Depraved Indifference (23 page)

“An innocent man. In a five-hundred-year war, Mr. Karp, believe me, the notion of innocence does not survive. In Yugoslavia we have a monument
honoring
the man who started the First World War, the greatest slaughter of innocents that history records. And failure does not matter, either. The Serbs failed for nearly five hundred years and won in the end. At what cost you can have no idea. You have an expression in this country for someone who habitually uses foul language: ‘He curses like a priest's son?' That cannot be right—”

“Curses like a preacher's kid,” Karp volunteered.

“Just so! Very colorful and very American. He curses like a preacher's kid. In Yugoslavia we say instead: ‘He curses like a Serb on a stake.' This is from the Turkish practice of impaling rebels on stakes. The sharpened pole is inserted between the victim's legs, up through the body cavity, and out just under the shoulder, the skilled impaler being careful not to hit any organs or blood vessels that would cause a quick death. Then the butt of the stake is stuck in the ground, and the condemned man is left to die in sight of all his friends and relatives, who, of course, are prohibited from helping him, on pain of suffering the same fate. Such a death can last for days. The expression I referred to tells enough about how our heroes of that time responded: they did not pray, or beg for mercy.

“But still, failure upon failure, the revolts did not stop. At Nis, south of Belgrade, the Turks built a tower ten meters high out of the heads of Serbian rebels. How many heads is that, I wonder? It would be an interesting calculation. And why did they rebel? So that they could have a flag and a king of their own? Not at all. Mr. Karp, do you know what a janissary is?”

“Some kind of soldiers, weren't they?”

“Not exactly. Imagine this, Mr. Karp. Imagine that you have a son, a beautiful, strong son. You nurture him, you teach him all you know, you love him more than your own life. At the age of nine he is the strongest and bravest and most intelligent boy in the village, the natural leader.

“Then, one day, the thing happens that you always knew would happen but are powerless to prevent. A squadron of Osmanli cavalry rides into the village. The spahis dismount and race through the houses, driving all before them with their whips. Holding back the villagers, they line up the boys of nine and ten. Their
beg
walks down the line, inspecting them like cattle. Of course, he picks your son, puts a collar around his neck, and drags him off to become a janissary, to be circumcised and converted to Islam, to fight for the sultan, to rule over provinces. A brilliant idea, actually. To strip the conquered people of their best stock and use these men as soldiers to keep the subjects pacified. Perhaps you will see your son again, as a proud man in a green turban, ordering your friends and relatives to be impaled. Can you imagine it? And this went on for five centuries.

“So when the Serbs finally got their own nation, they fought for it like demons. Serbia lost a higher proportion of its sons in the First World War than any other nation. In that war and in the two Balkan wars before it a third of the population perished.”

“And what about the Croats?” Karp asked.

“Ah, the Croats, our cousins. They were heroes, too, but of a different kind. They became cannon fodder for the Austrian Empire in its great struggle against the Ottomans. Perhaps we would be wearing turbans and speaking Turkish right now, Mr. Karp, had it not been for the brave Croats. The Germans kept them on a tight leash nevertheless. There is a monument in Zagreb that commemorates the execution, in 1573, of the Croat peasant rebel Matija Gubec. The Germans seated him on a red-hot throne and crowned him with a red-hot crown. A typically witty German response to the Croat desire for independence.

“And after the danger from the Turks was past, they remained useful to the Germans. Croat troops crushed the revolution of 1848 in Vienna. As a reward, the Germans gave their country to Hungary. Another witty comment. The Croats fought the Hungarians, though, and later they fought the Serbs for the Austrian empire during the First World War. Why not? Fighting was all they knew.

“And when at last, after so many centuries, the Slavs in the Balkans had a nation they could call their own, the Croats kept fighting against Yugoslavia. They did not want to share a nation with ignorant Serbians and dirty Bosnians. Perhaps they had learned too much about a certain kind of pride from living so long on the German leash. And perhaps they learned too much treachery from their German masters. So that they welcomed these masters when they returned in 1940 and crushed Yugoslavia. And then they had their precious Croatia, a fascist puppet state that the Nazis set up for them. And all the good Croat nationalists put on black uniforms and became
ustashi
, little Slav brothers of the S.S., and went out to massacre the Serbs, Jews, Moslems, and anyone else who polluted the precious soil of Croatia.

“The
ustashi
. I do not think we have time for me to tell you about these people and what they did in those years. Perhaps, if you have the opportunity, you can ask Djordje Karavitch.”

“Karavitch?”

“Yes. In 1940 he was one of the first to sign up. A great Croat leader in those days, believe me. Ah, Mr. Karp, I think someone is trying to attract your attention.”

Terzich pointed to the rear of the courtroom, where Marlene was making come-hither gestures. Karp got up and walked over to her. “What's happening?” he asked.

“It's OK. They're in the pens. A water main broke on Houston Street and the van from Riker's had to make a big detour. Look, I can't stay for this, I'm due to present to the grand jury in ten minutes. I'd like to talk to my witnesses before I go in.”

“No problem. Hey, let's do something tonight, dinner in the Village, movies?”

“Like real people? Oh, be still my heart! OK, meet you after work.”

Karp watched the big courtroom doors close behind her and then strode down the aisle to the prosecutor's table. In a few minutes the door connecting the courtroom to the holding cells opened, and the guards brought in the five hijackers. They marched over and sat down at the defendants' table, where they were joined by Terzich. The Croatian audience burst into cheers and clapping, which Judge Devine suppressed with vigorous poundings of his gavel. The clerk called the case.

“Are all parties ready?” Devine asked. Both Karp and Evans murmured that they were. “Will counsel waive formal reading of the charges?”

Evans stood up. “We will, Your Honor, and at this time we would like to interpose a plea of not guilty and make an argument for bail.”

“Go ahead.”

Evans cleared his throat. “Your Honor, I must confess that I fail to see the presumption under which these defendants were denied bail. Surely there is no question of these particular defendants appearing for trial. I would point out to you that they have no criminal records, that they all are employed, and that they have solid roots in their community. They enjoy the support of their community, the depth of which you can gauge yourself right here in your own courtroom. Fifty people at least have left their jobs and homes to come down here today. It strikes me as gross injustice to have people of this caliber languishing in jail for an incident that can be clearly traced to the incompetence of a group of police officers. Your Honor, we believe that setting these people at liberty on fifty thousand dollars' bail for each defendant is more than justified by the present circumstances.”

Evans sat down to murmurs and scattered applause. Devine banged his gavel angrily. “Another disturbance and I will order this courtroom cleared. Mr. Karp, do the People wish to be heard?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Karp, getting to his feet. “Counsel has asked for bail on the basis that the defendants have roots in the community. Certainly that is one premise for bail. But there is another condition: that is the nature and character of the crime itself, which counsel has seen fit to slough over. Let me address that omission. These well-rooted people hijacked an airliner and subjected over fifty innocent people to terror and torment. They planted a bomb that was specifically designed to explode in the face of anyone who tried to disarm it, a bomb that killed a young police officer who was attempting to do his sworn duty of protecting the people of this city. These crimes exhibit a callous disregard for human life and safety. That they were committed by well-established, educated people does not detract one whit from their heinousness. Indeed, it exacerbates it; it shows them to be not common criminals impulsively striking out for revenge or material gain, but malicious, merciless, and deadly conspirators.

“Moreover, I would call the court's attention to one salient fact: the last time the defendants had their freedom, they chose to hijack an airliner on a one-way journey to a country of refuge. Counsel may be prepared to bet that they will not do so again if freed, but the People are not. The defendants should be remanded with no bail, and we are prepared to try this case forthwith.”

Evans came out of his chair like a shot. “I expected this contentious bombast from someone with your reputation, Karp,” he said loudly. “This kind of cheap dramatics can only aggravate tensions in the community and lead to further violence.”

Karp looked at Evans as if seeing him for the first time. “I'm sorry, are you talking to me?” he asked mildly, and was rewarded by the deep flush that rose up the defense lawyer's pink cheeks.

The courtroom was filled with rumblings and shouts of anger. Devine flailed away with the gavel, and when he could make himself heard again, he said sternly, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Karp, you can exercise your wit on each other on your own time. I don't like private duels in my courtroom. Is that understood? Good. Bail is denied. Defendants are remanded until trial. Trial date is set six weeks from today.”

In the van going back to Riker's Island after the hearing, Karavitch observed the effect the judge's refusal of bail had produced in his colleagues. Macek stared at his handcuffs, as if willing them to disappear. He had not looked Karavitch in the eye since they left Paris. Rukovina was trying to explain to Raditch, without notable success, what had just happened in court. Milo, at least, was positively enjoying captivity. Being in jail convinced him that he was one with the Croat martyrs of old. They were a bunch of clowns, Karavitch thought. Except for him. And the woman, of course. Nobody could call her a clown.

Although they were in jail, Karavitch and his friends were far from forgotten. A torrent of mail had begun from the moment of their arrival, mail that included cakes, soups, locks of hair, plum brandy (confiscated) and enough religious material to outfit a seminary. The redoubtable Father Blic was a daily visitor. The man was in terror lest the federal government enter the case and start dredging up material from the war years. Only that week an elderly Lithuanian had lost a deportation appeal. He had been accused of working the night shift at Majdenek. Blic did not know the details of Karavitch's war record, but he could guess.

Karavitch would listen gravely to these appeals and counsel caution and patience. The last thing he wanted Blic to do was to stop the federal government from taking charge.

Today, however, on his return he had received a phone call from one much higher in the ranks of the church than Father Blic.

“It's me.”

“Yes, I recognize your voice,” Karavitch replied. “I observe that your influence does not extend to judges.”

“That was unavoidable. You didn't expect to be let off with a warning, did you? Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”

“Comfortable? I have been in worse places. It is like living in a barn, with animals.”

“It won't be for too much longer. Things are working.”

“Oh? What things?”

“Well, obviously, it's not something I care to discuss on the phone. In fact, it's best that you have no direct knowledge.”

“But, in general …”

“In general, there are certain flaws in the case against you. If we push at the right vulnerable points, it will collapse.”

“Yes? And this prosecutor, Karp, he will allow this to happen?”

“What he wants is irrelevant. We are working many levels above Karp. He is no longer a factor in the case.”

12

T
HEY LEFT THE
movie theater around eleven. The sky was pouring black ice onto the city. The film, a heartwarming French romance, had warmed their hearts as advertised, but their flesh was freezing. Neither Karp nor Marlene had an umbrella.

“We better stay at my place,” Karp said.

“I hate staying at your place. It's like sleeping in the morgue. I get up in the morning, I feel like I'm at my own wake.”

“Thanks a lot, Marlene. And after I went out and got you a TV—”

“Yeah, that TV. A fourteen-inch black-and-white from Sri Lanka, and you've been bringing it up for two years. Let me ask you, have you maybe purchased a table to put the TV on, or do I still have to balance it on my ankles lying in bed? And how about the fridge? This seems like a good night to suck on some instant iced tea. Really cozy. Besides, I've got to get to work tomorrow, which means I've got to go back to my place, wash, feed the cats, change clothes, and fight traffic both ways. Which is going to be a Chinese whorehouse tomorrow with this weather. No thanks.” She rooted around in her oversize bag and extracted a crumpled package of Marlboros.

“Marlene, why are you being like this?”

“Like what, Butch? It's a pain in the ass, that's all.” She looked up from under the shelter of the marquee. “Looks like it might be letting up. Let's walk over to Sixth. We can start walking downtown. Maybe we can pick up a gypsy cab.” She strode off, puffing blobs of white smoke like a switch engine. He sighed and followed her, moving carefully over the rain-slick paving.

At the corner of Waverly and Sixth Avenue, she produced a piercing whistle between two fingers, then a stream of violent curses when the yellow taxi failed to stop. He touched her arm and said, “Marlene, it's one-way north here. These guys are all going back to the barns.”