Bad Lawyer (14 page)

I needn’t have worried. Encouraged by a little cop-to-cop charm on Caleb’s part, and a double sawbuck, Sergeant Patrick Shannahan tracked the report to a filing cabinet in the basement. “I don’t remember taking this complaint,” he announced as he handed over a single sheet of paper, “but if I wrote it down, it must have happened.”

As that was a position I, myself, intended to maintain, I accepted the report and made a graceful exit. Before he changed his mind.

“Thelma was telling the truth, at least about making the report,” Caleb told me as I drove off toward the Long Island Expressway. “Check this out.
The complainant alleged that when her husband tried to call police, the alleged perpetrator threatened to kill the alleged victim.
” Caleb folded the paper, put it back in his pocket, and sighed. “I may not know anything about literature,” he said. “But I know what I like.”

I knew what I liked as well. The complaint would be offered as proof that Priscilla, in fleeing to her parents’ home, had exercised her duty to retreat. Later, when the police failed to act on her mother’s complaint, she was out of options. She had to defend herself and she did.

W
E WERE STILL PREPARING
subpoenas by night, serving them by day, when Caleb, accompanied by a very tiny, very old lady, walked into the office. Though unable to suppress a grin, Caleb said nothing as he helped the woman off with her coat, shrugged out of his own, then led her across the room. It was nearly midnight.

“Miss Higginbotham, that’s Julie Gill sitting by the computer. And these two are Rebecca Barthelme and Sid Kaplan. They’re both lawyers, so you might wanna watch your step. Folks, this is Miss Maybelle Higginbotham.”

Julie rose, extended a hand. “
Little
Maybelle Higginbotham?”

The old lady’s face, a smooth, mahogany mask, came to life as if at the command of a stage magician. Her brown eyes glittered with pleasure, her full mouth rose into a joyous, professional smile. “Ah, darlin’, I thank you for rememberin’.” She touched Julie’s hand with the tips of her fingers, the gesture both regal and intimate.

“Little Maybelle is a blues singer,” Julie said to me and Rebecca. “Must have started out …”

“Sixty years ago,” Maybelle said. She was wearing a jade green, velvet dress, the collar and sleeves trimmed with lace, and a matching, wide-brimmed hat. “I was livin’ in Chillicut, Mississippi, and Depression times was goin’ full blast. Figured my possibles in Chillicut was mostly impossibles, if you take my meaning. So I got on the road.” She sat down, folded her hands on her lap, allowed her back to bend ever so slightly. “Course, I’m retired now.”

Caleb nodded happily. “Maybelle lives on Broome Street, right down the hall from Priscilla and Byron. She made the 911 call that brought the cops that day.”

“Miss Higginbotham …” I began.

“Maybelle, please.”

“Great, and I’m Sid to my friends.” I crossed my legs, glanced from Julie to Rebecca. The exact wording of Maybelle’s call for help was crucial to our motions to exclude evidence found in Priscilla’s apartment. The more specific the wording, the greater the justification for the entry by the first cops on the scene.

“Who’s the reporter?” Maybelle asked, looking from one of us to the other.

“Not here yet.” Caleb glanced at me. “Maybelle’s written an autobiography. She’s hoping a little publicity will help her find an agent.”

“One thing I learned in life,” Maybelle said. “You got to take advantage of the advantages that come along. Specially if you’re an old black woman livin’ on Social Security and food stamps. Jus’ don’t be askin’ me to tell no lies. I stopped fibbin’ right after my last divorce. At my age, you got to get yourself right with the man upstairs.”

Phoebe Morris chose that moment to make her entrance. She pushed her way through the door, put her briefcase on my desk, tossed Julie a brief smile, then pulled a tape recorder from her briefcase. “You mind?” she asked.

Maybelle Higginbotham shook her head. “Uh-uh. But I
was
hopin’ you’d bring a photographer. This hat ain’t been out the closet in fifteen years.”

I went into the drawer of my desk, pulled out my Olympus, and passed it to Phoebe Morris. Then I motioned to Maybelle. “You’re up.”

Maybelle smiled, then got right to the point, “What I told the woman was, ‘I want to report a gunshot in my building.’ Then I give her Priscilla’s apartment number and the building’s address. You know what she had the nerve to ask me? As if I was some kinda senile fool? ‘Could what you heard have been a firecracker? Or a backfiring truck?’

“‘Best get your butt over here,’ is what I said. ‘I think the boy done killed her this time.’”

The last sentence brought the five of us, Rebecca, Phoebe, Caleb, Julie, and myself, to full alert. Like circus poodles gazing at a piece of steak dangling from a trainer’s fingertips.

“That’s exactly what you told them?” Julie asked. “About Byron killing Priscilla?”

“Course, I knew the both of ’em from when they first come to the Lower East Side.” Maybelle raised her chin, announced, “I’m something of a celebrity in the neighborhood.” Then she laughed. “Among the hipper folk.”

Julie slid her chair up to Maybelle’s. “So, you must have known what Byron was doing to her.”

“Don’t recall him tryin’ to hide it.” She paused to accept a cup of tea from Caleb, to add cream and sugar. “They was good people when they first come downtown. Then the drugs got ’em like they got so many. I used to know Billie Holliday. Charlie Parker, too.” She looked from Julie to me, her eyes wide, questioning. “Byron got mean and Priscilla … well, Priscilla wasn’t no angel. She went along with it until one day he come close to killin’ her. Then they separated for a couple of years when they were the both of ’em in jail. After Priscilla got paroled, I thought she was gonna make it, but she took him back in the end. That happens.”

“Yes, it does,” Julie said. “But there’s one more thing you can help us with. We need to know if the cops spoke to you before they went to Priscilla’s apartment.”

Maybelle shook her head. “By the time they knocked on my door, Priscilla was already standing in the hallway. Had the handcuffs on, too.”

Later, when Caleb, Julie, and I were alone, I remember hugging Caleb, then demanding to know why he hadn’t found her sooner.

“Wrong question, partner,” he responded without hesitation. “Miss Higginbotham spent the last two weeks in South Carolina. Visiting a niece. The question you oughta be askin’ is what you’ve done in your miserable life to deserve an investigator who kept going back until someone answered the door.”

I wasn’t surprised to find a knot of reporters gathered before the Criminal Courts building when I arrived on February 1 for a scheduling conference in Judge Delaney’s chambers. After all, I’d phoned many of them to announce that Priscilla would take the occasion to demand a speedy trial which meant that she’d be making an appearance. What surprised me were the demonstrators, predominantly female, who sported
FREE PRISCILLA SWEET
buttons, and the demonstrators, mostly male, who carried
NO JUSTICE/NO PEACE
placards. One and all, they were so busy trying to keep warm, they failed to notice my entrance until I was right on top of them. Then a tall, fat woman in a down overcoat shouted, “There he is,” and both factions began to chant. Looking between them, I saw a video crew near the entrance to the building.

I remember thinking that I should find all this depressing. That I’d been through far too much to overestimate my own value. Or to underestimate those things in my life that were actually valuable. Nevertheless, I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, marched between the demonstrators as if walking a gauntlet. I continued past the camera crew and the poor
schmucks
waiting to go through the metal detectors, entering the building through a door bearing a painted sign:
COURT PERSONNEL ONLY/ALL OTHERS SUBJECT TO SEARCH.

Delaney was sitting at his desk, bent over a foot-high stack of paperwork, when I walked into his chambers. He was a mild looking man with a long oval face. His features, small and pale, were overhung by a shock of thinning, silver-white hair, the net effect that of an old (if not actually wise) soldier slowly fading away. He nodded good morning, told me to help myself to coffee. Buscetta hadn’t arrived and Delaney wasn’t about to waste his time on social conversation.

Buscetta made his appearance a few minutes later, and I put forth Priscilla’s determination to exercise her right to a speedy trial. Delaney was clearly unhappy, but when I told him that I’d tried my best to talk her out her foolishness, he sighed and moved on to the matter of discovery.

“By time of trial,” Carlo said as he passed a copy of my request to Delaney. “At the latest.”

“That’s not good enough,” I interrupted.

“Your Honor, according to the statute …”

“Forget the statute.” I turned to Delaney. “Judge, we’re looking at a warrantless search of my client’s home based on a 911 call. The responding cops didn’t even bother to stop at the door of the woman who made the call. They went directly to Priscilla Sweet’s apartment and forced their way inside. The detectives who arrived later conducted another warrantless search when they could have gotten a warrant by phone. Without the evidence discovered as a result of those searches, the prosecution has no case against my client. I need the notes, logs, and reports filed by the cops, as well as the text of the 911 call in order to prepare motions. I need that material and you have the right to compel the prosecution to deliver it. These are records made immediately after my client’s arrest; they exist, intact, right at this moment. If Mr. Buscetta doesn’t have them in his possession, let him pick up his lazy butt and walk over to the 7th Precinct and use their copier.”

Buscetta was furious, but Delaney simply waved him off. “Was there a warrant?” he asked.

“No,” Buscetta admitted.

“I want you to make an effort, Mr. Buscetta. We’ll come back in two weeks and discuss the matter again. Let’s move on.”

This was a crucial moment for Priscilla Sweet. Delaney (though I didn’t think he had the balls, not when so many voting citizens were looking over his shoulder) could rule that any reference to Priscilla’s and Byron’s past was irrelevant. Certainly, Buscetta would fight, point by point, for that position. What I needed from Delaney was the widest possible latitude. In the great tradition, I wanted to put the victim on trial.

“Your Honor,” I began, “if given the opportunity, I’m prepared to put forward a claim of self-defense that conforms to every element of the statute.”

Buscetta jumped in before Delaney could respond. “What he wants to do is attack the victim. The prosecution will file motions to exclude any such testimony.”

It was all very predictable, the opening salvo in the pre-trial wars. A judge’s ruling on what may or may not be presented to a jury is often more crucial than the actual trial, but that ruling wouldn’t come until just before the trial itself. In the meantime, I gave Delaney something to consider.

“My client was systematically abused over a period of years. I can document this abuse with medical records, police reports, eye witnesses, and an order of protection.” I leaned forward, tapped Delaney’s desk with my forefinger. “The evidence is overwhelming. Priscilla Sweet was in fear of her life. She was trapped. The media has already dug up a good piece of that history, your Honor. It cannot be excluded.”

“Enough.” Delaney pulled on his chin, a sure sign he was annoyed. “I’m not going to try the case in chambers.” He glanced at his watch, shook his head. “Let’s go out and talk to Ms. Sweet about her speedy trial. It’s Friday and I have a mid-town appointment with a glass of Dewars.”

The room was full when Priscilla emerged from the holding pen. I remember her scanning the room, that half smile painted on her face, as she took the chair next to mine. “My mother’s left town,” she told me. “The phone calls, the reporters showing up at her door—she couldn’t take it. She’s in Oklahoma now, visiting her sister.”

“That’s fine, Priscilla. As long as she’s back in time for your trial. Her testimony, along with that complaint, establishes the fact that you exercised your duty to retreat. Without your mother, we lose everything.”

Priscilla laughed and tapped the back of my hand with the nail of an index finger. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back. Even if I have to go get her myself.”

N
EW BUSINESS. IT STILL
has a sweet sound, even all these years later. And not just because vindication, according to my own definitions, could be measured only by the size and quality of my caseload. Thelma Barrow’s five grand had, by then, dwindled to a small pile of c-notes; the successful defense of her daughter was utterly dependent on an inflow of fresh capital.

The first entreaties came through just after Priscilla’s arraignment, a series of calls from low-level mutts with the wherewithal for a minimal defense. I accepted their pitiful retainers with every intention of postponing their cases until after Priscilla’s trial. Then, on February 7, a much larger fish swam into view.

It was just after four o’clock when my personal shylock, Benny Levine, took a chair opposite mine, rubbed his watery allergic eyes with the blue handkerchief in his breast pocket, said, “Jesus, Sid, I’m fucked.”

Music to my ears. “How, Benny? How are you fucked?”

“It’s the feds.” For a minute, it looked as if he was going to cry, but then he pulled himself together. “It’s the goddamned RICO.”

Benny, as he subsequently explained, was in danger of being indicted under federal racketeering statutes for participating in a continuing criminal enterprise. His source for this information was a co-conspirator’s attorney. “It ain’t fair, Sid,” he protested. “Do I look like some kinda mob guy?”

He did, actually, what with his charcoal suit and his pinky ring and his pointy Italian shoes. But I’d known Benny for years, long enough to be sure he was small potatoes. I suspect the feds knew it, too, but that wouldn’t prevent their portraying him as a key member of some Mafia superfamily. And while I’d have to actually see the indictment to calculate the number of years Benny was facing, not only were the penalties for RICO violations very severe, at the time there was no parole in the federal system. What you got, you did.