Courthouse

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  George smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll try and make it if I get back in time,” Marc deferred, knowing he wouldn’t.

  “Yeah, make one of your courtroom speeches on the deck of your boat.” The Crusher began to laugh. “You’ll breeze all the way in on the hot air. I’m only kidding, Counselor. Hey, listen, you oughta invite me on your boat. I’ll bring some ‘sangwiches’—provolone, salami, capacullo, wine, the works. Just tell me when. And listen”—he mugged for George’s benefit now—“if you ever need your boat sunk for the insurance, I got just the guy for you.” He laughed boisterously and left the courtroom.

  “Your client, sir, is a complete madman,” said George, watching the large doors to the courtroom close behind The Crusher. “That’s going to be quite a rally,” he added.

  “Compagna is doing a job,” said Marc. “He’s going to build a hospital; he’s already raised the money. He’s even opening a camp for kids—all kids, all races and religions, and all that.”

  “He is doing good work,” admitted George. “It’s too bad Compagna has such a bad reputation. And people like your client here definitely do not help their cause.”

  “He’s just a big kid,” said Marc.

  “I wouldn’t want to meet that kid in an alley, day or night,” said George.

  “Neither would I,” agreed Marc. “Come on, now, tell me why the hell you’re here and not in City Hall running the city.”

  “I came to see you, of course,” George replied. “I need your help on something.”

  “You. name it, you got it,” said Marc. “Come on, I’m going to meet Maria for lunch. We’ll go to Ponte’s. Join us.”

  “That sounds great. I haven’t seen that lovely and groovy wife-lady in ages,” said George. “And besides life is beautiful, the food at Ponte’s is great.” George was now reciting a motto from the top of Ponte’s blackboard menu.

  They both laughed as they left the courthouse.

  6

  Thursday, August 10, 1:05 P.M.

  Marc and George Tishler stood alone at the long, dark, quiet bar in Ponte’s Restaurant. Each held a tall vodka and tonic filled to the brim with ice. Maria had just excused herself to go to the powder room. At the far end of the bar, the bartender was talking softly with three customers. Somehow, the dimness of the bar, bathed in the cool of the air conditioner, and the chilled glasses of vodka and tonic helped Marc and George forget the humid dog days pitilessly lying in wait just beyond the front entrance.

  “You really going sailing for the weekend?” George asked. He lifted his drink toward Marc, then sipped.

  “As soon as I finish a couple of little things in the office after lunch,” Marc replied, lifting his glass to return George’s salute. He too sipped. “Franco’s already on the boat getting it rigged out.”

  “Who’s Franco?”

  “He’s our man Friday,” Marc replied. “He was a client I got out of trouble. He had no family of his own, no relatives, so Maria and I sort of adopted him into our family. He drives the car, sails the boat, keeps the house in order.”

  “He live with you?”

  Marc nodded as he took a long drink from his glass.

  George drank again. “That’s the life. All weekend sailing. You won’t be back before Monday?”

  “No.”

  The maître d’ walked over to them. “We’re ready any time you are, Mister Conte.”

  “In a few minutes, Ruggierio,” said Marc.

  “Now that you two decadent people have induced a public servant who usually grabs a ham on rye at his desk to this den of luxury, I’m dying to order something fantastic,” said George.

  “You won’t be disappointed,” said Marc. “Here’s Maria now.”

  Maria was tall, dark-haired, and beautiful in an exotic way. Her body was lithe, with firm breasts and taut buttocks and legs. She wore a beige pants suit and her hair was back and off her neck. She had small gold hoops through the lobes of her pierced ears. Maria smiled widely as she reached the two of them.

  “With a smile like that, I don’t even mind waiting,” said George.

  “You want to go in?” said Marc. “I’ll have them send the drinks to the table.”

  “Don’t bother about mine,” said George, draining his glass.

  Marc did the same.

  “That solves that problem,” said Maria. She reached out and held Marc’s hand as they walked through the passage to the dining room.

  The maître d’ showed them to a banquette against the wall in the first room. About three quarters of the tables were filled. It was still a little early for the Friday lunch crowd. The room was dim, decorated in reds, with paintings hung every few feet on the walls.

  “Hello, boss,” said one of the captains, smiling as he approached. “Hello, Mrs. Boss.”

  “Hello, Romano,” said Maria.

  “A bottle of red wine okay with you, George?” Marc asked.

  “Sure.”

  “The usual?” the captain asked. Marc nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You look great,” George said to Maria.

  “Thanks.”

  “And that outfit looks fantastic on you,” he added.

  “Thanks again, George.”

  “Are you trying to turn Maria’s head?” chided Marc.

  “I wish I could. I told you I don’t know what she sees in you, anyway.”

  “I do,” she said, her hand touching the back of Marc’s head.

  “There, that ought to put you in your place,” said Marc.

  “I’m put in my place.”

  The wine arrived, and the captain poured a small amount into Marc’s glass. He tasted it and nodded. The captain poured wine for all of them.

  “How’s your teaching job going?” George asked.

  “Great, just great,” replied Maria.

  “She’s doing an amazing job,” said Marc, “even if she won’t say so herself. She takes these kids from deprived backgrounds, mostly Puerto Rican and some Black—her school is in East Harlem—they can hardly communicate when she gets them. They can’t even speak in sentences.”

  “Their parents probably can’t either,” said George.

  “That’s exactly right,” said Maria. “A couple of years ago, these kids would have been considered retarded or stunted. Now, we take them at pre-school age and prepare them to go to school, teach them a little, make them comfortable by bringing them into our world a little.”

  Marc smiled as he watched Maria talk.

  “It sounds good,” said George.

  They sipped their wine silently for a moment.

  “Where did you get it?” George asked Maria. “The great outfit, I mean.”

  “Marc and I found it in Saks.”

  “You two still buy all your clothes together?” asked George.

  “Tht only way to do it,” said Marc.

  “I can just see me telling Phyllis that we should go shopping for her clothes together. My clothes, she doesn’t mind helping me buy. But her clothes. She’d tell me to take the air.”

  “She’s missing out on a lot of fun, George. So are you,” said Maria sipping her wine.

  “I am?”

  “Sure. I love Marc and the most fun I get out of life is making him happy,” she said. “The happier I make him, the happier I am. And since he feels the same way I do, he wants to make me happy. You see, we get twice as much happiness this way. Remember, loving is giving, George, never taking.”

  “That’s a nice theory, Maria,” said George. “But it doesn’t seem to be too popular among the adult population. Do you think people are really able to do that—just give? I mean, it’s like opening yourself up to get kicked in the teeth.”

  “Being in love does mean opening up and being very vulnerable,” Maria agreed. “But the person who loves you in turn doesn’t want to take advantage or take anything. They go out of their way not to hurt. And you do the same. So you end up neither hurting or being hurt.”

  George
looked to Marc, then back to Maria skeptically.

  “It’s really easy, George,” assured Maria. “There are so many things in the world—so many everything, that I can easily find something that both Marc and I like or enjoy. Why choose anything that doesn’t make both of us happy? Take clothes, or shoes, for instance. There are so many pairs of shoes in a shoe store. Suppose we’re looking for shoes, and I see a pair I like. And Marc tells me he doesn’t like them. I don’t buy them. We keep looking, and then he sees a pair of shoes he likes. And I don’t like them. We still keep looking. Eventually, we’ll find a pair of shoes that we’re both happy with and buy them. That’s giving to each other, George.”

  “But then your theory requires taking,” said George. “You take your partner’s love, don’t you?”

  “No, you’re making them happy by being gracious enough to accept the love they extend to you. That’s still giving to them.”

  “I’ll tell my wife,” said George. “I can also tell you what she’ll tell me to do.”

  “That’s enough psychology,” Marc said. “How about lunch?” He signaled the captain, who rolled the blackboard menu to their table.

  “What should I order?” George asked.

  “Try the calamari and shrimp casserole,” Marc suggested.

  “What is it.”

  “Trust us on this, George,” Maria smiled.

  “Oh, it’s one of those things I shouldn’t ask about until after I’ve tasted it?”

  “That’s it,” Maria smiled. “I’m having the same.”

  “Me too,” said Marc.

  “That’s good enough for me,” said George.

  The captain noted their order and left.

  George looked around the room. Maria and Marc sipped their wine, table watching for a moment. The room was full by now. Marc noticed Judge Feld from the Supreme Court standing at the maître d’s desk, waiting for a table. To those who didn’t know he was a judge, he looked just like any other person waiting for a table. All those accouterments of the bench, the court officers, the robe, the official importance which create a world of pomp were gone. The Judge had to leave them behind when he ventured into the rest of the world. Marc thought Feld looked uncomfortable being treated like a mere mortal.

  “Captain,” Marc said softly.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “That man over there at the desk—gray hair, dark suit.”

  The captain looked. “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s a judge and a friend of mine. Tell Ruggierio to make a fuss over him. Get him a table.”

  The captain nodded and walked to the desk. He whispered to Ruggierio, the maître d’. Ruggierio walked to Judge Feld and extended a gracious greeting, apologizing for keeping the Judge waiting. The Judge beamed and felt more comfortable now. The maître d’ began to lead them to a table near Marc and the others.

  “Hello, Judge,” said George rising. Marc rose too. They all shook hands.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. He nodded to Maria. He was vital again. “Didn’t know you fellows came here too. Business must be good at City Hall.”

  “Always busy, Judge,” said George.

  They all smiled pleasantly again. Ruggierio showed the Judge to a table.

  Marc, George, and Maria settled back waiting for their lunch. “As long as I’m going to spend the city’s money and pick up the tab, we might as well talk a little business,” George said.

  “Who says you’re going to pick up the check?” asked Marc.

  “That wouldn’t be fair otherwise,” said George.

  “Who said anything about being fair?”

  “A fine thing. I ask you to lunch, and you pick up the tab.”

  “One good turn deserves another, George,” said Maria.

  George smiled. “Well, how about it?” he asked Marc. “Do you think you’ll have time to do some discreet snooping in the courts for the Mayor?”

  Maria looked to Marc.

  “I’ll do it for you, if you want, George,” Marc replied.

  “I do.”

  “Only don’t expect me to do any in-depth statistical analysis or anything. I’ll just be able to tell you about individual cases and situations, point you in the right direction perhaps.”

  “That’s exactly what we want, Marc,” said George.

  “You give the Mayor the leads, and he’ll follow them up.”

  Marc looked at George skeptically.

  “He will, Marc, he will. You don’t know this Mayor,” George assured him. “He’s really a very progressive guy.”

  Marc poured some wine, then leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

  “George, the Mayor’s a politician, and politicians are only interested in what the voters are interested in. And the voters, the general public, hardly care about defendants’ rights. That is, until one of their kids or someone they know is arrested.”

  “The public isn’t as cold as that,” George said.

  “They’re not cold,” said Marc. “They’re afraid. They read all the sensational stories in the papers, and get so scared they want to destroy every hint, every mention of crime, including the defendants.”

  “I really don’t think that’s true, Marc,” said George.

  “No? Go into court as a defendant—even if you’re innocent—and see how you’ll be treated. Look at the laws, and how the courts apply them; see if even the Legislature permits a defendant the means to protect himself.”

  “You’re not saying what all these hippie demonstrators say, that the system is evil, fascistic, are you?” George asked.

  “Not at all,” Marc replied. “But it’s an uphill struggle just to defend yourself from the moment you’re arrested. It shouldn’t be stacked against the defendant that way.”

  “How is it stacked, as you say?” pressed George.

  “Take the start of a case, the preliminary hearing to determine if a crime has been committed,” said Marc. “The Legislature gives a defendant the right to a hearing within a certain number of hours or days. That’s only theoretical, however. Practically speaking, when a judge refuses to give a defendant his hearing, which happens twenty times a day in 100 Centre Street alone, what can the defendant do about it? The Legislature hasn’t provided a way of enforcing the law until an appeal after the trial, after the whole case is over. But, it’s too late then. So why does the Legislature go through the motions of making laws that have no teeth?”

  George was silent.

  “How about the way we send people to jail, George,” Marc continued. “Why do we send a person to jail who’s committed a non-violent crime for the first time? No question about it, he committed a crime without violence, say embezzlement, a stock fraud, income tax evasion. And he has no previous criminal history whatsoever. Why do we send him to jail?”

  “The classic answer is to rehabilitate him,” said George, with a shrug.

  Maria sipped her wine, quietly listening.

  “Penologists have been saying for years that in the first place, jails are not rehabilitating,” Marc countered. “Second, it’s a known fact that more than sixty-five per cent of the people who commit a crime for the first time will never commit another crime whether you give them one day, one year, or ten years in jail. They learn their lesson right off the bat. And the other thirty-five per cent if you give them one year, or ten years, or twenty years in jail, they’ll commit a crime the first chance they get when they get out, no matter what. So how does a judge know to which side, which percentage group, a defendant who’s never been in trouble before is going to fall? Why not put all non-violent first offenders on probation? If they step across the line and violate probation, even once, they can always be sent away for the full time they should have gotten in the first place.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said George. “But it takes time to change traditions and old principles.” George thought for a moment. “The Mayor’s the right guy to do it, though, Marc.”

  “Why then are there so many mayorally appointed judges w
ho act like D.A.s with black robes on?” asked Marc.

  “This guy never stops, does he?” George said to Maria lightly.

  She smiled. “You ought to know that by this time, George.”

  “Okay, put this in your pipe and smoke it,” George said to Marc. “How would you like to be screened for a judgeship?”

  Maria stared at George, then Marc.

  “Come on, George, let’s not talk nonsense,” said Marc.

  “I’m very serious.”

  “I haven’t even been a lawyer long enough, have I?” he asked.

  “Sure you have. It’ll be eleven years next June,” said George. “You only need ten.”

  “But I have no political affiliations, George. Your Mayor isn’t interested in a guy like me. Besides, I don’t want to be a judge. I like what I’m doing.”

  “But if you say we’re not appointing the right men,” said George, “and then the Mayor says to you, okay, we’ll appoint you, don’t you have some kind of obligation, at least to your own principles, to consider the offer? I mean, if all good men say, I like what I’m doing, I don’t want to be bothered, then the only ones left for the Mayor to appoint are hacks.”

  “I agree with George,” said Maria.

  The waiter came with trays of steaming food. He set a plate in front of each of them and refilled their glasses with wine. George rubbed his hands together, picked up his fork and began eating.

  “Man, this dish is fantastic!”

  “It’s extra good today,” agreed Maria.

  “What the hell happened to eleven years?” amused Marc. “I mean that’s a long time, George. What the hell did we do with all that time?”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” replied George. “You know, when you’re younger, you think, gee, guys who have been out of law school eleven years, they’re old. But suddenly, you turn around, yourself, and here we are, ten years later.”

  “I don’t feel old,” said Marc.

  “Me neither,” said George. He laughed and then continued eating. “You remember Professor Stone? Did we ever tell you about Professor Stone, Maria?” George asked, turning to Maria.