The forty-year-old attorney said, “I spoke with the ADA on Brian’s case. His name is Chad Laing, and he can be a little bit of a dick. He said there was no deal other than a straight-up plea.”
My voice was louder than I meant it to be when I said, “To a class B felony? In front of Judge Weicholz? He’s a former Marine. He doesn’t know how to cut anyone any slack.” I saw the look on her face and realized how loud I had become. I took a deep breath and counted to five. Then I said, “This is Brian’s first offense. That jerk already charged him as an adult. I thought New York had moved away from the Rockefeller laws.”
“Look, Mike, I’m trying everything I can.”
“Can we beat the case outright?”
“There’s always a chance. But the narcs saw him dealing, then they found a dozen bags of meth and some X on him. They even have surveillance photos, like he was part of a cartel.”
“Can I talk to the ADA?”
“Why?”
“I’ve met Laing before. He knows my reputation. Maybe we can work something out.”
I didn’t wait for permission as I pushed my way back into the courtroom.
Chapter 14
I marched up to the prosecution table, where a chunky middle-aged man was berating a young female attorney about something. I waited a moment, then cleared my throat.
The man turned, recognized me, and smiled. Then he caught himself. I was the enemy today. Or at least the father of the enemy.
I said, “Can we talk?”
Laing said, “We shouldn’t. This is a little awkward, to tell you the truth.”
“I just feel like you’re going to be unnecessarily tough on my son.”
Now he faced me and stood straight. He was a couple of inches shorter than I was. Maybe six foot one. “Do you feel like we’re unnecessarily tough on the suspects you arrest? Because all I ever hear from the NYPD is what pussies we are. How we never go for a harsh enough sentence. Sound familiar to you, Detective?”
“Brian’s a good kid. He’s never been in trouble.”
The ADA said, “You mean he’s never been caught before. What are the odds that the cops saw him on his first day in the business? He had two grand in cash, bags of meth, and refused to talk to the arresting officers. Give me a break. He knew how the system worked.”
I kept my cool, but it wasn’t easy. “It would be a shame to ruin his life at seventeen.”
“What about the kids using the shit he sells? Is he building their lives? I’m sorry. He pleads straight up or takes his chances at trial.”
“Pleads in front of Judge Weicholz?”
The ADA giggled as he scratched his balding head. “Ironic how you guys all love the hanging judge until it’s someone you know in front of him. I have to do my duty.”
“You don’t have to enjoy it so much.”
“I never enjoy it, but it is satisfying. I think this conversation is over.”
The door next to the empty jury box opened. I turned quickly and saw Brian being led into the courtroom by a bailiff and a corrections officer. He was wearing his only suit. A simple blue single-breasted. One we’d delivered to Rikers Island just for the trial. He looked like he was going to his confirmation. He looked like a little boy to me. Except his hands were cuffed in front of him through a standard waist chain.
My son was a prisoner.
I had never felt so helpless.
Chapter 15
Once the judge entered the courtroom, it was showtime. Mary Catherine, Seamus, and I took our seats on the first hard wooden bench directly behind the defense table. I noticed someone had scratched the words police suck dick on the wooden railing in front of me.
Brian sat next to his attorney with his hands folded on the table in front of him like he was a student in history class. I could feel Seamus as tense as a board next to me. This was a new experience for all of us.
I had never spent any time in Narcotics. After my early years working in patrol, I did the usual detective stints and special assignments before I landed in Homicide. But I never did time investigating drug crimes. As soon as the jury was selected and the prosecution got rolling, I realized that this was nothing like a homicide case. It moved like lightning.
First the narcotics detective explained that he and his partner had received complaints of increased meth use in the area. The detective, a young hotshot with a neatly trimmed beard and ponytail tucked into the back of his jacket, explained that there had also been two young women who almost died from ingesting too much ecstasy and not taking in enough water at a club.
The detective had somehow discerned that whoever was selling the ecstasy was also selling methamphetamine. It seemed like a leap in logic to me. But now I was on the other side of the justice equation.
The Narcotics team from the area, who worked out of the precinct, had done a series of surveillances. They also started talking to their informants.
On the stand, the detective said, “That’s how we noticed the defendant moving between Amsterdam Avenue and the park near 110th. We also followed him onto the Columbia campus once or twice but lost sight of him. On the third day we saw an actual exchange and stepped in to make the arrest.”
When she went into her cross-examination, Brian’s defense attorney asked if Brian had offered any resistance. She questioned the detective’s experience. He only had a year in Narcotics. She didn’t make a dent in his overall testimony.
I considered what the detective said. This wasn’t just an accident. Brian had met with the supplier somewhere near Columbia University.
The twelve-member jury looked like the city itself. Three African Americans, two Asians, two Hispanics, and five housewives from the Upper West Side. They all seemed to listen intently and would occasionally look over to the defense table at Brian.
It was as if they were trying to convince themselves that this clean-cut young man was really involved in such a nasty business.
The subsequent witnesses were dry compared to the dashing detective. A crime-scene tech showed some photos that had been taken of Brian on the street, and a lab tech explained how the pills and meth were tested.
Compared to a homicide case, this was easy. And these guys got paid the same as I did.
Brian’s defense attorney hit the lab tech with a barrage of questions, but she couldn’t shake the professional young woman. The lawyer questioned the tests performed on the drugs and the chain of custody. Every lawyer did that. This was her only shot. There was no way she would let Brian on the stand, and she didn’t have many witnesses of her own.
Seamus asked me questions during the entire process. The usual things someone might ask. “How do we know the narc is telling the truth?” “Is the judge going to be fair?” “Is Ms. Ibarra the best possible attorney?”
Eventually I groaned in frustration.
Then he asked me a realistic question. “When do we get to talk?”
I considered it.
Finally, I said, “We aren’t witnesses. If he has to be sentenced, then we can talk. Maybe then that collar of yours will come in handy.”
Seamus looked at me with clear eyes and said, “And maybe my faith will come in handier.”
I had been put in my place.
Chapter 16
By the next morning at ten o’clock, the prosecution had rested. Ms. Ibarra called an expert to the stand to refute the lab findings. He explained that because of the nature of homemade hallucinogens, there was no way to determine exactly what effect they would have on people. He tried to question whether what Brian was selling were actually drugs.
It had little effect on the case. The jury looked unimpressed.
My last hope lay in the closing arguments. The ADA closed with a simple and powerful comment. “It doesn’t matter what someone looks like. Anyone can be a drug dealer. Black, white, rich, or poor. The temptation of money is just too strong. And the effects of drug use on our city and in our society cannot be denied. The case against Brian Bennett is clear
and convincing. Please consider everything you have seen and heard.”
Brian’s lawyer was equally eloquent, but without nearly as much to work with. She said, “The prosecution wants you to think that this schoolboy is some kind of a drug mastermind. They want you to think that he is solely responsible for the destruction of Western civilization. I want you to think about what really happened.” She turned and pointed at Brian, sitting quietly at the table. His hands still folded in front of him. The lawyer continued, “I want you to ask yourself if you really think Brian Bennett is a threat to society. I think we can all agree there are much bigger dangers out there.”
That was a desperate trick I’d seen defense attorneys use when there was nothing to their case. They would deflect the question and suggest the crime was victimless. Today I agreed with the defense. There really were bigger threats in the world than my son.
Then it was done. The judge issued stern instructions to the jury. The bailiff made a few short announcements. The jury retired and filed out of the courtroom.
And I just sat there, considering the worst. Praying for a miracle. I noticed my grandfather doing the same thing. It’s odd, but for some reason, even after he became a priest, I never considered Seamus devout. His jokes and mischief always made it feel like he was playing a role. His vestments were just a costume. But today I saw his faith. Raw and powerful. He had a certain intensity I had never really noticed before. And he loved his family.
After the courtroom had cleared, the three of us walked together out to the hallway. No one felt like eating lunch. Mary Catherine and I left Seamus on a bench in front of the courtroom, where he found no rest. Every third person who passed him asked for a word or a blessing.
God bless my grandfather. He didn’t refuse a soul. Despite his own personal pain, he took the time to help others. He was like an entirely different person from the one who caused trouble at my house on a regular basis.
A young Muslim woman wearing a hijab stopped, kneeled next to him, and asked for his prayers.
Seamus said, “Are you of the faith, my daughter?”
She looked at him with wide, dark eyes and said, “I believe in God.”
Seamus smiled, patted her on the shoulder, and said, “That’s all anyone could ask.”
That made the woman smile.
It made me smile, too.
Chapter 17
We were called back into the courtroom almost before the lunch hour was over. How was that possible? How had the jurors come to a verdict so quickly? They had only spent around forty minutes deliberating.
In the world of criminal justice, the axiom is: “The faster the verdict, the better the chance of conviction.” I had heard a number of theories about it. I’m not sure I even believed it. I couldn’t at the moment. Not with my son’s life hanging in the balance. It clearly meant that there had not been much dissent in the jury room.
I slid onto the hard bench. Brian looked over at me for almost the first time. The terror in his eyes made me sick to my stomach. Mainly because I felt the same thing.
Mary Catherine ushered Seamus in between us, and he reached over to grip my hand.
I saw Brian’s attorney reach over and hold his forearm. This was it. Whatever was going to happen would happen in the next minute.
The foreman of the jury, a relatively old, dignified African American man, stood and faced the judge.
Judge Weicholz said, “Has the jury reached a verdict, Mr. Foreman?”
The man’s voice was deep and resonant. “Yes, Your Honor.”
The foreman read the prepared preamble, but all I heard was “Blah, blah, blah.”
There was only one phrase I waited to hear. And when the foreman was done with the preamble, all I heard was one word: guilty.
That was it. No lesser charge. Nothing to mitigate it. My little boy had been found guilty of a major felony.
Then I heard Brian sob. And Mary Catherine let out a strangled cry.
The world tilted to the left, then started to spin.
Seamus dropped his face into his hands.
Someone had to stay calm. I couldn’t let Brian see me like this. I was his father. I had to toughen up. He needed me right now.
I took a deep breath. Wiped the tears from my eyes. Sat up straight as the judge thanked the jury. I even kept my cool as the bailiff and a corrections officer stepped close to Brian and handcuffed him again through the waist chain.
He was going away.
I moved through the low, swinging gate to enter the courtroom, but the bailiff held up a hand. He knew who I was. He didn’t like doing it this way. But he couldn’t let me near Brian right now.
Brian looked up at me, and I nodded. He had stopped crying, but I could see the fear in his face. My heart broke when I saw him disappear behind the door at the back of the room. I stood there in silence.
The ADA started to leave.
I turned and said to him, “You feel like a big man now?”
“I feel like a successful man. I did my job.”
“You know that boy doesn’t deserve prison.”
“That’s up to Judge Weicholz now.”
I looked over at Mary Catherine and my grandfather, both sobbing. I felt the same searing pain. We were putting too many kids away on drug charges. Now it hit home. That’s usually not a subject a cop should consider. There had to be a way to fix things. Had to be a way to make the courts stop hammering young men who made a mistake.
I gave the ADA a hard look as he left the courtroom. His young co-counsel followed him like a pack mule, loaded down with files.
I turned to Mary Catherine and Seamus. “Let’s go, guys. We still have a family to take care of. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
I left a chunk of my heart in that courtroom.
Chapter 18
That night was one of the worst of my life. Including the night I lost my wife, Maeve. I tried to focus and pay attention to the other nine children, who needed me, but all I could think about was Brian.
My degree in philosophy and my life as a Catholic made it possible to know how I felt, but they didn’t do shit to make me feel better.
I know Jesus said a good shepherd would leave his entire flock to find a single lost sheep. Right now, my lost sheep was all I worried about.
Seamus was in the same boat. His voice cracked when he led the prayer over our pizza. He said, “Dear God in heaven, please help us understand what happened to Brian. Please help us live our lives the way you intended us to. Please guide us through this difficult and sad time. And dear God, we all ask that you protect our dear brother Brian.”
It’s hard to explain, but the prayer eased my pain a little. Just a little.
After dinner, I plopped on the couch, listening to the sounds of the apartment as the kids went about their business. I could hear Mary Catherine’s lyrical accent as she coaxed the kids into doing their homework and preparing for bed. She rarely had to bark an order. Although she did occasionally. She had a certain way with the children—and with me—that made us want to do things to make her happy. It was a gift she didn’t even know she possessed.
When I was lost in thought, Chrissy jumped onto the couch and gave me a kiss. If that wasn’t one of God’s blessings, I don’t know what is.
Then Shawna cuddled up next to me.
Over the course of the next hour, each kid found his or her way to me with a hug and a few quiet minutes. It wasn’t random. I saw the pattern. The youngest first. Each visit lasted a little longer than the one before it. I knew Mary Catherine was behind the crowd’s show of support. I appreciated her thoughtfulness and the kids’ love.
Finally, the kids were all in bed, and I was still sprawled on the couch. I noticed that Seamus had made it a point to speak to each child as he or she went to bed.
I heard him say good night to Mary Catherine, then he appeared in front of the couch.
He said, “It was a tough day all around. We’ll feel it for a long while.”<
br />
I nodded.
“But you have duties that far exceed those of most men. A family, people to protect, a city to watch over. Don’t let life devour you, Michael. You’re better than that.”
I had nothing I could say. I stood up and embraced this irascible old man, whom I loved. A long hug. I felt like I did when I was a child and Seamus would comfort me. Then I said something to him that I don’t say enough. I said, “I love you.”
He gave me a crooked smile, shuffled to the door, and headed back to his quarters behind the rectory at Holy Name.
A few minutes later Mary Catherine snuggled in next to me. Her arm around my chest felt like a warm blanket. She lounged for a few minutes silently, then said, “You know, Michael, it’s not your fault. If you have to blame someone, blame Brian. It’s his fault. He has to take responsibility. He made a mistake. A bad mistake. That doesn’t make him a bad person. It makes him human.”
“I’m afraid prison might turn him into a bad person. It’s a hard life, and it can change a person.”
“He’s stronger than that. He’ll survive and build a life when he can. You’ll see. One day you’ll be proud of him and just as close as you are now.”
I didn’t say a word.
Mary Catherine said, “Trials and hardship are part of life.”
“But it just feels so awful.”
“As it should. We’ll get through it.”
All I could say is, “How?”
“As a family.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Something might happen. We might find Brian’s supplier. That could lead to something. You don’t have to be a cop to ask questions. Give it time.”
She kissed me on the lips.
I felt like I was able to breathe for the first time since I heard the verdict.
Chapter 19
Haunted Page 4
