No Lesser Plea

Chapter 19

The remains of a giant mushroom-and-pepperoni pizza with extra cheese had been pushed to one side of Karp’s bed. Guma had brought it, together with four quarts of Schaeffer, and Karp, desperate after nearly a month of hospital food, had eaten most of it. Mike Kaplan, Roland Hrcany, V.T., and Sonny Dunbar were arranged around the room, drinking beer, smoking, eating cannolis out of greasy paper, and generally helping with Karp’s readjustment to life on the outside. Tomorrow he was scheduled to go home-on crutches.

Karp tried to get into the spirit of celebration, but failed. This was noticed.

“Hey, Butch, smile! It’s supposed to be a party. You look like a rainy day in the cancer ward,” said Guma.

“Yeah, Karp, lighten up!” said Hrcany. “Have some more beer. Hey, I’ll get my projector, we’ll set it up and watch skin flicks.”

“No, maybe later,” said Karp. “Listen, guys, let me not beat around the bush. I need some help here. Sonny and Mike are already in it, but we’re not going to pull it off as a part-time thing. Especially with me on crutches.”

“What, this is the liquor store case, that guy Louis?” asked Guma.

“Yeah, but let me fill you in on the details.”

After Karp had done so, Guma gave a low whistle.

“Holy shit! This guy Louis aced Sonny’s brother-in-law, blew up Marlene, and almost killed you, while he was locked up?”

“I see your point, Butch,” said V.T. “If this guy walks, nobody will be safe in their beds.”

“Yeah, safety in bed is one of our most sacred rights as Americans,” said Hrcany. “OK, you must have a plan. How do we nail the fucker?”

Karp grinned for the first time that evening. “We have to do two things. First, we have to crack Elvis. We’re not going to be able to get next to him officially, not with Sussman on the case. So we’re going to go after his alibi.”

“The girl, Vera,” said Dunbar.

“Right, but we also have to cover his movements from the time he was captured back as far as we can go. Where he went, the newspaper job, friends, hangouts. We should give Louis’s place a good toss, too. Elvis may have been hanging around there. He’s a skell, right? He must have done something we can bag him for.”

“I’ll do that, if I can get some help,” said Dunbar.

“I’ll come along, if I can wear a disguise,” said Hrcany.

“Wear your Nixon mask,” said Karp. “Mike, you go with the uptown squad, too. It’s good training. Guys, be gentle with him, he’s a mere child.”

“What’s the other thing?” asked V.T.

“Yeah, that’s the hard one. We’ve got to bring Louis to trial, which means we’ve got to destroy this Ganser syndrome bullshit. Which means knocking off Werner.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, V.T. I figure the only way to get the kind of information we need on Werner is to get somebody on the inside, to present somebody as a patient with Ganser syndrome. Get a line on the internal politics of the forensic staff. I can’t believe every psychiatrist in Bellevue is as whacked out as Werner.”

“So somebody has to pose as a crazed criminal and be locked up in Bellevue, and be examined by Werner,” V.T. mused.

“Exactly,” said Karp, “but who?”

“Yeah, somebody would have to be crazy to pull a trick like that.” Guma laughed. Then he realized that everybody else in the room was silent and looking at him expectantly.

“Uh-uh, guys. No way. No fucking way. I mean, I’ll help out and all, but I draw the line there. No way am I going to get locked up with a bunch of loonies. Sor-ree …”

“What’s the matter, Goom, afraid they won’t let you out?” said Hrcany.

“Up yours, blondie! You’re so fuckin’ wise, you do it! Sorry, Butch, that’s it, that’s final.”

Ten minutes later Guma was sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a Bellevue robe and pajamas. V.T. was preparing to push Guma down to the locked wards.

“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” said Guma. “I can’t believe you had it all set up, the paperwork and everything. What if I’da said no?”

“We had faith in you, Mad Dog,” said V.T. “Now start acting crazy, we’re rolling.”

Kaplan and Hrcany were standing outside Louis’s apartment. Nobody gave them any trouble. Two white men in suits walking together in that neighborhood could be only cops.

Hrcany knocked on the door. It opened three inches on a chain and a blast of high-volume Funkadelics washed over the two men.

“Hi, DeVonne,” said Hrcany. “Can we come in?”

“Who you?”

“What? Didn’t Louis tell you? We got the money. All of it.”

“What money?” said DeVonne suspiciously. Louis usually left her pretty explicit instructions about what he wanted her to do. He hadn’t said anything about white guys and money. On the other hand Louis was sounding flaky on the phone recently, jabbering about plans and lots in a way that she couldn’t follow. DeVonne liked simple orders. But maybe he forgot. Also, DeVonne was running short of cash. Elvis had cleaned out the cash box, and she was afraid to sell Louis’s stuff. He could be back any time. Something didn’t happen in a couple of weeks, she was going to have to go back to work.

“The money from the deal. Hey, baby, let’s not stand out in the hall so all the neighbors can hear Louis’s business. C’mon, let us in.”

DeVonne shrugged, closed the door, slipped the chain, and the two men entered. DeVonne walked across the living room and sat on the couch. She was wearing a floor-length, patterned orange lounging robe, loose and cut to the thigh. She crossed her legs and lit a cigarette with a large silver lighter.

“You all better not be shittin’ me. What kinda deal.”

“Smack. You know. Louis moved some shit for us. His end is ten grand. Here it is, OK?”

Hrcany held out a thick wad of bills wrapped in a rubber band. DeVonnne saw Ben Franklin’s picture on top. Her eyes widened and she reached out for the wad.

“Uh-uh, baby. First you got to sign this receipt. I don’t give nobody ten grand in cash without a receipt.” Hrcany held out a piece of paper and a ballpoint. DeVonne took it and signed it on the glass coffee table.

Hrcany picked it up: “Received September 10, 1973, $10,000, signed, DeVonne Carter,” he read. “Real good, DeVonne. OK, here’s your cash.” He tossed the roll to DeVonne, who pulled off the rubber band and riffled through the bills. Her mouth opened in shock when she discovered that the hundred dollar bill covered a hundred ones.

“Yeah, baby, next time you want to count the money before you give the man a receipt.”

“Hey! Goddam, what you doin’?” yelled DeVonne as Hrcany and Kaplan started for the door. Hrcany turned.

“Well, we thought we’d go make a copy of this receipt and give it to Louis, so he’ll know his ten grand is safe and sound.”

“What you mean? They ain’t no ten grand here. This here’s nothin’ but a couple hunred.”

“Yeah, well that will be sort of hard to explain to Louis when he gets out. On the other hand …”

“What?” DeVonne was frightened. She saw the best scene she ever had going up in smoke, or worse. She didn’t want to think about how she was going to cover ten grand. DeVonne was not used to thinking on her feet.

“On the other hand,” said Hrcany, waving the receipt, “we could have a little party. Maybe I could forget this, huh?”

DeVonne sighed with both relief and resignation. She was once again on familiar ground. She stood up and walked slowly over to Hrcany, smiling and exaggerating the roll of her wide hips.

“Make sure you do, honey,” she said, toying with the belt of her robe. As she waggled toward the bedroom she flashed a standard sultry look over her shoulder. They saw the robe drop as she passed from view.

“It worked,” said Hrcany in a low voice. “Let’s get busy.”

“Christ, Roland, what are we supposed to do now?”

“Oh, well, I’ll toss this room and the kitchen, and you go in there and amuse DeVonne.”

“Me? Why me? I don’t get this whole scene, the song-and-dance about the money … why didn’t we just identify ourselves and ask if we could look around?”

“Good idea, Kaplan. You think DeVonne is going to let a couple of ADAs nose around? She’s dumb, but not that dumb. Also, we’re not looking for evidence. We’re looking for stuff we can use to beat Elvis over the head. We definitely don’t want anybody to know we searched up here. It would screw up the case something fierce. Catch my drift?”

“Shit. But what should I do in …?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the bedroom.

“Oh God! Kaplan, use your glands. Go! I got to get started. Oh, yeah, sooner or later she’s going to use the can. See what you can find in the bedroom. Otherwise we’ll have to figure out some way of waltzing her out here.”

“You could tell her you can fuck only on a kitchen table,” said Kaplan sourly.

“Hey, now you’re thinking!” said Hrcany, and began pulling books from the shelves.

Dunbar was sitting on the crummy green couch in Vera Higgs’s apartment, watching “Gilligan’s Island.” Her child was in his accustomed place in front of the TV. Vera Higgs was pretending Dunbar didn’t exist. The last thing she had said to him, nearly two hours ago, was: “Pres say, the lawyer tol’ him, if you keep botherin’ me, he gonna get a coat order. He say it harassment. So you can sit there all night Mister PO-lice, I ain’ saying nothin’ I ain’ tol’ you a hunnerd times already.”

And she was as good as her word. Dunbar would have left a long time ago, but he had agreed to meet Kaplan and Hrcany in the Bronx, on the slim chance they would turn up something important.

There was a knock on the door, and Dunbar got up and opened it. Hrcany and Kaplan stood in the doorway. Hrcany beaming, Kaplan looking glum and a little sick.

“You got something?” asked the detective.

“Yeah, we do. A Grand Jury subpoena and some other stuff. Where is she?”

Dunbar motioned to the woman on the couch. Hrcany went over to her. She glanced at him without interest and then turned back to the TV. Hrcany held the subpoena between her eyes and the glowing screen.

“This is a subpoena, Miss Higgs. It says you got to come downtown and talk to us some more.”

“Do I got to? Pres, he say …”

“Yeah,” said Hrcany, “you got to.”

The four of them and the child rode down to Centre Street in Dunbar’s car. The child pointed and chattered. Everyone else was stonily silent.

In his office, Hrcany seated Vera Higgs in a wooden armchair. He sat in a leather chair behind his desk. Dunbar and Kaplan stood in opposite corners of the room. The little boy sat on the floor near his mother, tearing up yellow legal paper and scribbling with an assortment of markers.

Hrcany began, speaking slowly and gravely. “Miss Higgs, I want to talk frankly to you about your situation. My name is Roland Hrcany, and I’m with the District Attorney’s office. I am concerned about you, Miss Higgs. I fear that you may be the victim of a cruel hoax, one that is going to land you in a lot of trouble.”

She looked at him blankly. “What you talkin’ about?”

“Well, Miss Higgs, to put it bluntly, Preston Elvis seems to have convinced you to lie for him-”

“I ain’ tellin’ no lie! I tol’ you …”

“Please, let me finish! — convinced you to lie for him concerning his whereabouts on a certain night in March, Nineteen-seventy, when we believe he was involved in a brutal murder. You are also helping to cover up his involvement in a bombing at the New York District Attorney’s Office, in which a woman was badly maimed. These are felonies, Miss Higgs, and by refusing to help us, you have involved yourself as an accomplice. You could go to prison yourself.”

Vera Higgs said scornfully, “He tol’ me y’all would say that. Pres say, you cain’ do nothin’ to me.”

“Yes, he would say that. But it isn’t true. He’s using you, Miss Higgs. He intends to dump you as soon as he’s safe and go off with a woman named DeVonne Carter-whom he has been seeing intimately for many months.”

“You lie! They ain’ no woman. I his woman! I want to go home!”

Hrcany silently reached into his pocket and tossed a pack of color Polaroid photographs across his desk. She looked through them slowly, one by one. Slowly, tears formed in her large eyes and dropped onto her hands and onto the photographs. Finally, she began to sob, crumpled the pictures into a ball and flung them across the office. Her little boy picked one up, examined it solemnly and put it in his mouth. Dunbar picked one up, too. It showed two people screwing. You couldn’t see the woman’s face very well, but Preston Elvis as clear as day on top of her, grinning into the camera.

“Well, Miss Higgs. Do you still feel Preston Elvis is going to take care of you? Or would you like to tell me what really happened?”

Vera Higgs wiped her nose with a scrap of tissue. “I guess,” she said. “Goddamn him. An’ goddamn you, too. Goddamn you all to hell!”

Two hours later, Hrcany was smoking a thin celebratory cigar, with his feet up on his desk. Kaplan was slouched in a side chair. Vera Higgs had been formally deposed of her revised testimony about Preston Elvis, and driven back home. Kaplan had called Karp and told him the news. Karp had been ecstatic which hadn’t made Kaplan feel any better. Hrcany looked over at the younger man.

“What’s the matter, kid, you look like shit.”

“I feel like shit. I feel like there’s a thin crust of old turd over my whole body.”

Hrcany laughed, not nicely. “A thin crust? Don’t worry, it’ll thicken up. A couple of years it’ll go right down to the bone, like me.”

“Yeah, I can tell. God, that woman! Did you get how she asked what would happen to Elvis? She still cares about that rat.”

“Right, it’s that Frankie and Johnnie bullshit. So what else is new? Hey, as soon as I saw that Polaroid on the tripod in the bedroom, I knew we had pay dirt. I wish I had kept some of them. By the way, how was old DeVonne, stud? Hot stuff?”

“Marvelous. I worked a chess problem in my head the whole time.”

“No shit? Did you win?”

“I lost. But, really, what will happen to Elvis? Will he cop one if he gives us Louis?”

“Damned if I know,” said Hrcany, grinding his cigar out in a glass ashtray. “It’s Karp’s case.”

Dr. Werner was ecstatic. Another perfect example of Ganser syndrome. He regarded Lennie Trevio-the squat figure across the desk from him-with something like affection. He envisioned an international symposium on Ganser syndrome, an event that would make forensic psychiatric history, with himself at the center of it all.

He continued the interview. “So tell me, ahh, Lennie, have you ever had hallucinations or seizures-like the one you had in court today-outside of court?”

Guma said, “No doc, I never had nothin’ like that before.”

“Good. Now please go on. You say you saw the judge change into a giant chicken?”

“Yeah, right, more like a rooster. So he started squawkin’ and then, and then I heard this voice, like it was coming from the ceiling, sayin’, ‘I will turn you into, ah, bread crumbs.’ ”

“Bread crumbs?”

“Yeah, you know, like the rooster was gonna eat me?”

“Ah, yes, I see.”

“So I started making a fuss, y’know? So here I am.” He laughed.

“Yes. Well, Lennie, I think that will be all for today. You will have to see another doctor, but I think what’s troubling you is clear enough.”

“Doc, will I have to go back to the trial?” asked Guma, in as nervous a tone as he could manage without cracking up.

“No, of course not. It would be inhuman. No, Lennie, you’re in good hands now.”

“Aw, thanks, doc, you’re a saint!” exclaimed Guma.

Werner beamed. This was why he had gone to med school. That, and power.

The next day Guma sat in the dayroom of Bellevue’s lock-up ward, reading the Post and feeling grumpy. He had breakfasted on what tasted like warm, damp clay and he hadn’t had a beer or a cigar in more than twenty-four hours, a violation, in his view, of the constitutional safeguards against cruel and unusual punishment. And he was no closer to getting the goods on the docs. He had seen Werner, who was a dingbat, but they already knew that.

He looked up from his paper and glanced around the dayroom. He saw a couple dozen people, a cross section of male New York. Some guys talking to the air. One or two jerking off. A guy peeing in the corner. Most of them sitting and watching TV or playing cards. Nothing you couldn’t see any day in Times Square or on the subway. It seemed only happenstance could explain why these men were here and not on the southbound IRT.

Guma noticed a small, skinny old man in a shiny dark suit wandering through the crowd. He carried a notebook and a stack of file folders. Guma watched him approach a large black man who was arguing with the ceiling. The old man argued with the ceiling for a while, too. The madman paused in his ravings and the two of them had a brief conversation. They smiled and shook hands. The black man went over and sat down in front of the TV. The old man spoke with some of the other inmates in a cheerful and conversational manner. Then he came over to where Guma was sitting and pulled up a chair.

Close up the man looked even older than he had across the room: a thin fringe of silver hair around a speckled scalp; a sallow, wrinkled face; a large, lumpy nose that looked as if it had been broken at some time in the remote past; bad, yellow teeth; and deeply sunken brown eyes with heavy grayish pouches beneath them. But the eyes were sharp and bright.

“Well, young man, how do you feel today?” he asked. Unlike the psychiatrists he had met previously, this guy seemed genuinely interested in the answer. He had a slight German accent.

Guma gave him the Ganser syndrome cover story. The old man listened carefully, occasionally making a note with a fountain pen in a cheap spiral-bound notebook. He said “mmm-ahh” from time to time, to keep the story moving. When Guma had finished, the old man sighed and pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up on his forehead. He held out his hand.

“Perlsteiner.”

Guma shook hands and gave his cover name. The old man’s grip was surprisingly strong. Dr. Perlsteiner looked through his files and pulled one out. He read it and let out a little snorting laugh.

“Ach, so we have Ganser syndrome again. Ganser syndrome.” He made it sound like the name of a cartoon character on Saturday morning TV.

Perlsteiner looked at Guma sharply, but his eyes still held an amused twinkle. “Mister Trevio,” he said, “you would be surprised how little real mental illness there is in the world. And of that, how little is associated with criminal behavior. Irrationality, we have, plenty. And evil, oh my, we have enough, more than enough of that. But the poor crazy people: They suffer, you understand? They can barely take care of themselves. Plot a crime? Nonsense! They cannot do it. Oh, perhaps, in a frenzy they hurt someone, yes, but as I say, this is rare.

“You know, Mister Trevio, when I was much younger, I had the opportunity to observe, at close hand, a great deal of criminal behavior, people being murdered and tortured, robbed, and so on. And afterward, when people said, ‘This was madness, this was insanity,’ I would say, ‘No, it was not. Evil, surely. Hate and greed, yes, lust for power, yes, fear, perhaps. But not insane. This is a libel on the poor madmen.’

“But, you know, they don’t listen. They wish to make a medical thing of evil. Madness is also such a useful metaphor, for that which we would rather not face, eh? So. I am didactic again. Forgive me. Now, you, my dear man-I see here by your record-wished for some money, heh? And you took it. Very sane. And you were caught, but you do not wish to pay for your crime, heh? Also, very sane.”

Perlsteiner capped his pen, put it in his breast pocket, and got slowly to his feet. “So. I have examined you. You are sane as bread. I will write my report, which I am sure will be ignored, as were the others. But no matter.” He looked around the dayroom and gestured to the inmates.

“You see, I make my examinations here, instead of in my office. Doctor Werner gives me a very small office, which is very inconvenient also. And damp. Much like a cell, you understand? So I do my examining in the open ward. We did the same in the Geisteskrankheitshaus in Vienna. And at Treblinka, of course.”

Perlsteiner made to go and then began to pat and poke all his pockets. “My eyeglasses …?”

“On your forehead,” said Guma.

Dr. Perlsteiner laughed delightedly and adjusted his glasses. “So they are. Thank you very much. Carl Jung was always doing the same. Look, let me give you some advice. We don’t see the delusions characteristic of florescent schizophrenia situationally, with no prior history of the disease. Only in literature. In real life, once you got them, they don’t go away so easy, you understand? Roosters! Ha! Good God!”

Guma watched the old man walk away, humming. He smiled and strolled over to the payphone, put in some coins and dialed.

“V.T.? Good, you’re in. Time to spring me. I think I got a lead.”

The next morning Karp was back in his office, trying without much energy to plow through the piles of paperwork accumulated in his absence. Frank Gelb had dropped by, smiling, to say he had been appointed to the bench and was leaving immediately for a vacation in Europe before assuming his new duties. Karp was acting chief as of that morning.

Karp stared glumly at a set of large computer-generated charts laid out on his desk. They told a worse-than-usual story. Of the fifteen hundred cases arraigned by Karp’s assistants every week, almost seventy percent were removed from the courts immediately, either through plea bargains or skips after release. Of those that got past arraignment, only three percent were ever brought to a full trial, the rest being plea bargained away.

The most depressing figure, however, was the conviction rate. Karp got out the folder that held several sheets of graph paper on which he had plotted the trial rates and the conviction rates in the months since Bloom took over. He added the appropriate points. In Garrahy’s last month, ten percent of the cases passing through the Criminal Courts Bureau reached trial; eighty percent of the trials had ended in conviction, usually for the top count. This past month it had dropped below thirty-five percent. The golden age is gone, thought Karp, ring in the age of brass. Or toilet paper.

By noon, about two-thirds of the pile of papers had shifted from the in-basket to the out-basket. The door banged open and Guma stepped in, smoking a larger-than-usual cigar and holding a cardboard carton.

“All right! Lunch for the cripple. You like corned beef? We got corned beef. You like pastrami? We got pastrami. I got celery tonic, cream, black raspberry. I got dibs on the cream.”

“Goom, glad to see you! I hear you’re not crazy anymore.”

“Yeah, well, that Werner’s a helluva shrink. He’s got the magic touch.”

The door opened again, and V.T. Newbury walked in, followed by Sonny Dunbar. Newbury was wearing a long white lab coat with a stethoscope sticking out of the side pocket. He had a sheaf of manila folders under one arm.

“Looking good, V.T. Where’d you get the outfit? Hey, Sonny.”

“Denny Maher lent it to me. The name tag too,” said V.T.

V.T. leaned over so Karp could read the white plastic tag pinned to his breast pocket.

“Doctor Frankenstein?”

“Yeah. It got me into Bellevue to spring Guma. I guess that says something. And to rifle Werner’s files. And make copies.”

“So what did you learn? Give,” said Karp around his corned beef sandwich.

“What we got is this,” said Guma, pointing to the folders that Newbury had placed on the desk. “Each time Louis was examined, Werner sent up a report. His opinion is that Louis was incompetent, with a confirmation by another psychiatrist. A guy named Edward Stone. The same thing happened to me.”

“So? Where does that get us?”

“Butch, I was examined by three shrinks. Count ’em, three. The third guy was this old dude, Perlsteiner. He’s old but he don’t miss much. He said there was nothing wrong with me.”

“Little does he know,” said Newbury.

“Up yours, Newbury. And, we find, on examining these records here, that Perlsteiner also examined Mandeville Louis on three occasions, and wrote reports saying that Louis was faking it. Reports that never made it into the file.”

“Goom, this is great!” Karp exclaimed. “Great! Werner doesn’t know we have this. We’ll subpoena him for all documents relating to Louis. He’ll never turn over the dissenting opinions. Witholding evidence! I’ll tear him a new asshole on the stand.” Karp turned to Dunbar. “What is that, Sonny? The sworn question and answer statement from Elvis’s girlfriend?”

“Yeah, it looks solid. We got him good, now.”

“Right. He’s looking at so much time now he’s got to give us Louis for a walk.”

“What?” Dunbar said, his voice rising. “Tell me you didn’t say ‘walk.’ ”

“Well, you know we’ll try to get the best deal we can on him, but if he holds out, I’ll tell you right now, I’ll walk him to get Louis.”

“Let me understand this. I bust my black ass hunting down this muthafucka, who has blown up one of your people, your people, and killed my brother-in-law, and near killed you, and you tell me that after all that, you’re thinking of giving him a free ride?”

“Come on, Sonny. Louis is the goddamn target here. Elvis is a tool. It’d be like, in a vehicular manslaughter, putting the car in jail instead of the driver.”

“Don’t give me ‘tool,’ man. I want his ass in jail. His ass.”

“For chrissake, Sonny, the son of a bitch is blind, or close to it. You think he’s going to go back to armed robbery in Braille?”

“Fuck that, man! What, are you the judge and the jury all of a sudden? You saying he’s suffered enough? I thought this was the law around here. You think I sat up with my wife night after night, her crying her eyes out about Donnie, for a deal? I want his ass in jail!”

Karp was pale and his jaw was tight. Very quietly he said, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sonny. Like I said, I’ll try to get the best deal I can, but if not … it’s my case.”

Dunbar glared at Karp for a long moment, his teeth clenching. “Ahh, fuck you all!” he shouted, and strode out of the office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the glass.

“Listen, don’t worry about him, Butch,” said Guma into the stunned silence. “He’s a good guy. He’ll come around when he cools off.”

“You think so?” said Karp bitterly. “How about me, you think I’ll come around? Get used to it all?”

Nobody said anything for a bit, as Guma and V.T. got to their feet and started cleaning the lunch scraps and papers off Karp’s desk. Karp sighed and tried for the millionth time to scratch under his cast. “Guma,” he said, “could you draw up the subpoena for Werner’s records? I’m swamped here.”

“Sure thing, Butch. I’ll do it now.”

The intercom buzzed and Karp answered it. He listened for a few seconds and then slammed it down with a muffled curse.

“That’s all I needed. The Great One wants to see me, immediately.”

Karp struggled to his feet and hoisted himself on his crutches. He picked up his trend charts. Maybe he could convince somebody upstairs that the system was going down the drain at an increasing rate.

“What’s it about?” asked Newbury.

“They didn’t say. Maybe he found out I put a criminal in jail last June and wants to know whether it slowed up the system any. Who the fuck cares!”