Condemned (37 page)

Sandro now had thirty days to make any motions he thought necessary to protect Li'l Bit's rights. The D.A. had two weeks to answer Sandro's papers. Sandro then had approximately another week to respond to the D.A.'s arguments. Then, the Judge would make a decision on the motions. According to that statutory time table, motion practice would take almost two months. Despite this, in the State courts, imprisoned defendants would be scheduled to appear, for some mindless reason, approximately every two weeks, with the case being adjourned on each occasion because motions were pending. In the Federal system, after a case began, a trial date was set for some time in the future, and in-between, all preliminary motions—not hearings—and other steps to prepare for trial, didn't require the presence of the defendants. There wasn't the same compulsion in the Federal system to see the defendant's face on a bi-weekly basis.

Sandro had developed a theory as to why the State detainees were brought to court so often and needlessly. He opined that there was actually a twenty percent overcrowding condition in the City's Correction system, but by having approximately twenty percent of the detained population on buses at all times, overcrowding riots were avoided. Perhaps, in addition, some genius had determined that the occasional bus ride over the bridges and through the streets of the City soothed the detainees, helped ease the tensions of being caged.

Perhaps, too, that same genius had determined, that if a defendant is inconvenienced often enough, the wearying effect, the sense of disgust and frustration, mixed with the fear of conviction, increased the potential to obtain a plea of guilt to some lesser charge that would mercifully end the mindless continuum of transportation, waiting, and imprisonment. In the age of computers, the percentage and number of dispositions were essential, particularly since there were so many Acting Supreme Court Judges in the New York State Judicial System.

Sandro stood and walked to the Officer seated at the desk outside the counsel visiting room.

“Anybody seen hide or hair of my defendant, Rouse?” he asked the Officer.

“Counselor, you know that I have no interest in keeping you from seeing your client. When they arrive, you get 'em. Until then …” The Officer shrugged.

“Thanks.”

Sandro went back to his seat.

From the time of the Kings Court, long before the American Revolution, imported with the British system of justice, cases were divided by the seriousness of the crime. Misdemeanors, minor crimes, with penalties of one year or less were handled in an inferior (lesser) jurisdiction court known as Special Sessions. All other crimes, where the potential sentence was more than one year, were called felonies and were handled in General Sessions.

The last case ever handled in Kings Court for the County of New York involved a man named Hercules Herring, who was released on bail May 10, 1776. On that date, Mr. Herring's case was adjourned to the next term of the Court which was scheduled to convene in August, 1776. Of course, the American Revolution intervened, and Mr. Herring's case never returned to Kings Court. Nor, for that matter, did the Kings Court. In April, 1783, after the Treaty of Paris recognized the United States of America as a free and independent nation, Court in New York County re-convened as General Sessions of the People of the State of New York.

General and Special Sessions continued to function in New York City until approximately 1960. The name ‘General Sessions', not the function of the court, was thereafter to be known as the Criminal Division of the Supreme Court of the State of New York. The court of lower jurisdiction became the Criminal Court of the City of New York.

At the time of the transition, there had been nine General Sessions judges in New York County, handling approximately 5,000 felony cases per year. These nine judges were each elected for terms of 14 years. To accommodate these judges, on the upper floors of 100 Centre Street, the Criminal Courts Building, there were nine courtrooms, one for each of the now Supreme Court Judges. In 1966, the Warren Bench began sitting in the Supreme Court of the United States in Washington, deciding in
Miranda v. Arizona
, that the police had to advise a defendant of his legal rights; otherwise, any statement obtained from that defendant, particularly an admission of guilt, would be stricken as obtained in violation of the defendant's constitutional privileges. Also not far down the track of the Warren court was the
Mapp
case, which struck as impermissible any evidence obtained in violation of a defendant's expectation of privacy; and the
Huntley
decision that struck down involuntarily obtained confessions—even if Miranda warnings had been given; and the
Wade
case, which struck down impermissibly suggestive identification procedures. All these safeguards faithfully track the strictures of Thomas Jefferson's Bill of Rights.

To this very day, conservative administrations, both Federal and State, have been trying to undo, or, at the very least, minimize the rights protected by the Warren Court, because, in the Conservative view of the world, such procedures serve only to deter the swift administration of justice, coddling criminals while directly endangering the public. It never dawns upon these critics—except if their son or daughter happens to be arrested—that a defendant in a criminal case is a citizen accused of a crime, entitled to all the protections the Constitution allows, becoming a criminal only if and when he or she is convicted of a crime.

In order to accommodate the wider range of protections resulting from the Warren Court, 55 judges now sit in the Criminal Division of the Supreme Court, New York County, handling approximately 10,000 felony cases a year, a fivefold increase in the number of judges over the original nine State Supreme Court Justices, handling approximately twice the number of felonies. The need for additional judges has not been filled by the legislature through the creation of new Supreme Court Justices. Rather, the balance of needed judges are culled from the Criminal Courts—where judges are appointed by the Mayor—temporarily designated ‘Acting' Supreme Court Justices. When this elevation occurs, so does the salary paid, to bring the Criminal Court Judge in parity with a Supreme Court Justice (from approximately $90,000 per annum to approximately $132,000 per annum), not to mention the prestige garnered from sitting and functioning in the Supreme Court.

Under this system, the vast majority of judges sitting in the Criminal Division of the Supreme Court in the City of New York, are ‘Acting' Judges, with no tenure or term, serving at the pleasure and whim of those who appoint them. They can be ‘flopped' back to the lower court any time they do not perform according to the standard determined by the current Administration. These flopped judges return, their tails between their legs, to the Criminal Court, serving thereafter without the title, authority, or the salary of a Supreme Court Justice. The Damocles Sword keeps the ‘Acting' Justices in line, preventing random or rogue decisions which do not comport to the ideals of the Administration.

“Rouse,” called a white-shirted Captain of Corrections.

“Right here,” said Sandro, walking toward the captain.

“Your client Hettie Rouse?” the Captain asked, eyeing Sandro carefully.

“Yes.”

“She's in segregation—you understand why, I'm sure—she can't be brought here to visit. Being that she's a female in segregation, we don't have the facilities here for those kinds of counsel visits. You'll have to go to Rikers.”

“I called yesterday, I told them exactly who I wanted produced, the office said okay, she'd be produced. Why didn't somebody tell me yesterday that she couldn't be produced here?”

“Can't tell you that, Counselor. Only thing I know is that she isn't here. You have to go to Rikers if you want to see her.”

“That's just great.”

“Sorry, Counselor.” The Captain leaned toward Sandro to whisper, “somebody's liable to shank her over here for what she's done.”

“She hasn't been convicted yet,” said Sandro.

“Right, right.” The Captain looked deeply into Sandro's eyes, and in that one look, conveyed the reality of the entire system: these are only technical maneuvers we're going through, for the sake of appearance.

The next day, Sandro drove to Hazen Street in Queens, then across a bridge that spanned the water which coursed around LaGuardia Airport before it emptied into Long Island Sound. From there, he was transported by bus to the Women's House of Detention. After a long wait, Hettie Rouse was brought to the caged entrance of the Lawyers Visiting Room. No matter where she was brought, and by whom, Sandro noticed that everyone—guards, prisoners, even other lawyers in the visiting area—looked in her direction with silent revulsion.

As the Guard was inserting the large key into the barred gate to let Hettie into the visiting area, Hettie's eyes searched the interior of the room. When her eyes met Sandro's through the bars, she nodded slightly, meekly. Upon entering, she quickly moved to the chair across the little desk at which Sandro sat. The other lawyers and defendants around them began to speak amongst themselves.

“Hello, Hettie,” said Sandro.

Hettie looked at Sandro with her frightened eyes, winced her lips momentarily, then looked down, looked up again for an instant, then stared over Sandro's shoulder at the far wall.

“I wanted to talk with you, to make sure you understood everything that's gone on so far.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured.

“We don't have to go back to court for about ten days. In the meantime, we'll be receiving Discovery materials from the D.A.”

“Discovering what, Mr.—?”

“Luca. Papers, documents, facts about the case that have been gathered by the police, so we have some idea what they are going to present in court.”

“What will I do with them when I get them?” asked Hettie, glancing at Sandro for a moment.

“The Prosecutor will send all the information, and photographs, crime scene information to me. Then I'll bring the material for you to see.”

“I don't want to see no pictures, Mr.… what's your name again, mister?”

“Luca.”

“Mr. Luke. No pictures.” Hettie shook her head forlornly, staring down at the table. “No pictures.”

“Okay, no pictures. Another thing the D.A. will supply is any statements that have been made. I understand you made a statement to the Police.”

Hettie shrugged slowly without looking up.

“Did you say things to the police about the case?”

“That mean I spoke to them, told them what went down?”

“Yes,” said Sandro.

Hettie nodded. Her face was impassive, not angry, not sad, not anything. Just impassive, vague, focused elsewhere. Sandro wondered how Hettie's 730 Examination would turn out.
Did she know what was going on?
he wondered.

“Did you speak to any psych … to any doctors since you've been back here from court?” Sandro said.

“At the police?”

“No, since you were in court a few days ago, with me?”

Hettie shook her head. “Don't talk to nobody.”

“When you were at the police station, did the police tell you what your rights were before you spoke to them? Did they tell you that you didn't have to speak to them, that you could have a lawyer, things like that?”

She nodded, not looking up. “Yes, sir, mm hmm, they did, Mr. Luke.”

“Before you made any statement, before you spoke to them and told them what happened?”

“Just call me Li'l Bit. That's what everybody calls me, Li'l Bit.”

Sandro nodded. He wanted to make notes, but he didn't take out a pad and pencil. Note taking often made clients self-conscious, apprehensive, stopped them from talking freely. Right now, Sandro wanted Hettie to talk, to hear her speak, to listen to her mind working.

“The police explained that you didn't have to talk to them, that you could have a lawyer, that anything you said could be used against you?”

“Yes they did.”

“Before you made any statements, told them what happened with your daughter?”

“Yes, sir, they did. Is that bad, Mister Luke?” She looked at Sandro for a moment again.

“No, no, it's fine, Hettie—Li'l Bit. That's what they're supposed to do.”
That eliminates a Miranda violation
, thought Sandro. “What did you tell them?”

Hettie shook her head with excruciating slowness, her eyes lowered to the table, focused on some other place, some other time.

“Do you remember what you told them?”

Hettie began to nod with the same slow beat with which she had been shaking her head, her face calm, her eyes staring ahead, her lips pursed tight.

“You don't want to talk about it?” asked Sandro.

Hettie began shaking her head in the negative again, her lips pursing a bit tighter.

“We'll have to talk about it one of these days, Hettie.”

She almost smiled for a fraction of a second. Still, she did not look at Sandro. “Only my Daddy called me Hettie. He was the only one. Everybody else just called me Li'l Bit.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“About what?”

“About when you were a little girl.” In his mind, Sandro was already far down the line as far as the case was concerned, already past the guilt phase, the question of whether she and Alvarado committed the crime. The evidence, the statements they each made, implicating each other, simultaneously implicating themselves, left room for little doubt, certainly not reasonable doubt before a jury that would ordinarily be revulsed by any murder, more particularly, the murder of a little child, by her mother, in conjunction with a man who was then and there raping the little child. In Sandro's mind, the trial was already lost. No question. The only avenue was to concentrate on the second phase of the trial which would be dedicated exclusively to death, and whether the State should visit such punishment on Hettie Rouse.