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 to 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 h
ead 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'eiri an bothar leat.'"
"Go n'eiri an bothar 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.
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Malice kac-19 Page 45