Criminal That I Am (16 page)

CHAPTER 6

I'll See You in Court

M
y court date is set for January 7, 2011.

The day before, I'm trying to select an appropriate outfit for court. This is a less straightforward task than one might think, particularly given the possibility of press. I do not want to wear something that might attract attention. But if I do end up attracting attention, I must prepare for the probability that what I wear will be recorded in history. It's going to be hard enough to look back on this day. I don't need to also lament my appearance.

Earlier in the week, I go to a women's clothing store and browse through the racks. A salesgirl politely offers her help, but as I consider her young face and innocent smile, I conclude that she would know nothing about whether her store carries anything for an arraignment-like occasion. I decide that my court ensemble is one that I already own.

I examine the contents of my closet in order to start pulling things together. Given that photography is not allowed inside the courthouse, outerwear is of salient interest. I select a black wool coat with fat buttons. I pull out a pair of black pumps with formidable heels: if I am going to be publicly humiliated, I would at least like to do so while looking tall.

I begin to pack my usual going-to-court bag with my belongings and then realize that both the bag and its extensive contents are not necessary. I instead select a small purse of forest green leather and place inside only my wallet and a lipstick.

For my courtroom attire, I decide I should dress less like a lawyer and more like a defendant. I forgo my suits and select a plain black turtleneck and a pleated skirt of green Marimekko fabric. The skirt is born from my ordeal, stitched by my hand as I awaited news of my fate.

I choose a pair of silver earrings, purchased on vacation in southern Turkey in a different lifetime. I grab a pair of black tights. Now my outfit is complete.

Except. I am unsure if processing will require a drug test. I rack my brain through old cases to recall if this is required. I know that these are conducted before sentencing—I have an uncomfortable memory of a mortified client emerging from the Pretrial Services bathroom alongside an officer holding a jar of her urine—but I can't remember if it is required for arraignment. I am too embarrassed to call my attorney to ask, and so I decide to assume that a test is forthcoming, and with it the dreaded advent of having to pee on demand. After considering the contents of my underwear drawer, I pick out the plainest pair.

I lay all of these items out on my dresser, except the skirt and the coat, which I hang in a nearby closet. The entire collection looks like the adult version of what my mother used to prepare every night in my era of elementary school. In a matter of minutes, jumpers and undershirts and white tights would be gathered and precisely arranged so she could move on to other tasks that would ensure our academic success. At this thought, I refold and straighten everything in a manner more worthy of her, as though this might compensate for something.

Later in the day, my attorney calls to give me a rundown of what to expect over the next twenty-four hours. He tells me that by the close of business, Some Prosecutor will file the charging instrument—a criminal complaint—along with a warrant for my arrest. It's official: I have to appear in court tomorrow or else I will be considered a fugitive from the law.

“Where do I meet you tomorrow?” I ask my attorney.

He has arranged with Some Prosecutor a time to meet. “We'll all meet in the courtroom at ten a.m.”

“But wait,” I say. I have already prepared myself for the order of events for the day. “I need to surrender and be processed before I go to court.”

“Oh, right,” my attorney says. “I'll call him and call you back.”

He calls me back later in the afternoon. Processing had apparently been forgotten. Some Prosecutor has arranged for me to meet Burly Man at the U.S. Attorney's Office at nine-thirty a.m., who will in turn deliver me to the U.S. Marshals for surrender.

When I get off the phone, I roll my eyes in nervous annoyance at the fact that I essentially requested that I be processed. I already spelled out the case against me; now do I have to prosecute myself, too?

T
here is something in the air the day of my arraignment. When I wake, I'm in higher spirits than I ought to be. Here is the day I've been dreading, and yet I find myself poking my head out of my bedroom window, breathing in the crisp air. Although the clouds overhead promise snow, the sun is shining. I look up and tell it, “I am being arraigned today.”

I leave my apartment early so as not to be in violation of my arrest warrant. When I do, an available cab pulls up to my doorstep as though waiting for me to emerge. The driver, an elderly Chinese man, makes pleasant if incoherent chitchat as I direct him to the U.S. Attorney's Office. When he deposits me near the entrance, he says without sequitur, “I think you might be an angel.”

If he only knew where I am headed.

I arrive at the security station of the U.S. Attorney's Office at nine-thirty a.m. on the dot. I give one of the three U.S. Marshals standing guard Burly Man's name, and, per usual, I am instructed to place my purse and coat on the conveyor belt and provide photo identification.

Apparently, there is no immediate answer at Burly Man's line. “Are you here for a meeting?” the U.S. Marshal asks.

“No, I'm here to surrender,” I say.

The three men stop what they are doing and consider me with what appears to be shock. There is silence for a moment.

“Are you sure you mean surrender, dear?” one of them says.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I say. And then, to clarify, I say, “I did something bad.”

They allow me to pass. As I walk toward the main lobby, I glance back and see that the men are watching me make my way. They smile in unison, and I can't help but smile back.

Burly Man meets me in the lobby. When he greets me, he hardly seems like the menacing man who once stood at my door. Instead, he is pleasant and conversational. In fact, he seems very much like someone who would own and care for two sweet-natured cats.

He first takes me to his office. The walls are papered with newspaper clippings of prominent criminal cases, I presume those that he has worked. He seems to have spent his entire career in law enforcement. He confirms as much when we make small talk on the walk between the U.S. Attorney's Office and the courthouse. On our walk I note that we do not exit through the main doors of the U.S. Attorney's Office, but through a basement exit that makes our entry to the courthouse less conspicuous.

“We don't need to attract any attention to you,” he explains when I am looking around to see where we are.

I look at him for further explanation, but there is none to be had. He is staring straight ahead.

I expect that when I am delivered to the Marshals Service I will be placed in lockup until they are ready to process me. But Burly Man waits with me outside the office until they are ready for me. He regales me with stories of law enforcement—chasing after fugitives, running stakeouts, tracking down defendants. It is in this conversation that I learn Lady Agent was not assigned to my case, but was only present at my apartment as a matter of DOJ policy.

I feel comfortable enough to tell Burly Man, “I sort of wondered why she was so interested in my photographs.” He shakes his head and smiles.

The Marshals indicate they are ready for me. Burly Man escorts me inside. The time for my surrender has arrived. I picture myself being asked to fall to my knees with my hands in the air. Instead, I am led into a large room that bears the stale but familiar smell of MCC. I am so turned around geographically that I cannot tell if this office is somehow connected to MCC or if this is how all lockup facilities in Manhattan smell.

Normally, any reminder of MCC would turn even the sweetest moment sour. But I am distracted by what I see. My only interactions with the U.S. Marshals Service have been in connection with the security they provide at federal buildings. These Marshals tend to be older, distinguished-looking gentlemen who examine the contents of your
briefcase and stow your phone while you are inside the courthouse. I have never been able to reconcile these stern but seemingly harmless men with what I understand to be the bulk of the Marshals' work: apprehending dangerous fugitives and persons of interest, enforcing federal arrest warrants, and running various tactical missions.

Now that I've arrived for processing, the mystery is solved. Here presides an entirely different caliber of U.S. Marshal—each one younger, taller, more rugged than the next. It does not at all stretch the imagination to imagine these stalwart individuals physically fighting crime, wrestling crime to the ground, making crime wish it had been born into something more virtuous. The sight is so unexpected that I can only stare at my surroundings like a teenager.

I am knocked out of my daze when one of these Marshals directs me to a small office. As he sits at a computer, I answer a series of questions he reads from a questionnaire. I give responses about my social security number, my address, my marital status. Some of these the Marshal simply answers for himself. “Do you do drugs? No. Any tattoos? No. Wait, do you have any birthmarks?”

When he asks me for my occupation, because my crime occurred while I was practicing law, I tell him that I'm an attorney. When he asks for my place of business, I explain that I'm now a professor and work at a law school.

“So you're a lawyer and a law professor?”

“Yes,” I say. I do not add: for now.

He looks back to an earlier portion of the document.

“How are you single?” he asks.

At first, I think this is part of the questionnaire. I'm not sure how to answer. How much space is available on the form?

He sees my confusion and explains with a smile, “I'm saying that you are a perfect package.”

I feel my cheeks burn. “Well, I'm getting arraigned today,” I say. “So, probably not perfect.”

After this, I am brought to a tiny room where fingerprint- and mug shot–taking occur. I catch sight of Burly Man: he is sitting on a chair, my purse and coat in his lap, looking bored. I'm second in line to provide fingerprints; ahead of me is a young Russian man charged with a
drug-related crime, and after me is a pedophile who is there on a violation of supervised release.

When it's my turn to supply fingerprints, I'm told to place my hands on what looks like an enormous Xerox machine. The Marshal presses my hands down as the machine seems to scan their image. But it doesn't take on the first attempt. Or the second. Or what I count as the eighth. I try to press my hands harder onto the glass to possibly make things easier, but this only makes the machine stall.

“Stop trying to help,” the Marshal admonishes me.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

He sighs. “It's this fucking machine,” he tells me. He calls in another Marshal, this one with a heavy Boston accent, and tells him that he's unable to fingerprint me. The second Marshal sizes me up.

“Whaddaya here fah, a fackin misdemeenah?” he says.

I nod.

The two men fuss with the machine. They look at each other as though they are at a loss. They look at me again. They don't seem to know what to do next.

“Maybe I could just promise never to commit a crime again,” I offer.

This suggestion is ignored. The second Marshal catches sight of my shoes. “By the way,” he asks, pointing down at them, “did anyone tell ya there's a fackin blizzaad outside?”

He is likely referring to the fact that my black high-heeled pumps are not suited for the gathering snowstorm.

I shrug my shoulders.

He shakes his head at me and looks over at the other Marshal. “Just give ha the ink.”

This means exactly what I think it does. The first Marshal produces an old-fashioned fingerprint card, a box for every finger. “Watch that you don't get ink on yourself,” he says as he presses my hand into an inkpad. When I look at the black on my fingers, he assures me that the ink can be wiped off with a tissue.

He returns me to Burly Man, who hands me back my coat and purse. He explains that we now have to go to Pretrial Services before heading to court.

“That's it?” I say. This was less painful than a trip to the DMV.

One of the Marshals leads us to an internal elevator that will take us upstairs to Pretrial Services. The elevator is meant for law enforcement and contains a large cage to carry criminal defendants.

As we make our way into the elevator, I step toward the cage.

“What are you doing?” Burly Man asks.

“I'm going in here,” I say, pointing inside the cage.

“No, absolutely not. You stand right next to me,” he says protectively.

“Okay,” I say. I look up at him, but he is once again staring straight ahead.

When we arrive at Pretrial Services, we walk into a room full of people waiting to check in with their Pretrial Service Officers. This will be me in a week, I think to myself.

Burly Man walks me through the waiting room to a hallway on the other side. “We don't want to sit in there,” he says. “It's filled with defendants.”

But
I'm
a defendant, I feel tempted to say. But I don't. I'm unclear as to the reasoning behind his care, but feel that he is being kind.

While we wait on Pretrial Services, I ask Burly Man questions about law enforcement, how he can tell a perp is lying, how he knows if someone is up to no good. “It's just something you know,” he tells me with pride.

In the midst of my questions, Burly Man looks at his watch. “I'd better get you over there,” he says, referring to the magistrate's court. “You can come back here after you're done.”

“Okay,” I say.

He leads me into the courtroom, where I catch sight of my attorney. Once we've said our hellos, I turn around and Burly Man is gone. I find myself feeling wistful at his disappearance, almost sad that I did not have an opportunity to say good-bye.