4
Butch Karp winced as he stepped up onto the curb at the corner of Grand and Mercer. The physical therapist at the hospital had suggested that he use a cane as he worked his wounded leg back into shape, but he was damned if he was going to hobble around Manhattan like an old man. Instead, he forced himself to walk without support, and as normally as possible, so that he wouldn't develop a limp.
He was making good progress, too, except for the occasional misstep that reminded him that a piece of metal had passed through his thigh at a tremendous rate of speed. It will take time, he reminded himself as he straightened and resumed his stroll down the sidewalk at what he considered a respectable clip for having been shot three times.
A second bullet had hit him in the chest, but he'd lucked out and the 9 mm bullet was deflected by a rib and so only nicked a lung before passing out of his back. It broke two ribs, and he might have bled to death if not for the quick reactions of his wife and a passing stranger. But once the bleeding was stopped, the danger had passed.
However, the third bullet was a killer. Almost…as in close only counts in horseshoes, dancing, and hand grenades. The bullet that hit him in the chest spun him so that the next bullet entered the back of his neck. It should have killed him-pierced his skull right where it met the brain stem and shut off the lights before he even hit the ground. But X-rays revealed that the bullet had miraculously stopped just short of doing any real damage.
No one-not the police investigators, not the emergency room surgeons who thought that they'd seen it all-could explain why the bullet stopped. At that range, a 9 mm could have passed through a two-by-four. In fact, several other rounds that missed him took out tennis-ball-sized chunks from the marble facade of the Criminal Courts Building.
"The bullet probably didn't get the right charge at the factory," Clay Fulton said, and shrugged. "Or maybe you tensed your muscles at the perfect moment…I heard there's guys in the circus who can do that."
"Bullshit!"
"Probably," the detective agreed, then gave him a meaningful look. "Or maybe it was a God thing. Maybe the Man upstairs wasn't ready to see your sorry ass."
"Maybe so," Karp replied with a smile.
That the bullet stopped short was the good news. The bad news was that it came to rest against the vertebrae and a major artery to his brain. Several surgeons had been consulted and he'd been offered two options.
Removing it was risky. The slightest slip of the scalpel or too much pressure on the bullet, and he could end up paralyzed or dead. Leaving it in was the other possibility; the hope would be that scar tissue would build up around the bullet and hold it in place. However, a blow to the back of his neck, an awkward fall, or even a sudden jerk of his head could shove the bullet against the artery and cause a stroke that could kill him.
After talking it over with Marlene, Karp had opted for the surgery. He just couldn't stand the thought of some evil piece of metal beneath his skin. Or the idea that some everyday event-even playing basketball with his two boys-could kill him. He would have to limit what he did, and that just wasn't in him.
Karp had gone into surgery wondering if he would wake up paralyzed, or wake up at all. He tried not to worry his kids or wife. "This is nothing," he growled when their faces grew long and tears welled in their eyes in the pre-op room. "See you in a few hours." But when he was wheeled away to the operating room, he wished he'd said something more memorable for his last words to his family. However, the surgery went well, and he'd come out of it knowing that his wife was holding his hand even before he opened his eyes and saw the expectant, hopeful faces of their three children, Lucy, Zak, and Giancarlo.
Not that someone had waved a magic wand and he was suddenly all better. During the first couple of weeks of recuperation, it felt like someone was poking him in the neck with a red-hot piece of iron. Now it didn't hurt as much, even when he felt for the lump of the ugly purple scar just beneath the hairline. But at times he wondered if he'd ever get strength back in his leg, or stop feeling-especially late at night-the trajectory of bullets through his body.
Still, he'd accepted that what he did now about his injuries was up to him. He'd had plenty of experience with the process of rehabilitation, including when he was a highly recruited basketball player at the University of California, Berkeley and a freak fall destroyed the ligaments in his knee. The injury ended his dreams of a pro career, but it had taught him how to mentally, as well as physically, recover from a devastating injury and move on with his life.
Moving on was the toughest part. With his wife threatening to finish the bullet's job if he got within shouting distance of the Criminal Courts Building-ever since the little traitor Murrow gave me up, he thought-he'd had to find other ways to occupy his time and use up some of his prodigious energy.
After he was released from the hospital, the doctors had set him up with a physical therapist who'd put him on a regime of light lifting to strengthen the injured muscles and frequent massages to keep the scar tissue broken up, and encouraged him to "just get out and walk." So he'd gotten in the habit of taking a long walk every morning, often joined by Father Jim Sunderland, the Catholic priest who'd put pressure on his wounds as he lay bleeding on the sidewalk.
It was Sunderland's voice that had stuck in his head, reminding him that he had unfinished business. Then one day when he was still in the hospital, Sunderland had come by to see how he was doing. Karp had thought the name was familiar, but it took the sight of the priest's collar to put it together. Sunderland had angered his church and the U.S. government as a vocal antiwar activist during the Vietnam conflict; he'd also popped up in the civil rights movement, linking arms with the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. in Mississippi to face the fire hoses, German shepherds, and the Ku Klux Klan. Time and again over the next forty years, if there was a war, he tried to stop it; if there was an injustice, he spoke out against it. His liberal ideology had often brought him into conflict with the conservative hierarchy of his church, as well as the Christian Right in general, and only his popularity with the masses kept him from formal censure. Most recently, he'd been organizing New York Catholics against the war in Iraq.
If they'd met in other circumstances, Karp might have dismissed him as a publicity seeker. Even now he didn't agree with all of the man's politics. But he found him to be sincere and committed in his beliefs. He respected that, and as a private individual, not the strident public activist, the priest was warm and caring, with a delightful and wicked sense of humor. He could also defend his positions on their legal and ethical-as opposed to emotional-merits as well as any law professor. In fact, to Karp's surprise, he had been a practicing attorney before "as Timothy Leary suggested to me in the sixties, I 'turned on, tuned in, and dropped out' of the rat race and became a Jesuit."
After Karp got out of the hospital, Sunderland had called to see if he wanted to go for a walk, and they'd spent several mornings wandering around Chinatown or Little Italy or Soho or the Village. Both men found in each other a worthy opponent and would become so wrapped up in their debates and conversations that they would walk for many blocks without paying attention to where they were going, until they looked up and had to figure out where they were.
As they strolled, they discussed a wide variety of topics, such as the death penalty. Sunderland, of course, opposed it on moral grounds. However, his opposition wasn't just a blanket "Thou shalt not kill," or even that state-sponsored executions were still cold-blooded murders that debased the society that perpetuated them. There was also no evidence, he argued, that the death penalty acted as a deterrent to other murderers.
By and large, Karp agreed that the death penalty was ineffective for those reasons, as well as costing the taxpayers "a bloody fortune" to prosecute and then defend on appeal. However, his opposition had a caveat. "There are times when the crime is so heinous, the perpetrator so depraved that society has the right to seek retribution by casting this evil from the circle of humanity," he argued.
"Oh really?" the priest said. "'Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then be not too eager to deal out death in the name of justice, fearing for your own safety. Even the wise cannot see all ends.'"
"Was that out of the Bible, I don't seem to remember the citation," Karp asked.
Sunderland laughed. "No, actually, I was quoting from The Lord of the Rings. But I think that even evil men may play out roles that neither they nor we can foresee may, without their choosing, work out for the good."
Over such discussions, the two had quickly become friends, and Karp looked forward to each encounter. That morning, Sunderland called and suggested that Karp join him and a small group of his friends-"all of us retired or semiretired with nothing better to do than discuss the great issues of the day; some might call them 'bitch sessions'"-for breakfast at a bustling little Tribeca cafe called Kitchenette.
"Even if the company is wretched, you'll love the peach and blueberry pancakes smothered in real maple syrup and washed down with Saxbys French Roast, which just so happens to be the finest coffee in the land," the priest added. "Or my current favorite, the 'Farmhouse' breakfast of eggs and bacon and the piece de resistance, a huge, warm biscuit absolutely dripping with homemade strawberry butter. Anyway, we're commemorating an anniversary there this morning and you might find the conversation of interest."
"Really? And what anniversary is that?" Karp asked.
"Why, it's October 29, the black day in history when Sir Walter Raleigh was executed," Sunderland replied. "I'd have thought that a constitutional scholar such as yourself would be well aware of such an important date."
Karp chuckled. Every law student had the date drilled into his head at one time or another. The injustices of Raleigh's trial had been the fertile soil from which many of the U.S. Constitution's most important protections had sprung. "But of course," he replied. "It's just that the mention of the pancakes has driven all thought of history from my mind."
Throwing on a light jacket against the chill of the October air, he'd quickly left the loft and headed west on Grand Street past the Soho art galleries and, after the minor twinge at Mercer, continued to West Broadway where he turned left and headed south.
Although he'd never been to Kitchenette, Karp had heard of it as a locals' meeting place. Sunderland said that whenever the weather allowed, his friends liked to sit at the tables outside to discuss politics, the arts, "and pretty girls," while they ate what passed for down-home cooking in Manhattan. On less temperate days, the worthies crowded into the cafe to sit at tables crammed into the long, narrow corridor of the interior.
Even with the nip in the air, it was a beautiful fall day in New York City. The leaves had long since changed color and, except for a few stragglers, had fallen to the ground, but the skies were a bright blue and the air fresh with breezes blowing east from the nearby Hudson River. And really, the temperature was quite pleasant in the sun, which was what he spotted Sunderland enjoying as he approached the cafe.
After shaking Karp's hand, Sunderland led him over to a table where a group of older men were engaged in lively debate. Although Sunderland had not told him who they were meeting, Karp had figured that they would likely be an unusual group. He was not disappointed, identifying several of them as distinguished members of the legal profession.
The first face he recognized was that of a tall, lean, almost-to-the-point-of-gaunt man whose long silver hair was tied back in a ponytail like some aging hippy. He had looked quite a bit different the last time Karp had seen him, but there was no mistaking the deep-set probing eyes of Frank Plaut, a former federal judge with the Second Circuit Court of Appeals.
Karp was impressed. Plaut was considered one of the finest constitutional minds of his and many other generations. The New York DAO's appeals bureau chief-Harry "Hotspur" Kipman, a friend who Karp also regarded as one of the best legal scholars he'd ever met-worshipped the jurist. And Karp had argued several cases before him and learned, once or twice the hard way, to be on his toes when citing precedent or making an argument before Plaut.
By all accounts, Plaut had been destined for a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. But for reasons known only to himself, he had one day stepped down from the bench and accepted a position teaching constitutional law at Columbia University. Now here he sat presiding over coffee and what appeared to be waffles at a Tribeca cafe.
Karp also recognized a second man as a former U.S. attorney for Manhattan, Dennis Hall. He was a conservatives' darling and a regular commentator on Fox, but he was not a poorly researched, mindless TV talking head. His arguments were always reasoned and based upon a strict interpretation of the Constitution.
Seated next to him was his legal opposite, Murray Epstein, a ferocious defense attorney who'd terrorized many an assistant district attorney of the New York DAO. The man could have made a living as a Shakespearean actor with his flair for language and dramatic gestures, but he was no empty suit. Epstein knew the law inside and out, and as a defender of the liberal camp of constitutional law, he'd argued, and won, his share of cases before the U.S. Supreme Court.
Some of Epstein's battles with Karp's mentor, the longtime New York City DA Francis Garrahy, were the stuff of legend at the DAO. And he'd even put a much younger Butch Karp through his paces a time or two; in fact, he'd nearly won what had appeared to be a slam-dunk homicide case for the prosecution. Karp's bacon had been pulled from the fire only because Garrahy insisted on meticulous preparation and, conveniently, because the truth was on his side.
Karp didn't recognize the other men at the table. But if the company they kept hadn't already identified them as formidable thinkers, their conversation as Sunderland and Karp walked up certainly did.
"I still contend that the biggest impact of Raleigh's trial on U.S. constitutional law was the right to a fair and impartial hearing before a judge and a jury of one's peers," Hall argued.
"Humbug," Epstein replied. "The nut of this was the right to confront witnesses and present evidence."
"What good would it have done Raleigh to cross-examine Cobham and present his letter if the judges and juries were still predetermined to find him guilty?" a short man who looked somewhat like Albert Einstein asked.
"It was damned unfair," a heavyset man agreed. "Even Raleigh's judges and jurors recognized that-if somewhat too late. On his deathbed, Justice Gawdy said, 'The justice of England was never so depraved and injured as the condemnation of Sir Walter Raleigh.' And some members of the jury knelt before him and begged his forgiveness."
"I read that his widow kept his preserved head in a cupboard, which she would trot out to show visitors," said an effete-looking gentleman whose voice and mannerisms reminded Karp of Truman Capote. He obviously found the macabre more fascinating than the constitutional questions.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, we digress from our topic," Plaut interrupted. "Today on the black anniversary, we were to stick to the impact of Raleigh's trial on the confrontation clause of the Sixth Amendment and how it applies, if at all, to the pretrial publicity surrounding the rape charges brought against members of the Duke University lacrosse team."
The admonition seemed to get the others' attention, but it was soon diverted again when a buxom fortysomething waitress with a lip ring arrived to take their order.
"Hey, babe," Epstein growled, wiggling his eyebrows, "if I told you that you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" The others cackled at the old joke and sat expectantly awaiting her response.
Which was to roll her eyes and reply with a heavy Queens accent, "Not on your life, Murray. You'd probably have a heart attack and the cops would arrest me for moider."
"I'd sign a waiver for you, Marjorie," Epstein replied.
Marjorie the waitress was about to respond when she noted that the men had all stopped looking at her to watch a leggy model type in tight jeans walk past on the sidewalk to their appreciative wolf whistles.
"Hey, so what
did I become, chopped liver?" Marjorie complained in mock seriousness. "I swear the minute I turn my back on youse guys, you're ogling some anorexic teenager with a bad dye job."
"Turn your back on us," the Albert Einstein look-alike replied, "and you can bet our eyes will be on you. That's one nice can you got there, sister."
"That's better," the waitress sniffed. "For a moment there, I thought you might all leave me for some floozy with a pair of plastic tits."
"As the old saying goes, 'Who cares if they're fake,'" Epstein said.
"That's an old saying? I think the copyright on it is a lot younger than any of you," she scoffed.
"Oh, so now you're a lawyer," Hall quipped.
"Well, I don't lie or cheat, so that rules out that career," Marjorie shot back. "Now, shall I call your wives and tell them to cut back on the vitamin E? Youse guys are getting a little too frisky, and you might fall and break a hip or something."
The men laughed and applauded the waitress's sauce and pleaded for mercy. That's when they noticed Karp and Sunderland standing to the side, enjoying the repartee, and waved them over.
"Ah, gentlemen, look what our good priest has brought us," Epstein said, clapping. "The district attorney of New York, Butch Karp. Have a seat, have a seat."
"So, Mr. District Attorney, did you overhear our topic of discussion on this auspicious occasion?" Hall asked.
"I did," Karp replied.
"Well, then, would you care to weigh in?" Epstein asked, shooting the others a sly glance.
The way the others suddenly grew rapt with attention gave Karp the impression that he was not so much being asked to weigh in as he was being weighed. Taking a seat, he joined the fray. "Well, prosecutors should do their talking in court. It's not advisable to engage in press conferences or encounter-type give-and-takes with the media. Just proceed in an orderly and fair fashion."
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