Fury

3

Atleast there's no wind,Karp thought as he left the five-story building on the corner of Grand and Crosby that housed the family loft. Sometimes gales blew up off the harbor and funneled down the stone canyons with such force that it could be difficult to walk. During the winter, the winds stabbed through the thickest coat like ice hooks, and the gray, overcast sky could make it seem colder yet.

Even on a day like this one, when the skies were bright blue and the air still, the temperature could dangle in the single digits. Karp pulled his long, dark-blue wool peacoat tighter around his neck and tugged a Russian Cossack hat down over his ears as far as it would go. The boys had bought him the hat for his birthday, and at the time he'd thought privately that he looked ridiculous in it and would never wear the thing. But now he was grateful for its protection and wished it could also cover his nose as he strode quickly south across Grand Street.

Despite the bite in the air, the walk was not an entirely unpleasant one. A few last snowflakes floated in the sunlight like leftover confetti from a parade and lent an air of authenticity to the Christmas decorations that hung in the various shop and loft windows along his route.

Karp loved this time of year with the wreaths and ribbons and the Hanukkah candles in the windows. Even the string of blinking lights the Chinese butcher at the corner of Centre and Canal had dangled around the row of plucked ducks in the viewing case brought back fond memories of holiday strolls with his parents to look at the lights and listen to the carolers in his Brooklyn neighborhood. He made a mental note to take the boys and Marlene, and maybe Lucy, if she made it home for the holidays, ice-skating beneath the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center and to gawk like tourists at the holiday scenes in the windows along Fifth Avenue.

Centre Street on a chill Sunday morning was quiet, with only a few people scurrying from one destination to the next. Karp reflected that most of the wiser members of the public were hunkered down. But as he drew near Worth Street he saw that a small crowd of people, including several wearing dark blue coats with NYPD stenciled on the back, were gathered around a man who stood on a milk crate.

As Karp drew closer, he realized that the speaker was Dirty Warren, the guy who ran the newsstand where he usually bought his Times before heading into the courthouse at 100 Centre Street, which also housed his office. He would have recognized the vendor even if he couldn't see the long, pointed nose that protruded from the orange ski mask that otherwise revealed only a set of watery blue eyes beneath thick glasses and a blue-lipped mouth. It was the mouth that gave the owner away, not its appearance but what came out of it.

Dirty Warren had received his nickname, the only name Karp knew him by, because he suffered from Tourette's syndrome, a short circuit in his brain that was manifested by profanity-laced speech the likes of which was rarely heard away from sailors' bars. Karp sometimes suspected that Warren took advantage of his affliction to hurl invective at people he might not otherwise have dared confront. But proving it was difficult-sort of like demanding that someone in a wheelchair stand up to prove that he was indeed handicapped.

As he stood on top of the milk crate, Dirty Warren's diatribe had attracted the usual street people in their colorful array of castoff garments and Salvation Army blankets, as well as a few curious tourists, who stood in slack-jawed amazement at the man's dexterity with foul language.

"Sh-sh-sh-shit, p-p-p-piss cocksucker. L-l-l-leave him al-l-lone!" Warren didn't normally stutter, as well as cuss, but it was d-d-damn cold. "D-d-didn't they ta-ta-ta-teach you pigs about the r-r-r-right of the pa-pa-pa-people to assemble or…ma-ma-ma-motherfucker vagina…the fah-fah-fah-freedom of speech at the academe-meme? D-damn ass-wipe, ball-licker sons of wh-wh-wh-whores!"

Whatever had prompted the newspaper vendor to hold forth originally had now degenerated into a rant directed at the NYPD officers, who were trying to figure out a way to come at a large man they had surrounded.

Small wonder, Karp thought and smiled when he saw the man, whose massive head was covered with a filthy mane of dark curly hair that seemed to sprout over most of his face as well, and what wasn't covered with hair was nearly black with dirt and grease. The man was wearing what appeared to be four or five coats, the colors of which had long since faded. He'd stuffed his hair into a filthy Santa Claus hat and was waving his arms wildly as he shuffled back and forth in front of the cops like an enraged bear, which he resembled. He bellowed, "Back ov, 'u fuggin' pigs. Let Warren 'peak. Freedom ov 'peech! Freedom ov 'peech!"

The officers seemed reluctant to close and Karp knew why. Even from the back of the crowd-maybe twenty feet-he could smell the Walking Booger, another one of the legions of homeless street wanderers he'd known for years. Legend had it that Booger, whose explorations of his nasal cavities with any one-and sometimes two at a time-of his sausagelike fingers had earned him his nickname, had neither bathed nor washed his clothes in the nearly two decades since he'd first shown up on the streets. Not unless standing in the rain counted as a shower or a visit to the laundromat. His breath alone might have qualified as a weapon of mass destruction. Every way he turned, the cops and the crowd on that side took two steps back with horrified looks.

Karp would have walked on, but Warren spotted him from his milk crate and yelled to him. "H-h-hey, Karp. Would you p-please…scumbag piss drinker…explain to New York's finest that th-th-there's such a thing as…fa-fa-fuck me naked…a Constitution?"

One of the older officers with the chevrons of a sergeant on his sleeve turned to see whom Warren was yelling to and looked relieved to see him. "Hey, Mr. Karp, Sergeant Seamus, nice work this summer nailin' that slimebag Kane and the slimebag cops who was doin' his dirty work-gave us all a black eye," he said, removing a glove and sticking out a big, meaty hand.

Karp shook the proffered hand. "Thanks, but there were a lot more people involved than just me. Not to mention that I think the reputation of the NYPD isn't going to be dictated by a few bad apples."

"Thanks, I appreciate the sentiment," Seamus said with a nod. He turned his attention toward Warren and Booger. "Would you mind explaining to these gentlemen that they need to settle down before one of my boyos decides to end this 'peaceful assembly' by busting heads?" He nodded to a steroidal-looking younger cop who already had his nightstick out and was growing redder in the face with each profanity launched from Warren's mouth.

Karp grimaced. "I'd call off the dogs, Seamus. The last time someone hit Booger-the big one there-that I know of, it was with a crowbar right between the eyes. Would have killed a cow. Instead it only made him mad enough to stuff his assailant-some skinhead bully who had a thing for homeless people-down a storm sewer… Not to mention I don't know that your boy could get close enough without being overcome by the fumes."

Seamus wrinkled his nose. "Know what you mean. Still, we need to move this crowd along."

"I'll see what I can do," Karp replied. He turned and walked up to the soapbox orator. "Yo, Warren, come down from there. I need my paper."

Warren hurled a few more epithets toward the police, who shook their heads and moved on, then stepped down from his perch. Booger held up his arms as if to give him a hug. " 'arp, boy am I glad a see choo."

Karp sidestepped the hug and instead shook Booger's filthy hand, making a mental note to burn his glove as soon as he got home. "Glad to see you, too. What was all this anyway? The sergeant says his guys were trying to move people out from in front of storefront doors. They've been doing that since Tammany Hall."

"Yeah, piss face," Warren replied. "But they've p-p-p-picked up the pace, and on a Sunday morning in w-w-eather…ohhh SHIT!…like this, harassing street people like B-b-b-booger and the others when they're just t-t-trying to stay warm. It's all about the c-c-city's image…bitch son of a ba-ba-ba-bitch…so that the tourists won't have to be exposed to guys like Booger here. Ba-babut they don't want to do anything…lick my nuts…to help, just sh-sh-shove them out of sight, the darker the hole the better. Tiny-brained wipers of other people's bottoms."

Karp narrowed his eyes. "Wasn't that a line from a movie?"

"You…you…you tell me?" Warren grinned, playing their old game of "guess the movie" trivia.

"Monty Python and the Holy Grail," Karp said.

"Too easy, th-th-that one didn't count," Warren giggled while Booger guffawed.

Karp tried not to smile. No sense encouraging them. "Tell you what, if you can keep this on the QT, I'm on my way to meet with the new mayor, and if I get a chance, I'll quiz him about his plans for the homeless."

"Yeah, right," Warren said. "They're all the s-s-same. The more things change the more things remain the same…or…butthole…get worse."

" 'ah, worse," Booger chimed in.

"Well, we can always hope," Karp said. "I kind of like this guy."

"Yeah, we'll see. H-h-hey, you need a paper, right?" Warren said, as they approached his newsstand.

"Yeah, I need the Post," he said, handing over a ten. "Keep the change and maybe go get yourself and Booger a cup of coffee and a couple of doughnuts. And try to behave; the Cossacks are right around the corner waiting for you two anarchists to act up again."

Warren grabbed the bill and stomped off, muttering, with Booger shuffling alongside him, loudly repeating every third obscenity and raising his fist like a Cuban revolutionary.

Karp shook his head-never a dull moment in the Big Apple. He walked on past 100 Centre Street, the gray monolith that housed the city courts, the grand juries, the Manhattan house of detention-known affectionately as the Tombs-and the NY DAO.

He climbed the stairs and saw a familiar figure waiting for him at the door. "Why, Harry, what brings you to City Hall on a Sunday morning?" he asked.

Harry "Hotspur" Kipman was tall and thin to the point where he would have made a good Ichabod Crane for a stage production of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. He had a pair of piercing blue eyes set a little too close together over an eagle's beak nose, but they saw through bullshit better than anyone Karp had ever known.

It was Karp who'd given him the nickname Hotspur for his temperament. Harry wasn't one to pull punches. He was a crusader against hypocrisy, and his directness was sometimes more off-putting than he intended. But he was at heart a good, gentle man with a dry wit and quick mind that made him a pleasure to be around.

Karp wouldn't have traded Harry, who'd become the head of the appeals bureau, for a dozen courtroom litigators. A lawyer's lawyer, Kipman had an almost total recall of the New York Penal Code, as well as the citations to major pivotal cases. He personally prepared the legal briefs and argued the People's case against the big-enchilada convicted murderers who sought their last legal refuge the system provided in the appellate process. His win-loss record was right up there with Ivory Snow's purity. He also insisted on "preemptive lawyering" by personally reviewing the high-profile or legally challenging cases before they went to trial. The idea was to advise the assistant district attorneys trying the case to create an error-free record.

However, it might have been Kipman's third role that Karp liked best. Harry was a sort of moral compass for the district attorney's office. He'd come to work for the legendary former DA Francis Garrahy about the same time Karp did and, like Karp, had adopted the old man's policy that the purpose of the district attorney's office was to seek justice, "not win at any cost."

If, in his running battle with evil, Karp was ever tempted to cut corners-and it wasn't often-Kipman was there to remind him, sometimes with nothing more than a look, that there was only one way to do things. The right way.

Kipman's black-and-white take on justice didn't make him a Goody Two-shoes, as some of the younger prosecutors sometimes thought of him. He could let loose a stream of profanity that would have made Dirty Warren blush, and there wasn't a defense or appellate attorney practicing in New York who went up against Hotspur Kipman without trepidation. They knew they had better come prepared and loaded for bear, or Kipman would tear them apart in front of a judge like an angry grizzly. But there was no one Karp trusted more.

"Got a call from the new mayor who said you'd be here, too, and that he wanted to talk to us both," Kipman said. He yawned nonchalantly. "There was nothing worth watching on the tube, sportswise anyway." Along with being a musical genius and legal god, Kipman was a sports fanatic. He collected sports memorabilia of all sorts and became a noted authenticator of baseball cards for devotees.

The pair was met at the elevator by a pretty, if officiously sincere and conservatively dressed, young woman who introduced herself as Mayor Denton's assistant press secretary, Alisa Mokler-Shreddre, and apparently took her duties and herself very seriously. "This way please," she said, and immediately turned on her heel and walked away with her well-formed butt twitching beneath a gray wool skirt.

Karp fastened on the retreating derriere for a moment before realizing he'd been caught. He scowled at Kipman, who was particularly adept at raising an eyebrow to imply guilt.

"Up yours, I got a daughter her age," Karp muttered under his breath. "And a wife who'd cut my nuts off if I ever so much as thought what you're thinking."

Kipman didn't reply. He just stared straight ahead with a half-smile on his lips and the eyebrow stuck at its zenith as Ms. Mokler-Shreddre escorted them to a door on which were the words Mayor's Office, where a clean-cut and equally serious young man was scraping the current officeholder's name off with a razor blade.

Michael Denton had won the election handily in November but wouldn't officially take office until January 1. However, the current mayor, who'd declined to run for a second term when he thought his opponent was going to be Andrew Kane, was in a hurry to vacate the premises and had invited his replacement to begin the transition process immediately after the election. He'd even allowed Denton to move into the main offices while he vacated to a smaller suite.

Therefore, Mayor-elect Michael Denton was sitting behind the big mahogany desk with the seal of New York City on the front when Karp and Kipman were shown in. Not for the first time, Karp noted that the man was the spitting image of one of his oldest friends in the city, NYPD Homicide Bureau Chief Bill Denton, the mayor-elect's brother. Bill had ten years on his sibling, but both men had large, square heads that looked as if they'd been chipped from blocks of stone, and wide, friendly Irish faces.

Like his brother, Michael had originally followed the family tradition of joining the thin blue line of the NYPD. But his career had been cut short by a shotgun blast from a robber-whom he'd killed in the gunfight-that forced the doctors to amputate what remained of his left leg. After he recovered, he didn't mope around feeling sorry for himself or climb inside a bottle but went back to school and earned his business degree, which in turn he'd used to buy, refurbish, and turn profitable a number of pubs in Irish neighborhoods throughout the five boroughs. Then he'd thrown himself into the other traditionally Irish business in New York: politics. First as a block organizer, then party leader, followed by several terms as a city councilman, and then-mostly because no one else wanted the job-as the soon-to-be mayor of Gotham.

Michael Denton was as surprised as anyone to now be sitting in the high-backed leather chair behind a desk festooned with the emblem of the City of New York, while his wife of thirty-plus years happily waited for the day the current first lady-who was somewhat more reluctant to give up the trappings of power than her husband-got the hell out of Gracie Mansion. He'd essentially been regarded as cannon fodder by his own party when Kane announced his candidacy and the incumbent decided against running. But then along came Butch Karp, and suddenly Denton stood alone in the field. The demoralized opposition party had hardly put up a fight, which Karp figured was the only way an essentially honest man was now in office.

Michael Denton's eyes were not quite as blue or intense as Kipman's, but they indicated a shrewdness that told Karp that very little escaped the man's attention. He'd liked Denton's businesslike campaign, which had been devoid of flashy slogans and meaningless promises that couldn't have been kept.

Instead, the man had spoken with pride about how the people of New York had reacted following the devastating attacks of 9/11 and said he now wanted to harness that spirit to show the world that New York was "devastated by our losses but not defeated by hatred, nor daunted by cowards." It was as close to a slogan as he'd come, and he spent most of his time working the meeting halls and churches and going door to door, talking to people about the practical things he wanted to accomplish: more cops walking the streets, and schools that were safe for their children to attend.

Karp didn't mind that some of Michael Denton's speeches seemed to have been lifted directly from his own modest initial efforts at campaigning for the next year's district attorney's race. The message is a good one, he thought, and the more people who buy into it, the better off we'll all be.

Michael Denton rose from his chair and came from around the desk to shake their hands and point to chairs, inviting them to have a seat. When they were all sitting, he asked Karp how his campaign was going-"great, I guess"-and Denton said that he hoped that Karp would win "so that we get a chance to work together. In the meantime, whatever this office can do to help make the city safer, just ask."

Karp thanked him.

"Hate to be too cliche," Denton said, "but I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here today."

Harry chuckled but remained mute and stared at the fingernails on one hand as if he'd suddenly discovered a hangnail. Butch spread his hands and said, "I'm sure it wasn't to ask me about how my campaign was going, but I figured you'd get to it in good time."

Denton laughed, then leaned forward and pushed a button on the intercom. "Alisa, would you show our other visitor in, please." Mokler-Shreddre must have been waiting with her hand on the doorknob because Denton hadn't even settled back into his chair when the door opened.

Karp looked at the man who entered and this time it was his turn to raise an eyebrow and leave it there. It wasn't that he was displeased to see Richard Torrisi, another former cop he'd known since they were all wet-behind-the-ears crime fighters. But Torrisi had quit the force, gone to law school, and was now the attorney for the Police Benevolent Association, one of the most powerful unions in the city. And over the years, Karp had had his run-ins with the union, which tended to react like any organism when poked-by curling up in a defensive posture-such as on the few occasions he'd prosecuted dirty cops. But he had his union supporters, too, and had always liked Torrisi, even when circumstances put them at loggerheads.

"Hey, Butch, good to see you," Torrisi said, walking over to shake hands.

Karp stood, wincing when a shot of electricity went through his bum knee, and gladly took the hand. He noticed that the once coal-black and wavy hair was now mostly silver, but the brown eyes were just as sharp above the Roman nose. He pointed to Harry, who had also stood. "Dick, I don't know if you've met my appeals division head, Harry Kipman."

Torrisi held out his hand. "Only by reputation."

Karp, noticing that Harry actually blushed at the compliment, filed it away to tease him about later. He knew his colleague was supremely confident in his abilities, but he had always preferred to work in the background, pitting his mind and knowledge of the law against another like-minded attorney out of the public eye.

Denton cleared his throat and the other three men turned toward him, then took their seats. "Sorry about the secrecy, Butch-part of it's that I'm still not here in an official capacity, but there's more to it than that as you'll see in a few minutes." He paused but as there was no reaction, he went on. "I asked Mr. Torrisi to meet us here because of my concerns about how the so-called Coney Island Four case is being handled. Have you been following it in the press?"

Karp looked at Harry, who'd resumed studying his hangnail, then back at Denton and shrugged. "Somewhat, I suppose, like any other citizen who gets the newspaper and has a television."

"And your impression?" Denton asked.

Karp noticed that the mayor-elect and Torrisi seemed to move forward in their seats waiting for his answer. "Well, if I were to believe everything I read or hear-and I do not-it would appear that the NYPD and the Brooklyn DA fucked up, which means that the city is in trouble with this lawsuit."

Denton pursed his lips, then nodded. "Glad to hear you don't believe everything you read. In fact, whether it's the newspaper or television, neither you nor anyone else in this city is getting the truth, which is why I've asked Mr. Torrisi-"

"Dick is good enough, your honor," Torrisi interjected.

"Dick it is, and it's Michael to you, so quit with the 'your honor' shit." Denton continued, "Which is why I've asked Dick to give it to you straight this morning."

As Denton spoke, Torrisi rose and walked over to the window as if he were preparing his speech. He looked out for a moment, then turned to face the other men. "I'll try to keep this fairly short though I feel I pretty much have to lay it all out chronologically so there are no misunderstandings. So I'm sorry if any of this is redundant. On the night of May 19, 1992, five young black men from Bedford-Stuyvesant-Jayshon Sykes, Desmond Davis, Packer Wilson, Kwasama Jones, and Kevin Little-took the bus from their neighborhood to Coney Island, where they consumed a large amount of beer and smoked marijuana to psych themselves up for a night of what they called 'wilding.'

"Over the next few hours, they harassed and assaulted a half-dozen people who had done nothing more than be in the right place at the wrong time, including an elderly Korean immigrant, Mr. Lee Kim, who was robbed and then beaten so badly his skull was fractured. We know all this because the so-called Coney Island Five-which became Four when Kevin Little was later shot and killed-admitted to these crimes at the time and haven't tried to recant. Plus, Mr. Kim lived and was able to identify the suspects from live lineups, especially Jayshon Sykes, who he said was the man who hit him with a piece of steel bar. When the crowds finally went home, the suspects decided to wait for the dawn beneath the pier, where they continued to drink and get high.

"On the morning of May 20, a twenty-eight-year-old Brooklyn housewife and mother named Liz Tyler got out of bed, kissed her still-sleeping husband and her child, and went for her daily jog along the boardwalk and beach at Coney Island. It was a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm…low tide and a red sky in the east where the sun was just coming up. Her path took her to the pier, which she intended to pass beneath."

As Torrisi spoke, Karp could picture the scene. He could almost hear the sound of seagulls and the whispering rush of small waves over the sand. But his pleasant childhood memories were soon shattered by Torrisi's account of the attack on Liz Tyler.

"We don't know…because she doesn't remember…but Liz may have ignored, or didn't see, the danger when she approached the pier where these poor, innocent young men we've been watching on television were lurking."

Torrisi paused and seemed to find it difficult to go on. Man, he's tied up in this one, Karp thought, but before he could give it more reflection, Torrisi started talking again.

"We don't really know all of what happened next or in what sequence. As you may have read, this time accurately, Liz Tyler suffered head injuries during the attack and can't remember anything about it. However, several witnesses heard a woman screaming and men shouting from the direction of the pier about that time of the morning.

"These folks were mostly other joggers and a few beachcombers, but they weren't about to inquire, not even after they saw five young black men-and one nonblack we were never able to identify-running away from the pier. I suppose we're lucky that one witness finally did call the cops, but by the time they arrived, a bloody, badly injured Liz Tyler was standing in waist-deep water trying to wash herself. That she was able to stand at all and simply hadn't fallen over and drowned was something of a miracle. Her skull had been fractured by a blow from a blunt object, another blow had crushed the orbital bone around one eye, permanently blinding her on the left side, her nose was broken, and several of her teeth had been knocked out. She'd been bitten, stomped, and raped both vaginally and anally."

"This blunt object happen to be a piece of steel bar?" Karp asked, his jaw starting to ache from setting it so hard as his anger simmered.

Torrisi held up a hand. "If I may, let me get to that in a moment. Sorry if this is going on too long, but I still feel it's necessary. Liz Tyler was taken to the hospital for a standard rape examination and to be treated for her injuries. The doctor who examined her reported that she exhibited the signs-the tearing and bruising-of forced sexual intercourse. Unfortunately, she'd done too good a job of washing herself with seawater, and DNA samples from her body weren't available. However, one sample-a mixture of semen, blood, and fecal material-was recovered from her sweatshirt, where apparently one of her attackers wiped himself afterward."

"The sixth man…Villa-something," Karp said.

Torrisi nodded. "Enrique Villalobos. But again, I'll get to him in order. If you've been reading the newspaper accounts and watching television, you've undoubtedly heard that brutish cops coerced and intimidated these Boy Scouts into confessing to the rape and attempted murder of Liz Tyler. Never mind that these same paragons of virtue also confessed to the assaults of the half-dozen others-of course, they've already served the sentences for those crimes."

Torrisi stuck his hands in his pants and rocked back on his heels. "I'm going to cut the story a little short now and leave it for Mayor Denton-Mike-to explain why I asked for his help and why he asked you here. But I want to finish by assuring you that the officers and detectives in this case followed procedure and kept to both the spirit and letter of the law."

Torrisi looked down at his feet for a moment before looking up. "I know that to be a fact because I was one of the detectives. And I know I did everything I could to make sure I didn't foul up this case by giving these guys some way out on a technicality or because I abused someone's rights. You would have been just as careful if you'd seen her like I did a couple days after the attack-her head swollen up like a basketball, her face all yellow and purple… The docs were great; they fixed her up pretty good and the swelling went down, but doctors can't fix everything.

"As the lead detective in the case, I got to know her pretty good. The trial was real tough on her, she couldn't remember much of anything, but these fuckers would turn around and grin and leer at her whenever the jury was out of the room. She became more and more withdrawn until I don't think she cared what happened in the courtroom. Her husband, a real good guy, tried to stay by her, but she pushed him away and for a while wouldn't even see her kid.

"After the trial, I hoped she'd start to come around and for a while it looked like she might-she wouldn't go home, but she started seeing her daughter on weekends. That is until the day she took the kid, Rhiannon was her name, down by the pier, and while the kid was playing in the sand, Liz swallowed a bottle of Valium. Someone saw the little girl crying next to the woman who wasn't moving; otherwise Liz might have finished the job for the Coney Island Four. As it was, her husband divorced her and got full custody of the little girl. I hear he's living in Colorado or someplace like that now."

Torrisi looked up at Karp, who saw the tears glistening in the man's eyes. "Anyway, Butch, we got those guys fair and square and nailed their asses to the wall. Now they're going to get away with murder-maybe not in the traditional sense but they took Liz Tyler's life that morning as surely as if they'd killed her right then and there."

"What about Villalobos?" Kipman asked.

Torrisi nodded. "We always knew there was a sixth man. The DNA on the sweatshirt didn't match any of the five other guys. But we didn't try to keep it a secret. The ADAS-Robin Repass and Pam Russell-turned over the test results with all the rest of the exculpatory evidence to the defense. During the trial, the defense even tried to argue that the "missing man" did it all. Our argument was that just because we didn't have the sixth guy, it didn't mean the other five weren't guilty as sin. But thank God, we had the confessions videotaped. The jury only deliberated for less than two hours-a lot of it, from what I understand, taken up just filling out the paperwork on all the counts. Now, here we are only twelve years and change later and these guys have been set free based on a lie. And to pour salt on the wound, they may win a couple million dollars or so that could have been used for more cops and safer streets from the likes of these pieces of shit, excuse my French."

Karp waited a moment to make sure that Torrisi was done. "Okay. Sounds like the city has a defense…the best defense…the truth," he said. "But you didn't call me down here to hear what you already know. What else can I do for you?"

Torrisi looked at Denton, who picked up the thread of the conversation. "Actually, we'd like you to do a bit more than that. The reason I asked Dick to spell out the whole story was I was hoping it would persuade you to agree to a favor I'm asking. I'd like you to look over all the evidence, draw your own conclusions, and if you agree that Dick was straight with you regarding this case, I'd like you to represent the city in this lawsuit."

For a long moment the only sound in the office was the clanging of the old radiator that heated the room. Then Karp let out his breath and leaned forward. "Let's just suppose that even if there was nothing preventing the district attorney for Manhattan-whose responsibility it is to prosecute criminal cases, not represent the city in civil lawsuits-you have Corporation Counsel Sam Lindahl, who is paid to represent the city. He seems to be a competent attorney."

Denton shook his head. "He doesn't work for me yet, and I believe that Lindahl is going to recommend a settlement before I'm sworn in. What's more, I don't like him, I don't trust him, and I look forward to getting rid of him and appointing my own man as soon as I'm official. But that may be too late. I want to fight this case-not just to save taxpayers the money but in the interests of justice. I think I can pull some strings with the outgoing mayor to stall any attempts to have the city agree to a settlement, but the trial is set for late January, so we'll be under the gun to be ready after I toss Lindahl out on his ass."

Torrisi added, "Maybe he senses his time is about up, but it still doesn't explain why Lindahl has been in such a big hurry to move this toward a settlement. What's more-I'm, by the way, here without the knowledge or approval of my PBA bosses-for some reason the union and the NYPD brass, especially those in internal affairs, seem to have decided to let the officers and detectives involved in the case take the fall without a fight. The guys who are still on the force have been suspended, though officially they're calling it 'administrative leave.' And, of course, Robin and Pam are already being lined up for the firing squad."

Karp interrupted, "If you're planning on stalling for your swearing-in anyway, why not have your own Corporation Counsel take the case?"

"Fair question," Denton said. "I have a great guy to step in as Corporation Counsel, Brad Bradberry, good ol' Georgia boy who came to the big city. Great civil attorney, but the way I see it, this is going to be a repeat of the criminal trial, so I want the best prosecutor I can find. You. And to be honest, we're taking a lot of hits in the public relations campaign from Hugh Louis-all the press has been one-sided-and if we're going to find a jury that isn't ready to open the city coffers and make millionaires out of rapists, we need to trot out our own big cannon…someone whose name will at least give us a chance of finding an open-minded jury."

"Well, it's all very interesting," Karp admitted. "And I appreciate the votes of confidence. If what you say is true, and I believe it is, it really burns me to think these pieces of crap are going to be paid for what they did. But even if I wanted to, I don't think I could legally take on a civil case while I'm the sitting district attorney."

Karp noticed how Denton and Torrisi turned to look at Kipman. Aha, he thought, et tu Brute, a plot!

Kipman looked at him and quickly up at the ceiling. "Ahem, well, Butch," he said, reaching up to adjust the half-moon reading glasses on his nose. "Apparently, you can. We…um, I, did a little research and, um, apparently the governor has the authority to appoint you as special counsel in this matter. It seems that because you were appointed by him to replace Keegan, rather than elected, he can also appoint you as special counsel on this case. Officially, as the interim DA, you are working at his pleasure, not the electorate's."

Karp couldn't help but be amused by Kipman's unusual discomfiture. "So Harry," he rubbed it in, "apparently you've been plotting behind my back? I thought you said you didn't know what this was about?"

Kipman swallowed hard, his Ichabod-like Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, but he nodded and adjusted his glasses again. "Well, um, technically what I said was that I got a call from the mayor who said you would be present and that he wanted to talk to us, which was the truth. But ah, yes, I've had a previous conversation or two with Mr. Denton and Mr. Torrisi and, um, it's a no-brainer that you are the best man for this job, and they enlisted me in their, um, well, I guess you could call it a plot."

Denton chuckled. "Don't blame him, Butch. I've known Harry for a long time and knew that if there was some legal way to do this, he'd know about it or could find it. I approached him and asked him to look into this possibility because I knew you might not believe me or Dick. But I also swore him to secrecy until you and I could get together without the press being around to wonder what the DA and mayor-elect were discussing with one of the former detectives involved in this case."

The room fell quiet again. Karp gazed up at the ceiling; Torrisi stood near the window looking at the gray day outside; Denton kept his eyes on Karp; Kipman stared at his fingernails again. At last Karp sat up, but he shook his head. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I don't think you need me, and my job is prosecuting criminals for the people of New York City."

Torrisi started to say something, but Denton held up a hand to silence him. "Look, do me a favor, read the evidence, then make up your mind. If you still feel you can walk away from this, then no hard feelings, we'll get someone else."

With the other three men looking at him like dogs waiting for someone to throw a stick, Karp exhaled. "Okay, I'll take a look and let you know. I doubt I'll change my mind, but maybe I'll be able to help you or whoever you find with the strategy."

The meeting ended with a round of handshaking. A few minutes later, Karp was walking north on Centre Street when a Yellow Cab pulled up on the other side of the street and a tall, blond woman hopped out. She waved as she ran across the nearly deserted street toward him. "Hiya, Butch, imagine finding you here. Heard you just came from City Hall. Imagine that…and on a Sunday…and my sources tell me the mayor-to-be and a couple of other interesting folks were there, too."

If Karp could have run away with any chance of success, he might have started sprinting. But he knew Ariadne Stupenagel would just have followed him all the way home.

Loud, brassy, obnoxious, and persistent as lice, Stupenagel wasn't the worst journalist he'd ever met; in fact, if put on the rack or jabbed with a red-hot poker, he might even have admitted that she was pretty damn accurate and fair in her reporting. He also knew she was fearless and indefatigable in her pursuit of a story.

That past summer and fall, she'd done a series of four stories for the Village Voice based on what was supposed to be the rather ordinary life of a district attorney. While she did a good job on it, she was still one of them. The media. The ink-stained, hollow-eyed wretches who lied and misinformed depending on what was in it for them. She'd even managed to seduce his aide-de-camp, Gilbert Murrow, which made him nervous as all hell about their pillow talk.

"Hello, Stupe," he said with the least enthusiasm he could manage. He knew she wouldn't take the hint, but he wanted to let her know that he wasn't pleased about being spied on.

Ariadne fell into step beside him. "So want to tell me what's up between you and hizzoner-to-be?"

"Nope."

"Oh, then that was an admission that you met with Mr. Denton?"

"Nope."

"You're not going to tell me much of anything, are you?"

"Nope."

They'd reached the entranceway to 100 Centre Street, and Karp pulled up and faced the reporter. Stupenagel had her usual irritating "I know more than you think I know" smirk on her face, but he wasn't giving in.

"Sorry, Ariadne, you're going to have to go find some other mouse to torment today. This is where we part ways. I'm going inside."

Ariadne looked hurt. "That's cold, Karp. I thought we had a great working relationship and here you're not even going to invite a girl in to get warm."

"Nope," he replied, and walked up the steps where a security guard held open the door for him.

"You know I'll find out," she yelled before the door closed, but he didn't turn around.

Karp smiled. She probably will, he thought. Doesn't matter, I won't be getting involved in this. He took the elevator up to his eighth-floor office and let himself in. Flicking on the light, he pulled up short.

In the middle of the outer office was a mountain of boxes all marked in black Magic Marker "People v. Jayshon Sykes et al."

He sighed. Why is it everybody seems to know me better than I know myself? Well, I don't want to leave these here for the secretary to find in the morning. The newspapers and television stations would have a field day if word got out.

An hour later, he'd carried all the boxes into his inner office and stacked them in a corner with the telltale lettering against the wall where it couldn't be read easily. But he didn't open them. Instead, he put his coat back on, tugged the Cossack hat around his ears, and left the building. As he headed north toward home, the wind pushed him along, adding to the feeling that he was being swept along in a current he couldn't see or control.