The Good Lawyer: A Novel (4 page)

“Does defense counsel waive a reading of the rights and charges?” Figueroa asked.

As always, I answered in the affirmative.

Figueroa slapped the court papers down before Benton. The judge scrutinized the complaints. His mouth twisted with disgust.

I turned toward Guevara and whispered, “No matter what the D.A. or judge says, just remain silent. Don’t react.”

He nodded.

Benton had yet to flip to Guevara’s rap sheet and the caption
No Prior Record
, when he looked down at the assistant prosecutor and asked: “Do you want to be heard on bail Mr. Ryan?”

This was not a good sign.

“Yes, your honor.” Ryan answered.

With his massive build and arms like tree trunks, Guevara certainly didn’t fit
my
profile of a child molester. I hoped that gruesome image would be as difficult for a jury to conjure, as it was for me. Aside from a slight overbite and a little extra vocal emphasis on his “Ss” and “Ts”, Guevara was the picture of physical masculinity.

After a few kiss-ass salutations to Judge Benton, Ryan upped the volume and continued: “Judge, this defendant is charged with not one, not two, but three unspeakable crimes.” Unfortunately for Guevara, they would soon become speak-able. “This man, your honor”—that made three “your honors”—“tied up, on three different occasions, on two different dates, three boys, nine and ten years of age. Then…anally and orally sodomized them.”

A woman’s gasp ignited a grumbling behind me as Guevara moaned, “Oh my God.” He seemed as shocked as the onlookers.

I turned around and stared down the audience. The man in the red parka was still sitting in the last row. Head down, he appeared to be writing. Benton flipped to Guevara’s rap sheet. No convictions. No arrests. He looked up and shuffled his shoulders uncomfortably. Ryan wasn’t finished though.

“As advocate for the people”—I hated when prosecutors said this, as if in opposition stood my client, an alien creature or some odd form of organic life—“I wish to point out that this defendant is not recommended for release on his own recognizance by Pre-Trial Services. And I now, pursuant to Section 710.30(1)(a) of the Criminal Procedure Law, give notice of the people’s intention to introduce at trial the following statement made by this defendant.” Ryan looked down and read from his file: “
They came to my apartment to play video games
.”

The “I’m innocent” part was conveniently omitted.

Guevara blurted: “I’m innocent judge! I told the police that! I’ve worked with children my whole life!”

I grabbed his arm—it was rock solid—and whispered, “shut up Peter.”

“Mr. Mannino,” Benton snapped, “another outburst like that and your client can spend the night in jail, and if he’s lucky, get arraigned in the morning.”

“Your honor, I apologize for my client. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sorry too judge.” Guevara’s voice sounded composed, almost rehearsed.

“Mr. Ryan, have you anything else?” Benton calmly asked. Guevara’s outburst appeared to have gotten to him a little.

“Yes, your honor,” Ryan shouted, as if about to divulge proof positive of Guevara’s guilt. “A medical examination of the boy Chavez at Lincoln Hospital revealed an anal laceration.”

A few spectators groaned.

Ryan asked for seventy-five thousand dollars bail.

Guevara looked horrified.

All that remained was the defendant’s mandatory opportunity to be heard—a masquerade of due process, as more often than not it fell upon deaf judicial ears.

“Mr. Mannino,” Benton said, leaning so far back in his chair only his head was visible.

Feeling like I had been steamrolled, I began with Guevara the orphan and foster child, and ended with Guevara the teacher’s aid of emotionally handicapped students with an associate’s degree in education a mere semester away.

“Do you think, Judge, the person who committed these crimes could work every day with emotionally handicapped kids without some past incident, some circumstance developing that would give rise to an allegation the likes of which he is charged with today? Maybe just one time in the last few years?” I paused for several seconds, desirous of driving home the illogical connection of Peter Guevara to the crimes charged. “It is also my understanding that Mrs. Shula Hirsch, his supervisor, will be providing written testimonials to his character from the principal, parents, and other teachers.”

Benton was smiling coyly, letting me know I was getting somewhere. My confidence doubled.

“I would be finished your honor except Mr. Ryan made a few comments I must address in all fairness to my client. Mr. Ryan says my client’s statement to police was: ‘They came to my apartment to play video games.’ But Mr. Ryan omitted two key words that my client wants this court and this entire community to hear. They are: ‘I’m innocent!’ I trust this omission was completely inadvertent.”

I paused to let Ryan squirm, if only just a little. At a trial he was legally bound to introduce the whole statement, or none at all.

“Then there’s the reddest of all herrings in the prosecution’s case—the anal laceration, which isn’t a laceration at all as we laymen understand it. Mr. Ryan, whether it was again inadvertent, or another move toward his becoming prosecutor of the month, left out a most descriptive medical term, which when disclosed denigrates this evidence to proof of absolutely nothing; that is the word
hairline
. The exact medical diagnosis, and Mr. Ryan can correct me if I’m wrong, is
hairline anal laceration
.”

“I wish to strenuously object to Mr. Mannino’s characterization of me your honor!”

“Tell the whole truth and I won’t have to characterize you at all!”

“Gentlemen please!” Benton scolded. “Mr. Ryan, is it true this laceration was hairline?”

“Yes, well that’s the exact medical description, for what it’s worth.” Ryan spoke like a spoiled child.

Benton scowled. “I’ll decide what it’s worth. And Mr. Mannino, in the future please direct your comments only to this court. Now finish up please!”

I continued. “There is no way anal sodomy could have occurred between an adult male and a nine year old boy without serious determinable physical injury to the child.” I hated drawing this mental picture, but had no choice. “A hairline? That borders on irritation. Diaper rash could result in more than a hairline tear of the skin. And why don’t the other boys have anything medically and physically wrong with them? How is that possible?” I paused, but only for a second or two.

“Mr. Guevara has lived in the Bronx his entire adult life. His work is here. His college is here. His friends are here. I beg this court, in view of his background, in light of this questionable case, to release my client on his own recognizance, or, if your honor is inclined to set bail, to please do so reasonably, so his friends and co-workers might help free him pending the final outcome of this case.”

“Bail will be set at fifteen thousand dollars cash or bond,” Benton said, “that’s five thousand dollars on each docket.” Guevara looked like he was about to vomit.

It was a reasonable bail under the circumstances. “We can work with this,” I said quietly into Guevara’s ear. “I can make a motion for reduction in Supreme.”

“I’ve got one thousand dollars in the bank,” Guevara whispered. “Could you maybe get it down to that?”

“I’ll do what I can. As for now, the case will be adjourned to Tuesday. If there’s no indictment by then, you’ll get released—that’s by Tuesday, 5 P.M.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but don’t count on it.”

“Does the defendant wish to testify in the grand jury?” Ryan was back on his pulpit. “The case will be presented in the morning.”

I looked up at Benton. “No he does not, your honor.”

The Grand Jury is a one-sided affair. Make no mistake about it. You’re on the prosecution’s turf. Outside the presence of the judge the grand jurors sit, watch, and listen to the assistant D.A. call witnesses and introduce evidence. When he is done, all the grand jury has to determine is if there’s reasonable cause to believe that the defendant committed the crimes charged. If so, they vote to indict.

Twenty-three people are impaneled. Sixteen must be present to have a voting quorum. Twelve must agree to indict. When they do, which is almost always, the case is sent to Supreme Court just two blocks away, and the defendant is arraigned all over again on the felony indictment.

The three kids were expected to testify in the Guevara case, probably their mothers too, plus there was the medical evidence. And in the grand jury there’s no opportunity to defend yourself. Cross-examination, challenging the evidence, doesn’t exist. Though a defendant may testify, and bring his attorney, the lawyer is forbidden to speak.

Under such circumstances Guevara didn’t stand a chance.

Benton examined his calendar. “The case is adjourned to AP-6 March 2nd. Call the next case!”

I escorted Guevara back toward detention, the two police officers corralling us forward and marking our every move. Guevara would be sleeping that night and those to come in either the Bronx House of Detention or the men’s prison at Riker’s Island in Elmhurst, Queens.

He said, choking on his words, that he would have his supervisor, Mrs. Hirsch, call me. I mustered some lame words of encouragement then saw that fear I had seen hundreds of times before—of protracted imprisonment—in my client’s eyes.

I told him not to talk to anyone about the case and to call me tomorrow afternoon.

He nodded dejectedly and followed the officers through the steel frame doorway into detention, beyond the gated bars.

Figueroa and Benton were on to new business.

As for me, I was ready for home and a warm bed. Felt I deserved it. But there were at least three hours left in the evening and I had arraigned only one case.

Though pleased with the fifteen thousand dollars bail, I wondered what I might have done differently. A different judge and maybe, just maybe, Guevara might have walked.

As I chatted with the mother of one of my new prospective clients, the man in red got up to leave. Since he’d appeared to be writing during Guevara’s arraignment, his sudden departure piqued my curiosity. I concluded my conversation and rushed to catch him.

He was about my age, maybe younger, white, with a dusky complexion that suggested Italian or Spanish descent.

“I saw you writing before,” I said. “Are you a law student?”

He flashed a broad smile. “A crime reporter for
Newsday
. I cover Manhattan, Brooklyn and the Bronx.”

“Isn’t
Newsday
a Long Island paper?”

“We’re trying to break into the city. With just
The Post
and
The Daily News
here, there really isn’t a quality paper to choose from other than
The Times
.”

“How come you hung around so late?” What I really wanted to know was why the hell he’d still been there after Figueroa told the spectators and the press to leave.

He explained how he overheard Figueroa in the clerk’s office asking for help clearing the courtroom, and then spied him pinning out-of-order signs on the otherwise in-order telephone booths. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll keep my suppositions to myself, report just the arraignment as I saw it, if
you
do something for me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Take my calls—about this case and maybe some others. Give me something to report, and maybe, just maybe, I could help you out too.”

“Listen, I hate surprises and what you call ‘help’, may not be. And as for favors, forget it. I’ll take your calls, but one cheap shot, and this source is history.” With the Guevara case I could use all the friends in the press I could get.

My new reporter friend was all smiles. “You got it, Counselor.” We shook hands. It felt honest and comfortable. “See ya ‘round.”

As he darted toward the escalator, I shouted, “What the hell’s your name anyway?”

“Vinny Repolla!”

I reentered the courtroom and did the four arraignments Tom gave me, and six more after that. These were the regular run of Legal Aid cases: robbery, burglary, car-theft, assault. Nothing especially horrible. I was glad, thrilled even, to be done with Guevara for the evening.

My ‘66 Chevy Malibu was parked just outside the revolving front entrance doors. Despite how often I walked outside the Criminal Court Building during the day, at the end of a night arraignment, I never forgot where I was, when I belonged here, and when I didn’t. At one in the morning, with or without a full moon, the South Bronx could be a dangerous place. I started my car, locked the doors, and headed for Long Island.

The closer I got to Merrick, the greater the sensation of peace and serenity.

After turning onto Central Parkway, whose name belied this quiet street, I drove under a trellis of bare tree branches until reaching my driveway and pulling in. Sitting in the quiet darkness I stared at the small five room house I had lived in since turning thirteen. The living room lamp glowed behind a drawn shade. It was on a timer and would shut off automatically in the morning.

I grabbed the briefcase I had thrown onto the front seat just thirty minutes earlier, and stepped back out into the cold.