“Hiya, Marc,” said Fox, smiling, reaching out to shake Marc’s hand. He was of medium height, his gray hair combed into a pompadour. His clothes were kind of flashy-sharp, like a small-time gambler’s. Fox was quick-moving, doing everything with a kind of nervous, compulsive rapidity.
“Hello, Larry,” replied Marc, standing. “Here, Marguerite,” he said, taking some papers from the side of his desk. “Type these Wainwright papers in final form and serve them on the D.A. right away. Make the motion returnable next Tuesday. And here,” he said, taking the draft of another set of motion papers from his desk. “Take the motion to suppress the recordings in the Maricyk case and make it up. Serve both motions for the same day.”
Even though Marc had decided to seek a lesser plea for Maricyk, he had to continue to prepare for a trial. The D.A. might not offer a plea Marc thought acceptable. And, besides, to keep some leverage, Marc couldn’t throw in the sponge now. He had to play it as if it was for real.
“Yes, sir,” Marguerite said, taking the papers, then turning to leave the room. She shut the door behind her.
“Always work, hanh, Marc?” said Fox, smiling quickly. He sat in the chair just in front of Marc’s desk, crossing his legs.
“Yes,” agreed Marc. “There’s always something else to be done.”
Fox uncrossed his legs as he studied the pictures on the walls, the diplomas, the certificates behind Marc. “Nice office,” he said. Even while seated, he seemed to be moving.
“Thanks. How’ve you been?” asked Marc.
Fox waved his hand through the air several times quickly. He frowned. “With all this Legal Aid crap, business stinks. Nowadays, the judges ask the defendant You have any money?; naturally the defendant says no, and then they give him Legal Aid just like that without even checking the guy out. In the old days, you had to really not have any money to get Legal Aid. This way, it’s really cut into the business. Don’t you find it that way?”
“I’ve noticed the judges doing that,” Marc replied politely.
“Are you kidding?” said Fox, weaving back and forth on the chair. “Now they have, who knows, forty, fifty, Legal Aid lawyers just in 100 Centre alone. There’s three or four in every court. Sure it’s cut into business. Maybe you don’t know. You handle different kinds of stuff. Me, I grab a quick fee, wham, bam, thank you ma’am, finished. But that business is shot, too. Gambling used to be good. Ten cases a night. And the prostitution cases. And the fag cases. All the little shit that nobody else wanted, I’d make a good buck, I mean, a real good buck on it, Marc.” He winked at Marc for emphasis.
“That’s fine, Larry.”
“But all that practice is down the drain, Marc,” Fox continued. “What with this Legal Aid on one side and Mayor Davies and all his asshole policies on the other. Gamblers aren’t arrested anymore; prostitutes you fall over them in the streets; fags almost have a union or something now. They organize and picket. You can hardly make a living nowadays.” He grew silent, staring at a spot of sunlight on the floor.
“What can I help you with, Larry?” Marc asked, after a rather long silence.
Fox started nodding his head quickly. “I got myself an indictment.”
“You were indicted personally?” Marc was surprised.
Fox nodded again. “Yeah. Didn’t you hear about it?”
“No, I didn’t,” replied Marc. “I’m sorry.”
Fox was staring abstractedly at the floor. “Yeah. I got myself indicted for bribery.”
“Who were you supposed to have bribed?”
“A cop.”
Marc leaned back in his chair, looking steadily at Fox. “How long ago was this?”
“What, the indictment or the bribery?”
“Both.”
“The bribery was supposed to be about two months ago,” Fox replied. “In the beginning of June. The indictment, they came down with about two weeks ago. I didn’t retain any lawyer yet. I handled the arraignment myself. I mean, if I couldn’t enter a plea of Not Guilty for myself, I might as well hang up. So I saved a few bucks, right?”
“What’s supposed to have happened?” asked Marc.
“I was handling a small junk case, you know? Marijuana,” said Fox. “I’ll tell you confidentially,” he said automatically looking over his shoulder. “These kids were really dealing in pretty large amounts of marijuana. No hard shit. Only marijuana.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, these kids have a whole operation going, you know?” He stole another glance over his shoulder. “Heavy weights of stuff. I’m not representing any of them at the time, or anything. But one of the guys is a fruit I took care of a couple of time. Meatball cases. So he gets busted by the cops for marijuana. It was a real meatball case, too. A real nothing. They only caught him with, who knows, a few ounces, a half pound.”
“And you handled his case?” Marc probed.
“Yeah. Just the fruit. He was the only one arrested. The others are all from out of town, California. So he recommends me to them, and they pay me a good fee to represent him. Now I see fireworks in my head when I think maybe I do a dynamite job on the fruit’s case and they retain me to take on all their cases here. Nice piece of business, you know what I mean?” He looked at Marc, his eyebrows raised, nodding quickly. “I could cash in on these kids. Especially the way kids smoke grass today. We were born twenty years too late, hanh, Marc? The way these kids live—laid, parlayed, everything goes.”
“How’d you come to get indicted?”
Fox shrugged and grimaced simultaneously. “The cop on the arrest, I was talking to him. See, I made a motion to suppress. And we’re going to have this hearing, you know? And I talk to the cop outside the court and tell him that he don’t have to go out of his way, you know, break his neck, to make a case here. I more or less told him the facts of life.”
“And those facts included money, I suppose?” said Marc.
“Well, I told him there was a little sugar available, you know? He knew what I meant. He says ‘okay.’ But then he says the case had to be adjourned this day. So I say, ‘okay.’ I should have figured the fink was going to fuck me around. But everything is going good. So I figure what the hell. Besides, Judge Crown is sitting. He’s in the Part for a whole month. So I figure, sure, give this guy a two-week adjournment. Crown’ll still be sitting. You know he’s a good guy for a lawyer to appear before, right?”
“And the next time the cop came to court,” said Marc, “you spoke to him and he was wired with a tape recorder is that it?”
“That’s it,” Fox said. “Screwed, blued, and tattooed, all at once. The son of a bitch cop has a wire on him; he tapes the conversation and then some other bastard cops that were staked out nearby, they come over and arrest me. Right in the courthouse.”
Marc leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his chin resting, on his hands. “Larry, I can’t imagine how much any client could pay—and don’t tell me how much you were paid—I just can’t imagine anyone being able to pay a lawyer enough to put himself, his career, his profession, his license on the line by offering a bribe by getting involved in a crime.”
“Believe me, these kids were paying me real good. And it wasn’t just one case, Marc. It was the future. I was going to make them a package deal. When someone they sold to got busted, I’d handle that too. Not big cases, but all together, it would add up to a big thing, Marc. It really would.”
“I’ve often wondered, Larry, what kind of money could make me get involved in a crime,” Marc mused aloud. “I figured anything in five figures would be an insult, so we forget that.”
Fox stared at Marc.
“And six figures, well in a few good years, you can make that in practice yourself without risking the loss of your license or getting disbarred. So, it’d have to be in the high six figures or millions for me to get involved. But then what would I do with millions?”
Fox was studying Marc, his mouth open hungrily.
“As soon as I bought a big ya
cht or a private plane, the Internal Revenue would be on my back. The only thing I could do is bury the millions in the ground,” Marc went on. “And what the hell good would it be to have millions in the ground? So, here I am, and I can’t be bribed or bought. And I look at you and I say, Larry, how the hell could you get yourself into this predicament?”
“Hey, Marc, stop with the preaching bullshit,” said Fox. “All right, you wouldn’t do it. I did it. I’m in. Now will you defend me? Or is that beneath you too?”
“I’ll defend you, if you want,” said Marc. “I don’t have to approve of the crime in order to defend a case.”
“That’s all I ask,” said Fox. “I know you’re the best. You’ll do a job. You won’t charge me too much, though, will you?”
“You know, you’re incredible,” said Marc. “First you put yourself on the line for a client in an incredible way. Just for a few bucks. And now, when your whole career is on the line, you want to get a bargain price too. Don’t you think about anything except money?”
Fox shifted his eyes away from Marc. He tried a skimpy smile. “Sure I do. But at the moment, I can’t remember what it is.”
“It’ll cose you five thousand,” said Marc.
“Five thousand? Are you kidding. I’m a brother lawyer, Marc. Take it easy.”
“That’s why it’s only five thousand. If I thought you didn’t have it, I’d defend you for nothing. But you’ve got plenty, Larry. Remember all those good bucks you made on all those little cases. You stop playing the horses for a week and you’ll have it saved.”
Fox looked at Marc with a grimace that turned into a hard smile. “Okay. Give me a little while to put it together, okay?”
“Of course.”
18
Tuesday, August 22, 10:40 A.M.
Marc stood at the judge’s bench in Part 35 speaking with Judge Bernard Haroldson. Judge Haroldson was formerly a New York County Assistant D.A., later a Health Commissioner in the Impellitteri city administration, and, finally, a Supreme Court Justice. He was, in addition to being a good Democrat who made his way up through the ranks in proper order, a fine judge who not only knew the law but applied it fairly between the prosecution and the defense. D.A.s and defense lawyers alike who were looking for an edge were bluntly disappointed in Judge Harold-son’s courtroom.
While waiting for a prisoner to be brought to the courtroom from the bull pen, the Judge had asked Marc to approach the bench.
“How about a hint as to what your decision on the motion to suppress in the Samon case is?” asked Marc.
“What do you think this is, Marc”—the Judge was smiling—“the coming attractions at the movies?”
“No, but you’ve already said you made the decision. It’s just that your secretary hasn’t finished typing it. You could tell me what it is. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
The Judge laughed.
Marc’s client, Percival Samon, a young Black man, had been arrested by the police after they entered his apartment with a search warrant which authorized them to search for untaxed cigarettes. The New York State authorities were in the throes of a drive to stamp out the trade in cigarettes which were purchased in North Carolina, where the tax is minimal, then smuggled into New York and offered for sale at low, taxless prices. They obtained information that Samon was allegedly retailing the untaxed smokes. They swore out a search warrant, but when they arrived in Samon’s apartment, they didn’t find any cigarettes. They did find, however, several valuable paintings wrapped in cardboard; and in another room, tickets which looked like gallery tags for the same paintings. They arrested Samon on the spot, and after several hours at the station house, the police finally discovered that the paintings had indeed been stolen from the Parisian Art Galleries some months before, and were worth $12,000. Samon was booked for possession of stolen property.
“I may change my mind after I see the final decision typed,” said the Judge. “You know, I’ve done that. I’ve done research and dictated a decision. And before I see the final version typed, I find a new case or I’ve changed my mind for some other reason.”
“You mean, the decision depends on how fast your secretary types?”
“No, not at all. It’s just that in reading it over, I may find I want to decide the case some other way. Now you wouldn’t want me to tell you one thing, and then sign an opinion completely different, would you?”
“No. So tell me the final decision, and don’t change your mind.”
The Judge smiled again. “You brought up a most interesting point in this case, Marc.”
“Well, I just found that People versus Brown, 22 New York 2nd to be on all fours with the Samon case,” replied Marc.
On all fours in legal parlance means that the Brown case, to which Marc referred, and the present case were legally the same from every point of view, just as an animal might resemble another animal from every point of view, from all four sides, on all four legs.
“I’m not sure it’s on all fours,” the Judge said thoughtfully.
“How come?” asked Marc. “The Brown decision says that a search warrant must specifically indicate what the police are to look for. And if they find something else they believe to be fruits of another crime, they must secure the place and obtain another search warrant. Isn’t that what happened here? They were supposed to look for untaxed cigarettes and they arrested Samon for paintings?”
“You’re not saying the police can’t seize contraband in open view, are you?” asked the Judge.
“No. But paintings are not contraband. Weapons are. Drugs are. But paintings may or may not be. That’s why the cops need a search warrant”
Judge Haroldson shrugged noncommittally. He glanced over to the clerk and saw that the prisoner for whom he was waiting had arrived. “Still looking for a preview aren’t you, Marc? And you think you’re going to suck me into telling you. Come back in an hour and I’ll have the final version for you.”
“You’re sure a tough guy to get any information out of, Judge.”
“You wouldn’t want me to change my mind and not suppress what I’ve already decided to suppress, would you?” the Judge asked, winking.
Marc smiled. “No, I can wait.”
“Fine.”
“Judge, can I just say that it is always extremely refreshing to appear before you.”
“Thanks.”
“The only reason I say that, Your Honor,” Marc continued, “is that there are so many knocks put on judges these days; I find it important to let the good judges know there are people out here who appreciate them. A lot of other judges would have hidden behind some flimsy excuse to find the search in the Samon case valid, and thus force a guilty plea.”
“Thank you, Marc,” the Judge said. He motioned the clerk to hold off calling the prisoner’s case. “I see my function as a judge to be an impartial arbiter between prosecution and defense. Not a participant. And not as a legislator either. The entire system works best when each of us performs his own function. I only put the laws into effect. If better laws are needed, the legislators have to make them.”
“I’m glad some people on your side of the bench see the same thing some of us on this side see, Your Honor,” said Marc. “I can’t fathom how cops or D.A.s select the laws defining crimes as sacred, and, therefore, important to enforce. But they find the procedure laws defining the proper methods of obtaining evidence, and the rights of citizens against unreasonable searches, or the laws protecting people against involuntary confessions to just interfere with the cop’s sacred duty. They just ignore the procedure laws to enforce the penal laws.”
“Not in my court, Marc,” the Judge said emphatically. “All the law is sacred here. It’s not only important that the law is enforced, but that it is enforced in the right way, legally, according to the letter of all laws. Those protecting the defendants as well as those damning the defendants.”
“Terrific, Judge,” said Marc. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
&n
bsp; The Judge smiled. “Now will you get out of here so I can try to render substantial justice to defendants other than yours.”
Marc made his way toward Part 30, one of the two Parts in New York County in which felony arraignments were processed after the grand jury handed down an indictment. Both the Toni Wainwright case and the Maricyk case were on today’s arraignment calendar. Several reporters were lounging in the corridor outside Part 30, smoking, glancing occasionally through the oval glass panels into the courtroom. Marc walked past the reporters and entered the courtroom. Judge Brana, heavy-set and wearing glasses, presided. Toni Wainwright was seated next to Messrs. Cahill and Rutley in the second row from the front. Mrs. Maricyk was seated by herself at the rear of the courtroom. Marc slipped into the seat next to Mrs. Maricyk. She turned to Marc, touched his arm, and smiled in relief.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to get here on time,” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t let you down.”
“Are you going to try to get Joey out on bail today, Mister Conte?”
“I’m sure going to try.”
“Oh, please, Mister Conte. Joey looks so bad. I seen him last night. He looks awful. And I just can’t get collateral for the bail. That lousy bondsman won’t take nothing but a deed or a bankbook. I don’t have neither of them. Please get him low bail today, Mister Conte.”
“I’ll try. They’re calling Joey’s case now,” Marc said, rising. He walked to the front of the courtroom. Joey Maricyk came out of the bull pen accompanied by a court officer. He waved discreetly to his wife. Marc gave his name and address to the court stenographer for the record.
“Are you Joseph Maricyk?” asked the clerk.
The defendant nodded.
“You have to speak up,” said the clerk.
“Yes.”
“Is Mister Conte standing beside you, your attorney?”
“Yes.”
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