Courthouse (31 page)

“You really think the judges lean toward the D.A.?”

“Don't call it leaning necessarily,” said Marc. “I just think that many of them have lost sight of or never knew that the defense counsel represents the people, the forces of good, as much as the D.A. does.”

“Now you've really lost me,” said George. “How does the defense counsel represent the people?”

“The people, the citizens of the state, are interested—or should be—not in mere conviction statistics but in fairness and true justice.”

George nodded.

“And although they perform different functions, both the prosecutor
and
the defense lawyer are equal, integral parts of the system the people have put into effect to obtain those fair trials, to obtain that fairness and justice. Both defense and prosecution were created by the same laws, to uncover the facts, the evidence in each case, even though each is required to look for different facts and different evidence. The prosecutor finds evidence against the defendant; the defense lawyer in favor of the defendant. And all so the jury can sift all the facts.”

“That's fine, Marc. And correct,” George added. “What problems are the judges having with that?”

“It's a subtle kind of allegiance, George. Perhaps, because of a government-oriented background, perhaps because they receive their pay check from the city, or the state, the same as the D.A., many judges feel they're on the same team as the D.A.; that they have some extra obligation to help the D.A. obtain a conviction.”

“They help the D.A.?”

“Sometimes directly, absolutely,” said Marc. “And sometimes indirectly because they haven't the balls to throw out a case that should be thrown out. They sort of feel guilty enforcing the law and deciding an issue according to the law if it means dismissing the charges against a defendant.”

“So you're saying that by not doing a proper job, the courts are actually enhancing the D.A.'s prosecution,” said George.

“That's right,” agreed Marc. “Instead of being completely impartial, making sure that the rules of evidence are meticulously and fairly observed by both sides, some judges hold the D.A.'s hand, pick up with questioning where an inexperienced D.A. leaves off, repeat testimony and emphasize accusations, make rulings that favor the D.A.'s case. That's not right, George.”

“No, it's not,” agreed George. “The defendant is a citizen entitled to all the protections the law allows until he's proven guilty.”

“That's right, George,” said Marc. “The system would work a hundred per cent better if the judges called it just as they see it and when they see it. In other words, don't give the defendants a break, don't give the D.A. a break. Call it like it is, wherever the chips fall. Unfortunately, when the chips are going to fall against the D.A., some judges give them a little extra help. That kind of judge isn't doing anybody any good, George.”

“It's tough getting the right guys on the bench, Marc,” George said. “It really is. A lot of lawyers don't want to get involved, the work's tough and the money isn't great. It's impossible to get enough funds to give them a proper salary without raising taxes. And you know the people'd go berserk if we had to raise taxes again. We don't even have enough funds to provide proper courtrooms in which to sit. And, now, besides the lousy pay and working conditions, these days with every newspaper guy looking down every judge's neck every minute, it's a grueling job. They want you on the bench from 9:30 in the morning to 5:00 in the evening. If you have to look up the law to make a decision, do it on your own time before or after court. So how can we recruit judges from the private sector, private lawyers?”

“That's a major factor in the problem, George,” said Marc. “Far too many of the judges on the bench are ex-D.A.'s or political hacks of some sort, ex-commissioners, judge's secretaries, or something or other. They're, most of them, government workers, who have been on the public tit for years—present company excluded of course, George,” Marc laughed.

“Of course,” George laughed, not as easily as Marc.

“And they're so used to sucking on that public tit, they couldn't earn a living without it. They want it to continue forever. And so they figure they've got to protect it, shield it. And what group endangers their sucking more than the social rebels who are accused of crime?”

“What you say may make a lot of sense, Marc. But this is no different from anything else. When you have to pick a man to do a job, you look around, and who do you see. You see the men around you, naturally. And you pick first from that group. When it comes to judges, I look around, and there are all sorts of men, mostly government-oriented, as you say, D.A.'s, judges' confidential secretaries, commissioners. They're the first ones who are tapped, not because they're better, but because they're there. The judge makers are a very small community, Marc. Maybe a hundred men in all, and everyone knows everyone else. If it comes to them approving someone they know, who's been around, or a stranger, naturally they pick the one they know.”

“That's how you get imbeciles, George. That constant inbreeding weakens the species. That's what's happening to the judiciary. With all the lawyers there are in New York, brilliant lawyers, shrewd lawyers, fair lawyers, you should stop pulling judges out of the nearby bushes, merely because they've been there a long time.”

George nodded, not convinced. “You've also got to remember, Marc, that from a practical and political point of view, a lot of appointments the Mayor makes, he makes because the political leaders whose support the Mayor needs, make recommendations.”

“And who do the leaders send over: qualified legal scholars or their brothers-in-law?”

“I want you to know,” George said lightly, laughing, “that a lot of politicians' brothers-in-law are astute legal scholars. That, of course, makes it easy.”

They both laughed.

“Really, though, Marc, since I've been in charge of screening the judicial candidates the Mayor appoints, we've been getting pretty good candidates. I've been working like a bastard on it. I'll admit some of the judges who were appointed before us leave something to be desired. But now it's better, much better.”

“Some of the old-timers leave more than just a little to be desired, George. You have some men like Crawford. He's the D.A.'s hatchet man. Whatever the D.A. wants, in order to obtain a conviction, Crawford will figure out how to give them. Aren't they slipping The Tombs riot trials to Crawford?”

George shrugged. “Wasn't he picked on the regular rotation?”

“There is no regular rotation!” Marc scoffed. “In the Federal Court there's actually a system of blindly picking a judge from a revolving cylinder of names—but then they screw you other ways. The only rotation in the state courts is in the mind of some of the D.A.s when they wonder which judge can do the best job to obtain a conviction.”

“That's pretty scathing criticism of our system, Marc.”

“Not the system, George, just some of the people involved in running the system.”

“The bitch of it all is, Marc, that you're probably right. But we're dealing with human beings, not machines. We can't reach out and tap a computer to give us perfect judges.”

“I'll buy that,” said Marc.

George, still with his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair, mused for some moments. “I still think your being screened by the Judiciary Committee would be a great idea. We really need a guy like you.”

“I thought you forgot about that crazy idea.”

“Forget it, hell,” George said. “If what you say is true—and I don't doubt that there is truth to it—what we need are better men, men who can go right down the middle, as you say. Men who know the law and are willing to enforce it. Well, you're a good man, Marc. You know your stuff, know the law, you have a feel for what happens in the courthouse. You'd make a terrific judge.”

“George, I really think there's a need for the work I do,” Marc replied. “Besides, I've told you, I'm not a politician.”

“If every man we want says the same thing, Marc, then all we have to fall back on are the political hacks you describe as groveling around beneath the table to get some droppings from the public tit. You can't talk out of both sides of your mouth now,” said George. “If we need good men, and you're a good man, then why not do something affirmative about it. Let me put your name in to be screened by the Mayor's Committee on the Judiciary. You don't have to take it. You might not even pass muster, although I doubt that. Let me at least submit your name.”

Marc studied George for a moment. He shrugged. “Okay, George. I'm not making any decision right now, one way or the other. Let's just see what happens.”

21

Saturday, August 26, 8:35
A.M.

The day was bright and warm. Sun poured through the windows of the Conte apartment. The terrace was bathed in light as a slight breeze lifted the branches of the trees gently. Marc sat at the table reading a newspaper. He had just finished his eggs and kippers. Maria was leaning back on a chaise longue, her eyes closed, her face lifted to the sun.

“Are we off sailing this morning?” asked Maria, not opening her eyes.

“Yes, but not right away,” Marc replied, looking up. “I want to take a walk over to West Street first.”

West Street bordered the Hudson River. It was also the street on which, at Eleventh Street, was located the Federal Detention Headquarters, the federal equivalent of The Tombs. Except that West Street was a country club compared to The Tombs.

“Who's over there?” asked Maria, still not opening her eyes.

“The Crusher.”

“I thought you finally got his bail reduced to ten thousand yesterday. Didn't you say he was going to be able to make that bail?”

“I did,” Marc replied. “But it was so late in the day yesterday when bail was fixed, the bondsman couldn't get all the papers signed and filed in time. The Crusher's supposed to get out first thing this morning. I just want to make sure he doesn't get any more of a runaround.”

“And then we're off sailing?” asked Maria.

“No, I have to see Hattie Adams after that,” said Marc.

“That Toni Wainwright's cook?” Maria asked, opening her eyes.

Marc nodded. “Checking out our theory, are you? You figure we're really onto something?”

“Let's say we shouldn't ignore the possibilities.”

Maria shook her head in feigned annoyance. “Can't give anyone credit, can you? That's really cheap.”

Marc laughed.

“Franco, Franco,” Maria called.

Franco came out of the house. “I'm here, Mrs. Conte.”

“The big fish is beginning to bite,” she said, pointing to Marc.

Franco smiled, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Naturally, naturally. I knew we had the right track.”

“Not so fast, Sherlock and Dr. Watson,” said Marc. “I just said I wanted to see Hattie Adams to be cautious, to cover every base. It doesn't mean your wild theories are anything more than that, wild theories.”

Maria and Franco looked at each other.

“I always hated a sore loser,” Maria said.

“I'm with you, Mrs. Boss.”

Marc looked from Franco to Maria. What a delight she is, he thought. Bright, loving, groovy-looking, and physically we're so compatible, there has to be something wrong. Or very right! Marc looked back at his newspaper. He glanced at Maria once again for a moment, admiringly. The best thing was that she wasn't a member of the wives' club; that group fiercely and mortally engaged in a combat against that oppressive vulgarian known as the husband.

“I want to go with you,” Maria said.

“Where?”

“To the cook's,” she replied.

Marc thought for a bit. He nodded. “Only if you promise to remain silent unless I need you to speak Spanish to someone to get directions in East Harlem.”

“May Franco and I speak in the car?”

“Not too much.”

“Okay.”

Marc returned to his paper. Maria watched him for several minutes pensively. “I also want to go with you when you see Mrs. Wainwright one of these times,” she said seriously.

Marc looked up. “What for?”

“Just simple female curiosity,” she replied. “I've heard about her, read about her, and sometimes I get to thinking about your going up to her apartment to interview her. I get jealous.”

“You don't have a thing to worry about,” said Franco. “She's rotten.”

“I still want to go.”

“Honey, with all the time I have when we're both working and not together, and all the women there are in the world who are more than available, if I were interested in another woman, I wouldn't have to fool around with a client you know about. And, besides, if you had to worry about me being interested in other women, there'd be something wrong with our relationship.” Marc stood and walked over to Maria's chaise. He sat next to her.

Franco turned and went back into the house.

“I know, I know,” Maria said, putting her arms around Marc's neck. “If you have to worry about someone you love being interested in someone else, then you're in love with the wrong person, because they couldn't love you and be interested in someone else. I know all that. But I still get jealous.”

“I'm glad,” said Marc.

As Franco stopped the car in front of the West Street jail, Marc noticed several people standing on the sidewalk in front of the steel doored entrance. He recognized Pellegrino's wife, two of his sons, another man, and Pellegrino. The Crusher was laughing loudly, walking with his arms around one of his sons on one side and his wife on the other.

“Looks like he made it,” said Franco.