Justice Denied (12 page)

Karp did indeed. He said, “Okay, good job, Goom. Tony?”

Tony Harris, a bright young left-handed pitcher from Syracuse whom Karp had raised from a pup into a competent and aggressive prosecutor, told his story:
People
v.
Devers
—a man, a woman, drugs, a gun. The D. had a record of atrocious violence, and had shot down the woman in front of three shrieking children. It was therefore one of the cases on which Karp had decided to hang tough. The defendant had done likewise, making the state work for it.

As usual, Karp questioned Harris closely about the details, and, following his example, so did the other lawyers. The M.E. evidence, the testimony of witnesses, the fact that all potential witnesses were sought out and interviewed, the defendant's alibi, the lab work, what the cops found.

After the questions were exhausted, Karp summed up the case. “The problem here is that the direct witnesses to the crime are minor children aged three to seven. Not convincing to most juries, easily confused on cross. So we build the case on indirect evidence, which is convincing. We have a neighbor who came out in the hall after hearing shots and made an ID. We have two young women outside the apartment, saw the defendant enter, heard the shots, saw the defendant exit. We have physical evidence in the form of nynhydrin tests that show the defendant had fired a gun recently. We have the murder weapon found in a sewer located on the direct route between the victim's apartment and the defendant's apartment three blocks away. It's a story. Anything wrong with it that we haven't brought up?” He looked around the room. Silence. “No? Okay, good job, Tony. Next.”

Next was an A.D.A. named Lennie Bergman, and the case was
People
v.
Morales.
Bergman had just begun his account when Karp interrupted him. “Did you get my note on this?”

The attorney hesitated. “Yeah, I did.”

“And you still want to go to trial on it?” Karp stared hard at the man, who met his gaze levelly. Bergman was a stocky, blunt-featured man, a defensive lineman out of Adelphi. Not an inspired mind, or particularly perceptive, but competent, tough, and certainly not a man to be moved by a disapproving stare from his boss. “Okay, make your pitch,” said Karp.

Bergman presented his case, after which Karp tore into it, pointing out the absurdities in Morales's supposed behavior after the crime, the lack of direct witnesses to a crime that had supposedly taken place on the street, the fact that Morales's grandmother persisted in her story that the incriminating evidence had been planted. But nobody else seemed to smell a police scam, and Karp was left with the choice of either directly overruling a good attorney or letting him go to trial under a cloud based not on any direct knowledge but on Karp's experience and instinct.

Karp tapped on the table and looked at the faces sitting around it: Guma bored; Harris interested, inclined to be sympathetic, but confused; Bergman, pugnacious, defensive; and Hrcany. What was that expression in Hrcany's eyes? Challenging? Contemptuous, a little? What was he thinking? That Karp was afraid to try the tough ones anymore? That he had become too nice about the provenance of evidence?

They were waiting. Across Karp's mind passed the sudden wish that he had never gotten into the business of supervising other people's cases. Then he said, “Okay, fuck it, go for it. Roland, you're up.”

6

T
he shoot-out between Karp and Hrcany over
People
v.
Tomasian
became the stuff of legend before the afternoon was well begun. In the outer office the secretaries were the first to know, as most of the discussion was carried on at such a volume that all work ceased and the women muttered nervously and fingered their telephones. After lunch the tale spread throughout the building, growing in drama and violence. They had come to blows. Hrcany had pulled a knife. The police had been called. Karp was in the hospital. Gunshots had been heard by reliable witnesses. The news floated up to the eighth floor, where the district attorney heard it and was glad, though less so when it was explained to him that Karp had not really been stabbed by one of his own attorneys. Farther down the hall from the D.A.'s office, the story reached the ears of Conrad Wharton, the chief administrative officer, who understood what it meant, and considered how it might fit in with his perpetually evolving and lovingly maintained plan to ruin Karp.

Marlene heard the news late in the day, having been with the grand jury, and immediately sought out Ray Guma for the straight poop.

“Nah, the part about the knife is bullshit, and they didn't call the cops,” said Guma confidently. “What it was, Connie stuck her head in when Roland kicked over his chair. She scoped the situation out and said, ‘Should I call the cops?' After that they both calmed down. But Roland did throw the case file at Butch's head. That part's true.”

“Did it hit him?”

“Nah, he was at the other end of the table. Lucky thing too. Roland gets up and kicks his chair across the room and he yells, ‘You want the fuckin' case? Take it!' and he heaves the whole box. He would've gone for Butch too, but me and Tony stood up and stood in his way. Not that we could've stopped him. But it slowed him down and then Connie came in. It was like a schoolteacher breaking up a fight at recess in the schoolyard. Hell of a thing.”

“How'd it start?” asked Marlene.

“It was when Roland had just finished doing his thing on the Tomasian case. It sounded okay to me, nothing special. But I see Karp is getting that look. You know what I mean? The Chinese warlord eyes? After Roland finishes, Butch stares at him like he just cut a fart. He says, ‘What about the money, Roland. You didn't mention the money.'

“Roland gets all red and he says, ‘The money's horseshit. It's not relevant to the case, it's extraneous, et cetera.'

“Butch says, ‘You don't fuckin' know that, Roland. You haven't bothered to find out either. You haven't lifted a finger to investigate the victim's background. And what about the documents, they're irrelevant too?'

“Meanwhile everybody's looking at each other. Money? Documents? Nobody knows what the fuck's happening. Then Roland, he's yelling now, he says, ‘Yeah, they're irrelevant. They're letters from his brother, in Turkey—just bullshit.'

“And Butch says, ‘Oh, yeah? How come he keeps letters from his brother in a fucking safe-deposit box?' Then he turns around to all of us—I mean we're fucking … confused ain't the word, believe me—and he says, ‘This is an example of a fucked investigation. This isn't even an investigation. It's a goddamn romance. He fell in love with this guy and that was it. It's not a case, it's not an indictment—it's a valentine.' Then some more shit about when the defense gets this stuff about the safe deposit on discovery, you can kiss this guy good-bye. They'll do a serious investigation, and then they'll know shit
we
don't know and so on. He was really wailing, dancing on Roland's head, and Roland's getting redder and redder, he's like a fuckin' Coke sign, and finally he breaks in, he yells, ‘Well, fuck it, I'm not gonna give it to them! It's not part of the case, they got no right to see it. I checked it with Bloom and he agrees.'”

“Good God!” exclaimed Marlene.

“Yeah, right. You coulda heard a pin drop. Okay, Butch goes dead white. He says, ‘Bloom? You checked it with Bloom?' Then he points his finger at Roland, and he goes, ‘If I find out that the defense doesn't have every single scrap of information you've assembled on this case, I will personally deliver it to defense counsel,
and
I will inform the judge of your conspiracy to suppress evidence.' That's when Roland threw the case file. Shit, it was like the movies!”

Marlene shook her head in amazement. “So what's the upshot?”

“Damned if I know,” said Guma. “You oughta go talk to Butch. He might not bite
your
head off.”

But late that day in his office, he seemed not biter but bitten, wan, and depressed.

“So, are you going to kiss and make up or what?”

Karp grimaced at this question, but left Marlene's head attached. “I don't know, kid,” he replied. “I must be losing it. I still can't believe it happened. Me and Roland—for chrissake, we go back years. It was him going to Bloom that did it. Bloom! He hates Bloom. And on a sneaky deal like this. And I blame myself for it. If I was a hundred percent, I would've played Roland different. The last thing you want to do with him is get into a pissing contest.” He slammed the desk in frustration and looked at her with eyes that were dark-rimmed and full of pain.

“I hurt all the time. It makes me irritable. Running a staff isn't like playing ball, or even trying cases. Irritable is good in those. Now I got to be a fucking therapist.”

“You do it, though.”

“Yeah, but I don't love it. It's not my real thing. I'm trying to build a homicide bureau like we used to have, but I don't have the material and I don't have the support. Can you imagine what Garrahy would've said if Roland had delivered a case like
Tomasian
? I saw Garrahy make a guy cry once, and not a kid either, an old homicide prosecutor—reduced him to tears in front of a roomful of people because the guy had prepared an incompetent case. I'll never have that kind of authority, not over guys like Roland anyway.”

“Maybe he should quit, then.”

“But he's good,” Karp protested. “I don't want him to quit. I wouldn't give two shits about him if he wasn't a terrific prosecutor. The pity of it is that he doesn't get the point, and I sense that a lot of the best guys were on his side. Bergman. Guma even. They didn't get the point, and if they didn't get the point, how the hell am I going to get the kids to get it?”

“The point being he picked the wrong guy?”

Karp sighed. “No, he may have the right guy. Christ, you don't get it either. Look, over on Mulberry Street around where we live, there used to be the old police headquarters, back in the eighteen-nineties. And in that building somebody got the bright idea of taking photographs of all the people they arrested and filing them according to crime. Very useful.

“And then it occurred to some other bright boy that when they had a mystery, they could reach into the drawer and pull out a photo of someone they were interested in getting off the street, and what they did was they put it in a frame on the wall, and then all the cops would lean on informants to come up with testimony that, yeah, this guy did the crime. That's how they built cases back then. That's where the word comes from, frame. It's still the easiest way to clear cases.

“But not to win cases. People talk about lenient judges and juries. That's bullshit. Scumbags get out on the street nine times out of ten because of prosecutorial incompetence. They're lazy: they buy the cops' story, like Bergman just did. Or they get entranced, like Roland. They forget that they have to learn everything about the case, not just the stuff that supports their indictment. Because if they have a halfway capable defense, it'll all come out in trial. The jury doesn't automatically believe the state and the cops anymore. Maybe the opposite.”

“Gosh, this is just like being in law school,” said Marlene, rolling her eyes. “But back to the matter at hand. What are you going to do?”

“I've been thinking about it. What I'd like to do is find out who did the murder. If it was Tomasian, fine. I'm an asshole, but at least we'll have a case that makes sense. If it wasn't Tomasian …” Karp grinned unpleasantly. “Then I'll have made my point. To Roland. To the homicide staff. And to Bloom.”

“Are you going to make Roland cry?”

Karp laughed, a welcome release from tension. “Right now I kind of hope so.”

“I hope so too. You could sell tickets,” said Marlene. “And I can't fail to note that I told you so on this.”

“Yes, dear,” said Karp flatly.

“Ah, the Olympic passive-aggression team takes the field. Time for me to get small. You coming?”

“In a minute. I need to make a call.”

She left, and he looked in his Rolodex to find a number that he called as infrequently as he could manage. It was late, but he figured the FBI's New York office would still be open, fighting crime.

The man who answered was about as unhappy to hear from Karp as he was to have to call. They wasted no time on pleasantries.

“I need some information, Pillman,” said Karp.

Elmer Pillman was the FBI agent in charge of liaison with the criminal justice authorities of the greater metropolitan area. Once in the course of an investigation, he had made a very big mistake, a mistake that would certainly have ended his career and landed him in prison, a mistake that Karp had discovered. Karp had not ratted him out, however, for reasons of his own. It made for a peculiar and prickly relationship.

“About what?” asked Pillman after a meaningful pause.

“Armenian terrorism.”

A pause. “You said Armenian? What, are you writing a term paper? You mean historical stuff?”

“No, current. Here, in the City.”

“There ain't none. No, wait, this must be about that Turkish attaché who got popped the other week.”

“That's right,” said Karp. “You're interested in that?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then you don't think it was a terrorist job?”

“I didn't say that,” Pillman snapped. “Don't put words in my mouth. It's just that Armenian organizations have no record of assassinations in the U.S. We have no evidence that they're about to start. Europe, that's another story.”

“They whack people in Europe?”

“They did at one time, a lot. Still do occasionally. Turks. Back in the twenties, they got all the people responsible for the so-called massacres. Gunned them down on the street, nearly every one of them. Recently? Not much. Couple of bombs, a shooting. Mostly young … I guess you can't call 'em young Turks, can you?” He chuckled. “Nothing like the Arabs. Or the Krauts for that matter.”