Fury kac-17 Page 19

  Tyler stood up and walked over to where a small mirror hung on the wall. "I'm not asking you to do this so that I can have my life back or so I can 'move on.' That's not going to happen. I'm asking you to do this, Mr. Karp, because those other good people, who still have lives, need you."

  Karp felt the wall crumbling. You can't do this, he told himself. "I'm sorry, Liz…"

  Tyler turned away from the mirror and faced him. "Please, just read the files. Maybe you can just advise whoever takes the case. Please?"

  "But there are other lawyers…"

  "Yes, but it's your integrity that matters." As if someone had taken control of his body, Karp heard himself agreeing to read the files. Then he was shaking Liz Tyler's hand as she thanked him. Then he was out in the Lincoln sitting next to Murrow, who started peppering him with questions.

  "What? What was that all about?" Murrow asked. "What did I miss? You didn't agree to do anything…dumb…I mean politically sensitive, did you? What's going on?"

  Karp looked into the genuinely worried face of his aide-de-camp. "All in good time, Gilbert," he said.

  "You've been saying that a lot lately," Murrow groused. "It's not nice to keep secrets from your adviser."

  "Just for the moment," Karp replied. "I need to do something, but nothing to worry about. Now, let's move. We've got to run if I'm going to pick up the boys and get to class on time."

  A half hour later, Fulton pulled the Lincoln up to the curb at Crosby outside the loft. Karp was disappointed to see Marlene emerge from the building, obviously headed for the Yellow Cab that was waiting across the street. He'd hoped to have a minute alone to talk to her before he had to leave with the twins, but now she was leaving first.

  Karp felt drained by the long day and would just as soon have "left the office" back at 100 Centre Street and forgot about it for a few pleasant hours with his family. But he also felt compelled to warn his wife about getting involved in the Michalik case. The evidence looked pretty damning, and Rachman seemed pretty sure of winning a conviction despite Kipman's questions.

  Of course, what he said wouldn't really matter; Marlene would make up her own mind. It was just that life around the loft had been so much better since she'd returned from New Mexico. Regardless of the little spat earlier, the uncomfortable, brooding feeling that had wedged itself between them over the past few years as their philosophies about the administration of justice took divergent paths had lifted. She seemed so much more at peace with herself than she had in ages. Even the near-death experience at the hands of Kane's men in Central Park, as well as Hans Lichner's attempted murder of their son, had not sent her spiraling back down. Still, he worried that some perceived injustice would set her off again as the avenging angel of the downtrodden. He liked the new Marlene and didn't want to let her go.

  "Going out?" he asked as he got out of the Lincoln.

  "Yeah, sorry, but there's spaghetti on the stove and a nice surprise waiting for you," she said. "The boys are already eating and ready to go to class."

  "Where's the fire?" he said as he walked up to her.

  "Ariadne called and asked me over for dinner," she said a little nervously. She was never quite sure how he would take hearing the reporter's name. "Apparently there's something very mysterious and very important she wants to talk about."

  Karp's heart skipped a beat. As Marlene suspected, the mere mention of Ariadne Stupenagel was enough to make him tense. The two women had been friends since their days as college roommates at Smith, but Ariadne was trouble even when she was asleep. Attaching words to her name like mysterious and important was like throwing gasoline and dynamite on a fire. He happily accepted Marlene's good-bye kiss (pleased that she had initiated it after the chill of the morning). "Be careful," he said, opening the door of the cab for her.

  Marlene sat down and looked up. "I will," she said. "My new middle name is Careful. Careful Ciampi, that's me."

  Yeah, he thought as he closed the door and watched the cab pull away from the curb. The only problem is your old first name is Notvery.

  "I'll be right out," he called to Fulton, who'd offered to drive him and the twins to the synagogue before he headed for home. Karp and the boys would catch a cab back later.

  Karp hurried up to the loft where a surprise was, indeed, waiting for him. "Daddy!" Lucy squealed, springing off the couch where she'd been petting Gilgamesh, who bounded around like a 150-pound puppy at the unexpected party atmosphere. The sauce-mouthed twins jumped up from their plates of spaghetti and joined in the family hug.

  With his arms around his daughter, Karp could feel that she'd gained weight and muscle. He held her away so that he could see her better. He'd always loved her and couldn't have cared less what she looked like, but this was the first time that he could recall thinking that Lucy had become a beautiful young woman. "Wow!" he said. "You're looking good, baby."

  Lucy blushed and hugged him again. "It's all the tortillas and beans," she said with her head against his chest. At last she pushed off and said, "Come on, sit down and have a plate of spaghetti. You and Mom must have had a fight because she rushed to whip this up before leaving."

  Karp looked longingly at the pot containing Marlene's famous spaghetti marinara, a recipe she'd learned from her mother, who'd learned from her mother and so on back through the generations apparently to the founding of Rome. But then he glanced at his watch and remembered Fulton was waiting.

  "It will have to wait," he sighed. "We're going to be late to class."

  "Ah, Dad, do we have to," Zak complained. "Lucy just got home and John's here…"

  Karp looked puzzled. "John?" He about jumped out of his skin when a man spoke behind him. "Hi, there, chief. Remember me?"

  Karp's look of surprise turned to one of delight as he spun to face the voice's owner. "John Jojola! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

  "We Indians are sneaky like that," Jojola said, smiling. "Hey, sounds like you need to get going, I'll be here when you get back…if you don't mind."

  "Ah, jeez," Zak whined. "It's just a stupid bar mitzvah class."

  "Hey," Jojola said to him with a half-serious scowl. "Don't neglect your spiritual side or when you need it most the spirits may not be there for you."

  "Is that an Indian saying?" Giancarlo asked.

  "Um, no, not that I know of…I just made it up, but I believe it," Jojola said. "Now get going or I won't tell you that story later of how Brother Bear lost his tail."

  When the twins had grumbled their way out the door, Karp looked back. "So what brings you to New York?" he asked, not sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

  "A dream," Jojola said. He laughed when he saw the confused look on Karp's face. "Go on. It's no big deal. We'll talk when you get back."

  Why are these things always no big deal, Karp thought as he headed down the stairs, until they are a big deal.

  That past spring, the twins had suddenly expressed an interest in going through their bar mitzvah. The request had taken him somewhat by surprise as the boys had been brought up in the Catholic heritage of their mother. However, the more he thought about it, the more pleased he was that his sons were so open to exploring their other half. Then that summer he'd been approached by the rabbi at the synagogue where the twins were taking classes. The rabbi was asking prominent Jewish men to teach classes, which would also contain girls who were studying for their bat mitzvah. Karp had agreed, in large part because of the lure of spending more time with his sons.

  The meeting with Liz Tyler and the lesson about integrity were on his mind when he began that night's lesson by setting up a slide show and then turning to the class. "I'm going to talk to you today about a Jew who changed the world. Can anybody guess who?"

  "Solomon!" Giancarlo shouted. "Our legal system is based on his court."

  "Bob Dylan!" Zak shouted louder. "He rocks!" He didn't really like Dylan-that was more his mother's music-but it was the only Jewish rock musician he could think of quickly and it got the desired
laugh from the class. All except Rachel Levine, the thorn in the side of his twelve-year-old maledom and the class know-it-all.

  "Try not to be so silly if you can possibly help it, Zak," Rachel said and turned her attention back to Karp. "I believe Mr. Karp must be speaking of Abraham, the father of three great religions-the oldest, Judaism; Christianity; and Islam, which calls him Ibrahim." A look of concern crossed the girl's face. "Of course, the answer depends, Mr. Karp, on whether you're speaking about actual people. As I'm sure you know, Abraham may have been more myth than man."

  "What makes you think he wasn't real?" Karp asked. "Isn't he buried with his wife, Sarah, in the Cave of Machpelah near Hebron?"

  Rachel rolled her eyes. "Yes, there was probably a historical figure named Abraham, hard to prove scientifically, but really, Mr. Karp, I was talking about the man who spoke to God and all that nonsense."

  "My sister talks to a saint who's been dead for five hundred years," Giancarlo said matter-of-factly.

  "Yeah, some dudes shot her full of arrows-the saint, not my sister," said Zak, always one to dig into the bloodier side of any story.

  "My mother says your sister is crazy," Rachel retorted. "I guess talking to dead saints proves it."

  "My sister is not crazy-at least not legally," Giancarlo replied thoughtfully. "She definitely knows the difference between right and wrong. Besides, it could just be the manifestation of post-traumatic stress syndrome after nearly being slaughtered by a homicidal maniac and then almost murdered by a sheriff in New Mexico. Other than that, she's as normal as you are."

  Zak, having run out of anything clever to say himself, backed up his brother. "Yeah, and take that back or I'll-"

  "You'll what? Physically assault me? I'd call the cops and you'd be locked up and then your dad would have to prosecute you and send you off to prison," Rachel said and stuck her tongue out.

  "And she speaks about sixty or something languages," Giancarlo continued in the defense of his sister.

  "Speaking in tongues is demonic," said Ira, a timid boy but acknowledged by all but Rachel as the class's religious scholar.

  "She doesn't speak in tongues, you idiot, she knows other languages-French, Chinese, Samoan," Zak shouted and then stuck his tongue out at the girl.

  While this was going on, Karp had looked on with slack-jawed amazement at how quickly things had deteriorated. Just like my staff meeting, he thought. "Okay, okay, enough, this debate has veered off into the spectacularly ridiculous," he said. "I wasn't talking about Solomon or Abraham or even Bob Dylan, although they were all good answers and great Jews. Did you know that Positively 4th Street was written just a few blocks from my home? Never mind." He turned on the slide projector. "The Jew I was talking about was…"

  The first slide appeared on the screen. It was El Greco's painting of Jesus upsetting the tables of the money changers in front of the temple in Jerusalem. "…Jesus of Nazareth," he said.

  "Jesus!" Ira exclaimed in something near to a panic.

  "Isn't he a Christian?" Zak asked.

  "He was a Jew first…everyone knows that," Rachel said. "Mr. Karp, are you sure this is appropriate for this class?"

  "Sure, why not?" Karp replied. "He never stopped being a Jew. He was born a Jew and died a Jew and somewhere in between being born and dying, he delivered a powerful enough message that a lot of Jews, as well as a lot of other folks, came to believe that he was the Messiah. But as Jews, we considered him a rabbi-like Rabbi Yakowitz-and a great scholar of the Torah. That's all he is in this painting by El Greco called Purification of the Temple, a Jewish carpenter and rabbi."

  "What's he doing?" Zak asked, hoping for a good riot story.

  "Well, this is during Pesach, or Passover-which, as we know from our studies, is the eight days in the spring when we celebrate the freedom and exodus of the Israelites from Egypt-and Jesus was upset that the money changers were conducting business in the Temple of Herod, which was supposed to be a place to go to pray. He was also upset that sacrificial animals were being sold there-'the blood of innocents,' he said-and the money changers were part of that business.

  "The point is that this attack on the establishment was one in a series of acts of civil disobedience by Jesus that would put him in conflict with the people in charge," Karp said.

  "The Romans," Zak said helpfully.

  "Yes, but almost more so the Jewish leaders-the old rabbis and holy men," Karp said. "These acts frightened them because they knew he was morally right."

  "Bet he wouldn't have done it if he knew he was going to get nailed to a cross," Zak said.

  "Really, Zak?" Karp asked. "It's an interesting question. Christians say that Jesus knew what lay ahead of him and chose his path anyway. But let's say for the sake of argument that he didn't know. He was a carpenter, he could have settled down, married, had children, and lived happily ever after. But there was something inside of him-some say it was God-that made him do the things that would get him crucified. Whether it came from God or was just part of who he was, what it amounted to was that he had integrity."

  Karp paused. He hadn't intended to use that word, but now that it was out, it seemed right. Jesus had integrity. He pressed the button on the slide projector and the next image appeared on the screen, El Greco's painting The Crucifixion.

  "Sometimes having integrity can cost you everything you have, even your life."

  The class sat in silence, until Giancarlo asked, "What does INRI mean?"

  Pleased that his son noticed, Karp pointed for everyone else to the inscription on the top of the cross. "It's short for the Latin Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm, which is the title a guy named Pontius Pilate, who was sort of the Roman judge for that region, gave Jesus."

  "What's it mean?" Rachel asked, now as intrigued as the others.

  "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. The Romans lacked the letter J and used I instead. They also used V instead of U. It's an interesting part of the story. Pilate had the inscription placed on the cross after he allowed the rabble-a Jewish rabble I might add-to take Jesus to be crucified. One of the Jewish leaders asked Pilate to change the inscription to 'He said, "I am King of the Jews." ' But Pilate replied, 'What I have written, I have written,' which was a way of him saying that he believed it to be true."

  "But why did the Jewish leaders want to kill Jesus," Ira said; he seemed about to cry.

  "Because they were afraid, Ira," he said. "Afraid of how a man of integrity made them examine their own conduct."

  "What about Pontius Pilate?" Giancarlo said. "In the Bible, he didn't think Jesus had committed any crimes. He told them that, but in the end he let them have him."

  Good point, Karp thought, but old PP was just the most famous judge who gave into popular sentiment rather than doing the right thing. There would be many others.

  "You're right," Karp replied. "Pontius Pilate wasn't a good fellow. He was supposed to keep the peace and watch out for rebels who popped up from time to time, like the Maccabees, whose rebellion we just finished celebrating at Hanukkah. His job would have been easier if Jesus had just preached against Roman law, but Jesus didn't. All he talked about was living in peace and people loving their neighbors and praising God for all the good things in life."

  "Then why'd he do it?" Ira wailed.

  Ira's emotional outburst got the rest of the class tittering until Karp brought up his hand to silence them. "Actually, Ira, that's the best question of the night-and the answer is the whole point of tonight's lesson," he said. "Pontius Pilate gave in to the mob and the Jewish leaders because he lacked integrity. Jesus, on the other hand…," he said, turning toward the painting on the screen, "in those times, just a Jewish carpenter and scholar, had integrity."

  "Look where it got him," Zak pointed out.

  "Ah, yes, but look how he's remembered today by an awful lot of people," Karp replied. "To some, he's the Son of God. And even others, including Jews and Muslims, see him as a great man. But how is Pontius Pilate remembered? As a corrup
t coward who wouldn't stand up for justice, a man who washed his hands of a murder."

  The class was silent for a minute until Giancarlo quietly said, "It must have hurt."

  Karp looked up at the painting, letting his eyes wander to the nails that protruded from the hands and feet. "Yes, it hurt," he said. "Whether he was just a Jewish carpenter with a different way of looking at the world, or the Son of God, he had to go through the pain and suffering. He could have backed out at the last minute, you know. Pontius Pilate gave him the opportunity to renounce his claims to being the Messiah. But he told them, 'I am what I am,' and sealed his fate."

  Hitting the lights and turning off the projector, Karp added, "My dad used to put it another way, sometimes, quoting William Shakespeare. It's from the play Hamlet and is basically the advice of a father, Polonius, to his son, Laertes, when he tells him, 'This above all: to thine own self be true.' I think if you follow that one piece of wisdom, you will find that you are people of integrity, too."

  "And end up like Jesus?" Zak asked.

  Karp looked at his son. Sometimes he wondered what would become of this boy. Like Marlene, he sometimes seemed to have a foot on one path that led to trouble, and other times one foot on a path that led away from trouble. "Maybe," he said. "But there are worse ways to end up. You could end up as a heroin junkie. Or people may know you as a liar and a cheat and want nothing to do with you. Or you could be a judge who sends an innocent man to the gallows, all because you lacked integrity. You could be the next Pontius Pilate. Or you can choose to live your life with integrity, like Jesus, and make a real difference in this world."

  The class was quieter than normal when they filed out a few minutes later. Karp was certain he'd hear from their parents about his choice of topics. But he thought that, as Christmas approached, it didn't hurt for Jewish kids to learn that all the fuss was being made about one of their own.