Escape (14 page)

Kenny Katz looked at his watch as his taxi pulled up in front of Bellevue Hospital.
Good, I'm early,
he thought. Because of the media attention on the Campbell case, he'd been told by the judge's clerk that it would be handled first on the docket that morning.

Be there on time, if you know what's good for you. This judge does not like to be kept waiting.

As
he got out of the cab, he noticed a tall, unkempt man in a faded army field jacket standing in front of an older couple. He had his right hand and one long crooked finger raised in the air; his left arm was outstretched toward them. In a way, with his wild shocks of wiry, graying brown hair and his righteous, somewhat insane-looking, wildly rolling eyes, he reminded Katz of a painting he'd once seen by nineteenth-century artist Jacob Lawrence of the old abolitionist John Brown. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought that the man had just been released from the hospital's psychiatric ward.

However, they'd been introduced the first day he'd started working on the Campbell case with Karp. According to legend at the DAO, Edward Treacher had once been a respected professor of religious studies at NYCU. But apparently he'd swallowed too many tabs of LSD in the late 1960s with his friend Timothy Leary and there'd been a disconnect in his brain. That had earned him his first stint at Bellevue. He seemed to think fondly of the place, for he occasionally returned for a sabbatical in a straitjacket. Otherwise he lived on the streets, following his new calling as an apocalyptic preacher known around the courts building for his dire biblical warnings and odd sense of humor.

Katz had asked Karp about Treacher one day when the boss invited him to lunch at one of the vending carts across the street. As Karp washed a bite of his potato knish down with an orange soda, he noted the quizzical triumvirate of street people who regularly hung out around 100 Centre Street—The Walking Booger, Dirty Warren, and Edward Treacher.

Kenny Katz had grown up on some pretty tough streets in Queens and had known plenty of street people. Some were no better than sociopaths and criminals who preyed on law-abiding citizens—and each other— if they got the chance. However, others, he learned over time, had little control over the illnesses and addictions that had taken over their minds and lives.

Most were gentle, living in a frightening world whose "normal" citizens looked away, not caring to see them. They ranged from the mentally challenged to people with brilliant minds that were still whirring away inside, but with gears that did not quite mesh.

There was something different about the Centre Street gang.

"It's almost like they consider hanging around the courts building as their jobs," Kenny remarked, watching Treacher chase down a couple of Japanese tourists. They turned and stood politely while he railed at them about "The End of Days," and then just as politely handed over their spare change.

"Yeah, to be honest, I've thought that myself about those characters," Karp said, surprising Katz with the almost affectionate tone in his voice. "For one thing, they keep showing up at the most unusual, and often perfect, times. Sometimes, I even wonder if they're spying on me and my family, but if so, it's like they're trying to watch out for us. My daughter thinks they're actually guardian angels sent to protect us."

"Guardian angels? The Walking Booger?"

Karp just shrugged and polished off the remains of his knish. "I don't know," he said. "But there's a lot more going on behind those rolling eyes than is readily apparent."

Katz knew that Treacher was basically harmless, despite the thundering voice and bits of spittle that flew from his mouth as he spoke. However, it was clear that he was frightening the older couple trying to get around him to the hospital entrance. The preacher kept anticipating their moves and stepping in the way.

"AND BEHOLD," Treacher shouted, "A WOMAN OF CANAAN CRIED UNTO HIM, SAYING, 'HAVE MERCY ON ME, O LORD, THOU SON OF DAVID; MY DAUGHTER IS GRIEVOUSLY VEXED WITH A DEVIL!"'

"Please, let us pass," the man pleaded. "This is hard enough."

Treacher peered suspiciously at the man as if he hadn't considered that he might actually be disturbing someone. Kenny used the moment to step between him and the couple.

"Hello, Mr. Treacher," he said, extending his hand as he waited for the electric blue eyes to stop rolling around like dice on a craps table. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm Ken Katz, an assistant district attorney. Mr. Karp introduced us."

Treacher scratched at his beard in confusion; Katz pretended not to notice that several items fell out of the tangled mess and landed on the ancient Grateful Dead T-shirt beneath the field jacket. Then the man smiled. "But, of course, my good man," he said pumping Katz's hand enthusiastically. "You're Butch Karp's young protégé."

"Yes, that would be me," Katz replied. "Anyway, I think these people are in a hurry to get into the hospital this morning. Would you mind letting them get past you?"

Treacher glanced back at the couple, who were huddled as if preparing for flight in case the madman did something dangerous. But the madman only looked at them as if the question itself was ludicrous.

"But of course," Treacher said and bowed dramatically, as his free hand swept magnanimously toward the entrance. "I wouldn't dream of delaying them. I just thought that considering who they are, they might be interested in that little passage from Matthew 15:22. It's a story about a woman whose daughter was inhabited by a demon until Jesus came along and cast it out. Sometimes the demons hopped into the bodies of pigs and then jumped in the ocean and drowned. Quite the scene I'm sure. But perhaps they could ask Jesus to do the same for their daughter ... Haven't seen any pigs around though, unless you count the local gendarme?" He nodded his head toward a uniformed NYPD officer.

"Yes, I do," Katz said, retrieving his hand. "I'm not real familiar with the Jesus story, but now might not be the right moment to hear more." He turned to the couple and held out his hand again. "Ken Katz with the District Attorney's Office. I believe that you're free to proceed."

The man started to raise his hand but his wife stopped him. Her eyes were angry, but her voice was frightened as she said, "We know who you are. You're the Nazi who's trying to put our daughter in prison. She's a sick woman and suffering—as are we. That should be punishment enough, Mister Katz, but no, you feel the need to torture sick people who need help, not to be locked away in a prison cell. She still has a lot to offer society ... certainly more than some two-bit power-hungry lawyer like you."

Katz let his hand drop. He now recognized Benjamin and Liza Gupperstein, whom he'd seen in newspaper photographs accompanying articles about Jessica Campbell's case. The articles invariably quoted people saying that Karp was essentially a new version of Heinrich Himmler, and Katz a willing member of the neo-SS. The woman's remarks hurt, but as his boss had said, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous criticism came with the territory.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, stepping aside to let the Guppersteins pass, which they did without looking at him again—one out of anger and the other out of embarrassment.

Katz gathered himself to walk in through the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder and smelled an odor like Manhattan during a summer garbage strike. He'd forgotten about Edward Treacher, who was behind him. He turned and looked into a pair of blue eyes that were no longer wild but kind and sympathetic.

"When justice is done," Treacher said quietly, "it brings joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers ... Proverbs 21:15. You're here to see that justice is done for those three innocent little babies, Mr. Katz, just remember that."

"Thanks, Mr. Treacher. I appreciate the sentiment."

"Please, let's not stand on formalities; it's Edward."

"Okay, thanks Edward, and it's Kenny to my friends." Katz began to turn, then paused. "See you around."

"Without a doubt, Kenny," the former professor of religious studies replied. "Without a doubt." The big man gave him a wink and then whirled, sending several new arrivals outside the hospital scurrying. "STAND AGAINST THE DEVIL, AND THE DEVIL WILL RUN FROM YOU! JAMES 4:7. And by the way, would any of you kind folks have any spare change to help feed the hungry, the hungry being me?"

Inside the hospital, Katz was directed to the psychiatric ward dayroom where the weekly competency hearings were held for those accused of crimes when their mental capacity to stand trial was at question. He looked at his watch again as he opened the door. Five minutes to spare, even after the affair at the front door.

He'd been warned—twice—about being late, first by the clerk and then by Karp, who had told Kenny that the judges who had the rotating competency-hearings duty liked to finish them in the morning so they could take the rest of the day off on the taxpayers' dime. "And there may be fifty cases to get through, so they need to run things tight if they want to make their afternoon tee time at Bamm Hollow Country Club in Jersey."

The first person Katz saw was defense attorney Linda Lewis, who was sitting at a table near the front. She gave him the sort of look one generally reserves for bad smells. He'd heard that she was a heck of a lawyer, but she was also supposed to be willing to bend whatever rule she needed to win.

A tiny blonde woman with large pink-rimmed glasses sat next to Lewis. She appeared to be meditating. Her eyes were shut and her index fingers and thumbs were closed in small circles, resting on the table.
The defense psychiatrist,
he realized.

As Katz walked up to the table set aside for the prosecution, he glanced at the Guppersteins, who sat in the first row of chairs behind the defense table. They had not turned when he entered and made no effort to acknowledge his presence now.

Behind them and somewhat off to the side, as though to say "we're on the same team as my in-laws, but we don't like each other," Charlie Campbell sat with a man in an immaculately tailored suit, whom Katz pegged as Charlie's lawyer. Their heads tilted toward one another as they whispered.

Katz turned when the door of the dayroom opened and felt his stomach twist into a knot. The Boss, Butch Karp, had come to check on his "protégé."

The competency hearing was a "due process classic." The defendant had the right to a speedy trial; however, fairness, and due process, in these circumstances, required that the accused be aware of the charges and able to assist her lawyer in the proceedings against her. If the objective facts suggested this might not be the case, then a Bellevue-type competency hearing was an appropriate safeguard. The major focus would be the reports written by two Bellevue psychiatrists weighing in on whether the defendant was competent to stand trial.

As Katz had explained at the staff meeting, whether Campbell was competent to stand trial was an entirely separate issue from the insanity defense her attorney was expected to use at trial. There, the defense argument would be that Campbell was legally insane, and therefore not responsible, at the time of the murders.

Both sides already knew the content of the reports from the state psychiatrists, who had agreed that Campbell was competent. Their reports had been sent to the DAO, the court, and the defense team.

There was little chance that the judge would not accept the conclusions of the two psychiatrists. However, Lewis had indicated that she intended to bring in her own psychiatrist—the little blonde woman—to challenge the report. If she won that challenge, then Campbell would be sent to a psychiatric institution—probably somewhere more comfortable than Bellevue— until such time as she was deemed competent.

Karp noted the look of surprise on Katz's face when he entered the dayroom. He would have felt the same way if Garrahy had suddenly dropped in on him.

As the district attorney, he was responsible for the 600 assistant district attorneys who worked for the busiest DAO in the country. Although the papers had been reporting on the "amazing" drop in crime rates in New York City compared to other large American cities, dealing with the current volume still meant handling a yearly tally of 50,000 violent crimes, of which 500 or so would be murders, another 1,500 rapes, and the rest a smorgasbord of robberies and assaults. That didn't include the tens of thousands of other types of felony cases like burglary, larceny, and fraud, or vehicle code and misdemeanor offenses. Or even the several hundred cases on appeal that were Harry Kipman's bailiwick.

Most of the young ADAs would bum out within a few years from the heavy caseload, the psychological trauma of dealing with criminals and victims, and the low pay, at least compared to the going rate in private practice. Well-trained, courtroom-trial-tested, experienced prosecutors with the New York DAO were considered prime prospects by the city's white-shoe firms, which regularly scouted the criminal courts for likely candidates among the young attorneys.

Some lawyers put their time in at the DAO just to become competent trial lawyers with the hope of trading their trial expertise for a high-income job lawyering with the upper crust. On the other hand, there were the few bright stars who were not only exceptional prosecutors at every level, but who also eschewed the offers that came from private firms. Often, they chose to remain with the DAO because they were idealists committed to the cause of justice. Public servants in the most noble sense of the term, they enjoyed their role as good guys in the battle against the forces of evil.

Every generation seemed to produce just enough to make the New York District Attorney's Office one of the best. In their time, Karp and Marlene, until she'd opted out for other pursuits, as well as Ray Guma and V. T. Newbury, had all fit the bill as the new idealistic hotshots.

The current crop looked to be a good one, too, with Kenny Katz leading the way. No one knew whether they'd give in to the siren call of Fifth Avenue suites and six-figure salaries with perks, or whether they were tough enough and good enough to take on the worst of the city's worst. But Karp had a feeling that they would be.