by Robert Daley
The DA lay on the floor with his tie undone, his shirt ripped open. His glasses were askew, and his face was blue. Someone was pounding on his chest. Karen recognized Dr. Goldberg, one of the assistant medical examiners. He must have been in the building to testify.
Goldberg stood up, his eyes glancing somewhat wildly around the room.
"He's passed away, I'm afraid.”
It was a euphemism Karen hated. She stared down at the corpse on the floor. Why not come out and say it, she thought. The DA is dead.
"Heart attack?" someone offered.
"I assume so.”
Karen, who was having difficulty swallowing, said what anyone would say under the circumstances: "I was talking to him less than twenty minutes ago."
Someone else murmured: "I have an appointment with him twenty minutes from now."
"It's cancelled," another voice said, and someone gave a bizarre laugh.
She stood looking down on the late district attorney of New York County. More and more assistant DAs in shirtsleeves crowded into the office and did the same, and for a time no one said anything more.
The news spread throughout the building. The assistants were all flooding downstairs, and most judges, Karen's among them, responded by adjourning their trials for the day.
When Karen got back to her office McCarthy was waiting for her. To her he was still all bow tie and teeth, and his thick briefcase sat beside him on the floor. She had to step over it to get to her desk. McCarthy's assistant, she saw as she sat down, a lawyer named Rosenstiel, occupied the chair in the corner, the one she had come to think of as Coombs's chair.
The DA's body had been removed from the building by then. The paramedics had come and gone. They had spread their body bag on the rug and she had left the room, not wanting to see what came next. The DA had been transported to the morgue where an autopsy would be performed. Karen had witnessed autopsies. She did not wish one on the old man.
Less than half an hour ago she had bent close to McCarthy's ear--and been unable to tell him that the trial was over. Now she faced him somberly.
"Sorry if I've made you wait," she said.
"I've been waiting for beautiful women all my life," said Justin McCarthy. "They are moments that I savor."
Karen gave this comment what it deserved. She ignored it. "The DA just died."
"Yes, I heard. How sad. What did you wish to see me about?"
For a moment Karen only looked at him. This man was probably the best known lawyer in the country. Famous? Notorious? Either word fit. Civil rights lawyer? Maybe. He certainly took many civil rights cases, of which Lionel Epps was not one.
She wondered who was paying him. Not a street thug like Epps. Did anybody pay him? Did he care about money, or only about seeing his name in the newspapers?
When he forced the law to the wall, did he do it for the law's own good, because somebody had to, and he had appointed himself? Perhaps he saw courtrooms as an extension of the political arena, neither more nor less. He was expressing his politics. Or perhaps he hated the law, taking his pleasure in thwarting it. Alright, she could understand people maybe hating the law, which was an imperfect system that did not always work. But what about justice? Justice was not a system but a concept, and as such it was perfect. Did he hate justice too? But a person who hated justice was a perverted human being, possibly a monster.
Perhaps he was a merely the type of man who liked to spoil things, the way some children liked to mess up other children's castles in the sand. Perhaps to spoil something big in a big way made him feel like a big man.
"I asked you this once before, Mr. McCarthy. Why are you defending a thug like Lionel Epps?"
McCarthy gave what could only be called a wolfish grin--all his side teeth showed. "But madam, it's those cops who ought to be on trial. Those cops were trying to murder my client."
Perhaps he got his kicks by bending the law over his knee, and breaking its neck, and tossing it aside. Which quite often was remarkably easy to do.
"If they had wanted to murder him, I'm sure they could have managed it, don't you think, Mr. McCarthy?"
McCarthy did not answer, but his wolfish grin remained in place. Presently he said: "You invited me here to negotiate a plea, I believe."
"A plea? Why would you expect me to go for a plea?"
"Because the DA ordered you to," McCarthy said smoothly, adding: "His dying wish, so to speak."
Karen was stunned. Was he guessing? He was too confident to be guessing, and it was too easy to imagine the DA meeting with him behind her back. As she pictured McCarthy and the DA negotiating in a closed room, she fought to control her face, to show no emotion, but felt her color come up and knew she had failed. The dead giveaway, her cursed face. Two men in a closed room had come to a decision, and even then she wasn't told.
"I could possibly be induced to accept a plea.” McCarthy said smoothly. She saw him glance over at Rosenstiel, who so far had not spoken a word. "The right kind of plea. Some degree of assault, possibly."
Her composure was gone and she fought to regain it. "Plea?" she managed to say.
"What sort of plea did you have in mind, Madam?"
It had all been decided and she was the last to know.
In fact nothing had been decided. The district attorney was dead, the orders he had given her had died with him.
"You can't possibly know what the DA and I talked about," Karen said."
The wolfish grin slowly faded. First the side teeth disappeared, and then all of them. "How will it look if an assistant district attorney is exposed to the public as rejecting the last order of this--this titan, this icon?"
"Don't threaten me, Mr. McCarthy. Until such time as a new DA is appointed, the decision is mine. In the case of the People vs. Lionel Epps, no plea will be accepted."
"You're experiencing grief, aren't you?" said McCarthy. "I can understand how you must feel. Your beloved master is dead and these other matters must seem of little moment to you. You have my condolences, Madam."
"I suggest you get back to your client."
"You're not yourself," said McCarthy. "We'll have an opportunity to talk tomorrow."
"Yes," Karen said grimly. "Every day, in fact. In court."
The DA's funeral took place in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Karen sat with the bureau chiefs and other principal administrators in the row just behind the family. The cathedral was full. Most of the other assistant DAs were present, and so were most of the political, financial and business leaders of the city.
After the service Karen stood with Coombs on the church steps. They watched the coffin being slid into the hearse. They watched the cortege drive off.
Below them various dignitaries crowded around Norman Harbison on the sidewalk. The mayor was there, shaking his hand. The police commissioner, Reverend Johnson, and some others waited their turns. It was obvious that everyone considered him the DA's heir apparent. The assembled TV crews were filming every handshake.
"The governor hasn't appointed him yet," Coombs said.
"He looks pretty confident," murmured Karen
"That's because he's such a jerk."
"Hush," said Karen with a smile. "You're talking about your future boss."
"I hope not."
"Who else could it be?"
"You, maybe."
The idea shocked Karen.
"It would only be until the election anyway," said Coombs.
Karen had never imagined herself as district attorney. A judgeship was certainly possible one day. But DA was a political office and she was not a politician.
"Where are we, in April?" said Coombs. "In six or seven months you'd have to run for election."
Karen laughed. The idea seemed to her preposterous, so the laugh was genuine.
"You'd make an attractive candidate," Coombs told her, "and the politicians like to win elections."
The governor would appoint Harbison, or else some political crony. "You're crazy," she told Coombs.
>
As they started down the steps Harbison, who had finished shaking hands, came toward them. He looked smug, it seemed to Karen, obviously pleased with himself.
"The DA was such a great man," he said when they came together. "Well, I guess we all better get back to work, hadn't we?"
The DA's official Cadillac drew up at the curb. "Sorry I can't take you back in my car," Harbison said, "but I've asked the PC to ride downtown with me. We have a lot to discuss."
Police Commissioner Malloy was part of a group further along the sidewalk. Harbison called across to him. "My car's here, Charlie, if you're ready."
Chapter 13
Detective Muldoon took the stand. His direct examination lasted five hours was what Karen had expected. His syntax was poor and some of his answers rambled, but she took him over important points several times until satisfied that the jury understood and would remember. However, he avoided eye contact throughout, preferring to stare at the ceiling or the floor. He never once looked at her, or at the jury either.
This made him, from the prosecution's point of view a less than perfect witness, a concept that did not occur to him.
That night in her office she tried to speak to him about it. "Tomorrow you'll be cross examined by Mr. McCarthy," she began.
Muldoon said nothing.
"If you could look him in the eye when you respond to his questions,” she said, "it would make a better impression on the jury."
Muldoon still said nothing.
"And you should look at the jury from time to time so they know you're sincere."
"I've never had any trouble convincing a jury I was sincere."
She nodded and tried to think of an approach that might reach him.
"I never lost a case yet where I testified," Muldoon said.
Though she doubted this, Karen decided not to dispute it. "Eye contact is important," she persisted.
"Lady, the only thing important is I tell the truth of what happened."
She judged him to be a fragile personality who could be pushed only so far. Testifying at trials was a large part of what he did for a living and he believed himself an ace at it. She pushed as hard as she dared.
"The truth by itself is not always sufficient," she said. "If the jury doesn't believe you, the defendant will walk. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"
"Lady, he won't walk. Not after I get through with him. Put the sonuva bitch where he belongs."
"You mustn't seem angry or vindictive on the stand. Try to be impersonal."
"Impersonal? The sonuva bitch shot me."
"A detached, professional attitude is what you should try for."
He became huffy. "My attitude is always professional."
"You have to be believed."
"They'll believe me."
"Have you ever had a case with Mr. McCarthy before?"
"No."
"What do you know about him?"
"I know everything about him."
"When he examines you, I want you to look him in the eye and treat him with respect."
"Why? Because he's a lawyer? What is it with you lawyers? When someone's a degenerate you don't hold back just because he's a lawyer. If I see a chance in court to show him up for what he is, I'll take it."
"That might be counter productive," said Karen.
Muldoon said nothing.
"I'm not asking you to respect him personally, but as an officer of the court. Because that's how the jury wants to see him treated."
Muldoon again did not answer.
Karen said: "Well, would you do it as a favor to me?"
"Lady, you may be asking the impossible."
"Promise me you'll try."
Muldoon not only looked her in the eye but actually smiled. "Alright, for you I'll try."
Barone, who was present, put his arm around his partner. "You're going to do what she asks you, right, Danny?” To Karen he said: "he'll be fine. He's going to be a great witness."
As the two detectives were leaving, Karen called Barone back. He stood in front of her desk. "Talk to him for me please," she said.
They looked at each other. "I'll talk to him," Barone said. He grinned at her. "Ask me something hard," he said. "I'll do that for you too."
She waited until he had gone out before she let a smile come on. He was always cheerful, and could usually make her cheerful too, and she liked having him around.
Barone and Muldoon had dinner in a bar. The owner liked cops and would give them something off on the bill. They ordered beef stew, which was the night's special, and beer, and when they were finishing up Barone said: "Alright, let's prepare your testimony on the stand tomorrow. I'm McCarthy, and I say to you, answer my question, Asshole."
"He won't call me an asshole in court."
"He'll imply it. How will you react?"
Instead of answering, Muldoon said: "What's between you and this broad?"
"Nothing. Let's go on. Answer my question, Asshole."
Muldoon was mopping up the last of his stew. "The trial is not a game," he said.
"No it's not."
"You want to play games, play them by yourself. Are you getting into her pants or what?"
"No," said Barone. "She's got a husband and kids and no interest in me."
"Then why are you taking her side?"
Why indeed, Barone asked himself. "Because she's a nice woman," he said. But his feelings were stronger than this, and he knew it. "I like her," he said. "I admire her. I don't want to see her lose the case, and the key to the case is you. McCarthy is going to needle you, goad you, insinuate you're a crook. Now put the beer glass down and let's go over how you're going to react."
McCarthy said: "And did you have a warrant for Mr. Epps's arrest, detective?"
Muldoon in the witness box gazed at the ceiling and said in a bored voice: "You already asked me that question, Counselor. Several times in fact. You know something, you may be boring the jury out of their socks."
The white haired defense lawyer turned and spoke with some asperity to the bench. "Will your honor please instruct the witness to respond to the question? Yes or no."
Muldoon did not wait for instruction. "We didn't need a warrant according to law. How many times I have to tell you?"
It was his third day of cross examination. The first two had gone exactly like this one.
Justin McCarthy said: "If the suspect had been a stockbroker, would you have got a warrant, Detective?”
For two days McCarthy had cross examined him. The same questions over and over again. At the start of each day Muldoon was careful that his contempt did not show.
But then McCarthy would push him too far. He was a New York City detective and he could not just sit there and let this hump continue to impugn his honor and the department's honor. He could not continue to take the snide insinuations. If he did, the jury might believe them true. Since he was confined to the witness box and restricted to direct answers to questions put to him, there was no way he could fight back except to let his feelings show for the jury to see. The jury would see that he was telling the truth and would believe him.
"Suppose he had been a violinist with the New York Philharmonic, detective? Would you have got a warrant?"
Muldoon in the box studied the ceiling and did not answer. The button that held his sport coat closed seemed ready to pop. He imagined he looked grey haired, imposing, authoritative. In fact he only looked hostile.
"But because he was an underprivileged black youth, a member of an oppressed minority, no warrant was necessary. Is that it, detective?"
"He was wanted on suspicion in another case.”
"On suspicion. Twenty cops armed to the teeth to pick up one black youth on suspicion. Or was the object to silence him once and for all?"
Muldoon studied the wall, while McCarthy paced. "You had a shotgun, is that correct, detective?"
"I left it in the car.”
Muldoon could not bring himself to make eye contact w
ith the white haired fuck. If this seemed evasive, it could not be helped. He was doing his best.
"What was loaded in it?"
"Double O buckshot."
"That's enough to blow a man's face right off him, isn't it?"
"I left it in the car."
"Blow a young black youth's face right off him. No one would even know who he was--had been, and no story of police corruption would ever come to light. Isn't that right, detective?"
"Objection, objection," cried Karen.
"But you left it in the car. Are you sure of that, detective? Yes, you left it in the car. Are you sure, detective?"
"Sustained," said the judge finally.
As Muldoon waited for re-direct examination, he was still fuming.
Karen rose and approached the witness box. "Were you armed at all, detective?"
Muldoon decided to look her in the eye. "I had my service revolver in its holster."
"You take the gun out, Detective?"
"I didn't have time."
"Which means?"
"We went through all that on direct."
"Yes," she said. "Please answer the question, Detective."
"I kick the door in and the f--the defendant fires a shotgun right in our faces. The cops with me are all on the floor screaming in agony."
"You couldn't get your gun out, is that correct, detective?"
"There was a wounded cop on top of me thrashing around. He was bleeding all over me."
"You couldn't get your gun out?"
"I couldn't get it out."
"You had one gun, Detective. The defendant had how many?"
"We recovered four guns. Two handguns, a rifle and a shotgun."
At the defense table McCarthy jumped up. "Objection, your honor. This line of questioning is inflammatory.”
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. McCarthy," said the female prosecutor.
