“What about the men who were captured?” Karp asked.
“They’re going to be isolated and detained for aiding terrorism under the Patriot Act,” Jaxon had said. “Seems sort of ironic. They wanted to make sure McCullum, or somebody like him, didn’t water down the Patriot Act, and now they’ll be held incommunicado because of it.”
At Kitchenette, Epstein changed the subject from Ellis. “So, Butch, we haven’t seen you here much of late. Have we bored you already?”
“Quite the contrary,” Karp replied. “I miss the pancakes and the company, but it’s back to the grindstone. Got the doctor’s permission to return to the office, and I’m still catching up.”
“We saw in the paper that you’re personally taking on the Campbell case?” Hall asked. “That’s going to be a tough one. There’s bound to be all sorts of wailing and gnashing of teeth over this ‘postpartum blues’ defense.”
“A terrible thing,” Epstein said. “I have to admit that I have problems with prosecuting a woman who was obviously not in her right mind.”
“Of course you would,” Hall responded. “But the legal threshold for being in her ‘right mind’ is whether she knew the difference between right and wrong when she murdered her children.”
“First, you’ll have to prove that she murdered the children,” Sunderland noted. “The cops still haven’t found the bodies of those poor kids.”
“Any comment, Mr. District Attorney?” Plaut asked with a slight smile.
“I’m afraid not,” Karp replied. “I’ll save my comments for the courtroom.”
“So do you have time for peach pancakes this morning?” Sunderland asked, pulling out the seat next to him for a place to sit.
Karp glanced at his watch and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to drop by to get a midmorning walk in—the leg’s better but still has a ways to go—and because I told Jim I would. But I’m sure you’ve heard the news about what happened to my associate V. T. Newbury two nights ago.”
“Yes, another terrible crime,” Silverstein remarked. “Poor man, nearly beat to death by robbers from what I gather. How’s he doing?”
“Well, to be honest, beat to death is somewhat of an exaggeration. As he says, ‘It looks worse than it is,’ though it was bad enough,” Karp replied. “He has a broken nose and a fractured cheekbone, plus a couple of broken ribs and a concussion. He’ll be in the hospital for a few more days, but looks like he’ll recover just fine.”
“Still, doesn’t sound pleasant, but good to know he’ll be okay,” Sunderland said. “Give him our best wishes. I don’t suppose he’s Catholic and in need of a priest? I’ve discovered that I rather enjoy talking to attorneys with the DAO while they rehabilitate from their wounds.”
Karp laughed. “Not a Catholic. I think he’s Protestant and not terribly religious at that. But I’ll let him know you’re available as an enjoyable companion…. Anyway, I’ll be on my way, but I hope we can catch up soon.” Walking over to the curb, Karp lifted his hand to hail a cab to take him to Beth Israel hospital.
“Oh, Mr. Karp,” Judge Plaut shouted. “Did I ever tell you that we actually met a long time ago, when you were just a boy?”
Surprised, Karp turned back. “I didn’t know that, though I’ll say that I’ve always thought you looked familiar.”
“Yes,” the judge replied as a cab pulled to the curb. “It was at your parents’ house. Some of us used to come over on Saturday nights to talk. You were the mouse listening next to your father’s chair.”
A memory, distant and fond, came to Karp, who smiled and nodded as he got in the cab and rolled down the window. “I remember,” he shouted as the cab pulled away.
Karp smiled all the way to the hospital. Meanwhile, back on West Broadway, a group of old men sunned themselves, whistled at the pretty girls waltzing past on the sidewalk, and discussed the district attorney of New York City.
About the same time that Karp was walking into the hospital lobby, Dean Newbury was attending to his nephew, who lay in the hospital bed looking somewhat like a beaten raccoon, with two black eyes, a splint on his nose, and a bandage around his head.
“I can’t believe those—excuse the expression and you know I don’t usually use such vulgar language—niggers did this to you,” Dean Newbury seethed. “If I wasn’t so angry, I’d find great irony in the fact that a man who has devoted his entire life to putting this sort of trash behind bars to protect the rest of us was so cruelly manhandled by inferiors who probably have a fifth-grade education and three or four children by as many mothers.”
V. T. Newbury reached out and grabbed his uncle’s hand. “It’s okay. I have to admit that I’ve been rethinking some of my beliefs since this happened. I was scared to death that they were going to kill me, and I hated them for it. I blamed it on their race, and hated them for that, too.”
Dean Newbury nodded grimly. “What’s the saying? A Democrat is really just a Republican who hasn’t been mugged yet.” He laughed but saw the look on his nephew’s face and quickly added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of what happened to you, my boy. I’m sure it was terribly frightening, and your reactions are most understandable.”
“Don’t worry about it, Uncle Dean. I’d have laughed with you at that old saw, except it would hurt too much.”
Dean gave his nephew’s hand a squeeze and dropped it. “So, perhaps this could be taken as a sign that you might be considering my offer to join the firm? I know it would have thrilled your father.”
At the mention of his dad, V.T. fingered the ring on his hand, looking down at the triskele. A few days before he was beaten, Lucy Karp had noticed the ring during a visit to the Karp family loft. “Where’d you get that?” she’d asked. She was smiling but there was something odd about her face, as if she was trying to control her mouth.
“This?” V.T. replied. “It was my cousin’s. He died in Vietnam. My uncle, his father, gave it to me recently. The emblem is sort of like a family coat of arms. Why?”
Lucy shrugged and mumbled, “Nothing. Just, uh…just wondering.” But he’d caught the look she shot her mother, who’d quickly changed the subject.
A few days later, he’d gone to a park in Morningside Heights on the northwest end of Manhattan to meet with a source regarding one of the “No Prosecution” cases. But he’d been attacked in the park by two black men, who’d beaten him unconscious and taken his wallet and watch, but not the ring.
He woke up in the hospital, and to his surprise, it was his uncle who was standing next to his bed. And afterward, the old man had insisted on calling in the best specialists—plastic surgeons for his nose and cheek fracture, and brain specialists with their expensive tests to make sure that the concussion had left him with no permanent damage.
When V.T. tried to thank him, his uncle had waved it off. “We’re family, and family take care of each other,” he said a little gruffly, but he was making an effort. The old man had hesitated and V.T. even thought he caught the glint of a tear in his eyes when he said, “I know I’m not the warmest person on earth. In fact, you might even think of me as cold and hard-hearted for the way I reacted publicly to the death of my son…of my son, Quilliam…and again at the death of your father, my little brother. It’s just that I handle grief privately; it may not be the best way, but it’s what works for me. However, I can assure you that I grieved, and still do.”
“I understand,” V.T. replied. “Everybody deals in their own way. I do appreciate you saying that, though; I know it wasn’t easy.” He was quiet for a moment; then, choosing his words carefully, he added, “You know, even before you brought it up, I’d been thinking that maybe it was time I gave the family firm a shot. My father accomplished a lot there. And Butch doesn’t need me. He has some great young assistant district attorneys down at the DAO, and my assistant chief is more than capable of filling my shoes.”
“Of course he is.” Dean Newbury beamed. “Time to let fresh blood have at, eh? And for you t
o enjoy the fruits of so much experience in the courtroom. You’ll make a fine partner and, if things work out well, a great judge who can have a lot of influence on our society, especially if we can get you all the way to the Supreme Court. Of course, you might also consider finding some proper young woman and settling down, even having a son to carry on the Newbury name. It’s not too late, you know. You’ve given it a great run, but you can’t be a carefree bachelor all of your life.” He chuckled.
“Who can’t be a carefree bachelor?” asked the voice at the door, which turned out to belong to Butch Karp, who stiffened when he entered and saw V.T.’s uncle. “Mr. Newbury,” he said, and nodded.
“Karp,” Dean Newbury replied.
Ignoring the slight, Karp turned to his friend. “So what’s this? You thinking about leaving me?” he asked with a smile, but his eyes were concerned.
“As a matter of fact, my nephew is seriously considering joining his family’s firm,” his uncle interjected before V.T. could answer. “He’s put in more than enough time as a ‘public servant.’” The old man said the last two words as if cursing.
Karp looked at V.T. Now the concern was all over Karp’s face. “So you’re thinking it’s time to go over to the dark side.” He tried to laugh at the old joke, but it came out strained.
V.T.’s reply was unexpected. “What makes it the ‘dark side’? Our judicial system isn’t just about prosecutors; there’s another side for a reason. And my dad accomplished a lot for all sorts of people working at the firm. Meanwhile, what does it matter if I put a few lowlifes in prison; they’re out before I can store their files. If I decide I’ve had enough, then I think I’ve done enough to deserve it without any smart-assed comments from you.”
“Hey, V.T., I didn’t mean…” Karp tried to apologize.
“That’s right,” Dean Newbury said before Karp could finish his thought. “Why wallow in the pits with the swine, and for nothing, when he could help mold decisions that could affect thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of peoples’ lives.”
“By protecting oil interests and unscrupulous CEOs who loot employees’ retirement accounts before jumping ship with a golden parachute?” Karp responded.
“I thought you were the one who said I should consider going with the money,” V.T. retorted.
“I was kidding,” Karp replied.
“Well, I’m not,” V.T. shot back.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Karp couldn’t remember ever reaching such a point in a conversation—even during heated debate over courtroom strategy or topics of the day—with the normally unflappable V. T. Newbury. “I understand you’re under stress,” he said, trying to defuse the situation. “Who could blame you? Just remember that if you need someone to talk to, I’m always there for you.”
“I think we can do better than that,” Dean Newbury said.
Karp ignored the uncle and patted his friend on the shoulder. “Just take it easy,” he said. “Give it some thought, and we’ll talk about it when you get back to the office.” He looked at Dean Newbury, whose eyes were boring into him.
V.T. didn’t say anything, but his body language spoke volumes when he rolled away from Karp on the hospital bed. “I’m tired,” he said. “I think I’ll go to sleep now.”
Karp stopped himself from saying anything more. Now, obviously, wasn’t the right time. He looked at his watch again. “That’s okay,” he said. “I was just stopping by to say hello. I’m on my way to a memorial service for Lucy’s friend Cian Magee.”
“Fellow who burned in that arson, right?” Dean Newbury said. “Too bad. They ever figure it out?”
Karp didn’t want to reply. He found the old man loathsome, but for the sake of his friend he shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s still a mystery.”
“Probably gangs or some neighborhood spat,” Dean Newbury said, scowling. “Or the slumlord was looking for an insurance payment. I thought they already buried the victim.”
“This is a memorial service,” Karp said. “There weren’t many people at his funeral.”
“And there will be now?” Dean Newbury asked.
“I think so,” Karp replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, V.T., you take care, and we’ll talk soon.”
“Yeah,” V.T. replied without turning back to look at Karp. “See you around.”
Karp took a cab to the Irish cemetery in Yonkers and walked as briskly as his leg would allow up a grassy hill to where a crowd had gathered at the gravesides of Cian Magee and his parents. As he approached, the pipes and drums of the Irish Society of County Heath struck up and began playing “Amazing Grace.”
Making his way to where Marlene was standing with the guest of honor, Karp noted the great variety of mourners. A “real” memorial service had been, of course, Lucy’s idea. “He deserved better than what he got after all it meant,” she’d argued, and set to work.
Among the attendees were Espey Jaxon and several of his agents, as well as Tran, accompanied by a dozen shade-wearing Vietnamese gangsters who were giving Ivgeny Karchovski and a half dozen Russian mobsters respectful nods, which were returned. John Jojola and Ned were standing next to Lucy, who’d dressed in black like a widow and was crying softly near the small brass shamrock memorial she’d paid to have placed on Magee’s grave. Surprised, Karp also spotted Edward Treacher and two more of the street people who hung regularly around the Criminal Courts Building, the Walking Booger and Dirty Warren, the newspaper stand owner with Tourette’s syndrome. Beyond them, standing on a hill in the distance, he noted a tall, thin figure in a dark robe. Unfinished business, he thought as he turned and smiled at Murrow and Stupenagel, who’d been told she could come only if she didn’t write a story until Lucy told her it was okay.
There were a dozen or more other faces he thought he recognized as some of Lucy’s old friends, plus the twins, Zak and Giancarlo, who looked handsome but uncomfortable in their suits and ties. “Quite the turnout,” he said as he walked up next to Marlene.
“Yes, nice, isn’t it,” Marlene replied, finding his hand with her own. “Butch, have you ever met Senator McCullum?” She turned to the tall red-haired man next to her. “Senator, my husband, Butch Karp.”
“Never had the pleasure, though I enjoyed hearing you speak on one occasion,” Karp said, reaching across Marlene to shake the senator’s hand.
“The pleasure’s mine,” McCullum said. “I’m an admirer.”
“In Montana?” Karp asked.
The senator laughed. “Actually, I hear the Karp name bandied about more in Washington and, of course, when I’m here in New York,” he said. “But you can be sure that the news out of Idaho was reported in Montana as well.” The music stopped and the senator whispered, “I think that’s my cue.”
Karp shook his head as McCullum walked over to where Lucy stood and hugged her. Although much of the case was still classified, and would remain that way until Jaxon found and destroyed the Sons of Man, Karp’s daughter had asked the agent if he would tell the senator about the man who had uncovered the plot to assassinate him and died for it. When the senator heard about the memorial service, he’d insisted that he attend. His participation had been kept a secret, and quite a few eyes grew wider—especially Stupenagel’s—when he stepped away from Lucy to speak to the crowd.
“We’ve gathered today to honor an American patriot,” McCullum began. “And a man who took great pride in his Irish roots, as do I. We should all be proud of where we came from, because it’s what made this country great. It’s what creates patriots. A land of diversity and a land in which words and ideas are more powerful than bullets or bombs. I’m told that Cian Magee was a man who appreciated words, so I’d like to read you something my grandmother used to say to me whenever I left the house.” He pulled a small piece of paper from his breast pocket. “It’s an old Irish poem, and I’m going to try this in the mother tongue in honor of Cian. Those of you who speak Irish Gaelic better than I, forgive my mistakes; I’ve asked Lucy
to translate when I’m finished for the rest of you. This is called, ‘Go n’eirí an bóthar leat.’”
“Go n’eirí an bóthar leat,” the senator repeated, his voice carrying over the green grass and beneath the oak, sycamore, and walnut trees that lined the roads of the cemetery.
GO RAIBH AN GHAOTH GO BRÁCH AG DO CHÚL
GO LONRAÍ AN GHRIAN GO TE AR D’AGHAIDH
GO DTITE AN BHÁISTEACH GO MÍN AR DO PHÁIRCEANNA
AGUS GO MBUAILIMID LE CHÉILE ARÍS,
GO GCOINNÍ DIA I MBOS A LÁIMHE THÚ.
When he finished, the senator turned to Lucy, who lifted the black veil from her face and said, “May the road rise to meet you.”
MAY THE ROAD RISE TO MEET YOU
MAY THE WIND BE ALWAYS AT YOUR BACK
MAY THE SUN SHINE WARM UPON YOUR FACE,
THE RAINS FALL SOFT UPON YOUR FIELDS
AND UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN
MAY GOD HOLD YOU IN THE HOLLOW OF HIS HAND.
Lucy had begun her translation softly, with her eyes on Magee’s grave. But as she spoke her voice grew in strength, and she lifted her eyes to the crowd and then to the heavens. She finished and began to cry as the bagpipes wailed.
Gallery Books
Proudly Presents
Betrayed
Robert K. Tanenbaum
Coming soon in hardcover
from Gallery Books
Turn the page for a preview of Betrayed. . . .
PROLOGUE
The trim, dark-haired man in the tuxedo and white gloves walked into the mansion’s library and immediately absorbed all that he saw. He noted the standard dark walnut paneling and the leather furniture, the massive hickory desk, and the obligatory wall of important and/or obscure books. The decor was a bit old-fashioned for his taste but understandable given that the house was more than one hundred and fifty years old.
Malice Page 46