Courthouse (45 page)

“Because I run this courtroom, and I say so,” said the Judge, pounding the bench.

“Fascist,” shouted many in the crowd.

“Quiet,” shouted the Captain in charge of the court officers. It took many minutes for the crowd to quiet down. The Judge waited, glaring at the crowd.

“Is that the way it's going to be in this fascist trial?” demanded Al-Kobar.

“That's right, that's the way it is,” replied the Judge. “I run the court and I'll tell you when you can make a speech. Are you ready to proceed, Mister Katzenberg?”

“My client wishes to make a statement,” said Katzenberg.

“And I said your client can make his statement later,” said the Judge harshly now, leaning forward. “He can speak as long as he wants right after the lunch break. Right now I want you to proceed and I want you to proceed without further delay. I am directing you to do that.”

“I want to note for the record that this proceeding is unconstitutional,” said Katzenberg. “It violates every right my client has under the Constitution. This is not a duly qualified court of law, and is certainly not the place where these defendants can get a fair trial. I ask the Court to disqualify itself.”

“Your motion is denied,” said the Judge. “Proceed, Mister O'Connor.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said O'Connor. “The People move to trial, the case of People of the State of New York against Oscar Johnson … also known as Al-Kobar,” O'Connor added this last facetiously. “James Phelan, and Ralph Santiago, under indictment numbers 3250, 3251, and 3252.”

“Very well. Are the defendants ready for trial?” asked the Judge.

“I want to make a statement,” said Al-Kobar, rising again.

“I'm telling you for the last time, Mister Defendant, and I mean the last time, that you will be given an opportunity to say whatever you wish, but not now. When we come back from lunch break, you will have an opportunity to say whatever you wish. Now, I want to proceed with the hearing.”

“Your Honor isn't saying that he is going to complete these hearings before lunch, is he?” asked Katzenberg.

“I haven't said anything of the sort,” replied the Judge. “And if you think that the record says that, then I want to clear up that discrepancy without another moment's delay. These trials are going to be fair …”

There was a low hiss somewhere in the courtroom. The Judge looked over the audience sternly.

“If that coward wishes to identify himself or herself, I might deal with he or she directly,” said the Judge to the audience. No one spoke. The Judge continued to glare, then turned to the lawyers. “Now, these trials are going to be fair and can take as long as is necessary to complete a full and just hearing according to law.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Katzenberg.

“That doesn't mean I'm going to let you take until next May, Mister Katzenberg,” cautioned the Judge. “Full and fair means full and fair to both the defendants
and
the People. Let's proceed.”

“The People call as their first witness Department of Correction officer Lewis Adler,” said O'Connor.

Adler, in full uniform, took the stand and was sworn by the clerk. He proceeded to tell, under the guidance of O'Connor's questions, exactly what had occurred on the eighth floor on the day of the riots. He told about waiting outside the gate while Captain Casey spoke to inmate Raul DeJesus. He described how Casey was knocked into the cells by Al-Kobar; how the other officers were overcome by the inmates, about being held prisoner himself, and about the actions, threats, and warnings of the defendants as they stood in charge of the rebel group.

Under Katzenberg's heated cross-examination, Adler calmly repeated the details of his story of the day of the riot. The best defense to a searing cross-examination is the truth. For then, no matter how many times the question is posed, no matter how many different ways a question is couched, the witness cannot be flustered or drawn into inconsistencies.

Adler did testify that he was not sure if anyone, including the defendants, actually started out intending to have a riot. He admitted that it might not have been planned, it might have been spontaneous.

Each of the lawyers for the other two defendants cross-examined Adler. By the time they finished with their questions, and by the time O'Connor asked more questions on re-direct examination, Judge Crawford decided to call a luncheon recess rather than start a new witness. The audience filed out under the careful scrutiny of the police and court officers.

“Your Honor,” said Katzenberg, just as the Judge rose to leave the bench.

“Yes?” The Judge sank back in his seat.

“Can the attorneys for the defendants return to court early after lunch and spend some time with their clients, going over some matters for the hearing?” Katzenberg asked. “We could” stay in the bull pen with the defendants.”

The Judge thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, if it's all right with the officers and with the Department of Correction.”

“It's all right with us, Judge,” said the Captain of the court officers. “We'll be here anyway, we're going to eat in the back room. It's too hot to go out today.”

“Very well,” said the Judge. He rose and left the bench, exiting through the door to the robing room.

As the afternoon session began, the audience filed back into the courtroom. After all the seats were filled, the doors were shut. Still there were crowds outside in the corridor, and there were masses of chanting demonstrators in the streets below.

The defendants and their lawyers came into the courtroom from the bull pen. Al-Kobar was now dressed in a dashiki, red and gold, which hung down below his hips. A roar of approval came from the crowd.

“Have you had an opportunity to confer with your clients, gentlemen?” the Judge asked the defense attorneys, so that the pretty stenotypist could make a proper record. Judge Crawford was determined the record be absolutely clear and complete so that there would be no grounds for appeal.

“Yes, Your Honor,” replied Katzenberg, who seemed to be the spokesman for the defense attorneys.

“Your Honor,” said Al-Kobar, rising to his feet, “you said that I would be permitted to make a statement before the afternoon session began.”

“That I did,” said the Judge. “And that you may. Go ahead. Say what you wish.”

Al-Kobar remained standing at the defense table. “I want to say that there's just no way that this here trial is going to be fair to the people,” he began. “I don't mean the People that this here man talks about.” He pointed at O'Connor who was seated at his counsel table. O'Connor remained stolid, facing forward. “I don't mean that empty word. I mean the real people, the Black people, the minority people.” Al-Kobar's voice began to rise. “This court is just a play on the part of a corrupt, fascist system.”

The crowd buzzed with approval.

Al-Kobar moved away slightly from the counsel table to the area between the two counsel tables, directly in front of the judge's bench. The court officers looked to the Judge. The Judge shook his head slightly.

“And the fascist society is not interested in providing a fair trial for Black men, for oppressed men.”

The crowd cheered.

“It is interested only in oppressing those poverty men further. Men like myself, my brothers here, all my brothers out there.”

“Right on,” shouted someone in the crowd.

The judge tapped his bench. “Let's not have outbursts or we'll have to stop.”

“Yes, brothers, no outbursts,” said Al-Kobar. “I want this all on the record.”

The Judge nodded, both in approval and for Al-Kobar to continue.

“This society is intent on annihilation, on destroying the Black man, and all minorities,” Al-Kobar continued. “The entire drug scene is just whitey's attempt at genocide, at killing off all Black peoples. The white man is supplying the Black man with drugs, to destroy the Black man. But we will overcome.”

“Yeah,” called someone.

“Yeah,” chimed in the others.

The Judge said nothing. He was watching Al-Kobar, listening intently.

“But we are not going to be destroyed,” Al-Kobar shouted. “And we are not going to let this society of elite white men, as they want to think they are, destroy the people, the real people.”

The crowd cheered. Al-Kobar was still between the defense counsel table and the prosecution table. Just ahead of him directly next to the judge's bench, the blond stenotypist sat at her small desk, her fingers quickly recording each word.

“This system, when it says it speaks for the people, is only speaking for the white man, the rich, the capitalist.” Al-Kobar rocked in place as he spoke. “And that system is now saying it wants to give us a fair trial. But that's not in the cards. For their very purpose is to destroy freedom, to destroy the people. You do not have the power to put us on trial here, Your Honor. You do not have the power to subject my fellow defendants, my people, to trials. This system is rotten and decayed.”

O'Connor was leaning back in his chair, watching the spectacle with an expression of distaste.

“And this system must have its power stripped from it. Ripped off. The power must be given to the people.” This last was shouted.

The spectators shouted lustily in response. The Judge pounded the bench.

In one leap, a sudden burst of movement, amidst the noise, Al-Kobar jumped onto the stenotypist's desk. His foot was on top of her desk before she even knew he had moved. She gave a startled, little scream, and drew backward in alarm. But Al-Kobar only used that desk as a stepping stone. He was now over the side of the judge's platform, next to the Judge.

As the Judge started to rise to his feet, Al-Kobar moved behind him and shoved the Judge back down into his chair. From beneath his dashiki, Al-Kobar pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. He shoved it around the front of the Judge's body, jamming both barrels into the Judge's throat.

“Nobody move,” shouted Al-Kobar. “I'll blow his head right off. Tell them, Judge.”

“I can't move,” the Judge gurgled over the steel barrels under his jaw. “Don't do anything. He's got me.”

“That's it. That's it, fools,” cried Al-Kobar. “You fascist bastard fools. You two, come up here,” he called to the other two defendants.

The D.A., all the court officers, and the cops were down on the floor, their guns drawn, aimed at Al-Kobar. But Al-Kobar was standing directly behind the Judge, only his arm holding the shotgun to the Judge's throat showing.

“Anyone try to stop my brothers from coming over to me,” Al-Kobar hissed, “and I'll blow this man's head off. And don't try to shoot me, because as I fall this shotgun'll still go off. It's got a hair trigger. This thing is going to take his head off unless I get out of here in one piece. Tell them, Judge.”

“I can't breathe, it's in my throat, so hard,” the Judge gurgled.

“That's good enough. Tell them to stay where they are,” Al-Kobar directed.

“Stay where you are.”

By this time most of the spectators had fled the courtroom. So had the press except for one reporter who was curled up on the floor in the corner of the room, behind the barrier separating the audience from the well of the court. He had his pencil going, writing a story as he lay there. Occasionally he peered up, then pulled his head back down quickly.

“Come on up here,” Al-Kobar shouted impatiently at the other defendants.

Phelan leaped across the defense table, a maniacal grin splitting his face. He ran up to where Al-Kobar was. Santiago stayed where he was, on the floor with the attorneys and the guards.

“There's a gun under my belt,” Al-Kobar said to Phelen.

Phelan's eyes were wild as he reached under Al-Kobar's dashiki and came out with a long-barreled pistol. His missing tooth was very evident as he smiled and fondled the pistol. Phelan ducked down behind the judge's bench.

“Fee. Come on up here,” Al-Kobar shouted at Santiago.

“No, man,” replied Santiago from the floor, “I can beat my case, man. I don't like The Tombs condition. But I ain't bustin' out, man.”

“Then stay, traitor pig, and die. I want all you pigs to listen to this, because we're getting out of here,” announced Al-Kobar. “I want to get a car over here. Get a car, Captain. Where's the Captain?”

“Here,” called the Captain of the court officers, who was lying on the floor.

“We're going to take the Judge with us, and we'll get out of here, and when we're away, we'll release the Judge. Got it, Captain?”

There was no answer.

“You got it, motherfucker Captain?” Al-Kobar deanded.

“I heard you and you can go to hell,” shouted the Captain.

Al-Kobar laughed. “I can go to hell? Go to hell, hanh?” He jammed the shotgun fiercely into the Judge's throat. “Tell them, Judgey.”

The Judge could only make gurgling sounds. Al-Kobar eased the shotgun out slightly.

“Do what he asks you. He's going to kill me.”

“You, stenographer,” Al-Kobar shouted over the judge's bench. The girl was crouching beneath her desk. “Come on up here, stenographer.”

The stenographer's face was chalky. She was visibly trembling.

“I said come up here,” demanded Al-Kobar. He had another pistol under his dashiki. He held it in his other hand and stretched that hand over the judge's bench and fired a blind shot into the floor near the stenographer's table. “Come up here or I'll kill you where you are.”

The girl rose, shaking and pale, moving like a zombie around the judge's bench to the stairway. She walked up the steps to where the Judge was seated. Phelan grabbed her around the throat, putting his pistol to her throat just as Al-Kobar had the shotgun to the Judge's throat.

“Now get that car, Captain, and get it to the side entrance where the judges' elevator comes out. Get it,” he demanded.