Malice

Epilogue

Bill Florence raised a glass of orange juice and brandy to those sitting with him around the table outside Kitchenette. "The blood of patriots and tyrants," the old newspaperman toasted.

"To Vince Newbury and Cian Magee," Father Jim Sunderland added. "Let's not forget whose blood was spilled in the cause of liberty."

The artist, Geoff Gilbert, took a drink and sighed. "I miss those days at Julius's house when we were all so young, and Vince was still part of our little fraternity." He turned his face to the morning sun on a beautiful, cloudless day in April.

"We were fortunate that Vince remembered those days, and came to us when he began to suspect the true nature of the skeleton in his family closet," Judge Frank Plaut replied.

"He remembered the old oath we took," said clothier Saul Silverstein. "We believed in what the Founding Fathers worked so hard to create and swore to protect it with our lives, fortunes, and sacred honor."

"We were also young, full of whiskey and fresh out of law school or just going into business like you and Mr. Florence…or hanging out with the Beats, like our own Geoffrey Gilbert," Dennis Hall noted. "Hell, I didn't even have a year in yet with the U.S. Attorney General's Office, and I'm sure none of us had any idea that our little fraternal oath would end up getting us mixed up in something as big as this."

"I don't know about that," Murray Epstein, the defense attorney pointed out. "Julius Karp was pretty worried about how the ordinary citizen reacts when demagogues like McCarthy dredge up bogeymen in order to secure more power for themselves and the government. I remember him, a little tipsy on the front porch, quoting from Orwell's book, 1984…the part about how the government, Big Brother, used the lie about a false war being waged to keep people in line and stop them from questioning what the government was doing."

"Yes, I remember," Epstein went on. "He thought Ike was saying much the same thing when he warned about the military-industrial complex, an enemy within that could be more of a threat to the Constitution than the enemy without."

"But Islamic extremism isn't a fictional enemy, nor politically compatible with a Big Brother conspiracy…though one has to wonder now that we've learned something of the Sons of Man," Sunderland pointed out.

"Bullshit," Hall scoffed. "Islamic extremism is the much greater danger. It cannot be reasoned with. How do you reason with people who believe that God has told them what to do? In fact, God has given them orders to subjugate the world…they have to obey or go to hell. There's a war for our lives, not just our way of life, going on, and we have to be careful that we don't hamstring the government so much because we're inflexibile-which the Constitution was never meant to be-that we lose both our lives and way of life. We need to keep an eye on government-and beware of those who think like the Sons of Man-but not a foot. There are other books that were as foreboding as 1984…one of them was Mein Kampf. The current appeasers on the left, and the United Nations, could well place us in a position occupied by Neville Chamberlain just prior to World War Two. Now, there's the greater immediate danger."

"Spoken like a true Fox Network propagandist," the defense attorney Epstein scoffed at his friend the prosecutor.

"Oh, a fine thing to say for a CNN lackey," Hall shot back.

"Would you two quit fighting for a moment and tell me why," said Gilbert, "if we know that Dean Newbury is part of this 'evil empire,' we don't tell the FBI or somebody like that?"

"And what would we tell them? That the head of one of the most prestigious law firms in the country-a law firm representing a lot of powerful people and that contributes huge amounts to political action committees and politicians-is really part of a criminal cartel that dreams of taking over the country?" Plaut asked. "We don't even know who else is involved; Vince was never able to get that information for us before they killed him. And the book is gone. I guess it's hindsight and we can blame it on senility and lack of experience at the spy game, but we should have made copies. Now we'll have to try to find another, though we'll have to be careful; they may be on the lookout for anyone asking for it after Cian Magee."

Silverstein shrugged. "We wanted to get it into the right hands, but we didn't know who to turn to. Jon Ellis turned out to be Jamys Kellagh, at least according to our sources, but it could have just as easily been Jaxon. These Sons of Man-sons of bitches, I say-had, or maybe still have, the resources of the government at their disposal and are perfectly willing to kill. We're just a bunch of old farts who stumbled into something much bigger than we anticipated fifty years ago when we were all young idealists. We thought we'd write a few policy papers, protest unjust wars or support just ones, teach law at Columbia like our friend Judge Plaut, support those people and causes, whichever political party they belonged to, that supported the Constitution. Keep an eye out for guys like McCarthy. This group, the Sons of Man, could easily crush us if they knew who Vince gave the tape and book to and that we're onto them. We settled this question a long time ago, after Kennedy. Our role is to watch and work behind the scenes, helping guys like Jaxon do their jobs, while slowly growing a network of others like us."

"Just as long as these others understand what it cost Vince Newbury and Cian Magee," Sunderland said.

"Blood of patriots isn't just a slogan, Jim," Florence said. "But I agree with Dennis that we don't have enough to go to anybody yet. And who would we trust? The FBI? How about V. T. Newbury, the nephew of one of the leaders of this group and an assistant district attorney for New York? We hear he's getting closer to his uncle, especially after this latest bit of news."

"I'd trust this guy," Sunderland said, nodding to the tall man who was approaching the cafe from the north. "Careful what you say…here comes Julius's boy."

Smiles replaced the looks of concern as the Sons of Liberty Breakfast Club turned to greet Butch Karp. "Ah, our good DA has deigned to join us this morning," Florence said. "We understand that congratulations are in order. If Ms. Stupenagel's story about the goings-on in Idaho was accurate, it would appear that once again you've wielded the sword of justice very well indeed."

Karp smiled at the poetic turn but held up a hand. "Other people had a lot more to do with it than I did," he said. "But Ms. Stupenagel's account was reasonably accurate, except where she made more of my role than it really was."

"Such humility," Gilbert said. "But do tell us all about the notorious Basque terrorist who was killed."

Karp wondered if it was his imagination or if the old men did lean a little closer to hear his answer. "I had even less to do with that," he replied. "You probably know more than I do from reading the newspapers." Or maybe not, he thought.

"Phooey," the artist pouted. "I was hoping for something gloriously bloody… So maybe you could tell us instead about the death of that agent, what's-his-name, Jon Ellis?"

Karp smiled and shook his head. "Still very hush-hush," he said, to Gilbert's visible disappointment.

Officially, Jon Ellis had died in the line of duty. It was Jaxon who'd asked that the true story be kept under wraps for the time being. "If anybody asks," he'd said to Karp, "he was working with you and trying to meet up with a source tying the bombing of the Black Sea Cafe to the Russian mob. You arrived late, and he and his men had already been ambushed."

"What about the men who were captured?" Karp asked.

"They're going to be isolated and detained for aiding terrorism under the Patriot Act," Jaxon had said. "Seems sort of ironic. They wanted to make sure McCullum, or somebody like him, didn't water down the Patriot Act, and now they'll be held incommunicado because of it."

At Kitchenette, Epstein changed the subject from Ellis. "So, Butch, we haven't seen you here much of late. Have we bored you already?"

"Quite the contrary," Karp replied. "I miss the pancakes and the company, but it's back to the grindstone. Got the doctor's permission to return to the office, and I'm still catching up."

"We saw in the paper that you're personally taking on the Campbell case?" Hall asked. "That's going to be a tough one. There's bound to be all sorts of wailing and gnashing of teeth over this 'postpartum blues' defense."

"A terrible thing," Epstein said. "I have to admit that I have problems with prosecuting a woman who was obviously not in her right mind."

"Of course you would," Hall responded. "But the legal threshold for being in her 'right mind' is whether she knew the difference between right and wrong when she murdered her children."

"First, you'll have to prove that she murdered the children," Sunderland noted. "The cops still haven't found the bodies of those poor kids."

"Any comment, Mr. District Attorney?" Plaut asked with a slight smile.

"I'm afraid not," Karp replied. "I'll save my comments for the courtroom."

"So do you have time for peach pancakes this morning?" Sunderland asked, pulling out the seat next to him for a place to sit.

Karp glanced at his watch and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to drop by to get a midmorning walk in-the leg's better but still has a ways to go-and because I told Jim I would. But I'm sure you've heard the news about what happened to my associate V. T. Newbury two nights ago."

"Yes, another terrible crime," Silverstein remarked. "Poor man, nearly beat to death by robbers from what I gather. How's he doing?"

"Well, to be honest, beat to death is somewhat of an exaggeration. As he says, 'It looks worse than it is,' though it was bad enough," Karp replied. "He has a broken nose and a fractured cheekbone, plus a couple of broken ribs and a concussion. He'll be in the hospital for a few more days, but looks like he'll recover just fine."

"Still, doesn't sound pleasant, but good to know he'll be okay," Sunderland said. "Give him our best wishes. I don't suppose he's Catholic and in need of a priest? I've discovered that I rather enjoy talking to attorneys with the DAO while they rehabilitate from their wounds."

Karp laughed. "Not a Catholic. I think he's Protestant and not terribly religious at that. But I'll let him know you're available as an enjoyable companion… Anyway, I'll be on my way, but I hope we can catch up soon." Walking over to the curb, Karp lifted his hand to hail a cab to take him to Beth Israel hospital.

"Oh, Mr. Karp," Judge Plaut shouted. "Did I ever tell you that we actually met a long time ago, when you were just a boy?"

Surprised, Karp turned back. "I didn't know that, though I'll say that I've always thought you looked familiar."

"Yes," the judge replied as a cab pulled to the curb. "It was at your parents' house. Some of us used to come over on Saturday nights to talk. You were the mouse listening next to your father's chair."

A memory, distant and fond, came to Karp, who smiled and nodded as he got in the cab and rolled down the window. "I remember," he shouted as the cab pulled away.

Karp smiled all the way to the hospital. Meanwhile, back on West Broadway, a group of old men sunned themselves, whistled at the pretty girls waltzing past on the sidewalk, and discussed the district attorney of New York City.

About the same time that Karp was walking into the hospital lobby, Dean Newbury was attending to his nephew, who lay in the hospital bed looking somewhat like a beaten raccoon, with two black eyes, a splint on his nose, and a bandage around his head.

"I can't believe those-excuse the expression and you know I don't usually use such vulgar language-niggers did this to you," Dean Newbury seethed. "If I wasn't so angry, I'd find great irony in the fact that a man who has devoted his entire life to putting this sort of trash behind bars to protect the rest of us was so cruelly manhandled by inferiors who probably have a fifth-grade education and three or four children by as many mothers."

V. T. Newbury reached out and grabbed his uncle's hand. "It's okay. I have to admit that I've been rethinking some of my beliefs since this happened. I was scared to death that they were going to kill me, and I hated them for it. I blamed it on their race, and hated them for that, too."

Dean Newbury nodded grimly. "What's the saying? A Democrat is really just a Republican who hasn't been mugged yet." He laughed but saw the look on his nephew's face and quickly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean to make fun of what happened to you, my boy. I'm sure it was terribly frightening, and your reactions are most understandable."

"Don't worry about it, Uncle Dean. I'd have laughed with you at that old saw, except it would hurt too much."

Dean gave his nephew's hand a squeeze and dropped it. "So, perhaps this could be taken as a sign that you might be considering my offer to join the firm? I know it would have thrilled your father."

At the mention of his dad, V.T. fingered the ring on his hand, looking down at the triskele. A few days before he was beaten, Lucy Karp had noticed the ring during a visit to the Karp family loft. "Where'd you get that?" she'd asked. She was smiling but there was something odd about her face, as if she was trying to control her mouth.

"This?" V.T. replied. "It was my cousin's. He died in Vietnam. My uncle, his father, gave it to me recently. The emblem is sort of like a family coat of arms. Why?"

Lucy shrugged and mumbled, "Nothing. Just, uh…just wondering." But he'd caught the look she shot her mother, who'd quickly changed the subject.

A few days later, he'd gone to a park in Morningside Heights on the northwest end of Manhattan to meet with a source regarding one of the "No Prosecution" cases. But he'd been attacked in the park by two black men, who'd beaten him unconscious and taken his wallet and watch, but not the ring.

He woke up in the hospital, and to his surprise, it was his uncle who was standing next to his bed. And afterward, the old man had insisted on calling in the best specialists-plastic surgeons for his nose and cheek fracture, and brain specialists with their expensive tests to make sure that the concussion had left him with no permanent damage.

When V.T. tried to thank him, his uncle had waved it off. "We're family, and family take care of each other," he said a little gruffly, but he was making an effort. The old man had hesitated and V.T. even thought he caught the glint of a tear in his eyes when he said, "I know I'm not the warmest person on earth. In fact, you might even think of me as cold and hard-hearted for the way I reacted publicly to the death of my son…of my son, Quilliam…and again at the death of your father, my little brother. It's just that I handle grief privately; it may not be the best way, but it's what works for me. However, I can assure you that I grieved, and still do."

"I understand," V.T. replied. "Everybody deals in their own way. I do appreciate you saying that, though; I know it wasn't easy." He was quiet for a moment; then, choosing his words carefully, he added, "You know, even before you brought it up, I'd been thinking that maybe it was time I gave the family firm a shot. My father accomplished a lot there. And Butch doesn't need me. He has some great young assistant district attorneys down at the DAO, and my assistant chief is more than capable of filling my shoes."

"Of course he is." Dean Newbury beamed. "Time to let fresh blood have at, eh? And for you to enjoy the fruits of so much experience in the courtroom. You'll make a fine partner and, if things work out well, a great judge who can have a lot of influence on our society, especially if we can get you all the way to the Supreme Court. Of course, you might also consider finding some proper young woman and settling down, even having a son to carry on the Newbury name. It's not too late, you know. You've given it a great run, but you can't be a carefree bachelor all of your life." He chuckled.

"Who can't be a carefree bachelor?" asked the voice at the door, which turned out to belong to Butch Karp, who stiffened when he entered and saw V.T.'s uncle. "Mr. Newbury," he said, and nodded.

"Karp," Dean Newbury replied.

Ignoring the slight, Karp turned to his friend. "So what's this? You thinking about leaving me?" he asked with a smile, but his eyes were concerned.

"As a matter of fact, my nephew is seriously considering joining his family's firm," his uncle interjected before V.T. could answer. "He's put in more than enough time as a 'public servant.'" The old man said the last two words as if cursing.

Karp looked at V.T. Now the concern was all over Karp's face. "So you're thinking it's time to go over to the dark side." He tried to laugh at the old joke, but it came out strained.

V.T.'s reply was unexpected. "What makes it the 'dark side'? Our judicial system isn't just about prosecutors; there's another side for a reason. And my dad accomplished a lot for all sorts of people working at the firm. Meanwhile, what does it matter if I put a few lowlifes in prison; they're out before I can store their files. If I decide I've had enough, then I think I've done enough to deserve it without any smart-assed comments from you."

"Hey, V.T., I didn't mean…" Karp tried to apologize.

"That's right," Dean Newbury said before Karp could finish his thought. "Why wallow in the pits with the swine, and for nothing, when he could help mold decisions that could affect thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of peoples' lives."

"By protecting oil interests and unscrupulous CEOs who loot employees' retirement accounts before jumping ship with a golden parachute?" Karp responded.

"I thought you were the one who said I should consider going with the money," V.T. retorted.

"I was kidding," Karp replied.

"Well, I'm not," V.T. shot back.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Karp couldn't remember ever reaching such a point in a conversation-even during heated debate over courtroom strategy or topics of the day-with the normally unflappable V. T. Newbury. "I understand you're under stress," he said, trying to defuse the situation. "Who could blame you? Just remember that if you need someone to talk to, I'm always there for you."

"I think we can do better than that," Dean Newbury said.

Karp ignored the uncle and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Just take it easy," he said. "Give it some thought, and we'll talk about it when you get back to the office." He looked at Dean Newbury, whose eyes were boring into him.

V.T. didn't say anything, but his body language spoke volumes when he rolled away from Karp on the hospital bed. "I'm tired," he said. "I think I'll go to sleep now."

Karp stopped himself from saying anything more. Now, obviously, wasn't the right time. He looked at his watch again. "That's okay," he said. "I was just stopping by to say hello. I'm on my way to a memorial service for Lucy's friend Cian Magee."

"Fellow who burned in that arson, right?" Dean Newbury said. "Too bad. They ever figure it out?"

Karp didn't want to reply. He found the old man loathsome, but for the sake of his friend he shook his head. "No," he said. "It's still a mystery."

"Probably gangs or some neighborhood spat," Dean Newbury said, scowling. "Or the slumlord was looking for an insurance payment. I thought they already buried the victim."

"This is a memorial service," Karp said. "There weren't many people at his funeral."

"And there will be now?" Dean Newbury asked.

"I think so," Karp replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, V.T., you take care, and we'll talk soon."

"Yeah," V.T. replied without turning back to look at Karp. "See you around."

Karp took a cab to the Irish cemetery in Yonkers and walked as briskly as his leg would allow up a grassy hill to where a crowd had gathered at the gravesides of Cian Magee and his parents. As he approached, the pipes and drums of the Irish Society of County Heath struck up and began playing "Amazing Grace."

Making his way to where Marlene was standing with the guest of honor, Karp noted the great variety of mourners. A "real" memorial service had been, of course, Lucy's idea. "He deserved better than what he got after all it meant," she'd argued, and set to work.

Among the attendees were Espey Jaxon and several of his agents, as well as Tran, accompanied by a dozen shade-wearing Vietnamese gangsters who were giving Ivgeny Karchovski and a half dozen Russian mobsters respectful nods, which were returned. John Jojola and Ned were standing next to Lucy, who'd dressed in black like a widow and was crying softly near the small brass shamrock memorial she'd paid to have placed on Magee's grave. Surprised, Karp also spotted Edward Treacher and two more of the street people who hung regularly around the Criminal Courts Building, the Walking Booger and Dirty Warren, the newspaper stand owner with Tourette's syndrome. Beyond them, standing on a hill in the distance, he noted a tall, thin figure in a dark robe. Unfinished business, he thought as he turned and smiled at Murrow and Stupenagel, who'd been told she could come only if she didn't write a story until Lucy told her it was okay.

There were a dozen or more other faces he thought he recognized as some of Lucy's old friends, plus the twins, Zak and Giancarlo, who looked handsome but uncomfortable in their suits and ties. "Quite the turnout," he said as he walked up next to Marlene.

"Yes, nice, isn't it," Marlene replied, finding his hand with her own. "Butch, have you ever met Senator McCullum?" She turned to the tall red-haired man next to her. "Senator, my husband, Butch Karp."

"Never had the pleasure, though I enjoyed hearing you speak on one occasion," Karp said, reaching across Marlene to shake the senator's hand.

"The pleasure's mine," McCullum said. "I'm an admirer."

"In Montana?" Karp asked.

The senator laughed. "Actually, I hear the Karp name bandied about more in Washington and, of course, when I'm here in New York," he said. "But you can be sure that the news out of Idaho was reported in Montana as well." The music stopped and the senator whispered, "I think that's my cue."

Karp shook his head as McCullum walked over to where Lucy stood and hugged her. Although much of the case was still classified, and would remain that way until Jaxon found and destroyed the Sons of Man, Karp's daughter had asked the agent if he would tell the senator about the man who had uncovered the plot to assassinate him and died for it. When the senator heard about the memorial service, he'd insisted that he attend. His participation had been kept a secret, and quite a few eyes grew wider-especially Stupenagel's-when he stepped away from Lucy to speak to the crowd.

"We've gathered today to honor an American patriot," McCullum began. "And a man who took great pride in his Irish roots, as do I. We should all be proud of where we came from, because it's what made this country great. It's what creates patriots. A land of diversity and a land in which words and ideas are more powerful than bullets or bombs. I'm told that Cian Magee was a man who appreciated words, so I'd like to read you something my grandmother used to say to me whenever I left the house." He pulled a small piece of paper from his breast pocket. "It's an old Irish poem, and I'm going to try this in the mother tongue in honor of Cian. Those of you who speak Irish Gaelic better than I, forgive my mistakes; I've asked Lucy to translate when I'm finished for the rest of you. This is called, 'Go n'eiri an bothar leat.'"

"Go n'eiri an bothar leat," the senator repeated, his voice carrying over the green grass and beneath the oak, sycamore, and walnut trees that lined the roads of the cemetery.