Karp tried to tell himself that this was just like a jury trial, that he was about to make a presentation to a jury of millions rather than just twelve, but he knew at some level that this was not so. Juries were grave affairs; whatever their origins, jurors were almost always ennobled by their function, which was seeking truth, that tender thing, and while Karp, if pressed, might agree that at its best journalism reached for something similar, what he was doing now had little to do with journalism at even its second best. What this jabbering little pimp next to him was doing was entertaining slobs in hopes that they would buy Miller rather than Bud, and Pontiac rather than Ford.
The scant intros over, Bryson called for the tape, and once again they all watched Ray Guma at work. Bryson’s false smile spoke: “Mr. Karp, many people believe that what we’ve just seen suggests criminal activity and the possible corruption of the district attorney’s office by organized crime. What’s your response to that?”
Karp said, “Oh, there’s no doubt that it’s evidence of a crime.”
Bryson had expected wriggling here, and so he was somewhat taken aback. “And what is the district attorney’s office going to do about it?” he asked.
Karp raised his eyebrows. “Nothing, with respect to prosecution. It’s a federal crime.”
The false smile grew confused; the face turned to the camera to show it was not dismayed. “Excuse me?”
“Yes. It’s illegal under federal statute and Department of Justice regulation to reveal the proceedings of a grand jury, and that includes the evidence collected pursuant to those proceedings.”
“But surely the First Amendment overrides some regulation,” said Bryson. “Think of the Pentagon Papers-”
“Yes, but that’s for a judge to decide. And I assure you that our office will protest most vigorously to Judge Oberst, the federal judge who empanelled the federal grand jury, regarding the release of this evidence. The issue of whether the U.S. attorney’s office deliberately violated the seal of the grand jury in this case has nothing to do with your action as a member of the press to publish material you have in hand under supposed First Amendment privileges. The release itself is, in our opinion, frankly illegal.”
Bryson was starting to feel uneasy. On a live show there was always the danger of an interview subject going ballistic, but the reporter had a vast faith in the power of television to produce awe and terror and bland agreeableness in the people upon whom its searchlight fell. People wanted to be loved by television reporters. He moved now to regain control. “But Mr. Colombo has denied any deliberate leak of the tape we just saw, and in any case, the issue here is whether Mr. Guma has-”
“I am not accusing Mr. Colombo directly,” Karp interrupted. “It is entirely within the realm of possibility that an intrepid reporter penetrated the interior of the Southern District offices, got past dozens of armed federal law enforcement officers, located the tape in question from among hundreds and hundreds of evidence tapes, and purloined it. In that case Mr. Colombo would be merely incompetent and not culpable.”
Bryson’s face now arranged itself into an expression of pained forebearance, suitable to guests who claimed alien abduction. “Mr. Karp, as I said, the issue here is the content of the tape itself, and whether an assistant district attorney was in collusion with organized crime.”
The camera focused in on Karp here, so as to watch him sweat out an answer to this one, but Karp was not looking at the camera. He was staring at Bryson. The show’s director instinctively switched to a two-shot and got a good one of Karp’s center punch of a finger pointing at the host. “I know you!” he cried. “I’ve seen you around my daughter’s school. You were trying to trade heroin for sexual favors from little girls. Yeah! You’re the guy!”
Bryson’s face took on a rictus of surprise and horror, which the unforgiving camera recorded forever. The show stopped for two beats, and then Karp said, “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. You’re not the guy after all. It was someone else. Do you get it now, Mr. Bryson?”
“You’re avoiding this issue, sir. .”
“I beg to differ-this is the issue. Say I don’t like you, Mr. Bryson. Say I hauled you into court on that preposterous charge, and brought up a cloud of witnesses who claimed to have seen you do awful things. I bet you have plenty of malicious enemies. Oh, you’d probably get off, and you might afterward sue for false arrest, but think of the cost! And then I might do it again. Why not? If we had a system where someone like me could make a baseless accusation against someone like you, even if the case proved false, your reputation would never survive. I don’t even mention your bank account. That’s why there are grand juries, and that’s why they’re secret. Before I can make you a defendant in a felony, before I can indict you, I have to convince a majority of twenty-three of your fellow citizens that there is enough evidence to hold you to answer for the crime at a public trial, and if there isn’t, if the charge does not hold up, no one knows about it, ever. Absent that constraint, the authority of prosecutors to do damage is very nearly absolute. Absent that, I could tear you apart, Mr. Bryson. I could tear anyone apart.”
“Yes, that’s all very well, but you haven’t answered-”
“Listen to me! We are your dogs, Mr. Bryson. Me and Mr. Colombo and all the others who are supposed to represent the people. You want us to keep you safe from the wolves in our society. But we have very, very sharp teeth and powerful jaws, and we need strong chains. The grand jury is one of those chains, and secrecy is its most important link. Weaken it, and even though greedy journalists think it’s swell to get leaks from a grand jury, I guarantee you, you won’t like what happens. Mr. Colombo’s office has slipped that chain, and as a result a distinguished public servant, a man who has in thirty years of dedicated work done more to fight organized crime in this city than anyone I know, has had his reputation besmirched. You mentioned the Pentagon Papers? How can you compare the breaching of executive secrecy in a matter of transcendent national importance with a cheap political stunt by an out-of-control federal prosecutor?”
Bryson made a series of inarticulate noises as he tried to regain momentum. The director, who was one of the many who did not like Dudley Bryson, held the camera steady on this gabbling: “But, but, but, um, but, if that’s the, I mean, if. . then you. . are not going to pursue any, disciplinary measures against Mr. Guma?”
The camera moved to Karp’s face, on which there was a bemused expression that all New Yorkers could recognize as the one that appeared on their very own faces when trying to explain to a group of Korean tourists how to get to the Cloisters.
Cue commercial.
In the Karp home, all were glued to the little screen in the kitchen, watching the man of the house on Morning Report.
“Why is Daddy so shiny, Mom?” asked Lucy. “He looks weird.”
“I believe that’s the light of truth and justice issuing forth,” said Marlene. “They usually don’t let it on TV. It’s like full-frontal nudity.”