“How do you know?”
“Because I gypsy-cabbed in drag a couple of nights and I got shaken down and slapped around.”
“Jesus, Stupe!”
“Then I hung around the Two-Five and ID’d Jackson. He’s hard to miss—the guy’s a moose. The funny thing is, I had a feeling I’d seen him someplace before, but I can’t recall where.”
“Didn’t Roland take you around to the Two-Five?”
“Yeah, it must have been then, but there was something else about it too. I’ll think of it. Anyway, I went to see Tommy Devlin at Internal Affairs, and he sort of hems and haws and says he can’t do anything directly because the shakedowns are part of a separate investigation, being run out of the D.A.’s squad. That’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Sure. The D.A. squad does a lot of official corruption stuff, but that’s usually politicians and bureaucrats. It gets dicey when it’s just cops, like God forbid anybody should suggest that the P.D. isn’t competent to police itself.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. The hack bureau’s involved and the licensing division and the medical examiner.”
“The M.E. too? How?”
“Well, they suspect somebody covered up on the autopsies. The boys didn’t really hang themselves, maybe somebody helped them out. But I can’t get a hold of the reports, because they’ve been impounded pending investigation. So I thought—”
“Stupe, forget it! I’m not going to be party to screwing up an investigation.”
“Just ask, Marlene, for chrissake! You can do that, can’t you? Somebody must know if something fishy went down.”
There was an unfamiliar strain audible in Stupenagel’s voice, one at odds with the cool and wheedling tone she used when she wanted to extract information. Marlene asked, “Is there something wrong, Stupe? Are you in trouble?”
A nervous laugh, and, lightly, “Me? Oh, no more than usual.” Marlene waited. “Well, actually, yes,” said the reporter. “I think somebody’s following me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hell, girl, I’ve been followed by experts. There’s two kinds of following: when they want you to know, so you’ll get scared off doing whatever it is they don’t want you to do, and two, when they don’t want you to know so they can see where you go and who you talk to. This is the first kind. I’ve seen the same dark Plymouth Fury in my rearview or outside my place about ten times in the past couple, three days.”
“So complain, Stupe! This isn’t some police state hellhole. You want me to help you file a harassment complaint, I’ll be happy to do that for you.”
“Yeah, well, you’re probably right. Maybe I still have Guatemala on my mind. I mean, what’re they going to do, shoot me?”
ELEVEN
Karp stared at the interview sheet and tried to decide whether Jerome E. Delaney, 66, of East 34th Street in Manhattan, a retired highway engineer, would or would not be constitutionally disposed to find for the plaintiff. He glanced up from the sheet at the man himself and, smiling pleasantly, inquired of him whether he had ever been a party to a lawsuit. He had not. The answer, like the man, was neutral; that is, flames did not issue from Delaney’s nostrils when he said it, implying that mere fate, and not an inveterate hatred of lawsuits and those who brought them, had so deprived him. Karp said thank you and made a note. Delaney would do. Karp seated himself and watched his rival, corporation counsel Josh Gottkind, rise for his crack at the venireman.
Karp allowed himself a moment to soak in the atmosphere of the federal courtroom, so different from the rotting premises of the county courthouse, where he had spent nearly all of his professional career. Here all the woodwork was beautifully tended oak, unimproved by etched graffiti; the murals told their allegories of justice triumphant unmarred by peeling paint and mildew stains. Even the judge, the Honorable Joseph C. Craig, seemed to draw from the august surroundings a dignity greater than that of his confreres of the lower bench, reflecting the acknowledged fact that decisions about serious money were inherently grander than deciding whether Joe had stabbed Phil forty times over a ten-dollar bet.
Of course, Craig would’ve been dignified anywhere, Karp thought as he studied the judge, a thin, small man in his middle sixties. He had a large head carried on a slender neck, and a long, thin nose that looked red and damp at the tip. With his sharp, bright blue eyes peering out of their nest of wrinkles, he seemed like nothing so much as a heron, a heron staring down at a pool full of frogs before deciding which one to have for lunch.
This was the first day of jury selection and would probably be the last. Federal jury selection was an expeditious process compared to that in the state courts, and Karp was happy that it was. The judge asked the basic questions that might disqualify jurors for cause, and the lawyers’ questions had to be submitted in advance. Karp was not himself a voir dire maven, although he knew that many lawyers believed it to be among the most critical aspects of a trial. Many lawyers said they could pick a plaintiff’s jury or a defendant’s jury; some lawyers didn’t try cases at all but merely advised others on how to select. In contrast, Karp’s belief was that once you had disposed of frank prejudice or special interest, all juries were more or less the same. His only selection rule, which he had learned at the feet of the old bulls of the long-lost Homicide Bureau, was “no singletons on a felony jury.” You shouldn’t, if you wanted a conviction, have one black, or one woman, or one of any identifiable caste, because the odd man out was more than likely to feel isolated and threatened and therefore to vote against a convicting jury, hanging it. This rule did not, of course, apply in a civil case.
And you could outsmart yourself with a too-clever selection strategy. Gottkind, for example, was now asking Mr. Delaney whether he felt that physicians were more credible than other people. A stupid question. What sort of answer did he expect, “Yeah, sure”? Delaney, if selected, would perhaps start the trial in the belief that the defense counsel thought him a jerk. Karp left one ear open and studied the next information sheet. They needed two more jurors to make up the six-person panel, plus two alternates, and Karp expected that this group of twelve veniremen or the next would suffice.
Gottkind finished with Delaney, and Karp rose again, to smile at, and briefly question, the next prospective juror. Her name was Sonia Delgado, a restaurant manager, who had also never gone to the bar of justice for any reason, but was clearly a person of Hispanic ancestry. It was obvious by now that Gottkind thought that a largely Hispanic panel would be favorable to at least one of his clients, Angelo Fuerza, at that time the highest-ranking Hispanic on the City’s payroll. Karp briefly wondered whether he should use one of his peremptories on Mrs. Delgado, and decided not to. For all he knew, Fuerza might be the spitting image of her despised first husband.
When the questioning of the current lot was complete, both Delaney and Delgado made it on to the panel, and that was it for the panel itself. It was now the second day of May. The suit had been filed the previous August. Judge Craig had studied all the motions submitted, the opposing interpretations of state statute and the precedents of constitutional law, and judged that the case had merit under law. He declined to dismiss; he had ordered the facts to be tried; and here they all were, only two hundred and seventy days later. Blinding speed.
As Judge Craig prepared to address the lucky winners, Karp turned to his client and said, “Murray, I heard something pretty disturbing the other night. Are you aware that there’s a corruption investigation going on out of the D.A.’s squad that involves the medical examiner’s office?”
Karp watched the other man’s face carefully as his words registered. He thought he saw puzzlement and dismay only; there was no telltale flush of uncovered guilt.
Selig said, “What investigation? What’re they investigating?”
“Some Latino kids, early part of last year, up at the Two-Five, died in custody. You guys did the autopsies and passed them as suicides, two of them, and the third as natural causes.”
S
elig’s brows remained corrugated. “Yeah, I recall the incidents. I didn’t do them myself, but they were done under my supervision by competent people. The hangings were genuine. The marks made by a suicide hanging are completely different from those made by strangulation or garotting with a cord. It’s Autopsy 101—a no-brainer. Who told you we were being investigated?”
“Marlene, actually. She got it from a reporter friend of hers who’s looking into the deaths.”
Selig shook his head vigorously. “I’ve never heard anything about it,” he said, and then, seeing the doubtful look on Karp’s face, added with more heat, “I swear it, Butch! I never heard anything about any investigation—in general or in regard to those autopsies.”
Karp nodded and swallowed hard. He did not think Selig was lying, although that did not, unfortunately, mean there was no investigation. Selig, he had discovered in the past nine months, was a thoroughly decent man, but one whose reserves of observation and focus were entirely consumed by the narrow demands of his profession. At his work, literally nothing escaped his attention. Away from the steel tables, nearly everything did. It was actually possible for Selig to have missed being investigated.
Karp patted Selig on the shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Murray. I believe you. But something may be up and I need to check it out. I’ll let you know what I find.”
The new prospectives were seated. Karp turned his attention to the information sheets once again.
A short walk and a world of class away from the Federal Courthouse, Marlene sat in the chair provided for witnesses in Grand Jury Room B, in the New York County Courthouse, and told an assistant D.A. and the twenty-three members of the grand jury what Rob Pruitt had done to her. Pictures were exhibited of her damaged face. After she was done, Harry Bello got up and told his fable. There was no cross-examination, since grand juries have neither defense lawyers nor judges. They belong to the district attorney and represent the limpest possible trip wire against arbitrary prosecutions. Almost always, when the D.A. so requests, they bring in a true bill of indictment, and they did in this case, in less than five minutes.
Marlene lingered to share some thoughts with Ira Raskoff, the kid A.D.A. in charge of the case. Although most of the people who man the trenches in the D.A. last as long in the memory of the office as faces seen from a departing subway train, there were exceptions, and Marlene was one of them. As was Butch Karp. Marlene traded shamelessly on her notoriety and her husband’s still bright and fearsome rep to fix in young Raskoff’s mind that this particular case was not your ordinary bullshit barroom assault charge, of which he cranked through dozens each week, but special, and that its outcome would be observed. This particular defendant was going to do hard time, at least three years, which result would redound to Raskoff’s favor with the grandees of the Felony Trial Bureau, while failure to obtain it would have dire consequences. Raskoff got the point and promised to keep Marlene informed.
When Marlene and Harry left the courthouse, Foley Square was cold in the bone-withering way that March can be cold in New York and swept with sheets of chilling rain. Marlene had intended to walk home, but now she allowed Harry Bello to lead her to his old Plymouth, illegally parked in a judge’s slot at the side of the building.
They got in and Bello raced the engine to pump some warmth into the car. Marlene relaxed, fumbled out a cigarette, longed for it, and replaced it in her bag. She was over six months pregnant and slowing down a hair. Instead, she fiddled with the radio dial, searching for music to soothe her savage breast. She found someone singing a Puccini aria and left it on. The song ended. It was then that she realized that they had been traveling far too long. She looked out the window. They were on the West Side Highway heading north.
“Harry, where are we going?” she asked.
“Weehawken,” said Bello.
If Harry Bello had been a regular person, Marlene would have asked him why they were going to Weehawken and he would have said why, and they would have taken it from there. But Marlene knew that Harry expected her to know already why they were going, as if the trisyllabic name of the unlovely Jersey burg already contained, in the fashion of the ultra-fast code bursts sent down from spy satellites, the complete story. And she knew that if she just demanded an explanation in the conventional way, Harry would look at her funny and think she was slipping, and so the trust between them, which besides the person of Lucy Karp was the only thing that held Harry to the normal world, would fray a little and Harry would withdraw another notch into the chaotic depths of Harryland.
She was used to this, however, and it took her less than a minute to figure it out and respond, “I said, I don’t need one.”
Because she had gone back to the last substantive conversation she had had with Bello, over the phone, during which she had told Harry about Mattie Duran and what Mattie wanted her to do, and Harry had said, “You need a gun,” and she had declined and this was Harry not taking no for an answer.
“She’s got a sheet,” said Harry, dismissing her last statement and making another jump. This was an easy one. Of course, Harry would have used his cop sources to check out Mattie Duran. Marlene was not surprised at what he had learned. She waited.
“Forty-six months in Texas for bank robbery,” Harry added, switching to Real Mode. “Guy I talked to down in El Paso said she popped her old man too, but they didn’t prosecute.”
“Why not?”
“It’s Texas. They thought the guy needed killing. Had a couple of partners in the bank thing. Both killed in a shoot-out with the Rangers. They never recovered the loot. Something like eight hundred K.” Harry looked at her significantly and she moved her head slightly, indicating that she hadn’t known all of that. He seemed about to say something, but at that point he had to maneuver the tricky exit from the West Side Highway and onto the ramp leading to the Lincoln Tunnel.
Marlene ruminated as they sped through the filthy tiled pipe. Harry’s information explained a lot about Duran: how she was able to run the shelter without public money, why she was wary of the authorities. The parricide thing was a bit of a shock, though. Marlene did not recall ever meeting anyone— socially—who had killed one of their parents. She wondered whether she should, and by what means she might, bring it up in conversation with Duran. Meanwhile, it was clear that Harry thought that her relationship with Mattie required an increased level of protection, and she wondered why.
Harry read her mind, of course, and said, as they emerged into gray daylight and rain, “People disappear.”
“That’s her job, Harry. It’s for the women’s protection.”
“Men too,” said Harry.
“Wait a minute, Harry. You think she does hits on people?”
Harry did not deem this worthy of an answer, and left Marlene to her unpleasant thoughts as they emerged into freezing rain in Weehawken. After a drive of about ten minutes through broken and deserted industrial streets, Harry pulled the car through a sagging gate in a chain-link fence topped by rusty barbed wire. There was a low concrete-block building on the site, which bore a small, faded sign announcing that it was the home of the Palisades Rod and Gun Club. Harry parked and led Marlene through a door marked OFFICE.
A chubby man in his late fifties rose from behind a cluttered desk and shook Bello’s hand. Bello introduced him to Marlene as Frank Arnolfini. Marlene looked around the small, veneer-paneled room. For a rod and gun club, it was remarkably light in the rod department. Shelves held shooting trophies and the little banners they give out at conventions. A glass showcase counter was full of handguns, and a rack held rifles and shotguns. The walls were decorated with posters supplied by arms and shooting accessory manufacturers, and the sort of plaques and photographs that people accumulate during a long career with the New York Police Department. Arnolfini was an ex-cop and a part-time gun dealer.
After some chat about how bad the weather was and how they were both doing in retirement, Arnolfini turned to Marlene and said, “Harry tells me you’re
interested in a weapon.”
“Actually, Harry’s interested in me getting a weapon. I can’t stand the idea myself.”
Arnolfini chuckled understandingly. “Yeah, well, a lot of ladies are that way. But there’s really nothing to be scared of if you have the proper training. We run a pretty good handgun course here for women.”
“Uh-huh, but as it happens, I’m not scared of guns, and I’m a natural shot.” Arnolfini and Bello exchanged looks. Arnolfini shrugged and said, “You want a carry gun, you’re probably in the market for a semiauto, a nine, right?”
“How big is it?” asked Marlene shortly.
Arnolfini smiled in a way that confirmed Marlene’s impression that she was about to be patronized.
“Well, that would depend,” he said. “There’s all different kinds.”
She felt a wave of bitchiness rise within her. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t like guns. That she was here, and that she probably was going to buy a gun, and carry it, stemmed from her decision to go into an enterprise that might require her to shoot somebody. Having to lie in a bed she had made was not something Marlene was fond of doing.
Arnolfini went to the handgun cabinet, took out a selection of semiautomatic pistols, and arranged them on a felt pad on top of the glass.
“These are all good nines,” he said. “Your Browning Hi-power, a little old but still a classic, your Beretta 92F, pricey but a great gun, your Heckler P9S, very pricey but the best; I can give you a deal on this one. And here’s your Smith 669 in stainless. A good piece, and under six hundred bucks.”
When Marlene made no move to handle any of the weapons, Arnolfini picked up the Smith and held it out to her.
“Try it. It’s real light.”
Marlene took it and let it dangle from her hand like a wet dish towel. “It’s a brick,” she said.
“It’s only twenty-six ounces empty,” replied Arnolfini. “Look, here’s something maybe you don’t get. The heavier the pistol, the easier the recoil. For a woman that’s something to think about.”
Falsely Accused Page 17
