“But, meanwhile, you think this will draw Cooley out?” Guma asked. “You think he’ll follow Dugan into the tunnels?”
“He’ll have to. And we’ll be there, too. But not you, Murrow, even though you’re small and could wriggle through any narrow ratlike passages. How have you been doing with Paradisio?”
“He’s still laughing in my face on the Cooley theory.”
“And?”
“I reasoned with him. He’s fixated on Canman, and I told him we had evidence that Canman was linked to Firmo, and maybe he was acting as a hit man, and that the victims were stolen-goods couriers who’d dipped some items. He said he’d check it out. The other thing he said was the cops are planning a big drive through the homeless areas underground. Three, four hundred troops. They intend to roust everyone down there and flush him out.”
“When is this?”
“He said next Wednesday.”
“Shit! Then we better get moving. Meanwhile, he already leaked our interest to Cooley, which was the point. Cooley came after me once already. The pressure’s building on him, too. Goom, on the Mr. Ralphie, the lying-douche-bag front, you’re okay with that? What you have to do?”
“Yeah, I’m cool. But it seems like the weakest part of this whole business. It sounds like something your bride dreamed up.”
“It was a mutual effort, thank you. It’s the product of two highly trained criminal-justice minds, one of which is only loosely connected to reality. But you’re wrong about that.”
“About what?”
“The weakest part,” said Karp. “The weakest part is, we have no fucking idea where Canman is.”
17
THE GRAND JURY ROOMS OF THE NEW YORK COUNTY COURTHOUSE ARE furnished like movie theaters, with comfortable theater-type seats upholstered in fuzzy beige and arranged in three concentric, concave rows. No drinks or popcorn, and the show is usually duller even than the typical Hollywood epic, but it is still a show, and the spectators, twenty-three citizens chosen at random from the electoral rolls, are usually good-natured about paying attention. Aside from the seats, the furnishings are sparse: a table for the witness, who faces the twenty-three as a lecturer administering to his class. There is no judge and no defense attorney, for the grand jury is the prosecutor’s show—producer, director, and star.
Karp stood in back of his audience but facing the witness and ran through his questions more or less on autopilot, eliciting from a bored police officer that he had on a certain date and time at a certain place, within the borders of the present county, found the body of a human he had later identified as Desmondo Ramsey. Karp had the man describe the scene in the garage, then thanked the cop and dismissed him. The next witness was a medical examiner, a former citizen of Pakistan, and this person was made to say that Mr. Ramsey, otherwise in the pink of health, had met his end through the medium of a bullet that had pierced his heart. Thank you, Doctor. Then came a police ballistics technician who said that he had identified that same bullet as having come from a nine-millimeter Colt pistol registered to a Ms. Sybil Marshak. The pistol itself was produced, in its plastic sack, and duly identified.
These witnesses established the essential facts of the crime. A person had been killed in the present jurisdiction, by Ms. Marshak’s pistol. It remained to be shown that Ms. Marshak had wielded the pistol, and for this purpose Karp called the next witness, Ralph T. Paxton. The grand jury foreman swore him in. Karp moved from the rear of the grand jury room and stood before him, slightly to his right so as not to obscure him from the jury. A thin man, Paxton, about thirty, mustard-colored with oiled hair swept back. He had a wary expression, eyes darting, his tongue over his lips, shoulders hunched. He was wearing a brown jacket, a tieless, clean white shirt, tan slacks, and Nikes, new ones.
Karp gave him a friendly smile and took him through the events surrounding the death of his pal Desmondo Ramsey. As he told the story, he became more confident; his voice, which had been low and hesitant, became louder. Karp gave him his head, only occasionally prompting him to be more definite, and the story emerged: He had been in an alcove of the garage, with Ramsey, who had been doing wine and pills. He had been talking about a score, a big score. They had been baling up scavenged magazines, and Ramsey was cutting twine with his knife, a six-inch hunter. They heard footsteps, high heels, a woman came into view, she couldn’t see them, but they saw her go toward a black Lexus. Ramsey said he was going to take off that white bitch. Those were his words? Yes, those were his words. Do you know the name of this woman? No, not then, but later he had identified her from a photo array: Sybil Marshak. Ramsey had proceeded toward the woman, still holding his knife. Karp held up a plastic bag with a knife in it, and Paxton identified it as the one in Ramsey’s possession on that day. Then what did Mr. Ramsey do? He went up to her. He brandished the knife. He brandished it? Yeah, like he showed it to her, waved it in her face. He told her to give him her bag, her watch. And what did Ms. Marshak do then? She took a gun out of her handbag and shot him. Just like that? Yeah, just like that. It was all over so fast.
In all, a good witness, and well-rehearsed, although not by Karp. That brandished, for example, had appeared in the original Q&A, and so did long stretches of descriptive prose. Karp thanked Paxton, and Paxton walked out of the room. Karp noticed Paxton had more spring in his step than he had had when he entered. Now a final police witness, a detective and a forensic expert. Karp elicited from him that two sets of fingerprints had been found on the hilt of the knife in question, Paxton’s and Ramsey’s, and dismissed him.
Turning to the grand jury, Karp informed them that this concluded the presentation of the people’s case against Sybil Marshak. He explained again about probable cause, that they were not deciding whether Ms. Marshak was guilty of the crime of manslaughter in the first degree, but only whether there was sufficient evidence to bind her over for trial on that charge. Then he recited to them the statutory definition of the crime: with intent to cause serious injury, causes the death of another person. Ms. Marshak, he said, had intended to cause Mr. Ramsey serious injury by shooting him and had caused his death. He then explained the self-defense justification for a homicide. If they believed that Ms. Marshak was correct and reasonable in supposing that she was in immediate danger of death or grievous bodily harm from Mr. Ramsey, and that Mr. Ramsey was unlawfully attacking her, and if they believed that the use of deadly force was reasonable and necessary to avoid this danger, and that she could not in her circumstances resort to the law, then they could bring in a finding of justifiable homicide rather than sustain the indictment for manslaughter.
There was a little murmur then: this was a new one for this grand jury, rather more intellectual effort than they were used to putting out. It is extremely unusual for grand juries to decline to indict. (A different grand jury had, of course, found that Brendan Cooley had shot his man in self-defense, but Cooley was a cop and Lomax was a fleeing felon, no problem there.) There were some questions. Did he actually have to stab her? No, but the threat had to be immediate and reasonable, and it was up to them to decide that it was. Couldn’t she have shot the knife out of his hand? Karp kept a straight face, nor did his eyes roll skyward. That speaks to the reasonableness of the force, he explained. You all have to decide if what she actually did, shooting him through the body, was reasonable in that circumstance.
He left them to their deliberations and sat down on one of the plastic chairs that lined the little room outside the jury room, where witnesses waited. The plan was unfolding, but whether it was the one he had hatched, or the one Marlene had, or some strange amalgam of both, he had really no idea. This present farce was part of the plan. Remarkably, Keegan had actually ordered him to do it, in the presence of an almost preening Norton Fuller. Karp recalled the surprise in both faces when he had agreed without demur.
He waited. He was used to it. A good portion of his professional life had been spent in waiting—for a jury, as now, for a judge to decide, for some piece of pap
er to trickle through the system. The wait for grand juries was usually short, but this one was taking its time. The little anteroom was crowded with witnesses and prosecutors for pending cases. Some of the ones who were cops looked at him coplike, a wary assessment, and there were conversations in low voices. The word had spread obviously: the NYPD grapevine was the fastest in the world. Karp didn’t care about that. He had never courted popularity with the police, although he would greatly regret it if he had harmed his friendship with Clay Fulton. There were reporters outside, too, with TV cameras. He would have to make a statement later, an important case such as this. He had no friends in the press either, probably a mistake, but too late to correct now. If he’d had friends in the press, he might not have had to concoct this silly plan. Like everyone else in society, it seemed, he could then have created an alternate reality, putting a lot more subtle pressure on Keegan, and if he had not gotten his way, he could have blown the whistle. As it was, if he blew the whistle now, he’d just be fired, branded an incompetent sorehead, and forgotten. The old racist thing would not help there either.
The little amber light over the door to the grand jury room lit up, indicating they had reached a decision. Karp got up and went through the door.
Ralphie Paxton left the courthouse feeling pretty good about his performance, so good that he decided to treat himself to a cab ride home. He was supposed to call the lawyer right after he got finished, but he figured that could wait. Man wasn’t paying him any money now, he could just hang for a while, fuckin’ Jews thought they owned you. There was a cab, a woman climbing out of it with a briefcase and long, stockinged legs and one of those little skirts they wore now where you could see practically their whole business. Ralphie positioned himself so he could see most of it, got one of those hard looks those bitches liked to give you, and replaced her in the cab.
The driver was a rag-head, like most of them nowadays. He wasn’t too happy with Ralphie as a fare, but fuck him, what could he do? Ralphie caught him staring in the rearview, his foreigner eyes clouded with suspicion. “No Brooklyn,” the driver said.
Ralphie gave him the address, although he considered for a moment telling the rag-head to go to Canarsie, just to jack the fucker up a little. It wasn’t worth it, not for the money. There was starting to be a problem with money. Five grand when he’d got it from Solotoff seemed to be all the money in the world, infinite riches, far more than Ralphie Paxton had ever seen in his life, but it was proving to be more ephemeral than he had ever imagined. He was drinking Scotch now, not Night Train. He was buying a better quality of sex now, no more blow jobs behind a Dumpster from a skanky crackhead transvestite, no, now it was actual girls, young ones, too, in a bed. He liked that, the lush life, but it was expensive. He had been on the streets for years, rent-free. Paying some guy just so you could live someplace was novel and irritating. And the crack, that was expensive, too, especially when he had to pay for partying. People came around a lot when they knew you were flush. He liked that, being the big man, having a roll to flash around. The girls liked it, too. So it flew out of his pocket. He didn’t really know how much he had left; he was sort of afraid to count it, but it wasn’t more than a grand now, maybe less. The thought of having to go back to the street was not pleasant. He liked taking a shower whenever he wanted, with hot water, and watching TV like a regular person. That he could continue this life by obtaining employment never occurred to him.
He should have held out for more money, he was thinking now. Five grand was chump change to a rich Jew lawyer. He should have had that watch, too, that was worth almost five grand on its own, that fucking Desmondo, although, of course, Firmo would’ve come after him pretty soon, like they said he did, and that would’ve been it for old Des. He really was lucky that bitch had capped him like that; at least it was quick. How to get more money. The lawyer really owed him, but that was a problem, too; he was connected, or so he said. He said that was it, the five grand, payment for information, strictly legal, deductible, he said, but if Ralphie tried to get smart, he’d make one phone call and Paxton would end up under concrete somewhere. Was he telling the truth?
There were two blue-and-whites on Forty-fifth when the cab entered the street. They were double-parked with their doors open and their flashers on. Another bust. Paxton paid the driver what was on the meter and got out. The guy gave him a look, but fuck him, the rag-head, if he expected a tip. Paxton walked up the street to his apartment house, but he hadn’t taken ten steps before a couple of big guys in plain clothes with badges hanging off their necks on chains grabbed him and tossed him against a car and patted him down. He was clean, and they let him go, no apology, like he was a piece of shit. He wanted to tell them he had just testified before a grand jury on a big case, but he let it go.
“Hey, Ralphie!”
Paxton turned. It was Real Ali. Paxton felt a surge of relief. Real Ali was company and didn’t do dope or drink.
“What’s up, Ali?” The two men shook hands.
“Not much. I was just going by, you know. You live around here?”
“Yeah, up there. I got a place now.”
“Yeah, I heard you lucked out behind that Desmondo shit. It’s a ill wind, right?”
“Yeah, you got that right. You still down by the tracks?”
“Still there.” Ali looked both ways and said in a lowered voice, “Look, my man, it’s lucky I run into you. You wouldn’t be interested in a little business proposition, would you?”
“What kind of business?”
“Holding.”
“Holding? What you mean, holding?”
“Holding. Guy wants to leave some stuff in your place, he pays you rent. Like you a locker in the Port Authority, but a lot more than fifty cents. But, hey, if you’re interested, let’s not do business on the street.”
They went into Paxton’s apartment. Ali looked around and, with an approving whistle, agreed that it was pretty sweet. Paxton poured himself a Scotch, although he badly wanted a pipe. He played the genial host, recounting some of the details of his new life. Then they turned to business.
“Here’s how it works,” said Ali. “Man hands you a package. You don’t touch, you don’t smell it, and you don’t look at it. A little later, the man tells you take a walk, see a movie for a couple of hours, leave the door open. The man brings in his people, and they cut the shit up. You come back, the package is history, and you got a grand sitting on your table. That’s it.”
“Who’s the man?”
“You heard of Benny Mastracci?”
Paxton had not. He said, “Sure.”
“Yeah. Call him the Hammer. Benny the Hammer. Man you don’t want to fuck with. But his money’s good.”
“How come you know him? I thought you were through with that shit.”
Ali laughed. “Yeah, that’s what everybody thinks. That’s how come Benny likes to use me, you dig? That’s the fuckin’ point.”
After a brief pause, Paxton laughed, too. Fuckin’ Ali. It was nice to have friends.
Ralphie Paxton met Benny the Hammer late on the following day, a knock on his door and there he was. He looked just like those guys did in the movies, in a sharp black suit, an ugly, hard-faced little white guy, with two big white guys with him, also in suits, with open collars and gold chains. They barged in and checked the place out, noting with approval the grilles on the windows and the police lock on the door. The stuff was in a duffel bag. One of the big guys stuffed it into a closet.
Benny had a gravelly voice, also as established by the movies. He said, “Ali tells me you’re a straight-up guy, or I wouldn’t be here. But let’s understand each other. There’s six plastic bags in there, and I know what’s in them down to the gram. I know what’s in them, and when we come back, the same thing’s gonna be in them as what’s in them now. If not, for any reason, Rocco and Vinnie over there’s gonna stick your head in a tub of cement until it dries. No warning, no second chances, no excuses—that’s just the way we work. Yo
u understand what I’m telling you?”
The man’s little ape eyes bored into his, and Ralphie Paxton understood.
Guma’s voice on the phone was artificially low and conspiratorial: “The package is delivered. The eagle has landed. The plume of my aunt is in the second shelf.”
Karp laughed. “You love this shit, Guma.”
“What can I say? I missed my calling.”
“Did you scare him?”
“He was pissing himself. I brought Rocco and Vinnie Luna for effect. I thought Vinnie was gonna crack up, but he managed to turn it into an evil grin. I hear it was no bill on Marshak.”
“Like we expected. A black guy comes at you with a knife in a parking garage, the classic nightmare of scared America. Thank God she had a gun is the usual response.”
“You got anything else you want me to do? Besides crawling through tunnels.”
“No, nothing right now—and thanks, Goom. I owe you big.”
“You bet you do. I’m sending you a bill.”
Karp turned off the cordless and put it down on the coffee table. “That was Guma.”
His wife put down her headphones and paused the tape she was listening to. “Did he do it?”
“So he says.”
“You don’t look very happy about it.”
“I’m not,” said Karp. “I want this to be over. This is hell. But I don’t want to talk about my legal daintiness anymore. How’s your stolen phone calls going?”
“The kid did a good job. It was like I figured. Oleg had a positive tip this kidnapping was going down. He had a man in the group that did it. These here are conversations with his man on the scene, Ilya, who that guy reported to. Oleg knew the time and the place of the snatch and where they were hiding Perry. He declined to intervene. Result: an international incident, beaucoup press, and he goes in and gets them out two days before the IPO, guaranteeing all the bozos who make up the bull market will buy the stock: ‘Duh, Osborne, I heard of them, think I’ll buy a thousand.’ Basically, it’s what happens when the KGB discovers capitalism. They love the money, but they don’t quite get it.”
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