Courthouse (7 page)

“May I note the defendant's condition for the record, Your Honor?” asked Marc.

“You may do as you wish,” said the Judge, without looking up.

“Is your back really bruised?” Marc whispered to Maricyk.

“It's all cut up like a son of a bitch,” Maricyk replied.

“Take off your shirt,” said Marc.

Maricyk looked at Marc, shrugged, then opened the cuff buttons on his shirt. He slid the shirt over his head without unbuttoning the front. His back bore several large, long welts that were very red and sore-looking.

A murmur and stir went through the courtroom.

“What are you doing, Counselor?” the Judge demanded with surprise. Judge Bauer watched Marc with fascination.

“Turn around,” Marc said to Maricyk. “Look at this man's back, Your Honor. I want to note for the record, in compliance with Your Honor's direction, several large, parallel bruises or welts starting at the defendant's left shoulder and sloping downward to the right about eighteen inches.”

The courtroom was silent. Judge Rathmore looked annoyed.

“The highest one,” Marc continued, “starts about three inches down from the top of the defendant's left shoulder, and the second is approximately three inches below that. The third three inches farther down, and the fourth near the waist. They seem to run in parallel lines at about thirty-degree angles from the horizontal. Am I correct in that, Your Honor, so that this record is exactly accurate?”

Judge Rathmore looked at Marc, then looked back to Maricyk resignedly. “There do appear to be some marks on the defendant's back. I don't know if they're bruises or what they are …”

“Or how they got there,” added the District Attorney.

“Or how they got there,” repeated the Judge. “However, you have indicated them accurately for the record, Counselor. Put your shirt back on, young man.” Judge Rathmore went back to the book, looking up over the edge of the book at Marc as Maricyk put his shirt back on.

“I wish further to note that the defendant's face bears a bruise beneath the left eye, on the cheekbone. It appears to be black and blue.”

“Your comments are on the record, Counselor,” Judge Rathmore said impatiently. “Now here is the section you referred to. It states that the hearing shall not be adjourned more than twenty-four hours without good cause shown by the District Attorney. Repeat the reason for this delay for the record, Mister District Attorney?”

“This is a serious case where the defendant is accused of attempted bribery of the policeman who is the arresting officer, Your Honor. And the defendant additionally faces a narcotics charge, miscellaneous traffic violations, and resisting arrest. This is a matter that rightly should be presented to a grand jury for indictment and the People are going to present this matter, if time permits, to the grand jury this afternoon,” said the District Attorney. He looked to the cop to be sure he knew enough to go directly upstairs to the indictment bureau. The cop nodded.

“I think that's sufficient cause for an adjournment,” announced Judge Rathmore. “I'm setting this down for August 16. That should give the People enough time to present this case to the grand jury. You know, Counselor, the People still have rights in courts these days. I think that too often the bleeding hearts and the newspapers forget that. It would be a total waste of time to conduct a hearing here when this matter may be presented to the grand jury today, at which time the defendant will have a hearing before that body.”

“The defendant will not be there nor will he be afforded the right to cross-examination or be faced with the witnesses against him,” Marc said.

“That's the law, Counselor. You're well versed in the law. You know that,” said Judge Rathmore. “I don't make them. I just enforce them. What's that?” the Judge said, turning toward the loud sound of sirens outside the courtroom.

During the last several minutes Marc had heard sirens. But these did not seem unusual in the court area. Now, the sirens seemed to surround the building, growing louder and more demanding.

“Officer,” said Judge Rathmore to one of his court officers. “Go out and see what that's all about.” The Judge turned back to Marc. “Now do you wish to be heard on bail, Counselor? The District Attorney has indicated that he has no objection to five thousand dollars bail being set.”

“Your Honor,” Marc said, undeterred by the stone wall this Judge had set up. “The defendant is a man who has never had any conflict with the law in the past. He has roots in the community. He resides with his wife in Manhattan, and has so resided for five years at the same address. There's no reason to believe that the defendant will not show up for the next court appearance. As a matter of fact the defendant is an ex-policeman …”

“He surely is an
ex
-policeman,” said the District Attorney acidly, “dismissed from the force.”

“Your Honor, whatever his difficulties with the Police Department, they were not criminal in nature, and since bail is only required to insure the defendant's appearance, rather than punish or cause preventive detention, I suggest that a more reasonable bail would be five hundred dollars bond or a hundred dollars cash bail.”

“These are serious charges,” said the Judge, “and the defendant has had disciplinary problems in the past. The fact that he was a policeman speaks poorly for the defendant. He should know better. However, I think that thirty-five hundred dollars bail will be sufficient to protect the people.” He smiled at Maricyk.

“Your Honor, may I respectfully suggest that the bail you just set is out of the financial reach of this defendant, he being merely á laborer—temporarily unemployed—without sufficient collateral to post with a bondsman. Even thirty-five hundred dollars is tantamount to no bail at all for this defendant.”

“Counselor, you're an eminent counsel in this court. You're high-priced. He's got enough to afford you. And to allegedly bribe policemen. Defendants who go around passing out money so liberally ought to be able to post bond. Remand him. Call the next case.” He turned away from Marc, shuffling some papers on his desk.

The crew cut led Maricyk back to the bull pen.

The court officer who had gone out to find out about the sirens came back into court. He had heard that a full-scale riot in The Tombs was in progress. He whispered the news to Charlie the bridge man. Charlie informed the Judges.

“There'll be a five-minute recess,” announced Judge Rathmore abruptly. He walked quickly off the bench. Judge Bauer followed. The audience moaned and started to shuffle out of the courtroom.

Marc saw Charlie giving him a covert sign, motioning Marc to the side of the counsel table. Everyone else had already left the well of the courtroom. As Marc walked toward Charlie, he reached into his pocket and put his hand over the two single dollar bills he had folded into a small square. Charlie feigned looking for something. He searched the top of the counsel table, then pulled out one of the drawers. He left the drawer open as he turned and began to look on the judge's dais. Marc, now standing next to the counsel table, dropped the bills into the drawer. Charlie turned, saw the bills, and nudged the drawer shut with his leg. He smiled.

“Thanks, Counselor,” said Charlie. “You sure broke old Rathy's balls.”

“Didn't do much good,” replied Marc.

Charlie shrugged. “Hey, you hear, there's a riot in The Tombs. The place is on fire and everything.”

“Is that what all the sirens are for?” asked Marc.

“Yeah, do you believe it? These guys complaining about the room service in The Tombs. What did they think they were going to get, the Waldorf?”

Marc turned and walked out of the courtroom. The noise and the hustle and all the varied people were still filling the corridor outside. A girl with long blond hair and wearing jeans came out of the courtroom. She stood in the corridor close to Marc, talking to several other young people. They had all been in the courtroom. The blonde looked at Marc and smiled. Her smile was wide and bright. She lit a cigarette, then walked toward him.

“You really laid it on that old man,” she said, reaching out to shake Marc's hand. Her hand was firm and vigorous.

“Thanks,” Marc said absently.

“I'm Andy Roberts,” the girl said. “You're one of the few lawyers who really gives it to those decadent judges.”

“You know a lot about lawyers?” Marc asked.

“My father's a lawyer. And with all the demonstrating we do and with the hassle that the pigs give us constantly, we get to court quite a lot. You're really tough.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I have your card?” she asked. “If I get in trouble, I'll call you.”

Marc took a card out of his wallet and handed it to the girl. She smiled her pleasant smile again. Marc smiled back. He and Mrs. Maricyk then made their way out to the main corridor.

4

Wednesday, August 9, 10:15
A.M.

George Tishler moved at a jog out of his small, partitioned office on the Mayor's side of City Hall. He was hustling on his suit jacket as he sped past the battery of secretaries. When he reached the main corridor, George turned so quickly that he slipped on the marble floor, almost losing his balance. He regained his footing halfway to his knees, then continued on rapidly. The plainclothes policeman on duty at the reception desk nearby was startled from his crossword puzzle.

“You okay, Mister Tishler?”

Tishler said nothing, other than uttering a mild epithet directed at the cobbler and the cow that supplied the new leather heels on his shoes. He slowed down as he reached the door of the Blue Room.

Ordinarily, George would have been inside the Blue Room right now, sitting beside Mayor Davies at the press conference called concerning Monday's Tombs riot. But just as the press conference began, George had to take a telephone call from one of the money men who were backing the Mayor's re-election campaign. The Mayor was starting to put together his major campaign strategies—although to the news media, he continued voicing indecision about running—and he wanted to be sure he had enough money in his war chest. Thus, the Mayor directed the call to George, thinking that it was more important for George to stoke the warm fire of good will for a possible fifty-thousand-dollar pledge than to be in the Blue Room for the start of the conference.

It was just that whim of fate which kept George at his desk to receive the emergency call from Corrections Commissioner Stein announcing the grand news that a new and bigger riot had just broken out in The Tombs.

George stopped just outside the door of the Blue Room, buttoned his jacket, straightened his tie, then walked in. Television camera crews filled a small elevated platform across the back of the large room called Blue because of the color of the draperies and rug. Camera lights had the room ablaze in stark blue-whiteness. Filling the chairs from the cameras to the front of the room were a mass of reporters and photographers. Facing all these news hounds from behind a desk, the Mayor was answering a question. A flash of a photographer's camera streaked across the Mayor's face.

“I have appointed a committee of top advisers in the corrections field, the criminal courts field, and all related fields having any bearing on our justice system,” the Mayor was saying as George walked toward the desk. “And I have given this committee
carte blanche
to investigate and report to me within the shortest possible time ways to improve even further this city's detention facilities, to speed trial waiting time, and to obtain more reasonable bail for indigent defendants …”

George moved quickly behind the long, carved desk. He slid into the empty seat directly next to the Mayor.

“… I expect to have answers and solutions to this problem almost immediately,” the Mayor continued. “So that we can avoid further unfortunate disorders as we experienced Monday at Manhattan House of Detention for Men.”

The Mayor glanced about the room to choose the next reporter to bat out a question.

George discreetly touched the Mayor's arm to gain his attention. “Mayor. Hold it up for a minute,” he whispered.

The Mayor half-turned toward George. If you were close up and looked carefully, you could see a look of condescending annoyance harden in the Mayor's eyes. The rest of his face, however, remained calm, relaxed.

“Mayor,” George Tishler whispered, leaning closer, “we've got another riot in The Tombs.”

Now the Mayor turned to Tishler, his eyes widening, searching George's.

George nodded affirmatively.

The Mayor leaned closer to George, wanting to screen out the reporters. “Another riot? How bad?” the Mayor whispered.

“Worse than Monday.”

The Mayor turned to the reporters and rose. “Gentlemen. Please excuse me for a moment. Something important has come up. I'll be right back.” The Mayor strode toward the door. George was right behind him. They left a room filled with murmuring.

“Who told you?” the Mayor demanded as they moved rapidly across the corridor and into the complex of offices used by the Mayor, the Deputy Mayor, and their covey of secretaries.

“Commissioner Stein just called,” George replied.

The Mayor shoved open the door to the Deputy Mayor's office. Deputy Mayor Anthony Lanza, seated at his desk, in shirt sleeves, his tie loose at his neck, was startled by the Mayor's abrupt entrance. He had been reading a letter, dictating notes to a secretary who sat in a chair opposite Lanza's desk.

“Excuse us, Marcy,” the Mayor commanded the secretary.

The secretary said nothing. She rose and left the room quickly.

“What the hell's the matter, Scott?” Lanza asked.

“Tell him,” the Mayor directed George.

“We've got another riot over in The Tombs,” George repeated. “Worse than Monday's.”