Courthouse

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “No. He’s in Florida,” she replied. “He had some contracts or something he had to work on with a couple of men from Texas. Why they met in Florida is beyond me. He’s working on that damn octopus of his.”

  “Octopus?” asked Marc.

  “His mutual fund, conglomerate, corporation, holding company, or whatever the hell it is,” she said. “That’s the company that owns all of his companies. Seems he’s swallowed up so much, so fast, he needs a little time for digestion.”

  “Is Zack having business difficulties?” Marc asked.

  “No, his holdings are growing every day. Zack’s getting richer and richer. I think one of these days we’re going to have to ask permission to live on his world.” She puffed on her cigarette. “Bob—my husband—was always saying how he thought Zack’s whole empire was going to bust apart one day,” she added. “But Bob was jealous. He was lousy at being jealous. He was lousy at everything,” she added. “And now, I really must pee. Give me a call and we’ll talk for hours another day.” Without another word, Mrs. Wainwright disappeared quickly out of the room, her green robe flowing behind.

  “That nasty little bitch,” Franco murmured.

  “Cool it,” said Marc as they made their way to the front door. The elevator arrived and they rode silently to the street level.

  “Another minute of that smart-aleck talk and I was going to kick her in the ass,” Franco splurted as they reached the sidewalk.

  “Take it easy, Franco. She’s a client, not a friend. We don’t get involved with clients because we like the pleasure of their company.”

  “I guess that’s right,” said Franco.

  They were both silent as they continued to walk toward the car. When they reached the car, Franco opened the door for Marc and then got into the driver’s side.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” said Franco.

  “Go ahead,” said Marc expectantly.

  “Well, you brought me along so I’d get some ideas, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, then, here we go,” said Franco. “First, she’s a nasty bitch.”

  “That I figured out by myself.”

  “Okay, next. Even if she’s a nasty bitch, that don’t mean she ought to get hung with a rap that ain’t—isn’t hers.”

  “I’m with you so far,” said Marc. “Now what’s the theory? Or do you want to wait to discuss it with Mrs. Conte?”

  “We can discuss it some more later,” he said. “But I don’t get the feeling that she killed him. I don’t know why. But that’s the feeling I get. What I do feel is that this nasty bitch gets drunk a lot. We know she was drunk the night her husband was killed; really drunk, is how she said it. Now if her being really drunk is a lot worse than she is now, then she wouldn’t even know what she was doing or where she was when she’s like that. People who know her would probably know that too. So when she was really drunk, like that night her husband was killed, someone who knew her could have knocked off her husband while she was passed out and put the gun in her hand.”

  “That’s really good,” said Marc irreverently. “Except, how did the killer in your theory get Mister Wainwright to Toni Wainwright’s apartment on this particular night? How did the killer then get in himself or herself? How did the killer get Toni Wainwright’s pistol to kill Wainwright with? And one final question, why?”

  “I don’t know those answers,” said Franco. “Not yet … I’ve got to talk to Mrs. Conte about that. But Mrs. Wainwright wouldn’t know the difference if somebody did kill her husband even if she was there, if she was passed out drunk.”

  “That may be true, but it’s the rest of the idea that disturbs me,” said Marc.

  “And how about that Zack Lord having the same pistol?” asked Franco. “That’s something we’ve got to kick around some more.”

  “Interesting,” said Marc. “But ballistics will probably indicate that Mrs. Wainwright’s pistol fired the fatal shot. Of course, we don’t know much about ballistics, do we?”

  “You think I may be onto something, hanh?”

  “No, I was just thinking about the fact that a ballistics man could get on the stand and testify that a bullet came out of a particular pistol, say Mrs. Wainwright’s. And then, because we haven’t done much research into the subject of ballistics, we’d have to accept it, as the jury, judge, and everyone else does now. But supposing ballistics isn’t so accurate a science, or supposing the ballistics man isn’t so sharp. Maybe he makes a mistake. But I don’t know it, because I’m not up on the subject.” Marc thought quietly for a moment. “I think we’d better do some checking into ballistics.”

  “And how about my theory?” asked Franco.

  “Talk to Mrs. Conte and come up with some of the answers to the problems in your theory. Then you’ll have something.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  16

  Saturday, August 19, 1:30 P.M.

  Pescadorito’s hull lifted and fell through the gently rolling tide of Gravesend Bay as the boat passed beneath the vast span of the Verrazano Bridge. The bridge, arching from Brooklyn to Staten Island, over that part of New York Harbor known as The Narrows is the longest suspension bridge in the world. And yet, the dazzling effect of the bridge is somewhat diluted by ten other major bridges with in a five-mile radius.

  Franco was at Pescadorito’s helm. He wore jeans and a striped polo shirt. It was a hot day, and the sky was completely cloudless.

  Maria was on the fore deck in a white bikini. She was lying down, sunning herself, her eyes closed. Her arms were braced on each side of her as the boat rolled on the ever larger waves. They were headed out to the ocean.

  Marc was reading the New York Times. He wore bell bottomed jeans; no shirt.

  “What are you doing?” Maria asked, not opening her eyes.

  “Just reading the paper.”

  “How come? I thought we came out here to get away from all the horrors they report in the papers.”

  “Just checking,” said Marc. “I’m reading about this fellow who was arrested in Brooklyn last night, charged with killing a seven-year-old girl.”

  “I heard that on the radio this morning,” said Maria. “That the case where he molested her and then tried to decompose her body in a pit of lye?”

  “Those are the charges.” Marc continued his reading.

  “I know everybody’s entitled to a fair trial and all that,” said Maria calmly, her eyes still closed. “But a person like that is really sick. I don’t advocate anything violent, but they ought to give him a frontal lobotomy or something, turn him into a harmless vegetable.”

  “That’s a hell of a thing.” Marc put the paper aside. “What could be more violent than that?”

  “Molesting and killing a seven-year-old girl and trying to get rid of the body in a pit of lye, that’s what,” Maria said emphatically, sitting up. She wore a printed cloth band about the top of her head.

  The wind was increasing as they neared the open water. The boat was heeling over sharply now. The breeze pushed Maria’s hair back off her face.

  “It’s a pretty crummy crime,” admitted Marc. “This fellow’s going to have one hell of a time getting a fair trial.”

  “I don’t get the impression you’re starting to think about defending him, do I?” she asked with obvious displeasure.

  “You sound pretty strongly on the subject. Why shouldn’t the man be defended?”

  “Because it’s more than a pretty crummy crime, as you described it. It’s horrible … a seven-year-old child.”

  “Your reaction is all the more reason that the fellow needs a strong, objective defense,” said Marc. “You, after all, darling, are a pretty reasonable person—most of the time—and even you are outraged. Can you imagine how some of the cops that arrested him feel? Can you imagine how the people in Brooklyn who are going to be on the jury will feel?”

  “Come on, Marc. Don’t get any ideas about defending him.”

  “Why not?”

/>   “Because. It’s just horrible. That poor little girl.”

  “You sound like all the strangers who ask me whether I’d defend someone if I knew for sure that he was really guilty,” said Marc.

  “I know, and your answer is that whatever crime he’s committed your job is not to get him off, but just to see that he gets a fair trial. But this crime is horrible. Who cares if this filthy animal gets a fair trial as long as he’s off the streets.”

  “I care,” said Marc. “The more I listen to you, the more I realize maybe I should volunteer my services. I can just imagine what Franco would say about this case.”

  Maria turned. “Franco.”

  Franco saw her turn toward him and say something. He motioned with his head to indicate he couldn’t hear. Both his hands were on the wheel.

  “What do you think about the case this morning in the paper, about the little girl?” Maria called.

  Franco cupped one hand around an ear; he still couldn’t hear her.

  “What do you think about the case where the little girl was killed this morning?” she called louder now.

  Franco shook his head. He couldn’t hear over the sound of the rushing waters and the wind. They were out past Breezy Point jetty now. Sandy Hook loomed over the starboard bow.

  “Go and ask him, please,” Maria urged. “I want to see his reaction.”

  “Okay. I’m curious myself.” Marc walked aft.

  “What’s the matter?” Franco asked.

  “Nothing. Maria just wanted to know what you thought about the fellow who’s accused of killing that little girl in Brooklyn this morning?”

  Franco looked forward to Maria and put one hand around his own throat, letting his tongue dangle out of his mouth. He pointed to the top of the mast.

  “First, I’d cut the bastard’s balls off and stuff them in his mouth,” Franco said quietly to Marc. “Then I’d hang his ass from the tallest thing I could find.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” said Marc. He made his way carefully back to where Maria was sitting.

  “You’d better not defend that animal, Marc Conte,” Maria said firmly.

  “Look darling, I personally think the crime is outrageous, okay? Professionally, however, it’s something else.”

  “What else?”

  “Professionally, it’s a crime, like any other crime, which has legislated elements which the D.A. must prove in order to obtain a conviction. A defense lawyer can’t think of it as a terrible thing. It’s a crime, a crime created by men in the Legislature in Albany, put into effect by men—the D.A., and a judge, and a jury. And someone has to resist the rushing flow of bad publicity and make the D.A. prove his case according to the law.”

  “Darling,” said Maria. “I know what you mean. I agree with you most of the time. But this …”

  “This is exactly what I’ve always been talking about. The kind of case where no one wants to touch the defendant with a ten-foot-pole. Not even me, really. But someone has to protect him. Not because he’s innocent. Not because he’s a marvelous person. Not because I’d want to get him off. That’s not the defense lawyer’s job even though most people think that it is. But this man needs someone to defend him just to make sure that he gets a fair trial; that all the T’s are crossed and all the I’s dotted, and the law complied with right down the line. If that’s done, and he’s convicted, then I’d have no complaint. What would you say if after a full, impartial jury trial, the jury decides that the man is actually not guilty, say because it’s a mistaken identity, or some other reason?”

  “That would be different.”

  “Well, how the hell are you going to find that out if he doesn’t get a fair trial?” asked Marc.

  Maria looked at him, her mouth softening into a smile. “I guess you’re right. But it’s such a horrible thing …”

  “I absolutely agree. But perhaps after a trial, he’ll be found to have committed not murder, but, say, manslaughter in the first degree. The difference between life in prison and twenty-five years. Shouldn’t he be convicted of what he’s committed? Not a whit more, not a whit less?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then let the D.A. earn his salary, and whatever the jury says goes, guilty or not guilty. Is there anything fairer than that?”

  “No.”

  “You think it should be different than that?”

  “No.”

  Marc leaned over and kissed the end of Maria’s nose.

  “Are you going to volunteer to represent this fellow?” she asked.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “I’m sure the court will appoint someone who knows how to handle the case,” said Marc.

  Maria put her arms around Marc’s neck, leaning her forehead against his, looking into his eyes, gently reproving him. “Only if it’s absolutely necessary. Please. I mean, there are other lawyers. You didn’t invent the system, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Maria kissed him, her mouth soft and warm. Marc’s tongue gently flicked at her lips. Her tongue in turn touched the tip of his.

  “Did I tell you this morning how fantastically you fill out that bikini,” Marc said, his forehead still pressed gently against hers.

  The air was fresh and smelled of the clean sea now.

  “No.”

  “You have some everything, baby,” he said kissing her again. “Some legs, some ass, some beautiful, round belly, some … shall I go on?”

  “Did I tell you,” she said, looking back toward the helm to be sure Franco was busy, “that I noticed that you weren’t wearing anything under those pants?” Her hand gently slid up his thigh and touched the firm bulge at his crotch.

  “Why you little devil.” Marc smiled. He took her arm and moved her so that she lay back on the deck again. He lay close beside her. They kissed warmly, passionately. Maria’s tongue slid into Marc’s mouth. Their legs intertwined. The heaving of the boat rocked him against her legs.

  “Let’s go below,” she said gently as their lips parted.

  “Right here on deck?”

  “Very cute.”

  Marc stood, and helped Maria to her feet. They both moved along the side of the cabin to the cockpit. Marc patted her rear end as she moved ahead of him. She flicked her hand at his to stop him as they reached Franco.

  “We’re going below. I’m going to sleep for a while,” Marc said to Franco. “You be okay here by yourself for a while?”

  “Sure.”

  Marc followed Maria below. She moved directly through the main salon into the forward cabin. As she arrived there, she turned to embrace Marc who was directly behind her. They stood, their bodies now pressed warmly against each other, kissing. Marc shut the cabin door with his foot.

  “You turn me on like an electric light bulb,” she said as she stopped kissing him so she could gather air.

  “And you me,” he said, his hands sliding up her back and undoing her bra. It fell to the floor. Her breasts, firm and taut, were quite light compared to the tan of the rest of her. Her nipples were pointed and erect. Fingers of each of his hands gently brushed across both her nipples as they kissed again.

  “You have such fantastic hands,” she said, her eyes closed ecstatically as Marc continued to rub her nipples.

  Maria’s hand went into the waistband of Marc’s pants moving down until she grasped him firmly, caressingly.

  “You have fantastic hands too,” Marc said. His mouth found hers again, and they silently caressed and fondled each other as they kissed. The rocking of the ship was timed, it seemed, or they timed themselves, so that they were rocking against each other excitingly.

  Marc’s hands moved down and he hooked his index fingers into each side of her bikini bottoms. The pants slid beneath his fingers until, after they cleared her wide hips, revealed all the whiteness and darkness and softness beneath. Marc moved forward, as they still kissed, toward the bunk. He reached down now and picked Maria u
p in his arms, lifting her onto the soft mattress of the bunk.

  Maria’s hands unlaced Marc’s pants. They, too, fell to the floor, revealing him naked and aroused and aching for her. He climbed onto the bunk. They kissed again, their bodies hot, their legs intertwined.

  Marc’s hands gently ran over her breasts as they kissed, then slowly slid down her chest to her stomach, and then lower still until he caressed her completely.

  “Oh, Marc,” she gasped in his ear. “Oh, ohhh …”

  Her hands had enveloped him, arousing him, exciting him, pulling at him. And all that could be heard now was the rushing of the water beneath the boat, and the gentle rocking, and the occasional shifting of the sail on the mast as Pescadorito cut its way smoothly through the sea.

  17

  Monday, August 21, 9:15 A.M.

  Marc was at his office desk looking over his check book and a list of accounts receivable. He still hadn’t charged Mrs. Maricyk any fee. He didn’t want to press her too hard, especially since she was trying to raise bail money. He probably would only ask her for a thousand dollars, maybe less. He tried to adjust his fees so a defendant without much money or with no money could still be helped yet not insulted or humbled. The wealthier people paid more, but to them, their freedom was worth it, and they didn’t give a damn that they were paying more so Marc could afford to help the little guy too.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows; the kind of sunlight early fall always brings, not as hot, but brighter, whiter, as the sun held lower in the sky. The weather was considerably cooler today. A buzzer sounded.

  “Yes?” said Marc, picking up the intercom.

  “Mister Fox is here to see you,” Marguerite announced.

  “Bring him in,” said Marc. He read the last remaining entries on the check book, then closed the book.

  Lawrence V. Fox was an attorney. He handle mostly minor criminal cases, and could be seen daily hustling through the corridors of the Criminal Courts Building. Indeed, when many criminal attorneys were sought to handle minor gambling, prostitution, pickpocket cases, they referred the case to Fox. There was usually not much fee involved in such matters, but Fox capitalized on volume work. He rarely went to trial; usually the case was disposed of by way of plea and fine. The door opened, and Marguerite showed Mister Fox into Marc’s office.