Depraved Indifference (11 page)

In the lobby Karp got his first close look at the hijackers. The men seemed in good spirits, smiling and talking loudly to one another in a Slavic-sounding language. By contrast, the woman seemed tight-lipped and worn, her blond hair unwashed and pulled tightly back, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. As their guards took them into an elevator, Karp wondered why they were so laid back. Did they know something he didn't?

Spotting Pillman entering an elevator, he gave Rothman Pillman's office number, dashed forward, and got a shoulder in between the closing bronze doors. They stuttered back open and he stepped into the car. “Hello, Elmer,” he said cheerfully. “Looks like our idea worked.”

Pillman exhibited one of his large collection of scowls. “What're you doing here, Karp?”

“Fine, thanks, how're you? Well, why I'm here, Elmer, is to interview our suspects in this apparent case of first-degree murder, inform them of their constitutional rights, and take custody of them on behalf of the people.”

Pillman gave a noncommittal grunt. The elevator was crowded largely with FBI personnel, and he did not want to get into a public argument he was not sure of winning. The doors opened and Karp followed Pillman down the hall to his office.

A number of agents were waiting there for instructions from their boss. Like Pillman, they were all wearing casual clothes, this being Sunday. He talked to the men briefly, after which all of them left save one, a good-looking, freckled blond with a little mustache. Pillman turned to him and gestured in Karp's direction. “Joe, this is Mr. Karp from the New York DA. He wants to interview our prisoners. Karp, Joe Stepanovic. Joe is something of an expert on Croatian affairs, aren't you, Joe?”

“Good to meet you,” Karp said. “I assume you speak the language, yes? Well, if Mr. Pillman doesn't mind, we can use you as a translator. OK, here's my stenographer, let's get going.”

Pillman looked askance at Rothman, who had just shuffled in to the office. “Wait a minute, Karp, I can't just let you take this whole thing over. I have to get clearance. Right now you can take yourself and your stenographer the hell out of here. I'll let you know when you can start.”

“And when would that be?”

“How should I know? I told you, I have to make some calls.”

“Fine. Make your calls. Mr. Rothman and I will wait right here. By the way, to save you some time, should one of your calls be to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District, I happened to talk on the phone with Mr. Aleman this very morning just before he teed off at Easthampton with Mr. Bloom. He and Mr. Bloom agreed it was essential for me to depose the suspects at the first opportunity.”

Pillman stared at him pop-eyed, his normally pasty complexion enlivened by growing blotches of scarlet on either jowl. Without a word he went into his inner office. As the minutes passed, Karp idly spun the Rolodex on the secretary's desk. Stepanovic studied the benign face of the president on the wall. Rothman sat in a chair, his stenographic machine held primly on his lap.

When Pillman emerged, he was a new man. A thin-lipped smile split his face, but stopped short of his eyes. “Well, well, Karp, looks like you get to order anything in the store. You seem to be a well-connected and popular young man. Heh-heh.” He wasn't chuckling, he was just saying “heh-heh.”

Karp smiled his best false smile and tried to look well-connected and popular, two qualities he knew had always eluded him. “Thanks, Elmer. Glad to get any misunderstandings cleared up. So let's get to work. I think we should start with Karavitch. Lead on.”

The FBI kept a more civilized interrogation room than the ones in the Tombs or the typical precinct: a real oak table and oak chairs, no bare bulbs, and an American flag in the corner, so you could tell you weren't in communist Russia.

Rothman unlimbered his steno machine. Pillman and Karp sat at the table, and after a few minutes Stepanovic came back with Djordje Karavitch. The two men sat across from Karp and Pillman.

Karavitch looked tired. His cheeks were covered with gray stubble and his white shirt was grimy. Despite this, he carried himself well; his shoulders were squared and his eyes bright. He looked like a general— defeated perhaps, but still a general.

Karp took him in. Not nervous, even a little arrogant: a tough cookie. He began the formal ritual. He introduced himself and the others in the room. He explained Karavitch's rights under the law, including the right to remain silent and the right to have a lawyer present during questioning. He asked whether Karavitch understood, or whether he needed a translator.

At this the old man allowed himself a slight smile. “I speak English, Mr. Karp. I am a citizen of this country since 1955.” This was said genially, almost patronizingly. In Karp's experience, arrested suspects who began interviews this way were hard to nail, believing some personal quality or connection rendered them above the reach of the law. They usually cracked when they found out they weren't. Of course, Karp had to admit to himself, occasionally they really were.

“Fine,” he said. “Now, will you agree to waive your right to a lawyer and answer some questions at this time?”

“That would depend on the questions, would it not?” Karavitch asked. Once again a slight smile crossed his face, making the scar on his lip bounce.

“You may refuse to answer at any time, Mr. Karavitch. This is an entirely informal proceeding, although information taken down here may be used in more formal proceedings, such as arraignment or trial.”

“I see,” Karavitch said. “Then perhaps I can ask you a question in clarification, yes? Why is it that you are here, Mr. Karp? Have I broken the laws of New York? What is your charge? I am arrested, true? Our legal system says you must tell me the charge.”

A
very
tough cookie, Karp thought. “Surely, Mr. Karavitch, you must realize that there are a large number of serious charges that could be brought against you and your associates. Kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, theft—”

“But none of these were committed in New York. In New York all we did was get on a plane. We did not take over the plane until many miles away.”

“It doesn't matter, Mr. Karavitch. In such a case, the crime is assumed by law to have taken place at the point of origin of the journey.”

Again the smile. “If this is true, then still, it is from the borough Queens that the plane takes off. LaGuardia Airport is not in New York County, true?”

Karp felt himself growing angry. He was not supposed to be fencing with this bastard, especially not on the record. Karp glanced over at Pillman, who was struggling to retain an expression of innocence that would have seemed smarmy on an altarboy. Karp considered the possibility that Karavitch had in some way been coached. But no, there hadn't been time. The suspects had been taken directly to FBI headquarters from the airport. Besides, who would have coached them? And why?

Karp rearranged his face in a flat mask, and let a full minute of silence go by, while he counted the flecks in Karavitch's irises. There was no way he was going to lose control of this interrogation. “True,” he said. “Could you state your full name?”

With a series of piercingly brilliant questions, Karp got the suspect to admit his name, address, and occupation, and that he was involved politically with movements to liberate Croatia from the yoke of communism. He seemed willing to spout off about the miseries of the great Croatian people under communism until nightfall or until Rothman ran out of steno tape, but Karp cut him off.

“Right. We've established you're a great patriot, Mr. Karavitch. Now let's talk about the bomb you placed in locker number 139 in Grand Central Station on or before Friday, September 10, of this year.”

Karavitch stopped smiling. “I placed no bomb.”

“One of your associates, then?”

“No bomb. No one placed any bomb. We have hurt no one, no one!”

“Well, that's interesting to hear you deny that your bomb hurt anyone, Mr. Karavitch, since I don't recall suggesting it. And you're sure that none of your associates did, either? How come? Do you watch them every minute?”

“We are an army. We are under strict discipline.”

“Yes, and you're the general, right? You are responsible for what your, ah, troops do?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I'm glad we were able to establish that. Well, Mr. Karavitch, it turns out that there
was
a bomb in locker 139, and it exploded and killed a New York City policeman. Now, as you probably know, being so familiar with our legal system, the homicide of a police officer in line of duty is murder in the first degree. You and all of your associates are subject to such a charge, the most serious charge in our legal code. Mr. Karavitch, while I do not make any promises or guarantees whatsoever, it often happens that when people assist the law, the law is more inclined to treat their case favorably. Now, would you tell me please how you obtained the explosives and the other components of the bomb you left in locker 139 on or before September 10, 1976?”

The tick of the stenographic machine went on for a few seconds. Then the room was silent, save for the creaking of chairs and the whir of the ventilation system. All eyes were on Karavitch, who remained as still as stone, his face pale and unreadable. Then he turned to Stepanovic and said something in Croatian. Karp noted that his tone when speaking that language was different from the one he used when speaking English: harder, more like the bark of command. To Karp's horror, the FBI man answered in the same language, and Karavitch began to reply.

“Stop!” Karp shouted. “Damn, Pillman! What is this? You guys are lawyers. You know the damn translator can't engage in colloquy with a suspect on the record.” Pillman shrugged: “You can't get good help these days.” Karp turned to Stepanovic. “What did he say? And what did you say?”

“He said that he didn't want to—” Stepanovic began mildly, but Karp cut him off. “No interpretations, Stepanovic! Give it to me verbatim.”

The younger man flushed, then continued. “He said, ‘I do not want to answer his questions anymore.' And I said, ‘Do you want to have a lawyer present? Will you answer questions with a lawyer present?' Then he said, ‘Perhaps later. Right now I am feeling faint. I am an old—' Then you cut him off.”

Karp took a deep breath and continued in what he hoped was a level voice. “Thank you, Mr. Karavitch. You may go now. Please bring in Pavle Macek.” Pillman nodded at Stepanovic, who stood and went to the door. Following him, Karavitch looked about as faint as the Chrysler Building.

When they had left, Karp turned to Pillman and said, “What kind of stunt was that, Elmer? No, don't tell me. But if your boy tries that again, I'm out of here,
with
the prisoners. I'll get my own goddamn translator, you understand me?”

Pillman looked away, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You could get boring, Karp, you know that?”

Karp thought of a number of replies to this, but held his tongue as Stepanovic entered the room with Macek. The hijacker seemed excited. His lanky, thin hair was plastered to his scalp, and he stank of sweat.

The questioning began as before. Macek, it turned out, was also a citizen and needed no translator. He was also a Croatian patriot. He also knew nothing about any bomb. The hijacking was a demonstration, no one had been hurt. He resented the accusation that he had had anything to do with the killing of a policeman. He wanted a lawyer.

Cindy Wilson Karavitch identified herself, hid behind her sunglasses, and asked for a lawyer. End of session.

Vlatko Raditch spoke no English, but smiled a lot. He maintained he had boarded the plane as a lark with his buddy, Milo. He thought the whole thing was a joke. Bombs? What bombs? He didn't ask for a lawyer, but it was obvious to Karp that he needed a nanny.

The last interview was with Milo Rukovina. Karp regarded him hopefully: he had the look of a weak link. During the initial questions, with Stepanovic translating, he ducked his head and removed his thick spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped his forehead with a large, soiled handkerchief.

Karp spoke slowly and carefully, trying to control his frustration. He listened carefully to Rukovina's answers, hoping inanely that the grammar and vocabulary of Serbo-Croatian would spring miraculously into his head.

Karp read him his rights and then led him through a series of questions about the hijacking. Then he asked, almost casually, “Mr. Rukovina, who was responsible for assembling the bomb that you placed in locker 139 in Grand Central Station?” After this was translated, Rukovina shook his head violently from side to side, and a torrent of words poured from his mouth. “I am not, I was never responsible for the technique, for the technical details. I am the political theory, theoretician.” Stepanovic translated. “I have no knowledge in this area.”

Karp nodded, smiling, fixing Milo with his eyes. Then he said, very slowly, “Mr. Rukovina, who does have such knowledge?” Karp caught the “Gospodine Rukovinu—” and then Stepanovic was off with at least two dozen words, delivered rapid-fire in a low, even voice. Milo squeaked back a phrase, and then Stepanovic said something, and then Milo gasped out two words. Karp's fist crashed down on the table; Milo jumped like a rabbit.

“That's it! Mr. Rukovina, thank you. You may go now. Murray, mark the time and put away the machine. We're through. Let's have those transcribed first thing tomorrow morning, huh?”

Stepanovic left with Milo, and after packing his machine and tapes, so did Rothman. Pillman stood up, stretched, and yawned. “It's been fun, Karp. Now buzz off, I want to get home. Maybe I can still catch some of the game.”

“You total shit,” Karp said in an even voice. He stood up and loomed over Pillman. “I can't believe you would deliberately screw up an investigation. I can't fucking believe it. A cop got killed, and you're trying to queer the case.”