Trap (9781476793177) (34 page)

“And how would you have answered that?”

“I would have said that I didn't know,” Newbury replied. “That was not within the purview of my investigation. I would assume that others looked into that possibility.”

Mendelbaum continued his cross-examination like a squirrel choosing only some nuts while ignoring the rest. “It's my understanding that when you showed the owner of the Seahorse Motel a photo lineup that included a picture of Mrs. Stone, he was unable to identify her as the mystery woman who met with Mr. Salaam. Am I right?”

And usually the simple answer was enough. “That's correct.”

Mendelbaum did his best, but he didn't have much to work with and was up against a formidable People's witness in Vincent Newbury, who seemed to enjoy pulling his adversary into traps.

“Is it possible that someone else could have sent these mystery emails using my client's computer?” Mendelbaum asked.

“I suppose it's possible, but the computer and its email server are both password protected,” Newbury said. “We did not find any evidence that someone ‘hacked' into the computer in order to bypass the passwords, which leaves only the possibilities that the defendant gave someone her password and that person then sent these emails, and should have been reported as a possible suspect, or that the defendant sent them herself.”

After Mendelbaum gave up getting any useful concessions from Newbury, Karp called Islay Kennedy to the stand. Once again to steal the defense's thunder, he asked the red-headed native of County Cork, Ireland, to look around the courtroom and see if he could “positively identify” the mystery woman who drove the late-model BMW. The motel owner had looked at Olivia Stone for a long moment, but then shook his head and said, “I can't be sure.”

Mendelbaum had, of course, made sure he reemphasized the point that the motel owner was unable to identify the mystery woman from the photo lineup and in the courtroom. But Kennedy had looked at Stone again when he said, “Who knows? The woman was wearing sunglasses and a bad brown wig.”

“What makes you think it was a bad wig and not her real hair?” Mendelbaum asked.

Kennedy got an amused look on his face. “A lot of working girls bring their customers to my establishment,” he said. “Believe you me, I have seen my share of bad wigs on the women
and
the men.”

The courtroom erupted with laughter, which caused the witness to beam at his own cleverness. “I'm sure you have, Mr. Kennedy,” Mendelbaum said, laughing himself despite the discomfiture of his client. “And a few other things as well. No further questions, your honor.”

Rainsford nodded. “Mr. Karp, anything else?”

“No, your honor.”

“Then on that note, we'll adjourn until morning.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
K
ARP WALKED
to work an hour earlier than normal even for a trial day. He found that the exercise cleared his head and helped him focus, but this morning he knew he had visitors waiting for him.

Entering the reception area, Milquetost, who was always first in the office, nodded toward the meeting room. “They're waiting for you,” she said.

Karp walked in and saw his visitors gathered in front of a laptop computer that had been set on the desk. One, Vince Newbury, stood watching behind the other two. The second, Islay Kennedy, touched his cheek and said, “Thinner here.” The third visitor, a tall, striking red-headed woman in her forties, moved the computer mouse on the pad next to the computer, clicked, and then looked up. “Better, Mr. Kennedy?” she asked.

“Yes, very good,” he replied.

Smiling, Karp walked over and extended his hand as the woman turned to greet him. “Agent Fitzgerald, good to see you,” he said. “When I heard you were out of town, I thought I might have to forget about this. I wanted only the best forensic artist in the business. Where have you been?”

“Nice to see you, too, Butch,” the FBI agent replied. She glanced at Kennedy. “I'm not at liberty to divulge much, but let's just say somewhere in North Africa getting witness descriptions of someone I believe you're familiar with . . . Nadya Malovo.”

Karp grimaced and shook his head. “I can only imagine what that might have been about. Maybe you can fill me in some other day,” he said as he looked at the computer screen, then at Kennedy. “Good morning, Islay. I appreciate you coming in again.”

“Anything I can do to help,” Kennedy replied.

“I think we're just about done with step one,” Fitzgerald said. “What do you think, Mr. Kennedy?”

“Yes, most amazing!”

“What's next?” Karp asked.

“We're going to start adding the variables,” Fitzgerald said. “Want to watch?”

Karp smiled and moved to stand next to Newbury. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

AN HOUR LATER,
Karp left his visitors and entered the courtroom. He smiled when he saw Irving Mendelbaum already inside and handing a candy bar to Chief Clerk James Farley.

“Ah, look what the cat dragged in,” Mendelbaum said. He squinted at Karp and then shook a finger at him. “I take that back, more like the cat who ate the canary. What sinister plot are you hatching now, boychick? Whatever it is, I'm sure it's at my expense.”

“Who, me?” Karp said, feigning innocence. Then he winked. “It will take more than a Snickers bar for that info.”

“How about a Hershey's with nuts?” Mendelbaum laughed.

“Sorry, but, unlike certain people I could, and will, name, this is one district attorney who can't be bought,” Karp said.

Mendelbaum clutched at his chest. “Oh, the slings and arrows,” he moaned.

“I think you have a career in the theater after this,” Karp joked.

Mendelbaum smirked. “I may need it.”

A few minutes later, Farley called the court to order as Rainsford walked in. Then after the jury was seated, the judge nodded to Karp. “Are you ready to call your next witness?”

“Yes, your honor,” Karp said. “The People call Thomas Monroe.”

A collective gasp escaped from the spectators in Part 42 when Monroe walked in from the prisoner holding cell on one side of the courtroom. They were used to seeing the big, self-assured man at press conferences and union events dressed in his expensive suits and designer ties, holding forth in his booming New York Irish accent.

Now he was already sweating profusely, with dark, wet circles beneath the armpits and around the neck of the light blue sweat suit he wore, as he glanced furtively at the gallery. But what had elicited their surprise was the amount of weight he'd lost and the pallor of his skin after six months in The Tombs. His clothes hung on him like sheets lacking a breeze, and his once fat face sagged in loose folds and dark bags gathered beneath his eyes.

“Mr. Monroe, this way, please,” Farley said, indicating the well of the court.

Monroe looked away from the stunned audience and cast his eyes down at the worn carpet as he shuffled past the first row. He hesitated as he started to step onto the witness stand as if the effort was too much; then he sighed, shook his head, and climbed up to be sworn in by Farley.

Watching the former union president as he sat down heavily on the seat, Karp wondered if, when he was a young man, Monroe had been able to see ahead to the eventual outcome as he took that first step toward corruption, would he have pulled back? Or was the die cast, the pull too strong, for someone with weak moral fiber?

As a new teacher and member of the union, surely he hadn't started off intending to betray students or work his way up the union ladder in order to wield power and steal millions of dollars from those who trusted him to represent them. Or was the dark seed already planted in his character, just waiting to sprout?

After Karp wrapped up their interview the night of Monroe's arrest, the union chief had expressed remorse. But at the time, it sounded like the sort of false contrition Karp had heard thousands of times from the guilty who hoped for leniency. Still, he wondered if, after all this time in jail surrounded by the violent and the evil dregs of society, and looking at a lifetime of more of the same, was he truly penitent?

It didn't matter. Karp could see the shame in the man's fall from grace. He took no joy from it, but he felt no pity either. Except for the truly insane, human beings were creatures of free will who made their choices consciously and were aware of the possible consequences. Monroe had been fully cognizant that his actions were not only criminal, but morally wrong as well. He'd admitted that he was aware of the damage his malfeasance and theft had done to the union and those he was supposed to represent, the public school teachers and students. Yet, he'd wallowed in his ill-gotten gains. In order to protect his own self-interest, he'd fought accountability and progress, such as that represented by the charter school bill. Instead of trying to find a way to work with them to best serve all of those involved, he'd bought politicians, threatened, intimidated, and finally resorted to murder.

Karp leaned over the table and made a note on his legal pad. He then picked up a photograph and carried it with him as he took a position immediately in front of the witness stand staring at Monroe, whom he quickly led through the beginnings of his corruption, “initially just skimming off the top.”

The more complicated dummy corporations, fake bank accounts, and real estate transactions didn't start until Stone came on board, Monroe testified. “She was smart and had it all figured out,” he said. “Then after she became DA, we stepped it up even more. I guess we were feeling pretty bulletproof.”

He described how they'd conspired to bring down Micah Gallo, a rising star in the charter school movement, “to make an example of what could happen if you crossed the union.” But it had been Stone's idea to corrupt him, too, “so we could use him against the movement, and Lubinsky in particular. I thought it was a good idea to keep an eye on him.”

Monroe shook his head and glared at Stone. “Instead, it turned around and bit us on the butt. If it wasn't for him, we probably wouldn't be here.”

“What made you think that you could trust him?” Karp asked.

Monroe shrugged. “He wasn't involved in the murder stuff, but we knew that if we went down for the skimming, he'd go down with us. I guess when you're as corrupt as we were, you think everybody else is a thief at heart, too. I figured he liked the lifestyle too much to trade it in for a prison jumpsuit.”

“When was the decision made to murder Rose Lubinsky, and by whom?” Karp asked.

“I think we got desperate. I'd hoped that she'd back off, or we'd find a way to back her off,” Monroe said. “But she couldn't be bought, and we had nothing on her. So that's when she”—he nodded at Stone—“decided she had to go and brought her boy in.”

“When you say ‘she' decided that Mrs. Lubinsky had to die,” Karp asked, “who are you talking about?”

“Her,” Monroe said, pointing at the defendant. “Olivia Stone.”

“And her boy?”

“I only met him a few times. His name was Yusef, or something like that. Looked like a circus freak with that face of his, and why she was banging that guy I'll never know. Wore bright red high-tops every time I saw him. I think she knew the bastard from her days as a Legal Aid lawyer. She used him when we were having trouble with people, like when we were after Micah.”

Karp had Monroe describe the meetings that he would be asking Gallo about. “The first one, I asked Lubinsky to meet us at the Jay Street Bar and brought Micah along, hoping their past relationship might soften her up. The next time was at Stone's office; I think he saw her guy. That's when we decided that if Micah couldn't come up with something to back Lubinsky off, she had to go. The third time was when I told Micah to be at the Jay Street Bar at eight sharp. He was late.”

“Why did you tell him he had to be there at eight sharp?”

“Because I knew it was going down with Lubinsky. Stone told me to make sure we were someplace where other people would see us no later than eight.”

“When was the last time you saw Micah Gallo?” Karp asked.

“It was at the Jay Street Bar again,” Monroe said. “He'd downloaded some of my files, then called and said he wanted out—that the Lubinsky murder was over the top. But he wanted a hundred grand to keep quiet and disappear.”

“And you believed him?”

“Like I said, right or wrong, I trust a guy with larceny in his soul,” Monroe said. “That's something I understand.”

“Was there some other reason you agreed to meet him at the Jay Street Bar?”

Monroe nodded. “Yeah. When he pulled up, Stone's lover boy was waiting across the street. He was supposed to plant a bomb and, BOOM, no more Micah Gallo. Goodbye, witness.”

“Didn't turn out that way, did it?” Karp asked. He knew the answer even better than Monroe did. When Alejandro Garcia left the bar, he'd walked in the direction of Gallo's car. Then he spotted Yusef Salaam kneeling near the back of the car on the driver's side.

“I saw the red Chuck Taylors,” Garcia told Karp later that night after he'd dealt with Monroe. “The guy saw me coming and I guess freaked out and pressed the wrong button. Next thing I know, I'm knocked flat by an explosion. I still remember the fucking guy's shoe landing in the middle of the street, but there wasn't enough of him left to fill a bucket.”

In the courtroom, Monroe conceded that the tables had been turned. “It was a setup,” he said. “Gallo was working for you. The bar was crawling with cops. When Yusef set himself off to meet ol' Lucifer that big black detective arrested my ass, and the rest is history.”

Karp looked over at Stone, but she was glaring at Monroe.
I guess that's what they mean by “if looks could kill,”
he thought. “A few last questions, Mr. Monroe. Were you charged with the murder of Rose Lubinsky?”