The Best Friend

by Adam Mitzner

  “Hey, Jack. I didn’t expect to get the head honcho on this. I was looking for the line ADA prosecuting the Zamora matter.”

  “You got him. I’m going to try this one personally.”

  The DA is a managerial job in most places, especially in larger counties. Even though Suffolk was far smaller than New York County, Ethan’s office had more than three hundred prosecutors. The fact that Ethan was taking the lead was akin to a general fighting on the front lines of a battle.

  “In that case, we’ll be talking to each other a lot in the coming weeks, because I’m going to be representing Mr. Zamora. You should know, he’s an old friend. We grew up together in Astoria. I was actually visiting his home when we were interrupted by LA’s finest executing a warrant to extradite him back to you. I’m waiting for his arraignment as we speak, but I thought I might jump-start the process by getting you on the phone to talk about his voluntary surrender.”

  “So no PC hearing out there?” Ethan sounded as surprised as Joan about my legal strategy.

  “Still thinking that through, but I’m amenable to waiving extradition for the right incentive,” I said. “I assume that if Mr. Zamora had been local, you would have asked him to turn himself in. So I’m requesting the same courtesy now, although because it requires a cross-country flight, it might take us forty-eight hours to get there.”

  Despite what I’d just said, I was certain that the East Hampton police would not have allowed Nicky to turn himself in on a murder charge. They would have arrested him wherever they found him and brought him back in handcuffs, the same way they were planning on doing from LA.

  “We can’t do that, Clint. Violent crime. Flight risk. You know the drill. It’s got to be by the book, and that means he’s got to be under our control for the transfer. That being said, I’m always interested in avoiding any delay in bringing someone back, and I’m certain that our LA cousins would prefer that they not have to do a dog and pony show to meet the PC standard. So what I can offer you is, if you waive extradition, we’ll do our damnedest to get before a judge within twenty-four hours of your client’s arrival.”

  He wasn’t offering much. The arraignment had to be within seventy-two hours in any case. “What about a bail recommendation?”

  “No can do on that either, I’m afraid. It’s a murder charge.”

  “It’s a spousal charge, and the guy’s pretty famous, which means he’s got nowhere to go.”

  This made it even more of a Hail Mary. No prosecutor was going to risk a murder defendant fleeing the jurisdiction. And pretty famous was just another way of saying very rich, which was another way of saying flight risk.

  “I’m sorry, Clint. That’s a nonstarter with us. You are, of course, free to make that argument to the judge during the arraignment.”

  “Jack, I gotta say, you’re not offering much inducement for my guy not to make you put your PC proof on out here.”

  “That’s your right under the Constitution,” Ethan replied.

  “Let me talk with my client. But I do appreciate you getting back to me so quickly on this.”

  “My pleasure, Clint. Always happy to help out a friend.”

  It wasn’t until another four hours had passed that the guard told us that they’d finally located Nicky. Joan and I were led through the facility’s corridors until we entered a small, windowless room that smelled dank. Inside were a round metal table and three wooden chairs.

  Ten minutes later, Nicky appeared. He was not shackled and wore the same clothing he’d been dressed in that morning. His expression told me that he’d had a difficult last several hours. His eyes were puffy, as if he’d been crying, his mouth in a resting frown.

  The first thing he said to me, even before acknowledging Joan’s presence was, “Clinton, I just can’t.”

  “I know you feel that way, Nicky. But you have to stay strong. Today is the worst day of the entire process. Everything gets better from here. I promise.”

  That was something I said to clients on the day of their arrest, but it was not always true. If they made bail, then things got better, of course. That is until conviction, which became the new worst day. Those who didn’t make bail had only worse days.

  “This is Joan Celebron,” I told him. “She’s the best criminal defense lawyer in LA and my colleague on another case. Because I’m not admitted in California, she’s going to make the presentation tomorrow.”

  Joan said, “Nicky—can I call you Nicky?”

  I said, “He goes by Nick if you haven’t known him since fourth grade.”

  “Glad I asked, then,” Joan said with a smile.

  Nicky didn’t reciprocate. There was nothing even remotely pleasant about the experience he was enduring.

  “So Nick, first thing is that I’m so very sorry that this has happened to you. Tomorrow, we’re going to appear before Judge Santiago. The purpose of that hearing is to determine if you will be sent back to New York to stand trial for the charges filed there.”

  “That’s definitely going to happen,” I chimed in. “It’s a constitutional matter. You were indicted in New York, so you have to stand trial in New York, even though you were arrested in California. That means that the real fight is going to be back in East Hampton. And the judge there—not the judge here—will decide on bail.”

  “So what’s the point of whatever’s going to happen tomorrow?” Nicky asked.

  “You can do one of two things at tomorrow’s hearing,” Joan said. “You can waive extradition, which means that they put you on the next plane to New York. Or you can fight it, in which case they schedule what is called a probable cause hearing. The hearing has to begin within ten days. It can last for one day or several. The purpose of the hearing is for a judge here to determine whether there is probable cause for the issuance of the arrest warrant. If there is, you’re extradited back to New York. If not, you go free. And I’m sorry to say that during that entire time the PC hearing is going on, you’re stuck in jail. There’s no possibility for bail.”

  “There’s no doubt that you’ll be extradited,” I said. “It’s the same standard that allows the police to arrest you in the first place. The choice we need to make is whether you agree to go back now voluntarily, or we make them do the PC hearing.”

  “It sounds like you think I should just go now,” he said.

  “I do. I’ve already spoken to the DA in Suffolk County. I know him. He promised me that if we waive extradition, we’ll get before a New York judge no more than twenty-four hours after you get there. At that court appearance we’ll be able to ask for bail. That means that if you waive extradition, with any luck, you’ll be out tomorrow night. The alternative is that Lost Hills is your home probably through the end of the month. Then, when you do come back to New York, as you inevitably will when we lose the PC hearing, you’ll be before a judge who might be pissed you fought extradition.”

  I could feel Joan’s disapproving stare. She would have made a different call. A PC hearing would have also earned her $100,000 in fees, and that kind of money can cloud your judgment. Joan knew better than to say anything, however. Every year I sent her clients worth five times that much.

  “If you both think that’s the right call,” Nicky said.

  “We do,” I replied before Joan could advance a contrary opinion.

  39.

  The following morning, Nicky entered the courtroom wearing an orange prison jumpsuit with Lost Hills stenciled on the back. He took his position at the defense counsel table between Joan and me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in court and not said anything, but this would be one of those occasions.

  The courtroom was full, of course. Press from every state in the union and enough foreign countries to hold a United Nations meeting. As was the California way, the hearing would be televised, which meant clips would play on the news this evening and forever on the internet.

  “All rise,” the court officer shouted. “The honorable William Santiago presiding. Com
e forward and ye shall be heard.”

  The judge strode in, and after he was comfortably seated, he instructed the rest of us to be seated. “So what’s it going to be, Ms. Celebron?”

  Joan came back to her feet. “Mr. Zamora waives his right to a probable cause hearing so that he may return to New York as soon as possible, where he will contest these erroneous charges and ultimately be exonerated.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Mr. Zamora is innocent of these charges, and he wants to be able to clear his name at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Wouldn’t that be here, though?”

  The judge was playing to the cameras, clearly enjoying himself despite the fact that a man’s life was at stake.

  “It is Mr. Zamora’s desire to be exonerated of these charges in the proper forum as soon as possible,” Joan said, for the third time. “There is no reason to delay that process by holding a hearing here. In fact, every day that Mr. Zamora is not permitted to have his day in court to contest these false charges is a day that he has been denied justice by being wrongly accused of murdering the wife that he loved.”

  Judge Santiago practically rolled his eyes. “Mr. Zamora, is it, in fact, your desire to waive extradition and return to New York to stand trial?”

  “Stand up,” I whispered to Nicky.

  Nicky came to his feet and said, “It is, Your Honor.”

  “And you have, I’m sure, been advised by your counsel that you have the right to demand that the People put on evidence in an open hearing in this court that there is probable cause for your arrest before you are extradited to New York.”

  “Yes, I understand that.”

  “And nonetheless, you freely choose to waive that right, as if probable cause has been established.”

  The question must have tripped Nicky up a bit because he didn’t immediately respond. After a beat, he said, “Yes.”

  “Finally, you make this waiver freely, and not because anyone has induced you or made any promises to you?”

  “Yes,” he said, with more conviction.

  “If there’s nothing from the People on this, I’m ready to send Mr. Zamora back east,” Judge Santiago said.

  The prosecutor, a woman in her thirties with dark hair, who hadn’t said a word thus far, said, “Nothing from the People, Your Honor.”

  The judge struck the gavel. “Godspeed, Mr. Zamora.”

  I booked myself on the next available flight, an afternoon plane that would land at JFK at 9:06 p.m.

  After we took off, I walked through the cabin to see if Nicky was on board. He wasn’t, so I settled back into my first-class seat, and on the theory that it was almost five o’clock in New York, I ordered a drink.

  More than five hours later, the pilot announced that we’d made up time in the air. We touched down at JFK at 8:55 p.m. It would be another two hours of travel for me to get home and then another three hours to drive out to East Hampton. I contemplated going home for the night and driving out in the morning but decided that it was better to get all the traveling over in one fell swoop. That way, when I woke up tomorrow, I could make the ten-minute trip to the police station to get the particulars about Nicky’s arraignment and be on hand in case it was held first thing in the morning.

  I called Ella from the taxi line to tell her that I was home and that Nicky had been arrested. She had already heard the news.

  “I read that some woman was his lawyer,” Ella said.

  “Joan Celebron?”

  “I think so.”

  “She’s a friend who practices in LA. She pinch-hit for the California appearance, but I’m going to be out front from now on. In fact, I’m going to go to East Hampton tonight. You and Gabriel are still invited to use the house this weekend and for as long as you want, but I wanted to tell you that you’ll have company.”

  “The ADA out in East Hampton must be loving you right now,” she said.

  Ella had extradited enough defendants to know that waiving the PC hearing is atypical.

  “The DA’s actually going to try the case himself,” I said, deflecting her comment. “Guy named Jack Ethan. You know him?”

  “Related to Benjamin Ethan over at Windsor Taft?”

  I remembered then that not only did Ella know Benjamin Ethan, she had also tried a big case against him only a year or two ago. “That’s right. You went up against him in that murder case.”

  Ella didn’t immediately respond, and I worried that I might have upset her by referencing that case. It was a tough one, and though I was proud of the way it had ended, Ella took some flak for it with the DA at the time. But there was another reason for her silence.

  “Dad . . . are you sure you want to do this?”

  I could have feigned confusion. Do what? But I knew what she meant, in all its many layers. Just as I had when her mother asked me nearly the same question in 1986. And as further evidence that some things never change, I answered my daughter the same way I had responded to Anne all those years ago.

  With a simple yes.

  But just like it had back then, my answer belied much more complicated emotions. Truth be told, I didn’t know if I was sure I wanted to do it so much as I felt as if I didn’t have any choice.

  After Ella and I said our goodbyes, I couldn’t help wondering what Anne would have said if she had been on the other end of the line instead of my daughter. Would she have approved of what I was about to do?

  40.

  The Suffolk County Criminal courthouse was located in Riverhead, a working-class town that served as the county seat. The town’s median income was approximately $50,000, which was about as much as the average monthly rent for a summer place in the Hampton villages that were also situated within the court’s jurisdiction.

  As soon as I arrived, I sought out the court officer. “Can I get some time to speak to my client before his case is called?”

  “Sorry,” he said, actually sounding apologetic. “Only the judge can grant that request.”

  That’s not the way it worked in Manhattan, but I knew pointing that out wasn’t going to get me an audience with my client any sooner. With little choice, I took a seat in the gallery to watch and wait.

  The arraignment judge was Louis Romatowski. He looked more like an old angler than a judge, with a ruddy complexion and full white beard. I knew nothing about him, but that didn’t matter. This would be his sole involvement in the case, and his one and only decision would be regarding bail. Whether he was an easy mark or the toughest SOB in the system, it wouldn’t alter my approach.

  Two other cases were called before Nicky’s, neither providing any insight into Judge Romatowski’s views on bail. They were both minor offenses, and the prosecutor was the first to suggest the defendants be released on their own recognizance. I knew that Nicky wouldn’t get such kid-glove treatment.

  Nicky entered the courtroom from the side entrance, which was reserved for inmates. He was now wearing the beige canvas prison jumpsuit, complete with the handcuff accessory.

  The clerk called out, “Counsel, please state your appearances.”

  “Assistant District Attorney Sandra Washington,” the woman who had handled the first two arraignments said.

  “F. Clinton Broden, New York City, for the defendant.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Broden,” Judge Romatowski said absentmindedly as he looked through a sheaf of papers, likely reviewing the indictment. When he looked up again, he caught my eye but didn’t say anything. Then he shifted his gaze to the ADA.

  “Well, you better start reading, Ms. Washington.”

  “Apologies, Your Honor,” I said quickly. “The defense waives reading of the indictment.”

  “Yeah, I was wondering if you were going to get around to that. We may not be big-city folks all the way out here in Riverhead, but we still don’t have time to read every indictment.”

  I acknowledged the joke at my expense with a smile.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, now would also be an idea
l time for you to share with me how your client pleads.”

  “Not guilty,” Nicky said.

  “Nice to hear from you, Mr. Zamora,” Judge Romatowski said. “Ms. Washington, on bail?”

  As her boss had told me she would, Washington asked for remand. She referenced all the usual prosecutorial babble—the violent nature of the crime, Nicky’s wealth, his lack of ties to the community, the long prison term he was facing, his age. She was also quick to point out that Nicky had been accused of murdering his first wife and therefore might well be a threat to the community if let free.

  I had little to offer by way of counterargument, other than to point out that Nicky was acquitted of murdering his first wife and therefore now had the utmost faith in the jury system.

  “He is confident that he will be exonerated,” I said, “which is why he will definitely appear at trial, just as he did when he was previously falsely accused.”

  “A lot has changed since the last time, Mr. Broden,” Judge Romatowski said. “For one thing, my understanding is that back then, Mr. Zamora lived in the community, he didn’t have any money, and his parents posted their home and business for bail. But now he’s a rich author, without family to leave behind holding the bag. I figure he could skip now and not much miss whatever he was leaving behind.”

  Judge Romatowski had done his homework. I suggested the only thing I thought might keep Nicky out of jail pending trial.

  “Your Honor, allow me to propose that Mr. Zamora be held under house arrest. It’ll be at his own expense, therefore freeing up tax dollars for the community. He’ll agree to whatever restrictions the court sees fit to ensure his appearance at trial.”

  I expected a flat rejection. Instead Judge Romatowski said, “Not in California.”

  That was enough of an opening. “He could live in Suffolk County,” I said. “I have a home here, and I would be more than happy to house Mr. Zamora pending trial.”

  Judge Romatowski laughed. “This is a first for me. I’ve had lawyers vouch for their clients, but none ever agreed to live with them. I’m not sure if you’re the most zealous advocate I’ve ever met or the stupidest, Mr. Broden.” He laughed again.