Fury

24

Monday, December 27

Karp stopped at Dirty Warren's newsstand outside 100 Centre Street and regretted it immediately when the man shouted, "Morning, Karp. Did you have a…damn shit…great Christmas?"

"Great, Warren. And you?" He really wasn't in the mood for light, epithet-filled conversation. Kipman had called Sunday, apologized for bothering him at home, then asked for a meeting between just himself, Karp, and Rachman. The way old Hotspur said it, Karp knew it wasn't going to be pretty. So he'd decided that they'd meet Monday. It was officially a legal holiday because Christmas had fallen on a Saturday, but he preferred that the rest of the staff not be around if things got ugly.

"Went and saw my…oh crap…mother in Queens. Thanks for asking."

Karp turned to go, but Warren called out to him. "Okay, smart guy, in It's a Wonderful Life, what film is showing at the movie theater in Bedford Falls as George runs down the street?"

Answering Warren's film trivia questions had been an ongoing contest between the two of them for years. Warren had yet to stump him and wasn't going to with this question. "Too easy, pal, you're slipping," he said. "I just watched It's a Wonderful Life with the family Christmas night."

"So what's the answer…bitch?"

"The Bells of St. Mary's," Karp replied. He expected Warren to be disappointed and launch into one of his expletive-enhanced tirades, but instead the little man just smiled.

"Okay, genius," he said, "but what's the other connection between the two films?"

"Now that's a good one," Karp admitted. "How many tries do I get?"

Warren grinned. "No way, Karp. This isn't some…piss shit…guessing game. You either know or you don't."

"Oh, well in that case…Henry Travers, who played Clarence the Angel in Wonderful Life, also starred in Bells as Horace P. Bogardus."

"Goddammit!" Warren howled. "It's not…fuck you…natural for someone to have all that crap swimming around in his head."

"Have a great day, Warren," Karp said.

"Don't look so smug," Warren grumped. "Son of a bitch."

"Warren…"

"Can't fucking prove nothin'."

Inside the Criminal Courts building the Streets of Calcutta were deserted. The eighth floor was even quieter, and there was no one in his office when he walked in. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least at the office he could get a moment's respite from the twins' haul of new Game Boys, PlayStations, and Xboxes and their never-ceasing electronic noises that he was sure had been invented to drive parents insane.

The day after Christmas had dawned bright and clear, which seemed a good thing until Karp felt the bitter cold that accompanied it as he led his clan to Rockefeller Center to skate beneath the tree.

The outing proved to be just the ticket to shake the family's melancholy over Marlene's parents and the disappearance of John Jojola. They'd gone home and feasted on leftovers from the party, then called it an early night.

Karp was already in bed when Marlene walked in from the bathroom in a new silk robe. "I just remembered," she said, "that I forgot to give you that early Christmas present."

"It's never too late," he said.

Marlene let the gown fall open. Apparently she'd spent quite a bit at Victoria's Secret. "Care to unwrap one more?" she asked.

"I think I might die…but what a way to go," he said.

"Hmmm," she murmured, stalking him across the bed like her totem mountain lion. "I suggest you lie back then and let me do all the work. I wouldn't want to overtax that poor old heart."

The next morning as he was putting on his coat to leave for work, Marlene had slipped up to him and kissed him a little longer and a little warmer than the standard good-bye buss. "I love you, Butch Karp, and don't know what I'd do without you."

"Feeling's mutual, Marlene Ciampi. And, God willing, we'll never have to find out what it means to be without each other."

Walking to work, he'd wondered why he'd added, "God willing." That wasn't the sort of thing he normally said. He'd never believed that God would react one way or another based on superstitious addenda to conversations. Must be the season, he told himself.

In his office, Karp pulled the bear fetish Jojola had given him out of his pocket and placed it on his desk. He hoped it might make him feel wise, but mostly he felt grouchy as a grizzly when he walked into the conference room a half hour later.

Kipman and Rachman were already seated on opposite ends of the table, not speaking, just staring off into space. Karp took his usual seat.

"Okay, Harry," he said. "Talk to me."

Kipman adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat but did not look at Rachman. "In light of what just occurred with the Columbia basketball players' case, I spent the weekend down here looking over the case of the People v. Alexis Michalik."

"YOU WHAT!" Rachman seethed. "What gives you the right to second-guess-"

"Actually," Kipman interrupted, "as this office's chief appellate attorney, I have the right to vet cases where I might have concerns about future grounds for appeal. And you know that. After all, better to correct a problem before it's a problem."

Rachman sputtered she was so angry. "Concerns about future appeals? You sneaky little-"

Karp rapped on the table with his knuckles. "Rachel, please, Harry does have the obligation to prereview cases that he may have to defend later." He asked Kipman to go on.

"Well, I have to say that I have some real concerns about the Michalik case."

"Oh, my God." Rachman started to say more but shut up after she looked at Karp, who gave her all the warning she needed with his legendary glare.

"For one thing, during a follow-up interview with the police, the complainant, Sarah Ryder, told a detective that when she 'woke up' from an apparently drug-induced sleep, she was naked and tied by her wrists to the legs of a couch. In that interview, she says it was at that point that Michalik removed his pants and, as she begged him to stop, he'd raped her. However, in her initial interview with the police, Ms. Ryder told the officer that Michalik was already raping her when she woke up. Nor was there any mention of attempts to dissuade the defendant."

"Please," Rachman sneered. "This is your big concern? She's mixed up about at what point Michalik actually raped her? And did you ever think that maybe the first officer didn't ask her if she'd told Michalik to stop?"

Kipman shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. If I may continue…I am also wondering why we haven't heard from you, during discussions of cases in this very room, that the complainant has a mental health history that may be relevant to these allegations."

Rachman snorted. "Because it's not relevant."

"This includes having made false sexual assault allegations against another man in the past."

"A mixed-up child, angry over her parents' divorce and the mother's subsequent remarriage to a man she didn't like."

"Also, apparently Ms. Ryder used to date a member of the New York Rangers hockey club. But when he broke up with her, she attempted suicide by swallowing a jar of pills."

"A cry for help," Rachman interjected, "from a young woman who'd been led to believe this man loved her. Then when he said it was over, she gave in to despair. Is that a crime? You want to talk about something that's relevant to the case? How about an eyewitness who sees her in the building, disheveled and in tears? Then she tells him that she's been raped. Or how about the roofies in the beer glass and in her blood tests? How about the doctor who says she has injuries consistent with forced sexual contact? And the rope burns on her wrists? All of it relevant, admissible in court, and consistent with her story."

Kipman nodded. "No one disputes that there was probable cause for the arrest and that you have a strong case. And you're right, the complainant's medical history will probably…probably…not be allowed into evidence. However, it is relevant to us as we decide whether to go forward, if it is clear that this complainant lied to the investigating officers and to you."

Rachman frowned. "What do you mean she lied? About what?"

"You'll recall that during the rape examination the doctor took swab samples from her body, and the investigating officer collected her clothing to be tested for body fluids. You'll also recall that the complainant stated that she had not had any sexual relations with any other man, except the suspect, for a period of several months."

"What about it?"

"Well, the reason I asked for this meeting is that the DNA test results came in late Friday afternoon," he said. "The stain on the victim's blouse was a match for the suspect."

"You're surprised?" Rachman smiled.

"Not about that," Kipman said. "However, there was a small stain in her panties, almost too small to test, but enough. It was another semen stain…but not the defendant's."

Rachman sat silently for a moment, then slapped the table with her hand. "Doesn't matter," she said. "Her prior sexual history is not relevant."

"No, but it is relevant that she lied," Kipman said. "The defense will have copies of her statements, and they will have copies of the DNA reports. At the very least, they will have an argument in pretrial motions that if the victim lied about her sexual history, this information can be used to impeach her on the stand. It also gives them an opening to get into her mental health history, if they can demonstrate that she has established a pattern of false accusations and lies about sexual assaults."

"The shield laws would never allow it," Rachman countered.

"The shield laws are not absolute," Kipman said.

"The very reason the shield laws were created was to make inadmissible these distractions," Rachman said.

"Maybe, but the table's been set," Kipman said. "And we now have a complainant who we know has a history of making false accusations and lying. She lied about this case. It's not just a question of what we can fight in court. As Butch says, we have an obligation to prosecute only when we have a moral certainty that we are right. I think there's a real question of whether we have that moral certainty."

"Whose side are you on, Kipman?" Rachman shouted. "So what if she had sex with a boyfriend and didn't want to have some cynical police detective thinking she was a slut. Maybe she forgot to wash those panties."

"The stain was recent, even post this alleged incident with Michalik," Kipman said.

"Doesn't matter," Rachman argued, her voice rising. "The only question-and I don't know why I keep having to explain this in the office of the New York District Attorney-is whether she consented to have sex with Alexis Michalik. Women are being raped by men they know at epidemic rates, and this office would have us go back to the Dark Ages when it was the victim on trial. I'm sick and tired of it." As she finished, Rachman stood up and slammed her file down on the table.

She looked as if she was going to go on but Karp silenced her. "Sit down, Ms. Rachman. You will conduct yourself as a professional. Mr. Kipman has raised legitimate concerns that need to be addressed, not ignored… Now, I want you to go home, relax, and then the next time I hear about this case from you, I want to hear your evidence-all the evidence-and then we will decide how to proceed. And if we go forward with the charges, Ms. Rachman, it will be with that moral certainty or it will not happen. Do I make myself clear?"

Whatever Rachman was going to say stuck in her throat and all that came out was a strangled, "Yes, sir."

"You've done a lot of good work for this office and on behalf of the people who count on you to protect them," Karp said. "But I am concerned that you are allowing your zeal for your work to interfere with your judgment. So just do as I ask."

Rachman dropped her eyes to the file in front of her. She quickly pushed the papers back into the folder and, averting her eyes from Kipman, walked stiffly and silently out of the room.

When she was gone, Karp turned to Kipman. "What do you make of the semen in the panties?"

Kipman shrugged. "It could be like Rachel says; the girl has a boyfriend but for one reason or another didn't want to tell the detective. Maybe she didn't want to look promiscuous, or was worried that it might impact her credibility. But the fact is she lied, and we better be ready to have a good explanation to give a judge, and if he doesn't buy it, a jury."

Both men jumped a little when the telephone in the conference room rang. Karp answered it.

"Hey, Butch," Clay Fulton said. "Marlene said you decided to get a jump start on the week."

"Yeah, Clay, what's up?" The detective had been around too long to get too worked up over news that could wait for the usual work hours.

"Well, maybe nothing," Clay said. "But one of the detectives on that case with the Russian professor was over yesterday visiting with his wife and we got talking. He has some concerns about the way the information they've come across is being handled by our Sex Crimes Bureau."

Karp felt a headache coming on, the little brother of the beast he'd had Christmas Day. He pressed the conference call button so that Kipman could hear. "Yeah? Such as?"

"Well, he said there's a second eyewitness who was at the building that night. He interviewed a janitor who says he was outside having a smoke when he saw the complainant leave. This witness doesn't exactly describe a distraught young woman who'd just been sexually assaulted. In fact, and I quote, 'She laughed and did a little dance spin at the bottom of the stairs.'"

"Did the complainant see the janitor?" Kipman asked.

"Oh, hi, Harry, didn't know you were there. He didn't think so…he was sitting on a bench off to the side in the dark. He just figured she was a happy college coed and didn't think any more about it until he saw the newspapers."

"Sure he saw the right woman?" Karp said.

"Apparently he was positive when my friend showed him a photograph."

"Maybe at that distance he was confused about whether she was laughing or crying," Karp suggested. "Maybe the 'dance' was because she tripped."

"Yeah, maybe," Fulton said. "But after my friend read the report from the other investigators, he called the janitor back and asked why he didn't mention the first witness bumping into the complainant at the top of the stairs. The janitor's reply, and again I quote, was, 'What man? There wasn't nobody else around.' The janitor even went back and checked the after-hours sign-in book."

"There's a sign-in book?" Karp said. An angry midget was banging on the inside of his head with a ball-peen hammer.

"Yep," Fulton said. "I guess you've got the picture-no one else signed in after the complainant. But here's what was bothering my friend. His report about the second witness never made it into the case file. He checked. And he knows he gave it to Rachman."

"Aw, Christ," Karp swore.

"You okay, boss?"

"Uh, yeah, sorry, Clay. Just getting a headache."

"Guess this didn't help."

"Forget about it. Thanks for calling."

Fulton hung up, and Karp turned to Kipman. "I don't want a word of this to get out," he said. "If Rachel's going to hang herself, she's now got plenty of rope."