by Leo Sullivan
“Mamma, think!” You came home and Daddy was doing what?”
“Nooo, I can’t remember…”
“Please mamma, this is important. You gotta try!” The swaying of her head got faster. Sasha took a step back. Freddy adamantly persisted. “Think mamma!”
His words reverberated in the crevices of her mind. She rolled her neck at an angle and stopped, looked up at her son and began to cry.
“Stop it, Freddy!” Stop it!” Sasha shrieked.
The woman began to speak as if she were doing a séance in foreign tongues. “I… I came back home, I had forgotten to get the money for the light bill from your dad…” She thrashed her neck from side to side as the tears continued to run down her cheeks. Freddy held onto her wrist and Sasha’s eyes began to water as she watched mother and son painfully trawl for answers without clues. “…there was a car parked in our driveway. It looked familiar… I approached the door, it was ajar and… and… something stung my arm just as… just as I was about to pull it open…” Her words became babble, unintelligible. “I saw bleary faces, I think… I’m not sure… I can’t remember nothing else, I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” the tears ran as she wailed mournfully. But through her cries, his mother continued to utter disjointed phrases and Freddy heard, “…papers, they want him to sign… land deed… can’t have the land…”
“What land, Mamma?” he asked. Shaking her head, she tried to pull away and then her eyes rolled back in her head.
Sasha hit him with the hairbrush hard across his back. “Freddy, you stop it now!”
He slowly turned and looked at her, releasing his hold on his mother. She started to cry quietly and it stabbed at the very core of his being. But he realized the only way he was going to ever get her out of this place was to somehow learn the truth or some pieces of the truth to help fill in the puzzle.
Over the years as he visited his mother. He watched her as she wasted and way, as her story became more confusing. She was barely in her forties, yet she looked every bit of sixty. Today he was determined to get some answers… Her very life depended on it.
“Mamma, please can you remember anything else?” his voice pleaded.
Her arm twitched and a placid quietness washed over her. She looked up at him, a long tear running down one cheek. “…I remember your father’s eyes staring at me…”
The officer rattled the door before opening it. Sasha jumped, startled by the sudden noise. “Five minutes, visits over,” he said politely.
Freddy bent down and kissed his mother’s wet cheek. She hugged his neck tightly, in his ear she whispered, “I love you very much…” In her drug induced state, Freddy thought to himself how well she did just to function, much less to be conscious of what was going on.
Sasha left the comb and brush and the pink gel. The large steel door clanged shut and she flinched as the officer turned the key. Freddy continued to blink his eyes, breathing heavily, staring off into the distance down the corridor. The screams welcomed them back to the reality of the asylum. “Who’s the doctor that has my mother on all that medication?”
The officer turned to look at him with surprise. “I thought you knew. Your mother is one of a handful of patients that has her own private doctors attending to her. It must cost y’all a fortune.”
That could not possibly be Freddy thought to himself as they started to walk down the long corridor.
The brusque words of a raving maniac followed them. “Heeey! Heeey! Heeey fuckin’ nigger! Eeee, ha, ha, heee…”
Chapter Nineteen
The Honorable G. Herman Beasley, acting Circuit Court Judge, entered the courtroom, his sudden appearance hushing the murmurs, like the silence of the calm before a storm. An elderly bailiff bellowed, “All rise, the Honorable Herman Beasley now residing. Court now in session.”
The judge shuffled to the bench, his dark, beady eyes alert to threats, shifting, watching everyone. His short rotund body and stooped, sloping shoulders made his head seem too large, as if it belonged to someone else. The conspicuous bulge under his black robe, a .357 Magnum, his honor was strapped.
During the history of this particular judicial system, where over ninety percent of the defendants are impoverished blacks or Hispanics, the courtroom had been known to take on a carnival atmosphere with chairs being thrown like guided missiles by disgruntled defendants who felt they had been given a decade or two too much time in the state penitentiary.
On one such occasion, an irate black man was able to elude the bailiffs, thwarting tackles, managing to rush the bench and sack the judge. With his massive arms locked firmly around the judge’s throat, to the horror of the entire courtroom, the venerable jurist’s rather large dentures were forcefully dislodged, landing with a loud clack in the jury section. There was general mayhem as the burly man wrung the judge’s neck back and forth and the scrawny bailiffs tussled with the defendant like ants on a gorilla, raining blows against this skull with their Billy clubs. The man was very much determined to strangle the shit out the judge, and that he just might have done. For a long time after, it was rumored that feces were found cluttering the area around the judge’s bench.
“Please be seated,” the bailiff announced, scanning the courtroom with old-blood-hound eyes, his best impression of a Secret Service agent. Someone in the audience giggled. The elderly bailiff looked uncannily like Barney Phife of Mayberry. One might wonder from looking at the bailiff, just how old one must be before he is forced into retirement. Clitus Stafford at seventy-two looked twice his age. As the judge’s personal bailiff, they had shared the courtroom for over 32 years.
Directly to the left, one level down from the judge, sat a young, attractive female, her blond hair cut stylishly in a short Dutchboy. She wore a silk two-piece skirt suit, and even with the jacket on, the contours of her bust were enormous, protruding straight forward. As she stood to remove her jacket, all eyes turned her direction. She chewed gum to one side of her mouth, making the occasional popping sound, and she appeared to be no more than twenty years old.
The judge audibly cleared his throat as he looked down at her, waiting for her to call the first case on the docket. She fumbled through a mess of paperwork that once was a neat stack. She stopped momentarily, feeling the judge’s eyes upon her. Sideways, she leered up at him and smiled. He glowered stoically, a look that said, “You’re an idiot.” She giggled and popped a sweet fusillade with her gum. The judge cringed noticeably. The bailiff rolled his eyes, shaking his head. The judge signaled something to him and had to repeat the gesture twice before he finally pulled his attention away from ogling the voluptuous clerk.
The bailiff’s body jerked into motion. The arthritis in his back and both legs was acting up so bad that he slid across the floor like a man trying to balance himself in ice. He reached the clerk with eyes level with the mounds of her breast and smiled as he whispered something in her ear. Flushing, the young clerk giggled, turning her head she said, “Sorry,” and removed a large wad of blue chewing gum from her mouth.
The judge picked up his gavel like a club, his face a mask of fuming anger. He looked between the gavel and the clerk and shook his head, lips pressed tightly across large dentures, menacing. His busy eyebrows furrowed like a hulk. “Ms. Lovelace, it would certainly please the court if you could announce the first case on the docket sheet.”
The clerk giggled and began once again to delve through the mountain of paperwork on her desk. She knew all eyes were on her, just as she knew that today might very well be her last day on the job. “I found it! I found it!” she shrieked like mentally challenged person. Her breasts bounced in defiance of gravity’s pull, and she sprang to her feet, announcing, “State of Illinois versus Marion Guido.”
The judge mopped his face with awry hand, and an expression that said, “This is going to be long day.” He reached into his robe and donned a pair of partial bifocals. “What I have before me is a motion to dismiss the indictment and the charges against Mr. Guido.” He peered
over the rim of his glasses at the defense table.
Bruce Livington, the tall, handsome counsel for the defendant, stood looking more like a movie star than an attorney, his suave, boyish charisma all part of his cultured courtroom persona. At forty-eight, he was considered a brilliant attorney by his peers as well as his adversaries. He was dressed immaculately in a gray three-piece that compliment the bronze suntan of his skin. His neatly cut hair is feathered to the back and his nails are manicured to perfection. Livingston adjusted his Eton-striped tie as if it was connected to the volume of his voice. “If it pleases the Court, yes your Honor, my client has committed no crime, and as you can clearly see, he has been maliciously and brutally beaten.” Livingston gestured dramatically with the wave of a hand as if presenting some grim tragedy. Mario Guido was perched in a wheelchair with his right leg in a cast extended at a forty-five degree angle, his eyes bruised black and blue. He wore a large neck brace that extended his neck so far upward, it appeared as if he’s fascinated with something stuck on the ceiling. The judge did a double take and removed his glasses as if it was his first time seeing the defendant.
On the other side of the courtroom, the D.A.’s office had called in its Big Gun, the chief prosecutor David Hargrove, a veteran with years of experience in these types of cases. The United States flag hung from overhead. Word is, he had it placed there, and during closing arguments in a trial, he has been known to salute it in a show of patriotism. His attire was that of a slovenly professor.
He jumped to his feet, interrupting counsel for the defense. “Excuse me, Your Honor, but this whole thing is absurd.” His facial expression that he and the judge are more than just professional associates. “Mr. Mario Guido--” he spoke the name as if it was poison, “- - is charged with, among other things, attempted murder, assault and battery on police officers, possession of a gun by a convicted felon, theft of an automo- -“
“This is ridiculous!” Livingston interjected, and then the fight was on, both lawyers on their feet, shouting back and forth.
The judge banged his gavel, and the clerk jumped, startled, mumbling something about her ear. Someone in the audience laughed. The judge adjusted the strap of his holster underneath his arm and leaned forward, placing both elbows on the bench. Calmly, he spoke; the way men do who have learned to command authority. His hulky eyebrows furrowed intimidatingly. “Perhaps you gentlemen have brought your toothbrushes with you, because one more outburst like that in my courtroom and I’ll give you both a contempt citation and let you spend the night in jail. This is a preliminary hearing and in my courtroom, we will abide by proper courtroom etiquette. Have I made myself clear, gentlemen?” Both lawyers chimed in yes. “Counsel for defense may continue.”
“Your Honor!” the prosecutor said with raised arms.
“May I approach the bench?” he asked in an amiable tone.
“No, you may not!” The judge turned his attention back to the defense table and nodded for Livingston to continue.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Livingston said ingratiatingly, and then continued his presentation. “Your Honor, my client was literally ambushed by the Chicago Police Department and stopped and searched with neither probable cause nor a warrant, and then viciously beaten for driving a cab that he didn’t even know was stolen. Unfortunately, there was a nine-millimeter handgun hidden in the cab, which belonged to the cab’s owner.” From the back of the courtroom, detectives Mark Fermen and Jon Weiffenbach looked on. “Your Honor, defense moves to have all charges dropped…” the prosecutor flinches, “…for I intend to show the arrest was illegal as well as unconstitutional and a violation of client’s civil rights.” With the last statement, the judge arched his brow. “Civil rights” means only one thing to a lawyer: civil law suit against the city or state. Livingston smoothed his tie and walked a few feet closer to Mario Guido, continuing, “The constitutional safeguards prohibiting arbitrary search and seizures and illegal detention were designed by our Founding Fathers to protect our citizens from just such police conduct as occurred here, and furthermore guarantees a citizen the right to Due Process and freedom from the injustices of tyranny.”
The judge smiled to himself. Livingston was good, real good. Reminded him of his younger days, he thought, as he poured from the black carafe that all judges have on their bench. He hoped no one noticed, as he swigged from what was supposed to be water. Clitus, the bailiff, had made it too strong again, too much Jack…
“The defendant was arrested in a most brutal fashion, as Your Honor can clearly see.” The audience took a gander at Marion. He tried as best he could to muster a forlorn face. With his shiny baldhead and fat cherub cheeks, he resembled Uncle Festes of the Adam's Family.
Someone in the courtroom yelled, “Hang’im!” The courtroom erupted in laughter and the judge banged his gavel. Ms. Lovelace stood and moved her desk a few feet farther from the bench, rubbing her ear.
The prosecutor stood with palms spread. “Your Honor, may I please address the court?”
“I’ll give you your chance,” the judge glared.
“Your Honor,” Livingston continued, “I have twenty-eight sworn affidavits from the arresting officers, and each one clearly shows that they never asked permission to search the car. In fact, it has been discovered that they pulled over the wrong cab.” He looked over at the D.A.’s table and then walked to the clerk’s desk and handed her a stack of affidavits. She smiled flirtatiously at the handsome lawyer. As he was walking back to the defense table, he suddenly turned and dramatically added, “I would also like to present a video tape taken by the police helicopter.” This was the linchpin of Livingston’s case.
D.A. Hargrove was on his feet. “Your Honor, at this time I would object to the showing of any tape. The People have not had a chance to view it, this… this supposed tape--” He searched his mind for the proper word, “--for it's…its authenticity.” He shook his head incredulously, fumbling with papers. “Your Honor, the information concerning this tape was just brought to my attention at this very moment.”
Livingston stood and the judge nodded for him to speak. By now a blind man could see the partiality the judge was showing the defense. “Your Honor,” Livingston said, “This is merely an evidentiary hearing, not an actual trial--” Ms. Lovelace perked and crossed her legs, causing a sir in the courtroom. Livingston lost his train of thought for a moment. “-- Correct me if I’m incorrect, Your Honor,” he smiled, “but under the Illinois Code of Criminal Procedure, Section Eight, it states that exculpatory evidence may be submitted at a preliminary hearing. The tape is just that. And not only will it save this court a great deal of time, but it well serves the interests of justice and facilitates judicial economy…” With the conclusion of his argument, the attorney bowed his head and sat down. The judge smiled openly for the first time.
Hargrove realized he was losing the wind from his sails, like the Titanic with a hole in its hull. He stood and ran a hand through his hair, fidgeting as he unfolded a long sheet of paper. “Your Honor, the defendant’s arrest record dates all the way back to 1941,” he said with disdain. “He has ties to the mob, as well as other clandestine illegal enterprises.”
“Counsel, I would remind you, this is an evidentiary hearing, not a trial or a sentencing hearing, either of which would allow for the prosecution to bring up the defendant’s past conduct. However, none of that is relevant to my determination of whether there exists sufficient evidence to warrant a trial on these charged offenses.” The judge removed his glasses, massaging a red irritation on the bridge of his nose. For the first time, his voice held a hint of sympathy. “Perhaps the State would care to rebut the defense accusations. The Court would be more than happy to entertain such an endeavor.”
The prosecutor stepped forward, the way a man does who is about to jump into ice-cold water. With his neck tilted forward, shoulders slouched, he spoke barely above a whisper, a prosecutor’s most abused ploy. “Your Honor, the People move for a continuance.”
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br /> The judge furrowed his hulking eyebrows, squinting at the D.A. as if he had just said something derogatory about the judge’s ancestry. The stenographer’s dexterous fingers paused for the first time as she asked, “Could you please repeat that?”
The D.A. turned and looked at her with a scowl that might have scared a child. With a courage that he did not feel, he smiled, but his face felt like it had cracked into a million tiny pieces. “For the record, Your Honor, the People would like a continuance in light of this alleged video, as well as other circumstances.”
Livingston jumped up, about to protest. “Your Honor --”
The judge silenced him with a wave of his hand, and announced to the clerk, “Will the clerk please check the docket sheet to see what day he defendant was first arraigned?” The clerk shuffled through her papers. The prosecutor walked back to his table with the gait of a man who senses a victory. Livingston confers with his client. For the defense, a continuance would be almost certain death, so to speak. They would lose a pivotal advantage, the element of surprise.
“It was the 29th of May,” the clerk announced, beaming with pride. The prosecutor nodded his head, smiling at her. It was now evident that the judge was considering granting a continuance.
The judge cleared his throat and said, “In light of the fact that the State has had ample time to prepare for this hearing, the motion of continuance is denied. I will not allow my courtroom to become a training ground for the ill-prepared.” The D.A.’s jaw dropped. “I will review the tape in my chambers and then make my decision. Does the defense have any other evidence it would like the court to consider?”
“If it pleases the Court,” Livingston said, rising from his seat, “I would like to call Lieutenant Mark Fermen and Officer Steven Smith to the stand to verify the sworn affidavits that my office took from each of these men. It will clearly show that through some sort of mal intedere, the police department irrevocably violated my client’s constitutional rights.”