Outrage bkamc-23

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Davis squared his shoulders. “I’m aware of that, and I’m convinced he did it. The confessions are just too on point. And I don’t see how the defense is going to keep them out of evidence.”

  Karp held the man’s gaze for a long moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. “All right then,” he said, and tapped the file. “I’ll take a look at what we got. As far as personnel, I want Ray Guma as lead counsel; Danielle can second seat.”

  “Guma?” Davis asked, surprised.

  Karp raised an eyebrow. He knew that a lot of the new young Turks in the office thought of Guma, who worked only part-time due to his health, as a relic. But Karp knew that he was as good as they came-smart and tough as nails in a courtroom. A brawler more than a boxer, but he got the job done and would be a good match for Watkins. “Yes, Guma. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but he was the DAO rep on the Yancy-Jenkins task force… the same one this Graziani worked with. He’ll be able to spot any holes.”

  Davis twisted his lips. “Cohn isn’t going to like it.”

  Karp scowled slightly to show that there wasn’t going to be a lot of argument regarding this decision. “Then she can excuse herself from the case,” he said. “If you’re wrong, and the defense doesn’t come looking for a plea deal-and I don’t think they will-there’s going to be a fight. Cohn can learn a lot from an old warhorse like Goom.”

  A few minutes later, Davis excused himself. When he left the office, Karp glanced down at the file on his desk. Under the circumstances, I understand how it all happened. He suspected the truth was that Davis wanted badly to close this case while on his watch. But if ambition meant taking shortcuts, it could lead to disaster.

  14

  Baseball practice had been over for two hours, but the twins were still arguing when they got out of the yellow cab on the corner of Third Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street. They stood facing each other for a moment, tense and angry.

  “You know Coach Newell told Chase to hurt him,” Giancarlo said. “It was just practice and he slid into Esteban hard at second with his cleats up.”

  “Chase was just trying to break up the double play,” Zak argued, and moved past his brother to the door of the Il Buon Pane bakery. The debate was momentarily interrupted when he opened the door and they were greeted by the smell of fresh-baked pastries and breads.

  However, once Giancarlo recovered his wits and noted that they were going to have to stand in line anyway, he returned to the fray. “Esteban had already made the play,” he said, “and, I might add, a frickin’ great play-catches that one-hop blast up the middle, tags second himself, and fires over to first to double them up. He’d let go of the ball ten feet before Chase even got there. There was no reason to go into him like that.”

  “Coach Newell is just trying to get us to play hard-nosed baseball with the playoffs coming up,” Zak said, getting more surly and defensive with each point his brother made.

  “Esteban got hurt because of it,” Giancarlo said. “That was a nasty cut on his leg from Chase’s cleats.”

  “It looked worse than it was.”

  “Zak… come on… he was bleeding like he’d been stabbed.”

  Zak shrugged. “He should have seen Chase coming and moved.”

  “He wasn’t expecting to get a cheap shot by his own teammate.”

  “You’d think he would have learned by now.”

  Giancarlo stopped and stared at his brother in shock, then slowly shook his head. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said sarcastically. “He should understand by now that a racist xenophobic coach and his little toadies would be looking for ways to hurt a seventeen-year-old because he’s a Mexican. I mean, what a stupid wetback. What does he expect? Fair treatment? Maybe play a meaningless game without one of his own teammates trying to injure him? Dumb spic.”

  Zak scowled. Chase Fitzpatrick was the team’s catcher-a big, not terribly bright redhead and one of Max Weller’s toadies. “I’m very impressed with the ‘xenophobic’ adjective, but you’re overreacting.”

  “Overreacting!” Other customers turned around or looked up from their tables with disapproval at Giancarlo’s shout. Although there was a constant hum of conversation in Il Buon Pane, people maintained a certain level of decorum meant to preserve the tranquillity of the place, and a shouting teenager wasn’t part of it.

  Giancarlo recognized this and immediately lowered his voice to an angry buzz directed at his twin. “I was the only one on the team to go out there to see how bad he was hurt. He was lying on the ground, Zak, holding his leg and bleeding. Coach Newell never even came over. He sent an assistant coach.”

  Zak rolled his eyes. “Newell was busy. He probably didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “He high-fived Chase when he came back to the dugout!” Giancarlo said.

  “I didn’t see that.”

  “I did! So did a lot of other guys. And so did Esteban. The guy had tears in his eyes but didn’t say a word, and by the way, thanks for getting my back like you said you would. I didn’t exactly see you come out to help.”

  “You didn’t need me,” Zak replied. “And Coach Hames told me to keep warming up. Nobody was jumping your butt for helping Esteban.”

  “What about the crap I caught in the locker room after practice? ‘Taco lover,’ ‘Bean Dip’-those were just a couple of names… all homophobic of course…”

  Zak replied, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will-”

  “Never hurt me. Yeah, I know,” Giancarlo retorted. “But this time Esteban did get hurt. And I could be next. Max and Chase and their pals were all laughing about Esteban, then Chase said, ‘Hey, Giancarlo, maybe now Coach will let you play shortstop for sliding practice.’ Sounds like a threat to me.”

  “I’ll kick his butt if he does,” Zak blustered. “He’s just a big, fat catcher.”

  “You’re not getting the point-”

  Whatever Giancarlo was going to say was cut short by the appearance of Moishe Sobelman. “Boys, boys, what are these hard words and angry eyes?” he asked, clapping a hand on each boy, though he had to reach up to do so. “It’s a terrible thing when brothers fight. But come, let’s discuss this over something to eat. Let me see, will it be your father’s favorite, cherry cheese coffee cake, or could I interest you in something else today? A raspberry almond torte, perhaps? Of course, your mother will probably be angry with me for ruining your dinners.”

  The twins immediately stopped sneering at each other and grinned at Sobelman. They happily followed him around behind the counter into the kitchen, where Moishe sat them down at a small table and took their orders. Neither ventured too far, however, from their father’s addiction, opting only to try the blueberry cheese coffee cake.

  Sobelman went out to the counter and then returned with the coffee cakes. He then sat down with a cup of coffee and waited for the boys to get well into their treat before asking what they’d been fighting about. He then listened patiently as each boy gave his side of the story.

  “It’s only six or seven guys, and we have twenty-five guys on the roster,” Zak said in conclusion. “If something happens and those guys get kicked off the team, or Coach Newell loses his job, we’ll have no chance to take state this year. Why should the whole team suffer for one guy?”

  Sobelman looked thoughtful and then responded gently. “Indeed, why should the rights or happiness, or even the safety, of one person supersede what is best for many? Then again, I guess there is a question of what is best for many in the long run. It is a very difficult and often frightening decision to speak up for someone else, Zak. But let’s look at this from the perspective of your report for your bar mitzvah class.”

  Sobelman got up and rummaged through a drawer. “In the 1920s, the Nazis were just a few thugs meeting in German beer halls. But they were loud and aggressive, and speaking out against them could even result in a beating. Still, they could have been easily stopped if the majority of Germans who didn’t subscribe to their hateful views had sa
id something, or at least voted against them.” He picked up a piece of paper from the drawer and walked back to the table and sat down.

  “You may have heard this; it was part of a speech given by Martin Niemoller, a German minister and philosopher,” Sobelman said, and read from the piece of paper. “‘First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the trade unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.’”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Giancarlo said. “When we were studying the Holocaust in a bar mitzvah class my dad was teaching.”

  “Good,” Sobleman replied. “I’m glad you’ve heard it somewhere. But did your father tell you much about Mr. Niemoller?”

  “No,” the boys said.

  “Well, it is good to know his history as well as his words,” Sobelman said. “For instance, he was a submarine commander in World War I but later became a pacifist and anti-nuclear weapons activist. In the 1930s, he was staunchly anti-Communist and initially supported the Nazis’ rise to power. Only when the Nazis made churches subordinate to the party did he balk and begin speaking out against them. He became very popular in Germany, which angered Hitler, who had him arrested in 1937. He spent more than a year in jail. When he got out, he continued to speak against the Nazis, which got him arrested again and this time sent to the death camps at Sachsenhausen and Dachau in ‘protective custody.’ He was, of course, treated better than the Jewish prisoners and so survived seven years in those hellholes until he was liberated in 1945. He gave his ‘they came for the Jews’ speech after that… which has, of course, become a popular treatise on the danger of political apathy.”

  “I understand your point,” Zak said defensively. “But what does this have to do with a baseball team and one kid getting bullied a little?”

  It was Sobelman’s turn to shrug. “Maybe only to illustrate how horrible things like the Holocaust start small-a few evil men in a pub, or in a corporate boardroom, or a socialist workers’ party meeting. These evil men believe they know what’s best for everyone else. They say some things that make people uncomfortable, but no one does anything about it. People shrug and say, ‘It’s their right to free speech,’ which is fine, but they don’t counter it, or denounce it, with free speech of their own. The masses are mute. Perhaps they are too intimidated by the smear campaign that would be directed at them. Or maybe they’re afraid of physical violence, even assassination. But deep down in their souls where they are frightened, they know they actually want someone else to make the tough decisions for them.”

  Sobelman reached across the table and set his hands on Zak’s wrists. “Right now it’s just a few bullies on a boys’ baseball team. But tolerating this behavior now becomes a mind-set that will carry into the future. These bullies are the same sort of people who end up in those pubs and boardrooms and meeting halls. And those who witness the debasement of another human being and do nothing about it are the same people who may someday ask themselves why they didn’t stand up when the evil men come for them.”

  “But shouldn’t Esteban have to stand up for himself first?” Zak asked. “He never does anything about the crap he gets. He won’t fight. He doesn’t tell the principal.”

  “Certainly he has to defend himself,” Sobelman said in agreement. “We Jews in Europe learned that the hard way. Except for a few anomalies like the uprising in the Warsaw ghetto and our revolt at the Sobibor camp, we allowed ourselves to be led like sheep to the slaughter.”

  Sobelman shook his head. “No wonder those of us who survived it, who want nothing more than to live a peaceful life in the manner that God has ordained for our people, swore that never again would we surrender without a fight. People who criticize the Israelis for their tendency to react harshly to threats might do well to remember that Arabs were not the first people to decide that Jews had no right to exist.”

  “So then you agree that this is really Esteban’s problem?” Zak asked, thinking he’d scored a point.

  “It’s only part of the equation,” Sobelman replied. “It’s hard to face the world on your own. Still, if you won’t stick up for yourself, you can’t expect others to always fight your battles for you.”

  “That’s what I mean about Esteban,” Zak said. “Maybe he should tell his parents, and they should talk to the coach.”

  “That’ll never happen,” Giancarlo replied. “His parents are from Mexico. He’s got a scholarship to a good school. They’re probably more afraid to say something than he is. He’s on his own. Even the other minority players aren’t speaking up because they know they could be next. But you’re wrong that he doesn’t stick up for himself. Every time they knock him down with a pitch, he gets back up. They call him names; he smiles and plays that much harder. That’s why I was worried they were actually going to have to hurt him to get him to quit. And now they may have done it, and nobody says anything.”

  “So what do you think you should do, Giancarlo?” the old man asked.

  “I think we should tell Dad.”

  “So you want your father to fight your battles for you?”

  Giancarlo furrowed his brow, surprised that the debate had taken this sudden twist. “I guess I was thinking this is the sort of thing that adults handle.”

  “Maybe,” Sobelman said. “When there is no other choice, maybe you will have to enlist your father’s help. But if that is your first response, what have you learned from this experience? Rather than standing up yourself and saying this is wrong, and maybe suffering personal consequences, you’d rather some higher authority do it for you. Count on the government, perhaps, to make those tough decisions that you don’t want to really know about. Just so long as the streets are safe at night and the trains run on time, eh? Oh, and of course, hope that when the crisis has passed, the government remembers to return your rights to you.”

  Zak nodded. “Right, so we don’t tell Dad,” he said. “Maybe I can talk to Max and Chase and get them to lay off… if Esteban comes back.” He looked for approval from Sobelman. “How’s that?”

  Sobelman smiled and patted his hand. “You do what you think is right; you’re almost a man now. But remember what I told you about the bar mitzvah being more than a right of passage. It is the day you become morally responsible for your actions in the eyes of God and man.”

  Zak sighed. “I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

  15

  Although it was only midmorning, Monday already promised to be an unseasonably warm day in the Bronx. It showed in the desultory attitudes of the youths hanging out on the northwest corner of Mullayly Park as they stopped talking and watched the attractive white woman approach.

  She was petite but otherwise unremarkable, except that she was walking a dog that easily weighed as much as she did and looked like it could eat the local pit bulls for snacks. The youths hoped the pair would pass on by, but instead the woman and her dog walked right up to them.

  “Are you Raymond?” she asked a tall black kid in front of the group.

  “Who wants to know?” Raymond replied, trying to hold his ground and not look intimidated while keeping an eye on the dog, who he thought was staring at him like he was a leg of fried chicken.

  Marlene noted the look and smiled. Walk softly, she thought, but with a big dog, especially in the Bronx.

  It had been nearly a week since her meeting with Alejandro Garcia and Amelia Acevedo. She had been able to meet with Felix the following day in the company of Alea Watkins, who looked like an English teacher but fought in the courtroom like a barroom bouncer. She’d listened to Marlene’s presentation and then said she’d be happy to take the Manhattan case. In the meantime, Marlene would work as a private investigator for Felix.

  After his indictment, Felix Acevedo had been transferred from the Bronx jail to the Tombs, otherwise known as the
Manhattan House of Detention for Men, which was situated at the northern end of the Criminal Courts Building complex. It was a massive gray building; if the exterior was cheerless and imposing it was even more oppressive within its cold stone walls, steel gates, and cell bars.

  Marlene had wrinkled her nose at the smell of the place as she and Watkins passed through security and were escorted to an interview room. It smelled of unwashed bodies, splashed urine, industrial-strength cleansers, and the acrid aroma of fear.

  Some of the latter was coming from Felix, who was waiting for them seated in a chair on the other side of a table. His head was down and he did not look up when they entered.

  “Hello, Felix, my name is Marlene Ciampi and this is Alea Watkins,” she said, standing before him. “Your mother has asked Ms. Watkins to represent you for your case in Manhattan and I’m going to help look into the allegations. I’m a friend of Alejandro Garcia, so I hope you’ll trust me and tell us the truth no matter what.”

  At the mention of his mother and Garcia, Felix looked up hopefully. It was then that the women saw that behind his thick glasses his left eye was swollen shut by an ugly purple bruise, and his upper lip appeared to have been split, requiring several stitches to close.

  “Did that happen in here?” Watkins asked as they sat down across from him. The young man nodded. “Do you know who did it?” He dropped his eyes and didn’t answer. “Are you afraid you’ll get hurt if you tell us?” He nodded.

  Watkins and Marlene exchanged glances. “We’ll see if we can get you moved to a safer place,” Watkins said. “In the meantime, are you okay with me representing you?”