* * *
It was wide and high, paneled dark and painted white. Its Georgian-glass windows were open to catch any breeze, and through them, besides an actual grassy breeze, there came the sounds of light traffic, a lawn mower, and farther off, someone practicing scales on a trombone. Small town, thought Marlene, this is what it would be like practicing law in a small town. The only discordant note was a television crew—a cameraman, a sound technician, and a reporter with spray-fixed hair and tan blazer. Every seat in the courtroom was occupied, in the main by the sort of people who occupy seats in courtrooms the world over—retirees and idlers of a certain stripe—but there was also a contingent of hard-looking younger men in one of the back rows. Unlike the people in New York courtrooms, she observed, all of these were white. Moses Welch was there, at the defense table, blinking amiably, his moon face untroubled by complex thought or obvious fear. At the prosecution table was a burly man in his late twenties wearing a blond crew cut and a cheap blue suit. On his face was the overly serious expression of a young man who wishes thereby to acquire gravitas. This was, Poole informed Marlene, the state’s attorney, Stanley Hawes. Marlene nodded politely to him. He seemed surprised at this, but, after an awkward pause, nodded back. The judge entered. As she rose with the others, Marlene had to stifle a giggle. Judge Bill Y. Murdoch was practically a caricature of a corrupt judge; he could have walked out of a Daumier, lacking only the little round cap that French judges wear. He was pink, plump, beautifully barbered, with a boar’s snout, a carnivorous slash of a mouth, and small avid eyes set off by dark eyebrows pointed like chevrons.
The judge spent a few moments speaking with some court officials and a very fat man in a tan uniform, pointed out to Marlene as J. J. Swett, the county sheriff. Murdoch kept looking up at the TV crew. He did not look pleased to see them. After the sheriff and the others had dispersed, Murdoch stared down at Poole and rattled some papers in his hand.
“Ernie, you mind telling me what this is all about.”
“They’re motions, Judge,” said Poole, getting to his feet.
“I know they’re motions, Ernie. I can read. I mean why are they being filed at this date? I thought we had agreed to a disposition of this case. And you’re changing your plea to not guilty?”
“Yes, Judge. What’s happened is the defendant has a new counsel, a co-counsel, actually, who has a different idea as to how the defense should proceed.”
Murdoch inspected the papers again. “That’s this Keeampi fella?”
Marlene rose. “That’s Ciampi, Your Honor. That’s me and I’m not a fella.”
A rustle of titters in the courtroom. Murdoch banged his gavel and glared them down and glared particularly at the cameraman, who had switched on his lights.
Murdoch turned his glare onto Marlene. “And what exactly are you doing here, Miss Ciampi?”
“I’m representing the defendant, Your Honor.”
“He already has counsel.”
“Yes, and he decided to retain additional counsel.”
The dark eyebrows compressed in a scowl. The judge made a summoning motion. Poole, Marlene, and Hawes approached the bench.
The judge said, “All right, what’s going on here? Ernie, you know Mose Welch can’t hardly decide which flavor of ice cream he likes. How the hell can he opt for new counsel?”
“You declared him competent to stand trial, Your Honor,” said Poole. “He can aid in his own defense, and choice of counsel runs along with that competence.”
Murdoch’s color rose. “Ernie, damnit, whose side . . .” He stopped short; no, he couldn’t really say that. He turned his attention to Marlene. “And what’s your interest in this case? A do-gooder, are you?”
“Not at all, Judge. I am an attorney licensed in the state of New York, and I was a friend of one of the victims, Rose Heeney. Her sons called me and asked me to defend Moses Welch.”
“The victim’s sons called you? They’re paying for this?”
“No pay is involved, Your Honor, but, yes.”
“Would you mind telling me why the victims want to get the murderer off?”
“Because he’s not the murderer,” said Marlene.
“He confessed to it,” said Hawes.
“Yes,” said Marlene, giving the prosecutor a mild look, such as elementary-school teachers give pupils who are trying very hard. “And as you see, we’re moving to suppress the confession. My client was kept incommunicado for fourteen hours, his family was kept from him, and he was coerced into signing a document he could not read by the promise of ice cream. He now repudiates his confession.”
“There was no coercion,” said Hawes, “and I resent the implication that the confession was obtained through force of any kind.”
“Force isn’t necessary,” said Marlene. “We’re not arguing from Brown. We would argue from Spano that the offer of any substantive good desired by the person in custody, whether food, or reading materials, clothing, or any ordinary or extraordinary privilege, as a quid pro quo for confession, is coercive per se, especially after an all-night interrogation, as was the case here. Also, given the defendant’s mental abilities, his waiver of his right to counsel is highly suspect under Tague.”
Hawes stared at her, perhaps trying to remember who Tague was.
Judge Murdoch frowned again and looked up at the TV camera. “All right, all right. I’ll hear arguments now.” He waved them back to their places.
Marlene began. Her essential argument was from Tague v. Louisiana, a U.S. Supreme Court case that held that the burden was on the state to demonstrate that the defendant understood his waiver of the right to counsel. Moses Welch had the mind of a five-year-old, which any reasonable person observing him could see. He should have been treated like a five-year-old therefore, and no confession should have been elicited from him without the presence of his family and legal counsel. The bribery of the ice cream was in violation of the Supreme Court decision in Spano v. New York, in that the combination of the all-night session, the denial of contact between a childlike prisoner and his family, and the bribe combine to produce an inherent untrustworthiness.
In his rebuttal, Hawes cited Connelly, in which the Supreme Court ruled that even if the mental incapacity of the defendant is the cause of the confession, due process is not violated absent police conduct causally related to the confession. He called J. J. Swett as a witness. Swett, a moonfaced porker with beetle-black eyes, long silver locks, and lobe-long sideburns, took the stand and lied that there had been no bribe of ice cream. Marlene did not bother to cross-examine. Murdoch denied the motion with obvious relish.
Marlene argued the next motion, to suppress the key evidence in the case, the bloodstained boots. She had not expected much from this and was not surprised when it was denied. She also applied for reduced bail, on the grounds that Mose Welch could not drive, had no money, and was hardly a flight risk. This was also denied. Swift justice in Robbens County, Marlene thought as she gathered her papers. In the real world, sometimes judges took a couple of days to reach a literally judicious decision on motions of these types, but not here apparently.
Three strikes, then, but Marlene still felt some satisfaction, and this increased after her interview with the young man in the tan blazer. She figured that justice in Robbens County was not used to the glare, its usual habit being to crawl around under damp rocks, and she had no compunction about accusing the county of trying to railroad a helpless mentally handicapped man because they were too stupid or too lazy or too corrupt to search for the real killers. She hoped that at least five seconds of that would that evening bounce out of space down through every dish in the county.
She walked out of the courthouse with Poole.
“See what I mean?” said Poole.
“Oh, I thought we did okay. They’re on notice that we intend a real defense. In my experience with small-town cozy corruption, that tends to shake them up. They’ll make mistakes, which we will capitalize on. You didn’t doze off at any
rate.”
“No, but I intend to shortly. I intend to sink into my accustomed alcoholic stupor. Care to join me?”
“No, thank you. Before you collapse, I’d appreciate it if you’d assemble all the discovery material we asked for. I’m particularly interested in any crime-scene photos and a sense of where these bozos looked before old Mose dropped into their laps.”
Poole was shaking his head. “You still don’t get it, do you? Motions? Discovery? The bottom line is still, they get what they want. They like to get it with all the legal niceties if they can, but if they can’t, if you block them there, they’ll get it anyway. You see those cars?”
He pointed to a Mercedes sedan and a Land Rover parked in the stalls nearest to the courthouse curb. “The Merc belongs to Judge Murdoch. The Rover is Swett’s. Both vehicles each cost more than the annual salaries of their owners. We are not subtle about corruption in Robbens County. Unsubtlety is in fact the point. The message is, play along and you get taken care of. Don’t play along and you also get taken care of, which is the message of what happened to Red Heeney and his family. The Heeney murders are not going to be investigated and the murderers are not going to be caught, tried, and convicted.”
“We’ll see about that.” Marlene reflected that she had used that line rather too much lately.
Poole flapped his hand weakly at her and turned away. “Go home, Ciampi,” he said over his shoulder. “Go back to America.”
8
“SO, ARE YOU GOING TO do it?” asked Murrow.
“I might,” answered Karp. “I practically said I would just to keep him from hoching me. He’s the kind of guy who, if he thinks faking a heart attack will roll you, will turn gray and collapse.”
“Can I come, too? I kind of like the idea of fighting real bad guys, like in the movies, instead of the pathetic characters we usually put away.”
“No, you have to stay here and watch the store while I have all the fun.”
Murrow slumped in his chair, clutching his chest and producing a good imitation of Cheyne-Stokes respiration.
Karp laughed briefly. “I better stay here. You need supervision.”
“You’ll do it,” said Murrow confidently. “I can see it in your eyes. I’d do it in a minute, in the unlikely event that anyone ever asked me to.”
“Yeah, but you’re a young squirt without responsibilities, and you don’t have a wife working the very same operation unofficially.”
“Would that be a problem?”
“Oh, Marlene? Investigating a sensitive and complex case on her own? A problem? No, why would you think that? Fortunately, I have reason to believe she’s unarmed at the present time.” Karp leaned back in his chair, swiveled to face the window, chewed on a pencil. Murrow, seeing this, left quietly, closing the office door behind him. He knew these were the signs that Karp was entering Karpland, as all the office called it, and was therefore not to be disturbed until he reentered the terrestrial sphere, usually with the solution to some intricate problem.
Being manipulated stood high on the list of all the things Karp didn’t like. Why should he disturb his life and dash off to some godforsaken province because it was important to Saul Sterner? Let them handle it themselves. Let them all shoot each other. Red Heeney was an idiot who’d gotten his wife and daughter killed along with himself because he was stupid and full of bravado and a drunk besides, unlike himself, who was cautious and smart and free of alcoholic fumes in the brain, and unlike also his wife, who was rattling around in the same hellhole that had killed the Heeneys, New York not being dangerous enough for her anymore. Marlene, he knew, was in a familiar phase of her cycle. A settled life afflicted her like a slow toxin, building up in her soul until it flipped a switch, at which point she had to do something grotesque and outrageous, usually involving gunshots and financial ruin. The woman had given away something like $40 million because the money had a smell of deceit and death on it. Nice that she could afford such scruples, whereas he had to punch the clock at the DA every day until forever, until he retired a desiccated husk and corrupt to the eyes, waiting for the cancer to get him, like Guma.
He wondered what she was doing this minute. Should he call? Did he have the Heeney phone number? Somewhere around here. Probably something quasi-legal, if not an actual felony. And naturally he was going to have to go in there and fix things, smooth things over, paste a legal fig leaf over whatever mess she made. And she would make a mess, she always made a mess. Whereas he had a safe, respectable, boring, tedious, stupid job, supervising the installation of impoverished morons in state penal institutions. Meanwhile, he couldn’t just take off and ditch Lucy with the boys and that goddamn dog farm. What he should do is take three weeks of leave and just go out there and lie on the beach until he got sun-stroke. Keegan wanted to get rid of him anyway. The office could run itself. It was summertime. The living was easy. Prosecution was easy, too, since they’d cut the budget of the Legal Aid Society practically in half and the courts were hiring barely conscious hacks at $40 an hour to defend indigents, meaning the vast majority of persons brought before the New York DA. It was even more of a joke than it had been when crime was rampant, except, of course, when crime had been rampant, you could kid yourself with the illusion that you were defending something worthwhile. The staff had grown slack, he had grown slack, slack and stupid and old.
He took the pencil out of his mouth and examined it with distaste. It looked like a dog had been at it. He tossed it at the wastebasket; it bounced off the rim and fell on the floor. He couldn’t even sink shots anymore. The phone rang: Dick Sullivan, the new homicide bureau chief, with the latest on Lok the Decapitator, as the tabloids had named him. The ME report had come back on Emilio Solano, the seventeen-year-old deceased in the case. Apparently Lok had hacked the robber heavily enough to render him quite helpless before delivering the fatal chop. Therefore the decapitation was a homicide and not strictly self-defense. Sullivan was going to charge him with manslaughter one.
“Sounds right,” said Karp. “Will he plead?”
“Not likely. The Asian community’s got a huge defense fund already. They’ve retained Morrie Silver on it.”
“I hope you gave him my regards, the sly fucker.”
“He sends his, likewise,” said Sullivan. “He was dickering for man two, minimum sentence, minimum security, the usual.”
“I hope you told him to blow it out his ass.”
“Not in so many words. Anyway, I guess maybe we’re going to have to try this beauty, in the full glare of the media, editorials, ethnic cleansing, et cetera.” There was a question in his voice. Sullivan had not been Karp’s first pick for homicide. He came from the Queens DA, and Karp liked promoting people from within. Besides, Queens? Karp suspected that there had been some political juice for Keegan in the appointment. The man seemed competent enough, however.
“Well, try him and win it, Dick. That’s what we used to do around here all the time.”
“I assume it’s okay with the chief.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” said Karp blandly. “The district attorney always does the right thing, as you know.”
Karp hung up, cursed, paced, kicked a steel filing cabinet. Sullivan would not take his word for it and would call Keegan, and of course Keegan would not stay the hell away from meddling in a case that involved two important electoral communities and was getting major press. Karp sat down and jabbed at a speed-dial button.
A treble voice answered, “Wingfield Farm, registered mastiffs, GC Karp speaking.”
“Hello, this is Madonna. I’d like a dozen registered mastiffs in assorted colors, please.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“What are you doing in the office?”
“Answering the phone.”
“I know that, dummy. Why aren’t you playing and generally having a carefree little-boy childhood?”
“Lucy made me. She’s being Cruella.”
“You poor thing. I’m thinking of coming o
ut there for a couple, three weeks. Maybe Lucy would let me answer the phone sometimes.”
“We can use the help,” said his son with a disappointing lack of boyish enthusiasm for merry hours spent with Daddy. “Actually, I like being inside. It’s too hot out and I can play on the computer. Do you want to talk to the Luce?”
Karp said he did and heard the phone drop with a clunk. Minutes passed.
“Dad? What’s up?” asked the Luce.
“You’re being Cruella.”
“Did that little rat call you and complain?”
“No, I called. Do you really need someone manning the phone?”
“Boying it, technically. Yeah, until we move the pups. The phone’s ringing off the hook since we placed ads.”
“Everything okay? The felons all in good order?”
“Yeah, they don’t mess with Cruella. How’s your lonely grandeur?”
“Hm. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m on the horns of a dilemma.”
He explained briefly what Saul Sterner wanted him to do, adding, “So the good part of the deal, besides its inherent virtue, is that I’d get to be with Mom for however long, the summer at least, until we saw how things lay, sort of a vacation in the mountains.”
“Meaning you could keep an eye on her.”
“That, too,” said Karp, glad once again that another person in the world shared his view of his wife. “On the other hand, I’m uncomfortable with both of us being out of town and you stuck here in charge.”
“We could all come down there,” said Lucy brightly.
“What about the farm?”
“Oh, we’d bring Magog. Billy can handle the place after the puppies are sold, and if not, he can hire a teenager from town.”
“I don’t think so. That’s all we need is to have to worry about you all. Apparently it’s a pretty violent part of the country.”
Absolute Rage Page 16
