Courthouse (42 page)

“You've made your record, Mister Conte. Nine months in the custody of the Department of Correction,” said the Judge. “Have you advised your client of his right to appeal, Counselor?”

“I have.”

The stenographer was recording all that was said on his stenotype machine.

“Very well,” said the Judge. “Next case.”

“Your Honor, before we do that,” said Marc. “I'd like to make an application to have bail set for the defendant Maricyk pending appeal.”

The Judge looked at Marc, his brow furrowed, then he looked at the clerk. “Come up, come up,” said the Judge, waving the clerk, Marc, and the assistant D.A to the bench. They all huddled at the edge of the bench. “What's the point of setting bail?” the Judge asked. “Your man's been in jail all this time. He didn't make bail on the case.”

“I just want to have it set in the event that his wife may be able to raise bail for him, Your Honor,” replied Marc.

“Can I do that?” the Judge asked the clerk.

“The People aren't going to consent to bail, Your Honor,” said the D.A.

“That D.A.'s consent isn't really necessary,” said Marc. “The Court has inherent power to set bail with or without consent. However, I ask the Court to inquire of the District Attorney if there is some significant reason that he refuses to consent to the setting of a reasonable bail for this defendant?”

“The People are just not consenting to bail, that's all,” said the D.A. He was young and had a thin, unsmiling face. “Your man was sentenced and we feel he should start his sentence.”

“You don't know anything about this case,” said Marc, still facing the Judge. “In due deference to you, you're just covering the Part for the day in case there are any problems. Supposing we appeal, and the defendant is victorious. Are you going to make up the time he has to spend in jail because of your whim about bail?”

The D.A. gave Marc an impatient look. “We don't have to justify ourselves to defense counsel.”

“How about to the court and on the record?” Marc asked.

The clerk had taken a law book from the judge's bench and was thumbing through the pages.

“Gentlemen, there's no need for this,” said the Judge. “I don't know if I can do it, but since bail has been set all along and the defendant hasn't been able to make it anyway, I'm inclined to set a bail.” He looked at the D.A., moving his head in a “what-the-hell” motion.

“Here it is, Judge. Section 480.60,” said the clerk, putting the law book in front of the Judge.

The Judge read the section silently, his finger coursing and recoursing under the words, his eye following carefully. “This indicates that the application for bail must be made after a Notice of Appeal is served,” he said. “Have you already served your Notice of Appeal?”

“How could I have done that, Judge? You just sentenced the defendant a minute ago,” said Marc.

“I don't think I can set bail without the notice being filed,” said the Judge, reading the statute again.

“You can set the bail contingent upon the service of a Notice of Appeal this afternoon,” said Marc.

The Judge looked doubtful. “No, the statute says it must be served first.”

“I'll make it up by hand right here, Judge,” said Marc. “It won't be fancy, but it'll be correct.”

“I think that the motion has to be made in Part 31, Your Honor,” said the clerk.

“And it has to be on paper,” said the D.A. “We won't go along with an oral application.”

“Judge, the section neither requires an application to be made in Part 31 or that it be written,” said Marc. “The section says merely that a Supreme Court—any Supreme Court Judge—or an Appellate Division Judge can set the bail pending appeal. I can make up a Notice of Appeal right here and now, and then I'd like you to set bail. Why should I make another trip, type up formal papers, waste another court's time on a matter you can resolve in the next thirty seconds?”

“What about this Part 31?” the Judge asked the clerk.

“These applications are usually sent there, Judge,” said the clerk. “That's the way we do it in this county.”

The Judge looked at Marc, shrugging. “That's the procedure then. You'll have to go to Part 31.”

“And make the application on paper,” said the D.A.

“And I guess you should make it on paper while you're at it,” added the Judge.

“You know, Judge,” Marc said quietly. The other three men listened as they were still huddled at the bench. “An application like this may be just procedure to us. And a delay while the motion papers are drawn, or sent to this Part or another Part or processed, may just be a convenience, an attempt at keeping things neat and orderly. But the lives of defendants are being wasted in rotten jails while we split hairs. That's why we have riots on our hands.”

The D.A. frowned and turned away, walking to his table.

“You must be making quite a fee on this one, Counselor,” said the clerk.

“Why do you say that?” asked Marc.

“Why else would you bother breaking your balls so much for a client except you're getting a good fee?”

“A little jail won't hurt any of them, Mister Conte,” said the Judge, smiling indulgently. “So, it'll take a couple of days and then you get the bail set. Come on, let's go. I have some other sentences.”

“Let me just say this in answer to the clerk's question, Judge,” said Marc. “As long as there's something I can do for my clients, I'll do it, paid or not, because their lives are in my hands and I take that responsibility seriously. You, Mister Clerk, you call cases on the calendar. Judge, you dispose of cases, sentence people. The D.A. whether he wins or loses, he represents a book, a statute, a piece of paper. I'm the only one here who personally deals with human beings, and they deal with me personally, and cry on my shoulder, and get angry with me, and hope that I can help them. And by God, I'm ready to go right into the dragon's mouth and pull out his tonsils by hand if I have to. Otherwise, I shouldn't be representing people.”

“How can you make a living that way?” said the Judge.

Marc just looked at the Judge, then the clerk. “It's a lot of honest-to-God work, Judge. I'll have the papers in this case filed this afternoon,” he said. As Marc walked back to the counsel table, he saw Mrs. Maricyk sitting on the edge of her bench in the audience.

“Don't worry about it, Counselor,” said Maricyk. “I know you're fighting for me. Talk to the wife, will you.”

A court officer accompanied Maricyk back to the bull pen.

Mrs. Maricyk was shaking her head. She looked stunned as they walked to the elevator.

“Don't get too upset,” said Marc. “With time off for good behavior, he'll only have to do six months. He's already served a month, so he'll be out in five months.”

“Yeah, well I guess you can look at it that way,” said Mrs. Maricyk. “But five months is five months, no matter how you look at it.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Marc felt rotten that there was no way he could console her.

As they waited for the elevators, Liam O'Connor was walking through the corridor toward the courtrooms.

“Hey, Marc,” called O'Connor with an unusual warmth.

“Hello,” replied Marc.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Excuse me,” Marc said to Mrs. Maricyk. He walked a short distance away with O'Connor.

“I understand you're up for a judgeship,” said O'Connor. He was smiling pleasantly. O'Connor knew enough to become friendly with a prospective judge, even if the prospect was Marc.

“I've just been to the first committee,” replied Marc. “I don't know what's going to happen with it. How do you know about it, anyway?”

“News like that travels around here,” said O'Connor. “You'll have to take a fantastic cut in income on the bench. And it's a lot of headaches these days. Why would you want a job like that, Marc?”

“I just went for the interview,” Marc replied. “I don't think I'll even come close. So I won't have to worry about it.”

“Who knows. Good luck, anyway,” O'Connor said.

“Thanks. How are your Tombs riot cases coming along?” Marc asked, to be friendly.

“Just finishing up the preliminary motions. We should be on trial in a few days. Probably start the suppression hearing by this Friday.”

“You trying them yourself?”

“The first one, anyway.” O'Connor nodded.

“Take it easy and thanks again,” said Marc, as the down elevator arrived. It was empty.

“You bet, Your Honor,” said O'Connor grinning.

Marc walked with Mrs. Maricyk through the marble lobby. He was headed back to his office. Outside the building, a long line of people were demonstrating on the sidewalk in front of the building.

“Free all political prisoners. Free all political prisoners,” chanted the demonstrators on the sidewalk. They were carrying signs protesting The Tombs trials.

“You know,” said Mrs. Maricyk, “maybe these hippies know what the hell they're talking about after all.”

Marc didn't think it was the time to get into a philosophical discussion with Mrs. Maricyk. He said nothing.

“Hello, Counselor,” said Philly, The Crusher's portly sidekick. He was standing at the edge of the three steps leading down to the sidewalk.

“Hello,” said Marc. “You waiting for me?”

“Nah, I just waiting for a friend of mine and Patsy's. He's got a case on today over here.”

Marc nodded.

“Mister Conte, I'm going to go,” said Mrs. Maricyk. “I can't stand it here another minute.”

Marc knew there was nothing more he could do. “Okay. Call me if you need me.”

“God forbid,” she said. “I mean about needing you.. I know you did everything you could.” She turned and left hurriedly.

Marc stood at the edge of the steps, watching Mrs. Maricyk disappear into the faceless crowd of demonstrators and pedestrians.

“Look at these punks,” said Philly, nodding his square head toward the demonstrators.

Marc became aware of Philly again.

“They're only exercising freedom of speech,” he said.

“Is this Freedom of Speech written the same place as the Fifth Amendment?”

“Yes, the Bill of Rights,” replied Marc.

“How come it's got more respect than when someone takes the Fifth and doesn't want to be incriminated? Nobody says these punks are committing a crime and they're real punks, aren't they? Anti-American, and all? How come it's a crime to take the Fifth?”

“It's not,” replied Marc. “It just seems that way.”

They continued to watch the demonstrators move in their slow circle.

Marc thought how small he felt sometimes when he ran headlong into a situation which could not be turned completely to his client's favor. But then he, as the cancer surgeon, had to do the best he could with the situation before him. And that, Marc assured himself, he always did.

“Hi,” said Andy Roberts, the pretty young girl who Marc usually saw with The Tombs riot demonstrators. She was carrying a sign which bore the legend:
POWER CAN NOT BE DENIED THE PEOPLE: FREE AL-KOBAR
. “Remember me? Andy Roberts?”

“Yes, sure,” said Marc, his thoughts coming back to the present. “How've you been?”

“Fine.” She flashed that bright smile of hers. “I see you're still fighting the good fight,” she said. “I saw you in court the other day.”

Philly watched them speak, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His eyes were narrowed as he watched Andy carefully.

“I see you're still fighting too,” said Marc.

She smiled again and nodded. “I don't want to keep you. Stay cool,” she said as she gave Marc a salute with a raised clenched fist. Marc waved as Andy took her place back in the line.

“You got all kinds of friends,” Philly said flatly.

“Let's say I talk to all kinds of people,” said Marc. “See you, Philly. Say hello to Patsy.”

Philly nodded as Marc made his way toward the office.

28

Wednesday, September 13, 3:30
P.M.

The phone on George Tishler's desk rang. Without turning from the report he was reading, George reached for the phone and put it to his ear.

“Tishler,” he said.

“Mister Tishler, this is Janie,” said one of the Mayor's secretaries. “The Mayor asked if you could take a call from Eric Portlac of the
Daily News.
The Mayor said he'd get on the wire in a couple of minutes.”

“Portlac?” said George, putting his report down on the desk. “What line is he on?”

Eric Portlac was a political columnist for the New York
Daily News,
as well as the elder statesman of the New York City political scene. He carried a lot of clout in his typewriter.

“Six-eight,” Janie answered.

George pushed a button on the phone. “Hello, Eric.”

“Hello, Georgie. How's everything?”

George hated being called Georgie; but if it kept Eric Portlac happy, it was a worthwhile sacrifice.

“Fine. Everything's great,” George said enthusiastically.

“I'll tell you why I'm calling, George. It's in reference to some judicial appointments the Mayor is considering making before the end of the present term. I really wanted to check it out with the Mayor personally.”

“He'll be on in a couple of minutes, Eric,” said George. “He's got something very hot he was right in the middle of.”

“That sounds dirty, George. I hope she's got big tits.” Portlac laughed.

George laughed tolerantly. “Maybe I can help meanwhile,” he said as cheerily as possible.

“I don't think so, George. I'll wait to talk to the Mayor. Perhaps you can fill me in on some details while I wait though.”