Trap (9781476793177) (25 page)

Turning to the pages, Fulton nodded. “Yes, first he said, ‘You and your nig . . . your cop . . . think I did it and that's all that matters.' He then said, ‘For all I know, you planted that bomb so you'd have a reason to go after us for murder.' ”

“Did I indicate that Mr. Forsling was a suspect?”

“Yes, you pointed out that he and his friends had targeted the book signing and that he'd been arrested near the car that was bombed. You said, and I quote from page five: ‘It makes you a person of interest; it doesn't make you guilty. I also know that you were sitting in the police car when the bomb went off and had a view of Mrs. Lubinsky's car. And that makes you a potential witness.' ”

“What was Mr. Forsling's response to that?”

“He wanted to know if he could leave if he answered your questions.”

“Was he worried about someone?”

“Yes,” Fulton said. “He said his mother was an invalid and he wanted to get home in order to take care of her.”

“What was my response?”

“You told him he was going to have to wait until the next morning to see a judge before he could post bail. You also offered to contact NYPD to do a welfare check on his mother, but he declined the offer.”

“Why did he decline the offer?”

“He said that he was worried that a black or Hispanic officer would be sent and that would upset his mother.”

“Did Forsling then agree to answer my questions?”

“Yes, though he initiated the next part of the conversation by alluding to a potential alternative suspect he claimed to have seen while sitting in the squad car.”

“How did he describe this person?”

“As a ‘funny-looking nigger' who he said was near the Lubinsky car. He said he saw him leaning over next to the car, and I quote, ‘as though he was tying his shoe.' You then asked him to describe this person and he said—this is on page seven—‘You know, like his face was like half-black, half-white . . . like he had that thing that Michael Jackson had.' ”

“Did you respond to that?”

“Yes, I said, ‘Vitiligo, it causes a decrease in skin pigmentation.' ”

“Did he answer my question asking if he recalled anything else about this individual?”

“Yes, he said this individual was with the group marked on the diagram as ‘Locals' and that right before the bomb went off, he separated from that crowd. Quoting here from page nine, ‘Then he took out his cell phone and punched in some numbers.' You asked him about the significance of that and he said that this individual didn't try to speak into the phone but was instead, this is page ten, ‘looking at it when that Jew bitch and her friends got in the car. He was watching them and then boom.' ”

“Was there a second observation he made about this individual?”

“Yes, his shoes. He said this individual was wearing ‘cherry red canvas high tops.' He thought it was unusual because it was cold outside and there was snow on the ground.”

Karp walked over to the witness stand and held up his hand for the transcript, which Fulton passed to him. “Did Mr. Forsling then terminate the interview?”

“Yes. He said he'd wait to see what we did with his information before he'd answer any more questions.”

Karp walked back over to the prosecution table and picked up another set of papers, which he delivered to Fulton. “Mr. Fulton, approximately a week after the murders outside of Il Buon Pane, did you have occasion to be in an establishment known as the Jay Street Bar in Brooklyn?”

“Yes. I was there to monitor a conversation being recorded between Thomas Monroe and one Micah Gallo.”

“I've handed you another transcript, People's Exhibit 23. Do you recognize it?”

Fulton made a show of looking the transcript over although he'd reviewed it extensively during trial preparation. He looked up. “Yes, I recognize it.”

“Without commenting on the contents, does it represent a fair and accurate transcription of this conversation you were monitoring between Mr. Monroe and Mr. Gallo?”

“It's word for word.”

“Thank you,” Karp said, walking up to retrieve the transcript from Fulton. “No further questions.”

Rainsford turned to Mendelbaum, who was leaning over to listen to Stone, and asked if he wanted to cross-examine the witness.

“Yes, your honor,” he said, standing and approaching the witness stand.

“Good morning, detective,” Mendelbaum said, “though my stomach's telling me that it's almost lunchtime so I'll make this quick. Detective, during this interview with Mr. Forsling did he ever outright deny planting the bomb?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Actually, not at all,” Mendelbaum replied. “He accused my colleague, Mr. Karp, and yourself of jumping to that conclusion, but he never actually denied it either, did he?”

“You're correct, he didn't,” Fulton responded.

“Nor was he asked. Isn't that correct?”

“We never got that far before he terminated the conversation.”

“And before he terminated the conversation, he wasn't asked, was he?”

“No, he wasn't.”

Mendelbaum walked right up to the witness stand, where he stood with his head craned to look up at the detective. “Mr. Forsling wasn't brought to the offices of the district attorney that night because he'd been arrested for disobeying a police officer, right?”

“No.”

“In fact, he was brought to the offices of the district attorney because he was the prime suspect in the car bombing, isn't that true?”

“He was
a
suspect.”

Mendelbaum looked surprised and turned to the jurors as if he'd heard some piece of stunning news. “Were there any other suspects I haven't heard about?”

“Not at that time, no.”

“So he was
the
suspect, isn't that right?”

“At that time, he was the suspect, yes.”

“However, Mr. Forsling alluded to a suspicious-looking character with some sort of marking on his face, wearing bright red canvas high-tops?”

“Yes.”

“Were there a number of police cars on the scene that were equipped with dash cams?” Mendelbaum asked.

“Yes, there were.”

“And did any of these dash cams reveal such an individual?”

“There was only one car with a camera pointed in the direction of the ‘Locals' group.”

“And did it show this individual?”

“Not that I could see.”

“And wasn't there quite a bit of media presence at this demonstration, recording both sides of the event?”

“Yes, there were several television crews.”

“And did any of their broadcasts depict such an individual?”

“Not in the amount of video I was able to view,” Fulton responded. Although he couldn't say it, he was frustrated because the defense had won a pretrial motion that prevented him from saying that the television stations had refused to turn over their tapes of the events. He'd only been able to view what had been broadcast.

This time it was Mendelbaum who walked over to the jury box, smiling slightly at the jurors, most of whom smiled back at the grandfatherly figure. “Detective Fulton, one last question. You testified that Mr. Forsling didn't have a record for violence against other people. But I believe we're about to learn that he was quite capable of murder, aren't we?”

Fulton shrugged. “Yes, we'll learn he was capable of murder, but not these murders.”

“Nice try, detective, but we'll see about that, won't we,” Mendelbaum shot back.

“Oh yes, we will, you can make book on that one, Mr. Mendelbaum.”

“No more questions, your honor,” Mendelbaum dismissively replied.

“Mr. Karp, care to redirect?” Rainsford asked.

Karp rose and shook his head. “No, your honor.”

“The witness may step down,” the judge said, and looked at his watch. “It's a little early, but let's break for lunch and reconvene at one-thirty this afternoon. We're adjourned until then.”

W
ITH THE
J
UNE SUN SHINING
invitingly through the window of his office, Karp decided he'd spend the lunch hour across the street eating something from one of the sidewalk vendors. He'd learned long ago that comprehensive preparation was the key to winning trials, as well as helping him stay relaxed and focused; as such, he was feeling good about how this one had been going and the groundwork he'd put in for what was ahead.
And that
, he thought,
earns me the right to relax a little and eat my lunch in the fresh air
.

Karp left his office through the side door and took the private elevator down to the secure entrance on the Leonard Street side of the building. He found Officer Ewin waiting for him outside the elevator when the door opened.

“I thought you might try to escape, Mr. Karp,” the young officer said in his thick New York Irish brogue. “If you're going out, I better go with you.”

Karp frowned. “I was just going to grab a knish and eat it in the park,” he said. “I think I'll be okay so long as I don't get run over by a yellow cab crossing the street or accosted by a deranged tourist.”

“Have you taken a look out front lately?” Ewin asked.

“No, been a little busy, Eddie,” Karp said. “What's up?”

“Well, this trial has folks a little stirred up,” Ewin said. He began holding up fingers. “Security has kept the front of the building fairly clear, but then you got Nazis on one side of the barriers, and teachers union supporters on the other. Across the street are the charter school folks and next to them are the anti-Nazis. Judging by their signs and some of the things they're yelling, they don't much like each other . . . and none of them appear to like you. Except maybe the charter school folks; they seem to be the most rational.”

“Oh, then,” Karp said, smiling, “why didn't you say so? It's business as usual.”

Ewin grinned. “Yeah, business as usual, but this time if you want to have lunch in the park, I'm going with you. I'm not about to have Detective Clay Fulton breathing fire down my neck because I let you wander among the crazies by yourself. And if something did happen, he'd pitch me off the Brooklyn Bridge as sure as every one of my uncles was named after a saint.”

“They were, huh?” Karp responded.

“Yeah, we Irish Roman Catholics aren't real creative when it comes to names.”

“Well, you can come with me, but only if you let me buy you a knish,” Karp said.

“Never had one. Has it got any meat in it?” Ewin asked. “It's Friday and I'm not supposed to have meat. Another one of those fun Catholic traditions.”

“Not to worry, I only eat the potato version. You'll love it; it's guaranteed to put hair on your chest,” Karp said.

“Then you're on.”

Karp and his bodyguard walked away from the crowds near the front of the courthouse and into the park just behind the court on Baxter Street. The protesters' attention was focused on each other and the media. On the far side of the park, Karp walked up to a cart advertising “the best knish in town.”

“Why, if it isn't District Attorney Butch Karp,” Herschel Finkelstein, the vendor, a tall, gaunt man wearing a yarmulke, said. “I'm surprised you made it through the gauntlet.”

“No big deal. The protesters choose to stay at the front of the building. We chose the side door direct route and got here on the sly.” Karp winked and smiled. “Let's just keep it our little secret.”

“Hey, I'm not saying nuthin'.” The vendor grinned. “You're my most regular customer.”

“Good, then let me have two hot potato knishes with a little mustard, sliced down the middle,” Karp said.

The vendor eyed the officer and extended his hand. “Herschel Finkelstein.”

“Eddie Ewin.”

“Let me guess, you're Irish Catholic, right?” he said.

“Practically raised by nuns,” Ewin said. “How'd you know?”

“Well you got the map of Ireland written all over your face.”

They both laughed. “You ever had this Jewish delicacy before? You're in for a treat.”

“On that recommendation, I'll give it a whirl.”

The conversation was interrupted by another voice behind Karp. “Hey Butch . . . motherfucker ass-wipe . . . what are you doing over . . . whoop whoop . . . here?”

“Afternoon, Warren,” Karp said without having to turn around to see who was standing behind him. “Another potato knish, please, for our friend Warren Bennett. And three sodas . . . make mine the usual . . .”

“Orange soda with ice in a cup.”

“Thanks, Herschel, and whatever these two gentlemen want.”

“Why thanks . . . oh boy scum bag nuts whoop whoop . . . Butch,” Dirty Warren said. “You didn't have to . . . whoop whoop . . . do that.”

“My pleasure, but I can ask you the same thing: What are you doing over here? Isn't lunchtime a busy part of your day?”

“Yeah, normally,” Dirty Warren said with disgust. “But nobody wants to fight their way through the crazies for a newspaper . . . tits damn . . . or a magazine. You really messed me up with the mighty high-profile . . . bastard bitch whoop whoop . . . case this time, Butch.”

Karp held out his hands. “Geez, I can't get a break today. I guess the cause of justice isn't very popular.”

“Not today it . . . oh boy, ohhhhh boy . . . ain't.”

The three men took their knishes and sodas and found a park bench. Even though it was a safe place out of sight in back of the courthouse, the sound of people yelling into bullhorns drifted to Karp and his entourage.

“The Holocaust was a lie. Lubinsky deserved to die.”

“Karp hates unions. Unions hate Karp.”