Robert Tanenbaum: Malice

"And what would we tell them? That the head of one of the most prestigious law firms in the country-a law firm representing a lot of powerful people and that contributes huge amounts to political action committees and politicians-is really part of a criminal cartel that dreams of taking over the country?" Plaut asked. "We don't even know who else is involved; Vince was never able to get that information for us before they killed him. And the book is gone. I guess it's hindsight and we can blame it on senility and lack of experience at the spy game, but we should have made copies. Now we'll have to try to find another, though we'll have to be careful; they may be on the lookout for anyone asking for it after Cian Magee."

Silverstein shrugged. "We wanted to get it into the right hands, but we didn't know who to turn to. Jon Ellis turned out to be Jamys Kellagh, at least according to our sources, but it could have just as easily been Jaxon. These Sons of Man-sons of bitches, I say-had, or maybe still have, the resources of the government at their disposal and are perfectly willing to kill. We're just a bunch of old farts who stumbled into something much bigger than we anticipated fifty years ago when we were all young idealists. We thought we'd write a few policy papers, protest unjust wars or support just ones, teach law at Columbia like our friend Judge Plaut, support those people and causes, whichever political party they belonged to, that supported the Constitution. Keep an eye out for guys like McCarthy. This group, the Sons of Man, could easily crush us if they knew who Vince gave the tape and book to and that we're onto them. We settled this question a long time ago, after Kennedy. Our role is to watch and work behind the scenes, helping guys like Jaxon do their jobs, while slowly growing a network of others like us."

"Just as long as these others understand what it cost Vince Newbury and Cian Magee," Sunderland said.

"Blood of patriots isn't just a slogan, Jim," Florence said. "But I agree with Dennis that we don't have enough to go to anybody yet. And who would we trust? The FBI? How about V. T. Newbury, the nephew of one of the leaders of this group and an assistant district attorney for New York? We hear he's getting closer to his uncle, especially after this latest bit of news."

"I'd trust this guy," Sunderland said, nodding to the tall man who was approaching the cafe from the north. "Careful what you say…here comes Julius's boy."

Smiles replaced the looks of concern as the Sons of Liberty Breakfast Club turned to greet Butch Karp. "Ah, our good DA has deigned to join us this morning," Florence said. "We understand that congratulations are in order. If Ms. Stupenagel's story about the goings-on in Idaho was accurate, it would appear that once again you've wielded the sword of justice very well indeed."

Karp smiled at the poetic turn but held up a hand. "Other people had a lot more to do with it than I did," he said. "But Ms. Stupenagel's account was reasonably accurate, except where she made more of my role than it really was."

"Such humility," Gilbert said. "But do tell us all about the notorious Basque terrorist who was killed."

Karp wondered if it was his imagination or if the old men did lean a little closer to hear his answer. "I had even less to do with that," he replied. "You probably know more than I do from reading the newspapers." Or maybe not, he thought.

"Phooey," the artist pouted. "I was hoping for something gloriously bloody… So maybe you could tell us instead about the death of that agent, what's-his-name, Jon Ellis?"

Karp smiled and shook his head. "Still very hush-hush," he said, to Gilbert's visible disappointment.

Officially, Jon Ellis had died in the line of duty. It was Jaxon who'd asked that the true story be kept under wraps for the time being. "If anybody asks," he'd said to Karp, "he was working with you and trying to meet up with a source tying the bombing of the Black Sea Cafe to the Russian mob. You arrived late, and he and his men had already been ambushed."

"What about the men who were captured?" Karp asked.

"They're going to be isolated and detained for aiding terrorism under the Patriot Act," Jaxon had said. "Seems sort of ironic. They wanted to make sure McCullum, or somebody like him, didn't water down the Patriot Act, and now they'll be held incommunicado because of it."

At Kitchenette, Epstein changed the subject from Ellis. "So, Butch, we haven't seen you here much of late. Have we bored you already?"

"Quite the contrary," Karp replied. "I miss the pancakes and the company, but it's back to the grindstone. Got the doctor's permission to return to the office, and I'm still catching up."

"We saw in the paper that you're personally taking on the Campbell case?" Hall asked. "That's going to be a tough one. There's bound to be all sorts of wailing and gnashing of teeth over this 'postpartum blues' defense."

"A terrible thing," Epstein said. "I have to admit that I have problems with prosecuting a woman who was obviously not in her right mind."

"Of course you would," Hall responded. "But the legal threshold for being in her 'right mind' is whether she knew the difference between right and wrong when she murdered her children."

"First, you'll have to prove that she murdered the children," Sunderland noted. "The cops still haven't found the bodies of those poor kids."

"Any comment, Mr. District Attorney?" Plaut asked with a slight smile.

"I'm afraid not," Karp replied. "I'll save my comments for the courtroom."

"So do you have time for peach pancakes this morning?" Sunderland asked, pulling out the seat next to him for a place to sit.

Karp glanced at his watch and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to drop by to get a midmorning walk in-the leg's better but still has a ways to go-and because I told Jim I would. But I'm sure you've heard the news about what happened to my associate V. T. Newbury two nights ago."

"Yes, another terrible crime," Silverstein remarked. "Poor man, nearly beat to death by robbers from what I gather. How's he doing?"

"Well, to be honest, beat to death is somewhat of an exaggeration. As he says, 'It looks worse than it is,' though it was bad enough," Karp replied. "He has a broken nose and a fractured cheekbone, plus a couple of broken ribs and a concussion. He'll be in the hospital for a few more days, but looks like he'll recover just fine."

"Still, doesn't sound pleasant, but good to know he'll be okay," Sunderland said. "Give him our best wishes. I don't suppose he's Catholic and in need of a priest? I've discovered that I rather enjoy talking to attorneys with the DAO while they rehabilitate from their wounds."

Karp laughed. "Not a Catholic. I think he's Protestant and not terribly religious at that. But I'll let him know you're available as an enjoyable companion… Anyway, I'll be on my way, but I hope we can catch up soon." Walking over to the curb, Karp lifted his hand to hail a cab to take him to Beth Israel hospital.

"Oh, Mr. Karp," Judge Plaut shouted. "Did I ever tell you that we actually met a long time ago, when you were just a boy?"

Surprised, Karp turned back. "I didn't know that, though I'll say that I've always thought you looked familiar."

"Yes," the judge replied as a cab pulled to the curb. "It was at your parents' house. Some of us used to come over on Saturday nights to talk. You were the mouse listening next to your father's chair."

A memory, distant and fond, came to Karp, who smiled and nodded as he got in the cab and rolled down the window. "I remember," he shouted as the cab pulled away.

Karp smiled all the way to the hospital. Meanwhile, back on West Broadway, a group of old men sunned themselves, whistled at the pretty girls waltzing past on the sidewalk, and discussed the district attorney of New York City.