Courthouse (33 page)

“I don't know,” said Maria. “But what about Wainwright calling out Lord's name?”

“Didn't Toni Wainwright already say that when Wainwright came into her room in the dark, he was calling her a whore, and calling for Zack, looking for him in the bed?” said Marc.

Maria nodded thoughtfully.

“How did
Wainwright
get into the apartment then?” Franco asked. “Mrs. Wainwright told you that Wainwright
didn't
have a key. So, somebody had to let him in, right?” He looked at Maria.

“Right,” she answered.

“And we know it wasn't Mrs. Wainwright or any of her servants,” Franco continued. “So, how did he get in?” He awaited an answer. Marc thought. “Someone with a key could get in and let Wainwright in,” Franco added finally. “That's how.”

Marc hesitated. “No one saw Lord go in or out of the building.”

“Come on, let's get out of this hallway,” said Maria, giving in to an urge to hold her nose. “Let's talk in the car.”

“I think we ought to talk to those elevator guys at Mrs. Wainwright's apartment,” said Franco. “I still say Lord could have been the one who shot Wainwright.”

“Keep working on it,” said Marc. “But it's still too much of a blind alley. Too many dead ends with no answers.”

“And too good a possibility to let go,” said Maria.

“How handsome you are, Counselor,” Maria said tauntingly. “Isn't it nice your clients think you're handsome?”

“Don't you?”

“And that's enough,” she said, still teasing. She put her arm around Marc's waist. “You're my baby, remember?”

“I do,” Marc said. “And I will.”

22

Tuesday, August 29, 10:17
A.M.

Marc stood inside a phone booth on the thirteenth floor of the Criminal Courts Building. He had the phone receiver to his ear, listening to Marguerite read off the list of calls he had received in the office this morning. There was nothing urgent. Marc said he would be back in the office as soon as he finished with the Maricyk and Wainwright cases in Part 39.

Justice Arthur Kahn was presiding in Part 39. Usually Justice Kahn sat in the civil term of the Supreme Court. But during the summer months, when the number of civil trials dwindled, judges who usually did not sit in criminal term were rotated there so they could gain experience in criminal matters.

Judge Kahn was tall, and his grayed temples and gold half-glasses contrasted elegantly against black robes. He was the very picture of a man of judicious mien. Which was exactly what he was not. Judge Kahn was a favorite of criminal defense lawyers when pleading clients guilty; he was quite lenient on sentencing. But, Judge Kahn was the last judge sought or desired for trials or hearings; he was ignorant of the law, insecure, impatient, irascible, verging on the paranoid. His elevation to the bench of the New York State Supreme Court was over the disapproval of every Bar association in the City. His wife's family, however, was well endowed with campaign contributions for the coffers of the Republican Party, and so a judge was made. Or at least someone who was called judge. And that calling to some, is far more important than the position itself.

Marc walked to the front of the courtroom and sat in the first row of seats to wait the call of his cases. Mrs. Wainwright was not in court today. Marc had advised her that her presence wasn't necessary because the only thing pending in her case today was a motion for a bill of particulars—simply, a further specification of the details of the charges pending against her. Since the courts permitted an indictment to state merely the bare bones of a case—
the defendant caused the death of one Lafayette Wainwright on the seventh day of August by shooting him with a gun
—Marc had moved to have the D.A. supply further information about the exact time and place of the crime, the type of weapon used, the autopsy report, the ballistics report. If the Wainwright case was going to trial—and Marc was sure it was, at this point—he needed details about the Wainwright death.

Just as Marc knew he would go to trial on the Wainwright case, he also knew he wasn't going to. trial on the Maricyk case. Seeing Judge Kahn on the bench today, Marc decided to push to have a hearing on Maricyk's motion to suppress evidence. Not that Marc actually intended to have the hearing. He was using the motion to gain leverage for a lessened charge to which Maricyk might plead.

“And if Your Honor please,” intoned James O'Reilly, the most punctilious of the court clerks, “on line fifteen of the second page of Your Honor's pleading calendar there appears the name of Oscar Johnson, also known as Ali Al-Kobar, defendant, who is on this occasion representing himself as defendant
pro se
on a motion to suppress evidence.”

“Come on, come on, Mister O'Reilly,” exclaimed Judge Kahn impatiently. “Let's do get on with it. We've a long calendar to call, and I'm on trial. I have a jury waiting. Let's do move along.”

Oscar Johnson was escorted from the bull pen by a court officer. He stood at the defense counsel table, his shaved head glistening beneath the court's lights. He put a portfolio filled with papers and legal books on the table.

“Is your name Oscar Johnson,” asked O'Reilly, “the defendant named by the People in this indictment, number one thousand four hundred and thirty nine?”

“Mister O'Reilly,” the Judge cut in before Johnson could say anything, “can't you forget all the rococo language and just call the cases as quickly as possible?” The Judge looked at O'Reilly over the rim of his glasses.

“I shall endeavor to follow Your Honor's suggestion,” said O'Reilly, rising to his feet.

“Will you please sit back down at your desk, and not take all day with the calendar,” snapped the Judge. “We do not need a dialogue on this too.” The Judge rose, walking around the small confines of his bench platform. He removed his glasses, tossing them on his desk.

“I am merely doing that required by law and the directives of the Appellate Division, Your Honor,” said O'Reilly calmly. “I am merely performing my duty as best I know Your Honor would wish me to, both to protect the record and the defendant.”

“How about the People?” piped in the young assistant District Attorney. He was thin with dark, curly hair.

“And of course, the People,” said O'Reilly. “Shall I proceed, Your Honor?”

“I'd be delighted if you would,” the Judge said.

O'Reilly sat back at his desk. “Is your name, sir, Oscar Johnson, the defendant …”

“Mister O'Reilly,” interrupted the Judge again, his head giving a nervous little tic to one side, “I asked you to call the cases with expedition. And now it seems that the only expedition you have ever heard about is to Africa. Now …” The Judge's face suddenly grew red with anger. “Is that a smirk I see on your face, Mister O'Reilly?”

“Certainly not, Your Honor,” replied O'Reilly, standing again. “You know that I have nothing but respect for Your Honor and the office that Your Honor so judiciously holds.”

“Now stop that folderol with me, Mister O'Reilly,” the Judge lashed out. “Are you trying to lock horns with me?”

“Certainly not, Your Honor.”

“Well, don't try to. For I'll prevail. I assure you of that Mister O'Reilly. I'll prevail.” The Judge had his hand raised, a ringer pointing ceilingward.

“I'm sure Your Honor would. And I assure Your Honor that I do not have any intentions of so doing.” O'Reilly's strength lay in the fact that he was civil service and his calling of the calendar was letter perfect according to law and the court regulations. He knew this and so did the Judge.

“Then let's go, let's handle this calendar with dispatch. Let's try dispatch instead of expedition this time.”

“Very well, Your Honor. Shall I arraign the defendant for the record?”

“You've done that twice already, for heaven's sake. Is there any doubt at this point that this is Oscar Johnson, the defendant?”

“My name is not Johnson, it's Ali Al-Kobar,” Johnson interrupted with disdain. “I don't have no slave name.”

The Judge shook his head in exasperation and twirled his seat until he faced the wall.

“I'm being persecuted on a political charge here,” Johnson continued loudly. “We were demonstrating against the offensive conditions of that pigsty called The Tombs and now we're being persecuted for a crime because we demand being treated like human beings.”

“Right on,” shouted someone from the court audience.

“None of that,” the Judge snapped, twirling forward again. He pounded his palm on the bench. “I'll clear the courtroom.”

There was a group of young people, sitting in the back of the courtroom listening to the preliminary proceedings of the The Tombs riot trial. Marc recognized the pretty blond girl who had been demonstrating outside the court the day of the riots. What was her name again? Andrea something, Marc recalled. He remembered she had asked him for his card. Apparently she remembered too; she smiled at Marc.

“Mister Oscar Johnson also known as Ali Al-Kobar,” said O'Reilly, unflapped. He spoke slowly, carefully. “You have not been properly or completely arraigned. Please be kind enough to listen to my admonitions and instructions as to your rights before you speak further.”

Johnson was silent.

O'Reilly nodded. “Now, do you have an attorney, Mister Johnson? If you do not, as you are entitled to an attorney at all stages …”

“Mister Johnson,” the Judge cut in, speaking directly to the defendant.

“Ali Al-Kobar,” Johnson demanded.

“Fine, fine,” said the Judge quickly. “Whatever you want to call yourself is satisfactory to the Court. As long as we get on with it. You are entitled to a lawyer. I'll appoint an attorney, if necessary, at the county's expense for you. Do you understand?”

“I already had me a Legal Aid lawyer, Your Honor,” said Al-Kobar. “He was no good. He didn't even want to come to see me to discuss my case. He didn't know nothing about it. I want my own lawyer.”

“Can you afford to retain your own lawyer, Mister Johnson?” asked the Judge.

“Al-Kobar,” Johnson insisted.

“I meant Al-Kobar,” said the judge curtly.

“I been laying up here in The Tombs for a long time, Judge,” said Al-Kobar. “Even before The Tombs trouble. I don't have no money to pay a lawyer. Does that mean that a poor Black man charged with a political crime for waiting to be treated like a human being, that he is prejudiced as a result of his state of fundlessness?”

“It means nothing of the sort, sir,” retorted the Judge. “And I want you to know and the record to reflect clearly that no one is prejudiced in my court because of race, creed, color, or condition of finances.” The Judge was looking straight down at the defendant. “You'll have a lawyer appointed. A private lawyer, not a Legal Aid lawyer. Is that what you want?”

“I want my own lawyer,” said the defendant.

“And you'll have one. And we'll do this expeditiously, Mister Al-Kobar. Was I correct that time?” the Judge probed cuttingly.

The defendant stared defiantly at the Judge.

“You're one of The Tombs riot defendants,” said the Judge. “And the case is being prepared for trial for the September term. Is that right, Mister D.A.?”

“That's what Mister O'Connor said, Your Honor,” replied the young D.A.

“Yes,” agreed the Judge. “And you, Mister Al-Kobar, have a motion to suppress evidence pending. That will be handled by the trial judge just prior to the trial.”

“What if I win the motion?” asked Al-Kobar. “Or are you prejudging the motion, Your Honor?”

“I'm doing nothing of the sort,” the Judge said angrily. “I'm not even going to be the trial judge. I'm just going to make sure you have a lawyer. Now I will certainly provide you with the opportunity to be represented, as is your right, as I have already stated, but it must be done with expedition. There are two other defendants in your case, which is the first of the riot cases, and you are charged with initiating the riots in The Tombs. Now this is a matter of grave concern to the public. The District Attorney wants to proceed with the trial without delay.”

“It is a matter of grave concern to me too, Judge,” said the defendant. “I want an attorney of my own choosing.”

“Now just a minute. Just a minute,” said the Judge. “The Court will appoint an attorney for you. Those judges in the Appellate Division have been judges longer than you've been out of your diapers, so I think they can pick a better lawyer for you than you could for yourself.”

“I don't want no lawyer then,” said Al-Kobar curtly. “I want a lawyer of my own choice, or I don't want one at all.”

“You're not going to impose your will on this court, Mister Al-Kobar. Let me assure you of that,” said the Judge. “And you're not going to play games with this court. I know how it's done. I've been around. You try your own case, handle your own defense and then when the case goes up on appeal, you get a reversal because you should have had an attorney. Not in this court, mister. You're going to have a lawyer and a trial with all the trimmings. Your rights are going to be safeguarded all the way down the line.”

“May I be heard, Your Honor?” asked the defendant. He was hostile and belligerent now.

The Judge studied Al-Kobar. “You may,” he said. He swiveled half around, looking at the side wall.

Al-Kobar began to speak. He spoke about his rights, about being poor, Black, prejudiced by the facist system, unable to defend himself in court. Someone from the audience cheered loudly. The Judge pounded on the bench. The courtroom became silent. Al-Kobar continued. The Judge now picked up the
Law Journal
which contained all the court calendars in the City, as well as all the decisions that had been made in all courts the day before, and other news items of importance to judges and practicing attorneys. Al-Kobar was still speaking, saying whatever he wished for the record. The stenographer was calmly recording everything said. The defendant began declaiming now against tyranny, oppression, and racism. Whatever he said, however, wasn't about to change Judge Kahn's opinion about anything. The clerk and court officers lounged back and relaxed while the defendant made his speech.