The court officer called out the next case. “Johnson, Nigel!”
Presently, a tall, thin black man wearing a white suit and dreadlocks was escorted into the courtroom through the side door, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been. An attorney rose and made his way toward the judge’s bench. If I had to guess, I’d say the gentleman standing before Judge Rosen was a Jamaican and the charge probably had something to do with drug trafficking or illegal immigration or both. The arraignment could take as long as fifteen minutes if there was an argument over bail. Meanwhile, Ferragamo could have pulled a really neat trick, and my client could be standing in front of another judge in Brooklyn Federal Court, offering his Rolex watch for bail. The courtroom was cool, but I was still sweating. Think, Sutter.
As I thought, I was aware that the door behind me had opened a few times, and I noticed that men and women were making their way to the front of the court and finding seats. I also noticed two men and one woman in the otherwise empty jury box. They were sketch artists, which I thought was unusual at an arraignment.
Sitting a few feet to my left was an attorney doing some paperwork on his briefcase. I leaned toward him and asked, “Have you been here long?”
He looked over at me. “Since nine.”
“Have you heard Frank Bellarosa’s case called?”
He shook his head. “No. Is he going to be arraigned here?”
“I don’t know. I’m representing him, but I’m not familiar with the Federal Courts. How would I find—”
“Quiet in the court!’’ bellowed the fat marshal, who probably saw me rather than heard me. These guys are power freaks, all full of themselves with their guns and badges and potbellies. I recalled that Mark Twain once observed, “If you want to see the dregs of humanity, go down to the jail and watch the changing of the guard.’’ I wish Uncle Walt had said that. Anyway, I settled back and considered my options.
The arraignment of the tall fellow had begun, and indeed it was a drug charge. The U.S. Attorney, the defense attorney, and Judge Rosen were conferring. Apparently, the defense attorney wasn’t getting his point across, because the judge was shaking her head and the U.S. Attorney, still in profile, seemed smug, and the defendant was staring at his feet. Presently, a guard came, and the defendant became the prisoner again.
She’s a bitch on bail.
Yes, indeed. If, in fact, Frank Bellarosa came before her, I could think of no reason in the world why she would set bail for him on a murder charge.
The longer I sat there, the more convinced I became that this whole thing had been stacked against me from the beginning. I was sure that my client was in Federal Court in Brooklyn right now. I could ask for a bail hearing, take an appeal, get a writ of habeas corpus, and try to get him sprung sometime in the near future. But that’s not what I was getting paid for, nor what he wanted. I got up, took my briefcase, and left.
I went to the holding cells located in a far corner of the third floor and checked with the U.S. Marshal who was in charge of the cells. But my client had disappeared as surely as if he had been swallowed into the Gulag.
I went to the public phone booths and called both my offices, but there was no message from my client. So, I sat there, contemplating my next move. Just then, the deputy marshal that I’d spoken to regarding the arraignments came up to me. He said, “Oh, I’m glad I found you, Counselor. Your guy, Bellarosa, is going to be arraigned at Brooklyn Federal Court.”
I stood up. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what I hear from my boss. Too bad. I wanted to see him.”
“I’ll get you his autograph,’’ I said as I raced toward the elevators. I rode down to the lobby, rushed out the doors, down the steps, and hailed a cab in Foley Square. I could be across the Brooklyn Bridge and in Federal Court in about twenty minutes. A taxi stopped and I opened the door, but as I was getting in, I happened to notice an NBC news van. Then it hit me. That group of people who had walked into the courtroom, and the three sketch artists in the jury box. “Damn it!’’ I left the taxi door open and raced back toward the courthouse. “That bastard! That bastard Ferragamo! What a conniving son of a bitch!’’ I took a deep breath and charged back up the steps—there were forty-six of them, and the five million dollars was getting heavier.
I passed through the metal detector again, smiled at Wyatt Earp, who gave me a surprised look as I walked in long strides toward the elevators. I watched Earp out of the corner of my eye until an elevator came. I got in and rode up to the third floor.
I went directly to Part One and pulled open the door to Judge Rosen’s courtroom in time to hear the court officer bellow, “Bellarosa, Frank!”
A murmur went up from the crowd, as they say, and people actually began to stand, then a few people moved into the aisle to get a better view, and I found myself pushing to get through.
The courtroom deputy was shouting, “Order in the court! Sit down! Sit down!”
Through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Bellarosa as he was escorted in through the side door.
As I made my way to the front, the courtroom deputy called out, “Is the attorney for Frank Bellarosa present?”
I reached the spectator rail and said, “Here!”
Bellarosa turned to me but did not smile, though he nodded to show he appreciated my resourcefulness in figuring out what had happened that morning. I actually felt very proud of myself despite the fact that what I was doing was not serving humanity or Western civilization in the least.
I passed through the gate in the spectator rail and put the briefcase on the defense table. I glanced at Judge Rosen, who registered no surprise that I was there, and I deduced that she was not part of the setup. But the Assistant U.S. Attorney seemed rather surprised, and she couldn’t hide it. She looked around the courtroom as if she expected someone to come to her assistance.
Judge Rosen said to me, “Counselor, have you entered your appearance in court?”
“No, Your Honor. I just now arrived.”
She looked at me, and I could tell she had seen me earlier. She shrugged. “Your name?”
“John Sutter.”
“Let the record show that the defendant is represented by counsel.’’ Judge Rosen then advised Frank Bellarosa of his right to remain silent and so forth. “Do you understand?’’ she asked him in a tone of voice that suggested she was unimpressed by his notoriety.
“Yes, Your Honor,’’ replied Bellarosa in a pleasant voice.
She looked down at the charge sheet that had been handed to her and scanned it for a minute, then read the charge of murder to Bellarosa and asked him, “Do you understand the charge against you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And have you seen a copy of the indictment?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge Rosen turned to me. “Have you been given a copy of the indictment, Mr. Sutter?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Judge Rosen looked at the Assistant U.S. Attorney and addressed her by name. “Miss Larkin, why hasn’t the accused or defense counsel seen a copy of the indictment?”
“I’m not sure why the accused hasn’t, Judge. But defense counsel was not present during the processing of the accused this morning.”
Judge Rosen said, “He’s here now. Give him a copy of the indictment.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I went to the prosecution table, and Miss Larkin handed me a thick sheaf of papers. I made eye contact with her, and she said, “Perhaps you’d like a few hours to read that. I have no objection to a second call on this arraignment.”
“I do.”
Judge Rosen said, “Mr. Sutter, will you waive your client’s right to a public reading of the indictment?”
I didn’t have to, of course, and I could have had the indictment read line by line for the next few hours. In the eighteenth century, when people had more time and indictments were handwritten and a lot shorter, part of the drama was the reading of the grand jury’s findings. But the fastest way to piss off Judge Rosen was to exercise any right that took more than two minutes of the court’s time. I said, therefore, “Though we have not had an opportunity to read the indictment, we waive a public reading of it.”
She inquired of me, “Have you seen the arrest warrant, Mr. Sutter?”
“I have.”
“And you have heard the charge read by me in open court?”
“We have.”
She nodded and looked at Frank Bellarosa. “How do you plead to the charge?”
“Not guilty!’’ he replied in a tone of voice that sounded almost aggrieved, as if a monumental injustice was being done.
Judge Rosen nodded, somewhat inattentively, I thought. Someday, someone would shout out to her, “Guilty as charged!’’ But she wouldn’t hear it, nor would it register. She then said to Bellarosa, “You also have the right to be released on a reasonable bail.”
That was true, but it wasn’t likely.
Judge Rosen looked at me and said, “However, in a case of murder, Mr. Sutter, I do not grant bail. Furthermore, under federal law in a case involving narcotics, which in a manner of speaking this case does, there is a presumption against the defendant. But I assume you want to say something to me which would overcome that presumption.”
“Yes, Your Honor. May I confer with my client for a moment?”
“If you wish.”
I leaned toward Bellarosa and said, “We were delayed.’’ I explained briefly.
He nodded and said, “They don’t play fair. See?’’ He added, “Hey, I heard of this judge. She’s a tough bitch. They made sure she was doing arraignments this morning. Understand?”
I regarded Judge Rosen a moment. She was a woman of about forty-five, young for a federal judge, and somewhat attractive, if you’re into stern-looking women. I didn’t think my boyish-charm routine would do me any good, unless she happened to get off on scolding boyish men. You have to play every angle. Judge Rosen looked at the Assistant U.S. Attorney and asked her, “Miss Larkin? Do you wish to say something?”
Miss Larkin replied, “Your Honor, in view of the presumption under the statute, the government requests that Frank Bellarosa be detained. However, if the court is inclined to hear arguments for bail, the government is entitled to and requests a three-day continuance for a bail hearing.”
“Why?”
“So that the government can gather evidence for the court to show why the accused should be detained.”
Judge Rosen said to me, “Is that all right with you, Mr. Sutter?”
“No, Your Honor. It isn’t.”
“Why not, Mr. Sutter?”
“I don’t see any reason for my client to sit in jail for three days. The government has been investigating this case since January. They know everything they’re going to know about my client already, and it’s not likely they are going to learn anything new in the next seventy-two hours.”
Judge Rosen nodded and said to Miss Larkin, “Request denied.”
Miss Larkin did not look happy. She said to Judge Rosen, “Well, then, Your Honor, the U.S. Attorney would most probably wish to be present for any discussion of bail.”
“Why?”
Miss Larkin replied, “Because of the . . . the seriousness of the charge and the notoriety of the accused.”
Judge Rosen looked at me. “Mr. Sutter? Would you like some time to confer with your client? We can schedule a bail hearing for this afternoon.”
I replied, “No, Your Honor. We have entered a plea of not guilty, and we request bail in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, which we are prepared to post right now.”
Judge Rosen’s eyebrows rose at that statement. She turned her attention back to Miss Larkin and said, “If Mr. Ferragamo wished to be here for this arraignment, he should be here now. The attorney for the accused has indicated that he wants to discuss bail at this time.’’ Judge Rosen added, “I assume you have read the indictment and are familiar with this case, Miss Larkin. I’m sure you can present the government’s arguments for detention.”
The subtext here was that it wasn’t necessary to bother the U.S. Attorney since no bail was going to be granted anyway, and let’s get on with it. But Miss Larkin, at a young age, had developed a nose for trouble, and she knew her limitations, which marked her as a potentially great attorney. She replied, “Your Honor, will you instruct the deputy to call Mr. Ferragamo’s office and pass on my request for his presence? In the meantime, we can proceed.”
Judge Rosen motioned to her courtroom deputy, who disappeared into the judge’s robing room to make the call. I wondered how fast Ferragamo could run in wing tips.
I looked into the courtroom and saw that the word had gotten out and the room was packed. In the jury box were the three sketch artists, scratching away at their pads now. I brushed my hair with my fingers.
Judge Rosen said to me, “Mr. Sutter, go ahead and present your argument for bail.”
“Yes, Your Honor.’’ You could literally hear ballpoint pens clicking in the courtroom behind me. Courtrooms don’t terrify me the way they do some lawyers. But in this case, I had some real anxieties, and the cause of those anxieties was not the audience or Miss Larkin or the judge, but my client, who wanted to be on his way in ten minutes.