The priest laughed. “Ah, Loyola, how wise you were to protect us from the temptations of charming penitents! No, really, dear, quodcumque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi.”
“Um, anything you thus press on me, I discredit and revolt at?” Marlene translated.
“Yes, Horace. Very good.” He beamed at her, his eyes full of affection and pain, mixed well. She thought that he must be nearly as lonely as Tranh, or Harry. He stood up and dropped some coins on the table.
“Now, I have to go too,” he said. “I have to fix the trap in the rectory sink. Oh, you would know where can I find some plumber’s dope and a cheap used pipe wrench?”
“You plumb?”
“We Jesuits are advised to be all things to all men. To Father Raymond and Mrs. Finn, our housekeeper, I am a plumber.”
“In that case, you can get the dope at Canal Hardware off Lafayette,” said Marlene. “I just happen to have an eighteen-inch pipe wrench in my car. You can borrow it.” They walked out of the restaurant to Marlene’s VW, where she handed over the tool.
“Ah, thank you. You were plumbing today too?”
“No,” said Marlene, “I was just using it to beat up a guy.”
Father Dugan inclined his head inquiringly.
“Sunday, Father,” said Marlene. “In the box.”
“What happened to Posie?” asked Karp as he helped Marlene clear away the remains of the family’s informal dinner.
“Some piece of shit pounded on her. Again. The worst part is, she went looking for it. Christ, Butch, she lives with me. She knows what I do. It’s like … shit, I don’t even know what it’s like.”
“A nun on the stroll?” suggested Karp.
“Thank you. You know, I may have to hand in my feminist card, but I’m starting to think that some women want to get pounded, just like some guys like to have women pee on them.”
“It’s the natural result of the contradictions caused by our corrupt patriarchal society,” said Karp primly. Marlene snorted. “God, and if you believed that, wouldn’t you be the perfect man!”
FIFTEEN
Christmas fell on a Wednesday that year, and Judge Peoples decided to forgo trying to fit in any trial sessions in between the big day and the second of January. Karp thus had a week off to spend with his family, or rather with his children and their nursemaid, since his wife was heavily engaged with the violent discontents of other families. Karp did not mind this as much as he thought he would. He was, for one thing, a low-maintenance husband: neat, lacking noisy or time-consuming hobbies, not fussy about meals, of moderate libido. After the extraordinary tension of the Rohbling trial he was more than content to sink into slovenliness, rolling around with his two boys in piggy filth, unshaven, eating junk, watching holiday shows and soaps on TV, going to Macy’s to see Santa (the boys shrieking in horror, Lucy blasé) and to shop for presents.
Lucy virtually took over the operation of the household, her natural bossiness now at last having full scope. She had been around kitchens, helping, since the age of five, and had no problem with simple meals of the heat ’em up plus salad variety, which was vital because Karp could not boil water, and Posie was not much better. Lucy incorporated this duty into her perpetual rivalry, and considered she had done well by it; they had mere cuteness, she had lasagna and minestrone. Daddy went shopping with her alone, and took her and her pals to Rockefeller Center to skate, and to downtown movies in a cab.
During this period Marlene would often be out half the night, or all of it, and come staggering in at dawn. They did not talk about what she was doing. He didn’t want to know.
The actual holiday, naturally, remained literally sacred to Marlene, and she consigned her besieged ladies to the hands of God and Harry Bello, going out to her parents’ house in Queens on Christmas Eve and eating the traditional dinner of twelve fish dishes (her aunt Celia explaining to Karp, as she did each Christmas without fail, that these represented the twelve apostles), attending midnight mass with the whole family (including Lucy, a glorious first for the child) at her girlhood church, St. Joseph’s, driving home sleepily to Manhattan and returning Christmas day to exchange gifts and eat heroically.
Karp enjoyed this event. He had minimum social responsibilities and no horse in any Ciampi race. He was, in fact, often appealed to as a neutral party, a being so alien that he might be expected to bring a uniquely fresh judgment to the field of Italian-American family squabbles. These were marvelously colorful, brief and violent as summer squalls, full of operatic gestures and imprecations. Karp much preferred them to the quarrels of his own family, which were covered over by a poisonous geniality and lasted for decades.
Besides that, the Ciampis treated him as a guest, since it was clear that he could never be a paisan. John, the oldest, the orthodontist, a basketball fan, talked to him about teams and players, and checked the smiles of all the kids, of which there were fourteen; Patricia, the city planner, discussed politics with him, assuming that Karp, as a Jew, was more liberal than he actually was; Anna, the big sister, cooked and kept her five kids in line, and interacted with Karp only on the subject of food and children; Paul, the handsome one, the youngest boy and a chef, flirted unconvincingly with all the wives, and was not allowed in the kitchen; Dom, the middle boy, was supposed to have gone into his father’s plumbing business but had gone instead to Vietnam, from whence he had returned minus a foot and something else, for which reason when he became as he always did, terribly drunk and abusive and violent, his brothers and brothers-in-law took him out in the backyard and restrained him, talking him down in shifts until he was fit for company again or stumped off yelling down the street. Karp, for some reason, although by far the largest person in the room, was excused from this duty by unspoken agreement, another aspect, he supposed, of his special outlander status. The true family attitude toward him was, he imagined, summed up by ancient Nona, Marlene’s grandmother, tiny and nearly blind, who once remarked to him, “My granddaughter, Marlene, the crazy one, married a (whispering) Giudeu, may God forgive her, but they say he doesn’t look like one of them, and besides, the pazza, she could have brought home a black niuru, God forbid!” (crossing herself)
Both Butch and Marlene were to remember this particular Christmas in elegiac terms, as a calm before the storm. Indeed, it seemed in retrospect almost to live up to the seasonal hype. The Ciampis were less operatic than usual, the babies were charmingly cute, Lucy discovered that being the big sister of twins had certain advantages, in that she was included, as impresario, in their act (the cousins changing their clothes, amid giggles, and seeing whether anyone could tell), brother Dom went early into stupor, and Marlene could tell her mother that she had not missed a Sunday mass all year.
On the day after Christmas, the Karps usually held an open house for friends and neighbors, but this year the co-op association was putting in a real elevator. This labor had begun at a time of maximum inconvenience, mid-December. It meant that their loft, being on the top floor and the location of the original industrial lift engine, which had to be removed, was the site of considerable construction and strewn with immense pieces of apparatus.
They did, however, go to the annual New Year’s Eve party thrown by V.T. Newbury at his Murray Hill brownstone. Although Taittinger poured like water, the affair was as decorous as a cotillion compared to what went on at the Ciampis’, and made an interesting change. Butch and Marlene sipped, ate shrimp and paté, conversed with numbers of V.T.’s astounding range of friends and relations. At V.T.’s party you could find an expert on slime molds, the CEO of a major bank, a defrocked orthodox priest, a diva, a man who lived alone on an island in the Queen Charlottes and only returned to civilization for this one event, the recipient of the Yale Poet’s Prize for that year, a man who lived upstairs and was in ceiling tiles, a welterweight contender, a Hungarian diplomat, and, apparently, as Marlene saw, the world’s premier female cellist.
“Edie!” Marlene cried, “you look great!” She glanced arou
nd. “Is Wolfe here?”
“I gave him the night off. It’s New Year’s Eve. Besides, I have Anton to protect me.” She clutched the arm of the reedy violinist standing next to her.
Marlene smiled uncertainly at Anton, who looked as though he might need some protection himself, and said, “Well, I haven’t heard anything from you, and Wolfe’s reports are terse to the point of nonexistence. I presume-”
“Oh, that’s all over,” said Edie breezily. “He still sends those notes, which I dutifully turn over to Wolfe, but nothing else. My life has been completely transformed. Besides, after we’re married, we’ll be living in Europe most of the year.”
“You’re getting married?”
“In June.” She hugged the violinist’s arm tighter and beamed. “We’re keeping it rather dark. The parents are inclined to make a fuss.”
“Well, I won’t tell,” said Marlene. “In fact, I’ll be glad to get Wolfe back. How come you’re here, by the way? I didn’t know you knew V.T.”
Edie smiled. “Oh, everybody knows V.T. I was at school with his cousin.” Suddenly she blushed, reached out awkwardly, and clutched Marlene’s hand.
“Gosh, Marlene, I can’t tell you how ashamed I am at the way I behaved after the concert! After how you tried to help me and-”
“Well, that’s all right,” said Marlene, patting her hand. “As I once said, I have a thick skin. At least we found out who the guy is.”
“Oh, no, Marlene. It can’t possibly be Vincent Robinson.”
“Why not?”
But the reason why not was never pursued, because at that moment Karp, who was standing with his back to her, spun around and said, “Excuse me, did you say Vincent Robinson?”
Which was how they found out that Marlene’s prime suspect for stalker-of-Edie was also Karp’s prime suspect for killer-of-Evelyn Longren.
The trial resumed its weary pace in January, although that grim month was more to Karp’s liking than the former gay season. The jurors had been distracted by family thoughts, thinking about what to get for Aunt Emma instead of concentrating on the evidence, and beyond that there had been the danger that, under the influence of the Yuletide spirit, they might be inclined to New Testament mercy rather than Old Testament justice.
As the prosecution’s case unfolded, Waley remained passive, rising only for perfunctory cross-examination and hardly objecting at all. The press, which had maintained a strong interest in the case, commented on this. The TV stations had talking-head lawyers on at night to render their opinion of what Waley was up to. Wait, they admonished: he’s biding his time, the fireworks will come.
Meanwhile, Karp constructed his typical careful case, a rising arc of evidence from the general to the most detailed testimony. First the crime scene, with photographs. Waley made the usual objection on the grounds that these were inflammatory and was overruled. The jurors got to see Jane dead. The cop who had found the body was brought forth to give his stilted testimony. He performed well on both direct and on cross, in which Waley merely brought out the position and condition of the body.
Next the medical examiner. Cause of death was defined in detail. Waley wanted to know if the medical examiner had found evidence of hypertension or atherosclerosis. He had. On redirect, Karp had to establish that Mrs. Hughes’s condition was not immediately life-threatening.
Then came a quartet of forensic specialists who talked about fibers, blood, flesh, and dyes for three days. Waley barely stirred during this time. He appeared more concerned with his client, as well he might have been, for young Rohbling seemed to be deteriorating as the trial progressed. Each day, as the officers brought him in, his step was slower, almost limping, his head hung lower, his face was more wan and blotchy, with what appeared to be yellowing bruises at the temples. His hair was even more unkempt, sticking out at all angles in the style of the late Stan Laurel. Karp wondered if this was a ruse to garner sympathy and thought briefly of going to the judge with a complaint, but what, after all, could he say? And he knew very well what Waley would say: that his client was fit for a rubber room and not much else. He looked crazy because he was crazy. So, stalemate in that corner. The witnesses who tied Rohbling to Hughes came next. Waley shined them on.
It was March before Karp had Detective Gordon Featherstone on the stand, his last witness, the prize witness. As on a TV show, the audience was now going to hear how the detective caught the bad guy. Featherstone looked the part too. He was a blocky, cordovan-colored man in his late forties with a brush mustache and close-cropped hair whitened on the sides. His voice was deep, strong, and confident. When the detective took the stand, Karp could sense the subtle vibration of renewed interest from the jury box.
Karp took him through the investigation from the beginning so that the jury could see how the evidence, which they had just heard certified by experts, appeared to the working detective, and how it led inexorably to the confrontation with the disguised Rohbling at the bus stop.
They came to the famous blue suitcase. Here it was: Karp raised it high, like a holy relic. The jury was allowed to paw it. Featherstone described the denial of ownership by Rohbling. No mistake about that. Karp had him repeat Rohbling’s words so that they would stick in the jurors’ minds. Now came the Opening of the Suitcase. The childish ceramic dish was displayed, entered as evidence, handled by the jurors, the affectionate message from the little girl read out in the detective’s deep clear baritone, the unscheduled sob from the mother of that little girl, sitting in the courtroom to see justice done for her own slain mother, the jury rapt.
Karp, on a roll, thinking, no, he’s not going to let me get away with this, but giving it a shot:
“Detective Featherstone, do you recognize this object?”
Karp held high a crocheted doily.
“Yes, I do. It was found in the suitcase.”
“And did you determine who the original owner of this object was?”
“Objection!” Waley was on his feet. “Irrelevant and immaterial, and tending to the inflammatory, Your Honor.”
Peoples frowned and motioned the two counsels to approach the bench.
“Where are we going with this, Mr. Karp?” asked the judge.
“Your Honor, we feel the jury should know that the defendant had in his possession four physical objects belonging to four other elderly black women found dead under unusual circumstances,” said Karp.
“The circumstances were hardly unusual, Judge,” said Waley. “The four women to which counsel adverts were ruled by the medical examiner to have died of natural causes. This is a purely inflammatory move with no relevance to the case at hand.”
“Your honor, you admitted the entire contents of the suitcase as evidence,” replied Karp. “That the defendant was carrying the possessions of four other recently dead black women speaks to the character and habits of the defendant.”
“Very well,” said Peoples. “Mr. Karp, you may present your evidence. Mr. Waley may bring its relevance into question on cross if he desires. Proceed, Mr. Karp.”
A nice little win, thought Karp as he went back to his place. He took Featherstone through the souvenirs Rohbling had taken from his victims, each time asking the detective to describe the woman and her current status, and receiving the answer, elderly, living alone, in Harlem, and dead. He did not pursue the issue of how they had died. Unless the judge instructed them otherwise, the jury would, without further prompting, easily deduce that Rohbling had a habit of visiting elderly black ladies, none of whom had survived his visits.
On cross-examination, Waley showed for the first time in this trial why he was considered one of the half dozen greatest masters of that art. To Karp’s surprise, he ignored the four other dead women. Instead, he was doing an impression of an attorney who, confronted by an overwhelming case, was simply going through the motions of a defense. His demeanor subdued, his voice just loud enough for the jury to catch, Waley took Featherstone almost apologetically through some minor clarifications of hi
s direct testimony. What time of day was it when you first saw the defendant? How far away? What was the weather like? How many people were at the bus stop? What was it about the defendant that caught your attention? Something not right about him? Pray elaborate. The detective elaborated. Waley was fascinated. With care and respect, he helped Featherstone elucidate what had enabled him, passing in a car by a crowded bus stop, to pick Rohbling out as the man they wanted. Unlike the average counsel on cross, Waley was building up rather than tearing down the credibility of the opposing side’s witness. Karp understood what he was doing but still could not see the payoff, nor was there a legitimate way for him to object; the material was legitimate, and he was not harassing the witness. And Peoples was hell on frivolous objections.
“Now, Detective Featherstone,” said Waley, “you’ve told us in impressive detail how you intuited that the defendant was not what he appeared to be. At that moment, how long had it been since you had learned from forensic evidence that the man you sought was a white man disguised as a black man?”
Featherstone paused judiciously. He was relaxed now, not on guard at all, and he answered, “Ten days.”
“Very good. Tell me, Detective, had you ever had a case like this before, this sort of disguise on the part of a homicide suspect?”
“No, this was a first.” A faint smile.
“Unique, in other words.” Returning the smile. “Was it hard to believe at first, from your detective experience, I mean?”
“Oh, sure. But the evidence was pretty conclusive.”
“Right. And what did you think of the man you were pursuing? What sort of person did you think you were after?”
Blithely, Featherstone swung at the breaking curve, the fabulous knuckleball that Waley had been winding up for since the trial had started. He said, “Oh, we thought he was a total nut case, crazy as a b-”
“Objection!” cried Karp, but he also had waited too late to swing. “Calls for a conclusion.”
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