Courthouse (35 page)

“A lot of people ask me that,” Seigel said. “I'm not, though, you get me? My brother is Harry Seigel.” He looked for Marc's reaction.

Marc's face showed he didn't know Harry Seigel.

“He's the Democratic leader over in the Washington Heights area, Inwood, over there,” Seigel supplied.

“Oh, that Harry Seigel,” said Marc, not really knowing Harry Seigel.

The man nodded, smiling. “Harry, my brother, asked me to come over and be interviewed. I told him, I said,
Harry, I don't want it,
you know? Not that they'll give it to me, you get me? But if Harry wants me to come over, I said to myself, I'll come over. So here I am. I have an eleven-thirty appointment with the Committee. I'm a little early. I figured, if I'm going to kill the morning, I might as well get here on time, you get me?”

“They seem to be running a little late,” Marc repeated.

“Wouldn't you know,” Seigel said with a frown. “That Del Gato who just went in,” Seigel said, nodding toward the conference room. “He's got a good shot at an appointment.”

“I don't know him,” said Marc.

“What's to know? He's Puerto Rican. The Mayor's looking all over for Puerto Ricans to put on the bench. He's got plenty of pressure from the Puerto Rican community because he don't put them on the bench. I mean, how the hell can he, you get me? How many Puerto Rican lawyers are there anyway? And of those, how many could even sit on the bench? They're good for some closings on
bodegas
and such, you get me? But they don't think like we do. They still have to assimilate. So here's a guy the Mayor'd die to put on the bench. He'd be off the hook for a while. What club are you with?”

“I'm not with a club,” replied Marc. “George Tishler asked me to be interviewed. That's how I got here.”

Seigel gauged Marc for a moment. “Oh? Tishler's pretty important in the appointments. I mean, he's the Mayor's man for judgeships. Tishler says okay, it's okay. You got yourself a good rabbi.” Seigel studied Marc again. “You're Italian?”

“Yes.”

“The Mayor needs Italians too. Nothing personal about Italians, you get me. It's just that he hasn't appointed one in a while. Almost as good a shot as the Puerto Rican—in chances, if you know what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Marc. “You a Jew?” He saw Seigel draw back with a wariness that most Jewish people have when asked if they are Jewish. It's almost as if asking that question were an accusation.

“Why do you ask?” Seigel said. He was studying Marc again.

“Doesn't the Mayor need Jews?”

“Oh.” He smiled. “He's already got a bushel of them on the bench.” Seigel relaxed a little. “I'm not really interested in being a judge, if you get me?”

“How come?” Marc asked politely.

“I mean, who needs it, you know?” said Seigel. “The money stinks. What is it, thirty-three thousand five hundred. Is that money?”

“It sure is,” replied Marc. “When you don't have office rent to pay, no secretary, no overhead.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Seigel, “but still.” He paused. “And besides …” Seigel looked around to see if anyone in the empty room or corridor were listening, “… it's all taxable. You know? There's no cash … At least, now, you can put a little … You know what I mean.”

“But with your background and connections, you're a cinch,” Marc said lightly., “I mean with Harry Seigel behind you.”

“Sure, connections and pull, I got the best,” Seigel conceded. “But still, I'm not interested, you get me? If the Mayor said tomorrow, here, Seigel, the job is yours, I don't know I'd take it. I mean it. Besides making a lousy living, you're stuck every day. Not like the old days, you could come and go the way you wanted. You didn't have to show up, you didn't want to. Now, they have the newspapers looking over one shoulder, the Judicial Conference over the other. It's a job, you get me? Who needs it?”

“You sure don't,” said Marc. “Why would you even consider a judgeship then?” He was enjoying baiting Seigel.

“Prestige, I guess. That's about all the job's got to offer,” Seigel said after some thought.

“Prestige is only what other people think about what you're doing,” said Marc. “How about what you think about it? If it's a lousy job, who cares what other people think about it. You get me?”

Seigel studied Marc again. He shrugged dismissingly, realizing Marc didn't understand the finer points of life. He picked up his
Wall Street Journal,
peering at Marc over the top of the paper.

The door to the conference room opened. George Emerson followed Del Gato out. Del Gato turned and went out of the building. Emerson continued to walk to the waiting area.

“Mister Conte?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

Emerson shook Marc's hand. “I'm George Emerson. The Committee would like to see you now.”

Seigel lowered his paper. He nodded, jutting his chin out to Marc in encouragement. Emerson and Marc started back across the corridor.

The conference room was very large, dominated by a long table of highly polished wood. Around the table were seated perhaps twenty men and two women. On the table before each was a yellow pad.

Emerson led Marc toward the head of the table. “Mister Conte, this is Mister Anthony Chapin, our Chairman.”

Chapin was a tall man, heavily built, with dark hair. He wore a vest and a chain. Chapin shook Marc's hand and waved him toward a chair directly next to the head of the table.

“Mister Conte, we would like to ask you some questions about your background,” said Chapin. “There is nothing personal in any of the questions, nor do we ask any of them to pry into your personal affairs.”

“I understand that, sir,” replied Marc.

“Very well. Would someone like to start?” asked Chapin, turning to the array.

“Yes, I would,” said a woman in a red dress. She had dark hair and glasses. “How much work, Mister Conte, do you actually do in the criminal field?”

“A fair amount,” Marc replied. “I actually have a general trial practice, but I do a substantial portion of that work in the criminal field.”

“As a result of that,” the woman continued, “do you feel that you understand the problems which seem to beset the criminal courts these days?”

“I believe so,” replied Marc. “At least some of them.”

“How do you feel that you could be a benefit to the courts if appointed to the bench?” asked a man on the left side of the table.

“By knowing and understanding the law and the courts,” replied Marc. “And at the same time, by knowing the needs of defendants, understanding some of their problems as a result of having represented so many. I believe I might be able to contribute to a greater respect for the law.”

“How could you do that?” the woman in the red dress asked, probing sharply.

“Respect for the law starts in the courtroom,” Marc replied. “If defendants respected the law, they might not return to face other charges. And to respect the law, defendants must be respected by the law, treated fairly, impartially, not like filth and human decay, but rather like human beings who have erred, sometimes grievously. There must be firmness and certainty of punishment, but most of all, there must also be fairness and equality of treatment. We cannot possibly expect respect for the law if the system singles out certain individuals—perhaps powerful or wealthy—and gives them special consideration merely because they've got connections. Moreover, I do not see a judge's role as a part-time prosecutor, but as an impartial arbiter of the law.”

“Does that mean,” asked a man in a dark suit and club tie, “that you would have a tendency to be lenient on defendants?”

“It doesn't mean that at all,” replied Marc. “Do you want my frank opinions on these subjects?”

“Surely,” replied the Chairman sitting next to Marc.

“Then, I suggest that understanding is not to be confused with lenience; nor fairness with softness,” said Marc. “What I said about a judge's role refers to the fact that many judges feel their job is to help the prosecutors get defendants into jail. I don't see it that way. I believe judges are intended to be impartial referees, interpreting the law for the lawyers and jury. I wouldn't be a D.A.'s hatchet man if I were a judge.”

“Does that mean that if someone you have represented or a friend of someone you may have represented came before you,” asked a small man with a bald head and wire frame glasses, “that you would be, perhaps, I should say, would have a tendency to treat him with a different measure than say someone who was poor and Black?”

“First of all, I represent many defendants by way of assignment by the court. And many of my clients
are poor and Black.
Second, I wouldn't treat anyone differently. I have enough impartiality, guts too, if you will, to treat anyone who would come before me in the same way. And I'd suggest as an example of my capacity to do what I say, is the fact that I sit here before you and tell you my exact feelings. Even if I disqualify myself because of my answers. And, finally,” said Marc, “if someone I knew came before me, I would excuse myself from sitting on that case, because that's what a judge should do in such circumstances.”

The bald man nodded, and made a note on his yellow, pad.

“You have represented many figures who are allegedly connected with organized crime,” asked another man, young, with dark hair. He looked like the epitome of a product of the Yale Law School. “What would you do if one of these people came in front of you and you were sitting as a judge?”

“I think I've already answered that,” said Marc. “I'd either treat them right down the middle, whoever they were, or I'd disqualify myself from sitting on their particular case because I knew them.”

“Do you really think you could do that?” the questioner continued. “That is, be right down the middle, no matter what?”

“There's no question about it in my mind,” said Marc.

“What in your opinion is the best method of dealing with organized crime, crime in general,” asked another man, gray-haired.

“Those are two separate categories altogether,” replied Marc. “Crime in general, I think, as do many others more qualified than myself, is a result of the present socio-economic ills of our society. It will take a great deal of time, effort, and money to eradicate them. But we
are
making slow progress,” he added. “As to organized crime, I think that—in a large measure—what we talk about as organized crime is a myth, which has been made bigger than life in order for the governmental authorities to show they know where crime is located and that they're fighting it. It's certainly easier to create the placebo of an organized crime syndicate that's responsible for all our ills, and spend our law enforcement energy fighting it, than it is to fight the vastly more extensive and expensive socio-economic difficulties which I mentioned a moment ago.”

“Are you saying that there's no such thing as organized crime?” asked one of the young women.

“Certainly not,” replied Marc. “There are certainly gangs engaged in criminal activities. I suggest, however, that there is no monolithic national or international syndicate ruling crime, with a central headquarters, a central treasury, and a common plan of activity. The gangs are more independent, in competition with each other, and we should fight them as such. To create a false myth of a syndicate and then concentrate millions of dollars and hours to go out and fight it, rather than attack the real problem in crime, is to waste time, energy, and to fail in fulfilling governmental responsibility.”

The people around the table were silent.

“Any further questions?” asked the Chairman. No one said anything. “Thank you very much, Mister Conte,” he said, rising, shaking Marc's hand.

Marc followed Emerson out to the corridor. George Seigel was now pacing the marble floor to the corridor.

“So? How'd it go?” Seigel asked Marc.

Marc shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Well, wish me luck,” said Seigel as he followed Emerson into the committee room.

Marc walked out the front entrance. Franco was seated in the car just to the side of the entrance. Marc got in.

“How'd it go?” Franco asked, starting the engine.

“I told them what I really felt on the questions they asked me. I'm not sure that was the wise or political thing to do, but if it isn't, screw it.”

Franco smiled. “Where to?”

“We have to go to the Brooklyn Supreme Court,” replied Marc. “Pellegrino's being arraigned on that state gun charge.”

Franco headed toward the East River Drive.

24

Thursday, August 31, 6:35
P.M.

Two men stood in the shade of a tree across the street from Toni Wainwright's apartment building. They seemed to be studying the façade of the Wainwright building. One of the men was Franco, the other, his old friend Johnny Manno. Johnny was tall and trim, with dark hair. He was an expert burglar, specializing in the burglary of large estates isolated in the midst of sprawling acres. In the grand tradition of times past, when even burglary had its ethic, Johnny Manno never carried a weapon when he worked, nor did he ever come into physical contact with his victims. Johnny was no cheap heist man. He was a specialist in quick, silent, and, sometimes, almost impossible burglaries. It was rumored that Johnny once physically removed a two-hundred-pound safe from the second floor of a great manor house in Virginia while the family was dining quietly on the lower floor.

“What do you think?” Franco said to Johnny, as the two of them continued their observations. The doorman was in the lobby, sitting on a side chair.

Johnny pursed his lips, studying further. “From what I see, Franco, and from the floor plan you drew, the best way to get into the joint without being seen is through that service entrance over there.” Johnny looked in the direction of a barred gate at the extreme east end of the building.