Irresistible Impulse bkamc-9

by Robert Tanenbaum

  “Just the Shostakovich, as I told you before. The other two are a Mozart quintet and the Schumann piano and strings quartet.”

  “Hm. What’s he done before when you haven’t played his favorites?”

  “Nothing much. He writes an angry note and puts it someplace where I’ll be shocked to find it. Under the pillow, in the underwear drawer …”

  “Yeah, well, that’s his mistake; it narrows it down because of the access he needs.” Marlene secured the note and made ready to leave. She shook Edie’s hand, as did Wolfe. The woman had recovered her composure; aside from a redness about the eyes there was no sign of the recent upheavals. Metal music blared as they left the apartment.

  The elevator was opening as they entered the short hallway. A tall man stepped out, handsome, with straight blond hair, dressed in black clothing that included a tight leather motocross jacket studded with chrome rivets. He nodded politely to them and pushed the bell on the Wooten apartment.

  “And let’s find out who that one is too,” said Marlene as they descended.

  Part 56 of the Supreme Court of the State of New York was, despite its noble-sounding name, a calendar court, which is a sort of legal valve or appliance. Its grimy, crowded, noisy precincts provided a place for pleas to be entered or changed, plea bargains to be accepted or refused, trials to be scheduled or rescheduled, and for those who delighted in delay for reasons of legal strategy to obtain however much of this precious substance they required. In short, Part 56 could have been replaced by the sort of electronics now used to order pizzas or reserve a place on an airplane, if efficiency were all that were required of it, but such was not the case. Part 56 and its numerous siblings existed (and exist still) because the criminal law ultimately is not about numbers or efficiency. It is about our mortal flesh. And therefore there must be rooms like this one, high-ceilinged, echoing, unornamented, graceless, with peeling paint, tattered window shades over dusty windows, battered furniture, smelling of steam heat, old paint, and frightened, harried people, so that particular human bodies can be brought into physical propinquity for even a fleeting moment (it is usually fleeting enough), these bodies being the judge, the accused, the counsel for the accused, and the representative of the People.

  Groups comprising the last three of this necessary quartet crowded the well of the court and moved before the bench as their case numbers were called off by the court officer. The well was in constant motion, a clumsy dance, which for music had a low tumult of many voices, with the time beaten out by the crack of the gavel. No case was distinguished from any other case-all received nearly the same time and attention-a few minutes, no more-from the harried gray-haired woman on the presidium.

  Until the officer called out a number and then “People versus Jonathan A. Rohbling”; then there was a stir and a passing hush. Everyone knew who Rohbling was: the Granny Killer, and everyone, even the junkies, who ordinarily had no interest in anything whatever except their One True Love, paused a moment to cop a glance.

  Karp was just as fascinated. He had never seen Rohbling in the flesh, and had been observing him closely from the moment he had been led into the room. The man was small and remarkably slight. Karp knew he was nearly twenty-two, but he could have passed for fourteen, for he was not five foot seven and weighed perhaps a hundred and thirty pounds, dripping. Waley, who stood by his side, was by no means a physically imposing man, but he towered over his client; as a couple they looked like a dad taking his unpromising son to his first day of high school. Rohbling’s dull brown hair was cut very short (he had apparently worn a wig imitating short Negroid hair while committing his crimes), and he stared blankly out at the confusion through thick, smudged glasses. His eyes were greenish brown, unfocused and wandering. He had a peculiar mouth, whose thick, soft lips were the first things any schoolyard bully would have seized upon; “girl’s lips” the bully would have called them. They had a dried whitish crust on them.

  Karp tried to imagine this person wandering Harlem in blackface. More to the point, he tried to imagine the jury imagining it. It was plausible, yes. With dyed skin and the wig, Rohbling would have been able to pass as a frail, scholarly African-American youth. Did he look crazy? No, he was completely passive, and Karp supposed he had been sedated in Bellevue. Was that an error on Waley’s part? An agitated client would have looked better, assuming Waley was going to go with the insanity plea. But Waley was a civilized man. He would not have subjected his client to distress if the man was really insane, if Waley really believed he was insane. But maybe not, maybe Waley wanted Karp to think that Waley really thought … Here Karp put a check on his line of thought. The man had gotten to him, and he was starting to do what he had lectured scores of young prosecutors not to do, which was to get caught up in strategy. Just present the facts of your case as well as you can and let the defense worry about strategy, about motives, about psychology; he had said that a thousand times.

  They read out the charges, and the judge asked for Rohbling’s plea. Rohbling said he was not guilty. That was a mild surprise; Waley had decided to wait on the insanity plea. There was nothing unusual about Rohbling’s voice, and he seemed to understand what was going on around him. The judge sent the case for trial in Part 46, Supreme Court of the State of New York. The choice was at random, based on the current state of the various trial part calendars. Karp thought for a second, connecting part numbers and faces and names. Judge Marvin Peoples would be trial judge in People v. Rohbling. That would be interesting. Karp glanced over at Waley to get his reaction to the designation of their judge, but could detect nothing but a slight pursing of the lips.

  Waley approached a step closer to the bench and said, “Your Honor, on the matter of the disposition of my client’s pending trial. My client stands in need of psychiatric care not available in the prison ward at Bellevue. The North Shore Psychiatric Institute at Cold Spring Harbor would be able to provide such treatment and is a secure facility. My client comes from a distinguished family with strong community ties, who would be willing to offer any reasonable bail.”

  The judge looked at Karp. “Do the People have an objection?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. The defendant is accused of multiple murders. There is no precedent for bail in such cases. And I believe that there are still a number of psychiatrists working at Bellevue who would be amazed to hear that they are incompetent to provide any treatment the defendant requires.”

  The court smiled thinly and said, “A good point, Mr. Karp. The prisoner is remanded to custody at Bellevue until trial.”

  The guard led Rohbling away. The court officer called the next case number, and the calendar court resumed its grinding.

  Karp walked up the aisle with Waley close behind him.

  “That was uncharitable and unnecessary, Mr. Karp,” said Waley in a low voice.

  Karp stopped and turned to face the lawyer. “Your boy gets treated like everyone else, Mr. Waley.”

  “Does he? Do you think the fact that our judge appears to be a black woman of grandmotherly age figured at all in her decision?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” said Karp.

  Waley said coldly, “How amusing. I only hope you have not precipitated a disaster.” Then he brushed by Karp and left the courtroom.

  Marlene spent an hour at Juilliard with Wolfe and the Lincoln Center security man, a grizzled ex-cop named McPhail, who thought they were making a big deal out of nothing, but who was willing to cooperate nevertheless to accommodate a star. He sounded like he’d done it before. She left Wolfe there to work out details and drove downtown to her loft.

  There she was glad to find everything in cozy order, although the vast room smelled alarmingly of jasmine incense. She hoped Posie wasn’t using it to cover the scent of marijuana, but she also knew that she probably would have done nothing more than rant had Posie come to the door with a bong stuck in her smile. The woman was just too valuable to dismiss.

  They were in the living room, watching Sesame Str
eet. Marlene plopped on the couch, kicked off her boots, and jiggled both her babies, who suffered the caresses of the near stranger with benign indifference. They were warm and dry and sweet-smelling, and if Marlene felt a sudden wrenching sense of loss, the twins clearly did not. She returned them to Posie, who was staring loose-jawed at the screen, seemingly astounded by what could be done with the letter M.

  “How was school, Luce?” she asked her eldest, who was stretched belly down on the rug.

  “Okay. I got an A on the math test.”

  Marlene raised her eyes to heaven and said dramatically, “Thank you, Jesus and St. Jude!”

  Lucy laughed. “Tranh showed me some stuff when I was there the other day, and it just sort of clicked. Maybe it’s easier in Cantonese. He’s a good teacher.”

  Meaning I could use some work in that department, thank you so very much, my darling, thought Marlene. Then, starting to feel a hair de trop at her own hearthside, and already knowing as much as she wanted to know about M., she stood up, kissed all around, gave orders for dinner preparation, and announced, “I think I’ll take the dog for a walk.”

  At the magic W word, there was a clatter and scrabbling in the kitchen, and the mastiff was at her side, pressing its nose into her midriff and slobbering down the front of her slacks.

  She did take the dog for a walk, and then she loaded it into the rear of the VW and drove through a thin rain and the rush-hour traffic to a construction site at Madison and Sixty-third. There she waited, leaning against the car and smoking, while quitting time came and the construction workers streamed out of the half-finished condo. She had to turn down a half dozen lewd offers before the man she wanted came through the plywood door.

  “Mr. Nobili!” she called. “Could I talk to you for a moment?”

  The man, a shortish, swarthy fellow with a heavy Nixonian beard shadow on his jowls, wearing yellow oilskins and a red hard hat on backward, stopped and looked over at her.

  “She wants you, Arnie,” said one of his companions.

  “Yo, Arnie, after you,” said another. There were a number of whistles: good, clean construction-worker fun.

  Arnie Nobili smiled and approached her. She smiled back, opened the passenger door of the VW, and gestured him in. More whistles and shouts. Marlene got in the driver’s side and cranked the engine, which refused to start for a long minute and then came sulkily to life.

  “Sounds like the alternator,” said Nobili. “So what is this?”

  She let the engine idle, producing heat for the blower, and handed him one of her cards.

  “I’m Marlene Ciampi,” she said. “Tamara Monro has retained us. I’ve helped her take out a protective order, which I understand you’ve already violated.”

  Nobili’s smile vanished and was replaced by an unpleasant belligerent expression. “What, are you some kind of cop?” She noticed there was alcohol on his breath.

  “No. I’m a lawyer and a private detective. I wanted to have a talk with you so that we’d understand each other.”

  “She hired you? She hired you to protect her from me?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Nobili.”

  “Well, you can fucking unhire yourself, lady. Tamara don’t need no protection.” He gestured at her with a dirty finger the size of a center punch.

  “You have to stop trying to see her, Mr. Nobili. You have to understand that the relationship is over.”

  Nobili moved his face closer to hers, jabbing with his finger. “Hey, it’s over when I say it’s over, understand? You fuckin’ tell her that! No, I’ll fuckin’ tell her. She’ll never fuckin’ forget it, I get through with her.” He jacked the door handle. “And fuck your order and fuck you!” he said, and, as an afterthought, “Bitch!”

  Marlene called out, “Sweety, l’affirati!”

  Nobili paused with the door open and looked at her. “What did you say?” he snarled.

  The mastiff came out of the baggage space under the hatchback in a black blur, grabbed a mouthful of Nobili’s oilskin, and yanked him back into his seat. His hard hat came down over his face as he flailed and cried out. The car door swung closed with a slight click. Sweety, meanwhile, was doing its impression of the Hound of Hell, baring fangs, growling like distant lions, splashing hot slaver down the man’s collar.

  “This interview is over when I say it is, understand?” said Marlene.

  Nobili’s hat fell off in the shaking he was getting. “Make it stop! Make it stop!” he quavered.

  “Sweety, chiu gentilmenti,” said Marlene. The dog stopped shaking Nobili, but retained its grip. “Yes, ‘make it stop.’ That’s just what Ms. Morno said to me in reference to your attentions.”

  “You-you’re not allowed to do this,” said the man, gasping.

  “No, I’m not, you’re right. This is a sort of kidnap. It’s a felony. I’m breaking the law, which I hate to do, but I don’t think you’ll complain, because a couple of nights ago you went by Tamara’s place and pounded on her door for an hour, and when she wouldn’t open up for you, you pulled the valves out of her tires. That’s against the law too. Now, I tried to have a civilized conversation with you so that you’d understand that the situation has changed, and you insulted me and suggested that despite the protective order, you were going to see her and harm her. So here we are. Let me restate the case. If you go near Tamara Morno again, you will be the one that gets hurt, not her. Do you understand? Say you understand!” The dog caught Marlene’s tone and snarled wetly.

  Nobili shuddered and mumbled, “Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

  “Good. Now, if I were you, I’d do some work on that booze problem too.”

  “I don’t got a problem,” replied Nobili in a sullen voice.

  “Yeah, you do. You start in brooding about why you’re all alone, and that makes you sad and you drink, and when you got your load, you start feeling pretty good and you start thinking that you could fix things up with Tamara, and you go looking for her and when she doesn’t want to see you, because you’re drunk, you start thinking, hey, I put myself out, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, what the hell does this bitch want? You start feeling sorry for yourself. You blame her for things going wrong. Then you drink some more, and you start to break things and beat up on her. Then when you sober up, you forget what you did, and you can’t figure out why she doesn’t love you. And every time it’s a little bit worse, isn’t it? Yeah, it is. And you know, ordinarily something like this would end with her dead and you in jail, feeling real sorry about it. This time, however, you keep on with this horseshit, it’s going to end with you dead, and her free, and not feeling sorry at all. Like they say in A.A., your life’s out of control. Get some help, Arnold.”

  The man said nothing, but sat there cringing from the dog and glaring at Marlene. She sighed and said, “Sweety, lu rilassi!” The dog gave up its mouthful of jacket. To Nobili she said, “Okay, scram! For your sake, I hope I never have to see you again.”

  “What did you do today?” Karp asked at dinner that evening.

  Marlene said, “I got screamed at by a rich junkie, and I terrorized a drunk. Those were the high points, I think.”

  “How did you terrorize him, Mom?” asked Lucy.

  “I threatened to spank him on his bare heinie. It never fails.” She cupped a hand to her ear. “Remind me again why I’m not a highly paid attorney at a white-shoe law firm.”

  “Because you’re a self-destructive nutcase?” Karp ventured.

  “Mmm. That doesn’t sound quite right.”

  “I think it’s because you’re real brave, and you don’t want women to get hurt,” said Lucy, the literalist, the loyalist. Marlene’s heart overflowed.

  “Thank you, darling,” she said, beaming. “First long division, now the inmost secrets of the psyche. Truly, there is no end to your excellence!”

  NINE

  Terrell Collins knocked twice on Karp’s door and, hearing a vague grunt, walked in. He found his boss amid stacks of Xeroxed pages from
law books, some actual law books, teetering in green- or red-and-ochre-bound piles, and a scatter of crumpled yellow legal bond. The two men looked at each other and smiled the smile of acknowledged exhaustion. They were working on responses to Waley’s motions in Rohbling. It was not a trivial task.

  “You get it?” asked Karp.

  Collins deposited a short stack of Xeroxes on one of the desk’s few bare zones. “White’s dissent in Massiah, with commentaries on same. I don’t see how it’s relevant, though; it relates to counsel after indictment. The motion is to suppress a confession obtained in violation of Miranda. Massiah is about Sixth Amendment right to counsel being violated by the cops sticking a secret informant on a defendant out on bail after indictment.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but Waley mentions the dissent in his points and authorities, so we have to look at it. Why he mentioned it, I have no idea. It’s a dissent, Whizzer White sticking up for the prosecution as usual, and getting creamed, but Waley uses it to make a general point about the use of interpersonal confidence to draw out a confession. It’s all part of the weave here; he’s spreading a net to catch the attention of the judge, tilt him his way.” Karp tapped his teeth with a pencil, a habitual gesture. Then he looked up at Collins and said, “You ever read a pair of motions like this?” He indicated the actual motion documents, sitting alone on one side of his desk, festooned like barbaric brides with torn strips of yellow bond indicating legal references.

  “They’re pretty good,” admitted Collins. “Dense argument, the guy knows the law.”

  “Pretty good? Terry, you’re pretty good, I’m very good. This”-he tapped the motions-“is fucking Mozart. I’m reading this, and I’m thinking, yeah, he’s right, we don’t have much of a case. Peoples is eating this up, I know it. Do you know him at all well? Peoples, I mean.”

  “Just by rep,” said Collins, settling himself on the edge of the desk. “He’s real smart, a little arrogant maybe. No nonsense in the courtroom. Hates to be reversed on appeal. In general, a prosecutor’s judge; I mean, you present a decent case, he’ll support you, he’ll resist the usual defense scams pretty well.” He shrugged. “That’s about all I know. All in all, I think it was a good break getting him for Rohbling.”