by Robert Daley
They came up again on the man walking along under the wok. He had advanced several blocks from where they had spotted him the first time.
"I'm going to have some fun with that guy," Muldoon announced, and he stopped the car and jumped out. "Hey you," he called.
The man had stopped and turned around.
"Get that thing off your head."
The man whipped off the wok and held it under his arm.
"Don't you know you're not allowed to wear a wok around here."
"Yes, sir, I mean no sir.”
"This is a no woking zone," Muldoon said. "Cant' you read? See that sign on the corner?"
"Yes, sir."
"It says don't wok."
"Yes, sir."
The light on the corner changed. The man peered through the rain. "Now it say wok."
"Alright," said Muldoon. "When it says wok you can wear it, but when it says don't wok you can't."
Muldoon as soon as he had climbed back into the car burst into laughter. His belly shook with it.
Ritter only smiled. In addition to everything else, the guy had no sense of humor, Muldoon decided.
He steered into l35th Street and parked diagonally in front of the stationhouse and they went upstairs, Ritter right behind him, and he began looking for his prisoner but couldn't find him. He looked in the interrogation room and in the cage, he ran down the stairs and looked in the cells. The guy was nowhere.
Ritter was standing in front of the desk when Muldoon came out from the cells.
"They say some Housing detectives came and took him," Ritter said.
"What?" said Muldoon, "what?"
He lumbered up the stairs and burst into the squad room. The lieutenant's door was closed. Muldoon banged on it, threw it open and barged in.
"What the fuck did you do with my prisoner?"
"Calm down, calm down. Two Housing detectives came and took him."
"You gave them my prisoner."
"The victim didn't die. It's their case. There was nothing I could do."
For some minutes Muldoon moved back and forth cursing. The lieutenant merely watched him, he said nothing. At the end of that time Muldoon stormed out into the squad room. The other four detectives on duty at that hour sat at their desks watching him.
Muldoon went straight to the log book and signed out. Ritter came up and put his hand on his shoulder, but Muldoon shrugged it off.
"Hey, guy, I'm really sorry."
"Fuck it," said Muldoon. "What the fuck do I care."
He went down to his car and drove off in the rain.
Chapter 16
Today Justin McCarthy wore a bright blue suit with a red bow tie that was twice normal size. Pacing, he said: "So how did you know where the defendant was, detective?”
Karen glanced across at the defense table where Lionel Epps listened intently. He was wearing a new, dark brown suit someone had bought him over the weekend.
"Did he send you a letter, Detective Muldoon? Perhaps he telephoned you."
The witness box to Karen looked too small for a man of Muldoon's girth.
"I'm sorry," said Justin McCarthy. "I forgot--there was no telephone in that abandoned building, was there."
Muldoon glanced at him, then away.
"So how did you know, detective? How did you know?”
"A confidential informant told me, that's how.”
McCarthy seemed to leap on this: "What was his name?"
Muldoon's gaze had shifted to the wall above the jurors' heads. "His name is confidential."
"You knew where Lionel Epps was because you were dealing drugs with him, and you went there to silence him, isn't that the simple truth? There was no informant, was there, Detective? That's something you made up afterwards, isn't it Detective?"
From the beginning of this rather long accusation Karen was on her feet. "Objection," she cried again and again. "Objection."
"Sustained," said Judge Birnbaum. "Jury will disregard."
But the jurors had heard McCarthy's charges, and perhaps believed them. Karen studied every face, trying to read them, an impossibility. They were just faces. Impassive faces. The faces of a people who had suffered for centuries and had learned to show nothing. In any case, she did not see the skepticism she was hoping for.
Because she could not allow McCarthy to score cheap points or to have the last word, she rose to reexamine Muldoon still again.
"Without telling us his name, Detective, please describe this informant."
"When he wasn't in jail and when I could find him he was good. He knew what was going on in the street."
"He's what you call a habitual offender, I believe."
"Right."
"Not a nice fellow."
"No."
"You had searched for the defendant about two weeks, I believe."
"About that.” Muldoon was looking a bit more relaxed. But he was still wary, even with her.
"For about two weeks you tried to find the defendant and couldn't, because he had not been seen on the Manhattan side of the river for months, is that not correct?"
"That's correct."
"But now he was hiding out on the Manhattan side, and the informant was able to tell you he was in that abandoned building we've heard so much about, is that not correct?"
"That's correct."
"And you went there with other police officers to arrest him, and he shot five of you, is that not correct?"
"That's correct."
"Shot you all down without warning?"
"That is correct."
When court ended for the day Karen returned to her office where she stared out the window. Did the jury believe that there was no informant? That Muldoon was secretly a rogue killer? Did the verdict now hinge on producing this informant in court?
Coombs sat in his regular chair, a legal pad on his lap, and watched her and said nothing.
"I guess we have to put the informant on the stand," said Karen finally. She had known from the start that this would be a problem. Harbison and Coombs had interviewed him months before, but he had been back in Attica when she took over the case. She knew about him only from Coombs. Getting him down for an interview had proven complicated, and she had let it go, hoping he would never be needed. With so little time to prepare she had been obliged to cut corners, one of them the informant.
"McCarthy knows very well the informant exists," said Karen bitterly.
"He also knows we don't want to put him on the stand," said Coombs. "That's what he's counting on."
"Now we have to put him on."
"You better have a look at him first."
"Is he that bad?" said Karen.
Rastar Williams was a tall, shambling black man about 40 years old. Escorted by Detective Barone, handcuffed behind his back, he marched down the long corridor that led to Karen's office. The corridor was otherwise empty. The two sets of heels went tap-tap. The only windows were at either end of the corridor, giving the light an almost metallic quality. There was a metallic sound to the footsteps as well.
They went into the office.
Karen was at the window. Coombs sat in the same chair as before. Barone placed Williams in the chair facing the desk, then took up position beside the door, and Karen walked over and sat down in her chair. Noting that Williams was still in handcuffs she gestured to Barone that they were to be removed. He did this. Williams, flexing his hands, suddenly looked dangerous. She glanced at Barone, whose hand was on his gun, then at the dossier on her desk, from which she selected Williams's yellow sheet. It was three pages thick, and she glanced at it, then put it down.
"You've been in jail rather a lot, Mr. Williams," she began.
"This time when I get out, I'm going to get a job," Williams said thoughtfully. "A life of crime don't suit a man my age."
"Yes. Do you know a detective named Muldoon?"
"I calls him Mull. He going to help me with some charges I got.”
"Why would he do that, Mr. Williams
?"
"Something I told him."
"Do you know a man named Lionel Epps?"
"Mull know him too. Mull say to me: Tell me where he at, and I help you with that rape charge."
As a throwaway line, this one would be difficult to beat, Karen decided. It was enough to make any normal person flinch. But she had learned to smother such reactions.
"I figured, that rape charge stick, on top of what I already got to do, I won't never get out."
Barone grinned and said to her: "Very few police informants are as handsome and personable as this guy."
Even at heavy moments such as this one, Barone had the ability to make her smile. "Did Detective Muldoon promise not to arrest you?" she asked Williams.
"That's the way it work. Don't you know that?"
"But you're in jail at the moment."
"Somebody else arrest me one week later."
Karen nodded. "Alright, let's go over your--your career in detail, shall we?"
She questioned him for two hours. She was methodical about it, thorough. At the end of that time she could be reasonably certain of what the truth was, but not at all certain how a man like this would behave on the stand. His mind wandered, he fancied himself a comedian, and he had a three page sheet.
She stood again at the window. Coombs sat in the same chair. Barone and the prisoner had gone out.
Karen's secretary stuck her head in the door. "Mr. Harbison is asking to see you."
Karen nodded, but did not immediately move. She was trying to decide what to do about Rastar Williams.
"Do we put him on or not?" said Coombs.
"It will make McCarthy's day," Karen said.
"When he sees this guy take the stand, he'll have an orgasm.”
"He'll rip him to shreds on cross."
"But we have to put him on," said Coombs.
"Let me think about it a little longer."
"We'll be taking a chance either way.”
Karen said bitterly: "Everything those cops are testifying to is absolutely true, and McCarthy is making them all sound like liars.”
Coombs said nothing.
"Let me go see what Harbison wants," Karen said.
But the door opened and Barone came back into the room.
"Where's your prisoner?" asked Karen in surprise.
"I asked Betty to baby-sit him for me," said Barone. "And she said she would."
Karen went to the door and peered out. Rastar was on his knees on the floor beside her secretary's desk, handcuffed to the pipe that came out of the floor. Betty was out in the hall as if trying to get as far away from the prisoner as possible.
"I brought this guy down here early in the case," Barone said. "Mr. Harbison had a pretty thick file on him. I've been wondering--you don't seem to have it there."
"I have this file," said Karen, waving it.
"I remember it as being thicker than that. I'll ask Mr. Harbison about it, he may remember."
"I'll ask him myself," said Karen somewhat sharply. "You just worry about your prisoner.” She felt under pressure from all sides, including from Barone.
Her rebuke had come out stronger than she intended. Barone's reaction was stronger too, or seemed so. He looked hurt. His smile disappeared, and he nodded at the floor several times. Why was he so vulnerable to her displeasure? She watched him turn and go out. He only wants to help, she thought. She heard him unhook his prisoner and say: "That's enough praying, Rastar, on your feet.” And then to Betty: "Don't touch the radiator, unless you want to get Aids.” This seemed to Karen too rough a joke, but it made her smile anyway.
She went down the hall to see Harbison. When she entered the big office the acting district attorney was seated behind the late DA's big desk.
"You went to Albany," began Harbison. "Why wasn't I informed?"
"You went there too. You didn't inform me."
"I asked you a question."
"I thought I had answered it."
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"As a matter of fact I went to your office to tell you, but you were out."
"The governor wanted to see me," said Harbison.
"He wanted to see me too."
"What did you tell him about me?"
"Your name hardly came up," said Karen.
"But it did come up."
"I praised you."
"Well, I hope you did. What else did you talk about?"
"He asked me about myself and--"
"And?"
"How the office worked."
Harbison said nervously: "Like clockwork, I hope you told him.” After a pause, he said: "I expect to be appointed district attorney in the next few days, and to run for election in the fall. I want you to know that I intend to increase your responsibilities and your pay by appointing you chief assistant in my place.” Harbison gave her what looked to her to be a false smile.
She decided to say nothing.
"I'd like to think I can count on your support," he said, and gazed at her expectantly.
She felt as sullen as a teenager, a mood she blamed on him. "I don't want to be chief assistant," she said. "I want to try cases.”
Harbison walked her to the door. "We can talk about that. So can I count on your support?"
"If the governor appoints you, sure."
As the door closed behind her she realized she had forgotten to ask him about the Rastar Williams file.
The weekend came again. In the backyard patio Henry Henning was cooking lunch on the barbecue. It was a chilly day on which to hold the first family cookout of the year, but they had planned it and were going through with it.
"We'll leave about four," Hank said.
Dressed in jeans and a big sweater, Karen reclined on the chaise longue with her case folder open on her lap. "Okay," she said.
"We don't want to get there too early, but not too late, either."
Hank was working with a big fork. Eyes half closed against the smoke, he was turning meat. The two children stood beside their father close to the fire.
"You're awfully pensive," Hank said.
"I don't think I could ever get it."
"Get what?" said Hank, teasing her.
"You know. I can't stop imagining myself district attorney. I'm sick of myself."
Jackie was peering down at the grill. "Ugh," he said, "I hate spare ribs."
"I'm making you a hamburger," his father told him. "If you get it, do you get a limousine?" he said to Karen.
"Yes."
"Can I ride in it?" asked Jackie.
"Only if you're in handcuffs."
Hillary sat down on the edge of the chaise longue. "Our civics teacher talked about your case in class, Mom. He said we should all be proud of you."
"Well, are you?" Hank asked his daughter.
"Of course. Mom, can I sleep over at Sharon's tonight?"
"Is her mother going to be there?"
"Sure, what do you think."
"I'll phone her. But you'll have to stay with your brother till your father and I get home from NYU."
Hank began spearing ribs onto plates. "This reception tonight is vital."
"I know," said Karen. She got up and moved toward the picnic table.
"I'm as nervous as a damn kid. The chairman, the dean, all the biggies will be there."
"You'll impress them all."
"They have a real political science department there."
Karen decided to switch roles. She was a wife and mother first, everything else after. As the luncheon progressed she made herself forget her ambitions and her case, to listen attentively to the concerns of her husband and children, to focus wholly on this back yard, on this family, her family, and she realized she was happy.
"I want that job so much," said Hank.
"You'll get it. I know you will."
"I need new leotards, Mom," said Hillary. "The ones I have you can practically see through."
"Who would want to?" said Jackie.
The four of them w
ere seated around the picnic table. Across from them smoke was seeping out from under the lid of the grill.
"Why don't you two be nice to each other once in a while?" said Karen lazily.
The cocktail party took place in the faculty lounge off Washington Square. The Hennings were there, drinks in hand. Karen wore a black dress and looked very nice, very feminine, she hoped, not like a prosecutor at all.
"This is Professor Kuhn, Chairman of the department," Hank said to her. "And Dean Blake."
Around them clustered a group of educators, and she was trying hard to remember their names: Blake, Kuhn, Fortman, Stone--there were too many. She did not dare call anyone by name for fear she would get it wrong and hurt Hank's chances.
"Are you the Mrs. Henning?" asked Dean Blake.
Watch out, thought Karen. But she smiled and said: "Which Mrs. Henning is that?”
She gave an anxious look at her husband. She knew what was about to happen and worried about how Henry would take it.
"I've seen you on TV," said Blake. "That's some case you're prosecuting."
"And she's going to win it too," said Hank proudly.
Other men clustered around. Gradually Henry got moved into the background. All attention was now on Karen. She saw how her husband watched her, how his eyes began to narrow.
"A man like who shoots five cops? Psychotic. Actually evil?"
"A druggie?"
"How could he shoot five cops and not get shot himself?”
The questions, the comments became more and more intense. These professors considered themselves students of the city were in the presence of someone whose knowledge was real, not theoretical, who stood right in the crucible. They clustered around her, demanding information and insights.
Dean Blake reappeared with two men in tow. "This is Professor Pleasance, Mrs. Henning. And Professor Dilger."
"How good a lawyer is McCarthy?" Dilger wanted to know.
Pleasance was a black man. He said: "The scenario McCarthy is suggesting is, historically, not implausible." "
"What do you mean?" asked Karen, though she knew very well what he meant.
"That the cops went there to murder young Epps. Any truth in it?"
"None whatever," said Karen.
"Yesterday some cops shot a black kid who was stealing oranges," Pleasance said. "It was in the paper."
