Free Absolute Rage by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

good for his soul to immerse himself in the literally stinking part of the system he administered. It was particularly stinking today because it was hot, stinking with the unmistakable penetrating stench produced when large numbers of male primates are kept confined. It had been hot for several weeks and was going to get hotter according to the smiling weather-persons on the news. Karp would not have minded if they air-conditioned the jail, but he understood that his fellow citizens did not, by and large, agree. That would be coddling criminals, a practice now many years out of fashion, and it did not help to explain that the people in the Tombs were not criminals but the accused awaiting disposition, entitled to a presumption of innocence. But not to comfort.
    His visit today was more than mere responsibility. Karp was visiting a prisoner named Woodrow P. Bailey, who was in the Tombs because he had beat up his girlfriend, using in the attack a forty-ounce beer bottle and a metal chair. Serious disfigurement had resulted, which put the alleged crime into the first-degree-assault category. Karp was visiting Bailey not because of this crime but because Karp had a little list, and Bailey was on it. The list contained the names of the employees of Lenox Entertainment who had made significant contributions to the congressman’s campaign. Karp sat down in the hard chair the interview room supplied and dabbed his face with his handkerchief. Karp was not much of a sweat hog, but the heat and humidity in the place could have drawn moisture from a brick. The door opened and Bailey came in, accompanied by his lawyer. Karp kept his face from showing surprise. The man with Bailey was not some kid Legal Aid assignee, but David Douglas Root, a criminal lawyer who specialized in high-profile cases. If you were a hip-hop artist and you got wasted and knocked down a nun with the Navigator, Root would be your choice.
    â€œWell, well, Butch Karp!” cried Root affably, pumping Karp’s hand. “A little shorthanded at the DA? Or are we just keeping our pencil sharpened?”
    Karp gave him a thin smile. Root was a big, medium-brown man in a charcoal Zegna suit, a dazzling silk shirt, and round gold-rimmed glasses. He was sweating, too, Karp was glad to see, but not as much as his client, whose jail-orange jumpsuit was soaked dark under the arms and around the collar. Bailey was heavy, dark-faced, with a dull, confused look. A drinker, Karp thought. He had a towel around his neck, with which he dabbed nervously at his dripping face.
    â€œChrist, it’s like a fucking Turkish bath in here,” said Root, taking his seat. “I’m like to lose twelve pounds. So, Butch, what do we got?”
    Karp looked at Bailey, not the lawyer, and said, “Mr. Bailey, as I’m sure your lawyer has told you, you’re charged with a very serious offense. It’s what we call a class B violent felony, and if convicted, it carries a sentence of from six to twenty-five years in prison.”
    â€œI was drunk,” said Bailey in a low, resentful voice.
    Karp ignored this. “How the case gets handled is really up to the district attorney’s office. We have a lot of discretion. Now, sometimes when a person helps us out with an important prosecution, we’re able to cut him some slack on his own case. Helps us with information, or testimony.”
    Karp saw the prisoner’s brow knit with concentration. “I don’t know . . . I mean, what kind of case?”
    Karp pulled out a notebook and read off a list of contributions Bailey had made to the congressman’s reelection war chest. A thousand dollars in August directly to the candidate, and five thousand in September to the Harlem United Political Action Committee, an organization the congressman controlled. The same in the previous year and in the three years before that.
    â€œWhere’s this going, Butch?” asked Root. “What’s