Butch Karp: Bad Faith Part 9

Jaxon stood and was joined by Capers. "We need to be rolling," Jaxon said. "And I know you're busy. You have that double-homicide trial coming up ... the Columbia University Slasher case."

"That's correct, my friend," Karp said. "We also have the Ellis trial's jury selection starting today. I'll be glad when that one's over."

"No doubt," Jaxon replied. "Funny how, Christian or Muslim, these supposed spiritual leaders never seem to pay for getting others to do their dirty work."

The couple had only just closed the door behind them when the intercom on Karp's telephone buzzed, followed by the sugary-sweet voice of his receptionist, Darla Milquetost. "Misters Guma and Katz to see you," she purred.

Karp rolled his eyes. It must be spring, he thought. Love is in the air, and not just Jaxon and Capers. Milquetost, a widow closer to sixty than fifty, and his longtime colleague and friend Ray Guma, a notorious office lothario in his younger days, were also an item, and his appearance in the reception area always brought out the honey in Darla. He pressed the b.u.t.ton on his intercom. "Send them in, please."

The door opened a moment later and Guma, followed by Kenny Katz, entered. They were both nearly breathless with whatever news they were bringing, which was surprising to see in Guma, who, while pa.s.sionate in the courtroom, was an old hand and not given to excitement over a momentarily t.i.tillating tale du jour. He was also a cancer survivor, an ordeal that had turned his curly black hair white almost overnight, emaciated his once-muscular physique, and cut deep lines into his face. Some days it looked like it was all he could do to get out of bed, much less make it to work.

"Shouldn't you two be headed to court?" Karp asked. "Or am I wrong to think that jury selection in the Ellis case begins in"-he looked at his watch-"twenty minutes?"

"You'll never believe what just happened," Katz said in reply.

Karp arched an eyebrow. Although thirty years younger than Guma, Katz was no wet-behind-the-ears excitable puppy either. He'd served with the army overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan, where he engaged in combat, was wounded, and received the Purple Heart. He had also been awarded several medals for heroism. To say he was calm under fire was an understatement, which was part of why Karp thought his protege might someday be the one sitting behind the mahogany desk. "Try me," he said.

"Belinda King just called," Katz replied. "Apparently, David Ellis has hired her to represent him. King says he wants to give us a statement on the record and then plead guilty."

"I know Belinda; fiery redhead and a tough, hard-nosed attorney. Rolling over can't be her idea," Karp said. He furrowed his brow. "Did she say what he's willing to plead to? Are they asking for a lesser plea?"

"That's the strange part," Guma answered. "I could tell she wasn't pleased, but she says he's going to plead as charged to reckless manslaughter."

"What about his wife?" Karp asked. "Where's she in all of this?"

The two ADAs shrugged simultaneously. "Apparently King was just hired, and she said she didn't know much about what brought this on or what he wants to say in his Q & A statement to us," Katz said. "Or what Nonie Ellis is doing; she's only representing David."

"What about jury selection?"

"I spoke to the judge, and he's agreed to delay until after lunch while we see what this is really all about," Guma replied.

"Good. So when's this supposed to go down?" Karp asked.

"Now," Guma replied. "We were just dropping by to let you in on it, and now we're going to meet them curbside to escort them up to my office."

Karp rose out of his chair. "I was just about to get a hot dog and a knish for an early lunch from my favorite streetside vendor," he said. "I'll go down with you."

Exiting the Criminal Courts Building a few minutes later, Karp and his colleagues were spotted by Westlund and the group of protesters who'd arrived for the first day of the Ellis trial and taken a position across Centre Street, as well as the television crews on the scene.

"Repent, Karp!" Westlund, who was standing on a milk crate, shouted into a megaphone. "Stop your minions from carrying out this unholy travesty and attack on religious freedom. Or face the wrath of the Lord!"

"So now we're minions?" Guma said with a chuckle.

Across the street, Westlund thundered, "Fear G.o.d and give Him glory, because the hour of His judgment has come! Wors.h.i.+p Him who made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and the springs of water!"

Karp walked up to the hot dog stand and greeted the vendor, who asked, "The usual, Mr. DA?"

"Yeah, with mustard in the middle of the knish, and mustard and kraut on the dog; you got it," Karp replied.

"Boy, that guy Westlund gives me the creeps," Katz said. "He's going to push some nut's b.u.t.ton someday and somebody's going to get hurt. ... Hey, isn't that Edward Treacher setting up shop next to Westlund?"

Karp turned to see what he was talking about. "That's him," he said. "Now, this should be interesting."

Treacher was another of the local street denizens who hung out around the courthouse and the park across the street. He was a former college English professor who, legend had it, took too much LSD back in the 1960s. Treacher wound up as an itinerant sidewalk preacher known for shouting biblical quotations, which he combined with panhandling. Tall, thin, and dressed in patched and threadbare clothing, he even resembled an ancient desert prophet with his long, frizzy gray hair and wildly rolling eyes, though Karp knew that much of his sometimes incoherent ramblings was an act and he was perfectly capable of holding an intelligent conversation when he wanted.

As Westlund ranted and stirred up his followers, who shouted at Karp, Guma, and Katz, Treacher calmly placed a small milk crate just outside the circle of protesters and climbed aboard with his own megaphone. He then waited for Westlund to speak.

"'Cursed is the one who trusts in man,'" Westlund shouted, "'who depends on flesh for his strength and whose heart turns away from the Lord!'"

Treacher picked up his own megaphone, turned up the volume, and shouted back. "That would be in Revelation. Not bad ... for a false prophet. And you know what Zechariah had to say about false prophets: 'If a man still prophesies, his parents, father and mother, shall say to him, "You shall not live, because you have spoken a lie in the name of the Lord." When he prophesies, his parents, father and mother, shall thrust him through.'"

Westlund and his followers turned to Treacher with frowns on their faces. Some booed and shouted for him to go elsewhere. He simply smiled at them and shook a large soda cup with the word "tips" written in black marker on the side.

Turning to the television cameras and crews that had flocked to the area, Westlund held up a hand. "'And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well!'"

Westlund's followers were working themselves into a frenzy. One woman suddenly screamed something incomprehensible and fell to the sidewalk, where she writhed.

Treacher looked amused, as did a gathering crowd of tourists and other pedestrians. "I need to get me one of those," he shouted into his megaphone. "How much do you pay her? I do like the use of Mark 16:1718; I've found it very handy for lunch money."

The crowd laughed. Treacher bowed and shook his cup at them, blessing those who contributed.

Scowling, Westlund turned to yell across the street at Karp. "'For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.'"

Treacher looked over at Karp and waved. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Karp. That was Ephesians 6 ... always good when you need something for railing against the Man. I think a good comeback would be Matthew 5:11: 'Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.' I used that the last time I had to go to court for trespa.s.sing."

Karp waved back. "I do believe that Westlund has more than met his match," he said in a low voice to Guma and Katz, who both laughed.

"Oops, looks like our appointment has arrived," Katz said, pointing to a yellow cab that had pulled up to the curb.

Accompanied by a redheaded woman dressed in a business suit, David Ellis emerged from the cab. Across the street, Westlund spotted him and pointed as he yelled into the megaphone. "'The fool says in his heart, "There is no G.o.d." They are corrupt, their deeds are vile.'"

Katz and Guma started walking toward Ellis. Suddenly, the crowd around Westlund surged into the street, bringing traffic to a screeching halt. Several police officers a.s.signed to the courts building as well as traffic cops rushed out to try to herd them back.

One protester, however, avoided the cars and the officers and continued walking toward where Ellis stood, a confused look on his face, with his attorney. Karp noticed the protester, too, a middle-aged woman with her hair poorly dyed to a burnt orange; in fact, he recognized her from earlier protests. There was something about her face that drew his attention; her lips were drawn up into a snarl, and her eyes blazed with anger and madness. When he noticed that she kept her right hand in her large purse, the alarm bells went off in his head, and he started to move toward Ellis and his colleagues.

"Ray, Kenny!" he yelled as he started to run.

Katz turned toward him with a confused smile as he saw his boss point past him toward the street. He looked around and sensed the danger as well. But it was too late.

As the woman came around the back end of a taxi, she pulled a revolver from her purse. "Judas!" she screamed as she lifted the gun and fired twice into David Ellis's chest.

Ellis fell back into the arms of his attorney and they both crumpled to the ground. The woman then swung around and pointed the gun at Guma, but even as she pulled the trigger, Katz leaped and knocked Guma aside, taking the bullet himself.

Panting, her eyes rolling wildly, she aimed again at Guma, who had been knocked to his knees. Karp yelled, "No!"

It was enough to distract the woman, who instead pointed the gun at Karp. He raised his hands. "You don't have to do this," he said.

"Evil, you are evil!" the woman cried out.

"Who are you?" Karp replied. "What's your name?"

The question seemed to confuse the woman. "Kathryn ... Kathryn Boole," she said after a moment, though she kept the gun aimed at Karp's chest.

"Kathryn, please, hand me the gun," Karp said, holding out his hand. "There's been enough bloodshed for one day."

Boole looked at the weapon in her hand as if she wondered how it got there. She started to lower the gun but then Westlund shouted from across the street. "'Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven!'"

The woman looked back at the preacher and nodded. The gun came up and she began to pull the trigger even as Karp lunged for her.

There was a gunshot, but Karp didn't feel anything as he knocked the woman to the ground. He expected her to struggle, but she didn't move, so he raised himself.

Something warm, wet, and sticky was on his face; he wiped at it and his hand came away covered in blood. But he quickly realized it wasn't his. Kathryn Boole, however, lay gasping from a bullet wound in her chest and as he watched, she took one last breath and died.

"Who fired that shot?" he demanded as he picked himself up.

"Me," said a man's voice from near the taxi.

Karp looked over and saw one of Westlund's bodyguards place a handgun on the hood of the taxi and raise his hands as two police officers ran up and cuffed him. "It was you or her," the bodyguard said. "I'm licensed to carry in the city."

Turning away from the man, Karp quickly ran over to where Katz was sitting up on the pavement, held by Guma. He was bleeding from the shoulder but nodded toward the taxi. "I'll be okay," he said. "Check on Ellis."

Karp walked quickly over to where Belinda King was trying to apply pressure to the wounds in Ellis's chest. A woman he realized was Nonie Ellis rushed past him and knelt at her husband's side.

"David!" she cried.

David Ellis frowned. "Why?"

Nonie looked confused. "Why what?"

"Why are you Westlund's lover?"

"What? Oh no, David, I was never ...," Nonie cried.

"But I thought ...," he whispered.

"No, sweetheart, he's just a minister. Is that why you didn't come home last night?"

David nodded. "I walked around until it was time to come to court. I was going to plead guilty. I am guilty for Micah's death."

Nonie's face turned pale. Tears fell from her cheeks. "No. I'm the one who placed my trust in the wrong man. I'm sorry, David, I love you. Please don't leave me ..."

But for the second time that morning, it was too late. David Ellis was dead.

15.

HEEDLESS OF THE RATS THAT SCURRIED TO GET OUT OF HIS way, David Grale swept through the sewer tunnel cursing the art world. He'd been on his way to Coney Island when he received word that the guardians at one of the entrances had intercepted two graffiti artists. Normally, he would have let his men handle the trespa.s.sers-usually by frightening the wits out of them-but this was the closest to the kingdom that they'd penetrated and he wanted to question them himself.

He wished that the current fad would quickly run its course. Word of the underground artwork had spread-helped by an article with color photographs in The New Yorker magazine-and his world was suddenly popular with artists, their fans, and the media. One of New York's eccentric high-society mavens had even thrown a black-tie party, complete with catering and champagne, at the "opening" of a show by one of the hot young spray-painters beneath Grand Central Terminal. What had once been a haven for society's castoffs and rodents, and a playground for teenagers, was being invaded, keeping the guardians busier than they'd ever been.

And they're getting closer. Grale seethed as he rushed along in the near dark. The fact that two had made it through the warren of tunnels to one of the main entrances was alarming.

Arriving at a dimly lit intersection of the tunnels, he found his two men guarding the prisoners, who were seated on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs. They looked up in fear as he stalked up to them.

"What have we got here, Harvey?" he growled, speaking to the older of the two guardians.

"Artists," Harvey said scathingly before a coughing spell interrupted him. When it stopped, he added, "Meet Adrian and Chad."

"What are you doing here?" Grale snarled at the flinching prisoners.

"Just looking for a place to paint, bro," said the one identified as Adrian, nodding at the spray-paint cans and lantern lying on the tunnel floor. "It's a free country, isn't it?"

Grale bent over to look more closely at their faces. They were both young, late twenties, with long hair, tie-dyed s.h.i.+rts, and worn jeans.

"No, it's not a free country, not here," he replied. "How did you get to this place?"

"We just started looking for a wall to work on," Chad replied. "And we got lost."

"You are not welcome here," Grale warned them.

"Where is here?" Adrian asked.

"The third circle of h.e.l.l," Grale said. "And if you return, you will never leave again. Am I clear?"

Both men's eyes widened with fear and they nodded. "We won't," they promised.

Grale turned to his younger guard. "Brother Louis, please escort these two back to where they can find their way out," he said. "And if they give you any trouble ... shoot them."

"With pleasure," Louis said. "Okay, you two, up and out of here. Let me see your wrists so I can untie you."

When the guardian and his prisoners were gone, Harvey turned to Grale. "That's the farthest any of these so-called artists have made it," he said. "I don't like it. Maybe we need to crack down a little harder."

"I don't like it either, brother, but what would you have us do? Do we start killing kids because they want to spray-paint on a subway tunnel?" Grale asked. "But you're right, we need to do something or find a new home." He c.o.c.ked his head to the side as if some new thought troubled him, then shrugged. "We'll talk later, but I've got to go."

Pulling the hood of his robe over his head, Grale hurried away. "Artists," he growled.

Bruce Knight looked up at the teenage vendor behind the counter at the Nathan's Famous hot dog stand at Coney Island.

"Okay, buddy, what will it be?" asked the vendor.

"Um, I'll have a regular dog and an order of cheese fries," Knight replied.