Throwing on a light jacket against the chill of the October air, he'd quickly left the loft and headed west on Grand Street past the Soho art galleries and, after the minor twinge at Mercer, continued to West Broadway where he turned left and headed south.
Although he'd never been to Kitchenette, Karp had heard of it as a locals' meeting place. Sunderland said that whenever the weather allowed, his friends liked to sit at the tables outside to discuss politics, the arts, "and pretty girls," while they ate what passed for down-home cooking in Manhattan. On less temperate days, the worthies crowded into the cafe to sit at tables crammed into the long, narrow corridor of the interior.
Even with the nip in the air, it was a beautiful fall day in New York City. The leaves had long since changed color and, except for a few stragglers, had fallen to the ground, but the skies were a bright blue and the air fresh with breezes blowing east from the nearby Hudson River. And really, the temperature was quite pleasant in the sun, which was what he spotted Sunderland enjoying as he approached the cafe.
After shaking Karp's hand, Sunderland led him over to a table where a group of older men were engaged in lively debate. Although Sunderland had not told him who they were meeting, Karp had figured that they would likely be an unusual group. He was not disappointed, identifying several of them as distinguished members of the legal profession.
The first face he recognized was that of a tall, lean, almost-to-the-point-of-gaunt man whose long silver hair was tied back in a ponytail like some aging hippy. He had looked quite a bit different the last time Karp had seen him, but there was no mistaking the deep-set probing eyes of Frank Plaut, a former federal judge with the Second Circuit Court of Appeals.
Karp was impressed. Plaut was considered one of the finest constitutional minds of his and many other generations. The New York DAO's appeals bureau chief-Harry "Hotspur" Kipman, a friend who Karp also regarded as one of the best legal scholars he'd ever met-worshipped the jurist. And Karp had argued several cases before him and learned, once or twice the hard way, to be on his toes when citing precedent or making an argument before Plaut.
By all accounts, Plaut had been destined for a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. But for reasons known only to himself, he had one day stepped down from the bench and accepted a position teaching constitutional law at Columbia University. Now here he sat presiding over coffee and what appeared to be waffles at a Tribeca cafe.
Karp also recognized a second man as a former U.S. attorney for Manhattan, Dennis Hall. He was a conservatives' darling and a regular commentator on Fox, but he was not a poorly researched, mindless TV talking head. His arguments were always reasoned and based upon a strict interpretation of the Constitution.
Seated next to him was his legal opposite, Murray Epstein, a ferocious defense attorney who'd terrorized many an assistant district attorney of the New York DAO. The man could have made a living as a Shakespearean actor with his flair for language and dramatic gestures, but he was no empty suit. Epstein knew the law inside and out, and as a defender of the liberal camp of constitutional law, he'd argued, and won, his share of cases before the U.S. Supreme Court.
Some of Epstein's battles with Karp's mentor, the longtime New York City DA Francis Garrahy, were the stuff of legend at the DAO. And he'd even put a much younger Butch Karp through his paces a time or two; in fact, he'd nearly won what had appeared to be a slam-dunk homicide case for the prosecution. Karp's bacon had been pulled from the fire only because Garrahy insisted on meticulous preparation and, conveniently, because the truth was on his side.
Karp didn't recognize the other men at the table. But if the company they kept hadn't already identified them as formidable thinkers, their conversation as Sunderland and Karp walked up certainly did.
"I still contend that the biggest impact of Raleigh's trial on U.S. constitutional law was the right to a fair and impartial hearing before a judge and a jury of one's peers," Hall argued.
"Humbug," Epstein replied. "The nut of this was the right to confront witnesses and present evidence."
"What good would it have done Raleigh to cross-examine Cobham and present his letter if the judges and juries were still predetermined to find him guilty?" a short man who looked somewhat like Albert Einstein asked.
"It was damned unfair," a heavyset man agreed. "Even Raleigh's judges and jurors recognized that-if somewhat too late. On his deathbed, Justice Gawdy said, 'The justice of England was never so depraved and injured as the condemnation of Sir Walter Raleigh.' And some members of the jury knelt before him and begged his forgiveness."
"I read that his widow kept his preserved head in a cupboard, which she would trot out to show visitors," said an effete-looking gentleman whose voice and mannerisms reminded Karp of Truman Capote. He obviously found the macabre more fascinating than the constitutional questions.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, we digress from our topic," Plaut interrupted. "Today on the black anniversary, we were to stick to the impact of Raleigh's trial on the confrontation clause of the Sixth Amendment and how it applies, if at all, to the pretrial publicity surrounding the rape charges brought against members of the Duke University lacrosse team."
The admonition seemed to get the others' attention, but it was soon diverted again when a buxom fortysomething waitress with a lip ring arrived to take their order.
"Hey, babe," Epstein growled, wiggling his eyebrows, "if I told you that you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?" The others cackled at the old joke and sat expectantly awaiting her response.
Which was to roll her eyes and reply with a heavy Queens accent, "Not on your life, Murray. You'd probably have a heart attack and the cops would arrest me for moider."
"I'd sign a waiver for you, Marjorie," Epstein replied.
Marjorie the waitress was about to respond when she noted that the men had all stopped looking at her to watch a leggy model type in tight jeans walk past on the sidewalk to their appreciative wolf whistles.
"Hey, so what did I become, chopped liver?" Marjorie complained in mock seriousness. "I swear the minute I turn my back on youse guys, you're ogling some anorexic teenager with a bad dye job."
"Turn your back on us," the Albert Einstein look-alike replied, "and you can bet our eyes will be on you. That's one nice can you got there, sister."
"That's better," the waitress sniffed. "For a moment there, I thought you might all leave me for some floozy with a pair of plastic tits."
"As the old saying goes, 'Who cares if they're fake,'" Epstein said.
"That's an old saying? I think the copyright on it is a lot younger than any of you," she scoffed.
"Oh, so now you're a lawyer," Hall quipped.
"Well, I don't lie or cheat, so that rules out that career," Marjorie shot back. "Now, shall I call your wives and tell them to cut back on the vitamin E? Youse guys are getting a little too frisky, and you might fall and break a hip or something."
The men laughed and applauded the waitress's sauce and pleaded for mercy. That's when they noticed Karp and Sunderland standing to the side, enjoying the repartee, and waved them over.
"Ah, gentlemen, look what our good priest has brought us," Epstein said, clapping. "The district attorney of New York, Butch Karp. Have a seat, have a seat."
"So, Mr. District Attorney, did you overhear our topic of discussion on this auspicious occasion?" Hall asked.
"I did," Karp replied.
"Well, then, would you care to weigh in?" Epstein asked, shooting the others a sly glance.