Strega

17

BUT THAT was years ago. Today I left seven grand with Mama. Max would know that five was for him and he should hold the rest for me. There was no time for Mama's endless nonsense about Max, but I did have time to eat before I went back to the office to change. I had a court appearance for the afternoon, and I wanted to look my best.

Even though it was just a preliminary hearing, I normally wouldn't go into a criminal court. There wasn't any point pretending I had a private investigator's license, and even a flyweight defense attorney would have a ball asking me where I'd spent twelve years of my life. I testify a lot in civil court, though-matrimonials and crap like that. And I'm a lot more honest than the lawyers: I charge a flat rate for perjury, not so much an hour. But this was a special case.

It really started in Family Court, where this woman came in to get an Order of Protection against her husband. Seems they were showing a film about child sexual abuse in school and one of her daughters started crying and the whole sleazy story came out. Anyway, she gets this Order, and he's supposed to leave the house, but he comes right back in and starts screaming at the kid how the whole thing is her fault and how she's going to go to an orphanage and stuff like that. And the poor little kid just plain snaps out-she was only ten years old-and they take her to this psychiatric hospital and she's still up there. The slimeball naturally takes off, and the woman hired me to find him. It only took a couple of days. I threw a quarter into a pay phone and the Warrant Squad picked him up.

Most of the time the D.A.'s office wouldn't even think about prosecuting a guy like this. They got more excuses than Richard Nixon: the guy's the family breadwinner, the trial would be too tough on the kid, all that crap. The bottom line is that they don't want to mess with their sacred conviction rates-most of these family-style sex cases only get prosecuted when the perpetrator confesses, and even then the D.A.'s office doesn't get too worked up about it. After all, the family unit is the bedrock of America.

But they finally formed this new unit-City-Wide Special Victims Bureau. It's supposed to cover all crimes against children, in all courts. I heard the D.A. in this case was really going to go for it, and I wanted to see for myself.

I walked in all dressed up: dark-blue pinstripe, white shirt, dark-red tie, polished black shoes-even an attache case. I wasn't carrying a piece-in the Supreme Court, they use metal detectors at the entrance because some politically wired judge complained about the dangerous radicals who might invade his courtroom and shoot it out with the guards. This happens in the Supreme Court about every other century, but you can't be too careful. On the other hand, right across the street in the Family Court, the average litigant carries some kind of weapon and violence is an everyday thing, but there's no metal detectors. That's New York-even the names of the courts are total bullshit-the lowest trial court is the 'Supreme' Court, and the place where we turn abused kids into monsters is the 'Family' Court. In this city, the name means more than the game.

The Assistant District Attorney was one I hadn't seen before-a tall brunette with a white streak in her thick mane of swept-back hair, wearing a gray silk dress and a string of pearls. She had a sweet face, but her eyes were cold. She wasn't from the Manhattan office-I guess they sent her over because she was handling another case against the same guy over in Queens or something. The court officers all seemed to know her, though, so I guess she was a trial veteran-those are the only ones they remember.

I sat in the front row-the one reserved for attorneys only. Nobody asked any questions-they never do.

The defense attorney was a real piece of work. His haircut cost more than my suit, and diamonds flashed from everywhere. It looked like it was only going to be a hearing on bail, and the lawyer had a long list of reasons why his man should be let back out on the street-the defendant was employed, sole support of his family, active in Little League… and that stuff. He looked like a weasel. His eyes darted around the courtroom-caught mine, and dropped. His wife wasn't even there.

The only person I recognized was the court reporter-the guy who takes down everything they say on one of those machines that don't make any noise. He was a tall guy with big hands, slumped over his machine. He'd gone to Vietnam about the same time I last went to prison, and it burned him out. I'd watched him a lot of times and he never changed expression, no matter what went down. I asked him about that once and he told me the courtroom was the same as ' Nam -only here they did it with words instead of with bullets.

The argument went on and on, and then the defense attorney made a mistake. He put his client on the stand, figuring the guy's long list of social contacts would get over on the judge. And it might have too, until the D.A. took her shot.

She stood up at her table and began questioning the creep in a soft voice, just background questions about his job, and where he'd be staying while waiting for trial-crap like that. She shuffled through some papers at the table as if she couldn't think of the next question to ask; then she took a step closer to him.

'Sir, on April twenty-fifth, did you enter your wife's home?'

'It's my home,' the creep smirked, 'I paid for it…I'm still paying the mortgage on it.'

'Objection, Your Honor,' said the defense attorney. 'What does this have to do with a bail application?'

'It has to do with credibility,' shot back the D.A. Then she gave a little bow of her head to the defense attorney, and told the court, 'I promise to connect it up to the issue before this court, Your Honor, and I will not oppose a defense motion to strike the testimony if I fail to do so.'

The judge tried to look like he was thinking it over, glanced over at his assistant (they call them 'law secretaries' in New York-they're all political appointees and they make more money than the judges in the 'lower' courts), caught the sign, and said, 'Proceed, counsel,' just like they do on television.

'Will you answer my question, sir?' the D.A. asked.

Then he went into his rap. 'Yes, I entered my home, with my key. Of course I did.'

'And did you have a conversation with your child Marcy at that time, sir?'

'It wasn't a conversation. I just said she had caused a lot of trouble with all these lies. You see, if it hadn't been for that stupid movie they showed at her school…'

'No further questions,' snapped out the D.A., leaving everyone in the courtroom puzzled.

'You may step down,' said the judge to the creep. Then he turned to the D.A.

'Young lady, I don't understand your line of questioning. If you can't connect this up'

'My name is Ms. Wolfe, Judge, or you may refer to me as the Assistant District Attorney,' she said in a gentle voice.

The judge smiled, humoring her, and the defense attorney rubbed his hands together. They weren't good listeners-the lady was being quiet, not soft. You could see she was a pro. There was steel inside, but she wasn't going to waste her time showing it when there was no jury around.

'Very well, Ms. Wolfe,' said the judge, hitting the accent so the low-lifes hanging around the bench wouldn't miss his sharp wit, 'the court is still waiting for you to connect it up.

'Yes, Your Honor,' she said, her voice hardening, 'I have here a certified copy of an Order of Protection, signed by Judge Berkowitz of the Family Court. Among its terms and conditions are that this defendant remain away from the home and person of the victim.'

'Bring that up to me,' the judge said to one of the court officers.

He scanned the two sheets of paper, looking even more puzzled than ever. He couldn't see where the D.A. was going, and neither could the defense. The creep's lawyer barked out, 'Relevance, Your Honor?' The judge looked down at the D.A., no longer smiling, waiting for her to respond.