It was all a bluff—a course of action she’d decided on after she got the bad news about Kaminsky from Butch. He’d suggested that she might shake up the judge but so far she wasn’t even shaking up a young law clerk. “Look, Ms….”
“Verene Fischer,” the young woman said, holding out her hand. “I know who you are, Ms. Ciampi. I’d like to prosecute sex crimes someday myself, and I have great admiration for the program you set up with the New York District Attorney’s Office. And, of course, everybody knows your husband. But I’m just a law clerk…the judge’s receptionist is gone and I’ve been left with instructions that she’s not to be disturbed. I hope you understand my dilemma.”
Well, guess I just got taught a lesson in diplomacy by a child, Marlene thought. She liked this girl. “Yeah, I do Verene…sorry, guess I was pushing a little hard,” she said.
Verene grinned. “I would have been disappointed with anything less from Marlene Ciampi.”
The law clerk was interrupted when the door to the judge’s chambers opened. Marci Klinger stood framed in the doorway. “May I help you?” she said in a way that indicated that she was in no mood to be helpful.
Marlene’s practiced eye did a quick assessment of the black-robed jurist. Klinger was in her late fifties and looked every day of it, although she was making attempts to stave off the inevitable. Her face had that stretched, brittle look of a woman who’d tried both face-lifts and acid peels. She’d tried to disguise the rest with too much blue eye shadow for a woman her age and a lipstick color that seemed to indicate she was color-blind. Klinger still wore her hair in a bouffant that had been popular in the early sixties and went to some lengths to keep it the same color it had been back then—a sort of wheat blond—and it was held in place with at least a can of hairspray.
Verene handled the introductions. “Judge Klinger, this is Marlene Ciampi. She dropped by and was asking if she could have a moment of your time,” she said, hastily adding, “I told her you asked not to be disturbed.”
“That’s all right, Verene,” Klinger said coolly. “Ms. Ciampi and I met many years ago, although most of what I know about her is her reputation…something of a mixed bag, that reputation, eh Marlene?”
Marlene felt like punching Klinger. “I guess that depends on who you ask…the people I’ve worked for…or the people I’ve put in prison, or…killed.”
“Yes, yes, all sorts of allegedly bad men have met an untimely end at your hands,” Klinger said. “But to be honest, vigilantes don’t impress me. In fact, I think they’re just as deserving of a prison sentence as the people they go after.”
“You may be right,” Marlene responded. “Then again, I’ve known a few jurists who deserve a little time in the big house as well.”
Klinger glared at Marlene, then made a face as if she’d tasted something sour. “Might I ask what was so pressing that you didn’t feel it necessary to call like any other person and ask for an appointment?”
Although she was seething, Marlene kept a half-smile on her face because she could tell it was irritating Klinger. “Well, I do apologize for just showing up, your honor. But I’ve been retained as a private investigator by two of the named defendants in the Coney Island Four case that your honor is presiding over. As you know, there’s only a month before trial starts, and I needed to ask you a question.”
“Then ask,” the judge answered. “I have about thirty seconds.”
“Thank you,” Marlene said. “It’s come to our attention that a letter from a former cellmate of the alleged sole perpetrator of the sexual assault on Liz Tyler, a disgusting individual named Enrique Villalobos, was sent to Brooklyn District Attorney Kristine Breman. We have reason to believe that this letter was then forwarded on to you. Of course, Corporation Counsel, for whom I work at least officially, would consider any such correspondence to be discoverable and withholding that letter a violation of our clients’ right to due process. I’d like a certified copy of that letter, your honor. I can wait here or in your chambers.”
Klinger’s face flushed. “How dare you? Are you implying that I would withhold evidence? I have no idea what you are talking about. Your question does not really even deserve an answer…but for the record, I have not received any such letter from District Attorney Breman. Now, Ms. Ciampi, if you are quite through with your fishing expedition, then I would suggest that you remove yourself from the premises before I call security and have you escorted out of the building.”
Marlene hesitated. She considered egging the judge on to see if she could make her go ballistic. But she decided on prudence and turned to leave, only to stop when she saw the look on Verene’s face. “Are you okay?” she asked the young woman, who looked as though she’d developed a sudden case of nausea.
Verene nodded her head. “Yes, sorry, I haven’t been feeling well today. I think I ate something funky for breakfast.”
“Verene,” the judge interrupted, “if your illness allows, would you come into my office please. Good-bye, Ms. Ciampi. I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Marlene was steaming when she walked out of the judge’s office. But she felt better once she hit the cold but fresh air outside the building and trotted down the granite steps. She didn’t get what she’d come for, but in that regard, the judge was right—she had been on a fishing expedition. She’d landed something she hadn’t expected either. She was absolutely sure that the law clerk, Verene Fisher, wasn’t ill until the little exchange between herself and Klinger. She knows something.
Unknown to her, Marlene just missed running into Hugh Louis, who walked into Klinger’s office and demanded to see the judge. But Verene immediately pressed the intercom and announced, as she’d been told in this case, “Mr. Louis is here and would like to speak to you.”
“Show him in, please.”
Verene stood and opened the door to the judge’s chamber and stepped quickly aside. She didn’t like Hugh Louis or the way he was always mopping at the sweat on his face with his big white handkerchiefs. Nor did she like the way he undressed her with his eyes and suggested that they have dinner and talk about the possibility of her working for him after she passed the bar exam. “I’m always lookin’ for good, young talent to nurture,” he said to her once, in a way that left no doubt what he meant by nurture.
“Thank you, Mr. Louis,” she’d replied. “But I want to be a prosecutor and work for the New York District Attorney’s Office.”
“Be my guest,” he said. “Work in a thankless, dead-end job with no money…the hardworking little black girl who thinks she’s going to get somewhere in the white man’s world. What are you going to do when they tell you to look the other way when injustices are done to your black brothers and sisters?” In that moment, her distaste for Hugh Louis turned to hatred.
Louis took one last leering look at the law clerk as he moved past. But when the door was closed behind him he wasted no more time getting to the point of his visit. That morning he’d received a call from Enrique Villalobos and wasn’t happy about what he heard.
“Some bitch named Maria Champi was up here asking questions,” Villalobos told him. “She wanted to know where to find that fucker Kaminsky. When I wouldn’t tell her, she sucker-punched me when I wasn’t looking and broke two of my ribs. I plan to file a lawsuit, but that lying piece-of-shit guard, Richardson, is backing up her story that I fell against a chair. You need to do something about her and Kaminsky, or this whole thing could get fucked up.”
Louis had weighed his words carefully. He knew that the prison sometimes monitored the calls of inmates. “I believe the woman you talked to was Marlene Ciampi, and once again, you are talking when I have advised you as your legal representative to remain silent. You understand?”
“Yeah, that was the bitch’s name,” said Villalobos. “I didn’t say nothin’ to her ’cept maybe someday I might get out and do to her what I did to that other bitch at Coney Island.”
“That’s good,” Louis
said. “But from now on, and this is only a suggestion, but I’m sure my clients—especially Mr. Jayshon Sykes—would appreciate it if you did not speak with representatives of the racist regime that has persecuted them.”
Villalobos was quiet. He understood the threat. “Ain’t nobody got to worry about Enrique Villalobos. I told the truth,” he said just in case the conversation was being recorded. “I was the only one that raped sweet Lizzie.”
“Good, good,” Louis said, “and I appreciate that you called and let me know that the Ciampi woman was up there trying to find a smokescreen to spread over the truth. Let me know if you hear from her again, but remember, silence is golden.”
Louis had hung up the phone, mopping at the sweat that had popped out. He’d worried when he learned from Lindahl that Ciampi had signed on to help the ADAs. She had a reputation for tenacity that could prove troublesome, especially if she located Kaminsky or that damn note he wrote to Breman.
Having Ciampi nosing around asking questions about Kaminsky was alarming. Damn that moron Sykes. Too stupid to notice that his victim had both arms. Well, now Sykes and his gang were going to have to find Kaminsky and take care of the problem before Ciampi did. And that could be tough. The gang had been trying to keep an eye on the streets in Brighton Beach, but black gangsters in the Russian sector stuck out like sore thumbs, and the Russian mob wasn’t going to tolerate their presence for long. He’d have to get on Olav Radinskaya to pull some strings, flush Kaminsky out.
In the meantime, Louis had decided that there were too many loose ends. He wanted the letter that Kaminsky had written to Breman in his possession. He and the judge had an “understanding,” but he had to tread lightly. No one pushed a federal judge around.
“Marci,” he beamed as he waddled toward her, his hand extended. “Damn, you lookin’ good, girl. You been working out?”
Klinger returned the smile and shook his hand though in truth it made her cringe to touch that sweaty palm, and it was all she could do not to wipe hers off on her robe. The man sweats like a whole herd of pigs, she thought.
The two exchanged pleasantries and wished each other a Merry Christmas and noted that they ought to get their families together for dinner “one of these days, real soon.”
“So, Hugh,” Klinger said, “what brings you here today? I’m sure it wasn’t to pass on a Yuletide greeting.”
“Well, heh-heh,” he chortled, “I did want to pass that on, but you’re right, this is a business call. I’ve been thinkin’ that maybe I should have that letter that lying piece of crap Kaminsky sent to Krissy. Heh-heh. I think we all agree it’s just another inmate trying to get a deal. But if it was to fall into the wrong hands, someone might use it to confuse the issue and upset the applecart, so to speak.”
So that’s what the fat tub of goo wants, Klinger thought. He doesn’t trust me. She decided to let him sweat it out, literally. “That letter has certainly become a popular item for being a collection of lies,” she said.
“How do you mean?” Louis asked, pausing in mid-mop.
“Well, just a few minutes before you arrived, Marlene Ciampi was here with the same request,” she replied, satisfied to see that the news shook Louis. “In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t run into her in the hall.”
Louis felt his overworked heart skip a beat. “All the more reason for me to have the letter,” he said. “It needs to be destroyed before it causes problems for all of us.”
Klinger could have clapped her hands in glee; the letter was her insurance policy in case he ever turned on her. “Well, I don’t know that I’m prepared to do that, Hugh,” Klinger said. “It was given to me in confidence by my dear friend Miss Breman.”
Louis stopped mopping his brow; all pretense of friendliness disappeared from his face. “Okay, let’s cut out the crap,” he said. “We both know that letter is dangerous. What if Ciampi can convince another judge to issue a search warrant for your office?”
“Preposterous,” Klinger said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Ciampi was fishing. She knows something but not enough. No federal judge is going to give her a warrant to search the office of another federal judge based on guesswork.”
“Maybe not,” Louis said. “But I don’t like taking that chance. Let me sweeten the pot. There’re going to be changes in the administration in Washington, D.C., after the new year. It could be your ticket to the U.S. Justice Department, maybe even the new—and prettier—version of Janet Reno. But you need your friend Hugh Louis to put in a good word.”
“Cut the bullshit, Louis,” Klinger replied. “You don’t like me, and I don’t like you, and neither of us trusts the other. However, I do agree that we have a mutually beneficial relationship. I can control the outcome of this trial, if it comes to that, and you know the right people in Washington. But that letter is my insurance policy that after the trial, you don’t drop me like a hot rock.”
Louis felt a hatred boil up in him like bile. He would have liked to reach across the desk and slap the ugly old bitch. But he smiled and nodded as if she’d made an excellent point. “All right, you got me. If not a friendship, then a partnership. You just need to make sure that letter doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. Or, well, you’ve seen my clients, they might take it personally.”
“Don’t threaten me, Louis,” Klinger said. “You just get this thing settled with Lindahl so that we don’t have to go to trial. And I’ll do my part if we do. In the meantime, the letter stays in my safe where it belongs.”
Louis stood up to leave. He didn’t bother to shake the judge’s hand and she didn’t bother to stand up.
Louis left the judge’s chambers without saying anything to the law clerk, who had her nose planted in a book of New York statutes. Verene was happy to see him go, but her mind was in turmoil. The button on the judge’s intercom had locked in the open position, so she’d heard every word of the conversation.
Two hours later, the judge emerged from her chamber to go home for the day. “Staying late, Verene?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind,” she said. “It’s nice and quiet here when everybody’s gone and I can get some good studying in. I’ll get the guard to lock up after me if that’s all right with you.”
“Suit yourself,” the judge said and left.
Verene waited another half hour to make sure the judge wouldn’t have forgotten something and decided to return. Then she stood up and went into Klinger’s chambers and walked quickly over to the wall safe. She figured that the judge had probably forgotten that she’d once called and given Verene the combination so that she could fetch some documents to bring to her courtroom. And Verene never forgot a number or a conversation.
Verene opened the safe and removed the unmarked file with the letter and envelope with the return address to Auburn State Prison. She took out the letter and began to read. By the time she finished, tears were rolling down her cheeks; she was young and idealistic. She’d hoped when she started to clerk for Klinger that she’d found a role model in the judge. But now she knew better. She took the letter out to the copy machine in the office and made several copies. Placing the letter and envelope back in the file, she returned it to the safe.
With the copies tucked into her purse, Verene picked up her law books, turned out the lights, and left.
21
IT HAD BEEN A PRODUCTIVE AFTERNOON. MOST EVERYONE at the office had gone home at noon for an early start on Christmas Eve, which had allowed him to sit down with Repass and Russell to discuss the case. He’d hoped Guma would be there, too, but his old friend had called to say he had good news but would have to tell him later at a dinner party Marlene was throwing.
So it was only the two assistant DAs who had sat in stunned silence when he told them what Marlene had learned about Kaminsky and Klinger.
“I can’t believe a federal judge would do this,” Russell said.
“Why not? It’s a corrupt world.” Repass added, “But how do we prove this little bit of corruptio
n?”
“Let’s not worry about it now,” Karp said. “The letter would be nice, and I’d like to be able to get that judge removed because of it. But we need to concentrate on winning this case. We still have an advantage. They think this thing is going to be settled without a fight. I heard that Lindahl has even drafted a proposed agreement.”
“What!” the women exclaimed. “If he does that, we’re on our own,” Russell said.
Karp held up his hand. “But I’ve been assured by Denton that there’ll be no deal. The city council would have to approve, which could happen, but it would take some time. Then the mayor has to sign off on it. It ain’t going to happen between Christmas and New Year’s, after which Denton will be sworn in. He’s been doing a bang-up acting job with Lindahl, giving all the signs that he’s willing to go along just to not have it hanging over his head at the start of his administration. So the opposition’s been in no hurry. So let’s just get our own ducks in order and give them a little surprise come January 24 and our opening statements.”
The rest of the afternoon had been spent formulating their strategy, looking for holes and filling them. They’d knocked off at five and Karp had hurried home, looking forward to a little time with the kids and Marlene before the guests arrived.
He walked in through the front door of the loft and froze at the sight of the young man with the gun in his hand. The gunman was wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots, a holster slung from his thin hips like a gunfighter in a Western movie. He was facing away from Karp, who thought he might just be able to take him out before he was noticed. Then he heard the twins shout.
“Cool! Do it again! Do it again!”
As Karp hesitated, the gunman holstered his weapon, then after a brief pause drew the gun and “fired” in the proverbial blink of an eye. The sound of applause and more delighted shouts from his sons convinced him that no one was in any danger. Which meant that someone was playing with guns in his home.
Fury (The Butch Karp and Marlene Ciampi Series Book 17) Page 35
