Escape (21 page)

Leaving the Breakfast Club members to their discussions, Karp walked south on West Broadway until he got to Chambers and then headed east toward the impressive array of buildings that made up Civic Center, City Hall, and Federal Plaza. His kids would have thought it corny, but he loved looking up and reading the inscriptions carved into their stone facades. The Federal Courthouse quoted a line from Thomas Jefferson's first inaugural address: "Equal and Exact Justice To All Men of Whatever Station, or Persuasion." Meanwhile, the inscription on City Hall affirmed that "The True Administration of Justice Is The Firmest Pillar of Good Government."

Karp wondered how many of the several hundred people now walking in the shadows of those buildings on their way to work that morning ever looked up at those inscriptions and believed in what they said. Most were probably too busy hoping the central air-conditioning was working right because the day was going to be another hot one. He turned left and walked swiftly north on Centre until reaching the park at Foley Square across from the Criminal Courts building. A knot of people had gathered in front of the building and were passing out protest signs.

A young boy and his mother, apparently on the way to school, walked in front of him. The child was wearing a New York Yankees cap and replica pinstripe jersey with the name "Jeter" stenciled on the back. It reminded Karp of how much he'd enjoyed this time of year when he was that age. Soon it would be September and the Yankees would be in the thick of a pennant race. But back then, the name he would have had on his jersey would have been Mantle or Maris.

Karp sighed for the days before terrorists blew themselves up for God in public places or rammed airplanes into buildings, the days before kids went on shooting rampages in their high schools. He knew that to say it was a more innocent time was clichéd and inaccurate, though. That era had had its own fears and problems, such as the ever-present threat of nuclear war, and Jim Crow laws. But for a kid from Brooklyn who loved his parents, his country, playing basketball, and the Yankees, in that order, it was a special childhood.

Karp looked up at the massive Criminal Courts building, with its four front towers of limestone and granite. It squatted in the very heart of what during the nineteenth century had been the notorious Five Points district, a disease-and crime-ridden slum where gangs like the Pug Uglies and the Bowery Bums preyed upon poor immigrants and helpless citizens. But they were gone, replaced by that monument to the legal system.

Glancing back down, Karp noted that the protesters were forming up. According to their signs, they represented NOF, the National Organization of Feminists, as well as several mental-health advocacy groups. They were there to protest the upcoming trial of Jessica Campbell, which had been set for early September.

"DA Hates Women," read one sign. "Kave Man Karp," stated another. Further down the row he saw "Help Not Hate" and "Free Jessica Campbell."

Using Dirty Warren's newsstand across the street for cover, he crossed. "Mother fucker shit ... Karp," the little man swore, taking off his thick glasses and trying futilely to clean them on his equally filthy apron. He nodded at the protesters. "Looks like ... ahhhh crap piss ... you're making new friends as usual."

"Morning Warren," Karp replied, buying a copy of the
Times.
"Yeah, looks like my popularity is soaring. So any good movie trivia?"

"Yeah, yeah ... whoo boy ... been saving this one," Warren said, the tic in his left eye causing him to wink several times in a row. "Son of a bitch ... it's got several parts though, and you have to get them all or I win."

"Okay, but does that mean that if I answer them all correctly, I've beaten you that many more times, or just once?" Karp asked. "Not that it matters, since I lost track somewhere around ten thousand for me and zero for you."

"Screw you, Karp." Dirty Warren shifted back and forth from one foot to the other like a little boy needing to use the restroom. "Okay, here goes. Everybody knows that in
The Wizard of Oz,
Frank Morgan played Professor Marvel AND the Wizard. But how many other parts did he play and what were they?"

The question wasn't very difficult for Karp. The Wizard of Oz had been a favorite of his, and he and his mother had seen it at least a dozen times. But he liked to lead Dirty Warren on. "Boy, this is going to be tough," he said. "Let's see. Professor Marvel. The Wizard. And ... hmmmm ... I believe there were three other roles ..."

Dirty Warren's grin turned into a frown. He pulled his stocking cap, which he wore no matter what the temperature was, down over his ears. A bead of sweat trickled down the bridge of his narrow, pointed nose, hesitated for a moment, then fell with a splat on a stack of newspapers. "You have to be exact, no partial answers."

"Let's see, in the Emerald City, he was also ... the cabbie who drove the Horse-of-a-Different-Color, the guard at the entrance to the Wizard's palace, and ... hmmmm ..."

"What, piss, shit, mother whore Christ on a stick?" Warren snarled. "And the doorman at the palace."

"Crap! Crap! Dammit Karp, if you spent half as much time putting scumbags in prison as you do reading movie trivia magazines, there'd be ... whoo boy, fuck me naked ... no crime in this goddamned city."

"Why, thank you, Warren. Good to know I can count on your vote in the next election." Then he saw a sly smile creep onto the news vendor's face. "Okay, Warren, where's the zinger?"

Dirty Warren hopped on a foot. "All right, wiseguy. Where'd they get the coat Morgan wore as Professor Marvel, and whose was it originally? And I want the full story or you're out of here."

Karp knitted his brow. There were many myths surrounding the making of
The Wizard of Oz,
such as that one of the male Munchkins hanged himself on the set after his amorous advances were rejected by a female Munchkin. According to legend, his dangling body could be seen in the film when Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Tin Man set off on the road to see the Wizard. The truth was that the dark, fuzzy image moving in the background was a real crane borrowed from the Los Angeles Zoo to help create a fantasyland, and the bird chose that moment to flap its wings. However, the story Dirty Warren was referring to was real.

"Now that's a really good question," Karp said.

"You bet your ass it is."

Karp let him enjoy his moment of anticipated triumph. There was such hope in those weak and watery blue eyes, he considered letting the man win one.
But that wouldn't be right.

It was too late to let him win anyway. Dirty Warren had seen the smile on Karp's face and knew that he was beaten again. "Lousy ... shit piss fuck ... cheater," he said.

"The coat came from a second-hand store where it was chosen by Morgan to be part of Professor Marvel's wardrobe."

"Oooh boy oooh boy," his opponent cried.

"And, this is the strange-but-true part," Karp continued, stretching out his answer to allow Dirty Warren to boil in oil a bit longer. "One day Morgan happened to look on the inside sleeve of the coat, and low and behold if he didn't discover the initials L. F. B. stitched there. The coat, it so happened, had originally been owned by ... drumroll please ..."

"Scratch my balls Jewboy ... whoo boy ... whoo boy."

"Not exactly the drum roll I had in mind, Warren, but it will do," Karp replied and then put the man out of his misery. "L. Frank Baum, the author of
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
The coat was even identified by the tailor who made it and verified by Baum's widow."

"You slimy toad-sucking whore," Dirty Warren howled. "You do this to torment me, Karp! Just once, I'd like to ... penis poop ... win!"

"Now Warren, you wouldn't want me to let you win. That wouldn't be ethical," Karp chided. "And on that note, better luck next time. I'm out of here."

"I hope they tear you a new one, asshole," Dirty Warren shouted after him.

Karp waved without turning back around. He'd chosen a moment when the apparent leaders of the protest were being interviewed for the morning news down the block from the entrance. He was almost to the door before one of the other protesters spotted him.

"There he is," she shrieked. At first her companions seemed confused, but they looked around to see where she was pointing and saw him. They yelled, enraged that they were missing their golden opportunity to get on television while accosting the district attorney. But he was through the door and into the lobby before they could catch up.

Kenny Katz was waiting by the elevator. "We still on for this morning?" Karp looked at his watch. "Yeah, the main meeting room in about fifteen minutes."

Mrs. Milquetost looked up from her desk when he walked in.
Damn, the woman must sleep here,
he thought.

"Your wife and the others are here," Milquetost sniffed. "She said they'd wait for you in the meeting room." Her tone implied that she felt the boss's wife was taking liberties.

Karp wasn't about to engage her on that subject, so he just nodded and said "Good morning, Darla." He started past her desk when he noticed a long-stemmed red rose in a vase next to her computer. "Don't tell me I've forgotten your birthday?"

Darla Milquetost looked at the rose and blushed. "Oh, that... it's from my friend Bill.... A young man delivered it this morning as I arrived at the door." Suddenly, she looked chagrined. "I'm sorry. He shouldn't have sent it to my place of business."

"Nonsense," Karp said. "It brightens up the room. And it's nice to see that someone appreciates a lovely woman." He lingered a moment to see if he could get his receptionist to turn the same shade as the rose.
Darla's got a boyfriend. Darla's got a boyfriend.
He hoped Ray Guma didn't find out or he'd be on her like a hyena scenting blood.

Mrs. Milquetost remembered something. "Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Mur-row is waiting for you in your office," she said. Gilbert Murrow was another of her favorites, and therefore she'd granted him access to Karp's office without question.

"Good morning, Gilbert," Karp said, entering the office. "What's up?" He knew perfectly well that Murrow wanted to talk about his appearing on the
Off the Hook Show,
but he was feeling ornery so he was going to make the man squirm.

Indeed, Murrow was already nervously fiddling with his bow tie. "Just hear me out on this," Murrow began. "I left you a message on this but the producer from the
Off the Hook Show
called and they'd like you to appear to discuss the Campbell case."

"No way in hell," Karp said calmly. "We don't try our cases on television." Murrow winced, but he wasn't about to stop. Karp had learned a long time ago that his aide had the tenacity and courage of a bulldog.

He would have to or no way would he last five minutes with Ariadne Stupenagel,
Karp thought. It was one of the great wonders of the world to him that his aide had taken up with the abrasive reporter. Personally, Karp had always had a love-hate relationship with the woman, made more challenging by the fact that she had been Marlene's college roommate. The two women were still good friends, and Karp had to admit that as journalists went, she was honest, ethical, and accurate—though not above stretching the truth—as well as fearless in pursuit of a story. She was also pretty good looking in a big, brassy sort of way.

Still, when Murrow started dating her, Karp had laughed it off, sure that such a mismatch couldn't last. For one thing, the woman was several inches taller and forty pounds heavier than Gilbert, who was bookish and given to classical music and quiet evenings at home. At least that's what Karp thought. Only lately had he learned that Murrow and Stupenagel were both fans of punk rock, Sinatra, and just about everything in between and around. Even more surprising was Murrow's assertion that Stupenagel was just as likely as he was to want to stay home and curl up at night with a good book and her "Murry."

"Yeah, I knew you'd say that, and hey, I agree wholeheartedly," Murrow replied. "But I was thinking that if you avoided—refused, I mean—talking about the details of the case and discussed more general questions about the legal definitions of insanity, it would be a good public service. I don't know if you saw those protesters outside, but there's a lot of misconceptions about the insanity defense."

Karp started to grouse that he didn't care about the protesters, but Mur-row, who could speak faster than any human being he'd ever heard outside of a rap artist, made one last pitch. "The producer said that Linda Lewis and Charlie Campbell have already agreed to do the show."

"All the more reason for me to avoid it," Karp responded. When it came to most defense lawyers, Karp had no major issues. He recognized that the system was set up in such a way that a defense attorney's job was to be an advocate for his or her clients and "zealously" protect their rights. However, some attorneys took "zealous" too far.

As far as he was concerned, Linda Lewis was one of those. She was perfectly comfortable using the media to sway the court of public opinion, as well as potential jurors. And Karp believed that like some other defense attorneys, Lewis used the "abuse excuse" disingenuously. Killing someone due to an imminent threat to one's life was self-defense plain and simple. However, he drew the line with those who planned a murder, sometimes for hours or days, or even weeks and months, and then carried it out. In his view, they could have gone to a safehouse or asked for police protection. The law simply did not, as far as he was concerned, allow someone to plan and then commit murder, even of abusive bullies.

It had not surprised him that Lewis had latched onto the Campbell case within hours of her "hospital arrest" at Bellevue. Nor was it unexpected that she'd immediately started launching media salvos denouncing the "insensitive male district attorney, who heads the male-dominated DAO." Of course, the "chauvinist pig would consider criminal charges against a woman who was obviously suffering from serious mental disease, literally wallowing in insanity." Apparently, not all men were cave-dwellers. At least initially, Lewis had lauded Jessica's husband, Charlie, for "his understanding and compassion in the midst of an enormous family tragedy" and for his promise to seek funding to combat "the hidden epidemic of postpartum depression" if elected to Congress.