The Good Lawyer: A Novel (3 page)

I was Mary’s son, the product of a gutsy first generation Italian-American who, with no money and an unfaithful husband whose idea of romance was two brutish minutes in the sack, did what few women dared in 1956—she divorced the louse.

My biological father was never heard from again.

When we moved into three small rooms in a two-story walk-up on New York Avenue in Flatbush, Mom worked in the dry cleaners below, fended off the married owner’s advances, and paid the rent. We ate a lot of oatmeal.

When Mom’s younger brother, Rocco, a soldier and hit man rising up the ranks of Brooklyn’s organized crime, offered to help, she refused. Her son would not be fed, clothed or sheltered from the ill-gotten gains of criminal activity.

Mom’s righteousness was not lost on me.

Three years later she would marry John Mannino, a divorcee also, and strong willed son of Sicilian immigrants whose lungs had been badly scarred by tuberculosis contracted when he was twenty-one. When he and Mom finally tied the knot he went from being called Uncle John to Dad, and the Dad stuck, and deservedly so, forever.

Put simply—he saved our lives.

I do believe in those wonder years from childhood through my teens John Mannino and I argued over every conceivable subject: playtime, the food I ate, my mother, music, bell bottom pants, the length of my hair, the time I spent in the bathroom, the time I spent sleeping, Archie Bunker, politics, and even the meaning of “making love”.

Although, back then, I thought he was picking on me, years later Mom, swearing me to secrecy, revealed his pride in my rhetorical skills. She said, for what it was worth to me then (I actually shrugged it off at the time), that he thought I was brilliant.

He loved me. And although I never told him—I loved him too.

When I was nineteen I legally changed my last name to Mannino. I didn’t do it out of love or affection, I’m now ashamed to admit. I did it out of gratitude and loyalty.

After being bedridden for weeks with the flu (with his limited lung capacity the common cold was debilitating), at home, with an oxygen tank and respirator at his side, the only father I ever knew died in his sleep at the age of fifty-eight. He never saw me graduate college with honors, or law school three years later.

Using funds from a lump sum civil servant’s death benefit, I got through an arduous three years at Cardozo Law. Mom had no idea that prior to his death John Mannino opted for the widow’s pension. That’s one that pays out more to your beneficiaries if you die, than to you and your family if you survive to retire.

John Mannino was the reason I became a lawyer.

Almost everyone in the crowded courtroom—mostly Hispanics with some blacks and fewer whites—was there to witness Guevara’s arraignment. Aside from a few probing glances from the throng of reporters that lined the back wall, they all ignored my entrance.

A sharp pain like an electric shock shot into my left temple—the beginnings of a monster headache. I made a beeline for my briefcase and a bottle of Extra-Strength Excedrin stuffed in a corner next to the Tums. There wasn’t a trial lawyer I knew who didn’t carry around in his pocket or briefcase something for his head, and something for his stomach. I popped the last two aspirin and dry swallowed them. Their sour taste crept down my throat, scratching it ever so slowly along the way.

I hunched over the defense table, my elbows on my thighs, thumbs on my temples, my eyes barely open, wanting to believe the throbbing in my head had begun to dissipate. But in the half light of my cupped hands another headline off a crinkled copy of
Newsday
on Eddie’s desk glared up at me.

SPIDERMAN RAPIST STILL ON THE LOOSE

By V. Repolla

He climbs in windows. He strikes under the cover of night shimmying down the sides of buildings—a single woman’s worst nightmare. At 3 A.M. this morning he raped a 23 year-old nurse in her apartment at 2170 Walton Avenue in the Kingsbridge Section of the Bronx, leaving as he came on a knotted line of rope draped from the rooftop—his calling card. According to the detectives investigating the case this serial rapist, who claimed his third victim in twenty-seven days and who comes and goes like Spiderman, is expected to strike again, and soon. A task force devoted to investigating the case has yet to be formed…

“Looks like you need this more than I do.” The voice came from behind me. It was Tom Miller. He handed me a bottle of mineral water. I took a few gulps to rid my mouth of the aspirin’s aftertaste.

As senior attorney it was Tom’s ultimate responsibility to oversee arraignments, and if things got crazy, he, like the chief resident in an emergency room, would have to step in and take over. The client came first, and the client was represented not by Nick Mannino, but by the Legal Aid Society, which was, incidentally, the biggest law firm in the City and State of New York.

With four years’ experience on me, Tom had tried twenty-one cases to date, all jury trials, and with great success. Almost six feet tall, thin (a strict vegetarian), with short blonde hair and a light, almost pale complexion, Miller had been raised in Nebraska, and the homespun Midwest was woven through every syllable he uttered. Due to its attendant publicity Tom should have taken the Guevara case, but it was more than my early arrival and completed interview that secured it for me, if only for the night arraignment. Tom, under no circumstances, would represent an alleged child molester. Not that night. Not ever.

In addition to my own seven trials and seven acquittals, I had won six out of seven hearings to suppress evidence, and had seven out of eight felony cases where my client, at great risk, testified before a grand jury, dismissed.

Most criminal defense lawyers go their entire career steadfast in the belief a client should never waive his or her right against self-incrimination only to be subject, early on, to cross-examination by a prosecutor at the grand jury stage. These dismissals by grand jury vote were probably the greatest accomplishment of my young career.

Had the Excedrins not begun to kick in, the decibel level in the packed courtroom would have been unbearable.

The last time I saw a Bronx courtroom so overflowing I was about to cross examine “Crazy Joe,” a renegade cop who had his own unwritten manual on police procedure in the South Bronx. This included beating every suspect mercilessly, then planting, as was necessary, a gun or a vial of crack to cover his tracks. Only this time, in addition to the mob of Bronx natives stuffing the courtroom pews, dozens of standing-room-only reporters packed the center and rear aisles salivating for a juicy headline.

The crowd was startled into silence when the rear courtroom doors swung open, and Court Officer Jose Figueroa jostled his way through the crowd.

Figueroa and I had made courthouse history together about six months earlier when he was threatened with contempt—a posturing subterfuge by a judge named Leon Fanghetti.

All it took was a sweltering August day (the kind that makes municipal air conditioning a nonentity), a voluminous court calendar and a judge who hadn’t the acumen or temperament to deal with any of it. So when Figueroa, married with three kids and living paycheck to paycheck like the rest of the South Bronx (including many of its lawyers), was about to lose his job and fast on false charges, I stepped forward as his sole supporting witness. In a venture that could have been more than mildly hazardous to my otherwise blossoming Bronx Courthouse career, this Bronx Legal Aid Warrior, this valiant defender of the underdog, this foolish young boy from Long Island, vouched for the good Court Officer’s mild manner in the face of Fanghetti’s ill temperament and low-ball racist tactics.

Fortunately for me and Figueroa, Ernie Krenwinkle, the Administrative Judge and a street-wise Bronx native, believed me, and when all was made right, Figueroa was nuts about paying me back. The favor I planned to ask of him on the Guevara case would, I thought, more or less, make us even.

Chapter 4

F
igueroa joined me at the far side of the courtroom where we slipped into a rear corridor reserved for court personnel.

“Jose, I have to get rid of this crowd. Once the judge sees the press and the packed courtroom he’ll surely set a high bail or remand my client.”

“You picked up the school teacher who molested those kids?”

“Yes, but he’s only a school aide, not a teacher. He’s twenty-four years old and never been arrested. For Christ’s sake he’s an orphan. He’s made a life for himself and even goes to Bronx Community at night.”

A sneaky grin appeared on Figueroa’s face. “Christ Nick. You want me to help you put an accused child molester back on the streets?”

“You got it, buddy.”

We re-entered AR-1 together.

Returning to the defense side of the courtroom, I was distracted by the presence of Rick Edelstein, the third Legal Aid attorney working arraignments. His short brown hair peppered with premature gray made him appear older than his thirty-two years, as did his five o’clock shadow and wrinkly pinstriped suit. Like me, he had worked the entire day, and looked it.

Figueroa took his position at the bridge man’s table and announced: “The arraignment of Peter Guevara will be postponed until tomorrow morning at 10:30.”

Amid the audience stir an unkempt male reporter shouted, “We were told it would be tonight!”

“This is between the defense attorney, the prosecutor, and the judge,” Figueroa shot back. “I’m only a messenger.”

Minutes later, amid grumbling complaints and creaking pews, the onlookers dwindled to about two dozen, almost all of whom moved into the first three rows—all except for a young man in a red parka, who sat in the last row on the defense side of the courtroom.

Figueroa returned to the bridge area, cool as a cucumber.

I ambled over. “Do you think anyone is hanging around outside?”

“I doubt it. Court Officer Velasquez is out there.”

“OK, but what if the reporters sit on the phones, and an assistant D.A. comes down and blows the whistle on us?”

“Got it covered. Velasquez taped ‘Out of Order’ signs on all the booths. I did the same thing in the lower lobby.”

Assistant District Attorney Jimmy Ryan carried himself with a dispassionate air of authority and privilege. A tall, well-built Irishman, he sauntered into the courtroom lugging a storage box packed with files.

“How are you this evening, Mr. Assistant District Attorney?” I figured he’d warm to the respectful salutation, however pretentious.

“If it isn’t Nickel Ass Mannino,” he said with a counterfeit grin. I hated being called Nicholas, no less Nickel Ass, last borne from the imagination of some forgotten second grader.

“I got this case tonight, but I don’t know if you’ll be handling it,” I answered.

“What’s the name?”

“Guevara.”

“Why wouldn’t I be handling it?” His fingers picked through his files then yanked out a folder. “Seems this upstanding citizen likes to play with little boys.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or himself. “How about we agree to dispense with all this due process shit, take this guy up to the roof, and toss him off, head first?”

I remained expressionless.

Although thicker than most (there were, after all, three complainants), the folder on Guevara comprised a mere seven or eight pages. I imagined a couple of overloaded storage boxes by the start of trial.

“These kids seem pretty credible,” he blurted. “All three say the same thing. As to the third one, Chavez, Guevara got a bit rougher with him, and lookie here, the defendant made a statement. ‘
I’m innocent. They came to my apartment to play video games
.’”

I closed my eyes for a moment and quietly sighed.

“That it counselor?” Ryan slapped the file shut and began slipping it back into the storage box.

“Any medical evidence?” I nervously bit my lower lip.

Ryan reopened the file, turned a few pages and said: “Yep. The third boy, Chavez, had a hairline laceration to his anus.”

Chapter 5

F
igueroa gave me a nod. Guevara’s court papers were tabled up front, the first to be called. Over a dozen felony blue backs and more than two dozen yellow-backed misdemeanors followed in line. It was 9 P.M. exactly. What remained of the spectators in the courtroom, although noticeably restless, were well behaved.

Rick and Tom were still seated, file folders on their laps—ready for arraignment. I grabbed the Guevara file and remained standing.

“All rise!” Figueroa shouted. “Bronx County Criminal Court AR-1 is now in session, the

Honorable Arnold Benton presiding! Everyone please be seated and remain quiet! First case: People v. Pedro Guevara, docket numbers 2X0105481, 2X0105482 and 2X0105483!”

Arnold Benton was far from my first choice for a judge this evening, not that there was a choice to be had. Though a lifelong member of the Bronx Democratic Club, his leanings were most definitively pro-prosecution. Save the pitch for sympathy or compassion, save the histrionics. It’ll only piss him off.

Guevara was soon positioned at my side, two police officers squarely behind him.