Gold Coast

by Nelson DeMille

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.

  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 im
pose 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.’’

  Judge Rosen did not seem happy with the lecture, but she did seem to grasp the import of it. Still, to irk Ferragamo, I think, she turned to me. “Mr. Sutter?”

  I began my counterattack, and that son of a bitch kept interrupting. I was scoring points, but clearly the home team started with lots of points. Bail proceedings, you understand, are not stacked in favor of the defendant as a trial by jury is, and it was all I could do just to keep Judge Rosen from banging the gavel and ending the whole thing. I mean, what was in it for her to listen to me tell her to make an insane decision that would jeopardize her career and lead to speculation that she was on the mob’s payroll or was sleeping with Italian gangsters? There was nothing in it for her except that she was ticked off at Ferragamo’s grandstanding, and in some deeper sense, she was not now fully convinced that Bellarosa was a bail risk. In short, she was interested in justice.