Down Here b-15

by Andrew Vachss

  “It doesn’t matter,” I cut him off, not interested in criminal-justice reform.

  “I don’t have everything I’ll get out of the DA’s office with my motions,” Davidson said, “but Wolfe’s still got plenty of friends on the job, and I made some calls, picked up a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The name John Anson Wychek mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s the alleged vic’s name. That much I got from the court papers. What they don’t mention is that Wychek was a serial rapist. That, I got from Wolfe. He worked the whole metro area for almost three years before they caught him. Suspect in at least a dozen, plus a couple of attempts, but they only bagged him for the one. Wolfe tried the case, over in Queens. Convicted on all counts—rape, sodomy, abduction, use of a weapon—enough to max him, easy. And that’s what the judge did. Couple of years later, he appeals. He had an 18-B at trial, but for the appeal he had Greuchel.”

  “Huh! That’s big bucks.”

  “Right. But it wasn’t a drug case, so Greuchel never got asked where his fee came from. Anyway, he raises all the usual: ineffective assistance, bad search—even though they never actually used anything they took from the place where Wychek was living—‘cross contamination’ at the crime scene, yadayadayada. Just blowing smoke, getting paid by the page.

  “But then he throws in that the Queens cops used information they got from a Family Court case against the same defendant, out in Nassau County. Wychek had been charged with sexual abuse of his live-in girlfriend’s kid. It never went to trial. Wychek consented to a finding of neglect, agreed to move out of the house, have no contact with the victim, and that was it.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Supposedly, the CPS caseworker testified at some preliminary hearing. About a ski mask that the little girl said Wychek always put on when he was . . . molesting her. And the caseworker found the ski mask; it was still at the home of the live-in girlfriend.”

  “But you said they never used—”

  “They didn’t,” Davidson said. “The ski mask never came in, even though he wore one during the rape he was on trial for. Anyway, this wasn’t a search issue. Wychek was already out of the little girl’s home by then, and it was her mother who gave permission. But Greuchel claimed the whole case hinged on information the cops got from the Family Court case, and those records aren’t public. They’re confidential.”

  “To protect the victim, not the—”

  “Maybe that’s the intent of the law,” Davidson said, “but it’s not the application. You should know that.”

  “You’re not telling me that he walked with that lame pitch?”

  “He probably wouldn’t have. Greuchel never even raised the issue in the Appellate Division—they affirmed in a one-pager. But then, get this, Greuchel brings a federal habe, claiming that ‘newly discovered evidence’ showed that the caseworker had told the cops about the Family Court proceedings, so the entire investigation was fatally tainted. Fruit of the poisonous—”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So the Queens DA comes into federal court and makes a ‘confession of error.’ At that time, there was all this media publicity about innocent men going to prison—you know, all that DNA-exoneration stuff—and the DA made this big speech about how his job was to prosecute the guilty, not incarcerate the innocent.”

  “You’re saying they just tanked it?”

  “I’m saying the DA’s Office did not oppose the federal appeal,” Davidson said, picking his words carefully. “And Wychek walked out of Attica a free man. Happened only a few weeks ago.”

  “Pretty scummy, all right. But where does Wolfe come in? All she did was prosecute him. And she doesn’t work for the DA’s Office anymore.”

  “No. But she got a letter there. From Wychek. After he got out.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “I haven’t seen a copy, but it pretty much laughed at her. ‘You stupid fucking cunt’ was one of his favorite phrases. He walked the line pretty good. Said someone ‘should’ fuck her to death for how she prosecuted an innocent man, but he didn’t say he was going to do it. And he danced around a lot, hinting that he had done a lot of women, and could do more. Nothing you could prosecute him on, but real scary stuff.”

  “And the cops say Wolfe gunned him down for writing that letter? Hell, if she shot every freak who wrote her a letter like that, she’d make Charles Manson look like a jaywalker.”

  “The timing is bad,” Davidson said. “But, by itself, it’s nothing, you’re right. Only thing is, whoever shot him didn’t do a good enough job. The EMTs got him going, but then they lost him again, into a coma. Supposedly, before he lapsed out, he said it was Wolfe who shot him. That’s their case.”

  “ I’m taking a guess,” a man said, behind us.

  Both Davidson and I turned around.

  Hauser. Dressed in a blue chalk-striped suit, with a white shirt and a wine-colored tie. His beard was gone, but I’d have known him anywhere.

  “What’s up?” Davidson asked, reaching over to shake hands. He and Hauser went way back. Not close, but friendly.

  “I was supposed to meet someone here tonight,” Hauser said. “Figured I might find him where I found you.”

  “You did,” I told him. “Come on over.”

  Hauser got up, walked around, and sat down next to me.

  “You got something?” I asked him.

  “I—”

  “They’re bringing her out!” Davidson hard-whispered, getting to his feet.

  A tall, lanky court officer walked Wolfe over to the counsel table like he was escorting a prom date. Her long dark hair glistened as if she’d just stepped out of a salon, trademark white wings flowing back from her high forehead. She was wearing a white silk sheath, adorned only with a single black spiral stripe, weaving around her body like a protective snake.

  Wolfe always wore black-and-white outfits when she summed up before a jury. Combat clothes, hammering home her message: No “shades of gray” here, people. Bruiser’s performance must have bought her enough time to change.

  “Christ, look at her!” Hauser said admiringly. “It’s like it’s her courtroom.”

  The ADA who had been at the counsel table all night was suddenly replaced by a much older man, all spiffed out. They read out the charges: attempted murder, assault one, and a bunch of other tacked-on crap nobody paid any attention to.

  “That’s Russ Lansing,” Hauser whispered to me. “Been with the DA’s Office a hundred years. He’s no trial man, but he won’t make any mistakes with the press, I promise you that.”

  “You know the judge?” I asked him.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Hauser said. “But only because I covered a trial he presided over. Leonard Hutto.”

  “You covered a case in criminal court?”

  “Brooklyn Supreme,” Hauser said. “A celebrity divorce. Hutto’s a cut above the usual politico that ends up with a bench seat as a reward for loyalty. A good law man. Probably just here tonight on rotation.”

  “I’ll hear from the People on bail,” the judge said.

  “Given the extraordinary circumstances of this case, the People ask for the defendant to be remanded, Your Honor,” the spiffy man intoned.

  “What’s extraordinary is that Ms. Wolfe has even been arrested,” Davidson bellowed. “These charges are absurd on their face. In addition, Ms. Wolfe has significant roots in the community. She is a homeowner, a taxpayer, a woman with a long record of public service and no criminal history of any kind. Remand, judge? This nonsense should be ROR’ed.”

  “What is the basis of the People’s application?” the judge asked, the soul of judicialness, playing to the press.

  “The victim was shot three times!” the spiffy old ADA said. “Clearly, the intent was to kill him. But the basis of our application for remand is that this may well become a homicide, even as we stand here before this court. The victi
m lapsed into a coma, from which he may not recover. And if he does not, the charge will be murder in the second degree, for which remand is mandatory.”

  “That’s a speech,” Davidson said. “Not evidence.”

  “The evidence . . .” the ADA said, pausing for effect, “is that, just before the victim lost consciousness, he specifically identified the defendant as the shooter.”

  “How do we know that?” Davidson demanded. “The People don’t have the victim’s statement, Your Honor. They’ve got some cop’s statement, saying what the victim allegedly said. And even if such a statement was actually made,” he went on, his voice so heavy with sarcasm that it would have taken a team of Clydesdales to pull it, “it’s garbage on its face.”

  The ADA jumped from his seat. “A dying declaration—”

  “—has to be made by someone who’s dead,” Davidson finished for him. “I haven’t been given a scrap of discovery, judge. I thought the DA’s Office had this new policy. You know, the one they did all the press releases about? They were going to front-end everything, try and get all the pleas pre-indictment. I guess they don’t bother when they know they don’t have a case.”

  “Your Honor!”

  “Yes, Mr. Lansing? It seems counsel for the defendant has a point, don’t you agree? Has it not been the policy of your office to offer at least basic discovery at arraignments, for the purpose of expediting the process?”

  “It . . . it has, Your Honor. But because things happened so quickly in this matter—”

  Davidson fired back, “So quick you don’t know where or when the so-called victim was shot? Judge,” he said, spreading his arms wide, as if to encompass the entire courthouse, “if we even knew when this supposed assault took place, we could probably walk out of here tonight, and the police could go back to looking for the actual assailant. For example, if the assault took place this past Thursday, Ms. Wolfe was delivering the keynote address at the national VAWA Conference in Washington, D.C.”

  “What’s this ‘VAWA’?” the ADA said.

  “Fucking moron,” Hauser muttered under his breath.

  “That would be the Violence Against Women Act, counselor,” Davidson sneered at him. “You know, the federal legislation?” He turned back to the bench. “But that isn’t the point, Your Honor. What we are saying is that Ms. Wolfe may well have the kind of alibi that would convince even this office to concentrate its efforts elsewhere, but the DA’s deliberate withholding of basic discovery while simultaneously asking for a remand is a joke. A dirty joke.”

  “Mr. Lansing?” the judge said, in a voice that told you he was raising his eyebrows as he spoke.

  “We . . . we don’t know the exact time of the shooting, Your Honor. The victim was . . . discovered by a visitor, lying in a comatose state.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t put my client in a lineup, huh?” Davidson half shouted. “Because there isn’t one single eyewitness to any of this. You’re asking to lock up my client with no bail, and you’ve got nothing.”

  “Judge,” Lansing squawked, “I don’t have to—”

  “How about forensics?” Davidson boomed, on full boil now. “Got any of that? You got a weapon? Fingerprints? Fibers? Blood spatter? What? Come on! If you’ve got it, bring it! Give this court one lousy piece of evidence besides what some scumbag supposedly said to some unnamed cop, I’ll drop my bail application right now, how’s that?”

  “Oh, this is perfect,” Hauser said, scribbling and chuckling at the same time. “Lansing’s trying to do push-ups in quicksand, and Davidson keeps stepping on his head.”

  “Your Honor! I must protest. Counsel’s description of a gunshot victim as a ‘scumbag’ is well beyond the bounds of—”

  “Tell this court that this ‘victim’ of yours isn’t a convicted rapist, and I’ll apologize,” Davidson said. “You think just because you conveniently forget to mention it we couldn’t find out on our own?”

  “Good one!” Hauser said, absently, intent on his writing.

  “He’s a serial rapist, judge,” Davidson said, passionately. “With victims scattered all over the city. If you’re looking for someone with a good motive to shoot Wychek, you don’t have to look past—”

  Wolfe stood up quickly, tugged sharply at Davidson’s sleeve, shutting off the lava flow. She pulled at his lapel, whispered something in his ear.

  “Judge,” the DA said, “there’s the statement. . . .”

  “What damn statement?” Davidson shot back. “There’s nothing in writing. All the People have is a word he spoke. Supposedly spoke. One word. ‘Wolf.’ That could mean anything, Your Honor. ‘Wolf’ can be a first name, too. There’s probably a couple of thousand of them in the Manhattan phone book alone. And it’s a common street name, too.”

  “That’s ridic—” the DA said.

  “I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous,” Davidson stepped in. “Charging a citizen on crap that’s not even going to get past the Grand Jury. For all we know, the victim was saying he sold one too many ‘wolf’ tickets, and someone popped him for it.”

  “Your Honor!” the DA protested.

  Davidson rolled on, undeterred, spreading his arms wide in a “look how reasonable I’m being” gesture. “Judge, the purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant’s presence at trial. The People aren’t even going to pretend they believe my client is going to flee the jurisdiction. The so-called victim could be in a coma for months, for all we know. When he recovers, or when the DA’s Office finally kicks loose enough information for us to prove Ms. Wolfe couldn’t possibly have done this, who is going to compensate my client for all that time out of her life then?”

  “Do you have an updated medical report?” the judge asked the DA.

  “As of . . .” Lansing replied, glancing at his watch, “two hours ago, the victim’s condition was unchanged.”

  The judge eye-swept the front rows, picking out the press like a pigeon pecking edible morsels off an alley floor. “In view of all the competing considerations placed before this court, bail is set . . .” He paused for effect. “. . . in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Judge . . .” Davidson began.

  “That’s all, counsel,” the judge said, banging his gavel lightly.

  “Very cute,” Hauser said, in disgust. “He knows any remand would get overturned by the Appellate Division, but he doesn’t want anyone saying he gave special consideration to a former prosecutor. So he sets bail, but makes it a monster. How is Wolfe going to raise—?”

  “Your Honor,” Wolfe said, on her feet, “may I be heard?”

  “Is the defendant discharging her counsel and going pro se?” Lansing asked snidely, playing to the gallery.

  “Ms. Wolfe is my co-counsel, judge,” Davidson shot back. “As such, she is—”

  “I will hear you, Ms. Wolfe,” Hutto said. “Briefly.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Wolfe said, her courtroom-honed voice knifing through the buzz and hum from the back benches. “I understand you’ve already made your ruling concerning bail. And though I anticipate, with all respect, that your decision will not withstand appeal, my purpose in addressing this court concerns my conditions of confinement while awaiting release.”

  “Do you wish to be held in protective custody?” Hutto asked.

  “No, judge. That doesn’t concern me. I have every confidence that the Department of Corrections will see to my safety.”

  Wolfe deliberately turned sideways, making it clear she wasn’t speaking only to the judge. “What I wish to place on the record is that I am not going to discuss this so-called case with anyone other than my own attorney. I am not going to be having any private conversations with inmates, correctional officers, or anyone else while I am confined.”

  Wolfe shifted her body some more, virtually turning her back on the judge. “So, if the DA’s Office trots out some jailhouse snitch who claims I ‘confessed’ to them, everyone will know that such a statement is pure perjury.”
>
  “Christ, she’s beautiful!” Hauser whispered to me.

  “Judge, that is an outrage,” Lansing yelled. “The defendant has just accused our office of—”

  “—trying to rescue your garbage cases with testimony from jailhouse informants?” Wolfe sneered at him. “You’ve got that right.”

  “Ms. Wolfe,” the judge said, mildly, “you have placed your statement on the record. And now, if there are no further—”

  “The People demand an apology!” Lansing shouted.

  “You going to give me one, when the truth comes out?” Wolfe shouted back.

  “You mean, when they let it out!” Davidson out-volumed her.

  “Take the defendant,” the judge told the court officer.

  “Talk to you later,” I told Hauser, pulling out my cell phone and hitting the speed-dial number.

  My Plymouth was waiting out back. When I saw Clarence behind the wheel, I knew Mama had passed the word.

  I climbed in next to him. The Prof and Max were in the backseat.

  “Did she get to go, bro?” the Prof asked me.

  “No,” I said, shaking my head so Max would pick up on it, too. “They set her bail at a half-million.” For Max, I held up both hands, fingers spread, to indicate “ten.” Then I pointed toward the sky, for “power,” and held up one hand plus one thumb. “Ten to the sixth” means a million to anyone raised on street-shorthand. I sliced my hand down, signifying “half.” Max nodded.

  “Mama’s holding enough of mine for the points,” I told them. “But I don’t know how long it would take for her to put her hands on the green. And we’ll still need a bondsman who’ll write the paper for a number that high.”

  “Big Nate?” the Prof said.

  “He’s the only one I know I could lean on that hard,” I agreed.

  “You who?” the Prof said. “Big Nate won’t get on the case if he don’t know your face, Schoolboy. Burke be dead, remember?”

  “That’s what they say about Wesley, too, Prof,” I said, very soft. “What some say?”