Robert Andrews - A Murder of Justice

Leon Janowitz stood at the corner of C and South Capitol, nose deep in The Wall Street Journal.

“Running with the bulls?”

The young detective looked up. “Long as they’re running. Trick’s to know when to jump out. Jose not coming?”

“His turn for paperwork. Where’s Susan?”

“Said she’d meet us at the top of the horseshoe.” Janowitz motioned up the block. He folded his paper and stuck it in a beat-up L. L. Bean canvas briefcase. “By the way,” he said, “thanks for asking for me.”

Frank nodded and waited for the follow-up that was in Janowitz’s voice.

“Question?” Janowitz asked.

“Yeah?”

“Why me? I mean, next month, I’m outta here.”

“Maybe we’ll get it done by then.”

Janowitz grinned. “And pigs’ll fly.”

Frank ignored him. “You’ve got a nose for digging. You can follow a paper trail.”

Janowitz shrugged. “Paper’s paper.”

“You did good on the Keegan case.”

Another shrug. “Tracking credit cards? Utility bills?”

The walking was uphill. The effort warmed Frank’s legs and lungs, and he wanted to keep going.

He looked at Janowitz. “Easy for you, hard for others. You’ve got intuition. Other people see a piece of paper or a computer file, you see connections.”

Janowitz lowered his eyes modestly, then looked back at Frank. “Long’s you know I’m outta here next month.”

“Question?” It was Frank’s turn. “Why’d a nice boy like you want to be a cop?”

“You mean, a nice Jewish boy?”

“Jew, schmoo. Why did Leon Janowitz want to be a cop?”

“Oh… I love cities.”

“Love cities.” Frank echoed.

“Yeah.” Janowitz had the intense look of someone thinking through a cosmic riddle. “I’m a city kid. My family, all the way back to Warsaw… city people. I love cities.”

“You love cities, you became a cop. Something in between?”

“I got fed up with what these schmucks have done to our cities. They fucked up our schools. They fucked up our streets. They fucked up everything.”

“Leon Janowitz, unfucker of America’s cities?”

“I just wanted to get my licks in.”

The two men turned to go up the horseshoe-shaped drive leading to the Rayburn Building.

“So you got your licks in, and now you’re getting out.”

“So I haven’t. And that’s why I’m getting out.”

“After this case,” Frank added.

“Next month,” Janowitz corrected. “No matter what.”

Frank sorted through the knot of people standing under the portico. “Where’s Susan?”

Practically all organizations in Washington with a phone number have go-betweens who know their way around Capitol Hill. Susan Liberman’s business card read “Legislative Counsel, District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department,” a large title for the diminutive dark-haired woman whom Frank finally spotted.

“Big,” Janowitz said, looking up at the massive building.

“Two million, three hundred square feet of office space,” Liberman recited. “A gym, cafeterias, recording studio, its own subway system to the Capitol.”

“Real big,” Janowitz amended.

“And fireproof,” Liberman added.

“Too bad,” Frank said.

“Next life”-Janowitz motioned to Frank-“he wants to come back as a wrecking ball.”

They pushed through the tall glass-and-steel doors. Inside, the security checkpoint. Liberman shepherded the two detectives through the metal detector and a credentials check, and signed them in at the Capitol police desk.

Once out of the cavernous foyer, Rayburn shrank to human size. There were marble floors, but the hallways were plain, utilitarian, and filled with staff and visitors.

“The D.C. subcommittee?” Janowitz asked.

“Thirteen members of Congress,” Liberman answered. “Five Democrats, eight Republicans.”

“Why’re they in our knickers?”

“Two reasons. The subcommittee writes the checks that make the D.C. government work. There’s no way city hall could run on local taxes alone.”

“You said two.”

Liberman smiled cynically. “Publicity, silly boy. Democrat or Republican, don’t ever get between any of them and a camera or microphone. And Frederick Rhinelander’s no exception. Kevin Gentry was his chief of staff. Gentry’s replacement is Alessandro Salvani. Aka Al. Newark, New Jersey. Professional Italian-American, professional Democrat. Everybody says he’s related to Dean Martin. He never denies it. Looks like him too. One of those yummy Italian men who never age.”

“I thought he was dead,” Janowitz said. “Dean Martin.”

“He is dead, sweetie,” Liberman replied. She nodded toward the door on their right. A bronze plaque read “Subcommittee on District of Columbia Appropriations.”

Yes, Ms. Harman… No, Ms. Harman… Consider the alternatives, Ms. Harman.” The patient voice came in a bourboned baritone. Tanned, toothy, and flat-bellied, Al Salvani stood behind an ornately carved walnut desk, one manicured hand folded around the telephone, the other hooked in a suspender strap. Frank saw that the suspenders were embroidered with clowns. Salvani rocked back and forth slightly as he talked, a man in perpetual motion. A man who owned the ground he stood on.

Salvani’s office had the requisite view of the Capitol across Independence Avenue. Autographed photos covered the walls: Salvani with presidents, sports celebrities, Hollywood stars. Salvani with Pope John Paul II, and next to that, Salvani with Yasser Arafat. These clustered around a larger photo of Salvani standing shoulder to shoulder with Joe DiMaggio in Yankee Stadium.

“… of course, I’ll talk to the chairman about it, Ms. Harman.”

Salvani hung up and looked curiously at Frank, Janowitz, and Liberman as though they’d materialized out of thin air.

“Susan Liberman,” Liberman said, “Metropolitan Police Dep-”

“Oh, yes.” Salvani shifted gears. He shot a scowl at Frank and Janowitz, and dropped with a pneumatic gust into a leather swivel chair. “Sit, sit.”

Liberman made the introductions. “Detectives Kearney and Janowitz.”

Salvani took them in with a sour look that said he was having a difficult time somewhere in his lower digestive tract.

“How,” he asked, “could such a screw-up like this come about?”

“We-”

Salvani held up an impatient hand, then rooted among the papers and pamphlets littering his desk. He came up with a thick bound document in a tan official-looking paper cover. He thumbed through several paper-clipped sections. Finally he nodded and stuck an index finger on one page.

“ ‘Forensics,’ ” he read, “ ‘in which the sharing of responsibilities among agencies increases the possibility of evidentiary mishaps resulting from lapses in coordination.’ ”

Salvani closed the report and held it up. “A two-hundred-page study on the criminal justice process.” He looked at the book with respect, then at Frank, Janowitz, and Liberman in accusation. “The General Accounting Office did that report. Just last month.” He swung his big head sadly. “Lapses in coordination,” he intoned, dirgelike. “Lapses in coordination…”

He let it trail off, then his eyes flashed. “And we had your chief up here when we published the report,” he snapped. “And your chief, Chief Noah… Alton… Day”-he rolled out the name-“your chief threw out a bunch of stats and as much as told us we were full of shit.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Salvani,” Frank said, “you’ve got a beef. But we”-his gesture took in Liberman and Janowitz-“we’re just trying to find out who killed Kevin Gentry.”

Salvani paused a beat to bank that. “Okay,” he said. Apparently deciding he’d played enough hardass to set the newcomers’ impression of him, he settled back and asked, “How’re you going to do that?”