success ratio was impressive.
Koesler had read a lot about Dava Howell. Although she was young, her conviction percentage almost matched Johnson’s acquittal record. Koesler wondered if she had been selected from the prosecutor’s staff because the murder victims were women. Newspaper photos did not do Dava Howell justice. She was much more attractive in person.
A hush fell over the crowd as a door near the bench opened and the defendant, escorted by several burly uniformed policemen, was led into court and seated at the end of the table at the right, next to Johnson, who immediately leaned over and said something to him.
Koesler was jolted. This was not the same Dick Kramer of just the other day. Already he seemed a changed person. He was wearing a black suit, undoubtedly the same one he had worn yesterday when he was arrested. It looked rumpled, as if he had slept in it, which was probably so. He was not wearing the roman collar, just a white shirt open at the neck.
From the moment he entered the room he looked at no one. He went straightway to his place and proceeded to stare at the floor.
“All rise,” a deputy announced loudly and banged a gavel.
Still like church, thought Koesler. The priest processes in, the congregation stands.
“The Thirty-sixth District Court for the County of Wayne in the State of Michigan is now in session. The Honorable John Bowmont presiding.” The deputy concluded his introduction and everyone sat again.
Koesler was prepared for a rather lengthy session. But it was over in a fraction of the time he’d thought it would take. In effect, the judge read the charges to the defendant—criminal charges brought by the State of Michigan. Defense attorney Johnson informed the court that his client would stand mute to the charges. The judge then entered a plea of not guilty. Johnson motioned for bond to be set. Bond was denied. And Father Kramer was taken from the court to the nearly always crowded Wayne County Jail.
The judge, having called a recess, was gone. The defendant was gone. The attorneys were packing up their briefcases. The doors opened. The crowd filed out. In the corridor, print, TV, and radio reporters were trying to approach and interview anyone who looked as if he or she might have a relevant comment. The hallway was illuminated with the unreal light of the TV sunguns.
“That’s it?” Koesler couldn’t get over the speed of it.
“Earlier, the judge issued the warrant,” Koznicki explained. “And we have just witnessed the arraignment. In effect, this legitimizes the continued holding of Father Kramer in jail.”
“What now?”
“As far as the trial is concerned, the judge has set the preliminary examination for this Thursday morning. At that time, the prosecution must make a case strong enough for the judge to decide that a trial is necessary. Otherwise the charges will be dropped.”
“Thursday!” Koesler thought about that. “Three days. Isn’t that a rather long time to wait?”
Koznicki smiled. “On the contrary, Father. It is rather soon. There is much to be done between the arraignment and the preliminary examination. It was less than twenty-four hours ago that the arrest was made. The police have convinced the prosecutor’s office that the complaint is justified, and the judge has issued a warrant.
“Now the police and the prosecutor must build their case. And I can assure you, in this instance, they still have a long way to go on that.
“Then too, the defense has a right to what is called ‘discovery.’ The defense has a right to know what sort of ‘proof’ the prosecution has. Believe me, Father, three days is a rather brief period in a case such as this.”
With the exception of a couple of deputies, Koznicki and Koesler were alone in the courtroom. They retrieved their coats and hats from the rack.
“Where to now, Father?”
“Well, if I’m going to try to help him, I guess I’d better go see if I can talk to Father Kramer.”
Koznicki touched Koesler’s arm, causing him to pause before leaving the courtroom. “If I may offer a suggestion, Father.”
“Of course.”
“Hold off your visit until tomorrow afternoon.”
“If you say so . . .?”
“Something very important is scheduled for tomorrow morning. It is called a show-up, wherein a couple of witnesses will try to identify the man they saw last week entering the victim’s apartment building.”
“Oh, you mean like the line-up they have in movies?”
“Yes, a line-up. We call it the show-up. The case against Father Kramer will neither stand nor fall on the result of the show-up, but it will be very important nonetheless.”
“And if the witnesses cannot identify Dick?”
“That will be one bit of circumstantial evidence the prosecution will not have.”
“And if they do?”
“It will be a very important bit of circumstantial evidence favoring the prosecution. You see, Father, we have here neither a perpetrator caught in the act, nor an accused person who has pleaded guilty. All the evidence against Father Kramer is circumstantial. Which does not mean it is weak evidence; almost all evidence in such trials is circumstantial. The more such evidence mounts, the better it is for the prosecution. In this, you see, Father, quantity adds up into quality”
“Then you feel it would be better if I delayed visiting Dick until after the, uh . . . show-up.”
“We will know so much more then, Father. By that time, he may need your presence more. I sincerely hope not. But it is possible.”
“Then tomorrow afternoon it is.”
“Good. I shall arrange special visiting privileges for you tomorrow. Say, two o’clock?”
“Two o’clock it is then.”
28
“The second day in a row we have a promise of temperature in the forties,” Inspector Koznicki said. “If this continues all the snow will be gone.”
“Yeah,” Tully responded, “forty degrees. That’s Detroit’s plan for snow removal.”
Koznicki sensed the pressure Tully was under. The two sipped coffee as they stood looking out a window in Tully’s squad room. There was nothing of great interest to see from that vantage. A brick wall and, if one craned far enough, a tiny slice of what Detroiters liked to call Bricktown.
But they weren’t standing there to enjoy a breathtaking vista. Tully was marking time until the show-up. Koznicki was keeping him company.
Without success, the inspector was trying to recall a time during their association when Tully had been this nervous. Nor was this anxiety easily explainable. This morning’s procedure, following yesterday’s arraignment, was one both officers had gone through at very frequent intervals over the years. To Tully, it should have been almost second nature. Yet for the past hour, he had restlessly checked the details over and over. “What time you got, Walt?”
“Eight . . . 8:40.”
“It’s getting late.”
“You have twenty minutes until the show-up. Plenty of time. Who’s picking up the witnesses?”
“Mangiapane.”
“Good. And the subjects in the show-up?”
“Salvia.”
“Both reliable officers. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not—” The phone on Tully’s desk rang. He grabbed it. “He’s here already? Okay, stay with him. Get him some coffee.” He hung up and turned to Koznicki. “Johnson’s here . . . Kramer’s lawyer.”
“Good.”
“He’s early.”
“He will be able to talk to his client before the show-up. Just about perfect.”
