Free Absolute Rage by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page B

this got to do with the case here?”
    â€œI’m just curious how a man who works cleaning up theaters can afford to spare six grand a year on political contributions.”
    â€œIt’s no crime,” said Root. “Besides, since when is the DA interested in federal election law?”
    â€œWe’re not. We’re always interested in money laundering, though.” Karp spoke again to the prisoner: “Mr. Bailey, money laundering is a crime. It’s when someone gives you cash they earned at a criminal activity and you help turn it over, convert it into honest money. So I have to ask you, did someone give you money to make political contributions?”
    Bailey opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Root said, “Don’t answer that!” Bailey closed his mouth and wiped his dripping face.
    Karp said, “You could do yourself some real good here, Mr. Bailey. You also might want to think about whether Mr. Root here is representing your best interests or somebody else’s.”
    Root shot to his feet. “This interview is over. Come on, Woodrow, we’re out of here.”
    Bailey looked back and forth between the two men and then got to his feet. Root signaled for the guard and then turned to Karp. “I intend to lodge a complaint with the bar.”
    â€œOh? Gosh, what did I do?”
    Root held up his hand and counted off on stubby, tan fingers. “One, you accuse my client of a crime out of the clear blue sky without a shred of evidence. Two, you impugn his political liberties, on the theory that a workingman of color can’t possibly have enough interest in politics to contribute to a campaign. Three, you use the coercive power of the state to pressure him into assisting you in a political vendetta against a distinguished political leader. A distinguished black political leader, which is no accident coming from you.” Root turned to Bailey. “This man is a well-known racist. I don’t want you ever talking to him or anybody from his office if I’m not in the room.”
    â€œI’m a big fan of Harry Belafonte,” said Karp.
    The guard came. The door swung open. Root said, “And don’t think I won’t go public with this outrage.”
    â€œWho’s picking up your fee, counselor? Pennant? Soames?” Karp asked as they left, but received no answer.
    *  *  *
    They had AC in the DA’s office, but it was creaky and barely competent to deal with El Niño, or whatever was turning New York into Brazzaville. Little reciprocating fans hung in the corners of the larger offices, relics of the days before air-conditioning. Karp had his turned on. He had his feet up on the desk, his coat off, his collar open, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, none of which helped very much. Across the desk from him sat a small, dapper man in a beige linen suit, jacket and all, with his collar buttoned. His name was Murrow and he was Karp’s special assistant.
    â€œThat line about Harry Belafonte was probably unwise,” observed Murrow when Karp had finished telling him about the Bailey interview. “You’ll read about it in the papers.”
    â€œOh, fuck the papers! Besides, I do like Harry Belafonte. I used to have all his albums.”
    â€œAlbums?”
    â€œYes, albums. Music used to come on shellac discs that had only one song on a side, and they sold them in books that looked like photo albums, and when LPs came out, they still called them albums.”
    â€œLPs?”
    â€œFuck you, Murrow. Young fart.”
    â€œSo what are we going to do about the congressman?”
    â€œWell, personally, I am going to leave the office right now and catch the early bird out to the Island. The congressman will keep, and since we’ve conquered crime, I don’t think anything important is going to come up over the weekend. In fact, I might take a day or two off.”
    Murrow affected gaping