Courthouse (8 page)

Lanza stared at George for a moment, letting it sink in. His mouth soured.

The Mayor was angry; he started to pace. “Jesus H. Christ!” His right fist came down into the palm of his left hand. “Is it the eighth floor again?”

“No. The third, fourth, seventh, and ninth,” George replied reluctantly. “Stein said they're wrecking the whole place.”

Lanza almost pushed his finger through the top of his desk as he pressed the button next to his phone. His secretary's voice answered over an intercom speaker.

“Get Commissioner Stein on the wire right away,” Lanza directed. “And hold everything else.”

“Four floors now,” the Mayor repeated, reeling from the blow. He absently reverted to a nervous habit usually repressed—he began repeatedly to rub the skin under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose.

The intercom buzzed, Lanza pushed the button on his desk and listened.

“Commissioner Stein isn't in his office,” the secretary's voice announced to the room. “He's gone to The Tombs personally.”

“Well, tell them to find him and have him call me immediately,” Lanza directed. “Immediately! He told you four floors, George?”

“That's what he said. They're wrecking four floors. I have no idea if they have hostages or what the hell's going on.”

“George, go into the goddamn Blue Room and tell the reporters what the hell's going on,” the Mayor directed painfully. “They'll know in a few minutes anyway. Tell them, under the circumstances, we'll have to check this out before we continue the conference.”

“Right, Mayor.” George turned and left hurriedly.

The Mayor slumped into the chair on which the secretary had been seated. He and Lanza looked at each other blankly for a moment.

“Goddamn it,” the Mayor shouted. He stood up so quickly that he knocked over the chair on which he had been seated.

“Take it easy, Scott,” said Lanza.

“Take it easy? Take it easy? The place is coming down around our ears, more each day, and you tell me to take it easy.” The Mayor paced two yards and turned back. “And it couldn't happen at a worse time. Westom, Wesson … just called about his campaign contribution.”

“Wescomb,” Lanza corrected.

“Wescomb, Wesson, whatever the hell it is. He just called. George spoke to him. Christ, we can't afford to have any more of this shit. Not now. Not with the campaign looming up. We have to keep Wesson on the bandwagon.”

George returned, closing the door behind him.

“What happened?” the Mayor asked.

“Half of them were gone already,” replied George. “The other half didn't even wait for me to finish speaking.”

“That's what I mean,” the Mayor turned to Lanza. “They'll have a field day on this. Especially people like that bastard Dworkin across the hall. With his law-and-order pitch, he'll have plenty of new ammunition to start throwing at the conservative home-owners in Queens and Brooklyn.”

“You want me to go over to The Tombs, Mayor?” asked George.

The Mayor thought, then nodded. “Since you worked out the settlement with the inmates on the eighth floor the other day, these bastards'll probably be looking for you to give you their goddamn demands too.”

“They'll probably have a few more by now,” added Lanza.

“Maybe they'll want two desserts,” George added lightly.

The Mayor was only half listening; he was apparently absorbed in something else. His face was stern, tinged with a look of hurt. “And after we gave them more contact and dialogue than inmates have received anywhere else in the country. I simply don't understand what the hell is wrong now.”

“Maybe the other floors just want to vent their spleen, have their say,” suggested Lanza. “From the information George got, the eighth floor hasn't even taken part in this one. They must be satisfied from Monday.”

“The rest of the inmates didn't imagine we were just going to take care of the eighth floor and not bother about the other floors, did they?” wondered the Mayor.

George shrugged. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“Not to me either,” agreed the Mayor. “But then neither does the whole blasted riot. But I tell you this, George, I want the whole damn problem cleared up, and I want it cleared up quick.” The Mayor speared the air with his index finger. “We can't afford this kind of image smeared all over the headlines. Not at this time.”

“It may not be as bad as all that,” consoled Lanza. The Mayor turned to him. “Remember the polls; there's a law-and-order wave that's sweeping the City, Lanza continued. “The people in Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island won't hold it against you that prisoners aren't getting filet mignon and two desserts in the jails.”

“But chaos and inefficiency …” George started to add.

“Chaos and inefficiency?” demanded the Mayor, whirling. “Where the hell did that come from? Chaos? Inefficiency?”

“That's what the prisoners were griping about the other day, Mayor,” George explained hastily. “No bail, no trials, just rotting in The Tombs for months on end before they get to court. And the courts are backlogged and log jammed, they say. That's what they emphasized most in their demands the other day. Speedier trials.”

“Is what they say true, George?” the Mayor asked. “Are the courts inefficient? Are those judges I appoint just sitting on their asses, doing nothing?” The Mayor walked across the room and turned Lanza's air conditioner higher. He gazed out at the trees hanging limp in the heat. “The other day when we swore in Broder, Brauder …”

“Bauer,” George suggested.

“What the hell's the difference?” the Mayor said impatiently. “You know who the hell I mean. When we swore him in everybody was making grand speeches about how well the courts are doing, how many cases they're moving. Are they all playing with themselves? And with me?”

“Not from the reports I get each week, Mayor,” George replied. “It's all been fine up to now.”

“Are you on top of this, George?” the Mayor asked pointedly. “I mean do you really keep on top of it? Do you really know what's going on?”

“Yes, Mayor, I am,” George said firmly. “There is a great backlog of cases, Mayor. But there are lots of, thousands more, arrests each year than the year before. We … the whole country,” he added quickly, “is in the midst of a crime wave. We just don't have enough courts, enough judges …”

“Enough money,” the Mayor added flatly. “If the Federal Government would only give us the additional money we need. That bastard in the White House. He's orchestrating the whole thing to make himself appear like Saint George coming to the rescue. We're the ones who have to cope with the riots. To the Government in Washington, this is merely an exercise in theory, in sociology. But to the people in the city, it's a crisis; it's a wave of terror sweeping down from the rooftops.” The Mayor obviously liked the tone of what he had just said. He searched for the next phrase, as if listening for a new sound. Tishler and Lanza just waited.

The buzzer on Lanza's desk sounded.

“I told you to hold everything,” Lanza said firmly as he touched the intercom button.

“The Tombs is on fire now,” the secretary's voice blurted out.

The Mayor's speech stuck in his throat as he was gesturing broadly. “On fire?” He turned, his arm still out in the air. “On fire? George, get your ass over there right now, and get the goddamn thing settled before we're on the front page of every newspaper and magazine in the country. Jesus H. Christ,” he said, pounding his palm again. “George, get the damn thing settled fast.”

“Yes, Mayor.” George started for the door.

“Wait a minute, George,” the Mayor called.

“Yes, Mayor?”

“When you get back here, George, I want you to start an investigation of those judges. The Tombs, the whole goddamn courthouse. I want you to shake our whole justice system by the neck until it cries uncle. Get the damn thing working properly, efficiently. I want records kept of everything. And I want it done quickly.”

“We already have records on every detail of operation, Mayor,” replied George.

“Well, then the record keepers are covering up for the judges, and the clerks, and the court officers. Something's got to be wrong, George. The records we get say everything is peachy, and meanwhile, obviously, the jails are busting at the seams and the cases aren't moving.”

“If I can make a suggestion, Mayor,” said Lanza.

The Mayor nodded.

“What we need is somebody over there that nobody would even suspect is working with us. Someone who could give us the real lowdown, the true picture.”

George nodded. “That's a possibility.”

“It's a good suggestion, Tony,” said the Mayor. “We need a spy. Somebody in the courthouse that no one will suspect. Somebody who can pass.”

“A court officer?” suggested George. “A clerk?”

“No,” said Lanza, shaking his head. “Their movements would be too confined. Officers and clerks have to stay in one place, one courtroom.”

They were each silent as they thought of possible spies.

“How about a lawyer,” suggested Lanza. “Someone who handles criminal cases, who's there every day, who can be all over the place and look normal, natural.”

“A criminal lawyer. Excellent,” agreed the Mayor, pointing an index finger at Lanza. “A criminal lawyer can go everywhere … into the courts, into the jails, into every phase of the criminal justice system. Who do we know?”

They each thought again silently.

“I know a tremendous criminal lawyer, Mayor,” said George. “A guy I went to law school with. I don't know if he'd be interested in the job.”

“Who is it?” asked the Mayor.

“A fellow named Marc Conte,” George replied. “He represents all kinds of criminals, rich ones, poor ones. And he must know his stuff. He represents some of the biggest organized-crime figures: Gianni Aquilino, Action Townes.”

“Christ, I tell you I want a lawyer that knows the criminal law, and you suggest one who represents notorious gangsters. For Christ's sake, he sounds like he's almost part of organized crime himself.”

“Not at all, Mayor,” replied George defensively. “He represents plenty of indigent defendants on court assignment. He represents the very sort of people who are involved in the riots. He knows the courts, the defendants, the whole thing.”

“But his connection with organized crime,” the Mayor said skeptically.

“Mayor, this guy's got the highest integrity. We've already had him checked out,” said George. “He came out clean.”

“When was that?” The Mayor sat again, crossing one leg over the other.

“When you wanted to appoint an Italian commissioner to replace Allan Weinberg in Markets,” said Tishler.

The Mayor looked up sharply, his legs uncrossing. “Don't even mention that bastard's name. Did he get sentenced yet?”

“Next week, Mayor,” replied George.

“All of them?” the Mayor inquired further, referring to Francis X McCarthy, a former Democratic congressman, and Eugene Scally, a reputed racketeer, both of whom, together with former Commissioner Weinberg, went on trial for bribery and conspiracy. All were convicted.

George nodded. “All of them.”

The Mayor's grave look began to ease.

“George is right,” agreed Lanza. “When you wanted an Italian commissioner, I remember interviewing him. Nice guy.”

“Who did the checking on this lawyer Marco Polo, or whatever the hell the name is, you just mentioned, George?” asked the Mayor.

“Marc Conte, Mayor,” George corrected. “Our police department checked him out. And so did the FBI.”

“And you remember this fellow?” the Mayor asked, turning to Lanza.

“Yes, Mayor. He came up clean, as I remember. He's apparently just a defense lawyer who does a good job, and some big-time people use him.”

“Why the hell didn't we appoint him then? We still need an Italian commissioner, an Italian judge, an Italian something. George Tucci's on my back about a goddamned Italian every time I see him at one of the political dinners. We have to appoint an Italian to something soon, Tony,” the Mayor urged. “Otherwise, we're going to blow the whole Italian community.”

“I know,” replied Lanza. “And Tucci is the man we need to carry Brooklyn.”

“So why the hell didn't we appoint this guy a commissioner, if he's so good then? We need Brooklyn to carry the city.”

“Remember, Matty Slavin in the Bronx recommended one of his men, Frank Deely, and we made a deal with Slavin in exchange for him going with us on the two Supreme Court judgeships at the Judicial Convention.”

“Right, right,” agreed the Mayor, remembering. “You think this lawyer of George's can help us out, Tony?”

“I think so, Mayor. From what we know, he's a good criminal lawyer. He really knows his way around the criminal courts.”

“Representing the people he does, I can imagine,” replied the Mayor. “Okay, George, let's bring this fellow in. And if he turns out okay, maybe we can appoint him a judge. He's Italian isn't … On fire!! Jesus H. Christ. We're standing here talking and The Tombs is on fire. George, what the hell is holding you?”

“I'm gone, Mayor,” George said, moving quickly out of the office.

“Tony,” the Mayor said, turning to Lanza. “Will you get me an Italian so I can make him something?”

“I'm looking, Mayor. I'm looking.”

The Mayor nodded. “Well, get one soon. Election is coming up and I don't want your
paisanos
saying I appointed an Italian just to get their vote.”

5

Thursday, August 10, 11:05
A.M.

Marc stood quietly at the counsel table, watching Judge Anthony T. Jennings of the Federal District Court for the Eastern District of New York (which includes and is located in Brooklyn), intermittently read from a report before him on the bench and extemporize as he addressed Pasquale Pellegrino, the defendant who stood next to Marc. Pellegrino was also known as Patsy The Crusher.