Strega (8 page)

17

B
UT THAT was years ago. Today I left seven grand with Mama. Max would know that five was for him and he should hold the rest for me. There was no time for Mama's endless nonsense about Max, but I did have time to eat before I went back to the office to change. I had a court appearance for the afternoon, and I wanted to look my best.

Even though it was just a preliminary hearing, I normally wouldn't go into a criminal court. There wasn't any point pretending I had a private investigator's license, and even a flyweight defense attorney would have a ball asking me where I'd spent twelve years of my life. I testify a lot in civil court, though—matrimonials and crap like that. And I'm a lot more honest than the lawyers: I charge a flat rate for perjury, not so much an hour. But this was a special case.

It really started in Family Court, where this woman came in to get an Order of Protection against her husband. Seems they were showing a film about child sexual abuse in school and one of her daughters started crying and the whole sleazy story came out. Anyway, she gets this Order, and he's supposed to leave the house, but he comes right back in and starts screaming at the kid how the whole thing is her fault and how she's going to go to an orphanage and stuff like that. And the poor little kid just plain snaps out—she was only ten years old—and they take her to this psychiatric hospital and she's still up there. The slimeball naturally takes off, and the woman hired me to find him. It only took a couple of days. I threw a quarter into a pay phone and the Warrant Squad picked him up.

Most of the time the D.A.'s office wouldn't even think about prosecuting a guy like this. They got more excuses than Richard Nixon: the guy's the family breadwinner, the trial would be too tough on the kid, all that crap. The bottom line is that they don't want to mess with their sacred conviction rates—most of these family–style sex cases only get prosecuted when the perpetrator confesses, and even then the D.A.'s office doesn't get too worked up about it. After all, the family unit is the bedrock of America.

But they finally formed this new unit—City–Wide Special Victims Bureau. It's supposed to cover all crimes against children, in all courts. I heard the D.A. in this case was really going to go for it, and I wanted to see for myself.

I walked in all dressed up: dark–blue pinstripe, white shirt, dark–red tie, polished black shoes—even an attaché case. I wasn't carrying a piece—in the Supreme Court, they use metal detectors at the entrance because some politically wired judge complained about the dangerous radicals who might invade his courtroom and shoot it out with the guards. This happens in the Supreme Court about every other century, but you can't be too careful. On the other hand, right across the street in the Family Court, the average litigant carries some kind of weapon and violence is an everyday thing, but there's no metal detectors. That's New York—even the
names
of the courts are total bullshit—the lowest trial court is the "Supreme" Court, and the place where we turn abused kids into monsters is the "Family" Court. In this city, the name means more than the game.

The Assistant District Attorney was one I hadn't seen before—a tall brunette with a white streak in her thick mane of swept–back hair, wearing a gray silk dress and a string of pearls. She had a sweet face, but her eyes were cold. She wasn't from the Manhattan office—I guess they sent her over because she was handling another case against the same guy over in Queens or something. The court officers all seemed to know her, though, so I guess she was a trial veteran—those are the only ones they remember.

I sat in the front row—the one reserved for attorneys only. Nobody asked any questions—they never do.

The defense attorney was a real piece of work. His haircut cost more than my suit, and diamonds flashed from everywhere. It looked like it was only going to be a hearing on bail, and the lawyer had a long list of reasons why his man should be let back out on the street—the defendant was employed, sole support of his family, active in Little League.. and that stuff. He looked like a weasel. His eyes darted around the courtroom—caught mine, and dropped. His wife wasn't even there.

The only person I recognized was the court reporter—the guy who takes down everything they say on one of those machines that don't make any noise. He was a tall guy with big hands, slumped over his machine. He'd gone to Vietnam about the same time I last went to prison, and it burned him out. I'd watched him a lot of times and he never changed expression, no matter what went down. I asked him about that once and he told me the courtroom was the same as 'Nam—only here they did it with words instead of with bullets.

The argument went on and on, and then the defense attorney made a mistake. He put his client on the stand, figuring the guy's long list of social contacts would get over on the judge. And it might have too, until the D.A. took her shot.

She stood up at her table and began questioning the creep in a soft voice, just background questions about his job, and where he'd be staying while waiting for trial—crap like that. She shuffled through some papers at the table as if she couldn't think of the next question to ask; then she took a step closer to him.

"Sir, on April twenty–fifth, did you enter your wife's home?"

"It's
my
home," the creep smirked, "I paid for it…I'm
still
paying the mortgage on it."

"Objection, Your Honor," said the defense attorney. "What does this have to do with a bail application?"

"It has to do with credibility," shot back the D.A. Then she gave a little bow of her head to the defense attorney, and told the court, "I promise to connect it up to the issue before this court, Your Honor, and I will not oppose a defense motion to strike the testimony if I fail to do so."

The judge tried to look like he was thinking it over, glanced over at his assistant (they call them "law secretaries" in New York—they're all political appointees and they make more money than the judges in the "lower" courts), caught the sign, and said, "Proceed, counsel," just like they do on television.

"Will you answer my question, sir?" the D.A. asked.

Then he went into his rap. "Yes, I entered
my
home, with
my
key. Of course I did."

"And did you have a conversation with your child Marcy at that time, sir?"

"It wasn't a conversation. I just said she had caused a lot of trouble with all these lies. You see, if it hadn't been for that stupid movie they showed at her school…"

"No further questions," snapped out the D.A., leaving everyone in the courtroom puzzled.

"You may step down," said the judge to the creep. Then he turned to the D.A.

"Young lady, I don't understand your line of questioning. If you can't connect this up"

"My name is Ms. Wolfe, Judge, or you may refer to me as the Assistant District Attorney," she said in a gentle voice.

The judge smiled, humoring her, and the defense attorney rubbed his hands together. They weren't good listeners—the lady was being quiet, not soft. You could see she was a pro. There was steel inside, but she wasn't going to waste her time showing it when there was no jury around.

"Very well,
Ms
. Wolfe," said the judge, hitting the accent so the low–lifes hanging around the bench wouldn't miss his sharp wit, "the court is
still
waiting for you to connect it up.

"Yes, Your Honor," she said, her voice hardening, "I have here a certified copy of an Order of Protection, signed by Judge Berkowitz of the Family Court. Among its terms and conditions are that this defendant remain away from the home and person of the victim."

"Bring that up to me," the judge said to one of the court officers.

He scanned the two sheets of paper, looking even more puzzled than ever. He couldn't see where the D.A. was going, and neither could the defense. The creep's lawyer barked out, "Relevance, Your Honor?" The judge looked down at the D.A., no longer smiling, waiting for her to respond.

"Your Honor, the defendant has just admitted, under oath, that he violated an Order of the Family Court. He has further acknowledged that said violation was willful, that he intended to act as he did, and that he was without just cause. Thus, pursuant to the Family Court Act, section 1072, subsection B, he may be ordered to jail for a term not to exceed six months."

The defense attorney finally woke up—and it wasn't the coffee he smelled. "Your Honor, this has nothing whatever to do with the question of bail in a criminal proceeding. Counsel is referring to a
Family
Court matter—that court has nothing to do with bail over here."

The lady D.A. went on speaking as if she hadn't heard the interruption. "The court has already heard evidence that this defendant fled when initially charged in the Family Court. In fact, he was located living under an assumed name in a hotel here in the city. The purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant's presence at trial. In this case, given the defendant's past actions, and the indisputable fact that he is facing a jail sentence in another court, the People respectfully request that any bail application be denied and the defendant summarily remanded until trial."

The creep looked like he'd been body–punched—a remand meant he'd sit in jail for a few months no matter how the criminal trial turned out. But his lawyer wasn't finished.

"Your Honor, the District Attorney is asking for a
remand
! That would be a travesty of justice for an individual with no criminal record, significant roots in the community, and, I might add, every anticipation of prevailing on the merits when we come to trial. It's not as though he were being charged with murder

The D.A.'s head snapped back—an old trial–lawyer's trick—pulling every eye in the courtroom toward her.

"He
is
charged with rape, sodomy, incest, and sexual abuse, Your Honor. He
did
flee the jurisdiction of the court. And he
did
confess before this very court that he violated an existing Order of Protection."

"Judge, that was the
Family
Court!" yelled the defense attorney, firing his best shot.

It wasn't good enough. The DA. let a dark undertone into her soft voice—it carried to the back of the room. "Surely Your Honor is not ruling that an order of one court is entitled to more respect than the order of another? A defendant who will spit on the lawful order of one court has displayed his true character and his utter disregard for the law. Indeed, if this court grants bail to this defendant, it will be providing him with a
motive
to flee. He is only
charged
in this court—he stands all–but–convicted in another. The People respectfully request a remand, not only for the protection of the victim herein, and for the protection of the community at large, but to give the Family Court the opportunity to impose such sentence as it deems appropriate for the violation. If bail is granted, and the defendant flees," and there she paused, holding it for a long count, "the child will certainly be in danger. This court should not provide such an opportunity."

"This is ridiculous, Your Honor," shot back the defense attorney. "Ms. Wolfe cannot know what is in my client's mind!"

"I don't
need
to, do I?" asked Wolfe. The message was clear.

The judge was caught. He scanned the courtroom quickly, looking for some help. I thought I'd give him some—I whipped out a reporter's notebook and started scribbling away. He looked closely, trying to figure out who I was, or what paper I worked for—and then he decided he couldn't take the chance.

"Defendant is remanded for transportation to the Family Court. If sentence is not imposed by that court, he shall be returned before me for additional bail arguments.

The creep looked wiped out. He looked to his lawyer for reassurance, listened while the lawyer told him he'd go right over to the Family Court, and then got shakily to his feet. The court officers moved to take him into custody, passing right by the court reporter's stand. The court reporter looked up from his machine. His combat–deadened eyes caught those of the freak. Making no effort to keep his voice down, the court reporter gave the officers some advice.

"Don't take away his belt," he said, getting off his stool and walking toward the back before the defense attorney had a chance to protest.

They took the creep away. The defense attorney went over to the D.A.'s table, preparing himself to play Let's Make a Deal.

"Ms. Wolfe?"

"Yes?"

"Ahassume you'll be going to Family Court on this personally?"

"Yes—and right now."

"Well, so am I. Could I give you a ride?"

"No, thank you," she told him in the same calm voice, stuffing papers into her briefcase.

"You've got no win on this one, you know," he told her.

Wolfe stood up, hands on hips, and stared him down. She'd been through this before. "You mean I can't
lose
this one, don't you, counselor? This is a fifteen–round fight, and your guy has to win every round. You win this trial—he'll do it again, and I'll get another shot. Sooner or later I'll drop him for the count. And when he goes down, he's going down hard."

The defense attorney's mouth opened, but nothing came out. She walked past him to the gate which separates the front of the court from the spectators, nodded to the officer who swung it open for her, and walked toward the exit. Her body swayed gently in the silk dress, and her high heels tapped the floor. I could smell her perfume in the air. A rare jewel, she was—never more beautiful than when she was doing her work. Like Flood.

18

I
GOT downstairs before Wolfe did. I knew where she'd be parked, and I waited. The tapping of her heels echoed down the corridor just before she stepped into the sunlight on Baxter Street, behind the courthouse. I didn't want to spook her, so I made sure she had me in her sights before I said anything.

"Ms. Wolfe?"

"Yes," she responded, in exactly the same neutral tone she'd used with the defense attorney.

Now that I had her attention, I didn't know what to say. "I…just wanted to tell you that I admire the way you handled yourself in the courtroom."

"Thank you," she said, dismissing me and turning to go.

I wanted to talk to her again, make some contact with her—let her know we were on the same side—but nothing came out. I don't have many friends in law enforcement.

"Can I walk you to your car?" I asked her.

She gave me a brief flash of her smile. "That won't be necessary—it's only a short distance."

"Well," I shrugged, "this neighborhood…"

"It's not a problem," she said, and I caught the dull sheen of the thick silver band on her left hand. I knew what it was—a twine–cutter's ring, the kind with a hooked razor on the other side. The guys in the twine factories run the string through their hands and just flick the ring against the cord when they want to cut it. You put one of those things against a guy's face and you come away with his nose.

"You think that ring's going to keep the skells away?" I asked her.

She looked at me closely for the first time, seemed to be making up her mind about something.

"I appreciate your concern, Mr…?"

"Burke," I told her.

"Oh, yes. I've heard about you."

"Was it a good reference?"

"Good enough—Toby Ringer said you pull your own weight. And that you helped him on some cases."

"Maybe I could help you."

"I don't think so, Mr. Burke. Toby also said you work the other side of the street too often."

"Not when it comes to freaks," I told her.

"I know," Wolfe said, giving me just the hint of what I knew could be a beautiful smile—for someone else.

"It was me who found that dirtbag you just dropped inside, right? You think the Warrant Squad would've turned him up?"

"No," she admitted, "but this case is finished."

We were slowly walking toward her car—a dull, faded blue Audi sedan. The parking lot was bathed in sunlight, but the watchers were there. A pro wouldn't try to strong–arm anyone in the D.A.'s parking lot, but a junkie would.

"That's my car," Wolfe said, reaching in her pocketbook for the keys. I stepped ahead of her like I was going to hold the door—and a massive dark form shot up from the back seat. Its huge head was a black slab laced with gleaming shark's teeth. A Rottweiler—a good lapdog if you were King Kong. They look as if some mad scientist took a Doberman, injected it with anabolic steroids, and bashed its face in with a sledgehammer. I froze where I was—this was one lady who didn't need an escort.

Wolfe opened the door and the Rottweiler lunged forward. "Bruiser! Down!" she snapped, and the beast reluctantly moved back to let her in. She turned to me over her shoulder. "Mr. Burke, if you ever get a case that I'd be interested in, give me a call, okay?"

It was a dismissal. I bowed to her and the Rottweiler, touched the brim of my hat, and moved back where I belonged. The huge beast pinned me with his killer's eyes out the back window as the Audi moved off.