"We're on," said Manning.
"Tecumseh's looking well," responded Maus.
"I don't care how well he looks as long as we get him nailed down. Hey, who's the kid D.A.?"
The court officer had called, "Two-seven-seven-one, Booth," and Tecumseh had risen together with his Legal Aid attorney and a tall, very young assistant district attorney.
Manning shrugged and shook his head. "I never saw him before. I thought the D.A.'s guy on all these cases was supposed to be what's-his-name-the weight-lifter, Hrcany. This guy looks about fifteen. I hope he knows what the fuck he's doing."
The judge, a beetle-browed red-faced man named Nolan, looked over the case file before him. He appeared unhappy with what he read there.
"Are the People aware that this defendant has been incarcerated for more than seventy-two hours? Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, I'm talking to you."
"Uh… Schick, your Honor," said Peter Schick, riffling through the file and trying to make sense of the arrest report. Karp had called him five minutes ago to tell him that one of the drug-lord cases he was supposed to look out for was coming up that morning. The judge repeated the question. Sweating and distraught, Schick blurted out, "No, your Honor… I mean, yes, he has."
"Good, then are the People ready for a preliminary hearing or presentation to the grand jury within twenty-four hours?"
"Ahhh…"
In the back, Lanny Maus pounded a fist into his thigh. Between his teeth he whispered, "Schmuck! Say yes! Say yes!" Manning rolled his eyes.
"Mr. Schick, are you familiar with the seventy-two-hour rule?" asked the judge with a tone of menace.
"Ah, I think so, your Honor," said Schick.
"You think so," said Nolan. "So may I assume that since the defendant has been in jail these past seventy-two hours the People have prepared a presentation to the grand jury today?"
"I'm… I'm not aware of that, your Honor."
"You're wasting my time," snapped Nolan, and then, addressing the Legal Aid lawyer, asked whether the defendant had community ties.
The Legal Aid, who was as surprised as anyone by this turn of events, said, "He has a mother, your Honor."
"Mother is OK," replied the judge. "Release on recognizance. Barney, give us a new court date. Next case."
"Two-eight-six-six-one, Maldonado," said the court officer.
Maus stood up. "Look at that asshole D.A.! He's still standing there. He still doesn't know what hit him. ROR for a murder-our fucking only lead! I can't believe it!"
Manning said sympathetically, "Hey it happens. Nolan runs a tight ship and the D.A. had this baby in there. Look, I could use some coffee. Let's sit down and see where we go from here. We should work together on this."
The two cops stomped out. Still stunned, Peter Schick gathered his papers and drifted out into the hall. He went in the twelfth-floor men's room and washed his face and combed his hair. Then he went down to the bureau office and braced himself for one of Karp's infamous reamings.
Which, in the event, he did not receive. Karp listened calmly to his embarrassed narrative and briefly pointed out what he had done wrong, including the admonition that certain questions from judges were always to be answered with the word "yes."
Then he seemed to drift into thought, leaning back in the big chair and rocking gently. Schick listened to the chair squeak for several long minutes.
"It's odd, though," said Karp at last.
"What is?"
"Judge Nolan. Mealy Nolan, as we call him. A well-connected man, a political man, a man not above doing little favors for other well-connected people. But not, until today, widely known as a strong advocate of due process, especially not where black street criminals are concerned. Quite the opposite, in fact."
"So what does it mean?" asked Schick.
"Oh, nothing much," said Karp lightly. "Just another little ripple on the great cesspool of justice."
But, in fact, Karp thought it meant a great deal. Somebody had put the arm on Nolan to walk Tecumseh. Was it the chief of detectives? A possible; the chief wanted the thing handled out of the courts, but would he have gone to a slimeball like Nolan to do the job? Not really, and why would he have had to? He could have quietly slipped Booth out of police jurisdiction anytime in the last three days.
No, there was something else going on. Somebody with enough clout to roll a judge had wanted Tecumseh Booth out walking the streets. Did the rogue cops, whoever they were, therefore have something on Nolan? Another possible.
But now there began to intrude into Karp's mind a third possibility, even more disturbing. Suborning a judge was not exactly the style of a crazed vigilante killer. Maybe Nolan was in it out of conviction. Maybe there were others. People, even quite decent people, could do some strange and nasty things when convinced that they were right. The possibility of a truly massive conspiracy to wipe out the drug trade outside the constraints of the law darted like a giant, filthy cockroach across the surface of his mind. Who was involved? He thought of Denton, of Fulton.
Of Guatemala.
EIGHT
The voice on the phone was pleasant, but only vaguely familiar. "Hi! This is Cliff Elliot. Is this Ellen Wagner?"
Ellen Wagner responded with a hesitant "Yes?"
The voice sounded amused. "You don't remember me? Cliff? From Cheetah's last Saturday night?"
"Oh, Cliff!" she exclaimed after the briefest pause. One met so many men in the bars. Ellen Wagner was a secretary-receptionist in the president's office of a large insurance firm. She had a boyfriend, of sorts, but in that era, the last when a single wage earner could afford to live alone in a Manhattan apartment, and the last when sex with strangers was more like romance than like Russian roulette, Ellen was not ready to, as she put it, "make a commitment."
The boyfriend was all right, for an insurance executive, steady and dependable, but in the night, in the city, the possibilities were infinite. She was good-looking: neck-length dark hair worn in a frizzed style that framed her round face and delicate, even features, and a small but well-proportioned body. She was twenty-six; there was still time for the unexpected. Anyone could walk into one of the bars, on any night, and see her, and whisk her away to the land of dreams.
She tried to bring Cliff's face to mind. Crinkly blond hair, smiling blue eyes. Gold jewelry, she remembered that. Good shoulders-he was wearing…?
"You were wearing the tight white jeans, right?" she asked.
"Yeah, you were drinking daiquiris," he replied. "I couldn't stop looking at you. Are you still pretty?"
She laughed and said, "I guess so. So… Cliff. What's going on?"
"Well, I thought I'd call and see if you were doing anything later on."
"Oooh," she sighed, her disappointment nearly genuine. "I have a date in like an hour. How bum!"
"Oh, that's OK. The thing is… remember we talked about how we both liked Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, and I said I had outtakes from where I work-the record studio?-and I thought that since I was in the neighborhood…"
"You want to come up now? Where are you?"
A nervous laugh. "Well, actually, I'm right across the street. In the phone booth."
Cute, she thought, calling from across the street. It was thrilly and flattering, not the kind of thing an insurance junior executive would ordinarily do. Like in a movie.
"Just a minute," she said, and put the phone down. She skipped out to the hallway and looked out the hallway window. Her apartment faced the air shaft and this was the only way she could see out to Third Avenue. It was near dusk, a late Saturday afternoon, but she could see the figure in the phone booth three stories down. It was the guy.
She went back to her place and looked around. Reasonably neat. She picked up a skirt she had been hemming, threw it on a chair in the bedroom, and closed the door. She checked herself in the mirror in the living room, ran a brush through her hair, and tucked her shirt into her jeans. Then she picked up the phone.