Trap (9781476793177) (30 page)

“Your honor, I move that People's 29a and 29b be received into evidence,” Karp said.

“No objections,” Mendelbaum added.

“So moved.”

It wasn't until the court steno marked the exhibits that Karp turned and noticed she was crying quietly. He walked up to the stand and offered her a box of tissues left there for that very purpose. He then lifted the water pitcher and filled her cup.

“Thank you, I'm sorry,” she sniffled.

“It's okay,” Karp said. “Take your time.”

“I'm ready now.”

“Okay, let me know if you need a break. . . . Prior to the events in this case, was your son involved in any criminal activity?”

“Yes. He started acting out. He liked burning things and would catch rats in cages and light them on fire. Then he lit a little girl's hair on fire. I tried to get him some help, but nothing seemed to get through to him. Then one night he threw a gasoline bomb into a building, injuring an elderly couple.”

“Was he charged with a crime as a juvenile for that?” Karp asked.

“Yes, he was.”

“And was he represented by a lawyer?”

“Objection,” Mendelbaum said. “What's the relevance of this line of questioning?”

Karp sighed and shook his head. Mendelbaum knew he would lose this objection but had raised it for two ulterior motives. One was to make a point that he'd reiterate in his summation: that just because Stone had represented Henry Burns for the arson case did not mean they'd conspired to plant a bomb under Rose Lubinsky's car.
More matzo balls on the wall.
The second had been to interrupt the dramatic buildup Karp was working on.

“Your honor,” Karp said, “may we approach the bench on the record?”

“Of course,” Rainsford said and turned his microphone off so that the jury could not hear. When the attorneys were present, he turned to Karp. “Okay, you first.”

At sidebar conferences, Karp always positioned himself facing the jury while he spoke softly for the record. He wanted to see how the jurors were reacting even if they couldn't hear. “In every relationship there is a beginning, middle, and end. The evidence will show chronologically its initial benign origins up to and including the defendant's complicity with Salaam in the fatal bombings.”

Mendelbaum shrugged. “Look, it's not a secret that District Attorney Stone began her legal career as a Legal Aid attorney. I did so myself. She represented many different people. So what if one of them was this character, Yusef Salaam, what does that prove? Guilt by prior association?”

“Six months ago, she was shown a photograph and said she didn't know him,” Karp countered.

“She was under duress,” Mendelbaum argued. “She'd just been arrested and hauled out of her office by Detective Fulton, an imposing figure to say the least. Yusef Salaam had changed a lot physically, too—the disfigurement on his face—and he was using a different name when she represented him.”

“I didn't tell her his name,” Karp said.

“Okay, gentlemen, I've heard enough, I'm ready to rule,” Rainsford said.

“Mr. Mendelbaum, your objection is overruled. Mr. Karp, you may proceed.”

Karp turned back to the witness stand. He was going to have to regain the momentum he'd been building toward. “Mrs. Burns, you had just finished saying that after your son was charged with arson, he was represented by an attorney from the Legal Aid office.”

“Yes, he was.”

“And is that lawyer in this courtroom today?”

Burns's eyes darted over to the defense. “Yes, she is.”

“Would you point to her?”

As she raised her arm and finger, she glared right at Stone. “That's her, right there.”

“Let the record reflect that the witness identified the defendant as the attorney who represented her son Henry Burns, also known as Yusef Salaam. Mrs. Burns, do you know approximately how long the defendant represented him?”

Burns thought about it before venturing an answer. “I'm not sure, but it went on for quite some time—months—and there were several court hearings during that time.”

“Mrs. Burns, what brought you to my office approximately nine months ago?”

The woman bit her lip. “My son was killed the night before and I found something I thought you should have,” she said.

“Where was your son killed?”

“In Brooklyn.”

“How did he die?”

“He was killed by a bomb.”

“Was this a bomb planted by someone else?”

“No. He . . . he was killed by a bomb he was carrying.”

“How did you learn he'd been killed?”

“I saw it on the news,” Burns said sadly. “I just got home from my job—I clean offices at night—and there
it
was on the screen clear as day.”

“Please tell us exactly what was on the screen?”

“His shoe. The television showed his shoe in the middle of the street. They said that the police did not know the bomber's identity. I hoped it wasn't him, but I knew it was because of that damn shoe.”

“What, if anything, was significant about that shoe?”

“It was one of his bright red sneakers . . . the canvas high-top kind they call Chuck Taylors.”

“He had a pair of those shoes?”

“He had a whole collection of them and would wear them rain or shine.”

“Or snow, Mrs. Burns?” Karp asked looking at the jury.

“That's right, even in snow.”

“Did you contact the police right away?”

Burns shook her head. “No, like I said, I hoped it wasn't him.”

“Did you find it was him?”

“Well, first I called 911 and asked if they had identified the person who'd been killed. But they said they hadn't. The operator asked me if I knew something but I said ‘no' and hung up.”

“Did you then try some other way?”

Burns stared down at her shoes and nodded. “Yes, I went into his room and looked at his computer.”

“Were you in the habit of using your son's computer?”

“No, never,” she said. “That was his favorite thing in the world and he didn't want anybody else to touch it. I once accidentally bumped it when I was cleaning his room, and he pitched a fit. So I never went near it after that.”

“But you did this time?”

“Yes,” Burns said, “because I thought he was probably dead. I didn't want to believe that he was suspected of killing folks with bombs, but I had to be sure one way or the other.” She began crying again. “You raise 'em up and they just children. They like Christmas and toys and puppies. They sweet to other people and love their mommas. But I have to accept that he changed.” She sighed. “So I went into his room and looked at his computer.”

“Did you need a password to get on it?”

“No, I guess he figured I wouldn't dare touch it after the fit.”

“Mrs. Burns, do you have any experience with computers?”

“Some,” she said. “I've been taking business courses at the community college to try to improve myself.”

“And I take it that means you've learned to use the school's computers.”

“Yes,” she said, then smiled for the first time. “Some of the younger girls even showed me how to Google stuff and get on Facebook. I like to look at animal photographs and videos.”

“So you had some familiarity with computers when you looked at your son's computer?”

Burns glanced over at the defense table. “I saw some photographs.”

Karp walked over to the prosecution table and picked up a set of 8 x 10 photographs. He looked through them, put one back down on the table, and then took the others over to the witness stand. “Mrs. Burns, I'm handing you five photographs, People's 30 A, B, C, D, and E for identification. Without describing the contents of these photographs, are they some of the photographs you found on your son's computer?”

“Yes, these are some of them,” Burns said. “And the reason I knew I should come talk to you. That and seeing the shoe on the television. But I decided to sleep on it. I laid awake all night hoping he would come home and it would be a big mistake . . .” She stopped talking and hung her head. “I don't even know if he loved me. He stopped saying so years ago though he was always polite as long as I didn't make him mad. And he always came home . . . until this time.”

“What happened after you got up that morning?”

“I watched the news and saw that teachers union president was arrested at the same place my boy died. They were saying that union guy was responsible for the women who died in that other car bombing in the city. I felt so sorrowful, like I brung a monster into the world. But I didn't know he would turn out that way. I didn't beat him or abuse him. I tried to love him best I could.”

“It's okay, Mrs. Burns, nobody is blaming you. But I need to ask you a few more questions.”

The woman looked up and nodded. “Sure, Mr. Karp, I can do this. So after I watched the morning news, I took a taxi to your office building.”

“Did you bring something with you?”

“Yes, I brought Henry's computer.”

“And did we talk about some of the same things we've been talking about today?”

“Yes.”

“At some point were we joined by Assistant District Attorney Vincent Newbury?”

“Yes, he was a nice man. Well-spoken.”

“Did you leave that computer with us to be examined?”

“Yes, I did. I didn't want to see it anymore.”

Karp leaned against the jury rail, knowing he had the jurors' full attention. “Mrs. Burns, did your son have a regular job?”

“Well, no, he was always looking for one but no one would hire him,” she said. “But he did some work for some folks on his computer and got a little money that way.”

“Did he ever go out of town?”

“Yes, from time to time he'd go visit a friend in Atlantic City. He'd take the bus and go up there for the day; I found some of his bus tickets in his pants pockets.”

Karp walked back over to the prosecution table and picked up a clear bag containing what appeared to be a small slip of paper. “Can you identify the item in this bag?” he asked, handing it to her.

“Yes, it's one of those bus tickets I told you about. It says it was issued by the Port Authority in New York City and it's a round-trip ticket to Atlantic City.”

“Mrs. Burns, I have two more questions at this time,” Karp said. “Did your son ever talk about having a girlfriend or a lover?”

The murmuring began again in the gallery as Stone turned bright red and hunched over her legal pad, scribbling furiously. “Yes, he said he had a white girlfriend and that she was an important person. But he never told me her name. I didn't really believe him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he lied a lot and I never saw anything that made me think it was true.”

“Just one more question, Mrs. Burns,” Karp said. “Were the police ever able to positively identify your son as the person killed by the bomb in Brooklyn?”

“Yes. They found one of his hands, and after you and I talked they were able to match the fingerprints to some things in his room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Burns. No further questions,” Karp said, looking at Judge Rainsford.

Rainsford looked up at the clock. “It's time for our morning recess. We'll meet back here again in fifteen minutes.”

The courtroom quickly cleared, including the defendant, who shot Karp a venomous look before being escorted out by the corrections officers. When they were gone, Mendelbaum walked over to where Karp was talking quietly against the gallery rail with ADA Katz and Clay Fulton.

“Could I have a private moment with you, my friend?” Mendelbaum asked.

Karp nodded to his two companions, who walked away. “Sure, Irving, what's up? I was just about to ask if you have any Snickers bars; I can use the energy boost.”

“Ach, you're welcome to look, but you don't need it,” Mendelbaum complained. “This is starting to remind me of the third fight between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier.”

“The Thrilla in Manila,” Karp said.

“Yeah, and I'm Joe Frazier taking shot after shot to the head,” Mendelbaum said.

“He did take a lot of abuse but he was still standing after fourteen rounds.”

“Yeah, but that's when the ref stopped the fight,” Mendelbaum said. “And I don't think Rainsford is going to save me here. Anyway, what I wanted to talk to you about—and mind you I haven't broached this with my client yet, she thinks she can talk her way out of this one . . .”

“She going to take the stand?” Karp asked, raising his eyebrows.

Mendelbaum waggled a finger at Karp. “You'd love that, wouldn't you,” he said. “If she does testify, it will be against my vehement objections. But these young lawyers think they can persuade anyone of anything. However, given the haymakers you've been throwing, I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't explore the possibility of a plea deal. I'm thinking maybe Man 1, twelve years minimum. She'd be disbarred and ruined.”

Karp listened politely but then shook his head. “I appreciate you doing what you can for your client, Irving,” he said. “But I'm taking no lesser plea on this one. This wasn't some heat of the moment escalation dispute or shooting recklessly at a car in a road rage incident. This is someone in a position of trust, who abused that trust—murdered innocent people and was willing to murder more innocent people—for money and power. No, Irving, she's going the distance on this one; she's never going home again.”

Mendelbaum regarded him coolly, then nodded. “Out for blood on this one, boychick. I'll let her know that's what we discussed.” He left to go talk to Stone in the holding cell.

When court reconvened Karp looked at Mendelbaum, who shook his head no. The old man looked tired as he walked out to begin the cross-examination of Alethea Burns.