The Bait

by Dorothy Uhnak

  The uniformed clerical man lifted his head from the large sheet of paper he was charting, nodded without comment, and continued his work.

  Christie held up her shield. “I’m P.D., Lieutenant. D.A.’s Squad. Prisoner is an 1140. I took him off a train and this officer from Transit is assisting me.”

  “An 1140? Off a subway train? And you’re D.A.’s Squad?” The lieutenant’s voice was loud in contrast to her own.

  “Yes sir,” Christie said shortly. “I was heading for an assignment and came across this man. Can we bring him up to Detectives now?”

  The lieutenant waved in the direction of the iron staircase and Christie signaled for the young officer to follow her with the prisoner.

  Transit Patrolman Alexander looked ą little upset. He was seeing for the first time the translation of the crisp, cold official words of police procedure into reality and he was groping. “He gets printed, doesn’t he?” he asked Christie.

  She nodded, then stopped in the dampish, musty hallway. Ptl. Alexander was trying very hard. “Look,” she explained, “remember Section 552 of the Code of Criminal Procedure?”

  Ptl. Alexander tried to remember. “Code of Criminal Procedure ... 552 covers certain misdemeanors and offenses.”

  “Section 552 of the Code of Criminal Procedure is probably one of the most important sections you’re going to deal with.” She tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “It covers various misdemeanors and offenses that require the fingerprinting and photographing of a prisoner, remember?”

  Ptl. Alexander brightened. “Yes. Included are jostling, certain forms of disorderly conduct, possession of certain drugs not covered by narcotics laws, indecent exposure and ...”

  “I know what’s included,” Christie said. “The main point for you to remember is that although 1140 of the Penal Law is an offense, the prisoner is processed exactly as though it were a felony. He is printed, photoed and arraigned in Felony Court.”

  The young officer nodded. He remembered now.

  The detective from the squad neatly and expertly rolled Rogoff’s fingers on the ink pad, then carefully transferred them to the official Criminal Identification form. “You know how to back them up, don’t you, Transit?”

  The patrolman nodded uncertainly and Christie took the sheets of fingerprints to the typewriter, while the detective led Rogoff off to the men’s room, to wash his hands. Filling in the required information; name, description, address, scars, characteristics, Christie was unaware of the sensation Rogoff was creating among a newly arrived group of detectives from the precinct. Unrolling the pedigree sheet from the machine, she looked up curiously, getting a good look at her prisoner for the first time. He was rubbing his wet fingers along the seams of his trousers.

  His face was large and expressionless, the broad bony structure clearly outlined beneath the taut stretch of yellow skin. His eyes blinked incessantly beneath the unusual glasses, appearing to see no further than the smudged limits of the lenses themselves. Though he responded to the orders and requests of the detectives who were studying him, he did not speak or seem to be aware of his surroundings. As he turned toward her, she noticed a bulge of heavy bone at the top of his forehead, then as his head moved toward the sound of his name, Christie observed that the mass of bone flattened out at the base of his skull. His head was like a piece of sculpture roughly shaped by an artist who had abandoned his work without polishing it into a finished symmetry.

  “Jesus, not a hair on him,” one detective said. “Any hair on your body, mister?”

  The naked head swung back and forth. Rogoff removed his glasses, letting them examine his lashless eyes, then, wiping the lenses against his dirty shirt, he wedged them on again and jammed his cap over his skull. His ears were bent by the pressure.

  “You’re entitled to a phone call, buddy. Who do you want to call? You just tell me, and I’ll make the call for you.”

  Rogoff shrugged, his long, powerful arms falling on either side of the wooden chair where he sat, slumped to one side. The detective pulled up a chair beside him, his voice patient, and he began moving his hands, as though speaking to one who didn’t understand English. “Here’s a piece of paper and a pencil. You write down who you want to be notified and the phone number. That’s right.” Then, examining the words on the paper, the detective asked, “David Rogoff, huh? That your father? No? Your brother, huh? Okay, Murray, I’ll give him a call and tell him you’ll be arraigned in Felony Court.”

  The detective stopped beside Christie. “He’s a real beaut. He give you any trouble?”

  “Not a sound out of him. As you see him, that’s how he’s been.”

  The detective turned and regarded Rogoff across the room. “You’re pretty lucky, kid. That’s some powerful guy.” Then, pulling at his mouth, “You were crazy to take him alone.”

  “Crazier than you know,” Christie said. Rogoff’s arms, hanging limply, were long and hard and tautly muscled, the fingers long and thick, the wrists powerful. It was the complete hairlessness that made his body look so dangerous: like some indestructible living stone. If there was anything to be grateful for in all of this, it was that Rogoff had been so submissive. For an instant, it flashed through Christie that it might have been better if he had resisted. At least, if she had a bloody nose or a black eye, she might get some sympathy from Reardon and the men in the Squad. But looking again at those powerful hands and arms and wide shoulders and strange, hoodlike head, Christie dismissed the thought.

  They waited at the precinct for over an hour before a patrol wagon picked them up. “You ride in the back with him, Patrolman Alexander. I’ll be up front with the driver. First stop is the Photo Gallery. One of the squad detectives dropped the prints at the B.C.I., so if Rogoff has a yellow sheet, it will be in the complaint room at Felony Court by the time we get there—I hope.”

  Transit Patrolman George Alexander nodded solemnly. There was a marked change in him now: he was responsible for Rogoff.

  Gripping his prisoner firmly, Ptl. Alexander emerged from the rear of the patrol wagon, his eyes searching for the entrance to the Photo Gallery, located in the basement of Police Headquarters. Following Christie, he escorted Rogoff into the confusion of the room where prisoners from all over the city were milling about, each one individually guarded and watched in varying degrees of intensity by the particular arresting officer. The photographer waved Alexander away from Rogoff, who had been placed, face-front, small name-board and identification number strung around his neck.

  “C’mon, Transit, move it,” the detective-photographer yelled. “You want to be mugged too?”

  “Gee-zus, look at the light bounce off that guy’s skull. He’s a weird one, ain’t he, with those glasses?” A runty little prisoner with tiny rat’s eyes nudged the lanky detective who had arrested him for attempted robbery. “How’d you like to meet him in the dark?”

  Christie checked her watch against the wall clock. It was nearly 11:30. Someone grabbed her wrist, holding her hand over her head.

  “Hey, who belongs to this? Who you with, sister?”

  Wrenching her hand free, Christie glared at the detective. “I’m with my prisoner, brother, do you mind?”

  The detective grinned good-naturedly. “Can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore.”

  They waited another twenty minutes for the patrol wagon to fill with prisoners heading for Criminal Courts Building. Seeing the fleeting panic on his face as Alexander emerged once again from the patrol wagon, Christie impatiently explained, “Follow the parade to the Detention section. You sign him in and then Correction has him. Then ask somebody, or just follow the cops up to the Complaint Room. I’ll be up there getting the complaint drawn up.”

  The young officer moved resolutely into the crowd. There was a long line in the Complaint Room and Christie looked around rapidly, spotting a familiar form on line amidst the many uniformed and plainclothes police officers, and the bewilderment of frightening complainant victim
s. Crashing through the milling confusion, Christie came alongside her target.

  “Excuse me, mister, could you help out a poor girl who’s lost?”

  The large head turned, a suspicious scowl pulling all the blunt features. “What?” The eyes, narrowed, recognized her and all the features of his face, everything—mouth, brows, cheeks—turned upward. “Well, I’ll be damned! Christie Opara. My God,” he said, looking her up and down, “things that tough in the D.A.’s Squad?”

  “Guess I wouldn’t pass muster back home at BOSSI, huh?”

  “Well, we never had you down that low, kid. The Squad Commander wouldn’t let you pass the door in that get-up.” The warm brown eyes rested on hers, and the heavy neck leaned to Christie’s face. “What you got, Chris—something special?”

  Making a face, Christie muttered, “1140.”

  Jack Maxwell raised all his features in surprise. “You’re kidding—1140? D.A.’s Squad? They send you out on that stuff?”

  “No, just something I ran into. Look, Jack, I’m in a jam; very long story, very short on time. Can I crowd you out, Jack, old friend, old former teammate. Please?”

  Detective Maxwell stepped back, forcing the line in back of him to stagger a little more. He ignored the hard glares he was getting from two officers directly behind him and he called out to no one in particular, “You guys don’t mind, do you? We’ll help the little lady out.” Then leaning forward again, “How’s things over there, Christie? I hear Reardon’s still going full-steam ahead. What kind of boss is he?”

  Christie forced a smile. “Okay. He’s okay. But I do get a little homesick. Say, Jack, keep an eye out for a young Transit cop, will you? He gave me an assist and I’m trying to show him the ropes. First time out for him.”

  “Transit? You training Transit cops now? That what they got you doing?” Jack spotted the tall, clean-cut young officer. “Holy mackerel, he looks twelve years old.”

  “He’s thirteen,” Christie said. “Hey, George, over here.”

  Relieved of his prisoner, Patrolman Alexander looked around the room with interest, “Wow, lot of action, huh? This go on every day?”

  “Every day and every night, Saturdays, Sundays and holidays included. Patrolman Alexander, meet Detective Maxwell, Bureau of Special Services.”

  The policeman, boyishly unguarded, shook hands with Jack. “Special Services? BOSSI? Wow!”

  Jack shook his head wearily. “‘Wow,’” he repeated softly, then to Christie, “It’s a sign of advancing age when you look at a kid like this and he’s in a policeman’s uniform. How old are you, son?”

  Patrolman Alexander’s chin raised slightly and his lips tightened. He pulled his hand from Maxwell’s grasp. “Old enough.”

  Maxwell studied the smooth young face with something close to sympathy. His expression was thoughtful, remembering some other time, some other young cop. “Relax, officer, you’re among friends,” he said, not unkindly.

  “Come on, George, watch how it’s done.” She leaned over the high counter, recited her information to the bored clerk who punched the keys of the typewriter, handed Christie the affidavit and the yellow sheet which one of the detectives had dropped off for her. “No previous,” she said. “Just our arrest. Jack, see you around, and thanks again.”

  “Take care, Christie; you too, Junior.”

  “Now,” Christie told Patrolman Alexander, “go back to Detention, show the affidavit to the Corrections man, get Rogoff and meet me up in Felony Court. Follow the signs or ask someone; I’ll meet you right by the detention pen in the front of the court.”

  Christie went into the ladies’ room, ran cold water over her wrists, splashed her face and swallowed a mouthful of water from her cupped hands. Patting her face with tissues, she wrinkled her nose at her reflection in the mirror. She pulled a comb through her thick hair, trying to soften the straight disheveled bangs. With a tissue, she wiped the pale eye-shadow from her lids, then dug again into the shoulder bag, finding a turquoise shadow stick. Christie rubbed her finger on the makeup, then slid some color onto each lid. That looked a little better. The only lipstick she could find was a medium pink: at least, it was a little deeper than her colorless lips. Tugging at the jersey turtleneck, she craned her neck, then decided she had to make the best of things. Christie looped the shoulder bag over her arm and absently reached for her textbooks, which weren’t there. She stood motionless for a moment: damn. She had lost two textbooks and one spiral notebook somewhere along the way.

  She walked down the wide, high-ceilinged marble-walled corridor, pulled the heavy oak door and entered the cathedral-like courtroom where felony cases and certain misdemeanor cases were arraigned. Walking silently on the sneakers, Christie felt the familiar sensation that always overtook her when she entered this place. It was like being in a church or in a museum or in some sacred, ancient tomb. The ceiling was two stories high; the windows began midway up the side of one wall and extended almost to the ceiling, letting in long narrow slashes of dust-filled light. The chandeliers, massive and systematically ranged across the ceiling, glowed with a dim tanness which did not penetrate the semi-darkness. The benches filling the room were of a smooth, polished wood. Over all the whispered, worried, earnest conversations taking place throughout the room, a heavy layer of silence seemed to press downward like a lid over the bowed heads and cupped mouths.

  Avoiding the center aisle, Christine walked close to the right wall, feeling invisible. No one noticed her or was interested in her; everyone here had his own concerns. Court Attendant Tommy Kalman spotted Christine at the same moment she saw him, raising her hand to attract his attention. He motioned her forward inside the gate which separated the long rows of benches from the area reserved for officers of the court, police officers, attorneys and prisoners. Immediately behind this section was the high, long desk where the Magistrate, robed in black, was presiding.

  “Hey, Christie, come on. I got your docket number moved up.” Noting her surprise, he added, “Stoner Martin called me. Seems like Reardon wants you out fast.”

  “Thanks, Tommy. My prisoner is with a young Transit cop. Has he come up yet?” Then, seeing Alexander resolutely hanging onto Rogoff’s arm, she nodded toward the detention cage. “There he is.”

  Kalman ushered the Transit officer and Rogoff into the courtroom, clanging the cage door behind him. Alexander glanced back at the meshed-steel cage which protruded into the courtroom, set over a stairway leading to the detention cells. The prisoners, lining the stairway, awaiting their appearance in court, were craning their necks in hope of spotting someone—wife, friend, attorney—anyone, within the courtroom.

  “Take your cap off, mister. Judge sees that and he’ll flip.” Kalman regarded Rogoff’s odd skull without expression of any kind. There was nothing that Tommy Kalman hadn’t seen before. There was nothing, no person, no deed, no crime, no event, no deformity, no beauty, nothing that would ever register on Kalman’s placid features.

  Christie kept her eyes on Kalman, watching him move easily among the people milling before the Magistrate’s bench: speaking quickly with the court clerk, indicating her, handing him the affidavits, crossing to the Assistant District Attorney, standing on his toes, speaking up to the Magistrate, then signaling for Christie to approach.

  “Let’s go,” she said softly to the Transit Patrolman who moved forward with Rogoff. “Stand to his left and slightly behind him,” she instructed.

  The young A.D.A. raised his face from the affidavit. “You the arresting officer?” She nodded and he lifted his face questioningly toward Alexander. “He assisted,” she explained.

  The court clerk rapidly read the complaint in a monotone of mumbling and Christie, holding up her right hand, answered, “I do” when asked to swear to the truth of the words. So indistinguishable had his reading been—it always was—she could be swearing to the fact that she was a spy from another planet.

  Rogoff, head down, seemed unaware that any words had been directed to him.
The D.A. repeated, “Mister, the judge wants to know if you want Legal Aide assigned.” Rogoff regarded him blankly. “Can you afford an attorney? If you can’t, the court will appoint Legal Aide.” Rogoff blinked rapidly but remained silent. The D.A. turned impatiently to Christie. “What’s the story here—he psycho or what?”

  “He hasn’t opened his mouth since we arrested him.”

  The magistrate leaned forward, his horn-rimmed glasses resting on his forehead. “Did he have any identification on him, officer? And has anyone been notified of his arrest?”

  “Yes, sir, he had identification. A call was made to his brother, your Honor.”

  The magistrate slid his glasses over his eyes, addressing the D.A. “What is your pleasure, Mr. Martinelli?”

  The D.A. consulted his calendar pad. “One thousand dollars bail, your Honor—to adjourn to May tenth—that okay with you, officer?”

  Christie nodded. “Wait a minute,” she whispered to Patrolman Alexander. “Stand over there, I’ll get the commitment papers.” She took the papers, which the magistrate had signed, from Tommy Kalman and thanked him for saving her a few hours’ waiting time. “Here, George, bring him back down to Detention, give these to the Correction officer, sign him in and you’re on your way.”

  Alexander seemed a little nervous again. “Look,” she said, glancing at the large round clock embedded high in the wall at the back of the courtroom, “that’s all there is to it. You won’t be called on the case. It’s adjourned back to this court for the twelfth. Then he’ll probably waive to Special Sessions for a plea. He’ll probably get bailed out later in the day when his brother, or whoever, shows. When the case is disposed of, I’ll call your command with the details, okay?”

  “Okay.” Then, his youthful excitement overcame his strenuous attempts at professionalism. He leaned forward, whispering to Christie, “Hey, Detective Opara, you know who they have down there? You know that guy all over the Daily News this morning—murdered his wife and drowned his four kids? He’s down there,” Patrolman Alexander said, as though the detention pen in the Criminal Courts Building was the last place in the world he’d expect to find a murderer. “I guess that’s why all the photographers ware hanging around out back.” He shook his head in wonder. “Boy, you know something—he’s just a medium-sized guy. I mean, he looks just like anybody else, you know? Stabbed his wife twenty-two times, then drowned his four kids, then made himself some scrambled eggs! The detectives were telling me, down there. He looks just like anybody else,” he repeated.