“So,” Joe chimed in, “you won’t have to go to Galena for your honeymoon.”
“I kind of wanted to see it,” I said.
“Who’s the judge?” Nuala asked.
“We won’t know till the end of the day. He or she will almost certainly have a hearing tomorrow morning and rule on the first two motions.”
“The media are busy covering their behinds,” Joe continued. “Elvira and Dale and even Dale’s boss are in deep doodoo. There’s a rumor around this place that Justice is going to ask Dale’s boss to resign. No one’s sorry about that. He was a dumb appointment in the first place.”
“Me sister Fionna is being fitted with her dress this afternoon,” Nuala said, changing the subject. “So we’ll have two women of honor in the sanctuary anyway.”
“She didn’t cross the berserker, I take it?” Cindy said with a wink.
“Not yet, anyway. I think she’s terrified of your man and himself having such a terrible temper, don’t you know?”
Just then Dale Quade strode by our table, looking neither to the right nor the left.
“Shush,” I said, “I think I hear Mother Superior’s rosary beads.”
On cue Nuala whispered her lullaby.
Quade tripped and almost fell on her face.
“You shouldn’t do that, Nuala Anne,” I said with notable lack of sincerity. “You’ll drive her round the bend altogether.”
“How will we know the difference, poor woman?”
“She’s destroyed herself,” Cindy said with some measure of sympathy. “She didn’t used to be a true believer. If she had moved to quash yesterday and maybe apologized to you, she’d have come out smelling like a rose. But that wouldn’t fit her tough image in the gossip columns of which she is so proud.”
“As more women become lawyers,” Joe added, “the macho litigator image we males love will fade. In the meantime some women will ruin their careers and maybe their lives as they try to pretend that they can be more macho than we are.”
“As if,” Nuala sniffed, “we were not the stronger gender all along.”
After lunch we went up to our house to discuss the final plans for remodeling with our designer. I was forbidden access to the bedroom, which was to be a “grand” surprise.
“Depends on whom I must share it with,” I protested.
For my troubles I was thumped, lovingly I admit, on my forearm.
At four-thirty we called Cindy’s office.
“It’s Rex Jackson,” she said hesitantly. “Problematic. New appointee. Honest as they come and supposed to be bright. Cautious, however, very cautious.”
“So?”
“So we are to be in his courtroom at 1:30 tomorrow afternoon. He’ll have all the documents first thing in the morning.”
“Bad news?” Nuala asked.
“Problematic news to quote herself.”
At supper the little bishop insisted that all matters were arranging themselves well.
His principle injunction to us was that we should fight on every possible occasion.
“There’ll be no problem about that, at all, at all,” I said. “We’re Irish and the Irish love to fight.”
“That is the myth about us, but I fear it is not true. We argue about unimportant things and cover up the important. We hide the things we don’t like, the offenses we think have been done to us, the violations that we resent, the habits that drive us crazy. We nurse them and treasure them and store them so that they fester. By the time we are forced to talk about them, it is usually too late to deal with them.”
Dead silence for a moment.
“Tis true,” Nuala admitted. “We reckon it is better to absorb something we don’t like than quarrel about it. Offer it up for the souls in Purgatory. Then forty years later we stick it to the one who has offended us. Sure, we never forget an insult, do we now?”
“Or an injury, real or imagined,” I agreed.
“I hardly think your marriage will fail,” the bishop said. “But arguably it will be much happier and richer if you don’t let the sun go down on your resentments.”
“No argument about it,” I said.
“Well, now, Dermot Michael,” my bride said with a vast and affectionate smile, “I’ve got a list here in my purse …”
In fact, she didn’t. Not yet anyway.
Judge Rex Jackson was a handsome African-American who looked like he might have been a cornerback in college. His square solid face was accented by a trim mustache. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, as though he was pondering every word.
“I have read the motions and the supporting documentation this morning,” he said softly. “I should like an opportunity to go over them again. However, I will address myself to the first motion this morning, that for the lifting of the restrictions on the movements of the defendant. Ms. Hurley, do you wish to add anything to what you have written?”
“Only, Your Honor, that the original bail was utterly inappropriate in the case of a man who has never had a traffic ticket and whose twenty-five years have been marked by exemplary probity of life. Moreover, he is no threat to the community, is certainly most unlikely under the present circumstances to flee this country to avoid trial; and his marriage and honeymoon ought not to be blighted by this restriction.”
“The marriage is when, Counselor?”
“Friday evening, Your Honor.”
“I see … Ms. United States Attorney?”
“Your Honor, defendant’s motion is simply outrageous. He is under a serious criminal indictment. That he has never had a traffic ticket proves nothing except that he has been very clever. Given the seriousness of the charges against him, he has every reason to want to flee to Costa Rica or even to Cuba.”
There was a gasp from the courtroom. The media folks could not believe their ears.
“Yes, I see. Well, I will rule now on this motion and, if you don’t mind coming back tomorrow morning, after I’ve had another chance to read the documentation, I will rule on the second motion. Ms. Hurley?”
“We’ll be here, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Quade?”
“We disagree, Your Honor. A matter this important cannot be decided in twenty-four hours.”
“It may be so important, Ms. Quade, that it must be decided in twenty-four hours. I will rule tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
La Quade struggled to control her temper. She looked like she might climb on a broomstick and fly around the courtroom.
“Now as to the first motion, I am going to free him to leave the jurisdiction. You will stay in touch with Ms. Hurley, won’t you, Mr. Coyne?”
Cindy nudged me.
“Answer the judge.”
“Yes, Your Honor, I certainly will.”
“excellent.”
Another nudge, this time from my bride. “Tell him thank you.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge smiled briefly.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Coyne.”
“Your Honor, I object …”
“Your objection is noted, Ms. Quade … Bailiff, what is the next matter before us?”
There was much hugging and kissing on our side of the courtroom.
“We’ve won,” Cindy exulted. “Now I can go home to the kids and my estate work.”
“She loved every second of this one, Dermot,” Joe said. “Don’t let her tell you any different.”
“What if he gave us something today and feels he has to balance it off tomorrow?” Nuala said. “Doesn’t he seem to be the kind of man who likes balance?”
The three of us turned to look at her. It was a very wise question from a very wise woman.
33
COLUMN NOTE
Despite what you hear, ace prosecutor Dale Quade has not yet lost the Dermot Coyne case. Informed sources at the Federal Building expect Judge Rex Jackson to refuse to dismiss charges against Coyne this morning. The fact that he lifted the ban limiting defendant Coyne to the
jurisdiction of the Court for the Northern District of Illinois yesterday but reserved his decision on the motion to dismiss suggests that he will balance his prodefense decision yesterday with a proprosecution decision today. Coyne will be able to go on his honeymoon with his immigrant bride but he will have to come back to face a trial or a plea bargain which will force him to do time in a Fed pen. We hear that such a threat does not make for a good honeymoon.
“Did you see that shite in the column?” Nuala demanded. “Is that woman here? I’ll scratch her eyes out! ‘Immigrant bride,’ indeed!”
“They never give up, do they?”
The courtroom was filled—media, families, curiosity seekers. My whole family was there, including a couple of nieces and nephews. Nuala’s clan was there too, save for Larry, who presumably had followed Gerry’s suggestion and returned to his wife and family.
Pedar and Podraig had both tentatively raised thumbs up to me as herself and I entered the courtroom. Desperate man that I was, I had grinned and returned the sign.
“You’re a berserker with a soft heart,” Nuala had whispered.
For this climactic event she was wearing a light green suit with dark green buttons and a V neck that ventured into décolletage. The young woman who had tried to be dowdy when she went to work at Arthur’s was now into being spectacular.
“You look fabulous,” I had told her.
“Thank you, Dermot Michael,” she said complacently.
I was worried. The nightmare had gone on for so long that I could not really believe that it would end and just in time for the rehearsal dinner. Even if our motion was denied, Cindy had assured me, the Justice Department would drop the prosecution as soon as it discreetly could. The case and indeed the whole Operation Full Platter had become an acute embarrassment to them. In my head I knew she was right. Yet I did not want to depart on my wedding trip with the mess hanging over our head.
End it, end it, end it, I pleaded with God and with all the angels who might be skipping around in the fringes of light that the Indian summer weather had slipped into the courtroom.
Promptly at 10:00 Judge Jackson entered the courtroom.
“I will rule this morning,” he began when we were all seated, “on defendant’s motion to dismiss charges. If there is any oral argument, I will hear it.”
“Your Honor,” Cindy began, “my client has been subjected to malicious prosecution by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the United States Attorney. The charges against him, which were spread widely by the media, were based entirely on a tape provided by an FBI informant who is an immunized witness. The tape was an obvious fraud, which the witness and his coconspirator admit, I might almost say cheerfully admit, in the affidavits I have submitted. Moreover, an analysis of the tape by professional experts has established that the voice on it was not that of my client. The United States Attorney, knowing the unreliability of her informant and hearing my client’s repeated denials, could easily have performed a similar analysis. Finally, given the fact that the charges against him were entirely dependent on a fraudulent tape and a discredited witness, the United States Attorney had and has no case. If she wishes to submit more evidence to a grand jury, she certainly is free to do so. First, however, she should have moved to quash this absurd and, if I may say so, dishonest indictment. My client is entitled to freedom from the fraud the United States Attorney has perpetrated. He is also within his rights to demand that this Court begin the process of restoring his reputation to him.”
“We are not hearing a case for malicious prosecution in this court, Ms. Hurley,” the judge said mildly.
“I do not intend to suggest that we are, Your Honor. Rather I am making a flat assertion. From beginning to end this disgraceful episode can only be called malicious, a blot on the American legal system.”
“I see … Ms. Quade?”
Mother Superior looked like she had just arrived on her broomstick, a woman about to explode. She turned her glowing eyes on me. Brr …
“Your Honor, I ask you first of all to instruct counsel for the defense to withdraw her charges of malice. Such words have no place in this courtroom and are clearly an appeal to the media.”
Judge Jackson’s face was unreadable, implacable.
“I will consider that request, Counselor. Please go on with your argument.”
“Your Honor, the Office of the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois has tried for the last several years to clean up the national disgrace in the commodity exchanges of Chicago. Our current investigation has uncovered evidence of massive and systematic fraud. We believe that we will be able to prove that the defendant has been an important part of this fraud. To dismiss the case against him without a trial will only encourage perpetrators of commodity fraud to continue to defraud innocent investors. We do not accept the defendant’s description of the tape as fraudulent. Nonetheless, we are convinced that we can present a case that will be persuasive to a jury without that evidence.”
“Then why did you not follow the procedure suggested by the defendant’s attorney and move to quash the present indictment and seek a new one?”
“We did not believe it necessary, Your Honor.”
Dale Quade was smiling, confident that she had won the argument. Once more she glared at me, now triumphant.
“I see. I fail to find any reference to any other evidence in the indictment as I read it.”
“Your Honor,” Quade said smoothly, “we believe that the terms of the indictment are sufficiently broad as to include the possibility of further evidence being produced. We do not accept the suggestion that the indictment as it stands relies entirely on the disputed tape.”
“I see,” the judge said softly.
The courtroom was silent. Everyone leaned forward. I felt my heart leap into my throat. Where were those damn angels?
“We win,” Nuala informed me.
“I have one more question, Ms. Quade?”
“Yes, Your Honor?” she said triumphantly.
“Do you have a conscience, Ms. Quade?” Judge Jackson asked softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you or anyone at the Office of the United States Attorney have a conscience?”
“Certainly we do, Your Honor.”
“I presume you would also claim that you have a sense of decency?”
“I fail to see the point of this line of questioning, Your Honor.”
Dale Quade looked stricken.
Nuala was right, as always.
“Do you believe that the goal of the American justice system is the gathering of scalps without proving the guilt of the one scalped?”
Through this catechesis, Judge Jackson’s voice remained soft and mild, as though we were discussing a matter over the lunch table.
“No, Your Honor,” she said stiffly, “I do not.”
“From beginning to end, Counselor, this case has been exactly what counsel for the defense said it was, a disgrace, one of which you and the United States Attorney and the Federal Bureau of Investigation ought to be thoroughly ashamed. I am going to notice you and the United States Attorney to the Illinois Review Board and to the Bar Association. Moreover, I am going to insist that a special prosecutor be appointed to consider the possibility that there has been criminal conspiracy in this case, a possibility that I consider to be highly likely. I want to remind you, Ms. Quade, that the desire to punish criminals does not permit a prosecuting attorney to make up the rules as she or he goes along.”
“Your Honor, I must …”
“I want to hear no more from you, Ms. Quade, in my courtroom … I grant the defendant’s motion and dismiss the charges against him.”
Cheers from the courtroom.
The judge banged his gavel once … All judges must bang their gavels.
“I have one more remark … Mr. Coyne …”
Both Cindy and Nuala nudged me. All three of us stood up.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“In this whole ugly affair you have behaved with dignity and grace. Your government framed you on a false charge, yet never once did you indulge in anger or self-pity. I congratulate you on your restraint and, in the name of the American justice system, I apologize to you. I hope that the charming young woman you will soon marry realizes what a superb gentleman you are.”
Two more nudges.
“Thank you, Your Honor … I’ll remind her often of your words.”
Laughter, cheers, hugs, kisses.
None of which did D. M. Coyne deserve any more than he did the judge’s words of praise. But one takes one’s rewards where one gets them, including soon in the marriage bed with me naked woman.
At her desk on the other side of the courtroom, Dale Quade, head buried in her hands, was sobbing. Her three toadies ignored her.
The Coynes and the McGrails swarmed around us, I shook hands with Pete and Pat, both of whom assured me with charming grins that I was a desperate man altogether. I hugged Nessa and Fionna and kissed them both.
As we were celebrating our victory, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Dale Quade, her face twisted with fury, rushing towards Nuala.
“Watch it, Nuala!” I cried.
She was watching it. A split second before Quade’s claws sank into her face, Nuala swung her right arm out as though she were brushing aside a drape or a curtain. The Assistant United States Attorney, wailing hysterically, flew backwards against a row of chairs and then collapsed into a fetal position.
Duck, Dermot Michael Coyne, when you see that right arm coming your way.
Cries of horror broke out in the courtroom. Judge Jackson rose from his bench in dismay.
Then my Nunu bent over the poor woman and began to croon softly to her. The melody, I would have bet every cent, to the lullaby which had been the pseudo curse.
“It’ll be all right now, Dale,” she said softly. “You just need a couple of good nights’ sleep and it will be all right. Come on now, stand up and we’ll take you off to the women’s room where we can put you back together again.”
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