After Turnbull stepped down, Karp said, “Your Honor, that is the People’s case.”
Martino excused the jury, Freeland made the expected motion to dismiss, which was rejected, and Karp was through for the day, at least with trials. He went back to his office and caught up on paperwork until seven, ordered take-out Chinese, ate it, and clumped off to the jail to take a shower.
He tried not to think about the trial. There is a certain letdown after the presentation of a major case, and it was entirely possible to drive oneself into a frenzy of doubt about the various errors that could have been made, and which might even now be bubbling in the minds of the jurors, cooking away at an acquittal.
The case had weaknesses, of course: no witness had turned up from the crowd who had actually followed Russell from the murder scene to 58 Barrow, although the police had seen dozens of people doing so. The guy on the bike-who had told Thornby that a man was hiding in that building-was a particularly unfortunate no-show, and the cops, urged on by Karp, had tried strenuously to locate him.
And, of course, Freeland still had his turn at bat. Karp had no idea what the defense was going to present; Freeland had flatly refused to tell Karp who his witnesses, if any, were going to be. There was no point in speculating.
Karp turned off the water and reached for his towel. He found himself, surprisingly, wanting the trial to be over. The whole thing irritated him: the stupidity of the crime, the arrogance and fatuousness of Freeland, the enforced isolation, the goddamned cast; he even regretted getting to know Russell in these after-hours meetings.
Here he was, mopping, as Karp emerged. Karp nodded curtly and began to get dressed.
“You got any smokes?”
“Sorry, I forgot,” said Karp. He sensed Russell staring at him, but he did not acknowledge it, or make any effort to start a conversation.
“Hey, man,” said Russell after some moments, “I heard some things.”
“Uh-huh, like what?”
“You know, stuff. Around the jail. Like you might wanna know about.” Russell had his pathetic sly expression on.
“Uh-huh. So, you going to tell me?”
“I could. Depends on what I get.”
Karp pulled his sweats on. Water had dripped down inside his cast and was itching. He said, “I got nothing to give you, Hosie.”
“You sure about that? This, what I got, it’s a big case.”
Karp got his crutches under his arms and stood. He looked Russell in the eye. “Well, here’s the thing, Hosie. First of all, like I said a while back, there’s no way I’m going to discuss your case in any way whatever without your attorney present. If you have something you want to deal for, he’s the guy to see.
“Second, right now I’d say that if you gave me the guy who did JFK, you’d still be looking at twenty-five to life. The time to deal is past. You decided to go for the trial, and you got the trial. They find you not guilty, you walk; you’re guilty, it’s the max. That’s how it works.
“And there’s no point you looking at me like that. It’s nothing personal. You can’t be on the street. You’re a career criminal, you’ve already spent most of your life in the slam, and now you’re going to spend the rest of it inside. That’s your part in the play. It’s my part to put you away, and it’s Freeland’s part to try to stop me. It’s a puppet show. Or like a mechanical bank-you put the penny in the slot and the little clown spins around.”
“It’s like that, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Karp after a sigh. “Sometimes I think it is.”
“Whatever you do to me ain’t gonna bring her back.”
“There’s that. You know, when I was in law school, I heard a guy lecture on the philosophy behind punishment. What he called ‘the supposed justification.’ He did a pretty good job of proving that there wasn’t any-rehabilitation is a joke, deterrence is unethical, revenge is immoral.”
“Didn’t convince you much.”
Karp smiled. “No, it didn’t. Or to tell the truth, I saw the logic of what he was saying, but it didn’t feel right to me. You hurt someone, you got to suffer. There has to be justice or the world doesn’t make sense. I’m talking gut level, not all the legal horseshit.
“So let me give you some advice. You heard something in the cells. Maybe somebody admitted doing something that somebody else is going down for. Or somebody has some information about a crime that the cops don’t know about. You figure you can use it to get a better deal, because you’re a hustler. You’re looking out for number one. That’s what you’ve always done, your whole life. Well, look around. Here you are. Here you’re gonna stay. That’s what hustling got for you.
“What I’m saying is, think about it; maybe you should start doing the opposite. Do something for somebody else, a stranger maybe. You can’t fuck up your life any worse than it’s already been, and who knows? It could change your luck.”
He stumped out leaving Hosie Russell looking at him blankly, as if he had been speaking Armenian.
Marlene, baby on hip, pounded on the iron door of Stuart Franciosa’s loft, which, after a considerable wait, was opened by the proprietor, looking harassed. He wore a heavy reflective apron over his usual black sweatshirt and black canvas pants, and he had a pair of dark goggles pushed up on his forehead.
“Sorry, I’m in the midst,” he said. “What’s up?”
“I’m going shopping,” said Marlene. “You want me to pick anything up?”
“How considerate! How about the severed head of the odious Lepkowitz?”
“Oh, God, don’t remind me. The deadline’s getting close, isn’t it?”
“Less than a month. How’re you doing on it?”
“Doomed. I’m starting to get my head adjusted to the possibility that the fucker could actually kick me out.”
“Oh, you’ll think of something. But, really, shopping? Thanks, but we want for nothing. We eat like birds, as you know. Say, I heard about what happened Saturday. You really have to stop being attacked by criminals, Marlene. It’s bringing the neighborhood down.”
“I’ll think about it. What’re you doing in there, by the way?”
“Casting. Want to see? It’s quite dramatique. ”
The big workroom was hot and smelled of burning.
“It’s just a little bronze, a test really,” said Stuart. “I just got this neat little electric furnace. It was starting to be a pain in the ass to go up to the foundry for every little thing. Don’t look directly in the door.”
Stuart used a set of tongs to open the door of the squat cylinder. Harsh yellow light and a blast of heat shot out. He reached in with the tongs and drew out a glowing crucible and poured a stream of liquid bronze into a small mold, throwing a shower of sparks and a cloud of smoke.
Marlene and Lucy watched with interest. Lucy was fascinated by the fireworks. Marlene was looking more at the metalized label stuck to the side of the device. “Where’d you get that thing, Stu?”
“Pearl Paint, the artist’s venal friend. Why?”
“Nothing. I’ve just been a jerk. See you.”
Later, her shopping done, the baby fed and napping, Marlene worked the phone, trying to locate Harry Bello. She finally had to leave her number with the police dispatcher, saying it was an emergency.
Harry called back within ten minutes, concern thick in his voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Harry.”
“They said it was an emergency. I thought, the kid-”
“The paint, Harry. It wasn’t paint.”
“This you give me a heart attack for? The paint isn’t paint?”
“Where was it, the store you saw the Turks at?”
“On Canal, that Pearl’s Paint.”
“Harry, Pearl Paint is the biggest art-supply store in lower Manhattan. You saw them carrying a heavy box out, say about the size of a big TV?”
“Yeah. So?”
“My next paycheck says that wasn’t a set of watercolors. It was an electric jeweler’s furnace.”
“They’re gonna melt that thing, the mask,” said Harry, no flies on him.
“Not if I can help it,” said Marlene.