The procession of people being sent away to prison this morning had begun on time. The first defendant on the list had been brought from the jury box to stand next to his lawyer. The lawyer recited the few laudable moments in his client’s twenty-five-year life, touching only lightly on the six arrests and three prior convictions for drug-related crimes.
Over the years, as I awaited my turn for my clients, I must have watched more than a thousand defendants being sentenced. While I had always found the process upsetting, this day it all seemed somehow grotesque, more a scene from Goya than from Daumier.
As a prosecutor, I had convicted dozens of criminals, but I had never argued that any of them should be sent to prison; I always left that up to the judge. As a defense lawyer, I had always fought to keep people out of jail. But now, as I sat there in court watching so-called justice being meted out, I saw myself as nothing more than a necessary prop, constitutionally mandated, whose involvement gave more legitimacy to the appearance of justice.
I realized, of course, that something had to be done with vicious criminals while society figured out a better alternative to prisons. I certainly didn’t have a clue about what that better alternative was, nor did I have any bright ideas about how to eliminate the causes of crime. But in the meantime, I didn’t like seeing myself as a prop, and I couldn’t take any comfort, as I used to, in the thought that it wasn’t I who was sending my clients to prison.
The lawyer standing before the judge was referring to a presentence report. Prepared by the probation department, the reports summarize defendants’ lives and contain recommendations to the judge on what to do with offenders. I had already read the one on my client this morning.
I was in court to speak on behalf of Sherry Parruco. She had been convicted six weeks earlier of attempting to murder her boyfriend in a hardware store. A relatively simple case. With an array of witnesses against my client, I would have been eager to work out a plea with the prosecutor, my friend Cheryl Hazelton, but the “bargain” she offered me was no better than what I could have gotten for Sherry if we had lost at trial. So we went to trial and, of course, we lost. Taxpayers paid thousands for a judge, all his attendants, the prosecutor, the detectives, and for me as well, a lawyer assigned to the case through the Legal Aid office. And we came to the same point we would have reached if the trial had been avoided by a plea. Justice was often expensive and time-consuming.
When Sherry was convicted, I experienced the verdict as a decision against me personally and not her. I knew it was irrational, but I always took a conviction personally, as if the jury were rendering an opinion containing some disapproval of me. (Although I was not so irrational as to lose sight of the fact that it was, indeed, the client and not I who went to jail.) Fortunately, I won most of my cases, but my job would have been a lot easier if most of my clients hadn’t been guilty. Almost all of them were guilty, however, if not of the crime for which they were being charged, then of something else.
Most of the lawyers in the courtroom were familiar to me. As a prosecutor, I had tried cases against some of them, and as a defense lawyer, I had tried cases with some of them as co-counsel when more than one defendant was being tried on the same indictment. Having been through many sentencings, all the lawyers sat stone-faced. All except, perhaps, the lawyer on his feet, whom I hadn’t ever seen before. He looked young.
My prosecutor friend Cheryl Hazelton remained seated at her place at counsel table. Cheryl was smartly dressed in a black silk crepe suit, a white-on-white shirt, and a red-and-gray striped tie pulled up loosely around the collar. Her dark black skin glistened against the very white shirt. She certainly knew how to dress. Cheryl had begun her career as a prosecutor in Bear’s courtroom and had worked there on and off for years. As she’d increased in experience and confidence, Cheryl had become very effective. She was a good lawyer with a good sense of humor.
The first case I ever tried against Cheryl had been in Bear’s courtroom and had involved a great deal of heroin. The arresting officers had not shown up to testify when they were supposed to, and Bear had reluctantly agreed to Cheryl’s request to adjourn to the following day. She took the heroin down to her office and left it on her desk for a few minutes. When she returned, the heroin had vanished. And so had her case.
The following morning Bear was beside himself. When he’d finished yelling at her, I, as the defense lawyer, had demanded a dismissal of the case. Bear had had no choice but to accede to my demand.
Judge Fazio asked if the young lawyer before him had any corrections to make on the presentence report on his client. A judge was required to ask every defense lawyer that same question before passing sentence. Fazio had positioned the loudspeakers on his desk even more closely to himself than he had during the trial. I assumed that without a jury present he felt less embarrassed about his poor hearing.
“I’m glad you asked that question, Your Honor,” the young lawyer said earnestly. “The record seems to go on at great length about all the arrests and convictions, but there’s no mention of the fact that Mr. Russell was the captain of his high school football team and had even been nominated for a citizenship award.”
“I can’t imagine how our probation department could have missed such crucial details of Mr. Russell’s life,” the judge said sarcastically.
“Yes, sir. The criminal record alone gives a very incomplete picture of my client. He was also abandoned by his father at a very early age.”
Norman and I turned to each other to share looks of restrained astonishment. “This is a new level of incompetence for the probation department. I hope it doesn’t tarnish their reputation,” Norman whispered to me with a smile.
“Why, thank you for the correction, Counselor,” the judge said, and turned to the rest of us sitting in the courtroom. “Gentlemen, this young man’s relentless pursuit of the facts on behalf of his client should be an inspiration to all of you.”
The young counselor looked over at his client and smiled. His huge black client looked down at the floor in front of him. He was obviously trying to give the appearance of a pathetic victim of circumstance, but I also had the feeling that in the next moment he would be capable of tearing his lawyer’s head off.
The judge sentenced the young lawyer’s client to the maximum number of years allowed by law. Without saying a word to his lawyer, the prisoner quietly accompanied the court officers out of the courtroom.
“Next,” Judge Fazio barked.
“Sherry Parruco,” the court clerk called out, reading from a list.
Sherry Parruco, the young, plump woman in the middle of the row of defendants in the jury box, stood up. Like the other defendants in custody awaiting sentence, she was wearing handcuffs. Her hair was a wedge of orange, cut short and reaching straight up. She was escorted by a court officer to her place at counsel table.
I stepped forward with my briefcase.
“Your Honor, I’m sure, is familiar with the facts of this case, and the state will rely on the court’s discretion with regard to sentence imposed,” Cheryl said.
“The state, I take it, doesn’t want to accept any responsibility for the difficult decisions,” Judge Fazio said.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way. We place our total confidence in your good hands,” Cheryl responded, with a smile bordering on coquettishness.
“I’m flattered,” Judge Fazio said sarcastically, and turned to me. “Counselor, did you want to be heard before I pass sentence?”
“Since the trial was so recent, I guess there is no need for me to repeat the evidence,” I said.
“That’s correct,” Judge Fazio snapped.
“The jury heard all the testimony about how Ms. Parruco’s boyfriend unmercifully abused and provoked her over the years,” I said. “I think it fair to assume by the jury’s verdict of guilty that they considered the evidence of provocation a more relevant factor in determining her sentence than in establishing a defense to the charge.”
“Do
you, Counselor?” Judge Fazio asked with obvious disbelief. “Do you?”
“That’s right,” I answered defiantly.
“Maybe the jury simply didn’t believe your client had any provocation at all,” Judge Fazio said, and looked over at the defendant. “Ms. Parruco, would you like to say anything on your own behalf before I pass sentence?”
“Only that the bastard had it coming, sir,” Sherry Parruco said, tilting her chin upward at the judge.
“You have been found guilty by a jury of your peers,” Judge Fazio said, “of beating your boyfriend over the head with a lead pipe and then trying to set him on fire.”
“Judge, can I just say that we all make mistakes,” Sherry said, interrupting him.
“Oh really, Ms. Parruco? What would you say yours was?” Judge Fazio asked.
“Mine was in not using enough lighter fluid,” Sherry said.
The court reporter laughed as she typed. Others in the courtroom smiled. I looked around the courtroom. Suddenly I noticed Lisa Altman seated near the door in the back row. She was staring at me.
I couldn’t imagine what she was doing there. Why was she following me? How did she even know where to find me? I may have a disturbed nut on my hands, I thought. And there was nothing I liked less than having to deal with some irrational hysteric. The best part of being a lawyer was feeling safe and in control in a courtroom. When a case was over, I didn’t need its losers menacing me.
An older woman a few rows in front of Lisa stood. “Judge, Sherry is a good girl,” the woman said.
“What was that?” Judge Fazio asked.
“A woman in the back of the courtroom is speaking to you,” Cheryl said.
“Who is that? Please step forward,” Judge Fazio said.
The woman walked forward to the well of the courtroom.
“What is your name, madam?” Judge Fazio asked.
“Arlene—Arlene Parruco, Your Honor. I’m Sherry’s mother. I wanted to say something. If Your Honor would be so kind?”
“I’ll allow you.”
“Your Honor, I…” The woman began to cry. “I just wanted to say that Sherry is a good girl. She never gave me any trouble. This wouldn’t have happened if that wop hadn’t started it. He must have had it coming.”
Cheryl struggled to control her laughter.
“I would like to point out to you, madam,” Judge Fazio said, “that on my father’s side I am also of Italian heritage—northern Italian.”
“Then Your Honor should know what I’m talking about,” the woman continued, undaunted. “We should be ashamed of some of us. Please don’t send my daughter away. This won’t ever happen again.”
“Thank you, madam. If you have nothing further to say, you may return to your seat,” Judge Fazio said.
“Thank you, Your Honor. It was a pleasure, I’m sure,” the woman said. She turned, nodded at her daughter, and walked with great dignity back to her seat. Lisa was still watching me from the back of the courtroom.
“Considering the harm inflicted, the need to deter others, as well as the community’s right to exact retribution from those who commit such terrible crimes,” Judge Fazio said, “I hereby sentence you to state prison for a maximum term allowed by law, in this case”—the judge looked down at his notes—“ten years, with a minimum of five years before the parole commission may consider your release. People simply have to learn to take responsibility for their behavior. But even if they don’t learn anything, they should be punished. Thank you.”
Sherry turned to me, her lawyer. “What’s he out of his fuckin’ mind, Michael? The bastard really did have it coming.”
“I’m sorry, Sherry,” I said.
Sherry turned to the judge. “What are you out of your fucking mind?” she screamed. “The guy was a bastard.”
The court officers approached Sherry and grabbed her by the elbows.
“I should be thanked, you asshole,” Sherry screamed at the judge. “I would’ve made the world safer if I’d destroyed the creep.”
The court officers led Sherry away.
“Well, Michael,” Judge Fazio said, “I guess we can all sleep a little easier tonight now that I’ve made the world a little bit safer.”
Like it’s really going to make a difference, I thought to myself as I threw my papers into my briefcase. Then I remembered Lisa. I turned around to look for her in the courtroom, but she was gone.
Chapter 7
THE DAY AFTER SHERRY was sent away, I went to my mid-town office in the shadow of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I was working behind my large wooden desk. Papers were strewn all over it and law books were opened and piled on top of each other. This was the way my desk usually looked.
My secretary, Sylvia, entered. She was a small, slight woman in her early sixties. She always wore dark dresses down to her narrow ankles. Her long, thin fingers seemed delicate and fragile. But after eighteen years I knew there was nothing delicate or fragile about Sylvia. When she wasn’t complaining, she always made it clear to me by the look on her face that she was silently suffering. But she worried about me—about my health, my career, and my marital status. Once, I had gotten into a minor car accident, and she told me afterward that she felt guilty because she hadn’t worried about my driving before the accident. Since my parents had died over twenty years ago, Sylvia had become the closest thing I had to a mother—with all the good and bad that that entailed.
“I cleaned out all your old files in your filing cabinet,” Sylvia said proudly.
“Oh, really? Why did you do that?” I asked.
“I got rid of folders that you haven’t looked at for years.” Sylvia often answered my questions indirectly.
“You got rid of my cases? But I didn’t want them thrown out.”
“I didn’t throw them out. I put them in dead storage. They have a bin in the basement here. It’s called dead storage.”
“That’s a relief. At least you didn’t throw them out. But I didn’t want them in dead storage. I wanted them as they were, all neatly arranged chronologically in my file cabinet.”
“It didn’t make any sense to keep them all. You never looked at them. Some were twenty years old. If you ever really need one, I can go down to the basement,” she said.
“I liked having all my cases together.”
“Right. So now you have the last five years together.”
“Right,” I said.
“I thought you’d be pleased I’m finally getting you a little organized, putting away some of the garbage you never have a reason to look at.”
“Those files aren’t garbage.”
“The files were garbage and the clients were garbage.”
“Thank you, Sylvia. I’m sure I’ll get used to my empty file cabinets.”
“Someone’s got to look after you.”
“But you’re going to make me crazy.”
Sylvia smiled. “You’re just saying that,” she said, and finally left the room.
I walked over to the file cabinet that Sylvia had half-emptied for me. Hundreds of manila folders filled with cases were missing from the four steel drawers. I was upset. Not that I really needed them. Sylvia was right about that: I rarely, if ever, looked at the contents of a file once a case was closed. But what I now found disturbing was the statement made by their physical departure, the realization that once a case was over, it really no longer had anything to do with me—I could just as well not have tried it. Somehow the presence of those old case files in my office had implied they still had some connection to me. “Dead storage” made them sound like they were no longer appropriate to keep around, even as souvenirs.
A logbook of clients was on top of the cabinet. The logbook contained a list of names, and each name had next to it the crime charged, the date I took on the case, a notation of how the client came to me, the status of the case, and the money paid and still owing, if any.
About a quarter of my clients were assigned to me by the public defender; the rest were sent to
me from other lawyers or previous clients, or they were the previous clients themselves who had been charged with something new after I had gotten them off of an earlier charge.
As I flipped through the pages of the logbook, I thought about the clients I had worked so hard for over the years. What a motley array of miscreants! The full assortment of serious felonies. The horrors that people were capable of committing!
I threw the client logbook back on top of the cabinet and opened the drawer to see which files remained. I didn’t realize until later that I was thinking about my cases because I wanted to see in what way the Lisa Altman case might be different from the others. Rape was such a terrible crime, regardless of how much or how little force was used. I had tried other rape cases in the past, but they hadn’t affected me any differently than any of the other terrible crimes and criminals I had defended.
I had thought of Lisa often since the trial. Then, she had appeared at my house on the night of Molly’s party. And just now, a few hours ago, she had showed up again, at Sherry’s sentencing. I removed Lisa’s large file from the cabinet, brought it over to my desk, laid it on top of the open law books, and removed the folder with newspaper clippings of Lisa’s performances. Another folder held a batch of photographs of Lisa dancing, and I pulled them out. One of the photographs had caught her in a leap, her legs spread wide apart, her arms outstretched as if she were flying. She looked as if she could have flown away from someone threatening her.
I didn’t like the fact that Lisa knew where I lived, that she had come lurking around when my daughter was home, though I didn’t think Molly was in any real danger. There was nothing in Lisa’s history or in what I sensed of her from the trial that made me think she’d try anything with Molly. I didn’t know if Lisa was trying to spook me or was trying to learn something about me. What I did know for sure was that I didn’t want her being around my house.
No matter how well you thought you knew people, they were always capable of surprising you, particularly if they thought they had a grievance—and she probably did think that. And Lisa probably did have a grievance. I had treated her mercilessly on the witness stand. I did what I had to do, but that was probably little comfort to Lisa—and it was little comfort to me, either, at this point.
Question of Consent: A Novel Page 6