Robert Tanenbaum - Absolute rage

"It's no crime," said Root. "Besides, since when is the DA interested in federal election law?"

"We're not. We're always interested in money laundering, though." Karp spoke again to the prisoner: "Mr. Bailey, money laundering is a crime. It's when someone gives you cash they earned at a criminal activity and you help turn it over, convert it into honest money. So I have to ask you, did someone give you money to make political contributions?"

Bailey opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Root said, "Don't answer that!" Bailey closed his mouth and wiped his dripping face.

Karp said, "You could do yourself some real good here, Mr. Bailey. You also might want to think about whether Mr. Root here is representing your best interests or somebody else's."

Root shot to his feet. "This interview is over. Come on, Woodrow, we're out of here."

Bailey looked back and forth between the two men and then got to his feet. Root signaled for the guard and then turned to Karp. "I intend to lodge a complaint with the bar."

"Oh? Gosh, what did I do?"

Root held up his hand and counted off on stubby, tan fingers. "One, you accuse my client of a crime out of the clear blue sky without a shred of evidence. Two, you impugn his political liberties, on the theory that a workingman of color can't possibly have enough interest in politics to contribute to a campaign. Three, you use the coercive power of the state to pressure him into assisting you in a political vendetta against a distinguished political leader. A distinguished black political leader, which is no accident coming from you." Root turned to Bailey. "This man is a well-known racist. I don't want you ever talking to him or anybody from his office if I'm not in the room."

"I'm a big fan of Harry Belafonte," said Karp.

The guard came. The door swung open. Root said, "And don't think I won't go public with this outrage."

"Who's picking up your fee, counselor? Pennant? Soames?" Karp asked as they left, but received no answer.

They had AC in the DA's office, but it was creaky and barely competent to deal with El Nino, or whatever was turning New York into Brazzaville. Little reciprocating fans hung in the corners of the larger offices, relics of the days before air-conditioning. Karp had his turned on. He had his feet up on the desk, his coat off, his collar open, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, none of which helped very much. Across the desk from him sat a small, dapper man in a beige linen suit, jacket and all, with his collar buttoned. His name was Murrow and he was Karp's special assistant.

"That line about Harry Belafonte was probably unwise," observed Murrow when Karp had finished telling him about the Bailey interview. "You'll read about it in the papers."

"Oh, fuck the papers! Besides, I do like Harry Belafonte. I used to have all his albums."

"Albums?"

"Yes, albums. Music used to come on shellac discs that had only one song on a side, and they sold them in books that looked like photo albums, and when LPs came out, they still called them albums."

"LPs?"

"Fuck you, Murrow. Young fart."

"So what are we going to do about the congressman?"

"Well, personally, I am going to leave the office right now and catch the early bird out to the Island. The congressman will keep, and since we've conquered crime, I don't think anything important is going to come up over the weekend. In fact, I might take a day or two off."

Murrow affected gaping wonderment. "You mean… you mean… not come into the office at all? On a workday?"

"Yeah, but I'll leave the key to the front door under the mat, in case anyone wants to try a malefactor in my absence." To the astonishment of all his colleagues, he actually left.

On the train, Karp dropped his tray and set out some files, more to assuage his conscience than because he intended to do any useful work. As chief assistant DA, he had general responsibility for the professional work of the office, which amounted to insuring, to the extent possible, that the four-hundred-odd attorneys employed there did not lose too many cases through incompetence or win too many through cheating. He also had a hand in recruiting and training, which he enjoyed, and in routine administration, which he loathed.

He picked up one of the case files and read. A murder case, this one, and typical: a couple of dumb kids in their early twenties had held up a convenience store and shot the owner. It was a good case. Ten years previously they might have gone with a plea in a case like this because they were so jammed with murders, and the bad guys knew it, and the DA's office had figured it was better to be sure the villains served eight for manslaughter than go for the expense of a felony murder trial and risk an acquittal. Now, with the drop in murders, they were set to try nearly everything. The People were in the catbird seat again. Karp should have been happy.

Karp was not. He knew he was a competent enough bureaucrat; he did his job with few complaints from either high or low. But he was not a great bureaucrat. He did not love bureaucracy. A thrill did not spring in his heart when he gained a 3 percent increase in the furniture budget. Political dealing bored him. He did not like manipulation, and he positively despised attempts to manipulate him, which were constant. He took his pen and made a notation on a pad. There was a flaw in the chain of evidence affecting the murder gun, which was the chief piece of physical evidence linking the defendants to the crime. It was not a case wrecker, but it had to be looked into, and the ADA in charge had missed it. Or maybe it wasn't that important; maybe he was just a pettifogging pain in the ass, which he knew was getting to be his rep among the younger ADAs. He wrote a stiff little note to the ADA and closed the file. Screw them, let them learn to do it right! He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. Coaching was fine if you were a coach. But Karp wanted to play. Suppressing this thought, and the desire, for the ten thousand and somethingth time, ever the good soldier, he opened his eyes, shoved the file back into the tattered cardboard wallet he used instead of a briefcase, and pulled out another one.

"What's with Lucy?" Karp asked his wife. He had not seen his daughter since the Easter break. He had been at the farm for barely an hour, most of which time he had spent with the three children. Now they were alone together in the kitchen packing things for the cookout.

"What did you notice?"

"I don't know. She's more… um…"

"Normal?"

He laughed. "Yeah, now that you mention it. Lighter, maybe. More like a college girl, less like a nun. It must be the away-from-home effect."

"It's a boy," said Marlene. "Could you grab those beers?"

Karp heaved a stack of cold cases up to his waist and staggered out to the truck.

Returning, he said, "That's a lot of beer. How many people at this cookout?"

"Just us and the Heeneys. The Heeney men are beer people."

Then it hit him. "Did you say a boy?"

"Uh-huh. Rose's younger."

"Lucy?"

"Yes, Lucy. She's passed through puberty, although I think you had a trial that week, you might have missed it. Anyway, now she's eighteen, she's old enough to have a date, and she actually has one. Several." And here Marlene clasped her hands together and looked to heaven with a hearty "Thank you, Jesus!"

"Well, yeah," said Karp. "I'm glad. This is, this kid is like, you know, a regular kid, right?"

"Perfectly regular. Looks like an angel in fact, if angels are ever horny and eighteen. He's a freshman at MIT, so he can tie his shoes. I haven't run his sheet but I assume it's clear of major violent felonies, unlike you-know-who last year. STDs I would bet negative, too, a mom's prayer. Most of all, I think she's just barely beginning to understand that he's interested. That would be a first."