Robert Tanenbaum - No Lesser Plea

Karp looked at the nineteen year old across from him. He was a weasely faced, skinny kid with acne and bad teeth. As a junkie, at nineteen, he had a life expectancy of approximately three years-and looked it. He wore a Grateful Dead black T-shirt and tattered jeans and kept picking nervously at a scab on his forearm. His face was covered with bruises, his lip had stitches in it and a white bandage covered his left eye.

After introducing himself and Dooley, Karp said, “Alright, Mr. Goldstein, please tell us what happened in the Drug Center on the night of, let’s see … Saturday, February Twenty-eighth, Nineteen-seventy. Take your time. I want to hear the whole story.”

Goldstein began in a reedy voice that grew louder as he warmed to his tale. “See, we was all watching this movie on TV in the Rec Room. Tony says, ‘Fuck this shit, let’s get outa here. Who’s comin’?’ So we all said OK. Tony had this plan, an’ all. Before the show, fuckin’ guy rips off a fire extinguisher from the hallway by the bedrooms and stashes it in the can by the Rec Room.

“So we all go to the can. One by one, see. Tony gives me the fire extinguisher. Him an’ Willie got these pennies rolled up tight in paper in their hands. Victor goes out to where these two screws are sitting, you know, watchin’ TV, an’ says the toilet’s stopped up, shit all over the place, an’ all. So one of the screws comes in to check and I blast him inna face with the foam. He’s blind. Willie clocks him a couple of times and he goes down. Tony grabs his billy club an’ we all run out into the hall.

“OK, so Victor runs down the hall and gets another fire extinguisher. The other screw comes toward him, gonna bat him with his stick, but Victor blasts him inna face an’ Tony cold-cocks him with the stick he took offa the other screw. So he goes down.

“Then we run through the kitchen. There’s another screw there an’ he goes for his piece. Victor and me we both blast him with the foam inna face, same like before. Willie knocks his piece outta his hand with the stick an’ we run past him out to the foyer. The alarm’s ringin’, everybody’s yellin’ like a muthafucka, two more screws jump us. Me an’ Victor bust our way through and get out the door. Then two cars of pigs pull up an’ grab us.”

Goldstein stopped and Karp looked a sharp question at Pagano, who said, “Wait, the best is yet to come.”

Dooley lost it at this point, and bellowed at Goldstein, “You little shit! You beat up three guards, trying to escape, and you have the fucking nerve to press charges? You wish!”

“Hold on, Dooley,” Karp said. “Let’s hear the whole story first. Well, is that it, Mister Goldstein? You tried to escape, pounded on some guards, and picked up some lumps in return?”

“No, that ain’t all,” said Goldstein indignantly. “It’s the next day we’re complainin’ about. The next day!”

“What are you talking about?” Karp asked, more alert now.

“The next day. Two guards came into our cell and beat the living shit outta us. They handcuffed me and Victor and kicked us around the floor.” He pointed to his bandage. “They kicked my fuckin’ eye out, man.”

There was a moment of silence. Dooley cursed. “Those goddam assholes,” he said. Pagano added, “Ocha has three cracked ribs and a broken jaw, Martinez has a cracked vertebra, and Goldstein, as you see, has lost his eye.” He looked at Karp. “Well, Counselor, you going to take the case?”

Karp took a deep breath. “What do you think, Pagano, I’m going to bury this shit?” He turned to Dooley. “Hal, I’m going to write up the guards involved for felonious assault. Go up to the Drug Center and look around. Talk to the guards. See what kind of cover-up they’ve got going. Tom, I’ll get Goldstein’s story down on paper and signed and then get the statements of the others in the next couple of days, alright? Good. See you guys, I’m in court in about twenty seconds.”

Karp worked for the remainder of the afternoon with the knowledge that this might be one of his last days in the criminal court system. A grin kept breaking out on his face, so it was hard to maintain the correct prosecutorial mien, which was grim and full of righteous indignation. His last case involved Dickie Waver, an exhibitionist, a graying pleasant-faced little man who had been arrested twenty times before-and probably would be many times again-who enjoyed being arrested almost as much as he enjoyed showing his penis to schoolgirls. Another little psychological service of the criminal court system. The defendant pleaded guilty and was fined. Bang. Justice triumphed. But soon, soon, without Butch Karp.

He went back to his office, dumped his stuff. The phone rang. It was Lannie Kimple, secretary to Doyle Cheeseborough, the chief of the Criminal Courts Bureau and Karp’s immediate (and, he prayed, soon to be former) boss. Lannie was a thin, thirtyish lady who wore horn-rimmed glasses, and translucent blouses over plain slips. She wanted to marry a lawyer and wore a tiny gold cross around her neck to show her sincerity. “Butch, the boss wants to see you-now.”

“I’ve got something I’ve got to do. How late will he be there?”

“Uh-uh, he said now, and he’s all bent out of shape about something.”

“What else is new? Tell him I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

“Five minutes ain’t now, Butch.”

“For Crissakes, Lannie, I’m going to pee first, alright?”

There was a silence on the line; then Lannie said, “Five minutes,” and hung up.

True to his word, Karp went to the men’s room, relieved himself, then washed his hands and face. There were no paper towels; there rarely were. Karp dried himself with his pocket handkerchief, then smoothed his hair into place in front of the mirror with a damp hand. He examined the reflected face. He went through a repertoire of expressions. Stern-eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, lips compressed; sterner-eyes staring intensely, brows rolling in knots, jaw tight, lower lip bent under, tense, chin protruding; sternest-(maximum-time-bad-mutha-put-your-ass-in-jail-for-a-thousand-years) eyes popping from sockets, nostrils flared, lips in a snarl, teeth bared and grinding. “Is this the face of a HOMICIDE DA? said Karp, the words whistling through his clenched teeth, “ IS IT? IS IT? YOU BET YOUR ASS IT IS! You’ll talk, Rocky, you’ll talk. Your pal ratted on you, Rocky, it’s all over …” Then, a switch to Sincere-eyes large and almost brimming, face relaxed, big shit-eating smile. “Hi,” he said, in a passable imitation of Liberace, “my name is Karp. I’m with the Homicide Bureau. I’d just like to ask you a few questions. But first, are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? Cigarette? Sandwich? Coffee? A hit of smack? A piece of ass?”

Karp stopped suddenly with a jolt of panic. What if there was somebody in one of the booths listening to all this? He checked. All empty. He returned to the mirror, tightened his tie, put his official face on and left for the Criminal Court Bureau Chiefs Office.

This was not going to be pleasant, thought Karp. Doyle Cheeseborough was a twenty-nine-year veteran of the DA’s office. His tenure had given him dyspepsia, piles, and a rampaging intolerance for anyone who disagreed with him, or for anyone who differed from him in any aspect of philosophy, personal taste, or physical appearance. This intolerance included virtually all of the human race, but it was especially focused on minorities, Jews, tall people, and anybody at 10 °Centre Street who appeared to be having a good time.

Karp entered Cheeseborough’s outer office and nodded to Lannie Kimple.

“What happened, did you fall in?” she asked.

“No, it took me a while to coil it up. Cut the shit, Kimple, what’s this about?”