Marc walked to the front of the courtroom. Judge Bauer saw him and could hardly suppress a smile. A young uniformed officer saw Marc walking toward the opening in the railing, and interposed himself between Marc and the well of the courtroom.
“What can I do for you?” the officer said abruptly.
“I’m counsel. I have a case on this morning,” Marc replied.
“You can’t come in, Counselor,” he said, not overly impressed with Marc’s announcement. “Have a seat and wait. Your case will be called soon.”
“He’s okay, Smitty,” said Charlie Brady, the bridge man as he stood to the side of the judge’s bench, awaiting the conclusion of a whispered conference between the Judge, a Legal Aid lawyer and the assistant District Attorney. The lawyers were standing at the front edge of the judge’s dais, and Judge Rathmore was leaning forward in his chair. Judge Bauer listened to everything carefully. A defendant stood at the counsel table, silently watching the proceedings.
The court officer at the railing moved aside, letting Marc approach the bridge man at the side of the counsel table.
“Hiya, Couns,” said Brady the bridge man. He was an old-timer. He was holding the papers for the next case to be called. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a fellow on the calendar named Maricyk,” Marc replied.
Brady began to leaf through court papers which were folded into a narrow file drawer on the counsel table. The papers were numbered according to their position on the morning’s calendar.
“Okay, I got a long calendar today, Couns. A hundred and five cases,” Charlie said unhappily as he continued to leaf through. “You’re number eighty-nine. I’m only on forty-eight now.” Charlie was heavy-set, with curly reddish hair and thick glasses. His uniform was a bit too tight around a developing beer belly.
“Charlie,” replied Marc quietly, “if I were to buy you a cigar or two, good ones, do you think you could pull my case and put it on the top of the calendar?” Marc smiled, knowing that Charlie was awaiting just such a cue.
“That’s possible, Counselor.” Charlie smiled innocently, taking Marc’s court papers out of the file drawer, placing them on the desk before him. “I got a couple of cops I got to get out of here before you, Couns. I’ll get to you in a couple of minutes. Okay?”
“Fine. I’m going back outside to find the cop. I’ll be right back.”
“That’s a good idea, Couns,” said Charlie. “Get the cop and everybody in here. This way when I give you a call, I can get you out of here right away.” He winked and returned to his post. The bench conference was still in session.
Marc walked toward the rear of the courtroom. Mrs. Maricyk was standing in the corridor, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette.
“Did you see Joey?” she asked.
“No. They only allow Legal Aid lawyers to see defendants in the bull pen in this court,” Marc replied.
“You mean you can’t even talk to him?” she asked. “How can he tell you what happened?”
“I’ll have to ask him when he comes out and we’re standing at the counsel table.”
Mrs. Maricyk looked at Marc skeptically. “But you said Legal Aid can talk to the prisoners. Is that the ones who don’t pay for their own lawyers?”
Marc nodded.
“How come?” she asked. “I mean don’t you have to talk to a prisoner whether he’s able to pay or not?”
“Yes, but those are the rules.”
Mrs. Maricyk shrugged, shaking her head. “That’s the cop over there,” she said, pointing to a young man in police uniform standing at the side of the corridor smoking. He was crew-cut and rangy, talking to another cop with a mustache. “The one in the mustache is his partner,” Mrs. Maricyk added.
“Which is the one who has the ax handle?” Marc asked, studying the two policemen.
“The one with the crew cut.”
Marc walked toward the two policemen. The hallway was still crowded by milling people. A veritable carpet of cigarette butts covered the floor.
“Officer,” said Marc, addressing the policeman with the crew cut. “I represent Joey Maricyk. Can I speak with you a moment?”
The two policemen looked at Marc warily, then at each other.
“Sure,” replied the crew cut, shrugging.
“I just wanted to find out about the case,” Marc said. “Just wanted to know if you’ve a good arrest; more or less, what I’m up against.”
“You don’t really think we can talk to you about the case without the District Attorney, do you, Counselor?” said the policeman with the mustache.
“Why not?” replied Marc. “I’m not trying to change anything, or bribe you, or wheedle information out of you that’s against the law or police rules.” He was still talking directly at the crew cut. “Especially since I know that you two do things exactly by the book. Tell me, are ax handles authorized equipment these days?”
The crew cut’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means that working my client over with an ax handle isn’t in the book,” Marc replied.
“Who told you that, his cute wife?” said the crew cut sarcastically.
“She told me something even better,” Marc said curtly. “Going to the defendant’s house and driving his wife to court is one that I’m sure the Commissioner would love to hear.”
The crew cut shifted from one foot to the other.
“Listen, Counselor, if you want to talk about the case, you better talk to the District Attorney, not us,” said the mustache.
“Oh, I’ll talk to him all right. And the Judge, too,” replied Marc. “I’m not bashful. Right now I’m talking to lover boy. Just as a lawyer for a client, of course. But if my client’s wife tells me that she sees either of you hanging around her house again, you can bet your shields that the Commissioner will be listening to a long, sad story from a weeping wife.”
“I didn’t do nothing,” said the crew cut annoyedly, getting red in the face now. “The guy fell down in the station house. That’s how he got hurt. He was starting to get wise, resisting arrest in the station house. Her, I only tried to be friendly.”
“Don’t even talk to him,” said the mustache. “Let him do his talking in court.”
The crew cut jutted out his bottom lip as he listened to his partner. He nodded, just watching Marc.
“Okay, see you inside,” said Marc. He turned and walked back to Mrs. Maricyk. “Come on, let’s go into court.”
“Wait a minute, Mister Conte,” she hesitated. “What’s going to happen in court now?”
“Joey’ll be arraigned: They’ll tell him what crime he’s charged with. Then he’ll plead not guilty. We’ll ask for a preliminary hearing, that’s where the cops will testify about what Joey was supposed to have done. If there’s not enough evidence, the Judge can dismiss the case.”
“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “You think the Judge’ll throw the case out?”
“I don’t even think we’ll get the hearing,” Marc replied flatly.
“How come?”
“Because Joey supposedly tried to bribe a cop,” said Marc. “That’s a felony, a large crime. And, besides, there may be some question of the police roughing Joey up. So rather than letting the case go to a hearing in this court where we can hear part of their evidence and do a lot of questioning, the D.A. will probably want to present the case to the grand jury.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means that the grand jury is like a regular jury you see in the movies,” Marc replied, “only bigger. Perhaps twenty, twenty-three people. And their job is to listen to the evidence the D.A. presents, and if they think there’s been a felony crime committed, they vote for an indictment. That’s a fancy word for a formal charge. That’s how a felony gets to court. After that you have a trial and all. Now, the grand jury proceedings are supposed to take the place of any hearing we might be entitled to in this court. The only difference is, the
D.A. prefers the grand jury hearing because we can’t be present to listen to the witnesses or cross-examine them. It’s a secret proceeding.”
“A secret proceeding?” Mrs. Maricyk’s face went blank. She stopped in her tracks. “You’re kidding! That’s got to be against the law or something?”
“Not yet, unfortunately,” Marc replied.
“Well, let’s get the hearing in this court today, where we can be present and you can ask questions and everything. Don’t let the D.A. give Joey no secret hearing.”
“I’d like to do just that, believe me,” said Marc. “But the D.A. will explain to the court that he’s going to present the case to the grand jury and the Judge will delay this proceeding here until he does.”
“Don’t let him do it,” Mrs. Maricyk insisted.
“I can’t force the Judge to do anything,” said Marc. “I can only give him what I think the law is. He doesn’t have to agree. The reason the Judge will use for the delay today is that a Supreme Court indictment would take precedence—is more important—than a case in this court, so if the D.A. were to get an indictment, the case would go to the Supreme Court and this court would be wasting its time having a hearing.”
“They’re going to railroad my husband, in other words,” Mrs. Maricyk said angrily, her head nodding. “Ain’t you gonna do something? What am I paying you for?”
“I’m going to argue and object as hard as I can, Mrs. Maricyk. But the Judge can do whatever he wants, and if he goes along with the D.A., we can only appeal to another court after the case is over.”
“What happens to Joey meanwhile?”
“I’ll have bail set. Can you afford to bail him out?”
Mrs. Maricyk’s eyes welled up with tears. “This stinks, Mister Conte. Can’t we do something. Go to another judge? I haven’t any money to put up for bail. Will the bondsman take my engagement ring?” She fingered a small diamond on her left hand.
“No, unfortunately, only a bank book or the deed to a house,” Marc replied resignedly. “I don’t make all these difficulties,” he tried to say consolingly. “This is just the way it is. I’ll try and get Joey paroled without bail.”
“Can’t we do something, get a hearing to have the case thrown out today? Go to another judge?”
“I’ve already mentioned, the only time we can appeal is after the whole case is all over. But, by that time, not having a hearing today is just a technical little violation nobody cares about.”
“You know, Mister Conte, I know you’re a good lawyer, so I trust you, but this system really stinks, you know.” Mrs. Maricyk now turned and walked into the courtroom angrily. Marc followed. They found seats in the spectator section of the courtroom. The two cops on the case came into the courtroom shortly and sat in the rows reserved for the police. Mrs. Maricyk watched the activity about her in bewilderment.
A short Puerto Rican prisoner, dressed in jeans, a dirty T-shirt, and sneakers, was brought into the courtroom from the bull pen. The court officer who accompanied the prisoner directed him to stand at the counsel table in front of the Judge.
“Docket Number A29257, Gugliermo Del Gato,” Charlie the bridge man announced loudly. “On charges of a violation of one thirty point thirty-five and one twenty point five of the penal law. On the complaint of Nereida San Fermin. Officer O’Callaghan.” Charlie looked toward the police section of the audience.
A short, blond man in a light windbreaker and blue slacks rose from his seat and looked around. His badge was pinned to the collar of his jacket. The policeman motioned to a thin, dark girl sitting in the back of the courtroom. She walked toward the front of the courtroom carrying a baby in her arms. Another child followed behind, clutching the hem of her dress. One of the Legal Aid lawyers who had been sitting at a desk on the side of the courtroom, walked to the counsel table, and stood next to the prisoner.
“The defendant is represented by Legal Aid,” Charlie the bridge man continued. “Do you waive the formal reading of the charges, Counselor?”
“Yes,” replied the Legal Aid lawyer.
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Maricyk whispered to Marc.
“The Puerto Rican in the sneakers is being arraigned on a rape charge,” Marc replied softly.
“Rape? He raped the one with the two kids?” Mrs. Maricyk was shocked.
Marc shook his head. “I’m sure the woman is what is known as the defendant’s common-law wife,” he explained. “And I’m also sure that those are his children, and they all live together. The man and the woman were probably having an argument, and he beat her up, so she ran out of the house, got a cop and charged him with rape. Somebody must have told her she could charge him with statutory rape because she’s under age and not legally his wife.”
Mrs. Maricyk’s face rippled with a smile as she looked forward again.
The assistant District Attorney huddled at the counsel table with the woman complainant and the arresting officer. The woman was crying. The defendant was alternately talking to his Legal Aid lawyer and leaning over to speak in Spanish to the woman.
“Don’t do that,” Charlie the bridge man harshly reprimanded the defendant. The defendant glared at Charlie and continued talking to the lawyer.
“Your Honor,” said the District Attorney, turning to the Judge, “because of a lack of evidence, and after a conversation with the complainant and the arresting officer in this case, the People have determined that there would not be sufficient evidence here to sustain the burden of proof or to make out a prima facie case. Therefore, the People will move to dismiss these charges.”
“Why’s that?” Mrs. Maricyk turned to Marc.
“I guess she’s sorry she had her husband arrested and now she doesn’t want him to go to jail. So she’s refusing to press charges,” Marc explained. “On a case like this, the People have no objection.”
“Why’d they bother to bring the case to court in the first place then?”
“Because the woman made a complaint,” said Marc. “The policeman in the street is not a judge to decide if a crime was really committed. He received a complaint and made an arrest. Besides, the cop got paid a hundred dollars overtime to come to court, so he doesn’t mind a bit.”
Mrs. Maricyk frowned.
“The defendant will waive any suit for false arrest or for anything else against the City and against this officer,” the Legal Aid lawyer announced to the Judge for the court reporter to include in the record.
“Very well,” said the Judge impatiently. “Have him sign the affidavits to that effect. Case dismissed. Call the next case. Let’s go.” Judge Rathmore looked to neophyte Judge Bauer to be sure he took in the entire lesson. Judge Bauer nodded, and watched Charlie put three different rubber stamps on the court papers, then toss them in a basket next to the bench.
The defendant in the sneakers turned, put his arm around his wife, and walked toward the rear of the courtroom. One of the small children held his hand. The other tailed along behind. The wife was crying, nuzzling her tears against her husband’s chest.
“Docket Number A29630,” intoned Charlie. “William Turner, charged with violations of one forty point thirty, one fifty-five point forty, and one forty point thirty-five. On the complaint of Arthur Stark.”
A man with a bandaged head rose from the audience and went forward to swear to the truth of his complaint as another police officer got a Black prisoner out of the bull pen and stood him in front of the Judge. The District Attorney spoke to the cop as Legal Aid spoke to the defendant.
“This place is wild,” said Mrs. Maricyk. “This always go on?”
Marc nodded.
“When’s Joey’s case get called?” she asked.
“In a few minutes,” Marc replied.
“Why are all the women sitting inside the rail?”
“They’re mostly prostitutes,” said Marc. “Our male chauvinist past makes us regard women—even prostitutes—as too delicate to be kept in those animal cages in the back. Maybe women’s lib s
hould complain so they can all get tossed in the cells equally.”
Mrs. Maricyk grimaced, then turned to watch the court proceedings. After a few minutes, Mrs. Maricyk tapped Marc’s arm. “She really likes you,” Mrs. Maricyk said, motioning toward one of the women sitting inside the rail. “She’s been staring at you for ten minutes now.”
The woman staring at Marc was Black, exotic-looking, tall with a solid, taut figure. Her dress had a deep décolletage.
“She’s beautiful,” said Mrs. Maricyk. “Is she a prostitute?”
“First of all,” Mac replied, “she happens to be a he.”
Mrs. Maricyk stared at Marc and then turned to stare at the person in front of the courtroom. “You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not.”
“She’s got breasts,” Mrs. Maricyk countered.
“Silicone,” said Marc.
“How do you know about all these people without even knowing who they are?” she asked.
“You get a sense about cases when you’ve handled enough of them.”
“That good-lookin’ thing is a man?” repeated Mrs. Maricyk incredulously, looking forward again.
“Sure is. A strange man, but definitely not a woman.”
“But how, I mean, after all, if he’s a prostitute, I mean, the customer finds out and … does she, he, make money doin’ this?”
“I imagine so,” replied Marc. “He must pick up a customer and after they get through the preliminaries, he tells the customer that it’s one of those times of the month. But just so the customer’s not disappointed, he says he’s sure he can do something for him. And he does. And the customer pays him, and then the customer goes home to East Cupcake, Nebraska, and tells all his buddies about the really hot time he had in New York. Never knowing he was really out with a man.”
Mrs. Maricyk studied Marc dubiously. She looked back to the figure in the front.
“Next case,” said Judge Rathmore, finishing with the case before him. The Black man, originally charged with a burglary, pled guilty to a petit larceny misdemeanor. His sentence was set four weeks ahead.
Courthouse Page 4