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  "Okay, so their story is- tell me if I got this right- the victim tried to sell them dope, they identified themselves as cops and tried to arrest him, he grappled Nixon and tried to grab his gun. In this struggle the gun fires twice and the vic takes a round through the flank. The vic's still grabbing for the Nixon pistol, and Gerber draws his gun, yells 'hands up' or 'get down,' whatever. Nixon has control of his gun now and shoots again, and hits Onabajo's arm, but the victim of steel keeps holding on. Gerber shoots him five times and he finally falls."

  "You got it. The sequence we have from the witnesses and ballistics is that Onabajo slugs Nixon because Nixon is trying to make him out to be a dope dealer, which he isn't, and Nixon shoots two bullets into him. Flank and arm, but both flesh wounds, nothing mortal. He staggers away. Gerber shoots him, he falls, and Gerber shoots him four more times while he's out flat, making seven wounds in all. That's our murder case, as you know. Gerber shot a helpless man."

  "Yes. But Nixon didn't."

  "Yeah, right, and you'll recall we offered him a deal. He wouldn't move off the story. Like I said, they think they can beat us clean, go back on the cops, collect the pension."

  Karp grunted, turned away, and looked out his window. Something was struggling to emerge from deep storage, something about this case. It wouldn't come, and he knew better than to try and force it. It was like Giancarlo's blind sight: he could see it, but he couldn't process it. That was the trouble with coaching a dozen trials and attempting to keep an eye on the whole range of cases running through the system: stuff got tangled and lost and confused, the facts blended, going spongy and vague, not standing out sharply like gems in a bracelet, as they did when he was actually running a single trial. Something about Nixon's story, maybe from the grand jury? Collins should have come up with anything real, of course, so maybe it was just the old war horse smelling gunpowder, somewhat pathetic, really… He turned back to Collins, who was staring at him with interest.

  "Well, we can't let them do that, can we?" Karp said.

  "No brilliant ideas?" Collins asked hopefully. "I thought I saw the mighty brain at work just then."

  A derisive snort. "No, I'm clean out of brilliance nowadays. But there's something… I can't quite come up with it. In the grand jury testimony, or the ballistics… what you just said set me off, but I'm drawing a blank. You should look into the grand jury transcripts and the ballistics reports again, see if anything pops up."

  "If there was anything pop-upable, don't you think it would've popped up by now," said Collins peevishly. "Jesus, I've been over this case until it's coming out of my ears."

  "Do it again."

  "Okay, right, but we're running a little short on time here," said Collins, rising. "The damn trial'll be over in a week or so." He rose. "I got to get back."

  Collins left, drawing with him the sourness of defeat. Karp knew he had hoped that the old magician would pull a last-minute trick out of the bag, but Karp had not. He didn't believe in last-minute tricks anyway. Perfect prep and perfect delivery equaled a conviction: so he had been taught and so he had always taught. Maybe that had changed, too, though: everything else had.

  He shook off the cloud enough to pursue his routine work of reviewing cases, signing papers, hosting meetings. A man delivered a sandwich and a soda and he ate it at his desk. After lunch there was a particularly rancorous and irritating meeting about the budget. Laura Rachman was there, being chief among the irritators. Karp wondered whether it was about her, or him. He detected in her manner toward him an assertiveness that bordered on the rude. He didn't think he was a caveman where professional women were concerned, but she seemed to treat him as if he were- furs, club, sloping forehead and all- and he found that this actually brought out the residual Neanderthal in him. He snarled at her, she snarled back, and seemed almost glad to have her paranoia thus confirmed. Marvelous!

  Next in was Arno Nowacki, the superintendent of the courthouse, a bulky, florid man in a plaid shortsleeved shirt and a tie covered with little pictures of hard hats. He had on his face the fixed and humorless grin of a man whose every customer is dissatisfied. Karp was not in his chain of command, but still a figure to be reckoned with around the courthouse, so Nowacki's grin was a little broader and sadder than usual. After the usual guy-sports talk, Karp said, "Arno, the heat. Jurisprudence is a product of the cooler northern climes. Do you want us to descend into the lawlessness of the benighted tropics?"

  "What can I say, Butch? I didn't make the decision to fix the AC system in the middle of a heat wave. We got the money late in the fiscal year and we have to spend it before the year ends in October. You know what it is: you got a state building, under city codes, and a project funded sixty percent with federal money. It's a wonder we get anything done."

  Karp had to laugh. "But you can guarantee that the system will be up and running by the time the cool weather hits, right?"

  Nowacki's grin became nearly genuine at this. "Almost guarantee it, and another thing I can guarantee is that we'll get to the heating system in the middle of a fucking blizzard. I got eight subcontractors on that job, including a couple of low-bid pissant outfits I never heard of. Two new boilers, installing natural gas lines, ripping out the old oil system. The boilers alone, Jesus talk about a job and a half…"

  "I don't want to hear the word 'boilers' today, Arno," said Karp. "Can you get me more fans?"

  "After this meeting, he left his office, telling his secretary that he might be found for the next hour in Part 39. This was the courtroom where they were trying People v. Hirsch. Karp slipped in as quietly as he could and took a seat in the spectators' area. There were plenty of empty seats, in contrast to the Gerber amp; Nixon case's courtroom, which had been packed from the first day.

  An athletic woman with short dark hair and wearing a short dark suit was standing in the well of the court questioning a witness. This was the ADA, Terry Palmisano. She was an active pacer and whirler. Karp had noticed recently that with the plethora of law shows on television, the younger attorneys had begun to model their behavior on fictive representations of lawyers, much as the actual Mafia had done after the success of the Godfather films. This woman, he noted, was wearing a skirt right out of Ally McBeal, descending a good three inches below the curve of her buttock. Karp checked the jury: there were two youngish women on it, and ten rapt men. Karp wondered whether she had used her preemptory challenges to bump frumps who might be jealous. Or maybe the jury also failed to distinguish between truth and fiction, just as, during the immediate aftermath of 9-11, Karp had heard a number of people say, as if guaranteeing the veracity of their eyewitness, "It was just like the movies!"

  Karp watched the Terry Palmisano Show with some interest, therefore, to find out how people were now supposed to behave in a courtroom. The witness was a distracted-looking woman, somewhere north of forty, a vaguely bohemian mien. She had on a flowered dress and a fringed shawl and a crystal pendant with which she toyed. Her graying blonde hair was worn in a three-foot braid, also toyed with alternately with the crystals. The woman, a Ms. Winograd, was describing the complex of digestive symptoms that had caused her to visit the defendant some sixteen months ago. Palmisano let her ramble on about her dietary theories and her reluctance to seek help from what she called "the medical model." The defendant's lawyer objected on the grounds of relevance. The judge waved this away: she seemed fascinated by the Oprah-like spiel from the witness.

  On the bench was Her Honor Margaret Anne Fogarty, or Mad Meg as she was affectionately called around the courthouse. Mad Meg had attained to the Supreme Court of the State of New York (which is what that state somewhat idiosyncratically calls its felony trial courts) on the basis of her professional qualifications, which (as with all judges) were two in number: she had a law degree and she knew a politician. In Karp's opinion, Mad Meg Fogarty was not only unfit to rule a courtroom but barely competent to mop one, yet there she sat, robed and majestic, dumb as a sack of hammers, massively prejudiced, and dest
ined to be overruled on appeal. Karp wondered if Laura Rachman had arranged to get this particular judge. It was against the rules, of course, but not unheard of.

  So the witness was allowed to tell her story in detail: how she was drugged and seduced by Dr. Hirsch in his clinic, how he pursued her, how he subjected her to degrading sexual practices, how he finally abandoned her when she threatened to go to the authorities. Karp looked at the jury: Were they buying this lunacy? Yes, they were, it seemed. It was just like on TV.

  The defense counsel was Lew Waldbaum, a well-known courthouse bull, bald and aggressive and (outside court) genially profane. But he was gentle, almost courtly, with Ms. Winograd, which is how Karp would have handled the woman, too. On cross, Ms. Winograd added some details that Palmisano had not chosen to bring out, such as that Dr. Hirsch often appeared at Ms. Winograd's apartment wearing an animal suit. What sort of animal? Here Palmisano objected as to relevance, and was sustained. Waldbaum changed tack. You testified that Dr. Hirsch supplied you with drugs? What sort of drugs. All kinds, I don't recall exactly. Um-hm. And you're no longer taking any medication? No, except for the Clozaril. I have to take that for my condition. What condition is that, Ms. Winograd? I was diagnosed with schizophrenia, but it's in remission.

  Objection, of course. Ms. W is not on trial. The fact that she's a fucking lunatic dragged up here to besmirch a man's reputation, to support a piece-of-shit case based on the testimony of a known liar should not be made known to the jury, Your Honor. Palmisano did not really say that, but if she had, Karp imagined, Judge Fogarty would have sustained the objection. The jury was instructed to disregard the testimony about the medication and the witness' medical history.

  That was all Karp could take for the day. Outside the courtroom he spotted Laura Rachman. She gave him a nod and an empty smile, which Karp did not return. He watched her enter Part 39, to observe the work of her protegйe, he imagined.

  Karp knew that if he stayed in the office, steamed as he was from his visit to the Hirsch lynching, he would make errors and enemies, neither of which he could afford. He decided to go home. The boys would be glad to see him earlier than usual; maybe he'd take them somewhere- not the video game place, someplace quiet- for a civilized meal, and Lucy, too. Lucy was always calming. He would tell her about his sad life and she would say something gnomic about the moral order that would make him feel not utterly abandoned. He wondered whether this was entirely healthy; a man was supposed to share this kind of stuff with his wife, not his daughter. Was he warping her? Clearly not: of all the people in his life, she seemed to be the one that most demonstrated the quality of straightness, like a steel rule against which everything else might be tried. But maybe he shouldn't burden her anymore. He should suck it in and drive on.

  On the sidewalk in front of his door Karp threaded his way through cartons of obscure vegetables of the Orient, the overflow from the produce store on the corner. He felt an irrational surge of rage, and shoved a box of bok choy violently away with his foot, cursing, drawing frowns and Cantonese mutters from the produce clerks. Little blue flames of real racism darted momentarily through Karp's consciousness, only to be efficiently snuffed out. Thus has New York survived over the centuries.

  Riding up in the elevator, he calmed himself. It was the encroachment on his role at the office that was behind it, he thought, not the damned veggies blocking his door. He was supposed to keep the system honest; that was the core of his job, but in practice it had become "only as honest as was consistent with politics," hence the monstrosity of a trial he'd just witnessed. He breathed deeply, willing the churning in his gut to cease. What was wanted was calm, a happy daddy, home, no tensions dropped on the family, shelter in a heartless world. A pleasant, stress-free evening…

  The elevator door opened. His son Zak was standing there at the open door to the loft, as he often did when he heard the sound of the elevator. Through an excited grin he crowed, "Dad! Mom's home!"

  "She is?" The churning returned, amplified, cubed.

  "Uh-huh. She was here when we got home. Some guy got blown up is how come." He ran back into the house.

  She was home indeed, sitting in her usual place on the couch in front of the immense, purchased-with-ill-gotten-gains plasma TV set, watching the news, flanked by her two boys. The mastiff Gog was at her feet, staring at Blue the guide dog, daring him to start something, Blue meanwhile uttering little growls at intervals, signifying his position that if Gog wanted to start something involving Giancarlo, he'd better bring his lunch.

  Karp stared at his wife. She was thinner than she had been and tanned, not a resort tan, but in the red-leather way of outdoor working stiffs. The haircut was a mistake, he thought; no more thick curls artfully sculpted to draw attention away from the false eye. Maybe she didn't care anymore. He said, "Well. She's back."

  "For the funeral," she said.

  "Funeral? Zak said something about a someone being blown up…"

  "Pete Balducci. You didn't hear?"

  "No. Oh, boy, Pete Balducci. That's terrible! When did it happen?"

  "This morning. In Queens. Jim Raney called me and I came right in. I thought about going to… you know, someplace else, but I came here." She looked up at him. The familiar illusion that he could see emotion in both eyes, pain in this case. "I hope you don't… that you're not pissed…"

  "Marlene, don't be crazy. You live here. It's your loft."

  She turned back to the TV. "I made gazpacho and a bean salad. And tacos for the boys. It's a hot day."

  "Sounds great," he said. Some more neutral chatter. The twins discussed how to catch the Manbomber. Giancarlo opted for an elaborate sting, Zak for careful forensics. The parents joined in. Karp's voice sounded false to his ears, as if they were all reading a script for a sitcom that would be canceled after three episodes.

  Karp was about to ask where Lucy was, when she walked in, carrying two grocery bags. Zak crowed out the big news. Lucy calmly put the groceries away and came into the living room, where she embraced her mother. It was a stiff, almost formal contact, like that between ambassadors from rival nations. Energies Karp could feel but not identify coursed around them as they exchanged pleasantries- love, longing, fear, resentment, all of the above. The boys felt it, too; a gelid silence fell. As usual, it was Giancarlo who forced the play. "I'm hungry," he declared. "Is there anything to eat?"

  With which they all trooped into the dining room, where a truly delicious warm-weather meal was served and eaten, and everyone spoke around their real feelings, and pretended to be an intact and happy family. Toward the end of the meal, remarkably, they became through the grace of love and temporary amnesia an actual intact and happy family. Around the table hearts grew light, the old family jokes cracked out, there was laughter.

  Then Marlene started to weep, silently, so that it took a while for the others to notice. The boys grew quiet, first Zak and then, after a whisper from his twin, Giancarlo also. Lucy leaped up and announced an expedition to Little Italy for Italian ice cream. In full sergeant-major mode, she overcame their objections (can't Mom come, too?) and drove them from the loft, also dragging along the two dogs.

  When they were gone, Marlene released the first of many howls and rushed into the bedroom, where she flung herself down on the bed. Karp followed and sat by her, gently rubbing her back, at a loss. She used to do this, he uncomfortably realized, after she had killed someone, such sessions occurring from time to time during their marriage rather more frequently than Karp had anticipated when he stood with his bride at the altar. Stroking a weeping woman did not take up much of Karp's attention; his mind wandered. He thought about what she had looked like then, the first time he had ever seen her, hurrying down a corridor in the courthouse, a rookie ADA, arms full of legal documents, a pencil stuck rakishly in her thick, dark hair. He never really looked at her then, because she was so beautiful that his glance slid off her face like raindrops glancing from the skin of a simonized Buick. And he was married to someone e
lse at the time, too. But it was also that something in him intuited that she didn't like the gape-mouthed stares that men sprayed her with as she did her work. He didn't truly study her until after they had become lovers, by accident really, and even then he would do this slyly. If she caught him, she would say, "What?" and he would always say, "Nothing." Or invent some triviality, make a little joke. Her beauty was a secret of their marriage.

  That perfection was now long gone. A bomb had exploded in her face years ago and taken her eye, and incised tiny scars around her face that plastic surgery could not entirely conceal. She used to hide these with artful makeup, but no longer.

  "What?" she said. She had stopped her crying and was looking up at him from the pillow.

  "Nothing. Are you okay?"

  "No. What an idiot I am! Somehow, I thought I could just waltz in, my little pied-а-terre in the city, stay a couple of days, go to the funeral, flit back to the farm. I didn't think… I didn't think about what it would be like, seeing their faces. Or I thought it would be harsh and cold and recriminatory, and I could get to snarl back, a change of clothes and out the door. I didn't think… the story of my fucking life! I can't bear to look at Giancarlo groping around, and knowing that it's my fault, and Zak desperate to protect him and everyone else in the world, doomed little gunman, just like his fucking Mom. And Lucy… looking at me like she's waiting for something, for me to… what? Confess? Repent? Kill myself? I love them, but they're knives in my heart, and every minute I'm with them I'm quaking in terror that some monster I raised when I was being Wonder Woman will crawl through the window and… I don't know, hurt them more."

  "That's ridiculous, Marlene. What happened to Giancarlo, the whole West Virginia thing, wasn't your fault. You might as well say it was my fault. I was the prosecutor on the scene. If I hadn't figured out how to arrest those guys, they wouldn't have been in jail, and if they hadn't been in jail, they wouldn't've broken out, and shot Giancarlo in the middle of their jailbreak… I mean, things happen. Kids get hurt. There's a whole system we set up to distinguish culpable causes from the other kind, otherwise we couldn't have life. We'd blame Henry Ford every time someone got hurt in a car wreck."