Robert Tanenbaum: Enemy within

Keegan was talking to him, some details about court scheduling, some meetings to set up. Karp wrote in his green ledger, making minimal responses. The meeting ended, and Karp went back to his office.

"How was His Excellency today?" asked Murrow.

"Excellent, as usual," answered Karp, throwing his ledger fairly hard against the side of a steel filing cabinet, which made a loud bass-drum sound in response.

"Uh-oh," said Murrow. "Should I hide, or would you like to take out your frustrations by abusing me and making me cry?"

Karp threw himself down in his chair, kicked it back against the wall hard enough to shiver plaster, and put his feet up on the desk. "It is all your fault, Murrow. The corruption of the criminal justice system by politics, the cowardice of its guardians, the worms and vipers creeping in everywhere, the stupidity, the incompetence, the criminal ugliness of this building even, the tackiness of our work environment-all this I lay at your door."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll try to improve in the future. But aside from that…?"

Karp laughed, not without bitterness. "You know, Murrow, I've been in this business for a long time. I started working for the greatest district attorney of all time, Francis P. Garrahy. This was before the deluge, the whole crime-in-the-streets insanity. He actually expected everyone who worked for him to be decent, honorable, and competent. He actually expected, and I know you'll find this hard to believe, that people who committed crimes should go to jail for the time stipulated in statute, and if they didn't plead guilty to the top count, he would try their ass, and win. Then I worked for a human slime mold named Sanford Bloom. I find that hard to believe, but I did, and not only did I work for him, I actually rescued him on a number of occasions from the results of his folly and misfeasance. I quit the office on two occasions, I'm proud to say, and then I came back."

"Why did you?"

"I'm an addict," said Karp. "I need to smell a criminal trial on a regular basis even if I don't do them anymore. I should write 'Stop me before I prosecute again' in lipstick on the men's room mirror. Anyway, eventually I put Bloom in jail. Now we have Jack Keegan, who I have to say is a lot closer to Phil Garrahy than he is to Bloom, but the rot is still there. Politics."

"It's a political office."

"Yeah, right, the people get to decide if the guy's doing a decent job and toss him out if he's not. But you can't decide how you're going to handle a case on the basis of what you think various segments of the population will think about it; then you might as well hang it up. I mean, forget the law and trials and procedures-just haul the defendant up to the top of the courthouse steps and let the mob decide. I really think we're going to condemn this dumb kid to death to keep a segment of the electorate happy."

"Didn't Benson do it?"

Karp sighed. "That's not the fucking point, Murrow. What's happening is that a decent Orthodox Jew with six kids was murdered in the subway and we got a black kid up for it, and we can probably wangle a conviction. What we don't do all the time is execute people like that. It was one of the things that distinguished the great state of New York from places where I personally couldn't stand to live for a long weekend, like Texas and Florida. No more, apparently. And then there's Lomax."

"The cop shooting."

"Right. Here's the first installment of that lecture I threatened you with, the police in the criminal justice system. Okay, first off, we know they do stupid cop tricks. It's part of the game we play with them. A little perjury on the stand, a little illegally seized evidence, the occasional foray into coerced confessions, the very occasional naked frame-up. Every cop wants to be judge, jury, and executioner, if they possible can. It makes their job a lot easier, and especially, it makes them feel better. They have a really shitty life. So they do stupid cop tricks, and we catch them at it and throw the cases out, and then they can curse us out for bleeding hearts, civil liberties nuts, which makes them feel good, too. And if we don't catch them, which is a percentage I don't like to think about too much, then they can say, 'Hey, we did our job- you guys fucked up.' That makes them feel good, too, and superior to a bunch of candy-ass lawyers. So it's a winwin for the cops, which is why they keep doing it."

"You think this shooting is a stupid cop trick?"

"I don't know. On the one hand, there's the incredible-idiocy defense. Is it credible to believe that the NYPD-in the situation they're in now, with the Mollen report, with the exposure of corruption, with these crazy cop shootings, here in the post-Rodney King era-would actually conspire at the highest levels to cover up a bad shooting? I would not buy that at this point in time."

"You think it's not a cover-up?"

"Not as such. I think every ass above captain on this thing has got to be stuck inside a pair of stainless-steel Jockey shorts. No one has ever actually said, 'Hey, let's lie, cheat, and steal and get old Cooley off the hook.' But I do think they want to make it go away. 'Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, folks.' Like that. And they're depending on us to help them make it disappear, hence the intemperate speed. Hence… hmm."

Karp's eyes had gone blank and he was frozen in position; his finger, raised to make a point, stayed erect and directed at the ceiling, as if he were for the moment transformed into a classical statue-Large Jewish Lawyer, Late Hellenistic Period. Murrow did not panic, nor did he call 911 to report a case of narcolepsy. He was used to this tic in his boss. If Karp's mind were a 1950s computer, it would be whirring and clicking and spitting out punched cards.

After a decent interval, Murrow said, "Hence…?"

Returning to the world, Karp said, "Oh, nothing. It just now occurred to me that I never mentioned the kind of vehicle Lomax was driving when I was talking to them in there, and it wasn't mentioned in the press that I could see. But you recall Catafalco mentioned it, the brand name, and so did Norton Fuller just now. A Cherokee. What do you make of that?"

"Catafalco called Fuller and told him about it."

"Yes, speaking of stainless-steel Jockey shorts. Old Lou was covering his ass. Which means he's about to do something that needs some asscoverage in re Cooley."

Karp glanced at his watch, then got out of his chair and put on his suit jacket.

"You going somewhere?"

"Yes, I intend to get my raincoat on, pick up that bag in the corner over there, call Ed Morris, and have him drive me in a police vehicle to Chelsea Pier, where I will play a vigorous game of basketball with my daughter."

"Speaking of corruption."

"No, actually, the state pays me to think deep thoughts about the criminal justice system, and I think my deepest thoughts when out on the b-ball court."

"A plausible answer," said Murrow.

"I'm glad you think so. When you finish wising off, I want you to sneak around special investigations and find out who's handling it for the grand jury. Do you have any dull, stupid friends?"

"Not that I'd admit to. Why?"

"Because after you find out who it is, you will make at least one. Him. Or her. I want to find out what's going on in Cooley without having to ask anyone."

Murrow vanished into his cubbyhole. Karp was about to leave when he noticed the pink message slip on his desk. He dialed the number. It was picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, Butch."

"Shelly. Long time. I thought you went out West."

"I did. San Diego. But, like the man says, when you're out of town, you're out of town. Long story. Anyway, I'm back. I'm with Fenniman, Bowes."

"Criminal practice?"

"Oh, yeah. Plus a little bribery and manipulation, the usual. Look, let me buy you a lunch, we'll catch up."