But the worst call was from Arthur Bingham Roberts. John Evans had called Roberts that morning in a blind panic, with a story about how Karp knew all about the typewriter and the translator, and what should he do, what should he do? Roberts had told him to stonewall, and he was advising Bloom to do the same. There was no direct evidence proving collusion between defense and prosecution to obstruct justice by throwing the case. As long as they kept that in mind, and kept their heads, Karp could do nothing.
Good advice, but still hard for Bloom to take, since he knew there was direct evidence. He had just accumulated a few more feet of it while Roberts was talking. By the time Roberts had said good-bye, Bloom’s forehead was covered by a thin sheen of sweat. The first thing he did after hanging up the phone was to remove the tapes for the last two months from the locked cabinet where he kept them, shove them in his briefcase, and lock the briefcase. The next thing was to pick up the phone.
He needed somebody to fix this, and he was not a fixer. He preferred to stay above the messy fray, at what he called “the policy level.” When his secretary came on, he snapped, “Get me Wharton’s private line.” The phone rang twice before he realized what he was doing. Wharton wasn’t there, of course. Wharton was in jail on a sex charge. He slammed the receiver down. I’m losing my mind, he thought. This can’t be happening.
Rhoda Klepp. Rhoda was in on the whole thing. He remembered the three of them laughing about it over drinks—‘We just fucked Karp in the ass’—it must have been just last week. In fact, it had been her idea to bring Floyd in on it. They needed a dependable cop, as she put it, and she had gone to Floyd herself. Rhoda would know what to do.
He buzzed his secretary and told her to get Rhoda Klepp. While he waited, he played with a desk toy, a clear plastic box holding a substance that mimicked breaking surf when you rocked it. It was supposed to soothe. It hadn’t worked by the time the secretary rang back. Bloom dropped it like a hot iron and grabbed the phone. The secretary said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bloom. Ms. Klepp is on sick leave today.”
“Sick leave? Call her at home. I need to talk to her.”
“I did that, Mr. Bloom. Her mother is there with her. Apparently Ms. Klepp has had a, she said a kind of temporary breakdown. She’s, ah, heavily sedated.”
“Oh. Well, leave word I want to see her as soon as she’s back.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, while I have you on: Mr. Karp is here and wants a few minutes. He says it’s urgent.”
“No! Absolutely not. I can’t see him at all today. I’m booked solid.”
“Yes, sir, I told him that, but he was very insistent. He said if you couldn’t see him now, then you should be sure to watch ABC at seven tonight because they were going to break the, um, Yugoslavian typewriter story.”
“Oh. He said that? Well, OK, but just for five minutes.”
When Karp entered the big office, Bloom came around the desk with his hand out and his famous charming smile pumping out wattage.
“Butch! So glad to see you’re up and around. My God, were we worried when we heard! How are you feeling? Have a seat.”
Bloom ushered Karp to one of a set of comfortable leather club chairs arranged around a glass coffee table, and sat down in another.
“Coffee? No? Too early for a drink, ha-ha. Well, what can we do for you?”
Karp peered at him as at a museum specimen: genus Politician, species empty suit. He thought, how can a man be so phony and still process real food and air? At length he said, “It’s a legal problem—evidentiary law. I thought I’d consult with you before I did anything.”
“Sure. Glad to help. That’s what I’m here for, hah-hah. What is it?”
“Last week a police officer tried to palm off on me some evidence in the Karavitch case, evidence that was the result of unlawful collusion between the defense, in the person of the translator, Stefan Terzich, and the police. If I had accepted this tainted evidence, of course, it would have compromised our entire case. Luckily I did not. I have written statements from both the officer, Flanagan, and the translator, that confirms that the presentation of this evidence was part of a conscious plot to destroy our case and, incidentally, to ruin me.”
“Come now! Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
The tone of this remark was hearty, as usual, but Karp could see the tightness around Bloom’s eyes and the pearls of sweat on his upper lip. The man was frightened half to death.
“Yes, it did seem hard to believe. Who would want to do that? It was a real mystery, until last night, when someone placed on my desk additional evidence that established beyond doubt the identity of the person responsible for the collusion.”
“It did?”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you and Arthur Bingham Roberts conspired to concoct the taint and palm it off on me. Here’s the evidence.” Karp reached into his suit pocket, pulled out four cassette tapes, and placed them in front of Bloom on the coffee table. Bloom bent forward rigidly at the waist, his hands gripping the ends of the armrests, white-fíngered, the smile freezing into a rictus of terror.
“These are tapes of telephone conversations you had and recorded during the past two months. One of them has a conversation between you and Roberts that outlines the entire plot. Other conversations between you and some of your staff confirm it. They’re copies, of course. I suppose you still have the originals.”
Bloom darted a glance at his briefcase, then looked up at Karp. He cleared his throat, but his voice still croaked. “This was illegally obtained. You can’t use this in court.”
“Yes, I agree. Of course, given the statements I’ve taken down alluding to the involvement of your office and Roberts in this thing, there’s certainly probable cause to subpoena the originals.”
“It was Wharton’s idea.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, he worked it all out with Roberts. You don’t understand the kind of pressure we were under. You have no idea in the world. Important people are involved. Issues of national security.” Bloom stammered and flung his hands up in the air, as if to illustrate the futility of explaining how important it all was. “That man, Karavitch, he knows too much. It’s absolutely impossible for him to be allowed to go to open trial. Impossible. So we had to … so Wharton had to set it up. I knew it was wrong.”
“What did he know?”
“Who?”
“Karavitch. What did he know that was so important? Did they tell you?”
Bloom looked shocked. “No, God, no. It’s top secret. They said national security, I told you.”
“But I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Karavitch is actually a man named Josef Dreb, a Nazi war criminal, who murdered the real Karavitch and took his identity. During the war, not only did he kill Jews and other civilians, but he also murdered a number of Allied flyers. Despite that, he was recruited into the U.S. intelligence services by men that knew who he really was and most likely what he had done. It didn’t matter to them because it was, as you keep saying, national security. There’s other stuff, but that’s the nut of it. This whole thing has been about protecting those men. Your part was springing a Nazi mass murderer. That’s the national security angle. That’s why you compromised the integrity of the District Attorney’s office.”
“My God!” Bloom collapsed back in his chair and stared into space. He seemed to be deflating as Karp watched, like a rubber raft with a hole in it. Karp stood up. Bloom shook himself and said, “What! Where are you going?”
“Back to my office.”
“But—but, what are you going to do?”
“Do? Well, I’m going to continue to prosecute the Karavitch case, for one thing.”
“No, not that shit! About me—these tapes.”
“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”
“What do you want?” said Bloom, his eyes darting like frightened roaches.
“Wan
t? I don’t understand.” Karp stared at Bloom in silence, watching the expressions flicker over his sweaty face.
“I mean,” Bloom said at last, “I just thought that while you’re here, hah, we could discuss your career. Now that business about the bureau chief job, that was all Wharton’s doing. There’s no reason why we couldn’t put you right back there.”
“In the bureau chief slot?”
“I meant the assistant bureau chief slot. No, no, of course, the bureau chief. Needs some new blood in there, absolutely.”
“I agree. Well, that’s a pleasant surprise. And ah, speaking of Wharton, he’s been very resistant to getting Marlene Ciampi’s appeal for compensation approved. Maybe you could—”
“Of course, anything I can do—oh, no!” Bloom seemed genuinely stricken.
“What’s wrong?”
“We denied the appeal already. It’s out of our hands. I’ll have to go to Albany on that.”
“Well, whatever you can do. I have to go back down now. I have some interrogations scheduled.”
“Is that it?”
“Sure.”
“But … these tapes. What about the … you know.”
“What about them?” Karp said mildly. “I uncovered evidence of a serious crime and I turned it over to you. You’re the district attorney.”
“Christ on a crutch!” Marlene said. “I would’ve given anything to have seen his face when you said that—‘You’re the district attorney.’ He must of messed his pants.”
They were in Karp’s office, waiting for the cops to bring in the hijackers. Karp was in his swivel chair and Marlene was perched on the edge of the desk, smoking.
“I’m surprised you were so calm. You must have wanted to ream him up one side and down the other.”
“Yeah, but the game’s over and I won by twenty. It’s an old jock habit. Also, I’m pretty sure he bugs his office too. So I wanted to get on the record that there was no quid pro quo.”
“You think he understood that we kept another copy of the tapes?”
“God, yes! He’s not that stupid. He’s finished and he knows it. Next case.”
“Yeah. Want to go over our game plan one more time?”
“Sure.” He was looking at the poster of the young Karavitch still pinned to the wall. He continued to do so as Marlene went over the line of questioning she intended to pursue with Cindy Karavitch. There was something wrong with the poster. He had felt it every time he looked at the blank photo of the young man, the real Djordje Karavitch, dead these thirty years. Maybe.
“Hey, are you listening? I just asked you a question,” Marlene said peevishly. “Why are you staring at that poster?”
Karp turned around, his face lit with a grin of pure delight. “I just figured it out. Our shot from left field.”
21
A MONTH OR so in captivity had not done Cindy Wilson Karavitch any harm, Marlene thought, at least not physically. She had gained some weight, which had softened her features and given her a lush sensuality. You could get it, but not on the first date. Her body made even the dull jail uniform look good, and her shoulder-length blond hair was bright and pulled neatly back into a ponytail that made her look much younger than her thirty-five years.
She also seemed more relaxed than she had been when first captured. Jail agrees with some people, Marlene thought, or maybe it was just getting away from her husband and her boyfriend, a furlough from the sexual wars.
And she was a lot more relaxed than John Evans, who sat by her side across the broad table from Marlene, stiff, drawn, and twitching around the eyes. Marlene looked him in the eye. He did not meet her gaze for more than a second. A broken reed, she thought. If she brought out the thumb screws he might demur, but otherwise she was being given a free ride with this witness.
Marlene introduced herself and the stenographer at the far end of the table. Then she said, “Mrs. Karavitch, although I’m sure your lawyer has told you that you are not obliged to say anything to us, nothing prevents you from telling us anything you please. Also, you should know that in sentencing, the court may take into account the extent to which the defendant has cooperated in the interest of justice. This does not constitute a promise of leniency in exchange for information. I would also remind you that you cannot testify against your husband with respect to confidential, personal conversations had between the two of you. Is all that clear?”
The woman nodded, and Marlene continued. “Good. Now, Mrs. Karavitch—can I call you Cindy?—thank you. Cindy, I need to establish some background. You are now thirty-five years old and are employed as a clerk at Transistor Master, a TV and electronics repair shop owned by Pavle Macek?”
Cindy Karavitch had a low voice, only a little louder than a whisper. “Yes. Assistant manager really.”
“And you are a college graduate?”
“Yes. University of Montana. I majored in art. And cheerleading.” A nervous laugh.
“And you are originally from … ?”
“Montana. Near Helena. My dad ran a car wash near the university.”
“I see. Could you tell me briefly how you came to meet and marry Djordje Karavitch?”
“I met him in New York. I made a trip here after graduation to see the museums. There aren’t too many Impressionists in Montana, or anything else. We met in the Museum of Modern Art. I was looking at a Kandinsky, and he came up and asked me would I like to know where that picture came from. When I said yes, he began talking about the depths of the Slavic soul. I never heard anybody talk like that before. He took me for lunch to the members’ dining room on the top floor. I remember how impressed I was—a member!”
As Cindy talked she became more animated, as if in talking about her youth she was rekindling it. Marlene put in, “And this was when, please?”
“Twelve years ago. I was twenty-three. God, was I green!”
“And that would make him, what? Fifty-four?”
“Yes, but he didn’t look it. He looked fifteen years younger. Anyway, I was thrilled. Here was this sophisticated European man talking to me about art and literature, and about stuff I never heard of—history, politics, and Croatia. And he was taking me seriously. He would listen and nod when I talked, not that I talked very much. I just wanted to hear that voice roll over me. We stayed up half the night at this little café he took me to. All these people would come by and talk to him in foreign languages. You could see all the respect they had for him.
“I was knocked out, you know? My experience with men was limited to frat parties and drives in the pickup out to the rock quarry. He took me back to my hotel that night and kissed my hand. I about fell over. Not much hand kissing goes on in Helena.
“I saw him every day, all day, during my stay in the city. We went to museums, concerts, restaurants, everything. He bought me clothes and flowers. But most of all, I remember the talk. About the war, and Croatia, always Croatia, and his mission to liberate it, to make it great again, and all. I guess it, his mission, just thrilled me. It was like being in a movie—dramatic, like that.”
Marlene thought, the woman is gushing like a pump. It must be years since anybody’s let her get out two sentences in a row. She nodded amiably and made sympathetic noises as Cindy went on.
“Anyway, I went back to Helena, promising to write, but I didn’t think I’d ever see or hear from him again. Was I wrong! As soon as I got home, these letters started to arrive—long, beautiful letters. Also flowers and gifts. Well, my dad was really mad when he found out Djordje was near as old as him. Then he took a heart attack and died. He was only fifty-eight. After that there didn’t seem any point in staying around. I mean, my ma and I never got along. So Djordje sent me a ticket and I went back to New York, and we got married.”
“I see. That sounds really romantic. So did it work out? Has it been a happy marriage?”
Cindy frowned and looked hard at Marlene. “How come you want to know this stuff?”
“Just background, like I said. I’d like
to know how a cheerleader from Montana ended up helping a group of Croat terrorists hijack an airliner and kill a policeman.”
A flush appeared on Cindy’s face, and she looked toward Evans, who shrugged and mumbled something in her ear. She turned back to Marlene and said, “I don’t know anything about any policeman and we’re not terrorists.”
“Oh, no? What are you, then?”
“Freedom fighters. And my husband is a great national hero of Croatia. He was a hero in the war. He lives and breathes the straggle to liberate the Croatian people from the slavery of godless communism. And he’s been honored by the Catholic Church. And I’m proud to be a part of the straggle.”
“I see. So you’re proud of what you did, what your husband does?”
“Yes, I am. I’m completely committed to the armed straggle for a free Croatia under the leadership of Djordje Karavitch.”
Marlene noted that the woman had entirely changed during the past minute. The almost childish woman gushing about her youthful romance was gone. In her place was someone trying hard to be a tough revolutionary, a clone of Djordje Karavitch.
“Right. Cindy, does your husband have any scars on his body?”
“Scars. Yes. From war wounds. He was a hero in the war.”
“Does he have any tattoos?”
“No.”
“Does he have a scar under his right armpit, between two and three inches long?”
“Yes, he does. How did you know?”
“We’ll talk about that later. Let’s talk about your relationship. You obviously care about him very much.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Uh-huh. Even though he bats you around?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When did he start beating you up? He does beat you, doesn’t he?”
“Certainly not. Who told you that?”
Marlene sighed. “Nobody had to tell me, sister. I spend half my life with victims of domestic violence. You’ve got the look. But I guess I could find out easy enough—neighbors see a lot and they love to talk about stuff like that.”
Depraved Indifference Page 37
