WITH THE JUNE SUN SHINING invitingly through the window of his office, Karp decided he’d spend the lunch hour across the street eating something from one of the sidewalk vendors. He’d learned long ago that comprehensive preparation was the key to winning trials, as well as helping him stay relaxed and focused; as such, he was feeling good about how this one had been going and the groundwork he’d put in for what was ahead. And that, he thought, earns me the right to relax a little and eat my lunch in the fresh air.
Karp left his office through the side door and took the private elevator down to the secure entrance on the Leonard Street side of the building. He found Officer Ewin waiting for him outside the elevator when the door opened.
“I thought you might try to escape, Mr. Karp,” the young officer said in his thick New York Irish brogue. “If you’re going out, I better go with you.”
Karp frowned. “I was just going to grab a knish and eat it in the park,” he said. “I think I’ll be okay so long as I don’t get run over by a yellow cab crossing the street or accosted by a deranged tourist.”
“Have you taken a look out front lately?” Ewin asked.
“No, been a little busy, Eddie,” Karp said. “What’s up?”
“Well, this trial has folks a little stirred up,” Ewin said. He began holding up fingers. “Security has kept the front of the building fairly clear, but then you got Nazis on one side of the barriers, and teachers union supporters on the other. Across the street are the charter school folks and next to them are the anti-Nazis. Judging by their signs and some of the things they’re yelling, they don’t much like each other . . . and none of them appear to like you. Except maybe the charter school folks; they seem to be the most rational.”
“Oh, then,” Karp said, smiling, “why didn’t you say so? It’s business as usual.”
Ewin grinned. “Yeah, business as usual, but this time if you want to have lunch in the park, I’m going with you. I’m not about to have Detective Clay Fulton breathing fire down my neck because I let you wander among the crazies by yourself. And if something did happen, he’d pitch me off the Brooklyn Bridge as sure as every one of my uncles was named after a saint.”
“They were, huh?” Karp responded.
“Yeah, we Irish Roman Catholics aren’t real creative when it comes to names.”
“Well, you can come with me, but only if you let me buy you a knish,” Karp said.
“Never had one. Has it got any meat in it?” Ewin asked. “It’s Friday and I’m not supposed to have meat. Another one of those fun Catholic traditions.”
“Not to worry, I only eat the potato version. You’ll love it; it’s guaranteed to put hair on your chest,” Karp said.
“Then you’re on.”
Karp and his bodyguard walked away from the crowds near the front of the courthouse and into the park just behind the court on Baxter Street. The protesters’ attention was focused on each other and the media. On the far side of the park, Karp walked up to a cart advertising “the best knish in town.”
“Why, if it isn’t District Attorney Butch Karp,” Herschel Finkelstein, the vendor, a tall, gaunt man wearing a yarmulke, said. “I’m surprised you made it through the gauntlet.”
“No big deal. The protesters choose to stay at the front of the building. We chose the side door direct route and got here on the sly.” Karp winked and smiled. “Let’s just keep it our little secret.”
“Hey, I’m not saying nuthin’.” The vendor grinned. “You’re my most regular customer.”
“Good, then let me have two hot potato knishes with a little mustard, sliced down the middle,” Karp said.
The vendor eyed the officer and extended his hand. “Herschel Finkelstein.”
“Eddie Ewin.”
“Let me guess, you’re Irish Catholic, right?” he said.
“Practically raised by nuns,” Ewin said. “How’d you know?”
“Well you got the map of Ireland written all over your face.”
They both laughed. “You ever had this Jewish delicacy before? You’re in for a treat.”
“On that recommendation, I’ll give it a whirl.”
The conversation was interrupted by another voice behind Karp. “Hey Butch . . . motherfucker ass-wipe . . . what are you doing over . . . whoop whoop . . . here?”
“Afternoon, Warren,” Karp said without having to turn around to see who was standing behind him. “Another potato knish, please, for our friend Warren Bennett. And three sodas . . . make mine the usual . . .”
“Orange soda with ice in a cup.”
“Thanks, Herschel, and whatever these two gentlemen want.”
“Why thanks . . . oh boy scum bag nuts whoop whoop . . . Butch,” Dirty Warren said. “You didn’t have to . . . whoop whoop . . . do that.”
“My pleasure, but I can ask you the same thing: What are you doing over here? Isn’t lunchtime a busy part of your day?”
“Yeah, normally,” Dirty Warren said with disgust. “But nobody wants to fight their way through the crazies for a newspaper . . . tits damn . . . or a magazine. You really messed me up with the mighty high-profile . . . bastard bitch whoop whoop . . . case this time, Butch.”
Karp held out his hands. “Geez, I can’t get a break today. I guess the cause of justice isn’t very popular.”
“Not today it . . . oh boy, ohhhhh boy . . . ain’t.”
The three men took their knishes and sodas and found a park bench. Even though it was a safe place out of sight in back of the courthouse, the sound of people yelling into bullhorns drifted to Karp and his entourage.
“The Holocaust was a lie. Lubinsky deserved to die.”
“Karp hates unions. Unions hate Karp.”
“Down with racism. Karp’s protecting Nazis.”
“Wow, we’re apparently the only friends you have left,” Ewin joked.
Karp laughed. “And sometimes I wonder about you two.”
“Very . . . fuck you . . . funny,” Dirty Warren added.
The men ate quietly until Warren piped up with one of his movie trivia questions. “Okay, Karp, I got a good one . . . oh boy screw you asshole . . . for you,” he said. “Name the movie and the character who . . . whoop whoop . . . said this: Well, when I was an attorney, a long time ago, young man, I realized . . . oh boy whoop . . . after much trial and error that in a courtroom, whoever tells the best story wins. In unlawyer-like fashion, I give you that scrap of wisdom free of charge.”
Karp patted his small friend on the shoulder. “That is a good one,” he said, “but not because it was particularly hard. It’s from Amistad, the story of a mutiny aboard a slave ship in 1839 and the subsequent trial that was the beginning of the end of slaves being considered ‘property’ and not human beings. The quote is spoken by John Quincy Adams, the former president, played by Anthony Hopkins, giving advice to the free black abolitionist Theodore Joadson, played by Morgan Freeman. Eventually, Adams gives an impassioned speech—the story he’s referring to—before the U.S. Supreme Court that wins the case in favor of the abolitionists and slaves. Thanks, Warren, sound advice then, and now.”
Dirty Warren said nothing. He just smiled and closed his eyes as he turned his face up toward the sun.
KARP WAS STILL thinking about the Amistad quote when he and Ewin again crossed Baxter Street and approached the side entrance. They’d almost reached the door when someone yelled.
“There you are, you fucking Nazi lover!”
A large bearded man in a tattered Army coat emerged from behind a Dumpster and started walking toward them. “I’ve been waiting for you, Karp,” the man shouted and raised a gun.
Karp felt himself shoved roughly to the side by Ewin, who stepped in front of him, gun drawn. “Drop the gun!” the officer yelled and aimed.
The bearded man stopped and let the gun fall. It made a sound as if it was made of plastic. “It’s fake, just like you, Karp,” the man said just before Ewin tackled him to the ground.
Karp watched as other officers rushed up and helped Ewin subdue the faux assassin. When the man was hauled off, he walked over to Ewin and held out his hand. “Good work, kiddo. You can keep the job, permanent,” he said.
“No worries,” Ewin replied, his face turning red. “It was a toy gun.”
“You didn’t know that when you stepped in front of me,” Karp pointed out.
“As my dear old mum used to say, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ I was just doing my job,” the officer replied. “Now, I believe you have a trial to attend, unless you want me to call you in sick?”
Karp shook his head and laughed. “I guess if you can shrug off thinking you were about to take a bullet for me, I can find my way back up to the courtroom and do my job.” He started to head for the door when Ewin spoke behind him.
“Hey, Mr. Karp, I appreciate what you do, too,” Ewin said. “Somebody’s got to hold the line for the community, and I’m glad it’s you.”
Something about the officer’s comment seemed to return Karp’s sense of calm. Everybody in a healthy, functioning society has to do their job, and mine is to search for the truth and root out those who endanger the community, he thought. Time to refocus on this case.
It wasn’t that he would immediately forget about what just happened. But he had always been a first-class compartmentalizer, and the case, the courtroom, and the chase for justice beckoned him.
When Kenny Katz came rushing into the courtroom and found Karp calmly sitting at the prosecution table, going over his notes on his yellow legal pad, he exclaimed, “I just heard! Are you okay?”
Karp looked up. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Katz was a highly decorated former Army sergeant, but his jaw dropped. “I’ve been in combat,” he said, “and know what it’s like to have a gun pointed at you. I’d still be shaking if that had happened to me outside.”
“Maybe it will catch up to me later,” Karp conceded. “But I don’t have time for it right now. Is there anything you want to ask me about what we’re doing here before the judge returns?”
Apparently the entire courthouse had heard about the incident with the bearded man because when Judge Rainsford returned to the courtroom he, too, was concerned. “Would you like to recess for the day?” he asked. “We can pick this up again tomorrow if you’d like some time to decompress.”
“Yes, boychick,” Mendelbaum chimed in. “Take your time. That had to be traumatic, ach, such a world we live in, my friend.”
At that moment, Karp happened to glance over Mendelbaum’s shoulder and saw Olivia Stone looking at him. She alone seemed to be enjoying the news and sat with a smirk on her face. Their eyes met, and upon seeing her expression, his resolve hardened. “No, I’m good,” he said, still looking at her, only now he was the one who smiled. “I don’t want to slow this freight train down.”
The smirk on Stone’s face vanished, as did the anger and hatred that had been there throughout the trial. Instead, fear jumped into her eyes as the blood drained from her face. She turned away and pretended to be taking notes on a legal pad.
With that, the judge directed his chief clerk Farley to bring the jury in. Once they were seated, he told Karp to call his next witness.
“The People call Francis LaFontaine,” Karp said. He and the rest of the people in the courtroom turned to look at the back of the room, where the two swinging doors were opened by a court security officer. A pasty-faced man in a wheelchair appeared. He was either in great pain, or so disgusted by what he saw that his face contorted into a grimace as another officer pushed him into the courtroom and to the front of the witness box.
“Raise your right hand and swear after me,” Farley said.
Instead of raising his hand in the normal fashion, LaFontaine gave a Nazi salute. Seeing it, Karp’s blood boiled. Earlier that morning, he’d met with the bar owner, who was none too happy about testifying. “I don’t recognize the authority of the United Jews of America,” he had said.
“Be that as it may,” Karp had said, “I will remind you that you pleaded guilty to possessing a handgun and a sawed-off shotgun in New York City. If you testify truthfully, and don’t give everyone a load of your Nazi crap, I’ll tell the sentencing judge that you cooperated and that you told the truth. But if you want to play games, or you lie, and I’ll know it, I will do my best to make sure you get maximum time in state prison.”
That put LaFontaine in his place at the time. Now he was acting up and Karp was angry. But Farley just gave LaFontaine a baleful look. “Do you promise to tell the truth, sir?”
For a moment, LaFontaine looked like he was going to spout off, but he half-glanced over his shoulder at Karp and seemed to think better of it. “Yeah, I’ll tell the truth.”
“He’s all yours, Mr. Karp,” Farley said, rolling his eyes.
“Thank you,” Karp said as he positioned himself in front of the jury, facing LaFontaine. “Mr. LaFontaine, do you belong to the American Nazi Party?”
“Proud, card-carrying member for more than thirty years,” LaFontaine said.
“As part of that group, do you look down on other races?”
“I believe in the separation of races and the inherent superiority of the white race.”
“Does that include a dislike for those of the Jewish faith?” Karp asked.
“Why sure. Anybody with half a mind knows that Jews are behind most of the problems in the world,” LaFontaine said. “Grasping, evil, half-human Jews are trying to establish a One World Order and subjugate everyone else, especially the white race, which they despise.”
“You are aware I am proud to be a Jew and that people like you I find to be repulsive.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“And therefore, you don’t like me?”
LaFontaine’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. “You’re just another dirty Jew as far as I’m concerned.”
“Mr. LaFontaine, would you explain to the jury the reason you’re in a wheelchair?”
“Yeah, a son of a bitch named Lars Forsling shot me,” LaFontaine said. “One bullet severed my spine so my legs don’t work, and another tore up my guts so I have to wear a colostomy bag.”
“We’ll come back to that event in a minute. In the meantime, as a result of the police investigation into the shooting, were you also charged with crimes?”
“Yeah, some real penny-ante shit,” LaFontaine replied. “Like some weapons charges?”
“You pleaded guilty to possession of a handgun and a sawed-off shotgun and agreed to testify today, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you offered any sort of ‘deal’ for your testimony?”
“Hell no, ’cause I’m white,” LaFontaine said. “You’d have never even arrested a nigger for the same charges.”
“Were you told anything about your testimony today by me?”
“Yeah, you said if I tell the truth, you’ll tell the judge who sentences me.”
“I believe you already told the jurors that you knew Lars Forsling?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He started showing up at some of our meetings.”
“By ‘our meetings,’ you’re talking about meetings of Nazi party members?”
“Our little local group, yes.”
“And where did you have these meetings?”
“In my bar, The Storm Trooper, over in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Approximately how long had you known Mr. Forsling before the events that put you in a wheelchair?”
LaFontaine thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Six months, maybe a little more.”
“Could you describe for the jurors his personality and demeanor when you first met him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, was he loud or quiet, shy or friendly?”
“At first he was kind of shy. But he warmed up pretty quick, especially when he started talking about how he hated niggers and Jews. That went over well with the rest of the boys.”
“Did he tell you much about his private life?”
“Not really. I know he lived with his mother somewhere over on the Upper East Side and got a job shortly before all this shit happened as a night watchman at some construction site within walking distance of where he lived.”
“Did his personality and demeanor change over time?”
“Yeah,” said LaFontaine who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “A lot of our members ain’t the brightest bulbs in the pack, if you understand my meaning. They’re kind of natural-born followers.”
“But Forsling was different?”
“Well, he was smart, I’ll give him that,” LaFontaine said. “He started reading everything about the National Socialist Movement he could get his hands on, and could spout it all back out. That impressed a lot of the members, though I always thought there was something not quite right about him.”
“Did he start to take on more of a leadership role?”
“Yeah, the guys started looking up to him, especially after he came up with the idea of joining other groups in the city for the American Kristallnacht,” LaFontaine said. “Actually it was supposed to go on all over the country, but that sort of fizzled out. We had one of the better turnouts here in Manhattan.”
“Can you explain to the jurors what Kristallnacht means?”
“Sure, the original Kristallnacht, or the Night of Broken Glass was a great uprising in 1938 in Germany and Austria. Good, hardworking Aryans who were tired of Jews ruining the economy and causing them hardships took to the streets and busted up a bunch of Jewish businesses. Some Jews tried to attack them, and a few people got themselves killed as a result. But mostly it was people saying, Get out. You’re not welcome in a Christian country or among decent human beings.”
“And it was Mr. Forsling’s idea to participate in this reenactment?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did that further his status among the members of your group?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. He was the big man on campus after that.”
“Did Mr. Forsling talk much about his future plans?”
“He was always talking about how he was going to move to Idaho,” LaFontaine said. “He wanted to join up with some of the Aryan communities there. He said it was the place to be during the coming race war.”
“Would you say that Mr. Forsling enjoyed his growing role among the members of your group?”
“Yeah, he was running around with his chest out, all puffed up,” LaFontaine said. “You’d have thought he was the second coming of the Führer himself.”
“Was it his idea to protest at Rose Lubinsky’s book-signing event?”
“Yeah, he saw something about it in the newspaper.”
“Let me backtrack a little here,” Karp said. “What is your opinion of the Holocaust?”
“What Holocaust? Never happened,” LaFontaine sneered. “It’s just another lie perpetrated by the Jews so that everybody will feel sorry for them. They used it to steal Palestine—not that those sand-monkeys are any better; they stole it from its rightful owners, Aryan Christians.”
“So you’re saying that reports of Nazis killing six million Jews and other minorities and political opponents, such as Gypsies, socialists, gays, and Slavic people, never happened?”
“Lies, all lies,” LaFontaine scoffed. “If so many was killed, how come there’s so many left now?”
“So what happened to all those people?”
LaFontaine shook his head as if debating with a not-so-bright kid. “I’m not denying that some people died. There was a war going on, you know,” he said. “But mostly they ran off. And you might ask the Russians what happened to the rest.”
“Would you say those views were commonly held by other members of your group, including Mr. Forsling?”
LaFontaine shrugged. “Sure, the truth is the truth, if you’re not too blinded by Jewish propaganda to see.”
“So, Mr. Forsling organized a protest because of Mrs. Lubinsky’s book about her experiences during World War II?”
“You mean her work of fiction? Yeah, he organized the protest. He thought there was going to be a lot of media there, and even made a few anonymous calls to the television stations to let them know they should send camera crews.”
“Did he talk about inciting any violence at this protest?”
LaFontaine shifted in his seat again and grimaced in pain. “No. He wasn’t much of a fighter. Now Jimmy Gerlach, God rest his soul, he’d have fought the devil if the devil was a Jew or a nigger. But Forsling was more about the publicity.”
“He ever talk about doing physical harm to Rose Lubinsky or anyone else?”
“Nah, like I said, he wasn’t into the rough stuff.”
“Was there any mention of using a bomb?”
LaFontaine laughed. “I don’t think he would have had the balls or the know-how to make a bomb.”
Karp left his position on the jury box rail and slowly walked over toward LaFontaine. “At some point, did Mr. Forsling’s attitude toward violence change?”
The smile disappeared from LaFontaine’s face. He looked angry as he nodded. “Yeah. The afternoon after he was arrested, he came into my bar, all hot and bothered.”
“Who else was present?”
“Just me, Bob Mencke, and Jimmy Gerlach, who worked for me as a bouncer.”
“Did he say why he was all ‘hot and bothered’?”
“Yeah, his mother had been killed in a fire.”
“Did he also say who he felt was to blame?”
“He thought you did it, or had it done, you and that nigger cop sitting behind you.”
Karp turned and pointed to Clay Fulton, who sat impassively. “This man?”
“Yes, the big nigger.”
Karp looked at the judge. “Let the record reflect that the witness is referring to Detective Clay Fulton.” He turned back to LaFontaine. “Did he say why he believed we were responsible for his mother’s death?”
“Yeah. He said you were blaming him for the car bombing.”
“He was referencing the car bombing at Il Buon Pane that claimed the lives of Rose Lubinsky and two young women?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” LaFontaine said dryly.
“Did you think he was responsible for the bombing?”
“At first,” LaFontaine said. “I mean, when I heard about it I was like, ‘Shit, the fucker growed some real nuts.’ So when he first came in, I said something like, ‘Well, here’s the hero . . . good job.’ Something like that.”
“Did he admit that he was responsible for the bombing?”
LaFontaine shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact, he said he didn’t do it.”
Karp turned back toward the jurors, who were listening raptly. “Now, given your testimony about Forsling enjoying his growing leadership role and thinking he was ‘the big man on campus’ and the ‘second coming’ of Hitler, do you think he would have denied it if he’d had a role in the bombing?”
LaFontaine thought about the question. “Well, if he was smart, he’d have kept his mouth closed. If you want to get away with murder, only two people should know about it; one is the killer and the other should be six feet under. But Forsling liked to talk, and there was only the three of us in the bar, and we was all friends. Or at least we were. I think he would have at least hinted that he was responsible, and he would have probably wanted Gerlach for backup.”
“But he denied it?”
“Yeah, in fact, he was kind of angry that we thought he did it,” LaFontaine said. “And he was angry that you thought he did it and that’s why you burned his mom out when he was locked up.”
“Did he ask you for something?”
“He wanted my old Luger pistol, which I kept around the place in case anyone came looking for trouble.”
“Did you also have another weapon for such an eventuality?”
“Yeah, a sweet little side-by-side twelve gauge.”
“Did you give the gun to Forsling?”
“Yeah.”
“He say what he was going to do with it?”
LaFontaine shook his head. “He said it was better if I didn’t know so that Johnny Law couldn’t say I helped him. He did say he was going to Idaho after he did whatever he had in mind.”
“What happened after you gave him the Luger?”
“He asked for my van.”
Karp walked over to the prosecution table and picked up a photograph that he handed to LaFontaine. “Do you recognize this vehicle?”
“Yeah, that’s my van.”
“How do you know it’s your van?”
“I bought it off a guy who did some welding for me, his name was Woodbury,” LaFontaine said. “You can still see Eric Woodbury and Sons Metalworks on the side.”
Karp retrieved the photograph, which he held up. “Your honor, I’d like to enter this photograph as People’s Exhibit 24 in evidence.”
Rainsford looked at Mendelbaum. “Any objections?”
“No, your honor.”
Karp returned the photograph to the prosecution table and accepted another handed to him by Katz.
“Did you loan the van to Mr. Forsling?”
LaFontaine shook his head. “No, I told him that the cops could trace the van back to me and I didn’t want to get tangled up in whatever he intended to do. I also said I needed it to get to work.”
“What happened next?”
LaFontaine shifted in his chair as his face grew red and angry. “The son of a bitch pointed my own gun at me and said he was going to steal it. That’s when Jimmy Gerlach tried to take him, but that bastard shot ol’ Jimmy in the head and that was the end of him. I tried to go for my shotgun but he shot me, too.”
“What about Robert Mencke?”
“Yeah, he put a hot one in Bob’s chest.”
“What happened next?”
“He robbed my till, took my van, and left me lying in my own blood.”
Karp walked over to LaFontaine. “Do you remember talking to Assistant District Attorney Ray Guma?”
“I talked to some guy by that name.”
“Do you remember when you first saw Mr. Guma?”
“Hard to forget,” LaFontaine said. “I was lying on the floor of my bar, trying not to die, when that guy walked in from the back. He checked on me and my friends, and I heard him call 911.”
“Did he ask you any questions?”
“Yeah, he was trying to help me by putting pressure on the bullet wounds and asked if I knew who shot me and the others.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said, ‘Lars Forsling did it.’ ”
“What happened next?”
“The ambulance arrived, and as they were putting me in, he kept asking questions. I think he thought I was a goner and wanted to make sure he got his answers.”
“Such as?”
“He wanted to know if I had any idea where Forsling might have gone. I told him the son of a bitch lived with his mom and was a night watchman at some nearby construction site on the East Side. I didn’t know much more than that.”
Karp nodded. “Thank you, Mr. LaFontaine. No further questions.”
Rainsford looked at the defense table. “Cross, Mr. Mendelbaum?”
“Yes, your honor,” Mendelbaum said. He rose from his seat but remained standing behind the table. “I believe your testimony is that Lars Forsling had assumed a leadership role with your group?”
“That’s right,” LaFontaine said.
“And as such, organized your group’s attacks on Jewish businesses in November to celebrate the anniversary of Kristallnacht?”
“Yep.”
“And it was his idea to protest the book signing for Rose Lubinsky?”
“Yes, that was him, too.”
“And I believe your testimony was that you think it’s a good idea if you kill someone to not talk about it. Is that right?”
“Only dead men tell no tales,” LaFontaine said.
“Mr. LaFontaine, much has been made by my colleague, Mr. Karp, about Mr. Forsling having no previous history for violent crime. But he certainly exhibited quite a capacity for it when he shot you and your friends, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“So would you say that a man who is capable of gunning down three friends in cold blood might also be capable of planting a bomb to kill someone he didn’t like?”
“Yeah, I suppose if you put it that way,” LaFontaine agreed, “you might say he was a cold-blooded killer.”
“No further questions.”
“Mr. Karp, do you have anything for redirect?” Rainsford asked.
Karp, who had been checking his legal pad, rose to his feet. “Just a few, your honor,” he said, then looked at LaFontaine. “I just want to be clear. When Lars Forsling showed up at your bar after his release from jail, you thought that he was responsible for the car bombing the night before?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And his response was, ‘I didn’t do it.’ Is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And the reason he said he was agitated was that he blamed Detective Fulton and me for the death of his mother?”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
“And that we unjustly suspected him of the car bombing?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“And he wanted the gun and the van to exact some sort of revenge?”
“Objection,” Mendelbaum said. “I don’t believe that there’s been any testimony regarding what Mr. Forsling intended to do with the gun or the van.”
“Your honor, Mr. Mendelbaum is being disingenuous. He knows and very soon the jury will know exactly what the late Lars Forsling did and said immediately after he left The Storm Trooper bar. For purposes of establishing an accurate evidentiary chain of events, I suggest the court permit the question to stand, hear the answer, and take it subject to connection.”
“Very well, but you know the rules, Mr. Karp,” Rainsford said. “I’ll overrule the objection; you may answer.”
LaFontaine smirked at Karp. “Yeah, yeah, he wanted to get even with you.”
Karp turned from the witness. “Thank you, your honor, I have no further questions.”
“Mr. Mendelbaum, do you have any further questions for Mr. LaFontaine?”
“No, your honor.”
“Then the witness may leave the court,” Rainsford said.
When he was gone, Rainsford addressed the jury. “Some of you may be wondering why I permitted this witness to utter those foul and upsetting, ugly racial epithets and vile religious references,” he said. “I allowed it so that you could be able to decide the facts of this case understanding the sometimes harsh and oppressive realities of who some of these witnesses are. I believe you will be better able now to decide the credibility of this witness having heard his testimonial utterances and observations without him being censored. Having said that, this will be a good time to take a break. We’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes.”