Courthouse (44 page)

“When are we getting into the courtroom?” shouted one of the young people defiantly.

“Court opens at ten o'clock,” announced the police sergeant in charge. He was standing near the entrance to the courtroom.

“They don't want us to go in there,” goaded someone in the crowd.

“Let them try to keep us out,” shouted another defiantly, stirring the crowd.

“Yeah,” shouted many of them in reply. There were murmurs and general discontent.

“Right on,” shouted others.

The murmurs grew louder.

“Keep it down,” advised the sergeant. “There are other courts in this building, other people working.”

“Fascist pigs, enslaving the people in this building, that's what they're doing.”

“Right on, brother.”

The policemen kept patrolling the length of the line on the outside of the wooden barrier.

Many in the waiting crowd were seated on the floor, propping themselves against the wall. There was continuous excited conversation.

“Keep it quiet,” said the sergeant, looking down the long line of waiting spectators.

“Open the doors then!”

“What are they trying to do, railroad our brothers?”

“Yeah, how come you're not opening the doors?” shouted a few almost simultaneously.

“Open the doors. Open the doors. Open the doors,” a chant began. The crowd was becoming restive.

The police prepared for trouble.

“Stand easy, men,” the sergeant cautioned.

The police stood their ground, their night sticks at the ready if a commotion broke out. The crowd was stirring and making more noise.

“All right, keep it down,” called the sergeant, now using the bull horn which he had kept in the telephone booth he commandeered as a temporary headquarters. “Keep it down, or nobody's getting in,” said the sergeant flatly.

“Trying to railroad our brothers,” repeated one of the protesters. “They're trying to stifle our voices.”

“Never again.”

There was cheering and shouts of encouragement.

“We'll let you in when you calm down,” said the sergeant. “Not a minute before. So if you want to get inside you better knock it off.”

“Come on, let's keep it down, so we can get in there and help our brothers,” a woman pleaded.

“They're trying to keep us out,” shouted a disbeliever.

“Let's see what happens. Let's cool it.”

“We no fools.”

Loud cheers of agreement.

“Nobody gets in until everybody is orderly,” the sergeant announced over the crowd. His men still stood at the ready, facing the crowds, their bodies tense with the possibility of action.

The faces of those in the crowd were angry, defiant. There was still much muttering and cursing, and an occasional shout, but the crowd started to quiet.

“That's it,” the sergeant encouraged the crowd. He didn't have to use the bull horn now. “That's fine. It's almost time for court. You'll get in shortly. I just want to advise you of one other thing,” he added. “Anyone who carries on inside the courtroom is going to be removed.”

“Fascist pig.”

A supportive roar from the crowd.

“No outbursts like that,” the sergeant said, not even ruffled by the insults. He had been hand-picked to head the police detail on his ability to remain calm in the face of provocation. “Any outbursts in the court and we're going to take you right out of there. Remember that. I won't take anyone out unless he disrupts the proceedings. If you want your friends to have a fair trial, then you better keep quiet while you're in there so the jury, the judge, and everybody else can hear.”

“Fair trial. How can pigs give someone a fair trial?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Okay, let's knock it off,” said the sergeant tolerantly. “Another thing. Not everybody on line is going to be able to get a seat. There's only so much room in there.”

The crowd started to shift and move toward the door. There was pushing and complaining.

“Take it easy. Nobody's going to get in any faster,” said the sergeant. “Just stay in place. We're going to open the door in a couple of minutes. So let's just keep it calm.”

“Come on, you pig, open the door.”

“Okay, knock it off, or nobody gets in.”

A side door near the courtroom entrance opened. There were some excited shouts at the opening of the door, which faded to a hiss of disgust as a policeman came out, closing the door behind him.

“Sergeant, the Judge wants to see you,” said the emerging policeman.

“Okay, Murphy,” the sergeant called to another policeman. “Take over and keep them calm. And you be sure to keep calm too,” he added softly.

“Right, Sarge.”

The sergeant walked to the side door and opened it. Inside, a cop was leaning against the wall, looking down at the floor, smoking. He was standing on one foot, the other braced against the wall. When he saw it was the sergeant, the cop stood straight, dropping the cigarette.

“Just stand easy, but keep alert,” said the sergeant. “If one of those little creeps comes running in here, you're going to have to move fast.”

“Right Sarge.” The cop retrieved the cigarette from the floor.

The sergeant moved toward the back. The corridor bent to the left, then right, ending at another door. A second policeman was posted there. He was gazing out the window at the demonstrators bathed in sunlight in the street below. He turned when he heard the sergeant, then stood to the side sharply.

The sergeant knocked on the door of the judge's robing room.

The robing room was a small, light green office just to the side of the courtroom. Inside was a scarred desk, a chair, a telephone, and two other doors, one to a washroom, the other to the courtroom. Judge Crawford, in his robes, was standing at the window, looking down into the street. His law assistant was standing with him.

“You wanted to see me, Your Honor?” said the sergeant.

The Judge turned. “Oh yes, Sergeant. I just wanted to be sure we were going to have enough men for security and order here today. Looks and sounds like a large crowd.”

“Yes, sir. I have twenty men up here. There are many more stationed in the stairwell, and more behind the building. We didn't want to be too visible.”

“That's fine. That's fine,” said the Judge. “Now, if there's a disturbance, I'm going to order the court cleared. Your men can wade in and help out the court officers.”

“Yes, sir. I'll have two of my men posted at the rear of the courtroom. If there's any problem, one of them will come right out to me, and I'll come right in with my men.”

“Very well. I have ten court officers in addition, so there should be no difficulties. Shall we get going then?” Judge Crawford turned to his law assistant and to the clerk of the court who had just entered the robing room from the court.

The sergeant nodded and returned to the door leading to the corridors and the crowd. As the sergeant opened the door to the main corridor, he could hear the voice of the crowd rise and murmur. When he emerged, the crowd moaned and cursed their displeasure.

“What's the excuse now, Sergeant Pig?”

One of the officers inside the courtroom unlocked the courtroom entrance doors. There was a loud cheer and general movement toward the door as the crowd jockeyed for position.

“Just stay in line,” called the sergeant. “Keep it quiet and stay in line.”

A policeman stood on either side of the door just inside the courtroom, watching silently as the crowd filed in. Once inside, there was a rapid scurrying for seats, and within a minute or two at the most, the courtroom was filled with a capacity audience. The air was alive with a holiday-like enthusiasm, the spectators socialized and chatted with each other.

Shortly, a court officer slapped his hand against the door leading from the judge's robing room. “All rise,” he called.

The Judge entered, moving quickly up to his bench. He ignored those who refused to rise, as well as the boos that greeted him. He remained standing next to his chair.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” announced a court officer, “all people having business with Part 37 of the Supreme Court, New York County, draw near, give your attention, and you shall be heard. The Honorable James J. Crawford presiding.”

“Power to the People.”

The Judge, now seated, pounded lightly on the top of the bench. “There will be no outbursts from the audience during these proceedings,” he said, looking at the spectators. “If we have any disturbances, I'll have no choice but to clear the courtroom.”

The crowd murmured and grumbled.

The Judge rapped on the bench again. The crowd became relatively silent.

There were two long tables with many chairs set against the outside of the rail separating the audience from the well of the courtroom. These were marked
RESERVED FOR THE PRESS.
Some reporters were already seated at these tables. Others now entered the courtroom and took seats. Some of the news media people were well known from appearances on television. Some were staff reporters for newspapers or wire services. Others were bearded, casually dressed reporters, apparently from underground publications.

“Bring out the prisoners,” said the Judge.

Three court officers went into the bull pen through a doorway leading from the side of the courtroom. In a few minutes, they emerged with Oscar Johnson, a/k/a Ali Al-Kobar. His head was cleanly shaved and shining. As he entered the courtroom, he lifted a clenched fist in salute to the audience. The audience cheered. Behind Al-Kobar was James Phelan, the white man with the thin lips and the missing tooth. Behind Phelan was Ralph “Fee” Santiago, his mustache and beard trimmed perfectly for the appearance.

O'Connor had picked a politically, racially balanced trio of defendants for the first riots trial.

“Power to the People,” shouted Al-Kobar defiantly as he stood at the counsel table.

The crowd loved it. They screamed approval and joyful defiance.

The Judge pounded his bench again. “Mister Johnson or Al-Kobar, however you want to be known, I have already warned the audience that outbursts would not be tolerated in this courtroom.” The Judge's lips curled down in the corners. “I told them I would have them ejected from the courtroom. I can do that to you and your codefendants too. You can watch the trial on closed circuit TV from the jail. Or, I can have you quieted with a gag.” He pointed a finger at Al-Kobar. “I do have effective means of stopping even you from disturbing these proceedings. I do not want to do that, however. But, I shall do it, if you make it necessary. Please do not make such a measure necessary.”

The crowd booed and hissed.

Standing at the counsel table with the three prisoners were their attorneys. Al-Kobar had Richard Katzenberg, a middle-aged activist lawyer with thinning hair, which he wore very long in back, and glasses. Katzenberg, despite his age, had picked up the beat and was with the new movement. The other two attorneys were younger. One was a Black man with an Afro hair style. He represented Santiago. The third lawyer was a woman in a pants suit.

“Let's proceed,” said the Judge, looking to the clerk.

The clerk nodded, then asked each of the defendants, so that the record would be complete, if they were the named defendants, and if the attorneys standing next to them were their attorneys. Each of the defendants acknowledged their identity and their attorneys.

A young, petite blond girl in a pants suit was the stenotypist. She sat at her machine recording every word.

“Today, we are going to have hearings concerned with the suppression of certain physical evidence and the suppression of certain statements allegedly made by the defendants, all of which the prosecution intends to offer into evidence against each of the defendants. Is that correct?” asked the Judge.

“That's correct, Your Honor,” said O'Connor, as he rose from the prosecutor's table.

“Very well, can we move this matter to trial, Mister District Attorney?”

“I would like to make a statement,” said Al-Kobar, who had now donned a red, green, and black wool cap.

“In the first place, Mister Al-Kobar,” said the Judge, “remove your hat in this courtroom.”

“This hat is part of my religious beliefs,” retorted Al-Kobar.

“Your religious beliefs require you to wear that hat?”

“That's right.”

“What religion is that?” the Judge asked.

“I don't have to be answering to you,” said Al-Kobar. The crowd cheered approvingly.

“Oh, but you do,” said the Judge coldly. “I run this courtroom, not you and not your friends in the audience. Now unless I know what religion you say requires you to wear that hat, I'm going to have to require that you remove it.”

“I am a Muslim.”

“Right on.”

“That man, that one,” said the Judge, looking out to the audience, pointing a finger at a Black man in a flowing dashiki. The guards looked. “Remove him from the audience.”

The crowd began to hoot.

“I'll clear the entire audience in a minute,” said the Judge.

The court officers walked over to the man in the dashiki and spoke to him. He was reluctant, arguing with them, motioning, resisting.

“I said remove him, not have a conversation,” said the Judge firmly. “Now remove him.”

The guards spoke to the man, and he began to walk slowly toward the back of the courtroom. He glared at the Judge. Then he raised a fist in salute to Al-Kobar. Al-Kobar returned the salute, then, after the man had left the courtroom, turned back to the Judge.

“I still want to make a statement,” said Al-Kobar.

“Not now,” said the judge. “I'll give you full opportunity to be heard, but right now I want to get the hearing started.”

“Why can't I make a statement now?” asked Al-Kobar.