THE VICTORY PARTY WAS WELL UNDER WAY IN KARP’S OFFICE when his secretary, Darla Milquetost, announced, “Mr. Hassan Malik is here, and he’d like a moment of your time.” The room had immediately gone quiet. Even Ray Guma, who had liberally spiked a dash of water with generous portions of Jack Daniel’s, and V. T. Newberry, who’d been downing martinis, raised their eyebrows and took another sip.
No one knew what this unexpected appearance could mean. Was the juror there to report an irregularity on the jury that might void the guilty verdict for Sharif Jabbar?
O’Dowd had tried an ineffectual surrebuttal counter to the prosecution’s rebuttal case, an unusual tactic, rarely granted, but Judge Mason had figured he owed the hapless O’Dowd last rites. He was well aware that she’d blundered and had seriously crossed the line.
Regarding the filming of Miriam’s murder and Jabbar’s jubilant participation in it, Karp had made a note for his summation to inform the jurors with as much righteous indignation as he could muster. “The defense argues, ‘Don’t believe your lying eyes.’ The ultimate defense big-lie tactic and insult to jurors’ intelligence.”
First, O’Dowd had called Alysha Kimbata’s father to the stand to deny that he’d pressured his daughter to lie or that he’d received any memory card from Jabbar. However, his contempt for the prosecutors and all things Western had been so obvious that Karp had hardly bothered on cross-examination to do much more than let the man hang himself with his radical ideology.
O’Dowd had also recalled Jabbar to the stand to argue that it wasn’t him in the movie. It was, he’d insisted, another man—one who had actually died in the New York Stock Exchange attack so that he couldn’t be called to the stand—who was shouting “Allahu Akbar!”
O’Dowd’s summation had never got off the ropes. She’d insisted that a government “capable of planning and carrying out the attack on the World Trade Center” was also capable of manufacturing a digital recording, “a recording in which perfectly legitimate free-speech sermons given by Imam Jabbar were spliced in with the heinous crime committed by the agent provocateur and his associate, Nadya Malovo.”
Watching the jurors during O’Dowd’s summation, Karp had known he had nothing to worry about. Judging from their dead eyes and blank expressions, her desperate arguments were falling on deaf ears.
The defense attorney’s last-ditch plea had been that Jabbar was the victim of “an oppressive, racist government that has made all of Islam its enemy.”
When O’Dowd had slumped back into her seat, it was Karp’s turn. A younger, less experienced prosecutor might have shortened his summation and let the weight of the evidence resonate in the jurors’ minds. That was old school, by the book—keep it short, precise, and colorless, and don’t elaborate too much for fear of boring the jury. Karp had thrown out that book long ago.
Having learned his lesson all those years ago, Karp was taking no chances—and no prisoners. He was relentless as he pounded his opponent with jabs, hooks, body blows, and right crosses, citing the evidence against which he’d challenged the jurors to find “a single real piece, a scintilla, of evidence offered by the defense that wasn’t based on speculation and fantasy, wrapped inside the big lie.
“Finally, ladies and gentlemen, in this case, the evidence screams out that it is about one thing and only one thing.” He’d walked over and stood directly in front of the defense table, where neither occupant could look him in the eye. “It is about the vicious, brutal execution murder of helpless, innocent Miriam Juma Khalifa, which this man, the defendant Jabbar, and his henchmen helped plan and carry out even as he celebrated by asking God to condone such a terrible sin. That is not part of any religion we know—not Christian, not Jewish, and not Muslim.”
The jury had hardly taken any more time to reach its verdict than it would have taken to fill out the verdict form, which was then given to the court clerk, Lopez, who in turn had handed it to Judge Mason. The only surprise when the judge had read the guilty verdict was when Jabbar turned suddenly and lunged at O’Dowd, trying to strangle her, only to be set upon by her bodyguards, who’d managed to pummel him pretty good before court security officers rescued him.
Now everyone in Karp’s office wondered if Hassan Malik was going to make him go through it all over again. But Malik entered the office, looked around, and smiled. “Looks like one of my old ‘mission accomplished’ celebrations, and you earned it,” he said as he crossed the room and extended his hand to Karp. “I won’t take up your time, but I wanted to stop by and say thank you.”
“For what?” Karp said, puzzled.
“For showing enough respect to leave a black Muslim on this jury,” Malik said. “I understand I might have been the lesser of some other potential evil, but I appreciate it nonetheless. Reminds me of what I was fighting for.”
“There’s no reason to thank me; in fact, quite the opposite,” Karp said. “I should be thanking you for your service on the jury, as well as to our country.”
“I guess then we’re both welcome,” Malik said, then excused himself.
The juror was just leaving when Marlene walked in. “I’m on my way to the Westchester County jail,” she announced. “Warren’s being released on personal recognizance until the charges can be formally dropped. I’m going to put him in a cab back to the city. Then I’m going to pay Harley Chin a visit.”
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that one.” Guma laughed.
“Not unless you’re fireproof, too,” Marlene said with a wicked smile. “I’m going to light that little bastard up.”
“Then, I take it, it’s on to Judge Kingston?” Karp asked.
“Yes, saving the best for last.” Marlene smiled again. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
“Oh, that reminds me. Espey Jaxon was trying to reach you,” Karp said.
A strange look passed across his wife’s face, but she nodded. “Yes. I got the message.”
As Marlene drove to Westchester County, she relived the Penn Station encounter. It could have turned out worse, much worse, she thought.
Fulton had taken the suitcase bomb into the bathroom, which, unknown to Williams’s man outside, had been cleared of civilians and was occupied solely by several members of the NYPD SWAT and bomb squads. “Nice thing about peroxide bombs,” the detective had told her later, “is that they might be simple to make, but they’re also easy to defuse. In this case, it was getting into the false bottom and removing the detonator. Still, we probably only had a few minutes before Williams’s guy came rushing in to find out why the dang thing hadn’t blown me past Saint Peter’s gates.”
Fulton had laughed. “You should have seen the look on his face when he found himself staring at the business end of a half-dozen guns held by nervous and angry cops. Priceless!”
There’d been another humorous moment when Todd Fielding, who obviously saw himself as the hero in much of this tale, had come up to Marlene and Sherry and, slurring because of the pain pills, asked, “So, would either of you lovely ladies—or perhaps both—care to join me for a celebratory cocktail?”
The two women had looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Fielding, I think we need to look into getting you to a hospital. And by the way, you’ll be escorted there by a police officer,” Marlene had said. “I think Detective Scalia here is about to tell you that you’re under arrest for your part in all of this, though I think if you play nice and agree to testify about your photographs, you might find they’ll go easy on you.”
As she’d told the group back at the Criminal Courts Building, her first stop was the jail, where Warren was already waiting. He burst into tears when he saw her. “Thank you, thank you . . . whoop bitch oh boy . . . for everything.”
“You’re very welcome,” she replied, hugging him. “By the way, I saw Booger on the way out of the courthouse and passed a message on. You might want to get in touch with David Grale when you get back to the city. Oh, and I almost forgot, I brought this for you.” Marlene handed him a piece of paper. “The original letter is on a computer file, and it’s now considered evidence, but I made a copy for you.”
Warren looked at the letter and saw who it was from. A tear fell from his eye. He tried to smile. “What’s the saying? Better to have loved and lost, eh?”
Marlene hugged him again and felt him stifle a sob. “It is never too soon or too late to love someone. It is what it is. So, anyway, I have some business to conclude here, but I was going to get you a cab back into the city.”
“Won’t be necessary,” Warren said with a smile, and pointed to a limousine parked at the curb in front of the jail. Shannon Bennett and his parents were standing on the sidewalk next to it. They waved. “Mom and Dad showed up to offer me a ride in style and dinner. I said it had to be an early night, because I have something I need to do, too.”
Marlene left Warren and headed over to Harley Chin’s office, where the young receptionist couldn’t have been more eager to please. And Chin showed up less than twenty seconds after her arrival was announced.
“Boy, quite a turn of events,” Chin said after he took a seat behind his desk while Marlene remained standing. “I, of course, will want to review the evidence that has come to light, but it appears that this office might have made a mistake regarding your client. If it all checks out, I believe I will move to have the charges against Mr. Bennett dropped. As you know, though, we’ve had to release Jim Williams—if that is his name; you never know with these spooks. Some suit with the U.S. Attorney’s Office produced a habeas corpus ad prosequendum warrant requiring his immediate release into federal custody, national security and all that. But it doesn’t negate some really fine work on your part—”
“Cut the crap, Harley,” Marlene snarled. She had been incensed by Williams’s release “into federal custody,” which apparently was no custody at all, according to Espey Jaxon, who’d passed the news to her. “I’m not here to listen to your bullshit. I’m just letting you know that I’ll be demanding an official investigation and a special prosecutor to look into your actions. And that you can look forward to a civil lawsuit that I’ll be filing shortly on behalf of Warren Bennett for false imprisonment and malicious prosecution.”
Chin swallowed hard. “Come on, Marlene,” he said. “I can make it tough on your boy. After all, I have an indictment, and—”
“Cram your indictment. We both know now that it has the impact of a feather,” Marlene interrupted. “In fact, if you dare go forward with this case, it will only add to the punitive damages by demonstrating your additional bad faith in the reckless manner in which you rushed to judgment for nefarious, narcissistic reasons.”
Leaving Chin pale and quivering, Marlene proceded to the office of Judge Kingston, where she was met by two detectives. When they reached the outer office, they barged right past the judge’s startled clerk and entered without knocking.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Kingston demanded.
“This will only take a moment,” Marlene said as she held up an eight-by-ten photograph of Rene Hanson. “Ever seen this girl?”
Kingston blanched. “It’s the Hanson girl. Of course, I’ve seen the photograph in the newspapers and at fundraisers.”
“Never met her personally?”
“I’m afraid not,” the judge said. “Now, I’m going to demand that you leave, and I will report this to the bar association.”
“She’s never been in your house?” Marlene continued.
“Not to my knowledge,” Kingston said, nervously eyeing the two detectives who waited behind Marlene. “Perhaps one of my daughters had her over . . .”
“Yes, we’ll ask them,” Marlene replied sarcastically. “And maybe they’ll want to know what their father—also known as Client 032355-JK, also known as John Klein—was doing paying for sex with Rene Hanson.”
“That’s a lie,” Kingston said. “I’ve had no personal contact with that woman.”
“That woman? You’re starting to sound like Bill Clinton,” Marlene said with disgust. “Look, it’s over, Kingston. We have you signing checks as John Klein to the Gentleman’s VIP Club, which a handwriting expert has already verified. And I don’t think the bank officials will have any problem identifying you as the man who set up that account. Then there’s the blood test you took to test for sexually transmitted diseases . . . too bad they can’t test for murderers.”
“It will never hold up,” Kingston said.
“Oh? I forgot to tell you that Jim Williams, or whatever his name really is, made a videotaped confession,” Marlene said. “We have it all. The kinky sex in the master bedroom. The call your associate, Peter, made. The police are looking for him now.”
Just then, the judge’s telephone rang. “I suspect that will be your wife,” Marlene said, “letting you know that the Westchester County police are going through your house with a search warrant.”
Marlene’s cell phone also rang. “Hello, Bobby, anything interesting?” She listened for a few moments and then smiled as she hung up. “Really, Jack, you kept the pendant with ‘JK’ and ‘RH’ on the back? That some sort of trophy?”
“What pendant? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kingston said, getting up from his chair.
Marlene shook her head as she recalled Michelle’s letter. And there is one more item that should do it, if it can be located . . .
“That was Detective Sergeant Bobby Scalia on the phone,” Marlene said. “They found the pendant in your desk drawer, and he says there’s a great latent thumbprint on the back that appears to be a woman’s. Want to take bets it belongs to a woman you said you’ve never met, never had in your house, never paid for sex?”
Kingston’s face changed to a mask of anger and desperation as he came out from around his desk and pushed past Marlene. “I don’t have to put up with this,” he said. “I’m leaving.”
That was as far as he got, as the two detectives grabbed him. “You’re under arrest,” one said, “for the murder of Rene Hanson, as well as Michelle Oakley. Please turn around, sir, so that we can place you in handcuffs. If you resist, we’ll do this on the floor.”
Kingston looked at Marlene and cried, “I need to go home!”
“The only place you’re going, your honor,” Marlene said with a smile, “is to jail and then, someday in the not-too-distant future, straight to hell.”
The shadows beneath the trees in Central Park were dark and impenetrable when the Fixer emerged from his apartment building across the street dressed in a jogging outfit. He carefully looked around as he stretched in preparation for his evening run, nodding to Josh and Lex, who were waiting across the street on the sidewalk next to the park.
As he’d told that bitch Marlene Ciampi the night before, he’d been freed from the Westchester County jail in the morning. The spineless creature known as Harley Chin had put up a minimal protest, but he’d known better than to stand in the way when an assistant U.S. attorney produced the warrant for his release. There’s the benefit of knowing too many secrets that too many people don’t want me talking about, he thought, smiling as he trotted across Fifth Avenue to join his men. Ha, I’m too big to incarcerate.
There’d been a price to pay. He’d had to give a videotaped “confession” to the locals regarding the murders of Michelle Oakley and Rene Hanson. And, of course, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, while invoking the “national-security” coverall, had assured those same locals that he would be dealt with at the federal level. That was a laugh. He’d never see the inside of a federal prison. Instead, “Jim Williams,” a.k.a. the Fixer, would disappear and lie low for a while—preferably on some warm, tropical beach—before reincarnating himself at a later time and place.
It was unfortunate that Jack Kingston would never sit in a courtroom again, except from the wrong side of the defense table. A “little bird” had called to tell him that the judge had been arrested that afternoon. There would be no seat on the federal bench and no more help in enabling his benefactors’ schemes. They wouldn’t be happy with Jim Williams, either. It could be dicey for a bit, but he’d throw them a few freebies, and they’d eventually be mollified.
In the meantime, he had to be careful. Not only were Kingston’s backers not going to be happy, but according to his sources, District Attorney Karp and his bitch wife had gone ballistic when they learned about his release. The thought did bring a smile to his face as he jogged into the park.
The Fixer had been running about ten minutes and was nearing the boathouse when he noticed that the park seemed unusually deserted, even for nighttime. He glanced back and was satisfied to see the two figures of his bodyguards trailing. He didn’t like lugging a weapon while running and left that to his men.
Twenty yards farther along the path, he saw a small, dark figure approaching from the other direction. He wasn’t too worried; he was more than capable of handling one potential mugger even without his backup. He moved a little to the right so that he could pass the stranger, who was walking down the middle of the path. But the other man moved as if to block his way; he veered to the left, and the stranger moved to block him again.
The Fixer slowed and then stopped about fifteen feet from the other man, whose facial features were hidden by a hooded sweatshirt. “Do you have a problem?” he asked.
“Yes, I have a . . . whoop whoop oh boy asshole . . . problem with murderers,” the stranger answered.
The Fixer peered hard. “You,” he said with a smirk. “Looking for revenge? Josh, Lex, you want to take care of my friend here?”
“I am not . . . scumbag shit whoop . . . your friend,” Warren Bennett replied. “In fact, at this moment, I don’t think you have any . . . oh boy . . . friends.”
The Fixer whirled, expecting to see his men. Instead, a dozen dark shapes emerged from the shadows behind him. One of them was enormous and in the dark looked like a bear—smelled like one, too. But the figure who made him quail was wearing a hooded monk’s robe, only the pale, gaunt features of his face visible in the dim light of the lampposts.
“Josh! Lex!” the Fixer yelled, his knees threatening to buckle in fear. There was no answer. “Who are you?” he demanded of the robed man.
“Your judges and executioners,” the gaunt man said. “You are an evil man, and Satan waits for you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re crazy!” the Fixer cried out. He turned back around to Warren. “Look, it was nothing personal. I can make it worth your while to forget the whole thing. You’ll be a rich man!”
“You already took from me all that matters,” Warren replied. “You are nothing now.”
As Warren spoke, he was joined by David Grale, chief among those who lived in the tunnels beneath Gotham, who produced a long, wicked knife from the folds of his robe. At the same time, the Fixer’s arms were pinned from behind by the Walking Booger.
“Let me go, damn you!” the Fixer whimpered. “My people will hunt you down. You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”
“Oh, but I do,” Grale responded. “You are a dead man.” He turned to Warren and held out the knife. “His blood is forfeit to you.”
Warren looked at the weapon, the light glinting off the cold steel; he started to reach for it. In his other hand, he clutched a copy of the letter Marlene had printed out for him. You were a wonderful friend then, Warren Bennett, and I can tell you’ve become a wonderful man. Maybe in the next lifetime, I’ll make smarter choices. Love always, Michelle.
Marlene had dropped by his apartment that day to let him know that the Fixer had been released from jail. “I don’t want to know what you’ll do with this information,” she’d said. “But I’m told that he goes for a run every night about ten P.M. in Central Park.”
As he’d waited in the park with Grale, Booger, and the Mole People, Warren had imagined the blood of Williams spilling on the ground. But now he sighed and shook his head. “No, but thank you, David,” he said. “He’s all . . . whoop whoop . . . yours.”
With that, he turned away. He was no killer, and his cat, Brando, was waiting for him. Maybe I’ll watch Casablanca again, he thought as a shooting star crossed the sky. “We’ll always have Paris,” he said aloud, and walked into the night.