Justice Denied by Robert Tanenbaum Page A

holocausted out, in fact, as Ashakian clearly was not.
    As if reading his mind, Ashakian turned to the familiar theme. “Look, imagine World War Two had lasted, say, another three years. It could’ve, easy. The Nazis would’ve been able to kill all the Jews they had. Then they tear down the death camps and pave them over, build parks or housing on top, get rid of all the shoes, the hair, and whatnot. They burn the records. Then, after the war, if anybody asks, they say, ‘Jews? What Jews? They left. They’re in Russia, China, who knows? Have another beer. Witnesses? It’s hearsay, exaggeration. Besides, how can you trust Jewish testimony? It’s self-interested. They were on top and we kicked them out, and now they’re whining about a massacre.’ That’s exactly what happened in Turkey. You know what the Turks say? ‘Trust a snake before a Jew, and a Jew before a Greek, but never trust an Armenian.’”
    The three of them were silent for a long moment, thinking about this. Then Karp said, “Okay, back to the present. What’s the tie-in with the Tomasian case?”
    â€œThe tie-in is somebody whacked Ersoy and they’re framing Aram for it. Aram is an Armenian nationalist. Who has a hard-on for Armenian nationalists?” He laughed bitterly. “Who the hell even knows what an Armenian nationalist is?”
    â€œYou like the Turks for it? You think Ersoy’s own guys did it and set up the frame?”
    â€œWho else?”
    â€œAnother Armenian nationalist,” suggested Karp mildly. “Or anybody who knew what you just told me.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit!” Ashakian cried, loud enough to draw stares from other drinkers. Then he remembered to whom he was speaking: one of the more powerful figures of the New York criminal bar and, not incidentally, a man twice his size. He flushed and mumbled something apologetic and added, “It couldn’t happen. I mean, Armenians are a very close-knit community.”
    â€œSo are the Italians,” said Karp with a dirty look at Marlene. “They don’t have much problem whacking each other.”
    She stuck out her tongue at him briefly and said, “Don’t change the subject, dear. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
    â€œI told you, Marlene, it’s not my case, and I don’t want to talk about it.” As he said this, he bore in his mind, as a griping burden, the knowledge about Mehmet Ersoy’s safety-deposit box, grudgingly related by Hrcany the day before. The presence of the money meant that the odds against the murder being a simple terrorist act had gone way up. There were documents in the box as well, which were now up at Columbia being translated from Turkish. Karp was not inclined to reveal these discoveries as gossip at a party.
    Ashakian looked disappointed. Karp could see the respect dying in his eyes. Why did these young lawyers expect you to pursue justice? After a few minutes more of bland conversation, Ashakian made an excuse and left Karp and Marlene together at the bar.
    â€œThat wasn’t very smart, Marlene.”
    She finished her wine cooler and signaled the bartender for a refill. “No, it wasn’t,” she replied, “but I’m off duty. I don’t have to be smart. He’s a nice kid and he’s worried. I thought it would perk him up to talk to you about it, since you also don’t like the Armenian for it. I was wrong: sue me!”
    Karp gave Marlene a long, appraising look. Her heavy, straight brows were lowering, and her exquisite jawline had assumed a cleaver-like sharpness. She’d obviously had a few and was moving inexorably toward righteous belligerence. It was not beyond her to go into a screaming scene in front of the entire New York County criminal justice establishment. Karp decided to forestall this possibility with a judicious retreat. He groaned and flexed his bad