Davis bit his lip. “I didn’t consider it a rush. It’s pretty much a slam-dunk case. The defendant confessed first to Graziani and then gave a virtually verbatim Q amp; A statement to Danielle-plus he confessed to the murder in the Bronx. When you read the confession and the Q amp; A you’ll see the guy is as consistent as a Swiss watch. Hardly a word of difference between what he told the detective and what he told Cohn. Then there’s the ring. To be frank, I think his defense attorney is going to take one look at the evidence and beg us to plea-bargain the case.”
Karp thought about what Marlene had said about her meeting with Alejandro and Acevedo’s mother. His gut told him that it wasn’t going to be anywhere near as much of a “slam dunk” as Davis thought, and he doubted that “Perry Mason Junior” Watkins was the sort to beg for mercy.
“What’s the status of the Bronx case?” Karp said.
Davis frowned. “I’m not sure. I don’t think they’ve filed an indictment yet. Maybe it’s not as strong a case… I’m not familiar with all of the details. But I can find out.”
Karp’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. “I owe my old friend Mr. Bronx DA himself, Sam Hartsfield, a call. I’ll let you know what he says.”
Davis nodded but didn’t reply. Karp knew that his young colleague was taking it hard. “It’s okay, Pat,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I understand how it all happened. I just want to review the case file, like we would have at the meeting, and make sure we didn’t leap into something we’re going to regret. I can’t emphasize enough how vital it is for this office to not only believe that we can win a case but be convinced a thousand percent that the defendant is factually guilty and that we have the legally admissible evidence to prove it. Otherwise, we don’t go forward. But that first threshold is factual guilt.”
Davis squared his shoulders. “I’m aware of that, and I’m convinced he did it. The confessions are just too on point. And I don’t see how the defense is going to keep them out of evidence.”
Karp held the man’s gaze for a long moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. “All right then,” he said, and tapped the file. “I’ll take a look at what we got. As far as personnel, I want Ray Guma as lead counsel; Danielle can second seat.”
“Guma?” Davis asked, surprised.
Karp raised an eyebrow. He knew that a lot of the new young Turks in the office thought of Guma, who worked only part-time due to his health, as a relic. But Karp knew that he was as good as they came-smart and tough as nails in a courtroom. A brawler more than a boxer, but he got the job done and would be a good match for Watkins. “Yes, Guma. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but he was the DAO rep on the Yancy-Jenkins task force… the same one this Graziani worked with. He’ll be able to spot any holes.”
Davis twisted his lips. “Cohn isn’t going to like it.”
Karp scowled slightly to show that there wasn’t going to be a lot of argument regarding this decision. “Then she can excuse herself from the case,” he said. “If you’re wrong, and the defense doesn’t come looking for a plea deal-and I don’t think they will-there’s going to be a fight. Cohn can learn a lot from an old warhorse like Goom.”
A few minutes later, Davis excused himself. When he left the office, Karp glanced down at the file on his desk. Under the circumstances, I understand how it all happened. He suspected the truth was that Davis wanted badly to close this case while on his watch. But if ambition meant taking shortcuts, it could lead to disaster.
14
Baseball practice had been over for two hours, but the twins were still arguing when they got out of the yellow cab on the corner of Third Avenue and Twenty-ninth Street. They stood facing each other for a moment, tense and angry.
“You know Coach Newell told Chase to hurt him,” Giancarlo said. “It was just practice and he slid into Esteban hard at second with his cleats up.”
“Chase was just trying to break up the double play,” Zak argued, and moved past his brother to the door of the Il Buon Pane bakery. The debate was momentarily interrupted when he opened the door and they were greeted by the smell of fresh-baked pastries and breads.
However, once Giancarlo recovered his wits and noted that they were going to have to stand in line anyway, he returned to the fray. “Esteban had already made the play,” he said, “and, I might add, a frickin’ great play-catches that one-hop blast up the middle, tags second himself, and fires over to first to double them up. He’d let go of the ball ten feet before Chase even got there. There was no reason to go into him like that.”
“Coach Newell is just trying to get us to play hard-nosed baseball with the playoffs coming up,” Zak said, getting more surly and defensive with each point his brother made.
“Esteban got hurt because of it,” Giancarlo said. “That was a nasty cut on his leg from Chase’s cleats.”
“It looked worse than it was.”
“Zak… come on… he was bleeding like he’d been stabbed.”
Zak shrugged. “He should have seen Chase coming and moved.”
“He wasn’t expecting to get a cheap shot by his own teammate.”
“You’d think he would have learned by now.”
Giancarlo stopped and stared at his brother in shock, then slowly shook his head. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said sarcastically. “He should understand by now that a racist xenophobic coach and his little toadies would be looking for ways to hurt a seventeen-year-old because he’s a Mexican. I mean, what a stupid wetback. What does he expect? Fair treatment? Maybe play a meaningless game without one of his own teammates trying to injure him? Dumb spic.”
Zak scowled. Chase Fitzpatrick was the team’s catcher-a big, not terribly bright redhead and one of Max Weller’s toadies. “I’m very impressed with the ‘xenophobic’ adjective, but you’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting!” Other customers turned around or looked up from their tables with disapproval at Giancarlo’s shout. Although there was a constant hum of conversation in Il Buon Pane, people maintained a certain level of decorum meant to preserve the tranquillity of the place, and a shouting teenager wasn’t part of it.
Giancarlo recognized this and immediately lowered his voice to an angry buzz directed at his twin. “I was the only one on the team to go out there to see how bad he was hurt. He was lying on the ground, Zak, holding his leg and bleeding. Coach Newell never even came over. He sent an assistant coach.”
Zak rolled his eyes. “Newell was busy. He probably didn’t think it was that bad.”
“He high-fived Chase when he came back to the dugout!” Giancarlo said.
“I didn’t see that.”
“I did! So did a lot of other guys. And so did Esteban. The guy had tears in his eyes but didn’t say a word, and by the way, thanks for getting my back like you said you would. I didn’t exactly see you come out to help.”
“You didn’t need me,” Zak replied. “And Coach Hames told me to keep warming up. Nobody was jumping your butt for helping Esteban.”
“What about the crap I caught in the locker room after practice? ‘Taco lover,’ ‘Bean Dip’-those were just a couple of names… all homophobic of course…”
Zak replied, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will-”
“Never hurt me. Yeah, I know,” Giancarlo retorted. “But this time Esteban did get hurt. And I could be next. Max and Chase and their pals were all laughing about Esteban, then Chase said, ‘Hey, Giancarlo, maybe now Coach will let you play shortstop for sliding practice.’ Sounds like a threat to me.”
“I’ll kick his butt if he does,” Zak blustered. “He’s just a big, fat catcher.”
“You’re not getting the point-”
Whatever Giancarlo was going to say was cut short by the appearance of Moishe Sobelman. “Boys, boys, what are these hard words and angry eyes?” he asked, clapping a hand on each boy, though he had to reach up to do so. “It’s a terrible thing when brothers fight. But come, let’s discuss this over something to eat. Let me see, will it be your father’s favorite, cherry cheese coffee cake, or could I interest you in something else today? A raspberry almond torte, perhaps? Of course, your mother will probably be angry with me for ruining your dinners.”