Condemned (3 page)

“Wake up, Counselor,” said Geraghty, “you're dreaming.”

The familiarity with which Geraghty spoke to Dineen was not lack of respect. Dineen, too, had been born in Queens. They had known each other all their lives, had gone to high school together. Dineen was a solid athlete, but not up to the quality of Geraghty, although Dineen would not admit that. Whitey Ford, the former pitcher for the New York Yankees, who was raised in the same area of Queens as both Geraghty and Dineen, thought Geraghty had a promising career in professional baseball. But a leg fracture during a high school football game took Geraghty down for a season and a half, and in the meantime, romance, a child, marriage, in that order, meant the end of baseball.
Sic transit gloria mundi.

Dineen looked over his glasses at Geraghty. “If we weren't in court, I'd knock you right on your ass, bucko.”

“More dreaming?”

Jackie Engler, Anton Taylor's lawyer, moved toward Marty Adams who represented Money Dozier. Engler was short, thin, sharp featured, balding, with glasses. Marty Adams, a seasoned veteran of criminal trials, brought Engler into the Brotherhood case. One of the reasons he did was that Engler was brilliant at researching the law. Adams wanted him on hand to write motions, put together briefs on any point of law that might come up, to provide the legal spitballs that Adams might have to lob toward the Judge.

“Can I talk to you a minute,” Engler whispered to Adams.

“What's the matter?”

“Is this strategy of Hardie's wise? This Judge doesn't seem to be someone to be screwed around with.”

“I know nothing about a strategy, nothing more than you,” said Adams.

This was Engler's first major league case, and he was eager to show his stuff, to make good as a private defense lawyer. During his three year stint with Legal Aid, on the advice of his uncle, who happened to be the Rabbi at Adams's shul, Engler went out of his way to become friendly with Adams, purposely tracking him down in the courthouse, making an occasional lunch date with him, claiming that he admired Adams's style. In actuality, Engler wanted to be close to Adams's lucrative practice as the reins slowly slid from Adams's aging, trembling hands.

The other reason Adams recommended Engler to the defense team was more self-serving. Adams told Money Dozier—Red let Money who was less generous, less a pushover than Red when it came to negotiating lawyers' fees for the other defendants—that Engler was the best law man around. He told Money that Engler wanted $25,000 as a fee. Money argued that Engler was only a kid, a fifth wheel, that Adams and Sandro Luca—Red's long time lawyer—were really going to carry the case. Money allowed Adams $15,000 for Engler. Adams, who didn't argue much with Money—no one did—accepted Money's offer. In turn, Adams told Engler there was only $10,000 available for his fee, Adams pocketing the five thousand dollar difference. Considering the same routine for each lawyer he put in the case, together with his own fee, Adams was doing well for himself at this trial.

Adams had been in the criminal defense traces for decades, often, in the past, representing Italian organized crime figures. Now that the intelligent members of Italian organized crime had gone legitimate, and the unintelligent to jail, Adams was fortunate that his reputation served to carry him into major drug cases representing blacks and Dominicans.

Adams was short, portly, with a shape like a bowling pin. He had, over the years, become fat in more ways than one. His trial tactics had become complacent, he let things slide, readily excusing his lack of vigor with the fact that the cards were so stacked against drug clients, that efforts to save them were useless. Adams could, however, still growl and argue with judges, tear his reading glasses from his face in righteous indignation, noisily slapping them onto the counsel table. All of which sound and fury, while truly signifying nothing, made his clients feel they were being vigorously defended.

“If Leppard's nose thing isn't real,” said Engler nervously, “this Judge is going to be out to spill blood—no pun intended.”

Adams shrugged. “What are you worried about?” He leaned closer to Engler. “They're the ones who go to jail.”

“She could make life very difficult for the lawyers.”

“She hasn't already?”

“All rise,” Claire Trainor announced as Judge Ellis swept back into the courtroom and up the steps to the bench. As she sat, the Judge focused on Hardie.

“I've asked Doctor Norman Texard to examine Mr. Leppard—after he arrives in the courtroom,” the Judge murmured. “We shall shortly have an objective opinion whether or not Mr. Leppard is feigning anything for any of our benefits.” She smiled thinly at the jury.

“Norman Texard?” Marty Adams murmured from the side of his mouth toward Engler. His seat during the trial was directly next to Adams. “I thought that old son of a bitch was dead.”

“You know him?” Engler whispered back.

“He'd testify a cadaver was fit for trial. Whenever the government needs a friendly medical opinion, they pull Texard's chain. He was the doctor, years ago, who said that Funzawal Tieri was fit to stand trial. Old Funzy was falling on his face, had his colon removed, wore a bag and all, could hardly stand up … you remember?” Engler shook his head. “That was like a week, ten days at the most, before Funzy died. Son of a bitch, he is, Texard.”

“While we wait, Mr. Hardie,” the Judge continued softly, “let's explore our alternatives.”

No one, not even the jury, to the Judge's immediate left, could hear every word the Judge said. The sense of her colloquy emanated from the sneer on her face. “Claire, let me look at the file.”

Trainor handed a case folder up to the bench. The Judge began rummaging through the documents in the file. “Mmmm, now I remember …,” the Judge said, mostly to herself.

The Court Reporter leaned closer toward the bench.

“Sandro Luca was originally your attorney, was he not, Mr. Hardie?” The Judge looked over the edge of the bench.

Hardie merely returned the Judge's glance.

“Is that right, Mr. Hardie?” the Judge said slightly louder.

“Your Honor,” said Marty Adams, rising,

“Are you now representing Mr. Hardie?” the Judge demanded, turning a baleful glare at Adams.

“No, Your Honor.…”

“Mr. Adams,” the Judge said, leaning forward, “stop winking at me when you speak.”

“I'm not winking, Your Honor,” said Adams, his hands trembling. He had no control over his high blood pressure, his trembling hands, or the tic that made his right eye blink when he was stressed.

“Of course, you are, Mr. Adams. I know a wink when I see one. I order you to stop winking at me.”

“Your Honor …” said Engler, beginning to rise.

“Do you think Mr. Adams needs a lawyer, Mr. Engler?”

Engler shook his head, immobilized in the half risen position.

“Are you lawyers trying to lock horns with me?” The Judge's eyes narrowed, her lips curled at the corners. “I wouldn't advise it. I really wouldn't. Now sit down! Both of you. When I want to hear from either of you, I'll tell you. Now both of you, stay seated!”

Calmer, the Judge sifted through some papers in the file. She glanced again at Adams. “I suggest, Mr. Adams, that you find yourself a good doctor and attend to yourself. Mr. Hardie, would you mind standing.”

“Not at all, Your Honor,” said Hardie, rising to his full height.

“May I just make a remark for the record, Your Honor,” said Marty Adams, half rising again.

The Judge slammed the flat of her palm on the bench. An exhalation of apprehension puffed out of the jury and audience.

The Judge leaned forward. “Mr. Adams. Welcome to the real world. The routine that you used in the Municipal Court a couple of decades ago, does not work here. If you say one more word, any word at all, Mr. Adams, even ‘Your Honor', I am going to hold you in contempt, and you will spend at least this evening in the M.C.C.” The Judge's eyes remained fixed on Adams. “With that admonition, Mr. Adams, you are free to say anything you wish.”

Adams stood silently, his eye winking at the Judge.

“Mr. Hardie, I believe we were speaking.”

In the back of his mind, Red thought that perhaps this turn of weather might swell into a deprivation of constitutional proportion. “I really don't want to say anything, Your Honor,” he said. “I'd like Mr. Leppard to speak for me.”

“Mr. Leppard, for some absurd reason, which we will learn very shortly,… very shortly, is not here.”

“I really think my lawyer should speak for me, Ma'am,” Hardie repeated.

“I think we may have a solution for that, Mr. Hardie. As I was saying, Alessandro Luca was originally your attorney in this case, at least for the preliminary proceedings, was he not?”

“I really need Mr. Leppard, Your Honor.”

“I don't know how we ended up with such a withered nigger bitch as our Judge,” Taylor whispered under his breath toward Jackie Engler. Engler glanced quickly, apprehensively, toward the Judge, moving to the far edge of his seat, as far from Taylor as he could.

“When this trial was scheduled to begin,” the Judge continued her recollection, “Mr. Luca was then engaged on another trial. At my direction, Mr. Leppard was brought in to represent you, is that not correct?”

The faint wail of a siren stole through the curtains of the courtroom. The Judge looked toward the windows, cocking an ear. Everyone in the courtroom listened. The sound disappeared.

“But I told Mr. Luca that I was not relieving him entirely. I see my written notes right here. Claire, call Mr. Luca's office,” the Judge directed. “Tell Mr. Luca, or anyone who answers, that I want Mr. Luca here this afternoon. This afternoon!” the Judge repeated harshly.

Trainor lifted the receiver of her phone and pushed buttons on the keypad.

Another soft wail of a siren was heard. The Judge again looked toward the windows. As the Judge looked away, Hardie bent toward Money Dozier and made a slight head movement. Money Dozier turned to his right, whispering something to Marty Adams. Nodding, Adams turned to Engler. “Jackie. Go to the men's room or something. Call Luca's office. Tell him the Judge is going to try to suck him in here. Tell him to make himself scarce. If he's not there, tell his secretary to find him and tell him that.”

“So, if there is any method to this madness, and I emphasize that it would be madness,” the Judge continued, “if there is any purposefulness in this situation with Mr. Leppard, it shall not do anyone any good, as you shall still not be without counsel, Mr. Hardie.”

“I want Mr. Leppard to speak for me.”

“Mr. Luca was your lawyer in this case before Mr. Leppard, and Mr. Luca is fully familiar with the proceedings up to the point of trial, all of the evidence, all of the …” The Judge stopped talking, glancing at Engler who stood, fumbled with something on the table, then turned to walk toward the back of the courtroom. “Where are you going, Mr. Engler? This court is still in session.”

“Your Honor,” Engler stammered, “I'm looking for a document. I had it in my hand a few minutes ago. And now I can't seem to find it.”

“You think this momentous document is out in the hallway, Mr. Engler?”

“It may be, Your Honor. May I?”

“You may not! Marshal, go into the hallway and see if you see anything that resembles the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, some momentous document.”

A Marshal nodded and walked toward the corridor.

The jurors were like spectators at a tennis match, their necks and eyes turning from side to side.

“Rejoin us, Mr. Engler,” the Judge smiled, “we shall find this document of which you speak, for you.”

Engler's eyes darted to Marty Adams. Adams, doodling on a yellow pad, didn't look up. Then to Hardie. Hardie continued to look at the Judge. Engler sat.

The Judge turned her gaze toward Hardie again. “Mr. Luca is such a fine trial lawyer, Mr. Hardie,” said the Judge, “I am sure, if it becomes necessary, that we can supply him with the trial transcript and he could be prepared overnight.”

“I really need Mr. Leppard, Ma'am.”

“Perhaps you're right, Mr. Hardie. You should not be saying anything without Mr. Luca or Mr. Leppard being present.”

“Mr. Leppard, Your Honor.”

“Mister Hardie, you're going to have your lawyer, one or both of them, this very afternoon. One way or another, whether I bring Mr. Leppard here in a hospital bed or Mr. Luca, one way or another, as I say, there will be no mistrial here.” The Judge smiled, shaking her head. “No, no, Mr. Hardie. No mistrial, no severance, no delay, nothing except a trial. I have been to town before, Mr. Hardie.”

The rear door of Judge Ellis's courtroom opened suddenly. A man dressed in green hospital scrubs backed into the courtroom, pulling an ambulance gurney. Another man in a white doctors' jacket pushed from the rear. On the rolling gurney, in a business suit and tie—the knot pulled down several inches, his brief case balanced on his stomach, was Thomas Leppard, Esq. From nose to chin, he was covered with gauze. The hospital people rolled the gurney to the rail of the courtroom.

All eyes in the room stared at the man lying on the wheeled contraption. A loud din of amazement and confusion issued from the spectators.

The Judge began to slam her palm on the top of her bench to quiet the noise from the audience. The sound merely added to the din.

“Silence. Silence,” Claire Trainor shouted through cupped hands as she stood in place. “Silence in the courtroom!”

The Judge took a wooden gavel from a drawer under her desktop and began to pound the top of the bench. After a while, the sounds of the Judge and Trainor began to be distinguished over the cacophony of the courtroom.

“Sit down! Sit down!” the Judge demanded.