Robert Tanenbaum - No Lesser Plea

The famous newscaster came on and said, “Sanford Bloom, just appointed to the post of New York District Attorney, replacing Francis Phillip Garrahy, dead tonight of a heart attack at the age of seventy-three. It’s the end of an era for criminal justice in New York, at a time when most Americans feel that crime is their most important concern. In Washington today, the president asked for …”

Karp snapped off the sound. He felt Marlene’s hand on his arm. He looked down at her. His face was contorted with grief and miserable with unshed tears. She tried to lead him out of the store. He moved stumblingly, like a mourner being tugged away from a grave. She held tightly to his hand as they walked in silence. Finally, she said, “Butch, he was an old man …”

He turned facing her, pulling away, his eyes blazing. “I know he was old, Marlene. You don’t have to tell me he was old. Guy that old should be sitting on the beach in Florida, playing with grandchildren. But, oh no! Butch couldn’t do without his fucking hero. He had to keep him around one more term. And it killed him.”

“Come on, Butch …”

“No, it’s true. I am a total piece of shit.”

“No, you are not a total piece of shit. What you are is a self-centered, perfectionist, workaholic asshole with a tendency to overdramatize. I’m sorry he’s dead, too, but he was an old man, and old men also die on the beach in Florida. He died with his boots on, and that was the kind of person he was anyway. And he didn’t have any grandchildren.

“OK, you convinced him to run. He was a grown-up. He knew how to call a doctor and get a physical. You want to mourn him? Fine. God knows he’s worth mourning for. But make sure it’s him you’re mourning and not something to do with your self-image and the failure of your little schemes.”

“Thank you, Marlene, dear. That was quite a little speech. I’m glad I can count on you for support …”

“SHIT!” Marlene yelled at the top of her voice. “You won’t listen and you won’t stop! You’re not thinking about Garrahy. You’re just thinking about yourself and your fucking guilt. Now snap out of it! Get drunk or go to church or take me home and pull my pants off, but stop this goddamned whining. ”

“Hey, I didn’t start this fight,” said Karp weakly.

“FIGHT! You think this is a fight? This isn’t a fight. This is a fight.” With that she slammed her fist into him just above the belt buckle. Then she dropped her shoulder bag to the pavement, snapped into a fighter’s crouch and started to pound him with quick, sharp punches in the midsection.

Karp was driven back against a building, shielding himself with his forearms. “Hey, damn it, stop it, Marlene! Cut it out! I mean it, cut it out!”

But she kept at it, bobbing and weaving, ducking her head, landing punches. “Come on, you wanna fight? Come on, you big bastard, fight!”

A small crowd of half a dozen or so had gathered to watch. Somebody laughed and said, “Two bucks on the chick.”

Karp shouted, “OK, you asked for it,” and lashed out with his right, an openhanded blow to her head. To his amazement, she blocked with her left, ducked under the punch and threw a right cross to his mouth that rocked his head back and split his lip. He let out a yell and charged forward. He grabbed her at the shoulders and pulled her to him in a tight clinch. She was trying to work her arms up between them and break his hold, when something wet dropped on her face. She looked up and saw that Karp’s chin was covered with blood.

“Oh, Butch, you’re bleeding. Oh, no, I’m sorry. Oh, let me go, I’ll get you a hankie.”

She squirmed out of his grasp, picked up her bag, extracted a handkerchief and pressed it tenderly to his cut lip. “Please, don’t be mad at me, Butch. It just drives me crazy when you act all schmucky like that.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him. The crowd drifted away. The joker said, “I tol’ya. The chick by a TKO.”

Karp, still a bit stunned, wiped at his lip and chin. “That’s OK, Marlene. It was a little unexpected, that’s all.” He grinned bloodily. “I don’t intend to press charges for assault.”

“Thank God! I thought I was looking at six in the House of D.”

“Where did you learn to box like that?” Karp asked as they walked north again, holding hands.

“Oh, from my old man. We all used to watch the Friday night fights together, and then we would all roughhouse. Girls, boys, it didn’t make any difference, until the girls grew tits. Then we had to ref.”

“Smart daddy.”

“Yeah, really. But I guess it was the whole scene at home. My mom and dad are both really physical people, you know? Lots of hugs, kisses, and smacks in the head. They would get to fighting over something and start swinging punches. I mean he didn’t beat up on her or anything, they just used to whale away at each other in the kitchen or wherever. Then they used to cry and clean each other up and jump into bed and ball. It wasn’t scary or anything, the fighting, because we knew they loved each other a lot. Still do, in fact. I bet you think that’s pretty primitive, huh?”

“Not the jumping-into-bed part.”

“Ooh, goody. I’m hot as a pistol. Let’s take a cab.”

As Guma had predicted, it was a helluva wake. Flags flew at half-mast throughout the city as the mortal remains of Francis Garrahy lay in state for three days in a funeral home, guarded by spit-and-polished cops from the Emerald Society, while the great and famous and the ordinary people whose lives he had touched filed past. Then came the state funeral with its police bands, the eulogy by the governor himself, the tributes by anyone of any consequence connected to the criminal justice business, the City of New York, or Ireland.

They buried him on a sunny Saturday in June in Queens, the Borough of the Dead and the Might As Well Be, as they say in Manhattan. Karp went, as did the rest of the office, and did not cry. He was amazed to see Ray Guma wiping tears and blowing his nose like a bereaved widow.

On the Monday after Garrahy’s funeral, Sanford L. Bloom held his first senior staff meeting as district attorney. Karp’s name had been entered as an assistant bureau chief, in what was probably one of Garrahy’s last official acts, so he was on the list and he attended.

The nine bureau chiefs and their deputies took their places around the long oak table in the DA’s conference room. Conlin and Joe Lerner were up toward the head of the table next to the door to the new DA’s office. Conlin looked dyspeptic while Lerner looked nervous and uncomfortable. The other chiefs-all Garrahy’s men, some of whom had served him for decades-appeared similarly uncomfortable, like the leaders of a nation defeated in war, waiting upon the commander of the occupying forces.

Karp sat next to his new boss, Frank Gelb, whom he barely knew. Gelb was a quiet man, heavy set, balding, with a ginger mustache. As head of Criminal Courts, he had the most frustrating and thankless job in the justice system; after only a few months in the post he looked worn.

“What’s happening, Frank?” said Karp.

Gelb regarded him bleakly. “Damned if I know. They told me to show up, so I showed up. There’s no agenda. The rumor is, no reorganization, and he’s sticking with the bureau chiefs he’s got, for the time being. I guess this’ll be a pep talk, the great traditions of the New York DA’s office, et cetera. Shit, Garrahy’s not even cold. What is he going to do, tell the world the old man didn’t know what he was doing? On the other hand …”

“What, on the other hand?”

“Apparently, he’s been closeted with Conrad Wharton ever since the funeral. Also, I hear stirrings from my buddies in personnel and budget. There’s forty new attorney positions in the budget for the next fiscal year. I hear Conrad is carving out a little empire from those.”