“Um, I’m not sure, Conrad. This is a little new to me. You seem to be saying that people who work for the criminal justice system, if they break the law, well, they can get a sort of special deal from the DA’s office, maybe cop an easier plea because the whatsit, the Trial Screening Profile, gives a low score to those particular crimes.”
“I wouldn’t say a ‘special deal,’ actually. It’s a … more subtle ordering of priorities type of thing …”
“No, I think I got it now. So it would mean that, if I were a cop sitting here, and you were to go over to Mister Cheeseborough there and start sucking his cock, and he said, ‘Let go of my hose, you little faggot,’ and then I arrested you for sexual battery, in such a case, because you were part of the criminal justice system, the Honorable Francis P. Garrahy or his representatives would be more inclined to let you plead to say, consensual sodomy. Is that how it would work, Conrad?”
The Onion came up out of his chair so fast that his anti-hemorrhoid Komfort-Kushion squawked. “Damn you, Karp. You’re offensive!”
“Not as offensive as what I’m hearing from him.” Karp jerked his thumb at Wharton, who was silent, with an expression of superior resignation on his cherubic face. “The law doesn’t say diddly-squat about goddam priorities, Mister Cheeseborough. It says everybody gets the same shake, the same day in court, and if we spend more time nailing a multiple killer than a sidewalk spitter, that’s part of the discretion of the assistant district attorney in charge-which is me- subject to the concurrence of the district attorney, from whom I have heard not one word on this matter-”
“Karp, you’re way out of line now,” sputtered the Onion, his top knot lashing about like a palm in a typhoon. “I am …”
“-and furthermore, behind all this happy horseshit about ‘optimizing throughput’ I detect just a taste of old-fashioned politics. You wouldn’t have gotten a call from a guy named Mervyn Stein, hey Conrad?”
“That has nothing whatever to do with it,” said Wharton, coloring slightly.
“Oh, Conrad, is that a blush of shame on your cheek, naughty boy! Does Mr. Garrahy know you’ve been using his office to make important friends for yourself on the Narcotics Control Commission?”
Wharton sighed. “Karp, you’re getting carried away. This case has nothing. You have the word of four teenaged addicts, who were regrettably injured during an escape attempt, against the testimony of four reputable guards. In my view, you’re wasting the office’s resources because of some private vendetta that …”
“In your view! The courtroom wizard speaks. When was the last time you tried a case, Wharton? In moot court?”
“He’s right, Karp,” the Onion said nastily. “You haven’t got any evidence besides those scumbags’ testimony.”
“You’re wrong there. I have complete documentary proof that the guards lied about their whereabouts during the time the inmates were beaten.”
This was bluff. Karp had sent Hal Dooley up to the Drug Center to check on the movements of the guards on the day in question, but so far, he had come up with nothing. But there had to be that evidence.
“Oh?” said Wharton, “what sort of proof?”
“Come to court, you’ll find out.”
“No way, Karp,” the Onion put in. “I’m still running this bureau, and I won’t have …”
But they never found out what the Onion wouldn’t have, because at that instant there was a loud explosion from the direction of the outer office, followed by two more in quick succession.
“Jesus! What the hell is that?” cried the Onion. And then several more sharp reports.
Wharton’s pink face blanched and he croaked, “We’re under attack by radicals! That’s automatic weapons fire!”
All three men rushed into the outer office, where Miss Kimple was crossing herself nonstop and begging forgiveness for her sins. Lurid flashes could be seen through the frosted glass of the hallway door.
Luckily Wharton was there to take charge. He had spent four years in the ROTC and nine months in a logistic-support unit in Saigon. On two occasions he had flown in a helicopter over paddies where there were reliable reports of Vietcong sightings, for which exploit he had received a Bronze Star.
“Miss Kimple!” he barked, “get down behind the desk! Everybody, take cover!” They all got down on their knees behind the secretary’s desk, Kimple half dead with terror, the Onion red faced with rage (this was not covered under Civil Service regulations), and Karp feeling foolish. Wharton pulled the phone down and dialed 911. For a wonder he was connected at once and began shooting vital information down the line in clipped military tones: “This is the DA’s office, One hundred Centre Street, fourth floor. We’re under attack by a group of armed radicals. They have automatic weapons, probably Kalashnikovs, grenades, and rocket launchers …” Suitable background noises for this dramatic report continued to come from outside: explosions, the sound of breaking glass and now a woman’s voice screaming hysterically and a man’s hoarse shouts.
Wharton concluded his report: “… my name is Conrad Wharton, I’m Mister Garrahy’s special assistant. For God’s sake, hurry! They’re getting closer. Send the SWAT team!” As he hung up the telephone there was an unusually loud BANG-WHOOOOSH-BANG! outside the door and the room was lit with a hellish red glare, which died and was then replaced with a blue light and then a green one. Finally, the loudest explosion of all went off, the door shook, its glass rattled and a wave of harsh actinic white light, like a welder’s torch, came through the door glass. Miss Kimple screwed her fists into her ears, shut her eyes, and commenced to scream at the top of her voice.
Green light? Karp had never seen combat, but he doubted that light shows were part of the standard repertoire of the militant left. He rose to his feet and walked toward the hallway door. “Get down, you fool! You’ll draw their fire,” croaked Wharton, still prone. “Doyle! Can’t you shut her up!” The Onion grabbed Miss Kimple’s shoulder and shook her. The screams continued. Then he made his big mistake. Trained by dozens of B-movies as to the appropriate masculine behavior in such situations, he sat up and slapped Miss Kimple across the face. It stopped her screaming. She opened her eyes wide, brought down her fists and delivered a right cross that would not have embarrassed Willy Pep smack on the Onion’s nose. He fell back across Wharton’s body gushing blood. Kimple closed her eyes, plugged her ears and began screaming again.
Karp left the office and walked out into the hallway. He already had a pretty good idea of what had happened, and it was confirmed by the charred and glowing cardboard cylinders that littered the floor. The passage was smokey and thick with the acrid fumes that recalled childhood summers and Tuesday night fireworks at Coney Island. People were beginning to emerge cautiously from the other offices in the hall. Karp spotted Roland Hrcany and waved.
“Karp? We have to stop meeting like this. What the fuck’s happening, man? Another bombing?”
“I doubt it. It seems to be coming from Guma’s.” Karp pointed to Guma’s door, two doors down from the Onion’s and across the hall. As one of the senior ADA’s in the bureau, Guma had his own office. Its door glass was shattered and it now appeared to be the source of the smoke, the continuing red glow, an occasional BANG! and the noise of a violent argument between a woman shrieking in a foreign tongue and a man speaking Low Middle Brooklynese.
Now there was a rumble of footsteps on the fire stairs. The fire door burst open and half a dozen big men dressed in black uniforms and helmets and carrying riot guns and Armalite rifles charged into the hallway. The office workers backed against the walls to let them by. The SWAT sergeant shouted, “Where are they?” Silence from the crowd. “OK, you three men check the offices on this floor. Camello, Rasmussen, check the fifth. What the hell is all that screaming?”