

  “Come on, it was a great speech about my right to confront the witnesses against me,” O’Toole insisted. “He stood up and said, ‘Before this goes any further, I’d like the panel to produce
the witnesses so that I can cross-examine them. We’d also like to call our own witnesses and present evidence.’ But the judge interrupted and, like he was talking to a naughty schoolkid, said, ‘Mr. Meyers, this is a private organization with its own rules for conducting hearings.’ Only Richie didn’t back down and shot back, ‘But how can you reach an honest and independent conclusion if you’re the ones who brought the charges?’ I don’t think the judge was used to being challenged. His face got all red and he told Richie that the ACAA would conduct its hearings according to its rules and that if I wanted to make a statement I should do so before he adjourned so that the panel could deliberate.”

  “Well, my arguments didn’t do you much good,” Meyers pointed out, blushing slightly from the praise. “But yeah, Figa as much as said the Constitution be damned. So Mikey got up, told the truth about what happened, and sat down. Anybody with a brain would have seen that he was being honest, but I could tell just looking at the panel that it didn’t matter, they’d already made up their minds.”

  In fact, it had taken the panel all of an hour of closed-door deliberations to return with their verdict. “Figa announced that there was enough evidence to conclude that Coach Mikey O’Toole violated ACAA rules governing recruiting practices and that such violations placed a stain on the integrity of his university and the American Collegiate Athletic Association,” Meyers recalled.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” O’Toole said quietly. “It was like my brother’s case all over again. They said I was suspended from coaching at the collegiate level for a period of ten years. It pretty much meant the end of my coaching career—at least at the college level; no one will hire me again, even if I could wait ten years.”

  “We immediately asked Huttington for a public name-clearing hearing at the university,” Meyers said. “It was the only chance Mikey had to get his side out to the public. But Huttington put on this long face and said he was sorry, but it wouldn’t be in the best interest of the university.”

  “They fired me the next day,” O’Toole said.

  “So you filed a lawsuit in federal court?” Karp asked.

  Both men nodded. “Yeah, I did some research and thought we might make a case for a Fourteenth Amendment liberty interest violation,” Meyers said.

  “Very good,” Karp said, genuinely impressed.

  “I don’t get it,” Marlene said, looking puzzled. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve practiced, but how is this a liberty interest case? He wasn’t charged with a crime; no one is threatening to deprive him of his liberty.”

  Recalling his conversation on that very topic a month earlier with the Breakfast Club, Karp looked at Meyers. “Care to explain?”

  “Sure, I’ll take a crack at it,” the young attorney replied. “Marlene, the courts have repeatedly held that the constitutional guarantees first stated in the Declaration of Independence to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness include the right of Americans to pursue their chosen profession. Mikey O’Toole’s chosen profession is coaching baseball at the collegiate level. Yet, the panel took away that liberty without so much as a nod to the concept of due process. And the public university that fired him denied Mikey a name-clearing hearing, published the false and defamatory charges, and in so doing stigmatized him, which will prevent Mikey from coaching again at the collegiate and probably high school level. How’s that, Butch?”

  “Well put,” Karp replied. “I tried one of these myself during a foray into private practice a few years back on behalf of the city’s chief medical examiner. Jury bought into it and it resulted in a hefty check for the CME.” He looked from one of the men to the other and smiled. “I have to say that you probably wasted your time and money coming here—not that we haven’t enjoyed your company. But I think you’re right on track and that, Mikey, you have a fine attorney representing you. I can’t think of anything to add, though I’ll mull this over, and if anything comes up that might help, I’ll call. But the main point is that you don’t need me.”

  O’Toole and Meyers gave each other the same funny look that Karp had noticed the night before. “But that’s just it, Mr. Karp,” Meyers said, choosing his words carefully. “I think I do need your help. I’ve never tried a case in federal court, or picked a jury for anything more complex than a burglary trial or a property dispute. Zusskin has twenty years of trials on me, and he’ll have help from whomever the university uses as its attorney, plus the resources of the ACAA and the university.”

  Meyers stood and faced the picture window, looking out at the lights of Lower Manhattan, and then turned back to Karp. “I’ll be honest, my friend’s whole future is on the line here, and I’m scared to death that I’ll mess this up—not from a lack of effort, but a lack of experience. I’m asking you to please consider being lead counsel; I’d count myself honored to sit second chair.”

  Karp sat stunned by the emotional appeal. “I’m the one who’s honored by the request,” he said. “But you’ll be fine. You’ve done the groundwork; keep it up and you’ll take it to these guys. I’m the district attorney of New York, and I’m not really free, nor am I sure it’s proper for me to take on a civil case in Idaho, no matter how I feel about your client.”

  “Nonsense, Karp,” Marlene said, surprising her husband and the others in the room. “You’re on a leave of absence, and I think it would be good for you to get out of Manhattan. Think of it as dabbing your toe back in the water before you jump in feet first.”

  Karp started to protest but Marlene held up her hand, and this time the look on her face said as much as her words. “And are you really going to let them do to Mikey what they did to Fred?” The comment went right to his heart, as she had known it would. Her smile challenged him to come up with another excuse, but he surrendered.

  “I guess not,” he said, and turned to his visitors. “Looks like we’ll be coming to Idaho. But on one condition, Richie.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s no second seating,” Karp said, standing up. “It’s an equal partnership, or nothing.”

  Meyers laughed and stuck out his hand. “Then put it there, pardner.”

  O’Toole also stood to shake his hand. “Thanks, Butch, my brother was right about you. He always called you his brother.”

  Karp felt his throat constrict at the word. “He was a good man,” he said. “I owe him.”

  The moment was shattered by the ringing of the telephone. Marlene and Karp both looked at the phone but neither moved to pick it up immediately.

  “Late-night calls to the home of the New York district attorney are rarely good news,” Marlene said to the confused visitors as she finally moved to look at the caller ID. She picked up the phone and handed it to Karp. “It’s Gilbert Murrow.”

  12

  IT TOOK A MOMENT TO GRASP WHAT MURROW WAS SAYING. He was obviously crying and it was all Karp could do to calm him down as he sat on the couch and started scribbling on his notepad.

  “There’s been a bomb!” Murrow yelled into the telephone. “At your uncle’s restaurant in Brighton Beach. The Black Sea Café. And…oh my God, what am I going to do…everybody’s dead…I think Ariadne’s dead!”

  Murrow had broken down again, and there’d been nothing Karp could do except show his notes to Marlene, who was looking over his shoulder. Bomb at the Black Sea. Ariadne may be hurt.

  “Okay, Gilbert, I know this is tough,” Karp said as calmly as he could. “But start at the beginning and tell me what you know is for sure.”

  His tone seemed to help Murrow pull it together. “Ariadne said she was going to meet someone at the Black Sea Café for an interview. She didn’t say who or what it was for but that it had to be tonight. I shouldn’t have let her go…I should have gone with her…”

  “Gilbert,” Karp said sharply. “I need you to stay with me. I’m sure there’s nothing you could have done differently, but that’s not what’s important now.”

  Karp heard loud sniffling and throat-clearing before Mu
rrow continued. “Anyway, she had this interview. She called me just before going into the restaurant. She had to have been there for a couple of hours at least. The police have talked to witnesses who saw someone who looks like her having dinner there with another one of the victims—some mob guy. Then the bomb went off.”

  The phone went quiet and Karp sensed Murrow struggling to remain in control. “I was asleep…waiting for her to come home.” He choked up. “I…I got a phone call—some guy with an accent told me to turn on the news…. I think he was trying to help. I turned on the television and this was all over it. As soon as I heard the name of the restaurant, I rushed over here as fast as I could. It’s horrible. There’s blood and bodies everywhere…. Fulton’s here, too. I called him on the way down.”

  “Thanks, Gilbert, let me speak to him for a moment,” Karp said.

  “Butch?”

  “Yeah, Clay. Sounds bad.”

  “It is. According to witnesses, there was at least one family with kids, maybe two, plus some other folks and the staff. They’re still trying to clear the rubble and put out small fires. But they haven’t found anybody alive yet.”

  “Have they identified Ariadne?”

  “Nope,” Fulton said. “But most of the bodies they have recovered so far are pretty torn up and burned. It may take DNA testing for some of them, according to the crime scene guys. But Gilbert thinks she was here and like he told you, a woman matching her description was seen at one of the tables just before the bomb went off.”

  “Who do they have for suspects?”

  “Not much,” Fulton answered. “A couple of NYPD detectives working in organized crime think this was aimed at the Karchovskis. Apparently, some youngbloods from Moscow are trying to establish themselves.”