Courthouse (14 page)

“What do you think happened, Marc?” Maria asked. She was seated on one of two white, matching couches. The sun's rays streamed into the room and across the floor. “I mean, do you think the radio reports are right, about some organized crime family possibly being responsible?”

“I don't think so,” Marc said tersely.

“You don't agree with Franco about the FBI being responsible, do you?” she asked.

“It's possible.” Marc was studying a single building very far off on the Jersey horizon. It could only be seen on a very clear, bright day, and Marc was always intending to find out where it was and how far away it was.

Franco was silent in the kitchen again.

“But, I don't think so,” Marc added. “It would be a perfect opportunity for the FBI to get rid of a festering thorn in their side and discredit the Council at the same time as being what they said it was all along—a haven of organized crime maniacs. But I don't think anyone, not the FBI, a gang, or anyone else, could have planned with such precision the shooting of Compagna, and the killing of this Washington, or whatever his Black assailant's name was, with police surrounding the place, and no one saw the assailant's killer, and the weapon mysteriously disappeared. It's just so perfect that I don't think it could have been planned.”

“You don't put it past the FBI to do something like this in the name of national security or some crap like that, do you?” Franco asked, coming to the door of the kitchen.

“No, I don't put it past them,” said Marc. “We know and complained, long before Watergate, that agents or police were breaking into the homes of alleged organized crime people when the authorities didn't have any grounds to obtain a legal search warrant. They'd go in allegedly as burglars but really to collect and photograph papers. If they were caught, the authorities denied they ever heard of the burglars. But this shooting today was too bizarre, too difficult to control to be planned.”

“Then who was this Black guy, Washington? And why did he shoot Compagna?” asked Maria.

“Probably only a madman, that's all,” replied Marc. “If you can allow yourself to say
only
a madman. Who was Oswald, Sirhan, Earl Ray; where did they come from, and why? Just some small-timer come to seek a moment of immortality, of fame, in death since it eluded him in life.”

Franco came put of the kitchen with a tray of sandwiches. “Some sandwiches, boss.”

“Okay, boss,” Maria replied chidingly.

Franco smirked, a bit flustered. “How come you call
me
boss?”

“How come you call
him
boss?” Maria smiled.

“Ah, he's the boss,” said Franco. “You want some tomato juice?”

“Okay.”

“I'll have a beer,” said Marc.

The phone rang.

Franco answered it in the kitchen. He walked into the living room with a plug-in phone and handed it to Marc. “It's for you,” he said, plugging it in. “Your office.”

Maria did not approve of phones as decorations in the living room. The world of commerce and big business fascination with telephones ended at their doorstep.

“Hello, Mister Conte?” asked Marguerite Elisan, Marc's secretary.

“Yes, Marguerite.”

“You just received an emergency call from an attorney named Cahill.”

“What's the emergency?”

“He said he wants you to represent a, wait a minute. I have the name here. Toni Wainwright. He's being held at the nineteenth precinct.”

“Toni Wainwright is a woman,” said Marc, remembering the name from having scanned the blazing headlines on the morning papers when he got home.

“I don't know. Mister Cahill just said Toni Wainwright. I didn't know it was a woman,” said Marguerite. “Mister Cahill wants you to go over to the nineteenth precinct to represent her. He also said to tell you that money was no object.”

“That sounds bad already. Where is this Mister Cahill now?”

“He said you could get him at the nineteenth precinct. Said he was going right over. He'd like you to go right over too.”

“Okay.” Marc looked puzzled as he replaced the phone carefully.

“Got to go and get someone out, right?” asked Maria.

Marc nodded. He walked over to Maria, sat next to her, and put his arms around her, kissing her forehead.

“Okay,” she smiled. “I'll have dinner ready when you get back. Franco,” she called. “You be sure to call when you two are on your way home,” she admonished Franco. He nodded. She turned to Marc. “How come you can remember everything that happens in a courtroom and can't remember to call to say you're on your way home?”

“Want to leave something for Franco to do,” he said. “God knows, he never does anything around here.”

“Thanks a lot,
Mister Conte
,” said Franco, a smirk on his face. “Does that sound better?”

Marc and Maria began to laugh. “No, actually it doesn't,” said Marc.

Marc approached the nineteenth precinct, an old, red brick building with a short stairway leading to scarred wooden doors. Green glass lanterns were braced on either side of the entrance. Barricades lined the sidewalk across the street from the station house; behind the barricades Jewish Defense League demonstrators berated and jeered at the nearby Russian embassy about Soviet Jewry.

Marc entered the station house. Its interior was old, the walls and ceiling high and dusty, the ubiquitous light green paint peeling. A crowd of men, many holding cameras or pads, noisily surrounded the main desk to the right of the entrance. A Lieutenant was standing behind the desk, pacifying the newsmen, fielding their questions about the Wainwright killing. Marc walked directly to a staircase on the left which led up to the detectives' offices. A uniformed policeman was posted at the foot of the stairs. He raised one hand, gazing at Marc blankly.

“Nobody can go up,” the policeman said.

“I'm an attorney,” said Marc. “I want to go to the homicide squad office. A client of mine is being held up there.”

“Sorry, Counselor, my orders are I can't let anyone up.”

“My client is Toni Wainwright,” Marc said.

The cop studied Marc more carefully now. He was a young cop, tall, beefy, with fairly long wavy hair and a thick mustache.

“Hold it a minute, Counselor,” said the cop. “Hey, Phil. Phil,” he called to another policeman, also young, with a thick, full mustache. The other policeman approached, his thumbs hooked into the thick cartridge belt girdling his waist. Marc thought momentarily how the two cops looked much like the photographs of the turn-of-the-twentieth-century cops, with flourishing antique mustaches. That which is supposed to be very new and mod, is merely a take-off of something quite old and not very different.

“What's up, Tom?” asked the second cop, looking at Marc with the condescending look that semi-officialdom seems to bestow.

“Tell the
lou
that the Counselor here represents Toni Wainwright. Should I let him up?”

The second cop pursed his lips. “You got a nice client there, Counselor. Not bad and plenty of dough. You'll make a good fee now.”

Marc smiled patiently. He watched the second cop walk behind the main desk and approach the Lieutenant.

From the corner of his eye, Marc caught the images of men entering the station house. He turned. Walking directly toward him was Liam O'Connor, Chief Assistant District Attorney, and two D.A.'s detectives. O'Connor, with his burly figure and thick features, always reminded Marc of a bartender in an Irish gin mill. He should have had an apron bound high around his middle and a bow tie.

The desk Lieutenant waved and smiled as O'Connor strode directly to the stairway. O'Connor winked and waved back as the newsmen turned to see the newcomer. The reporters, sensing new blood, moved instantly toward the D.A.

O'Connor, obviously pleased, nonetheless shook his head, waving them back with his thick hand. “Not now, fellas, not now.” He smiled a fast, toothy smile. “I'm too busy now. When I come down, I'll be better able to talk. Just be patient. Okay?” He continued toward the stairs. “Hello, Marc,” he said blandly.

“Hello, Liam,” Marc replied, equally bland.

O'Connor flashed his badge to the officers at the foot of the stairs. The reporters were swarming around the steps now.

“I'd like to talk to you a moment, Liam,” Marc said.

“Later, Marc, I'm in a hurry now.” O'Connor started up the stairs brusquely.

“If you want to talk to Mrs. Wainwright you ought to talk to me first,” Marc called.

O'Connor stopped, nodding. He shrugged. “I should have known. Let Counselor Conte up, Officer.”

The reporters were further aroused, their din increasing. “Hey, what's your name, Counselor?” called one of them.

“I know him, that's Conte,” said one of the reporters who had overheard O'Connor.

Marc started up the stairs behind O'Connor and the two detectives.

The four men entered the homicide office. It was full of men. O'Connor nodded to several of the detectives. One shook his hand and smiled. The room was large, painted in the same light green and faded, dusty, peeling cream as the rest of the station house. There were several old, scarred desks, each with an old, manual typewriter. A prisoner's detention cage with thick mesh wire in place of bars stood in one corner. A fingerprint desk was suspended from the wall in another corner. The other two corners of the room were occupied by two small, partitioned offices. One belonged to the squad commander, a Lieutenant, the other, to the squad's clerical officer.

“Hello, Mister O'Connor,” a small man in a rumpled gray suit announced. He was the squad commander, Lieutenant Balinsky. His short hair was streaked with gray, his craggy face looked tired. The other detectives nodded.

“Hello, fellas,” O'Connor smiled. “Where's Mrs. Wainwright?”

“In the clerical office. You want to talk to her?” asked Lieutenant Balinsky.

“I'd like to talk to her first,” Marc cut in.

The Lieutenant turned quickly to look at Marc.

“This dapper gumba is her lawyer, Marc Conte,” said O'Connor.

“She's already got herself a couple of lawyers,” Balinsky advised.

“They're holding the fort until I get here,” said Marc. “And I'm Italian, Mister O'Connor,” he shot out quickly, seriously. “If it's important to refer to that fact, you may. But don't call me a
gumba
, or I'll have to refer to you as a thick mick or a donkey.”

The level of other conversations in the squad room dropped instantly. A number of detectives looked resentfully at this intruder, then to O'Connor.

O'Connor studied Marc's face. “I'm only kidding you, Marc. Come inside,” he said, shrugging a semi-apology.

In a chair, beside another old desk, sat Toni Wainwright. She was pale, red-eyed, and looked even smaller than usual. She wore a blue sweater and blue slacks. Her fingers had several large rings; a gold chain dangled from her neck. A Black detective was handing her a cup of coffee. Standing beside Toni were two men, one, young, clean-cut with horn-rimmed glasses and a blue, two-button suit with a striped tie. He held a briefcase under his left arm. The other man was Cahill, also dressed conservatively. Toni looked at the men entering the room.

“This here is Assistant District Attorney O'Connor,” Lieutenant Balinsky said to Toni. “And this here is a lawyer, Marc …” The Lieutenant looked at Marc.

“Conte.”

The two men near Toni looked relieved. Marc walked to Toni. Her eyes were wide and quite red, rimmed with tears.

“Christ, it's about time,” she scolded.

“Mrs. Wainwright, I came here directly, as soon as I was called. That was only twenty minutes ago.”

“I feel as if I've been here for days.”

“Your husband'll be where he is a lot longer,” O'Connor injected caustically.

“It's all right, Mrs. Wainwright, the District Attorney isn't as big or bad as he wants to sound,” said Marc, looking toward O'Connor.

“Oh yes he is,” O'Connor shot back.

Marc frowned.

“We've been Waiting for you, Mister Conte,” said Cahill. “I'm James Cahill, from Cahill, Craven, Warren and Smith.” He shook Marc's hand. “This is Mister Rutley.” Rutley, in the dark blue suit, nodded, then shook Marc's hand.

“I'm sorry if I took long,” Marc said. “But I wasn't in my office.” He turned to O'Connor and the detectives. “May I talk to my client alone for a few minutes?”

“Come on, Marc,” protested O'Connor. “This is an open and shut case. Let's not waste time with it. I've got a lot of other things to do, and I want to get going. She still has to be arraigned.”

Marc saw Toni shudder at O'Connor's pronouncement.

“Mister O'Connor,” Marc said sharply, “no case is open and shut. And if you want to play psychological games, I took abnormal psych in college too. So we're not impressed. Has Mrs. Wainwright been processed already, Lieutenant?” Marc asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Balinsky replied. “We're finished with the prints and all. We sent them up to Albany already. They should be downtown soon.”

“May I speak to you a moment,” Cahill said to Marc.

“Surely.”

Rutley remained with Mrs. Wainwright as Marc and Cahill stepped out of the small office and walked to one side of the large squad room.

“I don't know much about this sort of thing,” Cahill admitted. “However, I took the liberty of having our appeals man check into the law on criminal procedure. And I've made arrangements for Judge Crawford to be here shortly.” Cahill looked at his watch. “Any minute now. He can set the bail right here without even going to court. If that's okay with you?”

“Judge Crawford is going to come to the police station?” Marc asked with surprise.