Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

There was a little murmur then: this was a new one for this grand jury, rather more intellectual effort than they were used to putting out. It is extremely unusual for grand juries to decline to indict. (A different grand jury had, of course, found that Brendan Cooley had shot his man in self-defense, but Cooley was a cop and Lomax was a fleeing felon, no problem there.) There were some questions. Did he actually have to stab her? No, but the threat had to be immediate and reasonable, and it was up to them to decide that it was. Couldn't she have shot the knife out of his hand? Karp kept a straight face, nor did his eyes roll skyward. That speaks to the reasonableness of the force, he explained. You all have to decide if what she actually did, shooting him through the body, was reasonable in that circumstance.

He left them to their deliberations and sat down on one of the plastic chairs that lined the little room outside the jury room, where witnesses waited. The plan was unfolding, but whether it was the one he had hatched, or the one Marlene had, or some strange amalgam of both, he had really no idea. This present farce was part of the plan. Remarkably, Keegan had actually ordered him to do it, in the presence of an almost preening Norton Fuller. Karp recalled the surprise in both faces when he had agreed without demur.

He waited. He was used to it. A good portion of his professional life had been spent in waiting-for a jury, as now, for a judge to decide, for some piece of paper to trickle through the system. The wait for grand juries was usually short, but this one was taking its time. The little anteroom was crowded with witnesses and prosecutors for pending cases. Some of the ones who were cops looked at him coplike, a wary assessment, and there were conversations in low voices. The word had spread obviously: the NYPD grapevine was the fastest in the world. Karp didn't care about that. He had never courted popularity with the police, although he would greatly regret it if he had harmed his friendship with Clay Fulton. There were reporters outside, too, with TV cameras. He would have to make a statement later, an important case such as this. He had no friends in the press either, probably a mistake, but too late to correct now. If he'd had friends in the press, he might not have had to concoct this silly plan. Like everyone else in society, it seemed, he could then have created an alternate reality, putting a lot more subtle pressure on Keegan, and if he had not gotten his way, he could have blown the whistle. As it was, if he blew the whistle now, he'd just be fired, branded an incompetent sorehead, and forgotten. The old racist thing would not help there either.

The little amber light over the door to the grand jury room lit up, indicating they had reached a decision. Karp got up and went through the door.

Ralphie Paxton left the courthouse feeling pretty good about his performance, so good that he decided to treat himself to a cab ride home. He was supposed to call the lawyer right after he got finished, but he figured that could wait. Man wasn't paying him any money now, he could just hang for a while, fuckin' Jews thought they owned you. There was a cab, a woman climbing out of it with a briefcase and long, stockinged legs and one of those little skirts they wore now where you could see practically their whole business. Ralphie positioned himself so he could see most of it, got one of those hard looks those bitches liked to give you, and replaced her in the cab.

The driver was a rag-head, like most of them nowadays. He wasn't too happy with Ralphie as a fare, but fuck him, what could he do? Ralphie caught him staring in the rearview, his foreigner eyes clouded with suspicion. "No Brooklyn," the driver said.

Ralphie gave him the address, although he considered for a moment telling the rag-head to go to Canarsie, just to jack the fucker up a little. It wasn't worth it, not for the money. There was starting to be a problem with money. Five grand when he'd got it from Solotoff seemed to be all the money in the world, infinite riches, far more than Ralphie Paxton had ever seen in his life, but it was proving to be more ephemeral than he had ever imagined. He was drinking Scotch now, not Night Train. He was buying a better quality of sex now, no more blow jobs behind a Dumpster from a skanky crackhead transvestite, no, now it was actual girls, young ones, too, in a bed. He liked that, the lush life, but it was expensive. He had been on the streets for years, rent-free. Paying some guy just so you could live someplace was novel and irritating. And the crack, that was expensive, too, especially when he had to pay for partying. People came around a lot when they knew you were flush. He liked that, being the big man, having a roll to flash around. The girls liked it, too. So it flew out of his pocket. He didn't really know how much he had left; he was sort of afraid to count it, but it wasn't more than a grand now, maybe less. The thought of having to go back to the street was not pleasant. He liked taking a shower whenever he wanted, with hot water, and watching TV like a regular person. That he could continue this life by obtaining employment never occurred to him.

He should have held out for more money, he was thinking now. Five grand was chump change to a rich Jew lawyer. He should have had that watch, too, that was worth almost five grand on its own, that fucking Desmondo, although, of course, Firmo would've come after him pretty soon, like they said he did, and that would've been it for old Des. He really was lucky that bitch had capped him like that; at least it was quick. How to get more money. The lawyer really owed him, but that was a problem, too; he was connected, or so he said. He said that was it, the five grand, payment for information, strictly legal, deductible, he said, but if Ralphie tried to get smart, he'd make one phone call and Paxton would end up under concrete somewhere. Was he telling the truth?

There were two blue-and-whites on Forty-fifth when the cab entered the street. They were double-parked with their doors open and their flashers on. Another bust. Paxton paid the driver what was on the meter and got out. The guy gave him a look, but fuck him, the rag-head, if he expected a tip. Paxton walked up the street to his apartment house, but he hadn't taken ten steps before a couple of big guys in plain clothes with badges hanging off their necks on chains grabbed him and tossed him against a car and patted him down. He was clean, and they let him go, no apology, like he was a piece of shit. He wanted to tell them he had just testified before a grand jury on a big case, but he let it go.

"Hey, Ralphie!"

Paxton turned. It was Real Ali. Paxton felt a surge of relief. Real Ali was company and didn't do dope or drink.

"What's up, Ali?" The two men shook hands.

"Not much. I was just going by, you know. You live around here?"

"Yeah, up there. I got a place now."

"Yeah, I heard you lucked out behind that Desmondo shit. It's a ill wind, right?"

"Yeah, you got that right. You still down by the tracks?"

"Still there." Ali looked both ways and said in a lowered voice, "Look, my man, it's lucky I run into you. You wouldn't be interested in a little business proposition, would you?"

"What kind of business?"

"Holding."

"Holding? What you mean, holding?"

"Holding. Guy wants to leave some stuff in your place, he pays you rent. Like you a locker in the Port Authority, but a lot more than fifty cents. But, hey, if you're interested, let's not do business on the street."

They went into Paxton's apartment. Ali looked around and, with an approving whistle, agreed that it was pretty sweet. Paxton poured himself a Scotch, although he badly wanted a pipe. He played the genial host, recounting some of the details of his new life. Then they turned to business.