Corrupted (10 page)

“Excuse me, can I speak with you?” Bennie asked the prosecutor, who nodded and strolled over. He looked about thirty years old, his alert brown eyes vaguely caffeinated and his fresh morning shave aromatic.

“Sure, what is it?”

“I represent a juvenile who was sent to River Street. I just filed some papers that I need to serve on you—”

“I'll accept service.” The prosecutor held out his hand.

“Thanks. Did you handle the matter? I haven't gotten the transcript yet.” Bennie dug in her messenger bag, extracted the service copy of the papers, and handed it to the prosecutor.

“No, it wasn't me. There's only one guy who does Juvenile Court and he's not in right now.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“No idea.”

“These are emergency papers. I'm going to try to get a readjudication if not today, then tomorrow. Can you alert him to that fact, so we're good to go when the judge gives the word?”

“Will do. I'll leave a note on his desk.” The prosecutor checked his watch.

“Let me ask you one last question.” Bennie flipped to the last page of her petition, which was the waiver form that Matthew had given her. “You see this form?”

“Yes, what about it?” The prosecutor glanced at the form quickly.

“This is a form they're using in Juvenile Court, which purports to be a waiver of the right to counsel. You can see the signature line for the parents, who are permitted to sign on the juvenile's behalf—”

“I have a trial I have to get ready for, so could you get to the point?”

“I think it's constitutionally defective and—”

“What's your question?”

Bennie didn't mind getting a hard time. On the contrary, she liked a good fight. “My question is, did your office develop this waiver form?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think the judge developed it?”

“No idea.”

“Is the District Attorney around?”

“You want to see my boss?” The prosecutor smiled slightly. “He's trying the double homicide.”

“How about the First Assistant?”

“Everybody's there but me. I'm Cinderella and I have to get ready for the ball. Thanks.” The prosecutor slid the papers off the counter and edged away with them.

“Please have your colleague call me. My cell phone number and email are on the papers,” Bennie called after the prosecutor, as he made his way through the warren of cubicles and disappeared. She left the office, crossed the lobby, and consulted a court directory festooned with red-and-green tinsel, which told her where else she had to go. Lawyering wasn't always fireworks, but she wanted to get to the bottom of that waiver form.

Bennie found a wide marble stairwell and headed upstairs to the judge's chambers. She reached the fourth floor, got a copy of her papers ready, and opened the heavy wooden door onto chambers, which had a waiting area with blue cloth chairs and a coffee table with Pennsylvania Bar Association journals. A secretary sat at a small wooden desk, which held a computer monitor, neatly stacked files, and a green mini Christmas tree, its multicolored lights aglow.

“Good morning.” Bennie introduced herself, stepping forward with her papers, and the secretary looked up, a middle-aged woman whose dark hair was pulled into a low ponytail. She wore oversized glasses with blue acetate frames that matched her eye color almost exactly. She had on a blue jumper, white blouse, and a red sweater.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“I'd like the judge to have a courtesy copy of papers that I just filed, seeking an emergency hearing this week.”

“Oh. My.” The secretary accepted the papers, her thin lips pursed. “The judge is very busy. I doubt he'll be able to schedule a hearing this week.”

“I'm hoping he can schedule something after court is out of session today or before it convenes tomorrow morning.”

“I'm not sure that will be possible. I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

“I won't, thanks. Does he take a break at midmorning, during trial?”

“Yes, usually,” the secretary answered, reluctantly.

“I assume he hasn't taken that yet, since it's on the early side.” Bennie glanced at the wall clock, a bronzed-eagle affair that read 9:30. Most trials took a break at 10:30, when the judge had to pee, the staff had to smoke, and the lawyers had to double-bill somebody.

“He hasn't taken a break yet.”

“Good. So maybe you could show him the petition then?”

“Thank you. Good day now.” The secretary averted her eyes, seeming to dismiss Bennie, who wasn't leaving just yet.

“I know that the judge uses a waiver-of-counsel form in his courtroom. Do you know if he generates the form himself?”

The secretary hesitated. “Perhaps you should take that up with the judge. Good-bye now.”

“Okay, thank you.” Bennie let it go, having become
persona non grata
in thirty seconds, which was a personal best. She left chambers, hurried down the hall and down the stairwell four flights, then left the courthouse by the side entrance. The air was bitterly cold, and she found herself running down the slate walkway to the sidewalk, then scurrying across the street toward the courthouse annex, a modern building of tan brick and smoked glass windows. The edifice lacked the vintage grace of the courthouse, but she was hoping for a friendlier reception at the public defender's office.

Bennie made a beeline for the entrance, climbed a set of concrete steps, and let herself past an open door. It led to an office space that was modern, with gray rugs, inexpensive fluorescent lighting, and a white counter. A handful of gray cubicles filled the room, and only one of the desks was occupied, by a woman on a computer, who flicked long brown hair from her shoulders, got up, and came over, wearing a coarse-knit Mexican sweater and jeans.

“Hello, how can I help you?” the woman asked.

“I'm wondering if I could talk to whoever does the juvenile work here.”

“He's not here now. I can take a message for you.”

“Let me ask you a quick question.” Bennie got out a spare copy of her papers and turned to the waiver in the back. “This is a waiver used in Juvenile Court, which I think is constitutionally defective. Do you have any idea where this form came from?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“Is it more likely it came from the D.A., the judge, or somebody else?”

The woman shook her head. “I can't say. Fact is, we don't get a lot of juvenile cases.”

“That brings me to my other question. My client's father was told he didn't qualify for a public defender because he made too much money. The client whose income you should've been looking at isn't the father's, but the son's. The son is a student and he would've easily qualified for a defender.”

The woman bristled, flicking back her hair again. “I wasn't the one who said that and I don't know why it was said.”

“Thanks. I'd love a call back, from whoever knows.” Bennie pulled a business card from her wallet, left the building, and headed back to the courthouse. She had boxes to check and enemies to make.

Nobody becomes a lawyer to be liked.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Good morning, may I help you?” asked an older court stenographer, who appeared at the Transcription Services counter. She had a narrow face framed with close-cropped silvery-gray hair and she wore a prim blue suit and earrings shaped like Christmas trees.

“Yes, I'd like to order a transcript.” Bennie fished her bar card from her wallet, pulled out another copy of her petition, and set both on the counter.

“I've never seen an ‘Emergency Petition for Readjudication' before.” The court stenographer skimmed the petition, then looked up. “What's the emergency?”

“A twelve-year-old was wrongly sent to River Street and I'd like to get him out as soon as possible.”

“Twelve years old?” The court stenographer lifted a graying eyebrow. “That's quite young to be misbehaving.”

“He wasn't, it was just a minor fight at school.”

“I see.” The court stenographer pursed her lips. “The judge doesn't tolerate any sort of misbehavior in school. Somebody has to keep the schools safe.”

“My client was being bullied by another boy. That's how the fight started, it wasn't his fault.” Bennie had spent enough time in courthouses to know that everybody talked about the cases, and a good word could travel.

“But it takes two to tango, and you can't be too careful these days. My sister lives in Windber, near Shanksville. You know, where Flight 93 crashed.”

“Is that near here?”

“Only three hours west. The poor souls on that airplane, my heart breaks for them, and I hate to think what would've happened if they crashed into a neighborhood. These terrorists, they're inhuman.”

“I agree with you, but my client isn't a terrorist. He's a child.”

“Hmph. If you're in the right, you should prevail.”

Bennie let it go. If only that were true. “How long will it take to get the transcript?”

“Fifteen minutes. It will be easy to transcribe because the juvenile judge doesn't waste any words.”

“So I hear.” Bennie realized that the court stenographer could have some behind-the-scenes information. “Have you worked in the judge's courtroom as a stenographer, when he hears juvenile cases?”

“Yes, he's very intelligent, and he's tough but he's fair.”

“That's good.” Bennie kept her tone casual. “When you've been in his courtroom, have you noticed how often the juveniles are represented?”

“Rarely, if ever. Now, come back in a few minutes, I'll have the transcript ready.”

“Terrific, thanks.” Bennie took off for the stairwell, reached the third floor, and approached the crowd in front of Courtroom 302, the double murder trial. Reporters with notepads and spectators in heavy coats packed the balcony, mingling with local police in black insulated jackets and thick gun belts. She wedged her way toward one of the cops, who stood in front of a set of long metal tables by a metal detector.

“Officer, I'd like to go in and observe the judge. I have a case before him and I want to see how he operates.”

“I get it, like recon.” The cop smiled in a knowing way. “Wish I could admit you, but I can't. We got a full house. Nobody's getting in unless somebody comes out.”

“What about standing room?”

“We don't allow it.” The cop leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “But I can tell you something about how he operates. Is it a criminal matter or civil?”

“It involves a juvenile.”

“Oh.” The cop shook his head. “He's tough on kids. He's known for it. You know what his nickname is?”

“Judge Zero Tolerance?”

“No. Napoleon.”

“Thanks,” Bennie said, getting the picture. She made her way back toward the stairwell, descending two floors to the first floor, where she headed back to the Transcription Services office. She walked back inside just as the court stenographer emerged from the hallway, carrying a few papers.

“Perfect timing,” the court stenographer said, with a smile.

“Finished already? How much will that be?”

“Five dollars.”

“Great.” Bennie slid a five from her purse and handed it over.

“Hold on while I get you a receipt.” The court stenographer stepped away from the counter.

“Thanks.” Bennie opened the transcript, which was only four pages long, counting the title page and the certification by the court reporter. It read,
in toto
:

JUVENILE OFFICER: Mr. Lefkavick, please step forward.

(Whereupon, the party was sworn in.)

THE COURT: You've been charged with fighting in school, how do you wish to plead?

THE JUVENILE: Guilty.

THE COURT: Based upon his admission, I'll adjudicate him delinquent. What makes you think you have the right to do this kind of crap?

THE JUVENILE: I don't, sir. I never—

THE COURT: How long have you been at Crestwood?

THE JUVENILE: Uh, since, I'm in—

THE COURT: You heard me speak at assembly?

THE JUVENILE: Uh, yes.

THE COURT: Told you what type of conduct I expected from children in that school, relative to the juvenile justice system?

THE JUVENILE: Uh. Yes.

THE COURT: Is fighting acceptable in school?

THE JUVENILE: No, but—

THE COURT: No buts. What did I say would happen if you acted in an unacceptable way in school?

THE JUVENILE: Um, I don't remember.

THE COURT: You don't remember? You don't remember me saying that if you did anything unacceptable in school that I would send you away? You don't remember me saying I won't tolerate violence in school? You don't remember those words?

THE JUVENILE: No, sir.

THE COURT: Were you sleeping?

THE JUVENILE: No, no.

THE COURT: You can't remember that?

THE JUVENILE: No, sorry.

THE COURT: I'll remind you of what I said, I walked into that school and I spoke to your student body and I wasn't just doing it to scare you, to blow smoke, to make you think that I would do that when I wouldn't. I'm a man of my word. You're gone. Send him up to River Street. Let him stay there ninety days. Let's see if that's time enough to remember the difference between right and wrong, acceptable and unacceptable in school. Thank you.

FATHER OF JUVENILE: No, wait, please, that's not fair. That's not what the lady said. Judge, please, you don't understand, he's a good boy.

THE COURT: Thank you.

(Whereupon, the proceedings were concluded.)

Bennie closed the transcript. She had expected the hearing would be inadequate, but seeing
how
inadequate turned her stomach.