Justice Denied by Robert Tanenbaum Page B

knee.
    â€œListen, I’m wiped out. I need to split.”
    â€œBut the party’s just getting going,” protested Marlene.
    â€œMe, not us. You stay, have a good time. You need a break anyway. I’m going to schmooze for two minutes with Pagano and then head for home. I’ll relieve Belinda, be a daddy for a couple of hours.”
    Marlene didn’t bother to protest; in fact, she beamed and laid a serious kiss on Karp, in front of judges and everybody, a kiss that was as good as Demerol for his aching body.
    He rolled off unsteadily through the throng, and found Tom Pagano sitting at a drink-laden table, surrounded by well-wishers and cronies from Legal Aid. Pagano smiled broadly as Karp approached and waved him over. “Butch Karp! Here he is, guys, the Prince of Darkness. Sit down, have a drink!” The happy hubbub seemed to diminish slightly as Karp slid gratefully into a chair. Somebody put a full bottle of Schlitz into his hand.
    Although the lawyers who faced one another every day in the criminal courts pretended to a genial collegiality out of court, it was an inescapable fact that the adversarial system was well named. Winning and losing was part of the game, but Karp won a little too often; in fact, in over ten years he had never lost in a homicide trial. Among the public defenders sitting around the table there was not one whom Karp had not trounced in court.
    No, there was at least one. Karp felt eyes on him, and he turned to confront the intense gaze of a stranger. Who extended his hand across the table and said, “I’m Milt Freeland.”
    Karp took the proffered hand. “Tom’s replacement, right? Glad to meet you.”
    â€œYou have good sources of information: it’s not even official yet. Of course, no one could replace Tom,” said Freeland in a tone that implied that not only could Tom Pagano be replaced, but that it was about time. Freeland was in his late thirties, a thin, small man with a large nose, black horn-rims, and an aureole of reddish hair around a balding dome. He was wearing a too-tight baby-shit-colored three-piece suit and a dark red tie with little gold justice scales embroidered on it.
    Karp said flatly, “No, no one could.”
    Pagano was looking down the table at the two men. He shouted out, “Hey, Freeland, that’s the guy to beat.”
    â€œI intend to,” said Freeland quietly. Karp nodded politely at this and stood up. He tapped on a glass with a swizzle stick and raised his beer.
    â€œI’d like to propose a toast. To Tom Pagano, a great lawyer and a great guy—a man who could defend scumbags year in and year out without ever becoming a scumbag himself—well, hardly ever—the guy who, next to Francis Garrahy, taught me more about trial work than anyone else, and doesn’t he regret it! Best of luck, Tom!”
    Tom Pagano laughed, the table applauded, and after a few minutes spent in the usual raillery, Karp was able to slip away.
    Marlene felt a touch on her upper arm and turned to look into a pair of familiar swimming-pool-colored eyes.
    â€œRaney! What are you doing here?”
    â€œA little security detail. Lots of important people wandering around drunk.”
    â€œYeah, it would be a tragedy if anything happened,” said Marlene. “Somebody tossed a bomb in here, it’d set criminal justice back four days. Well, it’s been months! You’re looking spiffy. That’s quite a suit.”
    Jim Raney was a detective with the NYPD, with whom Marlene had a history going back several years. The suit—a double-breasted number in a very pale tan—did look good on his slim figure. He grinned and pirouetted. “You like it? I got a deal.”
    â€œFrom whom? Roscoe’s Fashions for the Heavily Armed?”
    â€œI wore it for you, Marlene,” he said, rolling his eyes and batting his eyelashes, and placing a warm hand on her knee. He had them to bat,