A Piece of the Action

“For Christ’s sake, Sarge, the prick’s spent half the morning bottled up in his room. Why can’t he see us for ten minutes?”

“Because the ‘prick’ happens to be a judge. Which means he doesn’t have to answer to a couple of flatfoots like us. His ‘room’, by the way, is called his chambers. Which oughta give you an even better idea of where we stand in relation to him. Besides, there were five hundred homicides in New York last year. What’s another killing to a big-time judge?”

“Three, Sarge,” Moodrow said. “Three killings to a big-time judge. Jake’s been a busy boy.”

“Four, if you wanna get technical. Don’t forget Steppy Accacio.”

Moodrow snorted. “That was in New Jersey. It doesn’t count.” They’d found out about Accacio’s murder accidentally. Epstein, with Moodrow’s permission, had called McElroy, filling the captain in on what they were doing and what they planned to do. McElroy had offered backup, been refused, then casually mentioned that Steppy Accacio had been gunned down in his New Jersey home. No, he had none of the details. It wasn’t the 7th Precinct’s business. “Besides,” Moodrow continued, “we don’t know if Jake pulled that one off. What I’m trying to be here is accurate. I’m trying to be fair to the Honorable Judge Marone, because the last thing I wanna do is show contempt for the court. I’m sure he got himself elected fair and square. Even if he was nominated by Tammany Hall and ran without opposition.”

They’d been sitting in a hallway of the Criminal Court Building on Centre Street for almost three hours. Tom Moretti, the ADA, had left the unsigned warrants with Judge Marone’s clerk before nine o’clock, then gone off to a trial in another part of the building. The judge’s signature, Moretti had insisted, was a mere formality. Now it was twelve o’clock and nearly time for the Honorable Judge Marone to go to lunch.

The plain truth was that Stanley Moodrow was afraid somebody, Santo Silesi or Joe Faci or Dominick Favara or Pat Cohan or Sal Patero or somebody, would get to Jake Leibowitz before he did. In fact, the idea terrified him. Not that he couldn’t see the justice in it. The very real possibility that Jake’s body would come floating up in the East River had to be seen as justice of a sort. Death was the ultimate penalty. A bullet or the electric chair-what difference did it make?

The difference was that it wouldn’t be him. It wouldn’t be Stanley Moodrow uttering the magic words: You’re under arrest for the murder of Luis Melenguez. That pronouncement belonged to him and he intended to speak it, even if he had to do it over Jake’s dead body. What was the point of hunting, of tracking your quarry down and bringing it to bay, if you had to turn over the rifle at the last minute?

And there was another point, too. McElroy and the rest of the brass might be cooperating, but it wasn’t because they’d suddenly gotten religion. Right now, they were afraid of Stanley Moodrow. Later on, when Jake Leibowitz, Pat Cohan and Sal Patero were as meaningless as yesterday’s news, there was every reason to believe the big shots would come for their revenge.

Pat Cohan had spelled it out best when he’d insisted that a cop’s first loyalty is to the Department, not to the Constitution of the United States or the New York State Penal Code. McElroy was protecting the Department’s fat butt. When that butt was no longer exposed, he (and the rest of the Department) would look for revenge. If, when the time came, Stanley Moodrow was the hero detective who’d arrested a quadruple murderer, it wouldn’t hurt his case at all.

Moodrow stood up and walked over to Marone’s office. “I’m goin’ inside and find out what’s happening. This is bullshit.”

“Don’t get crazy,” Epstein said brusquely. “You can’t put heat on a judge. If you try it, you’ll lose him for the future. Assuming you don’t intend to find another career, you’re gonna need judges like you’re gonna need stool pigeons. There’s no way to work without ’em.”

But Judge Marone didn’t get sore when Moodrow barged into his chambers. He was apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” he said, tapping his desk with a nervous forefinger, “I forgot all about it. I’m sentencing a convicted murderer tomorrow and I’ve got to decide whether he lives or dies. My problem is that I don’t believe the death penalty has any effect on crime. If I had my way, I’d never send a man to his death no matter what he did. But there’s the question of the law. I’m obliged to submit to the will of the legislature. The legislature is obliged to submit to the will of the people. If the people want the death penalty-and they most assuredly do, they yearn for it like vampires yearn for blood-who am I to oppose them?”

“And don’t forget,” Moodrow said brightly, “you’re gonna have to go back to those vampires when you run for reelection.”

Marone, much to Moodrow’s surprise, laughed out loud. “Yes, there’s that, too,” he said. “That, too. But it doesn’t matter, really. What matters is that I have to read one hundred and seventy-two letters from ‘concerned citizens’ before I pass sentence. So far, half of them are demanding that I let the kid off with life. That’s what he is, by the way, a seventeen-year-old, semi-retarded, Puerto Rican kid. The other half want to fry me if I don’t give him the chair. What happened to you is that you got lost in the shuffle. I apologize.”

Moodrow watched the judge flip through the papers on his desk until he found the two sheets he was looking for. He scanned them quickly before scrawling his signature on the bottom. The whole process took thirty seconds.

“Thanks, Your Honor,” Moodrow said, repressing a smile.

“Just doing my job, son. Don’t forget, you’re a voter, too. Come back whenever you need me.”

Fifteen minutes later, Moodrow and Epstein were sitting in front of Jake Leibowitz’s last known address. Or, rather, they were sitting half a block away which was as close as they could get. The rest of the block was packed with police cruisers and unmarked detectives’ cars.

“It doesn’t have to be related,” Moodrow groaned. “But why do I know it is?”

“Cheer up, Stanley. If it’s Jake Leibowitz, it’s all over.”

Moodrow looked at Epstein. “More likely it’s the poor cop who came to arrest him.”

But there was no point in speculating. Both men got out of the car and walked the half block to Jake’s building. A knot of detectives and uniformed patrolman stood outside, Detective Lieutenant Michael Rosten among them. Moodrow, smiling now, flashed his badge.

“Detective Moodrow,” he announced.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rosten said, moving away from the pack. His expression was neutral, without a hint of the anger Moodrow assumed he must be feeling.

“Somebody get to Jake Leibowitz?” Moodrow ignored the question.

Rosten took his time before answering. His eyes remained blank as he recited the facts. “We’ve got an unidentified DOA in apartment 5C. We’ve got a fifty-five-year-old female perpetrator, one Sarah Leibowitz, who claims she killed the victim in self-defense. The perpetrator suffered a severe head injury, possibly at the hands of the DOA, and has been transported to Bellevue Hospital.”

“Transported? That’s a good one.”

“Stanley, can I talk to you a minute?” Epstein pulled Moodrow to one side. He was smiling, but his voice was as sharp as a razor. “Listen, you asshole, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t flush my career down the toilet along with your own. You think you’re gonna get any closer to Jake Leibowitz by insulting a lieutenant? Maybe you took too many shots to the head and you’re losin’ it.”

“Look, Sarge, this lieutenant wanted to put me in jail. Remember? And he was willing to sign a false affidavit to do it. You expect me to kiss his ass?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right. In fact, that’s exactly what I expect. And if you think it’s too much for you, tell me right now. So I can walk away before I end up directing traffic in the Midtown Tunnel.”

“Sarge …”

“I’m not joking, Stanley.” Epstein’s voice was much softer, but no less determined. “Right now, thanks to you, I’m a hero. I’m a neutral go-between, keeping you in line while protecting the Department’s interests. If Rosten or McElroy come to the conclusion that I’ve taken sides, the black mark’ll follow me for the next twenty years. Which is how long I expect to stick around.”

Moodrow started to respond, but Epstein cut him off. “I’m gonna go back and talk to Rosten. You, on the