The jury did not like this at all. Karp could see it on their faces. They had heard a solid impeachment and they were shocked. A pair of cops had lied under oath and had been caught in a lie by the testimony of a patently decent man who clearly had no interest in anything but the truth. You need to sit down now, Roland, Karp thought, take the hit and move on and try to fix it in summation, but even as he thought it, he knew Roland would not: it was his one failing as a lawyer. Karp had spoken to him about it any number of times when Roland worked for him in the homicide bureau.
"Dr. Shah," said Roland, "you're a Muslim, are you not?"
"Yes," said the doctor, puzzled, "but what does-"
"Objection, Your Honor, relevance," said Karp instantly.
"Withdrawn; nothing further," said Roland and sat down, with the courtroom burbling around him.
The judge called a recess after that, and Karp went back to his office. In a normal case, this would be the time when a defense attorney who had just seen his case go up in smoke would call and propose a deal, because juries did weird things. For an ADA a bird in the hand was often better than taking even a small chance that it would fly away, and also, with a plea, you got to see the defendant stand up there in court and unravel all the lies. But he knew Roland would not call. The clients would not press him, because they had slipped into hallucination- they believed the story they were telling. It was truth for them, and they had a whole culture backing them up, rather like the Southerners who maintained in the face of all evidence that the Civil War was not about slavery. But the real reason was that Roland Hrcany could not ever admit that Karp had beaten him in a direct head to head. You wanted courtroom lawyers to be scrappy, but Roland carried it to extremes, and his rivalry with Karp, twenty years in the festering, had become toxic.
So there was no call, and the court assembled again. There was no chance of a surrebuttal, because the medical facts could not be disputed. Roland needed to make the jury forget Dr. Shah and his clarity, and concentrate instead on the confusion in the nightclub parking lot. And he did. And he was good, too. He did the little speech about how much we owe to the people who protect us, especially in these trying times, and went on to compare Nixon and Gerber struggling with the gun to the desperate struggles that went on all over the city all the time, especially now that we've been attacked by people who don't share our values. Maybe people like Dr. Shah, hm? Which was not said, but left lying there like a wrapped gift of garbage for anyone to pick up.
And then the usual about the state's obligation to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and then a list of all the reasonable doubts- the conflicting on-scene witnesses, the disagreement about the ballistics, and who knew what a desperate individual might be capable of, doctors didn't know everything, look at what they told you was healthy, and then unhealthy, and then healthy again! Against that you have testimony from two experienced, brave, decorated officers. They didn't have to come up on the stand; the law cannot compel any defendants to appear as witnesses. They came voluntarily because they wanted you to hear the truth from their own lips. Their testimony agrees in every detail. The man was hanging on, he was grabbing the gun, he didn't let go even though shot twice.
It was rare, and when Karp rose to begin his own summation, he could see concern on the faces of some of the jurors. It was time for a Mark Antony opening. Karp utterly abjured any hostility in his mind or heart regarding New York's Finest. Cops were great and glorious and everyone knew that, and everyone wanted to support the police. Unfortunately, however, cops were human, and humans make mistakes, like the two defendants did on the night they killed Moussa Onabajo. What they should have done then was to say, Oh my God, we made a mistake, no, a whole series of mistakes. Karp counted these off on his long fingers. One: we accosted an inebriated man in the dark because we thought he was somebody else and we tried to get him to sell us narcotics. Two: because he wasn't a dope dealer he felt insulted and he abused us, but we persisted until he struck at Detective Nixon with his fists. Three: we did not identify ourselves as police officers. Four: in our anger we violated the police department's own rules of engagement- we drew our guns. Five: we panicked and shot a defenseless, harmless man seven times and killed him. That would have been telling the truth, but these men did not want to tell the truth. They feared the sanctions that the law provides for mistakes of this magnitude. So they made their final mistake: they lied. You did not hear the truth from their lips, but only self-serving lies.
Karp then went on to enumerate the lies and the testimony that established that they were lies beyond a reasonable doubt, focusing on the ballistic and medical evidence. He explained that Nixon was just as guilty as Gerber, even though he did not fire any fatal shots: they were acting in concert, and Nixon had started the assassination. He just wasn't as good a shot as his partner.
After that he said, "These facts are incontrovertible. For whatever reason, in whatever nighttime confusion, these two defendants at some point decided to kill Moussa Onabajo, and they did kill him, in violation of the law, for no reason except that he had made them angry by insisting that he was not a dope pusher and thereafter assaulting one of the officers, who never identified himself as a policeman, with his fists."
Karp moved to one side of the jury box, so that the jurors had a clear view of both him and the defendants at their table. "Now, let me confess something, ladies and gentlemen: if these policemen had come forward in the trial with the truth, if they had come forth crying, "God forgive us! It was dark, we were frightened, we made a terrible mistake, we violated our oath and our department's rules and gunned down an innocent, harmless man,' then I believe that the state would have had an almost insurmountable task in bringing in a conviction for second-degree murder. Not in this season, and not in this wounded city. But they did not do that, they did not do the decent and honorable thing, they did not emulate the brave men who died wearing the shield of New York's Finest. Instead, they came before you arrogant in their lies. They sought not expiation or healing, but impunity. Impunity! Look at them! They don't think they did anything wrong."
Karp spun and pointed his long arm at the defendants. Gerber had the look of a stunned ox. Nixon, bless him, had an actual half smile on his face, the gelid expression of a schoolboy caught in a fib. Karp gave it a couple of beats- not a sound but the whirring of fans- and went on.
"Ironically, Mr. Onabajo came from a nation where policemen and soldiers assault citizens, and kill citizens with impunity all the time. And it is likely that if Mr. Onabajo had been on the streets of Lagos and not New York he might not have defended his reputation with such vehemence. He might have run away. He might have confessed to a crime he didn't commit in order to avoid a worse fate. But he thought he was in a different kind of country, a country where even a struggling street merchant like Mr. Onabajo had dignity, and the protection of the law, where he could practice his religion, and earn an honest living, and care for his family, a country where despite his race and religion he was safe from being murdered by police officers just because they didn't like the way he behaved. Was he wrong about our country? I don't think so. I think we still have that kind of country, despite the terrible pressures of recent events. I hope you think so, too. If you do, if you think we still live in a nation where the police cannot shoot down a man with impunity, then on the basis of the evidence you must find, beyond a reasonable doubt, to a moral certainty, that Eric Gerber and Frank Nixon are guilty of murder in the second degree."
Judge Higbee's charge to the jury took another two hours, a fair and unobjectionable charge, right out of the book. Prosecutors usually take pains to define reasonable doubt and moral certainty, but Karp thought that the facts were so heavily on his side that he felt free to omit this part, confident that the judge would cover the points sufficiently, as he indeed did. Higbee was taking no chances of being reversed on that score. The jury trooped out at 4:10, looking serious, even grim, as homicide juries mostly did. Karp hoped the jury room was c
ooler than the courtroom. He figured on a fairly long deliberation, because he sensed that it would be difficult for them to reach consensus in a case this troubled and controversial. Therefore, he left the office at about 6:30 and walked slowly home. For once, he had not needed a reminder to take his cell phone with him.
To his surprise, that instrument sang out just as he was about to enter the elevator that went up to his loft. It was a court officer. They were back. Karp trotted over to Lafayette and grabbed a cab in front of the Holiday Inn, taking it the six blocks back to the courthouse. The pack of placard-carrying protesters in Foley Square had grown larger- hundreds and hundreds of people- and there were cops in helmets setting up gray crowd-control sawhorses in the streets. The press had been alerted and was lying in wait at the DA's entrance. Policemen had to help him through that mob. Cameras, reporters, and technicians packed the hallways outside the courtroom. They shouted for his attention like feeding gulls.
The usual butterflies as he took his seat. The little rituals of assembling the court. Time stretched. Then the court clerk took the sheet of paper from the jury to the judge, the clerk asked his dreadful question, the foreman rose, answered, and it was over: startled wails from the police families, applause from some others, gaveled into silence by Higbee.
Then the short formalities of thanking the jury, disposing of the convicts, the exit of the judge, and then chaos, a blur. People slapping his back, pumping his hand, the pressing crowds, the cameras and microphones. He gave a brief press statement, answered a few questions, ignored the personal ones, and broke away into the DA's wing. From his office he could hear cheering from the square.
The phone buzzed and, as he had expected, the DA wanted to see him.
When Karp walked into the DA's office, Keegan got up from his desk and gave Karp the full politician's handshake, with forearm grip and shoulder slap.
"Congratulations, kid!" said the DA. "Would it be insulting to say I always knew you could pull this one off?"
"Only mildly. I didn't realize I could win it until a little while ago."
Keegan laughed and gestured Karp into a chair. Sitting down behind his desk, he lifted his feet up and waggled his prop cigar. They discussed the details of the case for a while and then, in a convenient silence, the DA said, "Butch, we need to talk about something else. I guess you've heard the rumors?"
"About you and the federal bench? Yeah. Any truth to them?"
"The president will put my name in day after tomorrow."
"Congratulations to you, then."
Keegan nodded his thanks. "It just goes to show you: naked and shameless ambition pays off. What about you? Have you thought about what you want to be doing?"
"What I'm doing now, I guess. Maybe take a few cases to keep the juices flowing, if it works out."
Keegan looked at him steadily, as if waiting for something else. He shifted his gaze to the tip of his Bering. "The governor will be asking me for names to replace me, a courtesy. I understand from his people he'd like nonpartisan types. Good government, above the fray; I mean until the next election. It'd be a year and change. I'm intending to put your name in."
Karp felt his face flush. Even with Murrow's warning it was still a shock. He managed to say, "Thank you. I'm flattered," with the aid of some heavy throat clearing.
Keegan said, "I heard them cheering the verdict. We don't hear that very often."
"No. And that should tell us something about the system. When do you think we'll know? I mean, about the governor."
"Oh, a matter of days. But don't worry. I think it's all wired." A political smile here, and a cool assessing look. What's he looking for, Karp wondered. Probably for the first tender blossoms of corrosive ambition. Again, he found himself wishing that he trusted Jack Keegan a little more.
"Good thing we won the case, then."
Keegan burst out in startled laughter.
***
When he got back to the office, he saw that Murrow had arranged a celebration. Terry Collins was there, in a wheelchair, together with a large number of the more senior ADAs. Karp was surprised to see that they had waited so long after work to wish him well. He was one of those men who, without being popular, inspires great devotion in his subordinates, a fact that had entirely escaped his notice. He was prevailed upon to make a speech, and did, thanking all the little people who made it possible and saying he wanted to devote his career to advancing world peace. He was just starting to relax when his secretary tapped him on the shoulder and said that his wife was on the line.
"You're on the news," she said. "You won your case."
"I did. Let's hope we don't need any favors from the police anytime soon."
"Yes, always looking on the bright side. Well, good for you!"
"Thank you."
"I expected you home by now."
"They threw a little party, but I was just about to leave. Anything wrong?"
"I don't know. I just found out one of your ADAs is concocting evidence. Does that still qualify as wrong?"
"I'll be right home." said Karp.
***
"This is bad," said Karp, after Marlene had told him her story. "How sure are you that Palmisano knew about all this?"
"I'm not sure," said Marlene. "But it's hard to figure it otherwise. Look, Cherry Newcombe was paid off to lie and to supply underwear and physical samples to an agent of Fong. We know Fong wanted Paul's building and Karen wanted Paul to sell it to him, which he wouldn't. So they concoct this rape charge. There's no rape kit. The only evidence is the traces of Cherry in Paul's car and Paul's semen on the undies. The cop, Detective McKenzie, says he never handled the underwear, that Palmisano just announced that she had obtained it from Cherry, and that Palmisano ordered all the forensic work on it, the DNA matching and all. But Cherry says she gave all the stuff to Fong's guy. By the way, McKenzie said Palmisano seemed to take an unusual interest in the case, which he thought was more or less a piece of shit until the DNA undies turned up. He definitely did not believe Cherry's story, but, as he put it, quote, the woman was on my ass like Agnelli had whacked the president. She wanted him nailed, unquote. Paul swears there is only one likely source of such semen at the necessary time- Karen Agnelli and the fuck he gave her for old time's sake. That means that Fong must've slipped the mystery panties to Karen, Karen must've added the stain, and then taken it directly to Palmisano. Palmisano therefore lied to McKenzie about where she got them. Why would she if she wasn't bent? Q.E.D."
"It's not Q.E.D., Marlene. You have no direct evidence that Karen gave Terry Palmisano anything."
"True. Why don't you ask her?"
"Who, Palmisano?"
"No, Karen Agnelli. She's down at the Human Bean, waiting for you to show up. I called her a couple of minutes before you walked in."
"I'm being manipulated," said Karp.
"Yes. Relax and enjoy it. She's a small, cute blonde; she'll be dressed all in black, by Prada."
"And you arranged this by…?"
"Telling her I knew all and that it was her only chance to stay out of jail." She checked her watch. "Go. You know where it is, right?"
He stood and looked at her with a grumpy expression. "Yeah, corner of Broome and Crosby. You know, Marlene, there are other ways of doing all this shit, ways that many smart people have worked out over the years, ways we call- what's the word?- legal procedure. How come you never use any of them?"
"I do, unless they become inconvenient."
"Speaking of which, how come little Cherry was so forthcoming with her story? Or do I want to know this?"
"You don't."
"And I guess you realize that whatever else happens in this abortion, she can't be called as a witness because you fucked it up with strong-arm stuff."
"I do. But all you need is Karen, and she's ready to fold."
"You're sure of that."
"Yes, I have utter faith in your interrogatory abilities."
"Present company excepted."
&nb
sp; "Oh, just go, Butch!" she said sharply. "I can't be cute just now. I want this to be over."
***
Rashid had promised Felix twenty grand for not telling, and had delivered five of it, and Felix had gotten himself cleaned up and into a decent Midtown hotel and bought himself a bunch of clothes and a couple of nights with an expensive whore. Five grand did not, however, go as far in the city as it had when he went into the joint, so he called Rashid and asked for the rest. Rashid yelled at him and accused him of revealing the plans about the tunnels. Felix denied doing this. He said it must have been one of Rashid's people. He added that if Rashid did not come through with the rest of the cash, not only would he confirm the cop's suspicions, but also give them detailed descriptions of Rashid and his two pals and the names and descriptions of the guys at the famous council of war. Rashid had sighed, a defeated man, and asked Felix where he wanted to pick it up. Felix then named a place on the corner of Tenth Avenue and Thirty-Ninth where they had just demolished a building, a lot filled with rubble surrounded by an easily penetrated chain-link fence. Eleven at night. This night.
Felix was early, to check out the scene, make sure it wasn't a set-up, not that they would ever try anything. One guy, he'd said, and sure enough, here was the one guy with the shopping bag he'd specified. The only light came from the street lamp and the neon on the avenue; Felix stood in the shadow of the adjoining building and watched the man pick his way across the rubble field. The man was twenty feet away when Felix stepped out into the light. The man stopped short when he saw Felix; no, it was a kid, a teenager, dark skinned, in jeans and a T-shirt, an Arab. Felix motioned him to come closer, but the kid didn't move. Instead he reached into the shopping bag.
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