Where's she now? Karp had asked.
Locked up at Bellevue, Kipman had replied. She wouldn't say what she did with the kids, except that they're in "a better place." And now her husband has her lawyered up. No murder weapon either. Oh, and here's irony for those of you out in Idaho, the family station wagon is gone, too, presumably on the road to heaven. Not to be too obtuse, but I'm guessing we're looking at an insanity defense.
"I'd bet on it, Karp had replied. And it's not going to be pretty if we pursue multiple murder charges against a popular borough president's wife suffering from postpartum depression.
Karp had told Kipman to handle the case like any other homicide. And no one's to say anything to the press, he'd added.
Now he needed to concentrate on helping Meyers and O'Toole. Early that morning, a Wednesday, he rose before the sun was up and went down to the hotel's workout room. He hit the weights hard and then spent thirty minutes on the stationary bike, working up a sweat while he filed away the happenings in Manhattan so that his mind would be clear in court. His wounded leg ached as he showered, ate a room service breakfast, and then walked to the courthouse. But the pain seemed to help him focus on the present so that by the time he reached the courthouse steps and saw O'Toole and Meyers waiting for him, he was ready for battle.
They tried to assassinate a U.S. senator! With an effort, Karp turned his attention to the front of the courtroom, where a moment later federal district court judge Sam Allen entered and immediately asked for the jury pool to be escorted in and seated in the pews.
Tall and rangy, Allen was a native son of Idaho who when not in the black robes of his profession preferred a cowboy hat and boots more fitting for his ranch west of town. He spoke in a slow, measured Western drawl, but Karp had found him to be sharp as a Spanish spur, to stick with the Western imagery.
Allen had the bailiff call out twelve names from the pool. Those called rose and made their way to the jury box, where the judge first questioned them to see if any had sufficient reason to be excused, and then told Karp he could begin his questioning.
Karp introduced himself and "my co-counsel, Richard Meyers, and our client, Coach Mikey O'Toole." He then began to set the stage for what he hoped would be the theme of the trial. But instead of the usual mundane personal opinion questions asked of each juror, he'd addressed the twelve potential jurors who'd been seated with a series of questions. At the same time, he made sure that his voice was loud enough for the rest of the jury pool to hear. "How many of you have ever felt you were falsely accused of something?"
Half of the hands, including those in the pews, went up. "I'm not just talking about being accused of something big, like a crime," he added. "Maybe you were just a child and someone unfairly accused you of taking something. Or you were at work and your boss or a co-worker insinuated that you had done something wrong when you had not."
Nearly all the hands were up. "Now, how many of you felt that you weren't given a chance to prove your innocence?" Most of the hands remained lifted. "I see," Karp said. "And how many of you believe that a person should have the right to defend himself from accusations by calling witnesses and presenting evidence that could exonerate him?"
The hands were all up and in the same moment so was the defendant's attorney. "I object to this style of questioning, Your Honor," said Steve Zusskin, who was representing the ACAA. A young woman named Karen Welt was nominally representing the university, but she remained seated, watching Zusskin. "He's making little speeches to the jury."
"I don't believe that there are any hard and fast rules about how I'm supposed to conduct voir dire," Karp replied.
Allen tilted his head and gave Karp a funny look, but said, "I'll allow it. Just tone down the fife and drums, Mr. Karp."
"Yes, Your Honor," Karp replied, and turned back to the potential jurors. "My next question is: Do you believe a person has the right to cross-examine-we in the legal profession call this confrontation-witnesses who make accusations against them?"
Again the show of hands was nearly a hundred percent. "And what would be your opinion of any agency-whether it's the government or a private entity-that refused to grant these basic rights and then deprived a man of his livelihood and smeared his reputation?"
"Your Honor, another speech, and mischaracterizations," Zusskin complained.
"Mr. Karp, I'll allow this, but it's the last of these mass questions."
"Yes, Your Honor," Karp agreed. He could tell by the way the jurors' eyes narrowed at the thought of being deprived of a right to make a living that he had most of them right where he wanted them. He pointed to a woman in the jury box. "Yes."
The woman turned red but managed to stutter, "Uh, hello, my name is Pam Jensen, and my son, Donald, was expelled from high school because a campus cop saw a hatchet in the back of his car. He wasn't allowed to explain that he'd been on a camping trip that weekend and left all of his gear, including the hatchet, in his car. They just said, 'Rules are rules, no exceptions.' And there's nothing we can do about it, so now he's going to have to make up those classes he missed this summer and won't be able to graduate with his classmates."
"I see," Karp replied. "Anybody else?" A middle-aged man with the look and demeanor of an accountant raised his hand. "Yes, sir," Karp said.
"I'm Morty Feldman," the man said. "We used to belong to the Cherry Hills Country Club until I was kicked out because of anonymous complaints that I wasn't wearing the proper shoes on the golf course. It wasn't true, and even if it was, there are members who've broken the rules far worse than that-but, of course, they're not Jewish. But I wasn't allowed to question my accusers. It was just a letter in the mail saying my membership would not be renewed because of 'rules infractions.' My lawyer tried to file a lawsuit for discrimination, but because there are other Jewish members, the case was dismissed."
Several more potential jurors discussed grievances ranging from being unfairly accused of shoplifting as teenagers "just because I was with some friends who were" to allegations of stealing items from work based on circumstantial evidence and hearsay. By the end of jury selection, Karp had used only a few of his peremptory challenges, including dismissing the president of the Boise Rotary Club, who said she felt that private entities should be allowed to make decisions based on their own bylaws and regulations not withstanding what she labeled "lofty ideals to the contrary."
Zusskin had used all of his challenges to dismiss those potential jurors-including Jensen and Feldman-who'd seemed most aggrieved when answering Karp's questions. But he'd also seemed confused as to how to counter Karp's strategy, except to ask those in the jury pool if they understood the difference between public and private entities.
When it was over, Karp was pleased with how jury selection had gone, but he knew that this wasn't going to be a slam-dunk case. In a civil case, the burden of proof wasn't as high as in a criminal case where a jury had to be convinced of a defendant's guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt." Here, he and Meyers would only have to show that the "preponderance of evidence," a "more likely than not" standard, indicated that the defendants-the ACAA and the university and its representative, Kip Huttington, acting in concert-had wronged O'Toole.
He and Meyers would have to contend with telephone records indicating that a call had been made from O'Toole's office to the Pink Pussycat Escort Service, which had supplied the strippers, as well as the credit card receipt for five hundred dollars to the service, and another receipt for purchases from Campus Liquors. Both were electronic payments so there were no signatures, but the credit card had been issued to O'Toole and was supposed to have been in his possession. There was a new issue as well, because the party's hostess had "suddenly recalled" having overheard Rufus Porter talking to someone he addressed as "Coach" about "paying for entertainment."