The trooper pulled a small card from his shirt pocket and began to read from it. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began. “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
“I’m his attorney,” Barnhill said.
Zook winced as if he was sorry he had to break the bad news. “I don’t think you’re going to be in a position to represent anybody, unless it’s yourself…and you know what they say about people who represent themselves.”
The prosecutor looked at the other trooper. “In fact, I think we’re at that point where you’ll want to escort Mr. Barnhill here into that other office I showed you earlier. Read him his rights, too, and see if he wants to make a statement. Then you are free to take him to the county jail.”
Zook looked apologetic again. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a little crowded down there and you’ll probably be sharing a cell with a number of other guys,” he said. “Seems that Sheriff Ireland went to the Unified Church compound yesterday trying to serve a search warrant to look for Mr. Huttington’s car. Apparently, not everybody was a good churchgoer and some took exception to him being there, so he locked them all up. It’s so crowded over there, I hear, they’re probably only just now getting to make that phone call to their lawyers.”
“This is an outrage,” Barnhill blustered as the second trooper clamped a big hand on his arm and pulled him to his feet.
“Yes, it is,” Zook said. “Everything about you and Mr. Huttington is an outrage to anybody with a shred of decency. Now get him the hell out of my sight. I believe Mr. Huttington may want to talk to me in private.”
Two hours later, Marlene emerged from the District Attorney’s Office, looked up at the spectacular Idaho sunset, and yawned. A sedan pulled up in the drive and Fulton got out.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, Clay, I’m great, just tired,” she said. “And it’s a long drive to Boise. But take me to Butch, would ya?”
Fulton nodded and opened the passenger door. “Your chariot awaits, Athena.”
Marlene laughed. “Hmm? Wasn’t she the goddess of justice?”
“She was indeed, Ms. Ciampi, she was indeed.”
28
ALL CONVERSATIONS STOPPED WHEN KARP ENTERED THE courtroom with Mikey O’Toole and Richie Meyers on Monday morning. He looked over at the gaggle of ACAA reps, including some members of the panel who had railroaded his client, as well as Zusskin and Larkin. They were all eyeing him like alley rats keeping track of the terrier prowling through their hood.
Karp considered whether he should feel sorry for them. But in less time than it took him to blink his eyes, he’d reached his decision. Hell no, he thought, they made this bed of nails. Lie in it.
The Sunday Idaho Statesman had blared the headlines all across the front page, announcing the raid on the Unified Church in Payette County that had uncovered the clandestine grave of a murder victim from the University of Northwest Idaho. Of course, the real news was the subsequent arrests of Kip Huttington, Clyde Barnhill, Rufus Porter, Benjamin Hamm, and several members of an Aryan gang in connection with the murder of Maria Santacristina. Police were still searching for John Porter, who they “wanted to question” in connection with the raid.
Another nearly as breathless sidebar story reported that a Basque terrorist wanted by Spain for a bombing more than twenty years earlier had been killed in a shootout with the Payette County SWAT team at the Unified Church compound. Jose Luis Arregi Katarain had been identified by fingerprints sent to Interpol by Sheriff Steve Ireland.
“We believe that he may have been training members of neo-Nazi terrorist organizations,” Ireland said at a press conference. “He fought like a man possessed, but my boys got him in the end. Afraid he’s pretty shot up. Not a pretty sight.”
Later, when he was called by reporters and told that some of the other white supremacists arrested at the compound denied the presence of Katarain, Ireland scoffed. “Well, what the hell do you expect them to say. ‘Oh, hello, we’ve been playing army with Osama Frickin’ bin Lay-den’? They may not have even known his real name.”
Of course, Karp knew the real story. He’d turned in early Saturday night feeling a little run-down and fighting a splitting headache that radiated from the back of his neck. The pain had finally subsided when he heard the door of his hotel room open and a minute later felt a warm female body slip beneath the covers and snuggle up against him.
“Is that you, Lisa?” he mumbled.
A second later he was begging for mercy as Marlene literally had him by the shorthairs. “Shall I just yank them out?” she hissed.
“No, no,” he cried. “I promise, it’s over between Lisa and me. Ow! Ow! Okay, uncle. I knew all along you were my lovely wife, Marlene.”
“That’s better, lover boy,” Marlene purred.
“So what brings you to Boise so late, my dear? I was expecting you in the morning.”
“Carnal desires,” she replied. “And maybe to deliver a little good news for my best boyfriend.” He’d already heard the report about finding Maria Santacristina; now she filled him in on that after-noon’s confrontation with Huttington and Barnhill. “One of the conditions for not seeking the death penalty is that Huttington answer truthfully at any court case he is required to attend, including yours on Monday morning.”
“Oh, most beauteous and intelligent siren, this is wonderful news beyond all hope,” Karp waxed.
“Now, that’s more like it,” Marlene said, giggling and allowing her hands to wander.
“I’ll say,” he replied.
On Sunday, Karp had interviewed a pale and quivering Kip Huttington, who’d been placed on suicide watch in the Boise city jail. They went over Huttington’s testimony, which left him staring blankly at the table in front of him as one tear after another splashed down. Karp did not feel sorry for him one bit, either.
The next stop had been to see Rufus Porter, who started to play tough guy again—saying his dad would get him a lawyer “and get my co-urst confession tossed out”—until Marlene dropped his Valknut medallion on the table. “Recognize this, Rufus?” she asked. “We have plenty of bits and pieces, including that tattoo under your biceps, which comes in loud and clear in the photograph Hamm took. Not to mention the feds want to talk to you about some weapons violations with your fingerprints all over them. Ever hear what fed pens are like? State joints are kindergartens by comparison. Now, do you still want to play games?”
Porter’s lip started to tremble, and then he started to blubber. “No, what do you want to know?”
Karp looked around the courtroom and saw Coach J. C. Anderson sitting in back, only this time he was sitting on the plaintiff’s side. The coach nodded and he returned the acknowledgment. Marlene was sitting in the front row with Fulton, Lucy, Ned, and a young woman Karp did not recognize as he walked up to say hello.
“Oh, there you are,” his wife said, and then touched the young woman lightly on her shoulder. “Butch, I’d like you to meet Maly Laska.”
Laska appeared nervous, but her handshake was firm. “Nice to meet you,” she said, then looked at Marlene. “Boy, when your wife says she’s going to do something, she doesn’t hold back, does she?”
Karp smiled, thinking of the many ways that applied to Marlene Ciampi. “No, she doesn’t,” he said. “Thanks for coming…. And thanks for what you did—that took courage.”
Laska blushed and mumbled something about it not being a big deal. Karp excused himself and joined his co-counsel and client at the plaintiff’s table, ignoring requests by several members of the press who’d followed him down the aisle.
Unlike during the first days of trial, when it was still just a civil lawsuit by a small university baseball coach for what the press had essentially boiled down to wrongful termination, the courtroom was now packed with reporters. They smelled blood and were schooling in preparation for a feeding frenzy.
Karp rose with everyone else when
Judge Sam Allen strode into the courtroom, wondering if this was how the Indian war chief Crazy Horse felt when told about Custer entering the Valley of the Little Big Horn. Bring ’em on.
The massacre commenced when Zusskin called James Larkin to the stand, though like Custer, neither the lawyer nor the investigator seemed to sense the impending disaster. Instead, Zusskin reviewed the abbreviated transcript and then asked Larkin why it was only nine pages long.
“Well, my job was to ask only a few pertinent questions and get the answers,” Larkin said. “You have to remember, this wasn’t for a court hearing, where it’s my understanding that both parties receive all of the information. I sometimes interview hundreds of people, and if I transcribed every four-hour conversation and kept every tape, we’d never get anywhere. Think of it as, I was the person asking the questions for the ACAA panel and then reporting the answers. Nothing more.”
“And what were those questions, Mr. Larkin?” Zusskin asked.
Larkin held up his big hands and ticked off the questions one fat finger at a time. “Did Coach O’Toole know about the party? Did he contact the escort service and pay for the…um, entertainment? Did he pay for alcohol that he knew would be consumed by the two recruits, who were underage? And did he attempt to interfere with my investigation by telling Mason and Dalton not to cooperate or to lie?”
“And those questions were answered in the nine pages of the transcript you provided, in accordance with the rules and regulations of the ACAA, to the hearing panel?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything else that was substantive or relevant that perhaps you should have included?”
“No, not that I can think of. The interviews weren’t all that long because, as I said, I was really only after those specific answers to my specific questions.”
“So if Mr. Mason and Mr. Dalton testified in this courtroom that your transcript was missing statements in which they denied that Coach O’Toole did these things, your answer would be?”
“What can I say, they’re lying,” he answered, looking at the jury.
Zusskin gave a meaningful look to the jury and said, “No more questions. Your witness.”
As Karp approached the witness stand Larkin tried to stare him down, but he got such a dose of “the Karp Glare” that he wilted, looked over at the jury, and laughed in his high, squeaky voice.
Karp held up the abbreviated transcript. “This is nine pages long,” he said. “Steele Dalton and Michael Mason both testified that most of what they said isn’t on here.”
Larkin leaned back in the witness chair and looked at his fingernails. “Anything substantive, or relevant, is included in that transcript, all in accordance with ACAA protocol.”
“And this is the transcript that the ACAA panel that heard Mikey O’Toole’s case used to suspend him?” Karp asked.
“Well, that and some other things,” Larkin responded.
“And if I recall your testimony at a pretrial hearing regarding the admissibility of this transcript, the tape recording of these interviews was destroyed?”
“No, actually, what happened is I had my secretary transcribe the recording and then I used the tape again for another interview,” Larkin replied. “Now I wish I hadn’t.”
“I see,” Karp said with a slight smile. “Then you will be happy to hear that I have that tape and wouldn’t you know, you didn’t record over it after all.” He reached behind him for the cassette tape on the plaintiff’s table and held it up.
“Your Honor, it is the plaintiff’s intention to offer into evidence this copy of a tape marked on the outside ‘Dalton-Mason’ and also a certified transcript from that tape, one hundred and thirty-five pages in all. Your Honor, I am compelled to inform the court that we have good reason to represent to you that the defense has been well aware of this tape and its contents. We, of course, have copies for counsel, which”—he turned to see that Meyers was giving Zusskin a copy—“have just been handed to them.”
The judge raised his eyebrows and looked over at Zusskin, who sat in stunned silence. He appeared to be unable to speak, so the young attorney next to him shouted, “Objection!”
“Yes, Miss Welt,” Allen said mildly. “What exactly is your objection?”
“I, um, I don’t know, but I’m sure we have one,” the young woman said, nudging Zusskin.
The poke in the shoulder seemed to bring Zusskin to his senses. “What is this nonsense?” he sputtered, rising shakily to his feet and poking the bigger transcript with his finger. “This is a fake.”
Karp enjoyed the moment, then turned to the judge. “Your Honor, if the defense will not stipulate to the admission in evidence of the tape and the corresponding certified transcript, then we’ll ask that Mr. Larkin step down temporarily so that we can make an offer of proof by calling Coach J. C. Anderson to the stand to vouch for its authenticity and provenance.”
Zusskin and the ACAA reps all swiveled in their seats to look at Coach Anderson, who glared right back. “Your Honor, Coach Anderson, as you know was a member of the ACAA panel that voted to sanction my client. He has since had a change of heart and obtained a copy of the supposedly ‘destroyed’ tape, which he gave to me. If the defense would prefer, we could just play the tape in its entirety. I’m sure the jury will be able to distinguish the voices of the two young men and Mr. Larkin and will be able to determine if it is all part of the same interview. Then they can make a decision if anything substantive, or relevant, was left out.”
“I really must object,” Zusskin complained. “This is…” He groped for a word.
“Unfair?” Karp said helpfully. “Unfair, as in how you stacked the deck against Mikey O’Toole?”
“Mr. Karp,” Judge Allen said dryly. “If you don’t mind, can we proceed, please? I believe you asked if the defense would prefer you call Mr. Anderson to the stand, or play the tape, or simply stipulate that they are accepting your exhibits without a fight.”
“Pretty much, Your Honor,” Karp replied.
Zusskin turned to look at the ACAA reps, the leader of whom made a signal with his hands. The lawyer plopped down in his seat and waved a hand at Karp. “Go ahead. We withdraw our objection.”
Nice, Karp thought, they just threw Larkin under the bus.
“Well, then, Mr. Karp, please proceed.”
“With the court’s permission.” Karp handed copies of the transcript to the court clerk. Feeling that he now had everybody’s attention, he turned back to the witness, who was looking pale as he leafed through his copy of the new transcript.
“Mr. Larkin, have you had a chance to glance at the papers in your hand?”
Larkin looked up like a condemned man at a firing squad. “Uh, yes.”
“Good. Now, can you tell us what is on those pages?”
“It’s a transcript,” Larkin said weakly. He looked over at the defense table, but Zusskin was now almost prone and watching a pencil he was twirling in his fingers.
“A transcript of what, Mr. Larkin?” Karp said, circling in the water.
“Of my conversation with Steele Dalton and Michael Mason.”
“And contains the nine pages of transcript that the jury has already seen. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Which means there’s about another one hundred and twenty-six pages they haven’t seen? Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, Mr. Larkin. Now, I’m going to ask you to read from the transcript, but first I want to make sure I’m recalling correctly. You previously testified that there was nothing else substantive or relevant in the interviews with Mr. Dalton and Mr. Mason, except what was included in the nine pages you provided the ACAA panel, am I correct?”
“Well, I meant that in my opinion…uh, I,” Larkin stammered.
“I asked you a simple question and that requires a simple answer,” Karp said. “Nothing substantive or relevant, that’s what you said, right?”
Larkin gave up. “That’s right
. Yes, it’s true.”
“Okay, Mr. Larkin, let’s read together, like a little play. Only I’ll read your parts and you read the rest. Let’s start with the interview of Mr. Dalton, on page forty-three. You in the right place?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, let’s see, you said, ‘I’m going to ask you again, was Coach O’Toole aware of the party?’”
“‘Uh-huh.’”
“Go on with that sentence, Mr. Larkin. And please remember that the jurors are reading along with us and will notice any deviation from the truth.”
“Um, sure…. ‘Uh-huh…well, at least that’s what Rufus Porter told us on the way to the party. We asked if Coach O’Toole knew we were going, and Porter told us that the coach knew all about it.’”
Karp nodded. “Very good, Mr. Larkin. Now, again directly from the transcript, you asked the following question and received the following answer. Question, quote: ‘Did Coach O’Toole tell you himself about the party or paying for alcohol or strippers?’ And Dalton’s answer was?”
“Let’s see, uh, he said, ‘No. We didn’t see Coach O’Toole again after the last meeting. We were in our rooms getting ready for bed when Porter showed up and said we could go to a special party only for certain guys.’”
Like shooting fish in a barrel, Karp thought. “All right, let’s skip forward about thirty pages, nothing very substantial in there, I’m sure. Now, page seventy-eight, starting about the fourth line down. You there? Good. Okay, question by you: ‘Did Coach O’Toole tell you not to cooperate with this investigation?’ And his answer was?”
“His answer was: ‘No. He told us to cooperate. He said he wasn’t worried because he didn’t do anything wrong.’”
Karp glanced back at the plaintiff’s table as Larkin read. Mikey O’Toole sat with his head bowed, wiping at his eyes. Karp thought of his friend Fred O’Toole and how he’d died.
Jumping over into the interview with Mason, Karp got Larkin to read through the lines that showed that Mason had confirmed Dalton’s story. Porter had showed up after bed check and offered to take them to a party. But other than Porter’s word, there was no indication that Coach O’Toole knew what was going on.
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