by Rick Santini
Anthony Ricardo knew none of this the first time he saw Victoria. If he had, he would have thought twice. Or a half dozen times.
Vicky was too shy for her own good. She didn’t make friends easily and preferred her own company. She was a loner. She swore as soon as she was twenty-one and had saved enough money, she would have a breast reduction.
Why would anyone want to walk around with these? They hurt my shoulders, hurt my back, and make boys look at them before they even look at me.
Vicky decided to try a junior college before making up her mind what and where she really wanted to do. Her Uncle Demetrius—at least he called himself an uncle—worked for the Teamsters and lived in Newark. The local community college seemed perfect for her. There was plenty of room in Uncle Demo’s five-bedroom house, and Vicky had her own private entrance. She could pretty much come and go as she liked. Demetrius and his wife Bella would not let so much as a single hair on her head be harmed.
When the call had come from the local police and he heard what happened, it was all Demetrius could do to keep from killing the boy with his bare hands. It would have saved the state a great deal of time and expense. He immediately called Vicky’s father. Alexey flew to Newark on the next flight. Fortunately for the boy, bail had not been set. He was still in jail.
The safest place in the world for you, my friend. At least for now.
“Papa. It wasn’t my fault. He told me he would help me with my geometry assignment. He sounded sincere, and I trusted him. I’d seen him in the library a few times, and he was in my class. I know I shouldn’t have gone to his room. I thought it was safe. There were other students around.”
Vicky began to cry.
“Papa, he forced me. I cried, I begged, I even bit and scratched him, but he’s six feet tall and weighs twice as much as me.”
As Victoria explained, Alexey’s blood boiled, the veins on his neck bulged.
There will be no need for a trial; there will be no reason to waste the state’s time and money. He will not live to see the American style of justice done.
Calmer heads prevailed and Alexey was sent to El Paso, Texas for several months. There were problems with theft. Trucks with missing merchandise were crossing the border daily. Apparently, the Mexican cartels had no respect for the Teamsters’ protected territory. Everyone knew Alexey had a bad habit of taking the law into his own hands, and no one wanted a college kid’s totally dismembered body turning up in the wastelands of New Jersey.
They were already overcrowded with known gangsters.
Alexey understood. He wasn’t happy, but he understood.
It was noted by the judge during the trial that there were two rather large men who sat quietly in the last row of the courtroom, observing. They wore black suits, black shirts, and black ties. They said nothing to anyone. When the judge asked who they were, the court attendant merely stated they were associates of a Mr. Cummings, the complainant’s father. They were identified only as No Neck One and No Neck Two.
“I don’t want them in my courtroom. Get rid of them. They bother me.”
The court attendant was not pleased, a gross understatement, when he was told to ask the two gentlemen to leave. They were back the next day. When again asked to leave, a top civil lawyer from New Jersey, one who had been a former assistant United States attorney, suddenly appeared, as if their removal were anticipated, and requested a sidebar with the judge.
Unless there was probable cause to have them removed, the lawyer saw no legal reason why they could not observe. It was an open court hearing. There was plenty of room. They were quiet and not bothering anyone.
“With all due respect, Your Honor, if necessary, I will ask for a TRO, a temporary restraining order forbidding this trial to go forward and personally serve this Court with an Order to Show Cause why my clients should not be able to attend this hearing.”
The judge was enraged.
Who does this smartass lawyer think he is dealing with?
After a quick conference with the Chief Judge, Kolkolski reluctantly backed off. No Neck One and No Neck Two said nothing. They sat and watched. They watched the judge, they watched the defense lawyer, they watched Victoria, but most of all, they watched Anthony Pauli Ricardo.
They were there to observe and report. Nothing else.
It was creepy.
That should have been a warning to Judge Kolkolski that this was not your typical rape case, and perhaps he should be a bit more careful with his rulings.
It wasn’t.
Mistake number one.
This is my courtroom. I’ll run it any damn way I please. Thugs and hoodlums do not scare me.
They should have.
Mistake number two.
Walter A. Kolkolski had never been a very bright student. He was never overly ambitious and felt the world owed him a living. His attitude was take what you can while the taking is good. He graduated Seton Hall Law School by the skin of his teeth and became a political hack. At times, he was no more than a glorified messenger in the district attorney’s office. It was only through luck and an uncle who made some lightweight contributions to the Republican Party that Wally became an assistant district attorney in Essex County. For the first two years, he was assigned to traffic court.
He hated it.
It took close to twenty years to rise through the ranks. He paid his dues, looked the other way when he was told, and pushed when he was told to push. He was a regular at the Republican Party headquarters and could be counted on to do the dirty jobs. His reward in an off year election was a judgeship. It was the first time in his miserable life he had any real power and a living wage. Now no one was going to tell him what to do or when to do it.
Wally’s eldest son, Teddy, had moved to Florida to be with his mother after high school. There was not a great deal of communication in the Kolkolski family. It was not until after the indictment that Wally found out Teddy had been in jail awaiting trial on the charge of rape in the first degree. Teddy swore it was consensual. Judge Kolkolski flew down to Tallahassee where the overzealous state’s attorney wanted nothing to do with a superior court judge from New Jersey. This could be a high profile case and would be tried four months before the election. A juicy conviction would go far to assure his reelection.
“But my son said it was consensual. He had known her for months.”
“What did you expect him to say? ‘Dad, I forgot to mention, I took this girl out last night and when she said no, I decided to rape her.’ You should know better, Judge. If there’s nothing else, I must be in court in fifteen minutes. Have a safe flight back.”
Very few people knew a sitting judge in New Jersey had a son who was a convicted rapist sitting in prison in Florida. That would have effectively terminated Walter’s participation in criminal trials.
It was two and half years later Walter got the news that embittered him for the rest of his judicial life. Teddy was dead. He was in the shower when he was shanked by a fellow inmate. No one claimed to see a thing. The shower floor was a pool of blood, and there had to be a dozen knife wounds to the heart and chest.
Not uncommon for a convicted rapist.
The last time Walter saw Teddy, the boy was hoping the girl would recant her story. She had been afraid of what her parents would think if she were no longer a virgin. She was Catholic, and good Catholic girls waited for marriage.
“Pops, I swear to you on all that is holy, I would never rape a woman. I gave her every opportunity to say no, but she was excited. It was her first time, and she later freaked when her parents guessed what happened. That asshole DA refused to back off. All he wanted was a conviction and headlines. He didn’t give a shit about me—or justice.”
Judge Kolkolski harbored resentment against self-important prosecutors from that day forward.
They can prosecute all they want; it’s still my court.
CHAPTER 2
Like most successful criminal attorneys, Robert Samuel Sugarman had begun his
legal career as an ADA. He had heard while still in law school the old maxim, “If you’re going to be a good tax lawyer, your first job should be with the IRS. If you want to practice negligence law, get a job as an insurance claims adjuster. A criminal defense attorney; get a job prosecuting in the district attorney’s office.”
Know your enemy, and know him well.
Bob had the cubicle next to Wally Kolkolski for the first year and a half they were both ADAs. They shared more than a few beers together. He had been one of the first and very few to call when he heard about Wally’s son. When Bob learned of the stabbing in prison, he made a personal visit to the judge’s chambers. It was agreed the subject would never be mentioned again.
It wasn’t.
Sugarman heard the Ricardo case had been assigned to Judge Kolkolski. When he got the call, he was thrilled. It had been a convenient referral. It pays to have friends in the courthouse. Christmas gifts to court personnel, even when it’s not Christmas, are always a good idea. He knew in a “he said, she said” case, there was always room for reasonable doubt. Depending on how believable the complainant was on the stand and how hard he would push on cross, he knew this particular judge would grant him a great deal of latitude. There was always the possibility, no matter how remote, of a directed verdict.
As every defense attorney learns the second day of Criminal Law 101, a directed verdict is an order from the presiding judge to the jury to return a particular verdict. Typically, the judge orders a directed verdict after finding no reasonable jury could possibly reach a decision to the contrary. After a directed verdict there is no longer a need for a jury to decide the case. Case closed, the defendant walks. End of story.
The cases of a directed verdict are few and far between. Bob’s criminal law professor had taught him well. The reasons range from taking a case out of the hands of the jury, the unquestioned decider of the facts, to a judge being criticized for being both judge and jury, to failure to follow the accepted way of handling a matter.
If there was one judge who had the nerve, the unmitigated balls, to direct such a verdict in a rape case, it was the Honorable Walter Kolkolski.
Bob Sugarman hoped it would be in this case.
Don’t ask, don’t tell.
It was more than a question one never asked a soldier about his sexual preferences. It was a cardinal rule for every defense attorney in the world.
Did you do it? Did you commit the crime?
Bob knew to never ask that question. He didn’t want to know. For all practical purposes, it didn’t matter. It merely complicated the case. What difference would it make? The DA still had to prove his case. Why make it easier for him?
If the client admitted he did it, whatever it was, his lawyer could never put him on the stand. To do so and have the client lie would be subornation of perjury.
That’s the very last thing I need.
Bob Sugarman knew he was cut out to be a criminal defense attorney the first day of class.
It’s all a big God damn game. It’s who can move the chess pieces with the most skill. Who can outthink, outwit, and outmaneuver the other side that decides the winner. All else is absolute bullshit. Criminal cases are never about guilt or innocence; nothing to do with right or wrong. If you want true justice, stay clear of the courthouse.
Bob Sugarman loved the game. He ate it up like a starving man in a sealed off cave; he drank it up like a water-deprived person in the desert. He felt more alive, more at home in a courtroom than he did in the bedroom with his second wife. At least in the courtroom he knew what to expect.
There was no right to a pretrial discovery in the bedroom.
It was the job of the state; city, county, state or federal, to prove the defendant was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. It was up to defense counsel to do everything in his power to make sure that never happened.
Question the evidence and who was trying to present it. Question motive. Question how the evidence was obtained. Question the trail of money. Question every single fact. Suggest a Plan B, an alternative theory that fits the fact. Maybe it was the wife or girlfriend, maybe the jealous lover or the trusting partner. Or a disgruntled employee. Anybody in the entire God damn world except the party being charged with the crime.
Create doubt. Just a smidgen of doubt. That was all that was necessary.
The DA must prove the accused guilty. The defense attorney doesn’t have to prove a damn thing.
Innocent until proven guilty. That’s what they taught in law school. That’s what it says in the Constitution.
All I have to do is create doubt. Not a whole lot of doubt, just maybe one percent.
It had been close to thirty-some years since he had learned the tricks of the trade. He had learned and learned well. Bob Sugarman was now one of the most sought-after criminal lawyers in Newark. He was good and good does not come cheap.
As Bob well knew, crime does pay, as long as you’re a criminal defense lawyer.
When Lawyer Sugarman first interviewed his prospective client in the holding cell, he quietly and politely informed Mr. Anthony Pauli Ricardo there would be an initial retainer of $45,000. Bob had already figured a three day trial plus pretrial negotiations and at least a day of homework. Ten thousand a day seemed about right.
“Mr. Sugarman, I don’t have forty-five thousand dollars. I don’t even have forty-five hundred. My mother is not a wealthy lady. We don’t have that kind of money.”
“I understand. Perhaps you should take your chances with assigned counsel. A young lawyer who is learning the ropes. I’m sure there are still a few good ones out there. Of course it’s a gamble and the gamble could be seven to ten years. Or if your mother owns her home, I’m sure I could arrange a second mortgage.”
Sugarman already knew from the bail bondsman the house only had a mini-mortgage.
Bob left the jail with something for Anthony to think about. If he was correct, and he usually was, the mortgage company he had in mind would cut a check in the next five days.
Of course there was an additional fee for expedited service. There always was.
CHAPTER 3
What was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid? I had no idea who she was. All I saw was those big brown bedroom eyes, that long silken hair, and that rack that was just waiting to be caressed.
Anthony could not believe she actually meant no. Everyone says no the first time. Then no becomes maybe and maybe turns out to be yes. A great, big, appreciative yes. That’s the way the game is played. He was sure she wanted it. Why else would she come to his room so willingly? It wasn’t even his room. He lived at home with his mother, but one of his buddies had a room he could always use if it were a sure thing. This had to be a sure thing. She was willing to go to the room with him to work on a math assignment on a Friday night. No one was that naïve.
Ms. Bedroom Eyes was wearing an NYU oversize sweatshirt. She could have been wearing a God damn canvas tent and those boobs would have been noticed. She played the role of an innocent virgin right to the hilt, or so he thought.
When she started scratching, biting, crying, and screaming, he realized it wasn’t a game. She really meant no. By then it was too late. Afterwards he was afraid to be seen with her; he refused to drive her back to her car or home or a hospital or anywhere. She probably would have asked him to drive her to the nearest police station so he could turn himself in right there and then.
I’m screwed. I fucked up—big time.
Anthony was not surprised when two days later there was a knock on the front door of his mother’s house. They were in the same math class. It wouldn’t have taken long for her to point out his face at the Bursar’s office. Every student had a photo ID.
He had talked to a few of his buddies the day before. He would swear it was consensual. She came to the room voluntarily, he didn’t force her, yes she played rough, scratching and biting, but he thought that’s the way she liked it.
“Maybe she did say no, but she was so
hot she couldn’t stop herself. At least that’s how I remembered it.”
It was not until the trial began did Anthony understand who Victoria’s father was. Forget college, forget law school, and forget living till he was seventy-five years old. He knew he would never be safe in jail. The penitentiary would be full of murder-for-pay convicts. For a couple of packs of cigarettes, his life would be history.
Being convicted of rape was now the least of his worries. Staying alive was at the top of his list. And for what? A roll in the hay with someone who fought him every step of the way. He would have received more satisfaction masturbating.
Why me, why me?
It was the next step in the grieving process.
***
Sugarman had cleared the most important hurdle of the case. He had been paid. The mortgage company had come through—again.
Bob had learned well. Get paid up front or the chances of receiving a fee were slim to none. Suing a client who ended up in jail was compounding the matter, throwing good money after bad. He never forgot; time was money. Wasting time trying to collect an old debt was just plain foolish.
My time could be better spent representing a new client.
Withdrawing from a case due to failure to get paid was also a waste of time. It simply did not happen. And it sent a message to the judge; you’re not as smart as you thought you were.
There were no guarantees a lawyer can make except his best effort. He had received all of the DA’s case. The statement by Victoria Cummings, the report taken by the officer at the station house, copies of the rape kit, and the report of bruising, tearing, and trauma to the victim’s vagina by the attending physician. There was also a collateral statement by the nurse who was there at all times during the examination.
Damn.
Bob looked at the entire file for the second time. He was not surprised. The DA had done a good job. He could see no major flaws in their case. It was all now in front of him in a tightly wrapped bow. All he could do was cross examine and hope it was enough. He too had done his homework and knew Victoria was a frail, frightened young lady. He would use that to whatever advantage he could. He would hammer away at her testimony, her memory—every single thing she said or did to humiliate and embarrass her. It was his job; it was why he was getting the big bucks—to be as miserable a bastard as he could. He hoped it would cause her to crack or forget or make a mistake. One mistake would be enough. If she forgot or lied about one thing, why wouldn’t she lie or forget about something else?
