Absolute Rage (35 page)

“What I mean is, the guy takes home eighty-two five per year. He paid cash for a sixty-grand car, and since he got into robes, he's bought hundreds of acres of property plus a twenty-room house. How are they getting him the money?”

Newbury wore an incredulous look. “You want me to initiate a prosecution against a county judge for taking bribes?”

“No, of course not. I just want the goods on him. I want enough documentation to knock him out of the box. Look, these guys are crude. They've been screwing this county so long that they've almost forgotten it's illegal. It won't be multiple anonymous transactions via Nauru and Liechtenstein. It might even be actual big cash deposits, naked. All I need are bank records, or sources of funds if they used noncash transfers.”

“Why not go to the state on this?”

“Too long to get them moving, too political. I don't know who we can trust. The governor agrees.”

Newbury nodded. “I see. And our legal basis would be . . . ?”

“Our long friendship. Come on, V.T., think up a plausible entry. You're a fed, aren't you?”

“Well, yes, your federal government, where the Fourth Amendment is just a slogan. Still . . .” Newbury looked off to the side, seemingly studying the poster of the dying Hollywood gangster. Karp waited confidently as his friend's remarkable brain ticked away.

“Robbens County,” Newbury said after a minute of this. “Where have I heard that name recently?”

“The murders maybe? There was some coverage . . .”

“No, murder is of little interest to us here in the white-collar world. Whacking is so blue-collar. Of course, now that the Russians and the Viets are getting involved, this may change, but . . . no, I'm positive it was more recently, the other day, I think. Some report . . .”

He flicked through a set of vertical files and pulled out a slim sheaf of papers, scanned them briefly. “Yeah, here it is. This is about the methamphetamine production and distribution system in the Northeast, and it looks like your Robbens County produces a good deal of crank. Do you think that might be the source of some of Judge Murdoch's extra disposable income? Say yes.”

“Yes,” said Karp.

“Well, then on the basis of a knowledgeable and anonymous informant, I feel justified in adding Judge Murdoch as a subject of the investigation we're currently running on meth-gang money laundering.”

“And about time, too. How long before you know something?”

“If they're as dumb as you say? A day or two.”

“That fast?”

V.T. gestured to the
Little Caesar
poster. “It's part of the wonder of RICO. The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act is the neatest thing to come along since they closed down the Star Chamber. We practically have general warrants to fish and fish around anyone named until we find something. Your judge is a gimme if he ever used the banking system. We could make toast out of Learned Hand.”

*  *  *

Karp walked north through Foley Square, keeping as much as possible in the shade of the tall buildings. He passed 100 Centre Street, easily resisting the impulse to drop in and see what was going on. He passed the Tombs and spared a thought for what it must be like to be imprisoned without air-conditioning, without even a fan, in this oppressive heat. Sympathy, but even more bafflement. Despite all the years he had spent in criminal justice, Karp had never developed a workable psychology of crime. Okay, you had your lunatics, but most of these slobs were rational actors. They thought risking
that
horror was actually worth some marginal gain, so they broke into buildings, stole cars, passed bad checks, stuck guns in ribs. Many of his colleagues, Karp knew, thought that the criminals didn't mind jail and prison, that it was a rite of passage for lower-class youth of a certain stripe: no big, as they said. Karp didn't believe that. He believed that criminals were able to suppress in their minds the inevitability of punishment, as we all suppress the other
inevitability,
quite successfully, for most of our lives. For jail
was
inevitable. Virtually no one did just one crime. Crime
inevitably
became habitual, and sooner or later Leviathan would notice and chomp! Into the stinking, sweating cages. Helped along by cops and such as Karp.

He crossed through Chinatown. Everyone, it seemed, was out on the street, except those in the sweatshops, literally sweating today no doubt, just like the jailbirds, although these had committed no crime except being born poor in Asia. He passed vent fans that blew out air only a little hotter than that filling the narrow streets. Did South Asians suffer as much from the heat or was that racism? He passed little groups of men in T-shirts or wife-beater undershirts, with rags knotted around their heads, all smoking. The breath from the doorways was scented with boiling rice, anise, venerable greases. Crosby Street was less crowded. Here it was almost entirely industrial, except for his building, which had been converted to residential lofts. There was also one sad Chinese brothel and gambling den, his neighbor.

The loft was breathless as a tomb, oven warm. Quickly he gathered clothing, filled two large suitcases, called a cab. He stripped, took a brief shower, dressed again in fresh clothes. He had the cab take him to Penn Station, where he caught the Metroliner to D.C. He fell asleep somewhere in New Jersey and slept until Baltimore. From Union Station, he cabbed out to National Airport, to the general aviation terminal. The West Virginia King Air waited on the apron. Inside was Governor Orne and a party of state bureaucrats and legislators. Karp took a seat in the rear of the plane, attracting some inquiring looks but no conversation.

Shortly after takeoff, the governor came aft and sat down next to him.

“How'd it go with your pal?”

“Fine,” Karp said. “The fix is in. Have you got a replacement in mind? I mean, assuming Murdoch agrees to go quietly.”

“Oh, he'll go. He may whine a little, but he'll resign. Bill Murdoch doesn't want to go anywhere near prison, and he knows I'll stick him in Mt. Olive, and not in any of the country clubs we got now. Cheryl tells me you got suspects.”

“We do.” Karp laid out briefly who they were and the case against them.

“Good. I want Floyd, though, and I want Weames. I don't want to leave this with a bunch of pathetic hillbillies taking the fall.”

“We're in agreement then.”

“I thought we would be. As far as a replacement, I have a man I think will do fine. He's retired from the state supreme court, name of Bledsoe.”

“Retired?”

“Well, he's old but he can run me into the ground. The thing about him is he don't scare. Speaking of which, I hear you might run into some trouble actually arresting these fellas.”

“Wade's been making noises like that. He seems to want to avoid a Waco situation.”

“So do I. I don't have the manpower or the budget for a siege. If it comes to that, we'll have to bring the feds in, and avoiding that was the whole point of this exercise. I realize Hendricks is in charge of the police work, but I'm looking for you to provide the subtle angles. Wade sometimes lacks subtlety, and he's got no sense of resources. He's a get-the-job-done kind of fella. Hell, that's one of the reasons I came to Washington this trip. I think our LEAA grant's going to be cut, and God knows where I'll find the money to keep your operation going. So speed . . . you know? If you can manage it, I sure would appreciate getting this behind us as soon as possible.”

“We could just grab them and hang them.”

The governor looked startled, then laughed. “Bite your tongue, son. We don't have a death penalty in this state. We can't afford one, tell the truth. I'm counting on you for—what did we used to call it?—all deliberate speed.”

*  *  *

The FedEx package from V.T. took a week to arrive, during which time Karp had essentially nothing to do: deliberate speed indeed. Marlene went to New York for a meeting of her foundation board and returned to find Karp in a lounger by the pool at the lodge, picking through papers.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah, Judge Murdoch's ticket to retirement. How was your trip?”

“Sure are a lot of people in New York, and those tall buildings. When are you going to use that?”

“Now.”

“Will you change out of your bathing suit?”

“Yes, this is a pinstripe occasion. I've always wanted to fire a judge.”

T
HE PRESS LOVED IT
. W
EST
Virginia does not ordinarily generate a lot of news aside from car wrecks, so that the local TV stations and newspapers seized upon the doings in naughty Robbens County like the castaway upon his coconut. The results of this interest shone from the screen in the living room of the Karps' cabin at Four Oaks, the evening after Judge William Murdoch announced his retirement for reasons of health. The team—Hendricks, Hawes, Cheryl Oggert—had gathered to watch with Karp and Marlene.

“Oh, we have a logo!” Oggert exclaimed. “The great PR nightmare. I never had a logo before.”

“Mazel tov!” said Karp, and smiled at her. The logo, floating above the sculpted hair of the anchorpersons at WOWK (Huntington-Charleston), consisted of three red skulls and crossbones, superimposed over a stylized drag-line, under the caption (with the sort of gore-dripping letters associated with B horror movies) “Blood on the Coal.” The coverage started with a look at a crime-scene photo, the bloodstained bed in the Heeneys' bedroom, ten seconds of the funeral, with inset photographs of the three victims, a shot of Moses Welch being arrested, then one of him being released. A shot of Hawes eating crow and announcing the expectation of new arrests, some excited blather from the anchor, then stock footage of Murdoch as a state senator, with a coda showing him with wife and kids, giving ten seconds of resignation speech. He had health problems and wanted to spend more time with his family. Knowing comments from the anchors, suggesting otherwise.

After that, a round of applause in the room, as their own Cheryl faced the press on-screen, announcing the appointment of Justice Honus Ray Bledsoe, late of the state supreme court, to fill Judge Murdoch's shoes until a new election could be arranged. A still photo of that jurist appeared over the anchor's right shoulder.

“What a face!” crowed Marlene. “He looks like an engraving on a Confederate twenty.”

There was indeed something stern and nineteenth century about the man, the bristling eyebrows, the grim, lipless slash of the mouth, the odd peaks that decorated the spare, bony face. Then the image was gone, replaced by an inserted talking head, a political reporter standing in front of the state capitol. What does Charleston make of this, Barbara? Barbara allowed as how Charleston was all agog. Murdoch was not just a county judge, it seemed; he'd served three terms in the senate and had plenty of powerful allies. He was known as a good friend of big coal. Rumors of corruption? No plans for any prosecution? Not now, according to sources. Connection with the triple murder and the union troubles in Robbens? Too early to say, Jim. Jim gave us all a sincere smile, and the scene dissolved to a car crash involving a truck and a family car and the miraculous escape of a baby thrown from the latter. But first this.

Karp muted the set as the commercial came on. He looked at Hawes. “You know this Bledsoe guy, Stan?”

“Only by rep. Vinegary but fair is what I hear. He's from around here originally.”

“Everyone's from around here originally,” said Karp. “I'm surprised it doesn't have the population of Brooklyn. Meanwhile, I think you all did real good, defined as keeping my name out of the news.”

“Don't think they didn't ask,” said Oggert. “The print guys, especially. The story is you're a technical consultant to Stan here. The
Charleston Gazette
is doing a feature on the crime-fighting Karps. I told them no interviews.”

“You told them right,” said Karp. “Wade, can we pick up these guys anytime we want?”

Hendricks waited his usual couple of beats before answering, his face knotting around the mouth, pursing, unpursing, lower-lip chewing, a half frown, cheeks sucking in, then releasing. “Well, I have some fellas generally keeping an eye out for them, but I don't have the resources for a twenty-four-seven tail on all four of the suspects. Floyd is no problem. He's in the union offices every day and he lives right outside of town. The Cade boys are another story. First of all, they can't hardly be followed up onto that mountain. Burnt Peak I mean. Once they're up there, there's a million ways they can get off it, and there's no traffic and no concealment for a following car. Unless you want them to know?”

Hendricks saw Karp make a negative gesture and went on, “If we can pick them up in town, that'd be good. If we have to go up the mountain . . .” He made a shaking gesture with his hand, stuck out his lip consideringly, shrugged.

“You think they'd resist?”

“They might. Ben Cade swore the last time that he wouldn't let the law touch him or his again. He don't believe in the state of West Virginia much.”

Hawes said, “I'm a little tired of hearing that. What's wrong with going up and getting them? You've got enough cops.”

Karp thought, wrong move, Stan, but said nothing.

Hendricks gave Hawes a considering look, not hostile, but not interested, either. He did the business with his face again; those muscles seemed to be linked to his thought centers. “Have you ever been up there on Burnt Peak where those Cades live?”

Hawes indicated he had not.

“Burnt Peak,” said Hendricks reflectively. “I been there. You come up off the county road onto a dirt switchback that climbs up the face of the mountain through big outcrops of greasy shale. That whole mountain is pretty well coaled out. What they live in is the remains of the old coal patch, plus they got some newer double-wide trailers. They had to take 'em apart to get them up there. Any one of them switch-backs, three men with automatic rifles and dynamite could hold up an army. Well, maybe not a real army, but let's say the whole of the West Virginia State Police. I guess there's eighty or so living up there, a little more'n half of them men, all Cades. Got a nice spring and a big diesel generator. They never took the public power when it came in 'round the Depression. Old Devil Rance said he wouldn't have it, and he didn't need it, 'cause he had all the old plant from the Canker Run coal mine. No phones either. Anyway, the compound, or village I guess you could call it, is built on a big shelf that trails off into a bunch of hollers all full of laurel. They got some fields they cleared, but nothing much, mostly vegetables and some cows and hogs. Ben likes to have animals around, is what I hear. It makes it more Old Testament for him, flocks and herds. It would take a month to climb up through those hollers, if no one was shooting at you, that is, which I guess they would be, if they didn't want you up there. Which generally they don't. I won't even mention the dogs, big packs of vicious dogs they keep, let 'em run wild in the woods. Over on the back, that's the northwest side of the mountain, you got the leavings of the first strip mine in the county. That whole section is chewed away. It looks like a stairway, with each step maybe four hundred feet high, and a lake at the bottom. You could get up there if you were mountaineers.”