Free Escape by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

people in the World Trade Center, Columbia University held a one-day, in-service training session for more than one hundred New York City high school teachers to teach them how to be more sensitive to Muslim students. The whole thing was paid for by the Ford Foundation. It's like we're apologizing because some of their fellow Muslims have declared war on us. It's not as if every Jap in Japan personally attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941 either, but we sure as hell were at war with Japan and the Japanese people for the next four years. They can kiss my hairy Semper Fi ass."
    "Well, on that patriotic note, I guess there's nothing further to debate," Epstein said dryly as the others burst out laughing. "Not unless you'd like to comment, Mr. District Attorney sir?"
    "Pretty much says it all. I don't think there's anything I could add to the sentiment," Karp responded to more laughter.
    "The Sons of Liberty Breakfast Club and Girl-Watching Society" met several times a week at The Kitchenette to haggle over politics, the arts, the law, and foreign affairs. And, of course, girls, particularly those walking by on sunny days. But they were more than—as self-described by their resident artist and poet, Geoffrey Gilbert—"a bunch of dirty old men who like to argue."
    Although they were all now retired, they'd all been successful in their careers—Hall and Epstein as attorneys; Gilbert as an artist; Florence as manager of the newsroom at the New York Post; Silverstein as a trendsetter in the apparel industry, making pants culturally acceptable attire for women in the 1950s; and Sunderland, a Catholic priest, as a social activist and writer. The only one missing from the group today was Frank Plaut, who, while currently sporting a silver ponytail and Neil Young-style muttonchops, had been a respected federal judge with the 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals and a professor of law at Columbia University.
    Karp had been told when he arrived at 7 for breakfast that Plaut was on a "secret mission." He didn't doubt it. The group seemed to have any number of secrets. For instance, Karp had only recently discovered that they'd all known his dad, Julius. The lawyers and the judge had all gone to law school with him, and they'd attended the Saturday evening socials at his house in Brooklyn. There, they had talked law and politics over cigars and glasses of whiskey. Most remembered Karp as a boy, sitting at the foot of his father's easy chair to listen in on the conversations.
    He'd been introduced to the group by Sunderland, whom he'd met by accident. Or, rather, by attempted assassination. Nearly a year ago, Karp's political opponent for the district attorney's seat, a former sex crimes bureau chief named Rachel Rachman, had tried to win the election by gunning him down from a moving car. Unfortunately for Rachman, Marlene had been there—armed as usual—to terminate her candidacy. Fortunately for Karp, the priest had been present to help Marlene apply pressure to his wounds.
    Karp had almost died, but as he rehabilitated from wounds to his shoulder, chest, and leg, Sunderland had volunteered to be his walking companion. Then one day he'd brought him over to The Kitchenette, where Karp had discovered peach pancakes drowned in strawberry butter—and met The Breakfast Club.
    "Anything you can tell us about the bombing at the synagogue?" asked Gilbert, who could be counted on to blurt out whatever was on his mind.
    "Terrible business," Sunderland said.
    "Yes, it was. But there's not much I can tell you," Karp replied. "It's a federal case, for now anyway. About all I know is what you've read in the newspapers. So far no one has identified the bomber, or claimed responsibility for the attack. It appears that he was acting alone."
    "I read that there's a competency hearing for Jessica Campbell tomorrow," Florence said, changing the subject.
    "Correct," Karp replied.
    "Are you still trying the case?" Epstein asked. "An insanity defense I presume."
    "Yes,