Courthouse (23 page)

“Let us through,” said O'Loughlin.

The reporters hurled questions at Pellegrino, about Compagna, about how he was killed, about how Pellegrino thought he was killed, if there would be a war, if he thought a rival gang had been responsible.

“No questions, please,” Marc kept saying in vain. “No comments.”

“No comments, you bastards,” rasped Pellegrino. “What country is this, anyway? Germany? Stop harassing me, you Nazi bastards.”

Another reporter came forward with a microphone.

“No questions, please,” said Marc.

“Who do you think killed your boss, Compagna?” the reporter asked, ignoring Marc, thrusting the microphone at Pellegrino.

Pellegrino, helpless with both hands manacled, took a swipe at the microphone with a deft kick. He knocked it from the reporter's hand. The reporter held onto the cord, restraining the microphone from hitting the pavement. “Hey, watch out, you knocked my station sign off,” the reporter complained.

“I'll knock you off,” said The Crusher.

Finally, the detectives gained the door to the court-house. They pushed The Crusher past the crowd through the door. The other three men walked in right behind him and shut the doors.

Judge Galloway set twenty-five thousand dollars bail on Pellegrino and adjourned the case to August 23. As Marc walked back to the spectator section of the court-room, a bondsman got up from his seat in the courtroom and walked over to him.

“I'll be bailing him out in a couple of minutes, Counselor,” said the bondsman. “I hope this guy don't take off.”

“I doubt it,” said Marc. “Tell the defendant I'll wait out in the hall.”

“Okay.”

The usual crowd was milling about the corridor: policemen, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, were in abundance. Marc saw Cassidy and O'Loughlin come out of the courtroom with two other men. They stood near the doorway, talking. The other two men looked like detectives too.

In a few minutes, The Crusher and the bondsman came out of the courtroom. The Crusher smiled and started in Marc's direction. As he was walking, one of the men standing with Cassidy and O'Loughlin intercepted him and displayed what appeared to be a legal document.

“What? Are you kidding me?” The Crusher exclaimed angrily, loudly.

Marc walked over quickly.

“This motherless …” stammered The Crusher. He was choked with anger.

“This is the United States Marshal Salerno,” introduced Cassidy. “This is Pellegrino's lawyer, Mister Conte.”

“Counselor,” said the Marshal, “we have a federal warrant for your client's arrest.”

“What kind of railroad bullshit is this,” rasped The Crusher.

“Take it easy, Patsy,” said Marc. “What's the charge?” Marc asked the Marshal.

“Title Eighteen, Appendix Section Twelve Hundred and One and Twelve Hundred Two, Counselor,” replied the other Marshal.

“What's that?” Marc asked.

“Illegal possession of firearms by a felon.”

“We just answered a charge here on the alleged possession of those pistols,” said Marc.

“I know, Counselor, but we have a warrant. We have to execute it.”

“I'll execute you, you motherless bastard,” shouted The Crusher.

“Hold it, Patsy,” cautioned Marc. “May I talk to my client a moment?” he said to the Marshal.

“Sure, Counselor, just stay right here, though,” said the second Marshal. They stepped back, leaving Marc and The Crusher alone.

“These lousy son of a bitches,” railed The Crusher.

“Patsy, they have a warrant. There's no sense arguing with them. Let's argue with the Magistrate.”

“But I just got bailed out on a gun charge. That bastard, Malone, is trying to railroad me. It's double jeopardy. It's a frame. It's got to be something. Do something.”

“I can't do anything here in the corridor. Let's take that argument to the federal Magistrate.”

“You want me to go with them?” asked The Crusher.

“I don't think we have much choice,” said Marc. “I'll go right over to court and talk to Malone. At least there won't be a wait. He knows all about you.”

“
Puttana
,” cursed The Crusher. “Come on, come on, do your dirty work, you bastards,” he said to the Marshal.

“What kind of bail are you going to ask for?” Marc asked Mike Malone as they stood to the side of the Magistrate's courtroom in the Eastern District Federal Courthouse.

“A hundred and fifty thousand,” said Malone with silent relish.

“Come on, Mike. He just had trouble enough posting twenty-five thousand over in the state court on the same weapons charge.”

“I tell you frankly, Marc, I'd prefer he didn't post it at all. That's why I'm asking such high bail.”

“How come?” asked Marc. “Despite your personal feelings about him, you don't really think he'd skip out, do you?”

“No, actually I don't,” replied Malone. “But I don't want a war on my hands over the Compagna killing either. And the best way to cut that possibility, is to get all the gunmen off the street.”

“You mean, all this is because of that theory about Compagna being killed by people associated with Johnny
Botz
Santora?” asked Marc.

Malone nodded.

“If there was going to be a war, there would have been one already, wouldn't there? It's already a week since the shooting and nothing's happened.”

“I know,” said Malone. “But Compagna's only dead a couple of days.”

“Mike, do you really believe that Johnny
Botz
engineered getting that Black guy to shoot Compagna?”

“Frankly, I don't, Marc. But Johnny
Botz
won't admit it. He figures, I guess, if everybody thinks he did it, he might as well get as much mileage out of it among the boys as he can. Meanwhile, somebody's liable to believe he really did and start getting gun happy.”

“How about a hearing on this gun charge? I don't think it'll stand up. To be a federal crime, the pistols would have to be used in interstate commerce. You have anything on interstate commerce that makes this case different from the one already pending in the state court?”

“We'll have to see about that,” said Malone. “For the time being he's here and I'm going to keep him here if I can.”

“He's entitled to reasonable bail.”

“Under the circumstances, a hundred fifty … all right, a hundred thousand is reasonable,” replied Malone.

“And you people complain about the Supreme Court decisions being too lenient on defendants,” Marc scoffed. “Despite them, you still seem to be doing exactly as you please.”

“The decisions just need the proper interpretation.” Malone smiled.

“And by the time I get out a writ of habeas corpus and appeal this unreasonable bail, you'll have accomplished what you want,” said Marc.

“Something like that,” Malone replied. “Look, Marc, today is Thursday. I'll consent to a bail reduction on, say, Monday. We just want to keep things cool for a little while. How's Monday?”

“Today is better than Monday,” said Marc.

“I understand. Listen, let me give you a little clue about this client of yours. His troubles are just beginning. I just advise you in advance.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No. I can't.”

The Magistrate entered the courtroom and sat behind his bench. He nodded to Malone to begin. The Magistrate was bald, with glasses.

“If Your Honor please,” said Malone. “You have a fact sheet before you on this defendant. I can just say that he's a man with an extensive criminal background, he's a convicted felon, and he's been found in flagrant violation of law, possessing two pistols in his car. I'm going to ask that a hundred thousand dollars bail be set.”

The Magistrate nodded to Marc. “Mister Conte. Let me suggest this in advance. I've already read the papers and it's apparent that the United States Attorney's application is based on solid ground. Go ahead, but let's not take too long. It's hot. See if you can turn that air conditioner up higher,” he said to an attendant seated to the side of the bench.

“Are you saying that no matter what argument I use, you'll deny the bail application?” asked Marc.

“Certainly not. My mind is never made up in advance. But let's move along with it, shall we?”

“Your Honor,” Marc began, “the United States Attorney is merely reciting words, giving lip service, as it were, to the language of the Supreme Court cases concerning bail applications. But I'm sure that there are absolutely no facts, nothing that actually indicates to the Government that Mister Pellegrino will in fact not appear on the return date for a hearing. I suggest that the United States Attorney's request is so unconscionable as to deny this defendant bail, reasonable or otherwise.”

“I think you're wrong, Counselor,” said the Magistrate. “I know what the bleeding hearts say. But I think that the purpose of bail is also to keep people off the street who deserve to be off the street.”

“Your Honor, the United States Supreme Court, most respectfully, universally disagreed with your stated position,” said Marc. “They indicate reasonable bail under all the circumstances should be set in all cases.”

“If I'm wrong, you have your right to appeal,” the Magistrate continued. “Meanwhile, the bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars.” The Magistrate supped his fingers into his collar and twisted his neck with heat annoyance. “It sure is hot in here.”

“It sure is,” Pellegrino said aloud, his face etched with anger. “Who can make a hundred thousand, Your Honor? I just made twenty-five in the state court.”

“May I have a moment, Your Honor?” asked Marc. He turned toward Pellegrino.

“Certainly,” the Magistrate said, taking, out a handkerchief and wiping his brow. “Is that air conditioner all the way up,” he asked the attendant.

“Patsy, do you want me to represent you or do you want to do it yourself?” Marc whispered to Pellegrino.

“Come on, Counselor, don't get angry,” said The Crusher. “I just get pissed off, with a prick like that on the bench. He don't even want to listen. Even if he's wrong, he tells you nice, right to your face, fuck you, and if you don't like it, up your ass. All in legal language, and everybody stands here and says, thank you.”

Marc turned back to the Magistrate. “Your Honor, I'd like to set the bail review and perhaps the hearing at the same time. Can we set it down for the coming Tuesday?”

“Whenever you wish, Counselor. Tuesday, that's the twenty-second of August. Very well. August twenty-second.”

The Marshal came up beside Pellegrino to lead him to the detention facilities.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Pellegrino, putting his right hand over his genitalia and saluting the Magistrate.

“What is that?” boomed the Magistrate. “What do you think you're doing? Did you see that, Mister Malone?” he asked angrily.

“See what? I was looking at my notes, Your Honor,” replied Malone, looking around.

“What's the matter, Your Honor?” asked Pellegrino.

“You animal,” said the Judge.

“Because I'm itchy, Judge. I was just a little, pardon the expression, itchy, and scratched.”

“The twenty-second,” the Magistrate thundered.

15

Thursday, August 17, 5:35
P.M.

Franco parked the car on Sixty-sixth Street, east of Fifth Avenue. From there, he and Marc walked toward Fifth Avenue and Toni Wainwright's apartment.

“Today is cooler and still it's sweltering,” said Marc. “Especially when you get out of an air-conditioned car.”

“Yeah,” agreed Franco. “Poor Crusher, he's got to spend the night in the can. It must be really hot there. What a rotten deal.”

“We'll make another bail application Tuesday,” said Marc. “I'm sure we can do a little better for him then. You know, it's a real bitch, having to go along with the prosecutor's whims, because he's got the Judge's ear.” He was silent again as they continued to walk. “What time is it now?”

“About five-thirty, five-forty,” replied Franco.

“When I called this afternoon to tell Mrs. Wainwright we were in court, she said to come over at six. I guess it's all right if we're a little early.”

“Rich girls look any different with their hair in curlers than poor girls?” asked Franco.

“How is it you get to meet the women in every case?” Marc asked lightly.

“I guess you bring me along because you want to make a good impression on them,” Franco replied. “Kind of a mature impression. Besides, you want me to get facts so the Mrs. and me can develop one of our super-duper theories.”

Both men laughed as they entered the lobby of the Wainwright apartment building. The doorman, in gray uniform and white winged collar, smiled and inquired who they wished to visit.

“Mrs. Wainwright,” replied Marc.

“Very good, sir. Just a moment,” said the doorman. He walked to a phone at the side of the lobby and picked up the receiver. “Who's calling, sir?”

“Mister Conte and Mister Poveromo,” replied Marc

The doorman spoke into the phone.

“Don't kid me about your theories,” Marc joked. “You just want to get a good look at Toni Wainwright.”

“That too.” Franco smiled. “Why should you have all the good times without me?”

“You may go up, sir,” said the doorman. “Eighteenth floor.”

“Thank you.”

A maid showed Marc and Franco into Toni Wainwright's living room. It was very large, and white, decorated in modern straight lines of glass and chrome, with white geometric furniture. On the walls were many modern, non-objective paintings lit by small gallery spotlights hung from the ceiling. On the floor near a full grand piano was a life-size modern sculpture of a nude, seated man. A glass-topped cocktail table stretched in front of the entire length of the couch; lamps hung from the ceiling on either side.