Robert Tanenbaum - Resolved

"I've suspended her and she's going to resign."

"You read the investigative report I had the DA squad prepare?"

"Yes. It's incredibly shocking. I had no idea she was involved with a witness."

"Uh-huh, well, the problem is that it was a lot more than being involved with a witness."

"Honestly, I didn't even know Terry was gay," said Rachman, and added, with a rueful laugh, "not that there's anything wrong with that." Karp had observed that there was a class of people who did not register negative information and instead filled the air with non sequitur comments, as here. He said, "I assume you read the Q and A we did on Karen Agnelli."

"Yes, and obviously we've dropped the case. I personally called the husband to apologize. He doesn't sound like he's going to sue, thank God."

"Now, focus on this, Laura," said Karp in a more demanding tone. "It has nothing to do with lesbian passion and nothing to do with the husband or lawsuits. It has to do with only one thing: an attorney in this office has knowingly submitted false evidence in a criminal case and wittingly accepted perjured testimony. It's not a question of her resigning; I want her disbarred and I want her in prison. And I want you personally to prepare the case against her."

"Me? Wouldn't that be a felony bureau case?"

"I don't care about the bureaucratic partitions. It's your mess and you have to clean it up. Next, I've scheduled a press conference for seven-thirty tomorrow morning. In it I will break the story of how an innocent man was framed with the connivance of the district attorney's office. I will introduce you and you will stand up there and endure public humiliation as you explain every detail of this miserable farce. I expect the headlines will read 'Gay Love Nest Corrupts Rape Bureau at DA.' "

Rachman opened her mouth to say something, but Karp shook his head and drove on.

"Next, you will dismiss the case against Dr. Kevin Hirsch, which I'm sure you realize is a pile of horseshit, even without the now suspect involvement of Terry Palmisano."

"Oh, I see we're letting off all the white boys today."

"Only those who haven't done anything. You know, one of the things that breaks the liberal heart is that people who've been oppressed for however many centuries, when they escape from oppression it never occurs to them to say, 'Hey, being oppressed is bad, so let's not do any oppression.' No, they pile on to whoever's available with both boots. Isn't that sad and wonderful? But we're not going to do oppression around here. No one's going to use this office to get even. Now, you have patently wasted prosecutorial time on two cases that I know about, in a city that is crawling with bona fide male sexual predators. That's a crime, Laura, a shandah. I expect you to come down on those genuine bad guys like a ton of bricks, regardless of race or social status. I want them put in jail forever, if possible. But we are not going to give a free pass to every black female that accuses a white man. We are going to- for crying out loud- look at the fucking evidence! Do you understand the distinction I just made?"

But Rachman didn't answer this question. Instead, with a half smile on her face, she asked, "When you say every detail, would that include the involvement of your wife? Including your wife's, ah, interaction with Cherry Newcombe?"

So Laura had done her homework. Karp answered, "Of course. I expect you to be as forthcoming as possible. Also, should you come across any material that would prompt a criminal complaint against Marlene Ciampi, I would expect you to pursue it. You would inform me in such a case so that I could recuse myself from any supervisory responsibility. Finally, I want your resignation on my desk by close of business today."

"You're firing me?" Rachman's face blanched, making her face paint look more than it usually did like an amateur spray finish on an old car.

"Not at this time. I've asked all the bureau chiefs for their resignations. When I take over officially in a couple of months I'll decide which of them to accept."

"You're sure you'll be allowed to take over officially if that business with your wife comes out?"

"That's up to the governor, Laura. What's up to me is telling you to do the three things I just told you to do, failing any of which I will fire you. Are we perfectly clear about all this?"

Apparently so. Rachman left. Murrow said, "Whew! That was certainly a high colonic. Do you think she's going to go after your wife?"

"She might. She's vindictive enough. But Marlene's a big girl, with a lot of money and a brilliant legal mind. In any case, it's not a suitable subject for speculation in this office, is it, Murrow."

"No, sir. But are you going to can her?"

"I might. But maybe she'll come around. Maybe no one ever kicked her in the butt before. I certainly needed kicks in the butt at her age, and of course you do, too. In any case, everybody gets a second chance in Karp's All-Star Technicolor Flying Circus and Peep Show."

Lucy Karp had inherited from her father the peculiar notion that the cure for emotional exhaustion was hard work. She put in a morning serving free breakfasts to kids in a church basement at Third and Avenue B, and then did a food distribution- dented cans and past-sell date items at a grocery warehouse on Hudson Street, and then traveled uptown with a group of Catholic Workers to hand out a pallet-load of surplus blankets and ponchos at a refugee center in Inwood. In each of these places her language skills were invaluable. New York was full of people who had dropped into the twenty-first century from the far elsewhere and were hurting in various ways. She forgot about her own troubles, which was part of the deal, too, as it seemed that a crazy mother, a broken family, and a case of sexual frustration did not make the top ten among the afflictions of mankind.

She finished at the refugee center at about seven, had soup and bread with the Catholic Workers in a nearby church hall, and walked out onto Dyckman Street to find it had started to rain. An actual cool breeze was coming from the nearby Hudson. She reached into the big military sack she habitually lugged through her life and drew out a Gore-Tex anorak. There was a bodega nearby and she went in and got a coffee and hung out under the red-and-yellow plastic awning, watching the rain increase in volume, and watching all the people who couldn't afford Gore-Tex anoraks trying to cover themselves with newspapers or plastic trashbags.

Then she saw, across the wide street, dimly through the sheets of rain, a familiar figure, the red doorman's coat, baggy cutoffs, the floppy hat with the skeins of fishing line wrapped around it: Hey Hey Elman doing his little dance. He seemed to have seen her and was gesturing and calling her name. She waved him over, but he shook his head violently and beckoned to her. He seemed more agitated than usual, and this might mean that he was having one of his spells. Hey Hey was normally as harmless as a bunny, but sometimes he decided that some passerby had stolen his thoughts and sought to have them returned, starting a conversation with that person from which it was nearly impossible to withdraw. Which meant the cops, and rough handling, and tears, and having to go down to some precinct to get him released to New York Psychiatric. Lucy had done this herself several times and did not look forward to doing it again. Hey Hey was turning in little circles now, flapping his arms- something she had not seen him do before. She tossed her container in the trash, pulled up her hood, and dashed into the traffic.

When she reached the other side of Dyckman, Hey Hey was half a block away, still beckoning. She shouted for him to wait up, but he just beckoned more urgently and skipped away around the corner. They headed west toward Broadway and the park. Just past Sherman Avenue there was a fire site, a five-story building gutted black and gaping with boarded window holes above a heavily gangster-decorated plywood fence. The fence had long since been penetrated by people seeking salvage or a place to shoot up. Lucy saw Hey Hey duck behind a plywood flap dedicated to the work of RAMON 178. After a moment's hesitation she followed.