Robert Tanenbaum: Bad Faith

Pacing slowly across the jury box, Rottingham suddenly stopped. “But did Reverend LaFontaine stop these people from going to doctors? Did he tie them up? Did he threaten them with a gun? Or was it their choice? Their decision. Who is guilty of not providing proper care for their children, the parents or a man who asked God to help them?”

Rottingham had gone on along the same tangent for a half hour before making his final argument that if anyone had committed a crime-“and I put it to you that the district attorney would be hard-pressed to prove this case, too”-it was Holstein and Bernsen.

As he spoke, LaFontaine kept a wounded expression on his face, occasionally wiping a hand across his eyes. Then as Rottingham finished his summation and began to walk back to his seat, LaFontaine wiped at his eyes. “God bless you, my brother,” he called out.

Karp frowned and stood to deliver his summation, changing his opening on the spot in response to LaFontaine’s remarks. “Words come easily to some people,” he said as he turned toward the defense table and pointed at the accused, “especially to that man, who wields words like weapons. Not as sharp as a knife, nor as brutal as a bullet, but just as effective, and for Micah Ellis, just as deadly.”

For a long moment, Karp let his words sink in as he stared down at LaFontaine, who couldn’t hold his gaze and looked away. Karp then walked slowly out into the well of the court until he stood in front of the jurors, gathering his thoughts for the final push. He began, piece by piece, going over the evidence and testimony, until he ended with Nonie Ellis.

“Mr. LaFontaine was fond of calling all of these people liars,” Karp said. “But let’s examine who’s the liar here. Would it be paramedic Don Bailey or Sergeant Trent Sadler? And what would Dr. Holstein gain by lying? He’s admitted his culpability in the fraud and lost his wife, his freedom, and his medical license in the process. And why would Monique Hale lie? Revenge of a scorned woman? She was hiding in her house in Memphis when investigators found her and convinced her that LaFontaine needed to be stopped before more mothers lost their children. And what about Nonie Ellis? Why didn’t she just keep moving? Why come back and plead guilty to reckless manslaughter and face years in prison? So that she could lie about this man she had given her soul to?”

Karp held up his arm and pointed to LaFontaine. “There is only one liar in this tragedy, and he’s sitting at the defense table.”

Dropping his arm, Karp shrugged. “Mr. Rottingham would have you believe that there’s a question of whether a crime was even committed,” he said. “But I assure you that there was and that its chief perpetrator, the defendant, knew what he was doing. Why else erase the medical records of children from the hospital computer files if not to prepare the way for insurance fraud? And what would it take to collect on that fraud?”

Karp walked over to the prosecution table and picked up a school photograph of Micah Ellis. “It took the long, slow, horrific, terrifying, painful death of this frightened child whose parents had been convinced by that man,” he said, pointing at LaFontaine, “to not seek medical help and place their faith in him. That man counted on a child’s death so that he could collect on an insurance policy.”

Karp put the photo down. “But the defense also wants to hedge its bet. Mr. Rottingham would like you to believe that even if the crime of murder was committed, there’s no proof that his client was responsible. But who knocked on the doors of vulnerable parents, armed with the knowledge of their child’s disease and the family’s history, and then callously used that information to convince them that only he, as God’s emissary, could provide a ‘miracle’ that would save their child? And who stood in front of the paramedics and police officers rushing to save a sick child? The defense would point at Frank Bernsen. But Sergeant Sadler, who has no reason to lie, said it was the defendant who was in charge, and the defendant who motioned for his man to attack. That same man incited the crowd to confront the men trying to load the dying boy in an ambulance.

“And that same man incited the crowd across the street from this courthouse last April until a lonely widow named Kathryn Boole, who had never committed a crime in her entire life, pulled a gun from her purse and, yelling, ‘Judas,’ killed David Ellis. And what a windfall her subsequent death proved to be for Mr. LaFontaine and his simple lifestyle.”

Karp returned to the prosecution table and picked up the manila folder containing LaFontaine’s criminal record. “Until that moment, Kathryn Boole was a model citizen. But not John LaFontaine. He has a criminal history as long as my arm, a violent history, a history of robbery, larceny, and fraud, including impersonating a police officer-pretending to be something he is not. And I would put it to you today, ladies and gentlemen,” Karp said as he walked over to stand in front of LaFontaine, “that this man is still pretending to be something he is not.”

Karp turned back to the jurors. “I believe that if you piece together all that you’ve heard and all that you’ve seen, and all that you will see in the deliberation room, you cannot help but conclude that as surely as a knife or a bullet, John LaFontaine’s words and actions ended the life of Micah Ellis.”

Karp looked from one juror to the next, saw tears in their eyes and their mouths set grimly. “The People are asking you to return a verdict of murder because we now know beyond any and all doubt, from the evidence, that this defendant acted under circumstances evincing a depraved and wicked indifference to human life by recklessly and deliberately deceiving and lying to claim that he was a man of God, all the time plotting the death of a child. And how do we know he evinced this depraved indifference? Remember the testimony of AME Dr. Gail Manning and pediatric oncologist Dr. Charles Aronberg as they described the torment and fear Micah went through, without so much as an aspirin to relieve the pain, before he died. And why did he have to face such a horrible death at the hands of the defendant? For the most venal, despicable, and depraved reason of all … money.”

One last time, Karp faced LaFontaine and then walked back to the jury rail. “Ultimately, each one of us will face final judgment, and how ironic it will be for this defendant who pretended to be a man of God. He mocked the very content of the Bible he was thumping. How will he answer when he is judged by Him and asked, ‘For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his soul?’ ”

Butch Karp sat alone on the bench set back from the subway platform, staring across two sets of tracks at the wall opposite. Colored tiles set into a white tile background proclaimed that this was the South Ferry station, the southernmost on the island of Manhattan.

A little farther down the platform, Fulton talked quietly with Capers and Jaxon; beyond them four plainclothes cops waited. Every once in a while the others glanced his way, but for the most part they left him alone with his thoughts.

Karp glanced at his watch-it was one A.M.-and sighed. It had been a long day, beginning with the sentencing of John LaFontaine.

It had taken only six hours of deliberation before the jury had returned a guilty verdict. Standing as the jury foreman read the decision, LaFontaine had suddenly started cursing the jurors, the judge, and particularly Karp with a stream of invective that surprised even those who had not believed him to be a man of God. But then the rant had suddenly stopped as LaFontaine clutched at his chest and crumpled to the ground, his face turning purple as he fought for air.