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“Well…as I said, bullets can do some pretty remarkable things.”

“Remarkable, yes. Now I show you People's exhibit thirty-three. These are cross-sections of the paths the four bullets made into the asphalt of the parking lot. Will you tell the jury, after examining this display, which of the four bullets penetrated most deeply into the asphalt?”

Selwyn leaned forward and examined the exhibit on its easel. “Number seven.”

“Very good, number seven. And that's a function of its energy, correct? The more energy, the deeper the penetration, right?”

“Well, yes, if the density of the receiving material is the same.”

“True enough, and we had a city engineer do tests to establish just that, to show the jury that within the area in question the asphalt was essentially homogeneous, so that therefore you, as a ballistics expert, would have to attribute the difference in depth entirely to differences in projectile energy at impact, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now, Dr. Selwyn, a bullet must lose energy when it strikes an object, correct? Like my Spaldeen a moment ago, bouncing lower with each bounce?”

“Yes. But varying materials will—”

“Thank you. My next question is: Where did the energy come from that drove bullet number seven deeper into the ground than the others, which according to your testimony bounced off any number of solid objects?”

Selwyn licked his lips. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“No? You just testified under oath that bullet seven struck the victim while he was standing. According to you it then set up a bouncing shock wave, that forced the bullet in an entirely different direction, out the victim's back, and into the asphalt, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“So where did the necessary energy come from, the energy that is demanded by the immutable laws of physics?” Here Roland made a gallant effort to give his guy another second or two to think his way out of this, but the judge instantly overruled his objection as to relevance, and told the witness to answer.

“Bullet seven didn't hit any hard structures and therefore lost less energy.”

Snap goes the trap. “Didn't hit any hard structures, thank you. Then where did the energy come from that changed the course of the projectile, hm?”

“The bullet's own kinetic energy.”

“But, sir, you yourself just taught us that an object in motion tends to remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force, is that true?”

“Yes.”

“And according to you, this bullet was absolutely shot from Mr. Onabajo's body, having changed its path by one hundred or so degrees. Your hydrostatic rebound would have had to have added energy to the bullet for that to have happened, yet the only source of hydrostatic pressure came from the bullet itself, correct?”

“Yes, but it's more complicated—”

“Your theory of bullet seven violates one of the central theories of physics, does it not?”

“No, it—”

“The ball somehow has bounced higher rather than lower on the second bounce!”

“No, I—”

“You're a scientist, doctor. Isn't it true that it's a scientific precept always to go with the simpler of two explanations? Occam's razor I believe it's called.”

Selwyn mumbled in the affirmative.

“And isn't the simplest explanation for the condition and penetration of bullet number seven the fact that Mr. Onabajo was lying on his back helpless when Detective Gerber shot it through his gut?”

“No.”

“And confronted with this straightforward situation, you concocted a ballistic solution out of whole cloth to earn your pay from the defense?”

“No.”

“And one last thing, Dr. Selwyn—” here Karp swung around so he could eye the jury, “when you were studying physics in high school…did the dog ever eat your homework?”

Objection, roars of laughter, bang of gavel, remonstration from the bench, to which Karp replied, “My apologies, Your Honor, withdrawn. And nothing further.”

There was a silent pause after that when everyone looked at Roland, to see if he would attempt to repair his sweating and hapless witness on redirect, but Roland wisely declined, and the court recessed for lunch.

 

“You were terrific,” said Lucy as they walked away from the courtroom, ignoring the massed cameras and microphones lurking in the hallway, and the cries of the reporters. “I didn't think they allowed one-liners like that.”

“Technically, they don't. It just came to me and I let it out. Selwyn looked exactly like a kid I knew in junior high, not his face, but the expression on it, someone caught in a hopeless pathetic lie.”

“Will you get in trouble?”

“Not really. Higbee is pretty straitlaced and he'll probably call me into chambers and give me a mild spanking. On the other hand, he wasn't averse to seeing a lying witness embarrassed.”

“Why did Roland do it? I thought he was pretty good.”

“Roland is very good, but he's playing the hand another lawyer left him, which is always sticky. Klopper likes to use a lot of expert trickology, figuring the jury will lean toward the defense if there's enough confusion thrown up. Dueling experts? Hey, there's your reasonable doubt. Roland has a different style. He's going to want to put the jury in the shoes of the two cops. Dark night, fearsome criminal struggling for the officer's pistol, do you really want to second-guess two sworn officers? Would
you
have acted any differently?”

“But Onabajo wasn't a fearsome criminal. He sold fake Rolexes in Herald Square.”

Karp laughed. “Some people would consider that a death-qualified crime. But in Roland's summation he'll argue that they had the victim confused with a very bad guy, and when the man went for the cop's gun, their instinct took over. Of course, they regret it, he'll say, and also there's some doubt about the position of the victim in relation to the two guns, reasonable people can disagree, blah blah blah, let's call it a tragic confrontation and move on, which is why he decided to keep Selwyn's testimony. The subtext is, do you people really want some cop to get killed in a dark hallway because he's afraid of using his gun?”

“It won't work, though, right?”

“It might. Unless I can show that these are not the hero type of cops from Nine Eleven, but the cowardly, murdering-type cops from before. That means I have to impeach one of the cops, show they're telling a bold-faced lie up there on the stand. I have to show guilty knowledge and prevarication, which always trumps the tragic circumstances defense. To tell you the truth, it's driving me crazy, there's this gigantic hole in their story but I can't put my hand on it. It's like it's too obvious to be seen. Where are you taking me, by the way?”

“We're having a picnic in the park.”

“No kidding? To what do I owe? It's not my birthday, is it?”

“No, it's just that it occurred to me that it's summer and everyone is sort of lazing around except you, and also that when I was going to school in the city we used to spend a lot of time together, playing b-ball, and hanging out, and we hadn't done hardly anything together, so I thought, I'll just run down to the courthouse and get my father to eat a healthy and delicious lunch instead of a lump of grease
chozerai…”

“Oh, no, not
healthy…?”

“Yes, and it's all bought. All you have to do is enjoy.”

They walked a block or so to Columbus Park, behind the courthouse, and sat in a sycamore's shade, where Lucy had laid out a blanket and a Styrofoam box, and set her mastiff to insure nobody else ate it while she was gone. There was a salad with lumps of some sweet flesh in it, cold soba noodles with a spiced peanut sauce, a kind of iced tea in large, gaudily printed bottles, and a bloody sheep's thighbone, which was flung at the dog.

“Gosh, Luce, this is a meal fit for a king,” said Karp, “supposing the king was training for the triathlon. What is this?”

“It's abalone salad.”

“Is that like a bologna sandwich?”

“Almost,” she said, laughing, and they ate their lunch companionably, not talking much, while Karp tried to think of what good deeds he had done in order to deserve such a daughter, and as always came up blank. Lucy in the meantime was exercising her primary religious talent, which was not, as some might have thought, her ability to see apparitions of the saints, but rather simply keeping still and reflecting in peace and gratitude. This had a radiating effect on the other lunchers. The dog fell into a dream of chasing men, and Karp lapsed into a semitrance, during which he forgot for a few moments the details of
People v. Gerber & Nixon
.

“There's that guy again,” she said.

Karp snapped into full awareness. “What guy?”

“No, you can't see him anymore, he went behind a truck. But I'm sure it was him. I saw him on Spring Street watching G.C. play music. Then I saw him again when I went into the DA entrance. A big brown guy with a fringe beard, wearing workclothes. I'm sure he was watching me just now.”

Karp suppressed a tremor of fear. “Any idea who he is?”

“No, but I think I saw him going toward that work site at the back of the courthouse, on Baxter.”

“That would explain what he's doing around here. They're replacing all the ductwork and pulling in a new climate control, which is why you can smell lead in the courtrooms. How worried are you about this?”

“Not very. Actually, I was more worried about this other guy who was hanging around the kitchen. I told you about him already. I ran into him outside our place the other day. Apparently he knew where to find me and was looking for me. I gave him a wad of cash and took off.”

“Was that wise?”

She smiled at him. “Oh, you know me, the softest touch in the city. I give the most to the ones I can't stand.”

“Hello?”

“It's sort of a Catholic thing, Dad. Weird.”

“Indeed. You'll let me know if either of these guys bothers you again, okay?”

“Okay.”

“No,
really.”

“Really,” she said, almost meaning it.

 

When Paul Agnelli walks into Russo's, Marlene is finishing her second glass of wine. She looks meaningfully at her watch.

“I know I'm late, Mar, I got into a thing with a son of a bitch purveyor, Frascato Brothers, all of a sudden he wants cash on delivery, like we haven't been buying fucking lamb from them for thirty years.” She can smell the meat on his clothes. He still wears the greasy boots he wore at his shop.

Marlene tosses back the remains of her wine and signals for another round. They move to the dimness of a booth. “They're worried about you because of this thing?”

“Yeah, and fuck them all! All of a sudden I'm cancer in the business.”

“How's the trade been?”

A hand-waggling gesture. “A little off. People know me, they know it's horseshit; also, where they gonna go for my veal? But I need to get clear of this, you know? Soon.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, the reason I wanted to meet with you—were you aware that there's no rape kit on Cherry Newcombe?”

“There's not? They told me they had it.”

“Yeah, well, you know, the cops are not obligated to tell the whole truth to a suspect.”

“Well, fuck, that means she never got raped, the lying little cunt.”

“No, it doesn't mean that at all. The cops still have a semen match with you, like you told me, but it's not from a rape kit. I checked. It's from her clothes. Underpants, to be exact.”

“Like Clinton and what's-her-name.”

“Just like. So the question is the big one I asked you when I first took this on. Sexual partners. I have in fact spoken to Tina Farnese and Nellie Simms. They're both fairly active sexually, they recall you fondly, but I didn't get any inkling that they wanted to do you a bad, or would help someone who wanted to do you one. On the other one you told me about, Brandy or whoever…?”

“No way. I got out of bed right after and flushed the condom.”

“Then think harder, pal, because for some reason Terry Palmisano is after your Italian ass.”

Agnelli drinks wine, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and in a wounded tone says, “I thought as much as I can think about it, Marlene. I mean, give me a break! Besides the occasional old times' sake fuck with Karen, there was only those three, I swear on my mother's head.”

“The occasional
what?”

“You know, weekends, the kids? I go over the house, pick up Patsy and Jerry, I bring them back, and usually Karen cooks up something. I bring over a little meat, veal, sweetbreads, shanks, what's good that day. You remember Karen with the food, she's Martha fucking Stewart, Betty Crocker, whatever. So we sit around the table, eat, do a bottle of wine, get a little lit up, to tell the truth. It's civilized, you know? I figured it was good for the kids. Anyway, so we tuck them in, and then, what the fuck, you know, in the eyes of the Church we're still man and wife, so…”