Robert Tanenbaum - Falsely Accused

“Okay, they were bent,” said Marlene. “They shook down gypsy cabbies and some of the poor bastards started to make waves. So they yanked some of these guys off the street to put a little fear into them, and ended up killing Ortiz and Valenzuela. So, the question is, how did they get the D.A. to cover them? What did they have on the D.A.?”

Clancy made a helpless gesture. “Hey, I’m not in on the whole story, Marlene. This I don’t know, but you got to figure, everybody needs money, right?”

“Oh, come on Joe! Sanford Bloom rolling over for a couple of hundred a week? The total of what they ripped off in a year wouldn’t pay the maintenance fees on his duplex. No, they caught him doing something real bad. In the spring of last year, around April, May. Anything ring a bell?”

Clancy shook his head. “Not a blessed thing, Marlene.”

“What about Stupenagel getting beat up?”

“The same-not a whisper. Of course, the kind of job I have, I wouldn’t hear much from the detectives. As far as seeing something? You got to understand, a patrol sergeant’s practically a railroad train. It’s a clockwork job-roll call, paperwork, make your beat tour, coffee from the same joint every night. It’s not hard to keep something from a patrol sergeant. In fact, you could say it’s a well-developed art.” He paused, smiling slightly at his joke. Then he said, “I wouldn’t put it past Jackson, though. Seaver, I don’t see him involved, in that or in any murders.”

“Why not?”

“Because the guy had a name as a candy ass. A bleeding heart. I mean, he might let Paulie do whatever, but he wouldn’t touch any rough stuff himself.”

Marlene nodded. This only confirmed her impression of John Seaver as a man without the cold-bloodedness necessary for violence. Ariadne’s story of Jackson shaking her down also supported that view; Jackson had used his hands, Seaver had stood by.

“So you think Jackson hanged those two kids by himself?”

“If they got hanged, Jackson could have done it. The guy’s strong as an ox. He could have cuffed the kids flat on the ground and then tied a shirt or a sheet around their necks and stood on a table or something, and then just hauled up. Was that how it was done?”

“Something like that.” Marlene felt no need to tell Clancy about the ankle abrasions Selig had found on both victims.

“What do you think will happen now?” asked Clancy, worry in his voice.

“What I guess is that once I.A.D. gets another look at those two autopsy reports and puts it together with the other information-and that story about the D.A. squad running a big investigation won’t hold up-then they’ll move to suspend Seaver and Jackson. Seaver will crack. He almost cracked with me, and I’m nobody. The state A.G. will suspend Bloom, or maybe he’ll be forced to resign, and then the merry show will begin.”

“You went to I.A.D. with this?” asked Clancy, his face growing tight.

“No, of course not,” said Marlene, growing somewhat stingy with the truth. “My sole concern is with Dr. Selig’s civil case. But clearly the cover-up led to the firing that’s the basis of the case. Once that comes into the open, the defendant’s case collapses totally.”

“And Selig wins big bucks.” Clancy uttered a rueful snort. “This is all about money, isn’t it? Just money.”

“Of course,” said Marlene, as innocently as she could contrive.

Jack Keegan looked smaller up on the stand than Karp remembered him being in his office. He still had the blocky, Irish good looks, the iron jaw, the big nose, and the bright silver wavy hair. Maybe everyone looked smaller on the stand. Or maybe it was what Keegan was doing up there that shrank him, at least in the eyes of his one-time disciple.

It was now what Karp estimated to be the last week of the trial. Spring had returned, signaled in the windowless courtroom by the flowering of light print dresses on the three female jurors and on the spectators, and by the absence of that close odor, compiled of steam heat and disinfectant, that permeates New York’s public buildings in the winter, and also by a certain quickening in the pace of the trial. After Selig’s long agony on the stand, in which, as Karp had predicted, the defense had asked him to account for every penny he had earned since his dismissal, to the end of demonstrating that being fired was the best thing that ever happened to the Selig bank account, the others called by the defense had been quickies: the crock doctor and a set of anti-character witnesses, of whom Jack Keegan was the best and last.

Gottkind put him through his paces through the late morning hours. Yes, Dr. Selig had been abrupt; he had been arrogant; he had often not returned phone calls. Your witness.

Karp rose. “Your Honor, it is five past twelve. I wonder if it would be convenient to break for lunch at this time, so as not to interrupt my cross-examination of this witness?”

It was fine with Craig. The defense did not object. The judge gaveled the adjournment and turned to converse with a clerk. The jury filed out and the courtroom filled with the familiar rattle of chatter. Karp walked over to Keegan, who stuck out his hand. Karp took it and looked into the older man’s eyes. They were almost of a height, Keegan somewhat shorter but bulkier, a football rather than a basketball guard.

“Come and talk to me for a minute, Jack,” said Karp.

Keegan nodded gravely and started to follow Karp out of the courtroom.

“Your Honor!” Gottkind was dancing in front of the presidium and waving his hand, like a third-grader asking leave to go pee. “Your Honor, I must protest. Plaintiff’s counsel is interfering with my witness.”

Craig looked up from his conversation, annoyance on his face. He focused his heron’s stare at Karp. “Mr. Karp?”

“Judge, Mr. Keegan is an old friend and colleague. I only wanted to have a few words with him, of a personal nature.”

“It’s irregular, Your Honor, and I will register a protest on the record.”

“That is your right, Mr. Gottkind,” said the judge dismissively. Amusement crept into the sharp blue eyes. “Mr. Karp, may we trust you not to suborn, bribe, or intimidate the witness during this colloquy?”

“I will not, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded and went back to his conversation. Karp led Keegan to a quiet corner. They traded compliments on how well each other looked, and chatted briefly about old friends. Keegan asked about Marlene, Karp asked about Mary Keegan. A nervous silence; then Karp said, “Damn it, Jack, what the hell are you doing up there?”

“They asked me,” said Keegan lightly. “Would I say that Murray Selig is an arrogant son of a bitch? Yeah, he is an arrogant son of a bitch.”

“So am I, Jack. So are you. So was Phil Garrahy, for that matter. It’s a character flaw of people who know what the hell they’re doing. But Selig wasn’t canned for being arrogant. He was canned because he ran afoul of one of Sandy Bloom’s dirty little schemes. And you’re up there giving credence to it. Why?”

Keegan’s face started to flush dangerously. “You said it right, Butch. You are an arrogant son of a bitch, and self-righteous with it. Sometimes you need to go along to get along-you still haven’t learned that, son. You’re growing a little long in the tooth to be an enfant terrible. ”

“It’s the judgeship, isn’t it?”

There was a long stare after this. Keegan dropped his eyes first and assumed an amused look. He held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Butch,” he said. Butch shook the proffered hand, convinced he had seen for an instant a flash of shame in Keegan’s eyes.

After the lunch break, Keegan took the stand.