Robert Tanenbaum - Counterplay

Newbury set the pieces down and left the room. But Guma and Murrow remained seated, obviously waiting for this moment alone. Karp raised his eyebrows and asked, “Yes?”

Guma cleared his throat. “I want you to do the Stavros trial with me.”

Karp looked from Guma to Murrow, from whom he expected an instant complaint. When one wasn’t forthcoming, Karp looked back at Guma and shook his head. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’re already taking a lot of flak and I don’t want to turn this into more of a circus than it already is.”

He suggested Murray Osborn, an aggressive young ADA who was starting to make a name for himself in the homicide bureau. “He’s a lot like you and me, back in the day.”

“He’s good and will get better,” Guma conceded. “But I’m asking you.”

Before Karp could say anything, Guma got a surprising vote from Murrow. “It’s a great idea,” Murrow said, getting up to pace the room with his thumbs hooked into his omnipresent vest. “We cast this as: ‘District Attorney leads by example, helps prosecute rich white guy for a murder committed fourteen years ago.’ I can see the billboard now. ‘Nowhere to go. No place to hide. Sooner or later, if you do the crime, you’re going to do the time with Roger “Butch” Karp.’” He sighed happily.

“What about all the political fallout you were worried about before?” Karp asked.

“We’ll take some hits,” Murrow conceded. “But we already have, and I don’t see how Rachman can make it any worse. Plus, I think we’ll make inroads with that part of the voting public that thinks rich white guys always get away with murder. And …this will also show the press that you’re not afraid to pursue a case-no matter who it is, or what the circumstances are-even though it will be obvious to them that you’re leaving yourself open to more attacks from Rachman and the loyal opposition. Best of all, despite Kane’s threats, the public will see that you’re not off hiding in some hole; you’re out there convicting murderers. This trial will mean daily exposure on the newscasts. The television stations won’t even have to give Rachman equal time because it will be in the normal course of your duties. This is just soooo sweet.”

“There’s a reason right there to stay out of this trial,” Karp said. “I wouldn’t want you turning this into a sideshow in the election campaign. Not to mention this is Guma’s case.”

“Sure, sure,” Murrow agreed. “I think that’s good. Guma does all the speaking to the press and you’re just helping out. It looks even better if you’re ‘just there to lend a hand to a colleague’ and avoiding grandstanding. Then the more Rachman criticizes your involvement, the more it will look like she’s blowing smoke and protecting a killer because of who he is in her party.”

“Look,” Karp shot back, “you wanting me to get involved in the risky biz of trying a high-profile case where the defendant could walk is totally counterintuitive coming from one bow-tied Gilbert Murrow. Moreover, we don’t try cases around here because it’s politically cool.”

Guma turned to Murrow and held up a hand. “Gilbert, would you mind if I talked to Mr. Clean here alone for a moment?”

Murrow clearly didn’t like it, but he left, closing the door behind him. They soon heard Mrs. Milquetost, who for some reason had adopted him as sort of a long lost son, cooing over him. She’d been known to bring him cookies she’d baked at home and had even brought one of her former husband’s bow ties as a gift when she noticed he favored them as a fashion statement.

“Why’s she so nice to Murrow?” Guma asked. “He boinkin’ little old ladies with Ariadne out of the country?”

“Maybe it’s because he comes off so well compared to you,” Karp suggested. “Cuddly, harmless gentleman as opposed to hairy, high-octane bull in the pasture. I’ve never understood why some little alarm bell doesn’t go off in the minds of women whenever they see you coming.”

“The only bells going off are the bells of ecstasy after a little time with Ray the Impaler,” Guma laughed. But the smile disappeared off his face as he sat forward and looked Karp in the eyes.

“I’ve been having a few minor glitches with my health lately,” he said. “Nothing major, but some days are better than others. I would hate to get into this trial with an inexperienced ADA and then have a couple of off days and have to leave it on his shoulders. Even if I was medically unable to go forward, and we could get the judge to declare a mistrial, we would be kissing Emil Stavros good-bye. The judge would simply continue his bond, and he’d skip the country even though we already froze his assets pending the trial. I got that court order based upon the submission that the dough was legitimately Zachary’s and looted from Teresa’s accounts. But he’s probably got plenty stashed somewhere, and I’ll bet it’s somewhere that we don’t have an extradition treaty with.”

“Then we’ll get one of the senior ADAs, or even a deputy chief, to be your co-counsel,” Karp said.

“You’re not getting it,” Guma said. “Look, it’s been a long time since you and I did one of these together…more than a decade…and, well, there won’t be many more chances.”

Karp scowled. “What kind of talk is that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Guma shook his head. “No. Like I said, someone cuts a few yards of your guts out of your body, it’s pretty hard to feel ‘normal.’ There’s a new normal. But as of my last checkup, I was still clean. But with the election coming up and another four years of getting the DAO back on track, you won’t have much time for trying cases with your old pal Goom. And I’m not sure how much longer I’ll keep practicing. Occasionally I get this instinctual Guinea urge to move to warmer climes, and I think about flying south to Miami to hang with the cousins, buy some big gold chains to hang around my neck, shave my back, get a tan, find some divorcee with…big assets…and settle down.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Karp said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Guma agreed. “In fact, I swear sometimes when I fall asleep at night, I can hear waves and smell suntan lotion warming up on a pair of thirty-six double-Ds. So let’s do this trial together, for old times’ sake. Come on, it will be fun.”

Karp sat still for a moment, staring at his old friend, lost in thought. Did I fall asleep and wake up twenty years later? It all does pass in a blink of the eye. So this is it, the swan song trial. He shook his head and said, “Wow. Okay, okay. It will be fun to be ringside with the Italian Stallion back in the ring for another title bout. I’ll be proud to be in your corner, kiddo.”

When they invited Murrow back in and told him, he’d practically skipped around the office. “This is great. Cold Case Detectives is the hottest show on television,” he chortled. “And people just eat this forensic files stuff up. What can I tell the press?”

The look from Karp sent him scurrying out of the office.

Kane stabbed for Samira Azzam’s chest. But she parried the blow with her Bantay-Kamay, or guardian hand, and then countered with a slicing backhand that narrowly missed his eyes.

“Careful, Samira, my love,” he hissed. “Wouldn’t want to ruin this fine work by Dr. Buchwald, now would we?” He dropped to a knee and slashed at her thigh, but she’d anticipated the move and spun backward, delivering a kick to the side of his head.

The blow was glancing but still enough to daze him for a moment, so his mind didn’t quite follow the classic Lipat-Palit technique of an unexpected flip of her knife from right hand to left. It left him open for the fatal blow, the point of her knife pressed against the carotid artery in his neck. She wanted to plunge the knife in and feel his hot red blood gush over her hand. But now is not the time, she reminded herself, and probably never would be unless the al Qaeda leaders tired of the insane infidel and allowed her to go forward with “the plan” without him.