Meanwhile, there was that remarkable brain at Marlene’s disposal, and a protective will that, while focused mainly on Lucy, spread its penumbra also over the mother, in a way that often pinched, as now.
She said, “I don’t see why we should change anything, Harry. Honestly, you worry too much. We’re doing okay.”
“Marlene, I went over this,” said Harry in his tired voice. “Domestics are poison. Either you got some guys want to whack out their women decide to punch your ticket while they’re at it, or you keep on trying to reason with the same kind of guys, and things heat up, and you whack them out, which puts you up in Bedford on a felony.”
“None of that has happened, Harry.”
“You don’t have cancer either, but I notice you’re trying to quit smoking. I’m thinking of the kid here, Marlene. Leave that kind of shit to the cops, is what I’m saying. That’s what they get paid for.”
“God, between you and my husband!” Marlene cried. “Okay, you want out? You’re getting nervous in your old age? Good! I’ll work it by myself.”
Harry held up a mollifying hand. “Marlene, I didn’t say that. Look, this is getting to be a broken record. I got no problem with the protection program. Tennis players, the loonies and the celebrities, fine, okay. The others, help with protection orders, moving them into apartments, the shelters. You want to keep doing that, we can handle it. It’s a business. But …” Here he paused.
“But, what, Harry?”
“No more setups. That’s out. And no more Polaroids on the assholes.”
Marlene took a deep breath. Another. “Okay, fine, Harry, you made your point. I won’t involve you.”
Harry stared at her for a moment and then nodded once. He had made his point, and Marlene would do what she was going to do. She might keep doing setups, which was where she used a stalked woman as bait and when the stalker came after her, armed, performed the justifiable homicide, which was the only way to make sure some (admittedly, a small fraction) of men engaged in this activity would never do it again. Or she might still get some other people she knew to pay visits to guys who pounded their wives, and show the guys Polaroids of what the women looked like at the emergency room and then work them over so that they looked just exactly like the Polaroids. But he thought it would slow her down, at least. He was thinking of Lucy.
Karp had expected Roland Hrcany to blow up when he told him that he, not Roland, would do the Rohbling case, and he was not disappointed. Crying, “Why!” Roland sprang from his chair and slammed his hands down on Karp’s desk, beetling his brows, rolling his mighty shoulders, bulging his seventeen-inch neck, tightening his jaw, exhibiting, in fact, the full repertoire of anthropoid male aggression, and causing him to resemble a blond gorilla even more than he normally did.
“Sit down, Roland,” said Karp in a calming voice. He had seen the display before.
“What, did I screw something up? What?” “You did fine, Roland. Sit down and I’ll explain.” Roland glared and then flung himself back into his seat, making it creak dangerously.
Karp said, “The reason is, this is the biggest and most politically important case we’ll get this year. I planned to take at least one, and this one is going to be it.”
“Oh, it’s too important for me, is what you’re saying,” said Roland in a tone that approached petulance.
“And since I’m taking the case,” continued Karp, ignoring the comment, “I need someone to watch the bureau, which has to be you. You’re the most experienced guy on the staff, and the best.”
“Next to you,” Roland growled.
Roland glared when he said this and rolled his jaw. Something must have happened to my testosterone, thought Karp, reflecting that a couple of years ago he would’ve snarled right back and the two of them would have been screaming and throwing things at each other. Now, however, Roland just looked silly, like Zak when he wanted a toy. Maybe, he thought, it was the result of having two male babies in the house. The real thing spoiled you for the imitations.
Pitching his voice low, he said, “Actually, Roland, to be frank, yes, in this case, which is what we’re talking about. And I’ll give you two reasons: one, an insanity defense is highly likely here, a serious insanity defense, and as it happens, I’ve tried three major cases where that defense was offered and you haven’t tried any. Okay, they’re rare, but there it is. I’m familiar, you’re not, and going against Waley we need all the edge we can get.”
“I’m not afraid of Waley,” snapped Roland.
“You’re not? Mazeltov, Roland. But he scares Jack Keegan, and anyone who scares Jack Keegan scares the shit out of me. You want the second reason? This case is dripping with racial politics, white defendant, black vies. I don’t like it, but I have to deal with it.
Jack has to deal with it. You are not the first person I would pick for a situation like that.”
“What, now I’m a fucking racist?” Roland’s neck grew dangerously crimson.
“No, Roland, of course you aren’t, but the prosecutor in this case is going to be under a microscope, and you got a mouth on you. You are free with racial expletives-”
“What, you mean nigger?”
“… and you spend much of your time with white cops, cracking the kind of jokes that if a black juror heard about them, they would be less than well disposed toward the People-”
“For crying out loud, Butch, you been down the jail recently? The fucking niggers call each other nigger.”
“I rest my case,” said Karp.
Roland opened his mouth; it stayed open for a couple of beats, and then he let out most of his air and said, “This is fucked, you know that? I was pumped for this case.”
“Great, then I’m sure your prep and notes are in terrific order. We’ll do the grand jury together and then you’ll phase out. Could you let me have them as soon as possible?”
Roland stood, snarling. “Yeah, boss, and fuck you very much!”
“Thank you for your support,” said Karp genially as Roland slammed out.
The phone rang. It was V. T. Newbury returning Karp’s call.
“I need a friend,” said Karp. “Everyone hates me.”
“With some justification, I might say. You’re really going to take on Rohbling?”
“You heard already? What is it, on TV?”
“No, Keegan was unloading to Zepelli and some of the other bureau chiefs about your loose cannon-hood, and Z. mentioned it to me at a Fraud Bureau staff meeting.”
“He was really pissed, was he?”
“Mmm, not as such. I gathered he was irritated but ruefully admiring of your chospeh.”
“Chutzpah, V.T. You have to try to generate more phlegm with the Yiddishisms: chhhhhutz-pah.”
“I’ll try, but as you know, my people are phlegm-impaired.”
“True. Look, why I called, let’s have lunch, soon.”
They made a date for the following day. Unlikely as it might appear from their respective backgrounds, V.T. Newbury was one of Karp’s best friends and probably the smartest person Karp knew. Just now he badly needed both friendship and smarts.
A knock on the door and Connie Trask came in pushing one of the wire-basket carts used to transport case files around the halls. It was stacked with red cardboard folders, one for each of the murders for which Jonathan Rohbling stood accused, plus additional files Roland had assembled since the arrest.
“That was fast,” said Karp.
“Yeah, he seemed upset,” said the secretary. “He said he peed on them. You might want to check that out before you take them home. Oh, Lieutenant Fulton called. I told him you were in there with Roland giving him bad news. He laughed and said you could call him back.”