Robert Tanenbaum - Fury

"Unfortunately, my mother did not survive the Revolution and was killed outside of Yekaterinburg. An even more embittered Yakov fought on heroically, received the Red Star-the Soviet equivalent of the U.S. Medal of Honor-and was promoted to colonel, both relatively rare occurrences for a Jew, even in Lenin's new world order."

Vladimir took a seat as he continued his story about how he'd joined the Red Army, too, and fought at Stalingrad against the Germans in 1940. "I met a beautiful woman, Katrina, who also delivered to me a son, Yvgeny here. But I was captured on the front a year later and sent to a slave labor camp. The war ended, but those of us who survived the camps, we learned we were considered traitors in our Mother Country and I was not allowed back in, or to send for my wife and son, who believed me to be dead."

So he had joined the masses of displaced people wandering Europe at the end of the war. The fact that he was also Jewish did not help. "But I got a job working for the Americans as an interpreter-it seems that me and my great-great-niece Lucy share a gift for languages. Through them, I was able to contact my Uncle Yusef who sponsored my entry into this country. I, too, arrived like so many before me and waited here-frightened, not knowing what to expect."

With the help of Yvgeny, the old man rose to his feet and began to walk to the far end of the hall. "I have walked this path many times since," he said. "But that is the one I will remember." They reached the end of the hall. "Because at the bottom of these stairs there is a smaller room, called the 'kissing post,' due to the fact that this is where families were reunited after their long trips. Waiting for me was your grandfather, Yusef. And waiting for you now is someone you want to meet."

"Why all of this?" Karp asked.

"Because this man you seek, if he goes with you tonight, he could very well lose the thing those of us who have immigrated here treasure the most…freedom," he said. "You spend your life putting bad men in prison, taking their freedom, and that is as it should be. But I wanted you to understand the sacrifice this man is making tonight."

Vladimir looked at his son. "At first, my son did not want to assist with this, though he is not as hard as he sometimes gives the impression. You may recall that it was a man with a Russian accent who told your reporter friend Ariadne Stupenagel about a certain meeting taking place at the Sagamore Hotel."

Karp glanced at Vladimir, who nodded his head slightly. "This was mostly a trade-off for Marlene's efforts to assist his half-brother, Alexis Michalik. But in the process he has learned a thing or two about the better attributes of the American justice system, which may not always be perfect, but in the end, it tends to balance itself out…thanks in large part to people like his cousin. So when it came time to talk to this man you seek about your needs at this trial to keep those monsters from profiting by what they did to that poor woman, you had an ally."

The old man led the way down the stairs. "But do not forget the efforts some people make to secure their freedom…even if they are not always the best of citizens. Isn't that right, Igor Kaminsky?"

A young, one-armed man stepped from the shadows. "I am ready to go with you, Mr. Karp," he said. "I ask only one thing before I am deported."

"What's that?" Karp said, wondering what deal he might have to strike.

"That I am allowed to testify against the man who murdered my brother. Jayshon Sykes."

Karp held out his hand. "You can count on it," he said as they shook.

The appearance of Igor Kaminsky didn't work out quite in the manner Karp had envisioned. Villalobos had cracked, as he hoped, and started blubbering about how "Sykes and his gang, the Bloods, forced me to confess. They were the ones who attacked the woman and raped her. I raped her after they were through."

Once again, the courtroom had turned into a circus of reporters rushing for the door and shouting questions as Klinger banged away helplessly with her gavel. Kaminsky stood and pointed at Sykes, shouting, "That's the bastard who killed my brother Ivan. I demand revenge!"

Sykes seized the moment to strike the distracted bailiff and take his gun. He turned and fired first at Villalobos, the bullet striking him between the eyes and spraying Judge Klinger with blood and brain. He next turned the gun toward Karp but was bumped by a panicked Hugh Louis, and the bullet instead struck the Times reporter Harriman in the stomach.

Stunned by the pandemonium of his own making, Karp stood still as Sykes re-aimed to shoot him. He was pulling the trigger when a bullet spun him around, knocking the weapon from his hand. He looked up and into the eyes of the shooter, Liz Tyler.

Tyler had secreted the gun in her purse that morning. The police officers who escorted her past the lines at the security screening had not even considered checking to see if she had a weapon. She'd intended to kill Sykes and then herself.

"Fuck you," Sykes screamed at her. "You shot me, you dumb…" He never finished the sentence as the next bullet caught him in the mouth and exited out the back of his skull.

Before the monster of her nightmares hit the floor, Tyler pumped two more rounds into his chest. "Liar," she said, and dropped the gun.

An hour later, Karp sat in the nearly empty courtroom still trying to sort it all out. Only Clay Fulton remained, mostly to keep him company. His thoughts were interrupted by someone behind him clearing her throat. He looked over his shoulder and saw Verene Fischer, the judge's clerk.

"How's Klinger?" he asked, not that he cared; she was part of the whole corrupt mess.

"They took her to the hospital and gave her a shot to calm her down, and the trial, what's left of it, has been postponed until the day after tomorrow."

"Okay, thanks," Karp said. He waited for the young woman to leave, but she remained standing behind him as if trying to decide what to do next.

"Yes? Is there something else?"

Fischer nodded. "Yes, there is." She handed him an envelope. "I think you've been trying to find what's inside," she said.

Karp opened it and pulled out a letter. Dated and stamped as received by the Kings County DAO was the letter from Kaminsky to Breman. He looked up at Fischer.

"Thank you," he said. "It took a lot of guts to give me this."

"You'll find the real letter in Judge Klinger's safe, if you can get a subpoena for it." The young woman turned to go.

"Wait, can I ask you why you're giving this to me now?" he said.

Fischer shrugged. "I guess I got tired of hiding."

"Hiding?"

"Yes," she said. "You see, Verene Fischer is not my real name. I changed my name ten years ago. My real name is Hannah Little."

Two days later, Marlene was getting ready to go to court to watch her husband's "grand finale," as he put it, though he wouldn't discuss the details. She was almost out the door when the telephone rang. Sighing, she picked it up.

"Marlene, oh, God, Marlene," her father sobbed.

"What is it this time, Dad?" she said. "Is she missing again?"

"No, Marlene," he cried, and began to sob and wouldn't speak.

Alarmed, Marlene shouted. "Dad, pull yourself together. What's happened? Is Mom all right?"

"No," he said in a voice that was almost a whine. "She's dead. I woke up this morning and she wasn't breathing. Oh, Marlene, please, come help me."

"Dad, are you sure?"

"Yes, oh, yes, her eyes are open, but she isn't breathing and she's…she's cold, Marlene."

"Dad, I'm on my way," she said. "It will be okay. Just go down to the living room and sit down."

Marlene arrived at her parents' home in record time. She rushed into the house and up to her parents' bedroom with her father trailing behind.