In This Life

by Leo Sullivan

  “Are the officers present in the courtroom?” the judge asked, looking out into the audience and then at his wrist impatiently. Both officers stood and nodded to the judge. “I’ll have to ask both of you gentlemen to stand by as the court adjourns for a short recess while I review his tape.”

  ******

  Outside the courtroom, in the congested corridor, one of many in this labyrinthine edifice of the criminal justice system, Mark Fermen found Officer Smith leaning casually against a wall, inhaling deeply on a cigarette. Fermen stormed over to him. “Why the fuck didn’t you just tell them you were in charge of the arrest?” Fermen figured that the slick-ass lawyer was going to play each on their stories against the other, just the way Fermen had done to criminals all his life. Now he was having it done to him.

  A wisp of gray smoke curled around Smith’s nose as he calmly spoke. “I only told them the truth, what happened. I had no idea--”

  “Listen to me, you fuckin’ lame,” Fermen nearly shouted, “if you like your job here in the fifty-first, you’ll do what’s best.” Fermen took a step closer. “You may have bungled the entire arrest. That guy in there with that high-priced mouthpiece is a paid hitman for the mob!”

  Smith took another drag off his cigarette and looked at Fermen with a who-gives-a-fuck expression.

  “You’re going in there and take the stand and testify that it was you who made the arrest.”

  “That would be perjury,” Smith said, looking at him with disdain. “I’ve already told them in an affidavit that you were the arresting officer. They would only charge me with perjury--”

  “Perjury is only a crime when you get caught,” Fermen said. “Cops don’t get charged with perjury… The same person who signs the prosecutor’s check signs ours.” Fermen made a face that could have passed for a smile, but was much more sinister. He added, “You simply lost your recollection of what happened and now you suddenly remember. We get the conviction, another scumbag goes to the joint, and justice is served.”

  Smith stepped back from him. “You want me to lie?” His face creased in disbelief.

  “It’s not lying,” Fermen nearly shouted, the right side of his face starting to tic. It’s merely the Code of Brothers in Arms: You cover my back and I cover yours.” Fermen tried to place a comforting hand on Smith’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  “No, I will not jeopardize my job nor my future for your blunder.”

  Fermen’s forehead knotted with anger, in Smith’s face. Listen you asshole, in the fifty-first we have a certain way we do things. You’re new here, so you’ve got an excuse, but a conviction is a conviction--”

  “No, a conviction is not a conviction… I took an oath to serve and protect,” Smith pointed to his badge, “not to lie in order to get a two bit conviction on some thug. Just who is the criminal really?”

  A little black girl about four years old meandered over to the water fountain next to where they were standing. She was too short to drink, so Smith picked her up. Fermen rolled his eyes. “Tank you,” the little girl said, running off.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Fermen threatened.”

  “Naw, you’re the one making a big mistake, ‘cuz when I wake up in the morning next to my wife, I don’t have to worry about being corrupt, or whether that innocent man I lied on is going to get out of prison and give me a bullet for every year that was stolen from him. Can you say the same?” Smith looked him directly in the yes, pressing home his point. “I will testify as to what happened and nothing less.” With that, Smith walked off leaving Fermen staring after him.

  Chapter Twenty

  The judge’s chamber was cloaked with muted light, the flickering images on the television screen flashing as both attorney’s jockeyed for position on each side of the judge’s desk. The screen showed Mario Guido walking from the cab with his hands held high in the air. The image was jittery. Mario slowly got down on his hands and knees, lying face down on the ground. The police creep slowly closer with guns drawn. Just as one officer is about to place handcuffs on him, all hell breaks loose. In a mad frenzy, police are scurrying around like wild animals, some diving for cover while others dive for Mario, who has his hands behind his back. One officer jumps off the top of a police car and lands directly on top of Mario’s head.

  The judge noticeably cringed. Hargrove placed a hand over his mouth. Livingston smirked, rearing back in his seat as if he was thinking about putting his feet up on the judge’s desk.

  By now, Mario is being brutalized; one cop actually pulling on Mario’s penis like it is the perpetrator. Another officer is standing on his head, and then there is the team working his body with night sticks as if they are putting out a fire.

  The judge winced and took a swig from his cup, making a face. The D.A. saw this in his peripheral vision, thinking, this is bad, lawsuit bad. The judge popped a mint in his mouth. The tape ended with Mario’s unconscious body being contorted into a shape resembling a pretzel.

  The geriatric bailiff ambled over to the light switch and turned it on. All three minds were primed to play poker, but even though the judge was the house dealer, his mind was dazed. It had been a long time since he had seen a man get his ass whipped like that.

  The prosecutor’s mind hedged, changing strategies. Damage control was now top priority. His eyes darted back and forth between the judge and opposing counsel. In a last ditch attempt to counteract the accusations, he fell back on one of a prosecutor’s oldest ploys. “The defendant assaulted the police and they responded with reasonable force…” As the words left his mouth, he realized they had barely the power of a pair of deuces, a weak bluff. The judge looked at him with an expression that said, “Boy, that sure was dumb!”

  Livingston gave Hargrove his four-ace grin. “I intend to hit the State of Illinois with the biggest civil suit there ever was and you’re going to be held accountable for it unless we can reach a reasonable agreement.”

  The D.A. cringed in his seat, doing what prosecutors are notorious for, putting on his plea bargain face, a mask of a shallow human being, the face of a man who is about to be molested by the same law that he was hired to uphold.

  “Mr. Hargrove, I want you to know that the Court has been advised that there is a strong likelihood of a lawsuit--” As the judge spoke, his demeanor changed as he ever so slightly eased his chair away, as if the prosecutor with the word “lawsuit” had been contaminated with some form of judicial virulence. “--and I must advise you that the defense can use all the testimony if you decide to go forward with this matter. I’m sure you’re aware that testimony from criminal proceedings can be used in a civil litigation…”

  Livingston rubbed the palms of his hands together anxiously. The D.A. swallowed the saliva in his mouth and looked like he was caught between a rock and a hard place. As he glanced over at opposing counsel, it suddenly dawned on him that something wasn’t right, not just here, but with this department, the court, the judge. How did the defense get hold of a tape that by all rights should have been in his sole possession? And the esteemed Bruce Livingston, a high-powered criminal defense attorney who handled everything behind the scenes for Nixon during the Watergate scandal… Now he was defending some common crook? Hargrove finally realized someone in high places had hung him out to dry, and that someone wanted Marion Guido out of jail.

  D.A. Hargrove exhaled deeply in an audible sigh, raking his hands through his hair. “The State is willing to drop all charges with certain stipulations. The tape will be delivered to my office immediately and there will be no further litigations in this case, state or federal, be them criminal or civil.”

  Before the judge could comment, Livingston removed a written agreement of terms from his briefcase and handed it to Hargrove. The judge placed a hand over his thin lips, suppressing a smile. The age old duel of legal minds tactically engaged in the battle field of courtroom strategy never ceased to amaze him.

  Livingston held the papers before Hargrove with the hubris
of a man who had just made a brilliant chess move, a successful gambit. The prosecutor read the paper with an astonished look of surprise on his face.

  His Honor took another swig from his cup and thought to himself, “Today was going to be a good day.” He relaxed in his chair and watched his elderly bailiff doze in the corner where he stood.

  ******

  The overcrowded holding cell reeked of nicotine, unwashed bodies and excrement. A rolling, gray cumulus cloud hovered below a single 300-watt lightbulb. A cacophony of voices was deafening. Over forty men were crammed into a space designed for ten.

  Mario Guido looked around, as much as the neck brace would allow. It had been twenty years since last he had been in this jail, and a lot had changed. Back then, it was segregated, but now he was the single white man in the cell. He was annoyed by someone constantly bumping his leg. The cast ran from his ankle to mid-thigh, and like a hockey player guarding the net, his eyes swung back and forth in hopes of avoiding someone stepping on his leg.

  Someone pulled on Mario’s shoe as he heard his name called. Up on his crutches, he managed to make it to the door just a dwarf of a guard with the sleeves of his too-small shirt rolled up asked, “Are you Mario Guido?”

  “Yes,” Mario replied, glancing back over his shoulder. They could barely hear each other over the riotous clamor. Behind the guard, Mario could see his lawyer watching him with a knowing gleam in his eye, the kind that you would expect to be accompanied by a wink or a thumbs-up sign. Mario nearly fell out of the cell as the keys rattled behind him like a Vegas slot machine. The scrawny guard was wrestling with the door but was losing the match, so he called for backup.

  “Mr. Guido, all the charges against you have been dropped,” the lawyer said as a phalanx of guards surged by in an effort to close the cell door.

  “What?” he asked, “What happened? How didja do that?” A surge of relief washed over him as if he had just been rescued from the Gates of Hell. The lawyer gave him a look that said don’t ask. The guards finally forced the door shut as some one yelled for some toilet paper.

  Livingston handed Mario his business card and a large envelope, inside of which he found written instructions, along with a list of names and addresses. Mario scanned the information and then looked at the lawyer as if it was his first time really seeing him.

  “Move it!” the guard instructed, “Unless you want to stay for lunch.”

  Livingston nodded his head and extended his hand. Mario pumped it vigorously.

  Minutes later, he was led to another holding cell to be processed for release. The cell was much smaller than the first, but this time Mario was alone. Other men would soon trickle in as well, the few that were fortunate enough to be going home.

  Freedom was at the forefront of his mind as Mario replayed past events on the screen of his memory. The first time he failed to apprehend that boy Thugstin, he had reported to the Senator personally. The man was angry, but he offered even more money and Mario accepted, not daring to ask what could be so important about some bad-ass ghetto kid. Mario looked down at his shoeless foot and laughed. New found freedom can make a man laugh, he thought in acknowledgment of the Senator’s extrajudicial power. “The man had rescued him from almost certain imprisonment.” Like pulling his balls from the jaws of a hungry lion. After all, he had been facing a sure life sentence.

  He looked at the information that the lawyer had given him. He read the address aloud. “5401 South Main Street, Ford City…” Ford City!?

  ******

  The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, the two majestic monuments stood opposing each other like a pair of massive phallic symbols of corporate America’s enduring power. Inside one of the giant edifices was ABC Television’s national studio for EyeWitness News.

  On the thirty-ninth floor, a secretary answered the phone with a twinge of impatience in her voice. “ABC EyeWitness News. May I help you?”

  “Need to speak to Gerald Rivera,” a muffled voice said.

  “Please hold.” The phone played the Bee Gees singing, “How Deep is Your Love?” while the caller waited.

  “Hello, may I help you?” Geraldo’s voice was laced with polite urgency.

  “Listen, I got a scoop for you that may be the story of the century.” The unidentified voice cut straight to the chase. “This could be the hottest story since the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby--”

  “Who is this” Geraldo asked, annoyed by the muffled voice and suspicious that it was a female voice in disguise.

  “Don’t worry about who this is,” the anonymous voice warned. “If you’re not interested, I can go to Dan Rather over at CBS--”

  “No, no, no,” Geraldo admonished. His journalistic instincts were now telling him that this could be something important. “What is it you have?” he asked, trying not to sound overly anxious.

  “It’s about a high ranking public official, corruption, ties to organized crime.”

  “Give me a name,” Geraldo said from the edge of his seat.

  “Give me my price,” was the response. “There’s even more… There’s murder involved…” The quid pro quo swung like a pendulum. Silence.

  Then, “How do I know you’re for real? How do I know this isn’t just a crank call?”

  “You don’t.” More silence.

  “How much do you want?”

  “Fifty-grand.”

  “Fif--fifty grand!? Why, that’s absurd!”

  “Oh, you’ll pay it… Fifty grand is nothing for the scoop of the century.” The voice fell to a confident whisper. “Here’s a juicy tip that should confirm my legitimacy… Approximately four days from today, Senator Bob Anthony Williams will renounce his Democratic set and join the Repub--” Gerald shot straight up in his seat and began to take notes on a pad. “-- and he will announce his intent to run for the United States Presidency in the 1980 election. I’m sure you are aware that only a very close associate of the Senator would be privy to such valuable information…”

  “I will have to talk to my superiors here at the station about the money,” Geraldo said, stalling for time. “How can I contact you?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” the voice threatened. “I’ll call you again just after the Senator makes his announcement.”

  “But--” Geraldo’s voice trailed off as the line went dead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sasha eased the car onto the shoulder of the carport. The dashboard clock read 1:50 a.m. She was totally exhausted, both mentally and physically. She was still in shock from the scene at the asylum, seeing Freddy’s mother in that horrible place. Their silence was strained, emotional currents building with each passing moment until finally she could stand no more. “All this fuckin’ time you’ve kept your mother a secret from me!?” she asked through clenched teeth, gripping the steering wheel tightly, fighting to maintain a semblance of composure.

  Freddy looked at her in the dim light of a gibbous moon that cast her in silhouette. “Sasha, in this life, ain’t nothing’ based on sympathy, and no one really gives a damn--”

  “I do! I care!” she shot back.

  “I just didn’t want to bring you or anyone else into this…”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t need anybody feeling sorry for me--”

  “Or was it really because you felt embarrassed or ashamed?” Her words stung him to the core, and for a moment, he was unable to answer.

  “Yeah…that too…but I’ve learned one thing, I don’t need nobody feelin’ sorry for me and shit.” He slung the words at her. “Besides, who really cares about me?”

  “Cares!” Cares!” she cried, tears welling. “I’m seventeen years old and pregnant with your fuckin’ child, on the run from God knows who all, and stuck waaaaay the fuck out in Klan City with your sorry ass, an’ you have the audacity to ask who cares about your black ass?” She wiped an angry tear from her cheek. “Freddy, you should never have been ashamed of your mother. At lest you still have one. My ma
mma died having me, and before the pallbearers could get her in the ground, my father married a golddiggin’ bitch I still can’t stand. Freddy, you’ll never know how it feels to have never even seen your own mother, and that’s why I was so shaken back there.” She wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “There’s nothing stronger in this world than a mother’s love.” She held her swollen belly as if to punctuate her statement.

  As they stood in the hallway and Sasha turned the key in the lock, they both heard the door to Ms. Crabtree’s apartment crack open in an unsuccessful attempt to eavesdrop, but they were both too tired to care. They fell asleep together fully clothed on the bed.

  ******

  The next morning as a new sun shined brightly through the latticed blinds of the bedroom, Freddy awoke shielding his eyes against the intrusive glare. Sasha sprawled across him like a wrestler, legs and arms lassoed about him, the sheet pulled over her face. He struggled to free himself from her restricting embrace when the phone rang. His voice cracked sleepily. “Hello?”

  “Damn, son, you still asleep?” It was Mykle. Freddy could hear Dee’s voice in the background, “Told you he was pussy whipped.”

  Freddy couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he asked, “Where y’all at?”

  “Well son, we sho ain’t in jail,” Mykle replied. Freddy heard them laughing, imagining a smoke-filled room. “That chick Marilyn Fox got class. That smooth-ass lawyer Livingston she had represent us pulled some serious strings. It was a piece-uh cake. I got off scott free and all I said was I didn’t know shit--”

  “What about Dee?” Freddy asked.

  “Man, you ain’t gonna believe this. All kinda college recruiters and pro agents been camped out in fronta his gramma’s apartment--”