I spoke in a normal conversational tone, but I sensed that I could be heard clear to the back of the silent court. I said, “Your Honor, first I want to bring to your attention the fact that my client had previous knowledge, through the newspapers, that the U.S. Attorney was presenting evidence of murder to a grand jury. He made no attempt to flee during that time. And furthermore, anticipating that an indictment might be handed down and an arrest warrant issued, he instructed me to remain available in that event. He, too, remained available for arrest, and in fact, when the arrest came at approximately eight
A
.
M
. this morning, I was with him and can attest to the fact that he made no attempt to flee or resist.’’ I added, “If the arresting officer, Mr. Mancuso, is here, he, too, can attest to that.”
Judge Rosen looked toward the side door, then out into the court. “Is Mr. Mancuso present?”
A voice called out from the side of the court. “Here, Your Honor.”
As Mr. Mancuso made his way through the standing-room-only crowd, I said to Bellarosa, “They tried to send me to Brooklyn. Your buddy Alphonse is a snake.”
He smiled. “Yeah, we shoulda known they’d pull some stunt. I never got to FBI headquarters neither. Mancuso gets this call on the radio, and next thing I know, we’re pulling up to the back of the courthouse. You see what I mean? Fucking Alphonse.”
Mancuso came through the rail and stood a few feet from us. Bellarosa said to me, loud enough for him to hear, “They wanted to get you over to FBI headquarters where they were going to jerk you around until this was over in court. But I dragged my ass through the booking. Fucked up six sets of prints.’’ He laughed and poked me in the ribs. “I knew you’d figure it out. You’re a smart guy. Hey, we leaving here together?”
“Maybe.”
Judge Rosen said, “Mr. Sutter? Do you need a moment?”
I turned back to the bench. “No, Your Honor.”
She said to Mr. Mancuso, “Please relate the circumstances of the defendant’s arrest.”
Mr. Mancuso did so, very precisely, professionally, and unemotionally, leaving out only the conversation that he and I had had regarding my midlife crisis.
Judge Rosen said to him, “What you’re saying, Mr. Mancuso, is that Mr. Bellarosa appeared to be expecting you, and he made no attempt to flee or resist arrest.”
“That is correct.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mancuso. Please remain in the court.”
“Yes, Your Honor.’’ Mancuso turned and looked at me, then at Bellarosa, but I could read nothing in his face but weariness.
He took a seat at the prosecution table.
Judge Rosen said to me, “It appears that the accused made no attempt to resist or flee. However, I am not going to grant bail based solely on that fact. Unless you can convince me otherwise, Mr. Sutter, and do so very quickly, I am going to order that the accused be taken to the Metropolitan Correction Center right now to await trial.”
We did not want that, did we? So I looked at Judge Rosen and said, “Your Honor, I also want to bring to your attention the fact that my client has never been convicted of a violent crime in any jurisdiction. He has, in fact, no history of violence.’’ Someone in the courtroom laughed. “Further, Your Honor, my client is a legitimate businessman whose—’’—I could actually hear some tittering behind me. People are so cynical these days—“whose absence from his companies would impose an undue hardship on him, would interfere with his livelihood, and with the livelihoods of people who depend on my client for employment—”
The laughing was becoming a little more overt now, and Judge Rosen, too, smiled, but then caught herself and banged her gavel. “Order!”
Miss Larkin, I noticed, was smiling also, and so was the court reporter, the two marshals, and the courtroom deputy. Only Frank and John were not smiling.
Judge Rosen motioned me to approach the bench, and I did. She leaned over and our faces were only inches apart. We could have kissed. She whispered to me. “Mr. Sutter, at your request, I let you say your piece, but this is really very silly, and you’re wasting my time and making a fool of yourself. Now, I understand the pressure you must be under to keep your client out of jail, but you can forget it. He can go to jail and await a more formal bail hearing where you may present more substantial evidence than your own characterization of him as a gentle man and a good citizen. I have a lot of arraignments before me today, Mr. Sutter, and I’d like to get moving on them.’’ She added, “A few days or weeks in jail won’t kill him.”
I looked her in the eye. “But it will. Your Honor, at least let me say what I have to say. Can we retire to your chambers?”
“No. Your client is not any different from anyone else who will come before me today.”
“But he
is
different, Judge. You know that and so do I. This courtroom is packed with newspeople, and they’re not here to report on the general state of the criminal justice system. They have, in fact, been tipped off by the U.S. Attorney’s office to be here at your court to see Frank Bellarosa led away in cuffs.’’ I added, “The press knew before even you or I knew that Frank Bellarosa would be in this courtroom.”
Judge Rosen nodded. “That may be true, Mr. Sutter. But it doesn’t change the charge or the general policy of refusing bail in cases of homicide.”
Still tête-à-tête, I whispered, “Your Honor, my client may or may not be involved in so-called organized crime. But if he is who the press alleges he is, you must be aware that no major figure such as Mr. Bellarosa has fled U.S. jurisdiction for many decades.”
“So what?’’ She looked at me a moment, then said, “Mr. Sutter, I sense that you are not a criminal lawyer and that you are not familiar with Federal Court. Correct?”
I nodded.
“Well, Mr. Sutter, this is another world, different, I’m sure, from the one you come from.”
You can say that again, lady.
But good Lord, do I really look and sound like some sort of Wall Street Wasp, or worse yet, a la-di-da society lawyer from Long Island? I said to Judge Rosen, “I’m here to see that justice is done. I may not know how things are usually done here, but I know that my client has a right under Constitutional law to have a fair bail hearing.”
“He does. Next week.”
“No, Judge. Now.”
Her eyebrows rose, and she was about to throw me out and put Bellarosa in the slammer, but as luck would have it, Miss Larkin interrupted. Obviously Miss Larkin didn’t like all this talk that she couldn’t hear, so she said, “Your Honor, may I speak?”
Judge Rosen looked at her. “All right.”
Miss Larkin came closer to the bench but spoke in a normal volume. “Judge, whether or not the accused came into custody peacefully is not relevant in determining bail when the charge is murder. Nor is this the time or place to consider other circumstances that defense counsel might wish to put before the court. The government has reason to believe that the accused committed murder, and is a danger to the community, and has the resources and ample reason to flee the country if released on bail.”
Judge Rosen, who had had enough of me a minute before, now felt obligated, I think, to give the defense the last word before she kicked me out. She looked at me. “Mr. Sutter?”
I glanced at Miss Larkin, who still reminded me of Carolyn. I had an urge to scold her but said instead to her, “Miss Larkin, the suggestion that my client is a danger to the community is ludicrous.’’ I turned to Judge Rosen and continued, loud enough now for everyone to hear, “Your Honor, this is a middle-aged man who has a home, a wife, three children, and no history of violence.’’ I couldn’t help but glance back at Mr. Mancuso, who made a funny face, sort of a wince as if I’d stepped on his foot. I continued, “Judge, I have here in this briefcase the names and addresses of all the companies that my client is associated with.’’ Well, maybe not
all
, but most. “I have here, also, my client’s passport, which I am prepared to surrender to the court. I have here also—”
Just then, the side door swung open, and in strode Alphonse Ferragamo, looking none too happy. Ferragamo was a tall, slender man with a hooked nose set between eyes that looked like tired oysters. He had thin, sandy hair and pale, thin lips that needed blood or lip rouge.
His presence caused a stir in the court because nearly everyone recognized him; such was his ability to keep his face before the public. Ferragamo had been called an Italian Tom Dewey, and it was no secret that he had his eye on either the governor’s mansion or, à la Tom Dewey, the bigger house in Washington. His major problem in running for elective office, I thought, was that he had a face that no one liked. But I guess no one wanted to tell him that.
Judge Rosen, of course, knew him and nodded to him but said to me, “Continue.”
So, I continued. “I have here, too, the ability to post a substantial bail, enough to—”
“Your Honor,’’ interrupted Alphonse Ferragamo, ignoring all court etiquette. “Your Honor, I can’t
believe
that the court would even
entertain
a discussion of bail in a case of willful and wanton
murder
, in a case of execution-style
murder
, a case of drug-related, underworld assassination.”
The jerk went on, describing the murder of Juan Carranza with more adjectives and adverbs than I thought anyone could muster for a single act. Also, he was into word stressing, which I find annoying in court, almost whiny.
Judge Rosen did not look real pleased with Alphonse Ferragamo charging into her court like—pardon the expression—gangbusters, and running off at the mouth. In fact, she said to Alphonse, “Mr. Ferragamo, a man’s liberty is at stake, and defense counsel has indicated that he wishes to present certain facts to the court which may influence the question of bail. Mr. Sutter was speaking as you entered.”
But Alphonse did not take the hint and put his mouth into gear again. Clearly, the man was agitated, and for whatever reason—justice or personal vendetta—Alphonse Ferragamo desperately wanted Frank Bellarosa in prison. Meanwhile, Miss Larkin, who in her own way had handled this open-and-shut case better by keeping her mouth mostly shut, sort of slipped off and sat beside Mr. Mancuso at the prosecutor’s table.
“Your Honor,’’ Ferragamo continued, “the accused is a notorious
gangster
, a man who the Justice Department believes is the head of the nation’s largest organized crime family, a man who we believe, through investigation and through the testimony of witnesses, has committed a drug-related
murder
.’’ In a monumental Freudian slip, Ferragamo added, “This is
not
a personal vendetta, this is
fact
,’’ leaving everyone wondering about personal vendettas.
Obviously, this guy hadn’t been in a courtroom for some time. I mean, I don’t do much court work either, but even I could do better than this clown. I listened as Mr. Ferragamo did everything in his power to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. I was tempted to interrupt a few times, but as that old Machiavellian Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “Never interrupt an enemy while he’s making a mistake.”
I glanced at Judge Rosen and saw that she was clearly and openly annoyed. But even a judge has to think twice before she tells a U.S. Attorney to shut up, and the more Ferragamo talked, the more time I felt I would be given to present my arguments.
The interesting thing about what Ferragamo was saying now was that it didn’t relate directly to the question of bail. Instead, Ferragamo was going on about Bellarosa’s alleged problems in the drug trade, especially in regard to Colombians and rival Mafia gangs. The man sounded as if he were holding a press conference. Actually, he was. Ferragamo informed everyone, “The heroin trade, which has been traditionally controlled by the
Cosa Nostra
, the
Mafia
, is now only a small part of the lucrative trade in illegal drugs. The Bellarosa
crime family
is seeking to muscle in on the cocaine and crack trade, and to do so, they must
eliminate
their rivals. Thus, the
murder
of Juan Carranza.”
Good Lord, Alphonse, why don’t you just paint a target on Bellarosa’s forehead and turn him loose in a Colombian neighborhood? I glanced at Frank and saw he was smiling enigmatically.
Judge Rosen coughed, then said, “Mr. Ferragamo, I think we understand that you believe the defendant has committed murder. That’s why he’s here. But pretrial incarceration is not a punishment, it is a precaution, and Mr. Bellarosa is innocent until proven guilty. I want you to tell me why you believe he will forfeit his bail and flee.”
Mr. Ferragamo thought about that a moment. Meanwhile, Frank Bellarosa just stood there, the object of all this attention but with no speaking part. I’ll give him credit for his demeanor though. He wasn’t sneering at Ferragamo, he wasn’t cocky or arrogant, nor did he seem deferential or crestfallen. He just stood there as if he had a Sony Walkman stuck in his ear, listening to
La Traviata
while waiting for a bus.
Rather than answer Judge Rosen’s direct question, Alphonse Ferragamo had some advice for her, and she clearly did not like his tone, but she understood the words. What he was saying in effect was this: “Listen, lady, if you let this guy go free on bail, public opinion (the press) will crucify you. If he flees the country, you might as well go with him.’’ And the final point, though not in these exact words, was this: “Judge, you have no reason whatsoever to stick your neck out. Just bang the goddamned gavel and have the prisoner taken to jail.’’