Condemned

Capitano Santiago Lopez glanced up from the charts in the wheelhouse as the cargo netting with the last cases of rum were hoisted high above the side of his ship, the âTiger Marine'. The Captain was heavy set, with a flourishing, black moustache.

“Vamonos,” he muttered to the First Mate who stood at the side of the bridge directing the loading. The Captain wanted to catch the full surge of the tide. His eyes swept back to the charts, confirming what he already knew. He needed every minute he had available to arrive off Sandy Hook, New Jersey, by midnight, Thursday next, in order to meet the small boat and to collect the $2,000 bonus El SeÃ±or Joe had promised him for being exactly on time.

The gringos and their Prohibition were crazy, the Captain thoughtâthe law said no drinking, so everyone drank more.

But it paid well. He smiled. That bonus was more than enough to pay for the most glorious party for his little Carmencita who was to become a little angel when she received her First Communion on Saturday in 3 weeks, with enough left over, his smile widened, to fix the roof over the kitchen for his wife.

“Rapido,” the Captain grumbled again.

Foley Square : June 18, 1996 : 9:45 A.M.

“Let me see if I understand this,” Judge Merian Ellis said in a barely audible voice as she sat behind the high judge's bench in the huge courtroom. “The reason that all of us are sitting here, waiting, is that Mr. Hardie's Counsel had a
nose bleed
this morning?”

Reporters, courtroom artists, and spectators filled every bench in Courtroom 11-D of the new Federal Courthouse for the Southern District of New York. To date, the new Courthouse, which stood just behind the old Courthouse on Foley Square in Manhattan, was the world's largest and most expensive. Its cost, with courtrooms paneled in polished wood from floor to ceiling, different color coordinated rugs and drapery in each, counsel tables bearing the carved eagle seal of the United States, kitchenettes in every judge's chambers, had caused a momentary flash of media attention. But that was yesterday. The trial of the Brotherhood, described by the Government as the largest drug cartel in the eastern United States, was the wire on which the media blackbirds had now lighted.

In the well of the courtroom, there were three rows of counsel tables, one behind the other directly in front of the Judge's bench. The prosecution team, an Assistant United States Attorney and an Agent from a D.E.A. Task Force sat at the front table. To the far side of the table was a wheeled cart, like a double-decker shopping cart, filled with documents and evidence.

Interspersed with six white and two black defense lawyers at the second and third tables were nine black defendants: two executive level, three middle managers, and four street level dealers of the Harlem drug cartel known as the Brotherhood.

In the jury box, sixteen jurors, ten women, six men, more than half of them black or Hispanic, had been brought into the courtroom and seated by the Judge, to wait silently, to embarrass, and to justify the stiff fine she had announced she would impose on any lawyer or defendant foolish enough to delay the proceedings.

Everyone in the courtroom had to strain to hear the Judge.

“That's my understanding, Your Honor,” said Assistant U.S. Attorney J.J. Dineen, rising from the prosecution table. A.U.S.A. Dineen, in charge of the prosecution of the Brotherhood, was tall and well built. He wore a dark gray, single breasted suit and silver, wire rimmed glasses. Seated next to Dineen was Special Agent Marty Geraghty, a D.E.A. member of the El Dorado Task Force, who had been designated Case Agent, liaison between the Task Force and the prosecutor's office. The Task Force, under the direction of D.E.A. Supervisor Michael Becker, had conducted a two-year investigation which led to the Brotherhood trial. Despite its state of the art amplification systems, with microphones on the judge's benches, the witness stand, and each counsel table, with loudspeakers strategically hidden in the ceilings and walls throughout the courtroom, Dineen and Geraghty at the first table had to bend forward, concentrating on every move of the Judge's lips, to make out her words.

“And now, rather than being here, Mr. Leppard is at Lenox Hill Hospital?” Judge Ellis asked indistinctly. She was a thin, medium complected black woman with pageboy length hair and glasses. She wore no makeup or jewelry except small gold ball earrings. Although she could affect a deceiving siren smile when she wished, Judge Ellis was an inflexible tyrant, indifferent to requests of both prosecution and defense, responsive to some atonal rhythm that she alone heard.

“That's what I was informed, Your Honor,” replied Dineen, rising. “Someone from the hospital tried to call the court earlier, apparently couldn't get through, and called the U.S. Attorney's office.”

“Is that right, Claire?” the Judge looked toward her Courtroom Deputy Clerk, Claire Trainor, seated at a floor level desk situated immediately in front of the Judge's bench, facing out toward the lawyers and defendants. She was a young white woman with short blonde hair, and slightly tinted aviator styled glasses.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Trainor answered as she swivelled in her chair. “A message from the Lenox Hill emergency room was left on our answering machine at 8:59 A.M. The message said that Mr. Leppard was in the emergency room with a nose bleed.”

“A nose bleed?” the Judge repeated. “Get Lenox Hill on the phone,” she whispered toward Trainor, a tight, thin smile on her lips. It was the same slit of a smile she displayed when meting out her standard sentence to all defendants convicted in her courtroom, sentences that had earned the Judge the sobriquet, âMaximum Ellis'.

Claire Trainor picked up her phone receiver and touched a number into the keypad.

“Mr. Hardie,” the Judge hissed softly toward a defendant at the second table, “your lawyer apparently thinks he can play fast and loose with this court.”

Trainor, her hand cupped around the mouthpiece, began speaking soundlessly into the phone.

“I, however, am not to be trifled with, Mr. Hardie.” The Judge spoke slowly, savoring each word. “Mr. Leppard can rest assured that even if some injury were to have caused his soul to depart this earth, I will have his still warm body here in twenty minutes.” The Judge continued to smile. “Meanwhile, Mr. Hardie, weâ” the Judge moved an outstretched finger to slowly encircle the well of the courtroom and the jury boxâ“shall all wait in our places, so that everyone will know just how long you and your lawyer have caused this court and jury to waitâ”

“I have the hospital on the line, Your Honor,” Trainor said softly.

The Judge picked up a receiver from her desktop, and held it in mid-air. “And you and your lawyer are going to be fined two hundred dollars for every minute we wait, Mr. Hardie.” The Judge's thin smile widened. “Two hundred dollars per minute,” she repeated, her eyebrows arching as she placed the phone to her ear. She took the phone away again. “I realize that amount doesn't mean a great deal to a man who has posted five hundred thousand dollars bail, but stillâ” The Judge placed the phone to her ear again. Then removed it. “Perhaps we should discuss my remanding you, Mr. Hardie. Or increasing your bail to one million dollars. You don't seem deterred by half a million dollars bail.” The Judge put the phone receiver to her ear again.

Ozro Thadeus âRed' Hardie was 60 years old. His neatly cropped hair, once red in color, was now salt and pepper, mostly salt, as was his thin moustache. He was lean, athletic lookingâhe played basketball and worked out at a gym for an hour each day. In a world of space age sneakers and satin running suits, Red was classic elegance. He was wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit, white pinstriped. His shirt front was azure blue with white stripes, the collar and cuffs, a brilliant white. His silk tie was navy blue with white polka dots. A handkerchief in his breast pocket matched the tie.

Red's dark eyes gazed back at the Judge calmly. The lawyer's chair to his immediate left was empty.

“This is Judge Ellis, who is this?” the Judge sliced into the phone, her eyes shifting from Red to the ceiling. She removed the phone from her ear again.”Do you think, Mr. Hardie, we should have your lawyer examined by a government doctor to determine if he's malingering for your benefit?”

So far, there had been no evidence introduced at the trial that Red Hardie ever possessed, was seen near, was overheard talking about, or was, knowingly or unknowingly, within several arms lengths of any drugs whatsoever. To prove its conspiracy case against him, however, the Government needed only to prove that there was, in fact, a drug conspiracyâthe jury had already heard substantial evidence that the street level defendants made many hand to hand drug sales to Undercover Agentsâand, however distant or insulated, prove that Red was somehow connected to those defendants enmeshed in that conspiracy.

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