Courthouse (20 page)

“May we approach the bench, Your Honor?” Marc asked.

“Yes, surely.”

The D.A. skirted one side of the counsel table, Marc the other. They met at the judge's bench.

“I'm just inquiring, Your Honor, if the D.A. is amenable to a disposition at this time,” said Marc.

“This is certainly a case for disposition, Mister Conte,” agreed the Judge. He looked to the D.A. “You willing to reduce the charges?”

In the Criminal Court, where there is jurisdiction over misdemeanors only, the felony charges have to be reduced to misdemeanor proportions, before the Court has any jurisdiction.

“No, sir,” said the young D.A. “This is an out-and-out felony. I won't reduce it to a misdemeanor.”

“That's all I can do, Counselor,” the Judge said to Marc.

“Very well, sir.”

“Hold the case for the grand jury,” the Judge said aloud for the record. “You'll be notified when you're to appear in the Supreme Court.”

“Thank you, sir,” Marc said, turning toward the rear of the courtroom. Schmidt accompanied Maricyk back toward the bull pen to await return to The Tombs.

Mrs. Maricyk waved to her husband as he was escorted from the courtroom. She held her hand over her mouth to stifle her emotions as she turned to join Marc.

“What was that all about, Mister Conte?” asked Mrs. Maricyk. She was very upset. “I hope you don't think I'm dumb, I just don't know what's going on. I'm all confused.”

“The Judge held the case for grand jury action,” said Marc.

“When does that happen?” she asked. “I didn't hear no date.”

“The D.A. schedules the grand jury,” said Marc. “I've explained that we don't go to the grand jury unless Joey testifies. Other than that, the D.A. conducts the grand jury and then notifies us if Joey's indicted.”

“They didn't even say anything about marijuana,” said Mrs. Maricyk. “Just like you said. Joey's going to be indicted for that too?”

“I'm not sure,” replied Marc. “He shouldn't be.”

“How about what the Judge said about getting lower bail in the Supreme Court?” she asked.

“It's possible,” Marc replied. “But I need the minutes of this hearing first to show the Judge in the Supreme Court.”

“Do it, Mister Conte. Don't let him stay in jail so long. How long will that take to get the minutes?”

“That's difficult to say. The stenographers are so back-logged or inefficient, or a combination of both, that it'll take about a week to ten days to get the minutes. I imagine if we paid three times more than the regular price, they'd somehow find a way to speed it up.”

Mrs. Maricyk closed her eyes hopelessly.

“Don't worry about the money,” Marc said. “I've already told the stenographer I want the minutes.”

“Don't worry about the fee, Mister Conte. You'll get it. I promise.”

Marc nodded.

“Can't nothing be done, meanwhile?” she asked.

“Sure, I can apply without the minutes, and this same D.A. will appear upstairs to oppose a reduction. At least if a Supreme Court Judge reads the minutes, he can reduce the bail based on the legal grounds which appear in the record.”

“This place stinks more all the time, Mister Conte. How can you stand it?”

“Because if everybody felt the way you do, nobody'd ever get out of jail.”

13

Thursday, August 17, 1:30
A.M.

Jack O'Loughlin stood in the darkness of his living room still half asleep, dressing mechanically as he gazed out through the picture window at the dark, deserted street below. O'Loughlin lived on the upper floor of a brick two-family house on Colonial Road and Seventy-third Street in Brooklyn. It was a good family kind of neighborhood. Nothing much ever happened on that tree-lined street in front of O'Loughlin's house, even at peak hours, save for an occasional pedestrian or a passing car. Nothing at all ever happened at this time of night. O'Loughlin twisted his wrist to pick up some reflected light from the street lamp. A few grains of sleep still clouded his eyes, so he had to stare at his watch a couple of seconds until he could make his eyes focus. It was 1:35
A.M.

O'Loughlin finished zippering his pants, then buckled the heavy leather belt he always wore around his waist. He reached down in the darkness and picked up the holster and pistol that were on the table. O'Loughlin cracked the cylinder and felt five live rounds into the chambers, then slipped the holster into the front of his waistband until a metal retaining clip on the holster caught the leather belt.

He heard a noise behind him. O'Loughlin turned. His wife was rocking the baby on her shoulder, trying to lull little Jamesy back to the sleep that the ringing phone had disturbed.

“What did they want this time?” his wife asked. She was thin, short; her head was covered in a mass of vari-sized curlers.

“They didn't say,” O'Loughlin replied, donning a plaid, short-sleeved sport shirt. He left the tails of the shirt outside his pants to better conceal the pistol. “Maybe I better wear the jacket, just in case,” he said almost to himself. He removed the pistol and holster, placing them back on the table, as he stuffed the shirt tails inside his pants.

“I'm going to bed,” shrugged the wife. Little Jamesy was off again. “Don't forget we're going to Lally's racket tonight.”

“I won't forget,” said O'Loughlin. He put the pistol back in his waistband, then lifted a light wash-and-wear suit jacket from the back of a chair. He carried the jacket with one finger through the loop at the back of the neck; he'd put it on when he got to the D.A.'s office. O'Loughlin looked out the picture window again. Still deserted; not even the leaves were fluttering. He could feel perspiration already starting to soak into the shirt at the small of his back. One of these days, he was going to spring for an air conditioner for the apartment. Once he got past the sergeant's test, they'd be okay, he figured, for the hundredth, no, thousandth time. Sergeant's money was pretty good.

A dark Plymouth sedan cruised slowly toward O'Loughlin's house, its headlamps sweeping an ever advancing patch of lighted asphalt before it. Mickey's car, thought O'Loughlin, turning. He descended the flight of steps to the street quietly, so as not to wake up his in-laws. His wife's parents owned the house and lived downstairs; O'Loughlin and his wife and little Jamesy lived upstairs. Not rent free, O'Loughlin always reminded himself. The way he figured it, if he had a daughter, which he didn't, just yet, and he was retired as a Captain from the job with a pension, as his father-in-law was, and he had an empty apartment in his house, he sure as hell would let his daughter and her husband live there without gouging out the rent; especially when the daughter and her husband didn't have enough money saved, just yet, even for an air conditioner.

O'Loughlin opened the front door and walked to Mickey Cassidy's car that was at the curb.

“What the hell is this all about?” O'Loughlin asked as he hung his jacket on the hook over the rear door. He sat in the front seat next to Cassidy.

“What the hell do I know?” replied Cassidy. “I was down at Toolan's watching the movie on the late show and having a few good night brews when the wife called and told me they called.”

“You were still sitting at Toolan's having some good night brews?” O'Loughlin looked at Cassidy. “You're okay, aren't you?”

“Are you kidding me or something?” asked Cassidy. “We only had a couple. Mostly bullshitting. We weren't doing any serious drinking.” Cassidy guided the car onto the lower end of the Gowanus Highway, heading toward the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and the Queens County D.A.'s office.

Both O'Loughlin and Cassidy were on the Queens D.A.'s squad. They were regular New York City police detectives, but their assignment was to the D.A.'s office. Which was a pretty good assignment, and you needed a pretty good rabbi, that is, connection, to get it. O'Loughlin's father-in-law was not only his landlord, he was his rabbi. Lately, however, with all the attention being given to organized crime, the D.A.'s squad was really stiff duty. Marty Braverman, the Queens D.A., was pushing all kinds of investigations through his rackets grand jury, directed against organized crime figures. Braverman wasn't going to let the Feds steal all the spotlight on the organized-crime stage, particularly in Queens.

“It must be something big,” said Cassidy. “Aaronwald wouldn't even tell me what the hell it was all about.”

“Who's Aaronwald?” asked O'Loughlin.

“He's another of them smart-ass Yids Braverman just moved up to rackets,” Cassidy replied.

“Ain't that something?” said O'Loughlin. They were just passing Bush Terminal, which was dark; O'Loughlin remembered during World War II it only looked dark, but behind blackened windows they were working night and day in those factories. “The whole friggin' Queens D.A.'s office is Yids. You think at least Braverman would have somebody else on the staff. But everyone he puts on is a Yid.”

“What d'ya mean?” replied Cassidy. “There's Riccuiti and Lewis.”

“Oh, great, a wop and a nigger. I don't think there's an Irishman on the entire staff. Is there? Can you name an Irishman?”

Cassidy thought. “Not off hand.”

“Fuckin' A.”

From the highest part of the raised highway, they could see the downtown financial center in Manhattan, the darkened shadow of the Woolworth Building, the twin towers of the World Trade Center, still lighted, sending long, bright reflections slithering across the lower bay to Brooklyn. They could see ships anchored in the outer harbor waiting to have their cargoes unloaded. The clock in the tower of the Prudential Building, the two faces of which, from the angle of the highway, looked like the eyes of an owl, indicated 2
A.M.

“Two o'clock and still hot as a bastard,” said Cassidy.

“You think that cheap bastard'd buy us an air conditioner,” O'Loughlin griped.

“Who, Braverman?”

“No, my father-in-law.”

“What in the name of Holy Mother Church does your father-in-law have to do with anything we're talking about?” asked Cassidy. He guided the car under the Brooklyn Bridge and along the Expressway toward Queens Boulevard.

“He's got to do with my apartment and the fact that his 129 daughter and grandson don't even have an air conditioner. The cheap bastard.”

“Not to mention his cheap bastard son-in-law,” laughed Cassidy.

“Yeah, if I could afford it, I'd buy it,” replied O'Loughlin.

“Give up every other of them brews you drink, and you'll have the money in no time,” said Cassidy.

“It'll never be that hot,” laughed O'Loughlin.

The small parking lot outside the D.A.'s office in Kew Gardens was filled to capacity with unmarked, dark colored police vehicles. So were the adjoining streets. Cassidy and O'Loughlin each silently made out all the license plates with the police serial numbers.

“Christ, the joint's crawling with cops,” said O'Loughlin.

“A hell of a lot of cars over here.” Cassidy surveyed, his eyes looking for an empty parking spot. “Ah, here we are, a very pretty little spot,” he said softly as he stopped and backed the car to the curb. “A little tight, maybe,” he muttered to himself, maneuvering to get the car straight. “A neat little job of parking. Tight but neat.”

“You wouldn't complain like that if you were talking about some dame?” said O'Loughlin.

“Just out of a warm bed with your dear wife and you're talking about other dames. No wonder that cheap bastard father-in-law of yours won't buy an air conditioner.”

“It's not for me, Mickey. For his daughter and little Jamesy,” laughed O'Loughlin.

“And what would she do, shut it off when you come home, Jocko? Jocko my own, you're talking to your old pal Mickey now.”

They got out of the car and made their way up to the D.A.'s office, which was in a building behind the Supreme Court Building. Just to the rear of the D.A.'s building, was the Queens Branch of the Men's House of Detention. It was the Queens version of The Tombs, far newer and more modern however, even had piped-in music; which from 6
A.M.
to lights out was sheer torture. The three buildings formed the core complex of criminal justice in Queens. A policeman in uniform was sitting at the reception desk. He nodded to the two approaching detectives.

“What the hell's going on?” O'Loughlin asked the cop.

“You're about the hundredth guy who asked me,” said the cop. “And I'll tell you, like I told them. I don't know. It's all very hush-hush. Some kind of secret raid, I figure.”

“Jesus Christ, a Jewish James Bond, no less, the good people of Queens have for their D.A.,” said Cassidy.

The cop at the desk laughed.

The two detectives walked along the corridor which led to the Rackets Bureau offices. The closer they got, the more they could hear the noises of many men talking, laughing. As they turned the corridor, O'Loughlin and Cassidy saw a hallway full of detectives. All were in civilian clothes, some with just shirts, the tails out of their pants to hide their service revolvers, others with suit jackets and ties, some with shirts and jackets, no ties.

“Okay, okay, quiet down now,” called Stan Greengold, chief of the Rackets Bureau. He was heavy set, with a thick, jowly face, and a space between his front teeth. Green-gold was standing in the corridor, in the midst of the detectives. Another assistant, a new man, probably Aaron-wald, thought O'Loughlin, stood next to Greengold, holding envelopes in his hand.

The hubbub diminished slightly.

“Okay, hold it down,” repeated Greengold. “Let's get this over with. We have a lot of work to do tonight.”

“What is it?” asked a faceless voice from the crowd.