Karp consulted his master sheet one last time as Fuerza was sworn in. In a case as complex as this one, it was essential to tell the jury a coherent story, with well-marked chapters and conclusions. Fortunately, the defendants had done most of the job for him, for the two memos, one each from Fuerza and Bloom, with their neatly bulleted points, comprised the totality of the charges for which Selig had been fired. The Mayor had already testified that he had relied exclusively on these charges in forming his decision, and that otherwise he thought that Murray Selig was a prince. Each charge thus had to be isolated, examined, and proven false, and not only that, Karp had to show that, in devising and maintaining these charges, the defendants had acted with reckless disregard for what they knew to be the truth. Thus, as each charge fell amid a tangle of prevarication, Karp would be hammering ever deeper into the collective mind of the jury one critical fact: that the dismissal was an arrant frame-up.
The first charge on the Fuerza memo was that Selig had demanded patient records from a Mt. Zion hospital drug clinic, violating federal confidentiality laws, and that he had made persistent demands for same in the face of the hospital’s refusal.
Karp approached, had the witness identify himself, had the witness agree he had made the charges, read the first charge, had the witness confirm he had made it, asked the witness whether he knew that the patient whose records Dr. Selig had requested was deceased and the subject of a forensic examination (he did), and whether he was aware that such requests for patient records were routine (he did).
Karp handed Fuerza a letter and asked him to read it and describe what it was about. Fuerza shifted in his seat and looked at his counsel.
He read it and said, “It’s from me to Mt. Zion, asking for the medical records in this case.”
“And in it you declare that such requests are not violative of federal confidentiality statutes, isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, by this letter, you yourself obtained the records?”
“Correct.”
“So you believe that there was actually no violation of confidentiality law?”
A slight hesitation. “It was my counsel, Mr. Nachman’s belief. I signed the letter on his advice.”
“And did you believe at that time, when you signed the letter, that Dr. Selig’s request was violative?”
“No, not at that time.”
“Thank you. Now let’s move to July, when you wrote the memo to the Mayor. Did you believe then that Dr. Selig had violated federal confidentiality rules?”
“I was following advice of my counsel, Mr. Nachman.”
“Please answer the question, Doctor. Did you believe men that Dr. Selig broke the law in reference to this deceased patient?”
“Yes.”
“Your counsel changed his advice, then?”
“No,” said Fuerza. His eyes, magnified behind the thick lens, were starting to shift at Nixonian velocities.
“No?” asked Karp in the tone usually reserved for a schoolboy’s whopper.
“I mean, yes. His advice was that it was a violation.”
“Which one was a violation? Dr. Selig’s original request or the request that you yourself signed and sent to Mt. Zion?”
“His,” answered Fuerza desperately.
“I see. Let me understand this. His request was illegal. Your request supporting his request for the identical records was not. Is that what you’re telling us?”
“No.”
“Sorry. Then exactly what are you saying, sir? It’s right when you do it and wrong when Dr. Selig does it? Or that it’s right for both of you in January, but wrong for Dr. Selig in July?”
“I relied on advice of counsel,” said Fuerza weakly.
“So I gather,” said Karp. He paused to let the jury get a full whiff of the horseshit. “Turning now to the next charge …”
Things went in similar fashion throughout that day and the morning of the next, Karp working the witness like a big tuna on a hook, using the past testimony of the minor witnesses and Fuerza’s own deposition to sink the barbs deeper, throwing up the astounding paper trail that Fuerza had left, a trail that up until early July of that year demonstrated that Angelo Fuerza was as happy with Murray Selig as a boss could be with a subordinate. As the hours dragged, the tuna weakened, it lolled by the boat awaiting the gaff. Fuerza’s voice became duller. He misspoke, contradicting himself. He hardly seemed to care what he said, if only the torment would end. Gulfs opened between what he had said at deposition, and what the witnesses had said, and what he was saying now. He became sulky; he took refuge in advice of counsel, blaming the lawyers, making himself look like a puppet, and a stupid puppet at that. The tuna knew it would never see blue water again; it was thinking Star-Kist, Bumble Bee, Chicken-of-the-Sea.
The final charge was the “leaving town without notification charges,” an anticlimax that left several of the jurors rolling their eyes and shaking their heads. Karp trotted out the file of letters that Selig had written documenting his absences from duty, inquiring of Fuerza with respect to each one whether he had seen it (the redoubtable Mrs. Ortiz having confirmed this in detail) and, getting an affirmative answer to each, asked on what specific occasion Dr. Selig had been absent without leave. To which Fuerza replied that he could not name any. No further questions. Karp turned his back and walked stiffly back to his seat.
Naomi Selig was in court that day, and after Fuerza was dispatched, she and her husband and Karp went to nearby Chinatown for lunch. Naomi chose Lee’s, a big, touristy Cantonese joint on Mott that Karp, who practically lived in Chinatown, had never been to, and also took charge of the ordering, informing Murray what he liked and what didn’t agree with him, and promising Karp that he’d love whatever arrived. She also gave a stream of advice to the waiter about how she wanted the food prepared. Karp thought that he would have strangled the woman after a week of marriage, but it was clear that Selig doted on her, and didn’t mind, in fact positively enjoyed, being managed.
“I think we’re doing very well,” said Naomi after the food had arrived, looking at Karp. “You wiped Fuerza off the map, the rat.”
“Well, he was an easy target,” Karp allowed. “There was documentary evidence contradicting all the charges except one …”
Naomi uttered the name of the vice-president who had died under odd circumstances.
“… right, that one,” Karp continued. “But even there we had two docs who’d been at the meeting and contradicted the charge. But we can expect them, when it’s their turn, to drag in some guy who’ll swear Murray carried on for an hour about how the great man spent his last moments popping his rocks.”
“This duck is too soggy,” said Naomi. “It should be crispy on the outside. Even if they do, it’s their witness against ours.”
“True, but …”
Naomi caught his tone and returned a sharp look. “But what?”
“Scuttling Fuerza was the easy part. The Bloom charges didn’t leave a paper trail. Bloom’s a better bureaucrat than that. Also, we have the where-there’s-smoke-there’s-fire problem with the jury. Even if we’re able to show that the charges per se are all trumped up, the jury’s going to be thinking, if this guy’s such a sweetheart, why did all these senior public figures go out of their way to screw him? We don’t have the answer to that.”
“I do,” said Naomi. “Sandy Bloom, that momser!”
Karp nodded, suppressing irritation. “Yes, I agree. And we’ve said that to one another over and over again, and we’re still not any closer to anything I can tell a jury. I can oppose the individual charges, like I did with Fuerza, but at the end of the day I’d like to be able to stand up there and say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, these momsers tried to screw an honest man because …’ and it can’t just be ‘because he’s a son of a bitch according to the plaintiff’s wife.’”