Courthouse (25 page)

The wind was increasing as they neared the open water. The boat was heeling over sharply now. The breeze pushed Maria's hair back off her face.

“It's a pretty crummy crime,” admitted Marc. “This fellow's going to have one hell of a time getting a fair trial.”

“I don't get the impression you're starting to think about defending him, do I?” she asked with obvious displeasure.

“You sound pretty strongly on the subject. Why shouldn't the man be defended?”

“Because it's more than a pretty crummy crime, as you described it. It's horrible … a seven-year-old child.”

“Your reaction is all the more reason that the fellow needs a strong, objective defense,” said Marc. “You, after all, darling, are a pretty reasonable person—most of the time—and even you are outraged. Can you imagine how some of the cops that arrested him feel? Can you imagine how the people in Brooklyn who are going to be on the jury will feel?”

“Come on, Marc. Don't get any ideas about defending him.”

“Why not?”

“Because. It's just horrible. That poor little girl.”

“You sound like all the strangers who ask me whether I'd defend someone if I knew for sure that he was really guilty,” said Marc.

“I know, and your answer is that whatever crime he's committed your job is
not
to get him off, but just to see that he gets a fair trial. But this crime is horrible. Who cares if this filthy animal gets a fair trial as long as he's off the streets.”

“I care,” said Marc. “The more I listen to you, the more I realize maybe I should volunteer my services. I can just imagine what Franco would say about this case.”

Maria turned. “Franco.”

Franco saw her turn toward him and say something. He motioned with his head to indicate he couldn't hear. Both his hands were on the wheel.

“What do you think about the case this morning in the paper, about the little girl?” Maria called.

Franco cupped one hand around an ear; he still couldn't hear her.

“What do you think about the case where the little girl was killed this morning?” she called louder now.

Franco shook his head. He couldn't hear over the sound of the rushing waters and the wind. They were out past Breezy Point jetty now. Sandy Hook loomed over the starboard bow.

“Go and ask him, please,” Maria urged. “I want to see his reaction.”

“Okay. I'm curious myself.” Marc walked aft.

“What's the matter?” Franco asked.

“Nothing. Maria just wanted to know what you thought about the fellow who's accused of killing that little girl in Brooklyn this morning?”

Franco looked forward to Maria and put one hand around his own throat, letting his tongue dangle out of his mouth. He pointed to the top of the mast.

“First, I'd cut the bastard's balls off and stuff them in his mouth,” Franco said quietly to Marc. “Then I'd hang his ass from the tallest thing I could find.”

“That's what I thought you'd say,” said Marc. He made his way carefully back to where Maria was sitting.

“You'd better not defend that animal, Marc Conte,” Maria said firmly.

“Look darling, I personally think the crime is outrageous, okay? Professionally, however, it's something else.”

“What else?”

“Professionally, it's a crime, like any other crime, which has legislated elements which the D.A. must prove in order to obtain a conviction. A defense lawyer can't think of it as a terrible thing. It's a crime, a crime created by men in the Legislature in Albany, put into effect by men—the D.A., and a judge, and a jury. And someone has to resist the rushing flow of bad publicity and make the D.A. prove his case according to the law.”

“Darling,” said Maria. “I know what you mean. I agree with you most of the time. But this …”

“This is exactly what I've always been talking about. The kind of case where no one wants to touch the defendant with a ten-foot-pole. Not even me, really. But someone has to protect him. Not because he's innocent. Not because he's a marvelous person. Not because I'd want to get him off. That's not the defense lawyer's job even though most people think that it is. But this man needs someone to defend him just to make sure that he gets a fair trial; that all the T's are crossed and all the I's dotted, and the law complied with right down the line. If that's done, and he's convicted, then I'd have no complaint. What would you say if after a full, impartial jury trial, the jury decides that the man is actually not guilty, say because it's a mistaken identity, or some other reason?”

“That would be different.”

“Well, how the hell are you going to find that out if he doesn't get a fair trial?” asked Marc.

Maria looked at him, her mouth softening into a smile. “I guess you're right. But it's such a horrible thing …”

“I absolutely agree. But perhaps after a trial, he'll be found to have committed not murder, but, say, manslaughter in the first degree. The difference between life in prison and twenty-five years. Shouldn't he be convicted of what he's committed? Not a whit more, not a whit less?”

“Yes.”

“Well then let the D.A. earn his salary, and whatever the jury says goes, guilty or not guilty. Is there anything fairer than that?”

“No.”

“You think it should be different than that?”

“No.”

Marc leaned over and kissed the end of Maria's nose.

“Are you going to volunteer to represent this fellow?” she asked.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because I know you.”

“I'm sure the court will appoint someone who knows how to handle the case,” said Marc.

Maria put her arms around Marc's neck, leaning her forehead against his, looking into his eyes, gently reproving him. “Only if it's absolutely necessary. Please. I mean, there
are
other lawyers. You didn't invent the system, you know.”

“I know.”

Maria kissed him, her mouth soft and warm. Marc's tongue gently flicked at her lips. Her tongue in turn touched the tip of his.

“Did I tell you this morning how fantastically you fill out that bikini,” Marc said, his forehead still pressed gently against hers.

The air was fresh and smelled of the clean sea now.

“No.”

“You have some everything, baby,” he said kissing her again. “Some legs, some ass, some beautiful, round belly, some … shall I go on?”

“Did I tell you,” she said, looking back toward the helm to be sure Franco was busy, “that I noticed that you weren't wearing anything under those pants?” Her hand gently slid up his thigh and touched the firm bulge at his crotch.

“Why you little devil.” Marc smiled. He took her arm and moved her so that she lay back on the deck again. He lay close beside her. They kissed warmly, passionately. Maria's tongue slid into Marc's mouth. Their legs intertwined. The heaving of the boat rocked him against her legs.

“Let's go below,” she said gently as their lips parted.

“Right here on deck?”

“Very cute.”

Marc stood, and helped Maria to her feet. They both moved along the side of the cabin to the cockpit. Marc patted her rear end as she moved ahead of him. She flicked her hand at his to stop him as they reached Franco.

“We're going below. I'm going to sleep for a while,” Marc said to Franco. “You be okay here by yourself for a while?”

“Sure.”

Marc followed Maria below. She moved directly through the main salon into the forward cabin. As she arrived there, she turned to embrace Marc who was directly behind her. They stood, their bodies now pressed warmly against each other, kissing. Marc shut the cabin door with his foot.

“You turn me on like an electric light bulb,” she said as she stopped kissing him so she could gather air.

“And you me,” he said, his hands sliding up her back and undoing her bra. It fell to the floor. Her breasts, firm and taut, were quite light compared to the tan of the rest of her. Her nipples were pointed and erect. Fingers of each of his hands gently brushed across both her nipples as they kissed again.

“You have such fantastic hands,” she said, her eyes closed ecstatically as Marc continued to rub her nipples.

Maria's hand went into the waistband of Marc's pants moving down until she grasped him firmly, caressingly.

“You have fantastic hands too,” Marc said. His mouth found hers again, and they silently caressed and fondled each other as they kissed. The rocking of the ship was timed, it seemed, or they timed themselves, so that they were rocking against each other excitingly.

Marc's hands moved down and he hooked his index fingers into each side of her bikini bottoms. The pants slid beneath his fingers until, after they cleared her wide hips, revealed all the whiteness and darkness and softness beneath. Marc moved forward, as they still kissed, toward the bunk. He reached down now and picked Maria up in his arms, lifting her onto the soft mattress of the bunk.

Maria's hands unlaced Marc's pants. They, too, fell to the floor, revealing him naked and aroused and aching for her. He climbed onto the bunk. They kissed again, their bodies hot, their legs intertwined.

Marc's hands gently ran over her breasts as they kissed, then slowly slid down her chest to her stomach, and then lower still until he caressed her completely.

“Oh, Marc,” she gasped in his ear. “Oh, ohhh …”

Her hands had enveloped him, arousing him, exciting him, pulling at him. And all that could be heard now was the rushing of the water beneath the boat, and the gentle rocking, and the occasional shifting of the sail on the mast as
Pescadorito
cut its way smoothly through the sea.

17

Monday, August 21, 9:15
A.M.

Marc was at his office desk looking over his check book and a list of accounts receivable. He still hadn't charged Mrs. Maricyk any fee. He didn't want to press her too hard, especially since she was trying to raise bail money. He probably would only ask her for a thousand dollars, maybe less. He tried to adjust his fees so a defendant without much money or with no money could still be helped yet not insulted or humbled. The wealthier people paid more, but to them, their freedom was worth it, and they didn't give a damn that they were paying more so Marc could afford to help the little guy too.

Sunlight streamed through the windows; the kind of sunlight early fall always brings, not as hot, but brighter, whiter, as the sun held lower in the sky. The weather was considerably cooler today. A buzzer sounded.

“Yes?” said Marc, picking up the intercom.

“Mister Fox is here to see you,” Marguerite announced.

“Bring him in,” said Marc. He read the last remaining entries on the check book, then closed the book.

Lawrence V. Fox was an attorney. He handle mostly minor criminal cases, and could be seen daily hustling through the corridors of the Criminal Courts Building. Indeed, when many criminal attorneys were sought to handle minor gambling, prostitution, pickpocket cases, they referred the case to Fox. There was usually not much fee involved in such matters, but Fox capitalized on volume work. He rarely went to trial; usually the case was disposed of by way of plea and fine. The door opened, and Marguerite showed Mister Fox into Marc's office.

“Hiya, Marc,” said Fox, smiling, reaching out to shake Marc's hand. He was of medium height, his gray hair combed into a pompadour. His clothes were kind of flashy-sharp, like a small-time gambler's. Fox was quick-moving, doing everything with a kind of nervous, compulsive rapidity.

“Hello, Larry,” replied Marc, standing. “Here, Marguerite,” he said, taking some papers from the side of his desk. “Type these Wainwright papers in final form and serve them on the D.A. right away. Make the motion returnable next Tuesday. And here,” he said, taking the draft of another set of motion papers from his desk. “Take the motion to suppress the recordings in the Maricyk case and make it up. Serve both motions for the same day.”

Even though Marc had decided to seek a lesser plea for Maricyk, he had to continue to prepare for a trial. The D.A. might not offer a plea Marc thought acceptable. And, besides, to keep some leverage, Marc couldn't throw in the sponge now. He had to play it as if it was for real.

“Yes, sir,” Marguerite said, taking the papers, then turning to leave the room. She shut the door behind her.

“Always work, hanh, Marc?” said Fox, smiling quickly. He sat in the chair just in front of Marc's desk, crossing his legs.

“Yes,” agreed Marc. “There's always something else to be done.”

Fox uncrossed his legs as he studied the pictures on the walls, the diplomas, the certificates behind Marc. “Nice office,” he said. Even while seated, he seemed to be moving.

“Thanks. How've you been?” asked Marc.

Fox waved his hand through the air several times quickly. He frowned. “With all this Legal Aid crap, business stinks. Nowadays, the judges ask the defendant
You have any money?;
naturally the defendant says no, and then they give him Legal Aid just like that without even checking the guy out. In the old days, you had to really not have any money to get Legal Aid. This way, it's really cut into the business. Don't you find it that way?”

“I've noticed the judges doing that,” Marc replied politely.

“Are you kidding?” said Fox, weaving back and forth on the chair. “Now they have, who knows, forty, fifty, Legal Aid lawyers just in 100 Centre alone. There's three or four in every court. Sure it's cut into business. Maybe you don't know. You handle different kinds of stuff. Me, I grab a quick fee, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, finished. But that business is shot, too. Gambling used to be good. Ten cases a night. And the prostitution cases. And the fag cases. All the little shit that nobody else wanted, I'd make a good buck, I mean, a real good buck on it, Marc.” He winked at Marc for emphasis.