Courthouse (4 page)

Paper and pencils were assembled, and seven men sat at the table, each with paper, each with pencil, surrounded by fellow inmates.

Captain Casey and Lou Adler were put in one cell. Scott and Lockwood in another. Davis in a third by himself. The three cells were quite far apart from each other. The hostages were untied and their gags removed. Each had been given cigarettes, and even Casey, who didn't smoke, was smoking.

“What the hell's going on up there now,” demanded Margolis, as he stood at his desk.

The officers around him shrugged.

“Dep, ABC television is on the phone,” said an officer.

Margolis made a face. “Christ, man, tell them if they want to know anything come down here and join the party. Everybody else is already here.”

“They wanted to talk to their news team.”

“Pritchett,” Margolis said impatiently. “I got other things than to be running a messenger service. Tell them we're a little busy.”

Captain Walker, a Black captain, came into the office quickly. “Dep, the hot line is all lit up. It's the Commissioner.”

“Come on, what's going on up there?” demanded Margolis. “The Commish is calling every five minutes. They must be on his ass from City Hall. What the hell is going on up there?”

“Here's the Chaplain.”

“Father, Father,” said Margolis, walking over to the priest. “Maybe they'll listen to you.”

“Here, said Father McGuinis, handing Margolis a paperback book with a piece of paper sticking out from its pages. Father McGuinis was short and bald. “One of the police just gave this to me on the way in. Someone threw it out from the eighth floor. They want to be heard, want the newspapers to know what a rotten, overcrowded place this is. They're right, you know—it's a disgrace to cage men up like this.”

“Sure, sure, Father,” said Margolis. “But right now, they have five of my men hostages. We have to establish some communication.”

“I'll go up,” said the Chaplain.

“Take Father to the elevator,” said Margolis.

“I'll go with you, Father,” said a Black officer.

“Okay, Johnny,” said Father McGuinis.

Margolis went to the hot line to tell the Commissioner, who in turn could tell City Hall, that something was being done.

3

Monday, August 7, 9:25
A.M.

Marc pushed through the revolving doors into the large, marble main lobby of the Criminal Courts Building. He moved quickly away from the doorway, out of the stream of people being churned into the lobby. In that flow were policemen in uniform, and lawyers, carrying briefcases, and court personnel, and young kids being pulled along by their mothers, and old couples, and worried-looking young women, and some men with bandaged arms or heads—who might have been victims of crimes or apprehended criminals; and there were many Black people, and mostly poor people, dressed in cheap imitations of the styles of the day. All these were to take a role in the meting out of justice this day; the accusers, the accused, the families, the friends, the prosecutors, the defenders, the judges, the bondsmen, and the court buffs who come to court to take in the spectacle.

Some of the young Black men coming into the building were loudly dressed, with large floppy hats pulled to one side of their heads, and bright-colored suits, and high-heeled clunky shoes, and flashy rings on their fingers. They were pimps come to wait while some of their girls—both Black and white—were processed and released with a fine.

As it was every morning, the terrazzo floor of the lobby was coated with gray, grimy streaks, the result of the cleaning crew's mopping dirty water around the night before. A pile of cigarette butts and orange peels, and half frankfurter rolls, and soiled tissues, and candy wrappers, had been swept to the side of the entrance. The sweeper, a young Black man, was leaning against the wall, his broom resting against his shoulder as he watched the people entering the building. He looked sleepy but was more likely a methadone patient the city was helping to rehabilitate.

In the center of the lobby, there was a large circular information desk under a round, four-faced clock. No attendant was ever posted at this information desk. And the clock above hadn't been cleaned in so long the numerals were barely visible. A lanky young Black lay full length atop the desk counter, leaning back on one elbow, one foot on the counter, one dangling over the edge, eating a frankfurter oozing fried onions, drinking orange soda from a bottle. These had been purchased from the umbrellaed pushcart stationed between the parked cars directly outside the building. A variety of other people were lounging around the outer perimeter of the desk, some drinking coffee from paper cups, some reading the morning paper, some just smoking, staring into space, others waiting for their lawyers or friends, talking loudly or whistling or silent. On the floor, at the base of the desk, sat several long-haired, unkempt hippie types. They enjoyed the stares and consternation of the cops moving toward the courts. There was an open antagonism between these young people and the conservative, young cops.

Marc walked along a corridor toward Part AR-1—one of the approximately fifty courts in the Criminal Courts Building. Some of these were under the jurisdiction of the New York City Criminal Court, and handled misdemeanors, crimes which bore a maximum penalty of one year; the other courts were part of the New York State Supreme Court, which had jurisdiction over felonies, major crimes which bore penalties from one year to life and even death.

In Part AR-1, people arrested for crimes in New York County (Manhattan) are first arraigned, that is, formally advised of the charges against them. As Marc walked toward the courtroom, he wondered how respect for the dignity and majesty of the law could survive in the filthy mess of this courthouse, with eaters, loafers, and loungers permitted to do whatever they liked, wherever they liked. He stopped outside the AR-1 courtroom, studying the faces in the crowd, looking for Mrs. Maricyk. She had called him earlier to tell him that her husband, Joey Maricyk, had been arrested last night and was to be arraigned this morning. Maricyk was a former cop who resigned from the force under pressure after some disciplinary action relating to an affair with a married woman during a time Maricyk was separated from his wife. Marc had represented Maricyk at his departmental hearing.

A young woman in a pair of tight slacks, sandals, and a sleeveless, cotton shirt which seemed a shade too tight walked toward Marc.

“Mister Conte?” she wondered.

“Mrs. Maricyk?”

“Yeah,” she smiled somewhat shyly. Her smile was marred by a couple of teeth in front which were rotted at the edges. “I thought it was you.”

Mrs. Maricyk wore pierced earrings, long ones, and her hair was bleached blond. The roots were quite dark.

“Has Joey been brought into court yet?” Marc asked.

“Not yet. The cop said it'd be a while yet.”

“Where is the cop now?” asked Marc.

“I don't know. He was here a couple of minutes ago,” she replied, looking about the corridor.

“You said on the phone that Joey was arrested for trying to bribe a policeman?” said Marc. “Is that what the charges are?”

“That's what Joey said,” she replied.

“You spoke to your husband?”

“Yeah, they let me see him down at the station house. You shoulda' seen what a mess he looked like,” she said, raising one hand to her mouth. “He wasn't even able to stand up. His ribs was all sore; his back was all scarred up. He said one of the cops worked him over with a ax handle he keeps in the back of the cop car.”

“The cop kept an ax handle?”

“That's what Joey said. I guess they got it in for him 'cause he's a ex-cop, you think?”

“They might,” replied Marc. He had heard of policemen doing all sorts of strange violent things to people they arrested. Marc knew that some—perhaps only a few—policemen joined the force merely to give vent to their sadistic natures.

“How did all of this start?” Marc asked.

“Joey said he was stopped for speeding or an illegal turn, or something like that,” she said. “And you know Joey, he sort of mouthed off, I guess. And they took him down to the station house. And then he's supposed to have tried to give the cops some money to leave him go. That's what the cop said. But I don't believe him anyway.” She hesitated for a moment. “Say, Mister Conte. This cop's got funny ideas, you know,” she said, looking at Marc, hoping he understood.

“What kind of funny ideas?”

“Well, I was down at the station house till about three or four this morning, you know? And the cops said that Joey'd be in court this morning some time. So I go home, you know, just to change. I didn't even bother to change or put make-up on when I first got called. I just went right down to the station house. So when they said that Joey wouldn't be arranged …”

“Arraigned,” Marc corrected.

“Yeah.” She smiled. “Well, I go home, you know? And about seven-thirty this here cop from the case shows up at my house.”

“The same cop who arrested Joey?” Marc asked, surprised.

“Yeah, the same cop. And he comes on, like, you know. He says he knows it's rough, and he wants to help me out and all that crap. And he says he'll wait for me while I change and then he'll take me down to the court. Now I know this guy ain't just lookin' to help me out. I mean, you know? He's a cop that just arrested my husband. So I told him he better take Joey to the court and not worry about me. But he says to me his partner is going to take care of Joey. I told him he already took care of Joey real good, the rat. He thought that was funny, you know. The dumb kraut.”

Marc studied Mrs. Maricyk. She was poorly spoken, poorly educated, seeming now small, lost, pathetically defenseless in the grips of the vast, impersonal, intricate machinery of justice. That face, that voice, that defenseless floundering which Marc had seen so often before, heard so often before in other people, was one of the driving forces in Marc's defense of people accused of crime, whether they could afford his services or not.

“What's the arresting officer's name?” asked Marc.

“Schmidt,” she replied. “He's a typical kraut, mean, like a gestapo. He even started to brag about being the weight-lifting champ of his precinct or his division, whatever that is. And he starts telling me about having plenty of money. He's got another job as a bouncer somewhere. And he's giving me all this crap, you know? So I told him the baby was sleeping, wait downstairs for me, you know? I don't have no baby, Mister Conte. I just said that. Can you get this guy off my back, I mean, without making it worse for Joey on his case?”

Marc frowned, looking around the hallway. “Do you see this cop yet?”

Mrs. Maricyk looked around. “Nah, I don't see him.”

“I'll try and straighten it out,” Marc assured her. “Just point him out to me when you see him. I have to go inside for a moment to see if I can get the case called quickly.”

“Okay, Mister Conte. Listen, I only got a couple of hundred with me,” she said, taking some bills from a pocket-book containing nothing more than a lipstick, keys, and a used tissue. “That's all I could get this morning. I had to borrow from my mother. But I'll get some more, whatever it is. Don't worry about that. Can I give you the money here?”

“Why don't you hold onto it and we'll talk about it later,” Marc smiled, trying to reassure her. “Let me get the case called first.”

Marc pushed open the first of a double set of brass-studded, leather-padded doors at the rear of the large courtroom. An oval window was set in the center of each door. Hand-printed paper signs, indicating
POSITIVELY NO EATING OR DRINKING IN THE COURTROOM
were pasted over most of the glass ovals. Marc stopped to peer under a paper sign into the courtroom. The high-ceilinged courtroom was painted beige, with wood paneling on the lower half of the walls. The paint was peeling in great patches from the walls and ceiling, and the paneling was stained where the maintenance personnel carelessly wiped it with wet rags, causing the paneling to lose its finish in streaks and to warp.

At the front end of the room, inside a heavy wooden railing, under the somewhat askew motto
“IN GO WE TRU T”
sat Judge Arnold Rathmore. Seated next to Judge Rathmore was Judge Vincent Bauer, in his brand-new black robes. He was being phased in before assignment to his own court.

Marc smiled. Good old Vinnie looked a little hesitant up there behind the bench. He was watching and listening intently.

Judge Rathmore was Black, moon-faced, with dark-rimmed glasses. He was wrapped in his black robe as he sat in a high-backed chair on the judge's dais. Judge Rathmore had spent twenty-four years in the District Attorney's office, and after all those years of faithful service, was elevated to the bench by mayoral appointment.

The front rows of the courtroom were reserved; on the right, sat policemen, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, their silver badges pinned to their shirt fronts with large safety pins. On the left, were attorneys.

Standing in front of the judge's dais, his shoulder almost as high as its front ledge, was a court officer known as the bridge man. He was the officer who called the cases on the calendar, read the charges to the defendants, advised them of their rights, and stamped the papers with the appropriate rubber stamp so the Judge could thereon place his initials and notations of what action had been undertaken on this date. The bridge man stood between the judge's dais and the counsel table at which the defendants, their lawyers, and the District Attorney stood to address the court.

Also within the well of the courtroom, at tables and desks against the side walls (none of the tables or desks in the courtroom matched—they were a hodgepodge collection, missing drawers and scarred tops) were the Legal Aid lawyers whom the Judge assigned to represent defendants who could not afford their own attorneys, and the court personnel necessary to process the calendar.