Free Falsely Accused by Robert Tanenbaum Page B

“He’s been after the Mayor for months on this. We ran on a strong anti-crime platform, as you know, and this year we’re running on it again. We can’t have anyone big in criminal justice saying the Mayor is soft on crime or not supporting the work of the district attorney. Bloom claimed Selig was impossible to work with. He was inefficient, he lost evidence, his people were screwing up cases. The argument was made that we might get into a situation where a big, high-profile case went down the tubes because of an M.E. problem and that all of this would come out: the Mayor knew about it and didn’t act on time, and now a dread killer is back on the street, and so on, and so on. We were assured that the guy was, I mean—whatever his slice and dice skills in the morgue—he was a bum as a leader, and when the stuff we had on him was presented, he’d just slink away. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time that a technician got promoted over his head and fucked up. So Fuerza got the job of digging up supporting stuff that’d make him look bad, and wrote his memo, and Bloom wrote his memo, and so here we are.”
    DeLino looked at his visitor, examining his reaction to this information. He saw Karp staring blankly at the window, his cheeks sucked in. It was a characteristic pose that he recalled from his days with the D.A., one that signaled intense thought. It lasted for a long fifteen seconds. Then Karp asked abruptly, “When did it start exactly? How long has Bloom been nudging the Mayor to can Selig?”
    â€œGosh, I couldn’t say,” said DeLino, surprised. “Why does it matter?”
    â€œCan you find out?”
    The man laughed nervously. “Uh, yeah, I could probably find out, but—”
    â€œBut why should you help me?” Karp asked rhetorically. “Well, look at it this way, Phil. I believe my case is good enough to rip the City a new asshole, and you know I’m a pretty good judge of cases. I think you guys screwed up royally, on Mr. Bloom’s bad advice. Now, the Mayor doesn’t want to carry the can for it, and we agree that poor little Angie Fuerza can’t carry the whole can, so who’s left? And I’m sure you’ll want the Mayor’s experience on the witness stand at the trial—because, believe me, we’re going to trial on this one—to be as dignified and unstressful as possible. In fact, I think you’d like to be able to go in there right now and tell His Honor that the deal is done in that department, wouldn’t you?”
    DeLino smiled the rueful smile of a fixer who has himself been fixed. “I take your point,” he said. “Let me get back to you on that.”
    â€œIs it Sunday already?” asked Lucy Karp when she awakened to find her mother wearing a dark suit, a blood-colored silk blouse and stockings.
    â€œNo, baby,” Marlene laughed, “it’s a school day. I just have some business downtown. I put your clothes out for you.”
    Lucy glanced over at the top of her bureau, where a red jumper, white shirt, and yellow- and red-striped tights were neatly arranged. She grimaced but said nothing. Ten minutes later, she appeared in the kitchen and sat down at the table. Marlene noted that instead of the pretty tights Lucy was wearing her worn jeans under the jumper, but decided to say nothing; healthful eggs, toast, and milk were going down without a murmur, and she did not have time for a major battle this morning. With a tiny pang she realized that a certain perfection in child rearing was going to go by the boards as she started working again, and hoped Lucy’s psychiatrist would explain this to her twenty years hence.
    Keys, raincoat, slicker for Lucy were gathered up and the dog was marshaled, panting and dripping slime at the door. A grocery bag was found for Lucy’s project, a shoebox diorama depicting the purchase of Manhattan Island from the