The Judge

by Steve Martini

  “Give ’em time.” I can imagine the feeding frenzy when the press gets a gander. They will cut a big piece of cheesecake for the front page.

  “Your name’s not in there for a reason,” says Lenore. “That’s the way we want to keep it. I hope you understand,” she says.

  A sober nod from the woman, though I can tell the thought of anonymity does not rest well.

  “We were just finishing up a little debriefing,” says Lenore. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind waiting in the outer office?”

  Whether I would or not, she is showing me to the door so that she can vacuum up the dirt for the criminal complaint her staff must draw up on Acosta. I could press an ear to the keyhole, but the secretaries might not like it.

  In ten minutes the cheeks of my nether-side are numb from the hard wooden bench where I sit nourishing hopes that Lenore might share something with me when she is finished, some tidbit of sleaze from the Coconut’s nighttime foraging. I can hear the undercurrent of buzzing voices in Lenore’s office, but nothing distinct. For entertainment I zone in on one-half of Kline’s conversation on the phone through his closed office door. I can tell he is dour, even with a partition between us, something on the order of a pin-striped statesman. His part of the dialogue consists of a few pointed questions. On the single occasion I had to deal with the man he used such an economy of words he bordered on the awkward.

  “Yes. As I said, I will look into it and get back to you. Um-hm. Um-hm. What’s your client’s name?” Silence, as if perhaps he were taking notes.

  “Any other offenses? Priors?” he says. There’s a longer pause. More notes.

  “I’m not going to promise anything, but I will talk to her. No, Ms. Goya works for me. I make the final decisions.”

  Clerical eyes are on me. One of the secretaries senses that I have my antennae up, feeding on what should be classified communications. She starts up the copier and I lose Kline’s voice. The woman is probably wasting a little county money, shooting some blank pages in the cause of confidence.

  A few seconds later the door that was the object of my interest opens, and out strolls Coleman Kline, trim in a thousand-dollar suit, linen cuffs, and gold links, his face a bit weathered. I am told that he sails on weekends on the bay. Even with a receding hairline he is a handsome man, a picture off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

  He’s holding a note in one hand, something scrawled on a yellow Post-it.

  The secretary is out of her chair and around the public counter, a mendicant’s pose, waiting for her master’s bidding. He hands her the note.

  “Get me the file on this.”

  She’s off at the speed of light.

  He catches a glimpse of me from the corner of one eye, utters hushed whispers over the counter to the receptionist seated at the phone bank, and inquires as to whether I am waiting for him. She assures him that I am not. Then he looks toward Lenore’s closed door.

  “Is Ms. Goya in with anyone?”

  “Ms. Hall.”

  There’s an imperious look. “I thought I left precise instructions that Ms. Hall was to be shown into my office as soon as she arrived.”

  “You were on the phone, and Ms. Goya said . . .”

  “I don’t care what Ms. Goya said. When I give an instruction, I expect it to be followed.”

  Demure looks from the receptionist, something on the order of a whipped dog.

  She sits there, eyes cast down, the picture of apology, but takes no initiative to cure this wrong.

  “Well, buzz her,” he says.

  “Ms. Goya?”

  “Yes, Ms. Goya. And tell her to send Ms. Hall into my office. Right now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Having been failed once, he now stands over her to ensure that his every word is now law. In the meantime the secretary is back.

  “The file you wanted.”

  “Yes. Where is it?”

  “It’s checked out to Ms. Goya.”

  Kline’s is a face filled with exasperation, all of it seemingly aimed at Lenore.

  I can hear the com-line ring in her office, her voice answers.

  “Mr. Kline wants to see Ms. Hall in his office.”

  Muted tones through Lenore’s door. She has no idea of the drama being played out here. She bids for a little time. She is nearly finished gathering the information she needs for the complaint.

  “He wants her right now.” Even with Kline standing over her, there is no regal ring to the receptionist’s words.

  “Give me that.” He snatches the phone from her hand.

  “I left instructions that when Ms. Hall arrived she was to be shown into my office. No one else was to talk to her.”

  Some hesitation, as if Lenore is trying to get a word in.

  “I don’t give a damn. Do you understand?”

  There is stone silence from Lenore’s office. Suddenly it dawns on him, there is no need for long distance. He pitches the phone at the secretary and heads for Goya’s office. Opening it, the only civil word is to Brittany Hall, whom he asks to wait in his office. She scurries between Kline and the frame of the door like a cat ahead of the snarling jaws of a dog. Kline then closes the door behind him.

  I can hear angry words, mostly deep and male. Then Lenore starts giving as good as she gets.

  “You have no right to use that tone of voice. I didn’t know you left instructions, or that they were carved in stone.” I have a mental image, Lenore standing behind her desk, hands on her hips.

  This sets off another salvo from Kline, assertions that she’s questioning his authority, undermining him with the staff.

  “The press is all over me demanding answers,” he says. “This is a very sensitive matter. Nothing for you to handle. A public official accused of a crime. I need to know what’s going on.”

  Lenore is arguing, telling him that public statements should be kept to a minimum, that there are nuances here, not the least of which may serve to alienate other judges who know Acosta. None of these could hear the case if Acosta goes to trial. Still it could raise havoc in a hundred other matters if the local bench sees the prosecutor’s office as sandbagging one of their own in the media. This is going in one ear and out the other with Kline.

  “You don’t think I know how to deal with the press?”

  “I didn’t say that. If you wanted a briefing I would have been happy—”

  “What I want is to talk to the witness myself. I’ll be handling this case,” he says.

  “Fine. Take the file,” she says.

  The door opens and Kline is standing there, a disheveled pile of papers peeking from the covers of a manila folder in his arms. His face is flushed as he sees me, now realizing that some stranger has heard all of this.

  Some afterthought, something to cover a loss of face. He spins in Lenore’s door.

  “I almost forgot,” he says. “The Bagdonovich thing. Straight probation. We can skip the time,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Straight-out probation.”

  “We talked. We discussed it yesterday and you agreed,” says Lenore.

  “I’ve just talked with his lawyer.”

  “What does that have to do with it? Was there something you didn’t know? Some fact I hadn’t explained?”

  “You don’t seem to understand who is in charge here. I don’t care to debate the issue. Just do it.”

  With this, he swings the door closed in her face, and looks toward Brittany Hall, who has planted herself near the reception station.

  “Ms. Hall.” He composes himself, pumping a little satisfaction into his face now that he’s stuck a final spike in Lenore. He straightens his tie and motions Hall toward his office.

  “May I call you Brittany?” he says.
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br />   She gives him a bright-eyed expression. I think she senses the presence of an Aladdin who, if she rubs his lamp the right way, may produce the genie with the cameras and lights. She is all curtsies and smiles as she heads for Kline’s office, like some starlet who’s just leapfrogged onto a higher couch.

  “What a prick.” Lenore is not known for mild manners when provoked.

  “Take it easy. It’s time this county had a D.A. for the criminal class. Like Washington’s mayor. It ought to be part of affirmative action.”

  She doesn’t laugh. We are doing coffee at the little espresso shop a half block from her office. My treat as I ply her.

  “I’ve seen ten-dollar hookers strike harder bargains,” she tells me. “He thinks this is the legislature. He likes to be lobbied. A good day at the office is people taking numbers outside his door. I tell the guy’s lawyer to screw off on the phone. You heard it. And he cuts the ground out from under me.”

  “That was Bagdonovich?”

  She nods.

  “And now he wants to do Acosta.”

  “His call,” I tell her.

  “Yeah. Right. It’s a headline case, and Kline wants to motor ahead of the media curve,” she says. “To hell with law and order. This is politics.”

  I come to the point. “Tell me the score on Acosta.”

  “You know what we know.” She gestures toward the paper.

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “I guess Tony gets a reprieve.” She laughs. The bright side.

  “For now anyway. His Highness is not holding court today. I called his clerk, and all appointments are canceled,” I tell her.

  Harry’s theory is that after getting all worked up only to be disappointed last night, Acosta is probably home polishing the family knob.

  “I’m sure he will bellow about entrapment,” I say.

  “The battle cry of every John,” she tells me. “But his lawyers will have a problem. Our lady was wired. The impetus for the crime sprang forth in all of its resplendent glory from the defendant’s own fly.”

  I look at her.

  “He took Igor out of the barn for a trot in the moonlight before they ever discussed stud fees. At least according to the witness,” she says.

  “This is on the tape?” I ask her. “His primordial urgings?”

  “What do you want, pictures?”

  “No, just assurances that the man is dead meat.”

  She looks at me.

  “Poor choice of words,” I say.

  “According to the witness. I haven’t heard the tape. The techs are working on it. Some problem. Something about audio quality. They’re trying to enhance it.”

  “And how good is your witness?”

  “She talks the queen’s English. No record. Nothing to impeach her. Hometown girl, born and bred. Good student. Wants to be a cop. Paid some political dues. Worked a few campaigns. Gofer stuff. Confined mostly to law-and-order gigs. She’s into straw boaters and pom-pom skirts. Her latest outing was on behalf of God’s gift to the criminally stupid.” She’s talking about Kline’s campaign.

  “Did he bring her into this?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Vice. It was their show all the way. If Kline had done it we’d have found the girl’s palm prints all over the perp’s pecker, and Acosta’s lawyer would be pitching it that she offered to pay him.”

  “How did they come to take the judge?” I ask. “Just random selection?”

  She knows what I’m asking. I am remembering Tony Arguillo’s final comment in my office; that cops know how to take care of their own. I am wondering if this particular blanket party was planned and executed by Gus Lano and the association for the city’s finest. It would be Lano’s style, his way to quash a subpoena.

  “You’ll never prove it,” she says.

  “Hey, do I look like the village ombudsman? Medals of honor all around as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Consider the subject,” she says. “Laws of probability. Sin enough times, you’re bound to go to hell.”

  “Pure chance. Random selection,” I say. My contribution to this orgy of agreement.

  “Do you think the good judge will try to cut some kind of a deal?”

  “Knowing the resolve in our office,” she says, “he’ll probably claim he thought that stiff thing was the turn indicator and get it all reduced to a moving violation.”

  I ignore this.

  “There’s not much he can step down to.” Soliciting for prostitution is only a misdemeanor, a citable offense in this state for which the perpetrator is ordinarily not even taken into custody. A citation is issued with a summons to appear, Vice’s own kind of speeding violation. Any other John would pay the thousand-dollar fine, do a little counseling on the mystical protection of latex, and go on with his life. The thought that sends little shivers in this case is that misdemeanor or not, it is a crime of moral turpitude. It is not the first time a judge in this state has been charged—and the usual course is removal from the bench.

  CHAPTER 4

  GUS LANO IS ABRASIVE AND A BULLY. IN CIRCUMSTANCES involving conflict he can be seen doing facial high fives with his own ego after scoring any point on an adversary. He is crude one moment, and smug and self-righteous the next, in the way that only overbearing middle-aged men can be. In a word, he would have made a wonderful trial lawyer.

  When Harry and I are finally ushered into Lano’s office it is almost five o’clock. We have been cooling our heels in his antechamber for nearly an hour. He is seated behind a large redwood burl desk, made of polished wood, with a galaxy of grains running in every direction—a star guide to the man’s personal ambitions.

  Hovering behind are two of his underlings, part of the shadow army of subordinates who follow him as if he were Moses, passing through the Red Sea on the way to labor’s promised land. These are people from the scorched-earth school of collective bargaining—slash-and-burn types who will go to any excess to achieve a purpose. Recently there have been rumblings from the underground. A group calling itself the OLA, “Officers Liberation Army,” a splinter of Lano’s forces, no doubt, has taken to publishing the private telephone numbers and addresses of captains and others who are part of police management, with maps to their homes. To Lano and his crowd the thought of a Gray Line tour of ex-cons with your private number and home address is just a little something to give you pause during bargaining sessions.

  One of Lano’s cohorts puffs on a cigarette, dripping ash like Vesuvius on Lano’s shoulder. He hands his boss papers and whispers in his ear as Harry and I sit biding our time, waiting to converse with labor’s guru.

  This is all done at public expense, since they are on the city payroll at all times, peace officers given time off to conduct union activities. They have interpreted this to mean full time. It seems those responsible for managing city finances lack the mettle to match Lano’s mendacity.

  “You’d think it was the council’s own goddamn money the way they hoard it,” says Lano. He is not speaking to anyone in particular, other than perhaps the God whose name he has just profaned.

  “Two percent cost of living, after a freeze last year, and they call it generous,” he says. He tugs a little on the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. Labor cannot be seen in suits. It is not done.

  He juggles scraps of paper with numbers on them. From their conversation it is evident that these are the latest figures from a marathon bargaining session that collapsed last evening, crushing the hopes of a state mediator.

  Harry is with me because I would not dare to venture here alone. He will vouch for what I say against Lano’s two attendants.

  I do not know if they have been called before the grand jury, or if so, what they may have said. But I will not have it claimed later that I attempted to tamper with witness
es. On this, Harry is my prover.

  “You represent Officer Arguillo,” says Lano. “I hope Tony’s getting his money’s worth. So what brings you here?”

  “The scene of the crime,” I tell him.

  I get big eyes looking at me from across the desk.

  “What crime?” he says.

  “I thought maybe you could tell me. Tony’s problems seemed to start with his involvement in the union.”

  “Problems? Somebody having problems?” He leans back, spinning in a slow arc in his chair, head tilted back against the rest, a lot of laughter and hearty bullshit between Lano and his two echoes. No problems they know of.

  “I’m unaware of any problem,” he says.

  “The grand jury,” I tell him.

  “Ah, that,” he says. “On hold.” He says it as if this has been arranged with all the difficulty of punching a button on his phone. Which is probably how he arranged it. Whether or not Lano is behind the Coconut’s latest legal misfortunes is not clear. But it is crystalline that he would have the world believe he is. The powers of illusion.

  “On hold maybe for the time being,” I tell him.

  “Yeah. While they scrape the judge off the wall.” This from Lano. There’s a lot of sniggering and slinking around by the two slugs behind him, moving and feinting like college jocks who just fed a ball for a slam dunk.

  “Wonder what he wears under his robes?” says one of them.

  Lano looks down at his own crotch. “Whoa, it shrunk.” A lot of laughter. There’s some dribble down Lano’s chin as his tongue searches to recover it.

  Harry and I could join in this frivolity, but it might be unseemly. Somehow to have a common enemy with Gus Lano makes me feel unclean.

  “How is it that Tony ended up doing the union’s books?” I ask him. “You guys couldn’t afford a CPA?”

  “Why pay when it’s free?” he says. “We trust Tony. Don’t we?” Looking up, a chorus of nods.

  “I’m sure,” I say. “And besides, that way it’s all in the family. No inconvenient audit trails, or messy reports.”

  The thought is not lost on Lano. He makes a face. “If you like. Tony did a real good job,” he says.