Continued participation was very dubious? Was dubious? Sandro repeated her words in his head. Instantly, Sandro knew that something new was about to be added to the mix.
“At the time I sent for you, Mr. Luca, I had in mind that there was no way, no way in the world, that I would postpone this trial, or sever Mr. Hardie from his co-defendants.” Her gaze slid to Hardie, then back to Sandro. “This is a very important trial. Important to the Defendants, of course, but no less important to the Government and to the citizenry. They have rights, too, the citizens, although all too often they seem to be forgotten in this world of self-indulgence.”
When he had entered the Courtroom this morning, Sandro was sure that the Judge was going to put him back in the case. Now, from the careful way she was wending her way through a minefield of careful phrases, he realized that she was not. She was laying out her reasoning for the record and public consumption.
“Since you first became involved in this case right through the Discovery phase,” the Judge continued, “and knowing what a capable lawyer you are, Mr. Luca, how meticulously you prepare your cases, I was sure—particularly given that there are so many defendants in this case and much of the time was spent on testimony and evidence which did not directly involve or implicate your client at all—I was sure you could get up to speed in one day, two at the most.”
In part, the Judge was justifying her decision to send a United States Marshal to Watkins Glen, interrupting Sandro’s mini-vacation, and putting all the lawyers and defendants through turmoil; now, for some reason, she was going to change course completely.
“When I had my staff check on Mr. Leppard’s condition last evening, they were advised that he would, more than likely, be ready to proceed with the case in a day or two. Considering that tomorrow is my regular calendar day, meaning that we shall not be working on this trial tomorrow in any event,” the Judge glanced at the reporters in the audience, “and with the week-end starting the very next day, it may not be … perhaps, I should say, it would be in Mr. Hardie’s best interests to continue with Mr. Leppard, and not to have different counsel step into the case at this juncture.”
“Most respectfully, Your Honor—”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to change horses and object to me not requiring you to step into the case, Mr. Luca?”
“Not at all, Your Honor. It’s just that all of what Your Honor has just said was exactly the same yesterday, has been exactly the same from the very beginning of Mr. Leppard’s personal difficulties. What has changed, however, has been ruined is more apt, is my long planned and personally costly sojourn in the upper reaches of the State of New York, for no apparent reason whatever.”
“That could not be helped, Mr. Luca. Anything else?” she said, glancing at the other lawyers and defendants.
The lawyers shook their collective heads.
“Oh, yes, one other thing that I am sure you may wish to address, Mr. Luca,”—her eyes returned to Sandro. “But, perhaps, I’d better bring out the jury and adjourn until Monday first. I’m going to remand Mr. Hardie today. Bring out the jury, Claire.”
The defendants, the lawyers, the media, the spectators were all visibly shocked, looking around at each other to be sure they heard correctly. Awgust Nichols watched Red quietly.
The moment the Judge made her announcement, Red Hardie’s body jolted forward. Then he turned toward Sandro. Then back to the Judge. “What did that woman say?” he asked, looking at Sandro, then Money Dozier.
A babble of confused voices began to rise out of the audience.
“Quiet!” The Judge pounded her palm on the top of the bench.
Claire Trainor, the Courtroom Deputy Clerk, nodded to a Marshal who walked toward the jury room. Amidst the subsiding buzz of conversations, the Marshal announced loudly: “Jury entering.”
The Jurors glanced at the defendants, the lawyers, the audience, the Judge as they filed into their seats. They were trying to determine the source of the obvious agitation that roiled the courtroom.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,” the Judge said slowly. The lawyers and defendants began to take their seats. “I want to apologize for the delay in bringing you into the courtroom this morning. We were engaged, you can be sure, on court business. For reasons that do not concern you, we are not going to resume today. Tomorrow, Friday, is our usual calendar day, so we are going to adjourn now until Monday morning at nine-fifteen, sharp. We shall start earlier than usual Monday to try to make up for the time we’ve lost yesterday and today as a result of Mr. Leppard’s unfortunate illness. I am pleased to inform you that Mr. Leppard is well, and that we have every expectation of his being with us on Monday morning. Until then, remember my admonition: don’t discuss this case amongst yourselves or with anyone else until the end of the case. You may retire now until Monday morning.” Reluctantly, the jurors began to file out. A Marshal urged them toward the jury room.
“As I said,” the Judge murmured softly toward the well of the courtroom, “there is just one more piece of business that has to be addressed before we adjourn. Will the lawyers and defendants please remain in the court room.” The Judge sat silently, arranging some documents on the flat of her desk. When all the jurors had cleared the courtroom, the Judge looked at Sandro, then Red Hardie.
“I am not at all convinced that what occurred yesterday was not precipitated by Mr. Hardie. I have asked the United States Attorney’s office to investigate. If it is determined that Mr. Hardie had anything, anything, to do with Mr. Leppard’s illness, I shall have quite a bit more to say on the subject. Meanwhile, but not for that reason, Mr. Hardie is remanded.”
The murmurs began to swell in the courtroom again.
“Quiet,” said the Judge, again slapping her palm on the top of the bench.
“Your Honor,” said Sandro’s voice through the sounds of the courtroom, “may I be heard?”
“Very briefly, Mr. Luca. Please take into consideration that I have given the entire matter a great deal of thought, and it is my opinion that when events occur which appear to undermine the integrity of a trial, I have an obligation, on behalf of the Government and the citizens, to take steps to preserve that integrity. I am not convinced, not at all convinced, despite the impertinence of Dr. Acquista from Lenox Hill, that the difficulties we’ve experienced here, the delay caused by Mr. Leppard’s nose-bleed, were not the direct result of activities perpetrated by Mr. Hardie. Nevertheless, I am going to acquiesce and permit this trial to be delayed an entire day in order to accommodate Mr. Hardie’s request to maintain Mr. Leppard as his Counsel. I’ll hear what you have to say, Mr. Luca. I want no outbursts from you or any of the other Defendants, Mr. Hardie. I want absolute quiet.”
The suggestion of quiet was totally superfluous. The courtroom was tomb-silent, the air still, the light from the overhead chandeliers beaming into the silent void of eternity. Dust particles could almost be heard wafting downward in the light from the chandeliers as the eyes of the audience turned toward Sandro.
“Your Honor, there is not an iota of evidence or proof that Mr. Hardie has had anything whatsoever to do with Mr. Leppard’s distress. There were medical personnel here yesterday, I have read the transcript of the proceedings—”
The Judge cut him off. “Mr. Luca, don’t tell me that the Doctor said that Mr. Leppard’s condition was a severe and very real medical problem. I’ve already said I’m aware of what the Doctor said. We are well beyond that. Mr. Hardie is remanded. He is going to stay remanded, regardless of what you or he might say. Anything else?”
Hardie was watching Sandro anxiously; his eyes alternately glanced toward the bench.
“Let me add,” said the Judge, “that there is no need to worry about Mr. Leppard’s access to Mr. Hardie. Mr. Hardie will be no further away than the M.C.C., hardly a stone’s throw from this very courtroom, as you know very well, Mr. Luca, and he will be there, ready and willing to help Mr. Leppard all day long today, all day tomorrow, all week-end, with no m
eetings, no appointments, no social events, nothing to distract him from total dedication to assisting his lawyer. Anything else, Mr. Luca?”
“It is, most respectfully, Your Honor, arbitrary, capricious, and totally unnecessary to remand Mr. Hardie, to lock him up at this critical moment of the trial, when he’s been out on bail throughout the pendency of this case, simply because his Counsel had a medical problem. Mr. Hardie has an absolute right to be able to confer with his counsel, and remanding him without sufficient cause is to deprive him of his inviolable constitutional privileges without due process of law at a critical moment.”
“I don’t mean to curtail your statement, Mr. Luca,” the Judge cut in. “Ordinarily I enjoy hearing you speak. You are one of the better lawyers to appear before this Court. But in this situation, there is no point to it, none whatever, as Mr. Hardie is remanded, and is going to stay remanded. That said, is there anything else you wish to address, Mr. Luca?”
“You are depriving the defendant of his constitutional right to fair trial and equal protection of the law.”
“Don’t leave out Due Process, Mr. Luca. Anything else for the record?”
“The availability of Mr. Hardie at the M.C.C. is no adequate substitute for the liberty and availability of Mr. Hardie at all hours in order to be of assistance to Mr. Leppard.”
“You are beginning to repeat yourself, Mr. Luca. We are going to recess now,” the Judge said to the rest of the lawyers. “The court will resume on Monday, at nine-fifteen, sharp, and I expect everyone to be here early, ready to proceed. Except for you, Mr. Luca, of course. Thank you for being so prompt to the Court’s order.” The Judge rose from her seat.
“All rise,” Claire Trainor called into the hushed tomb.
“What in hell is this?” Red said with agitation as he turned toward Sandro.
A U. S. Marshal walked slowly toward Red Hardie. Red’s eyes shifted momentarily to the Marshal. As they had all been in the courtroom every day of the ten weeks since the trial began, the Marshals and the Defendants, as well as everyone else who was present, knew each other well. The Marshal approaching Hardie was slightly embarrassed as he took out a pair of handcuffs to place them on Hardie’s wrists.
“Let me check this out,” Sandro said to Hardie and the Marshal.
“I have to take him down,” the Marshal said. “Sorry, Red. It’s not my idea.”
“I know that, Frank,” Red said to the Marshal. “Damn, Sandro,” Red put his hands behind his back at the Marshal’s direction. “See what this is all about. Fast!”
“What’s going on, J.J.?” Sandro said across the defense table to J.J. Dineen who was gathering papers from his prosecution table.
“All I can tell you is that there’s been a plot uncovered concerning a contract on Red Hardie’s life. For security reasons, I can’t tell you anything more than that.”
“What?” said Hardie, who the Marshal had permitted to linger momentarily, so that he might hear the conversation between Sandro and Dineen.
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Sandro to Dineen.
“No, I’m not. The Judge didn’t say anything so as not to alert the people who are involved in this plot. All I can tell you is there’s an ongoing investigation concerning it. In the meanwhile, Mr. Hardie is being remanded for his own protection. We called the Judge’s chambers this morning, the moment that we were advised by the D.E.A.”
“This is absolutely absurd,” said Sandro. “Ex parte communications, secret plots, protective custody? Nothing on the record in connection with it.”
“Sandro, you’re not Hardie’s lawyer. You know I can’t discuss it with you.”
“Jesus, that’s part of it, too. Shoulder me out so no one can talk about it, since Leppard isn’t here.”
“I know this isn’t satisfactory, but let it suffice that some threats against Mr. Hardie’s life have been uncovered by the D.E.A. in the street. We don’t want the people who are responsible for the threats to know that we know about them. That’s why the Judge said what she said for the record. What’s happening is for Mr. Hardie’s own safety. He’s going to be put in protective custody.”
“Protective custody?” said Red angrily as the hand-cuffs behind his back were racheted locked. “Bullshit.”
“That’s all I’m going to tell you,” said Dineen. “If Leppard wants to talk about it further, he can call my office.” Dineen gathered his papers and turned to walk out of the court.
“C’mon, Red,” the Marshal said apologetically. “I gotta take you down.” he said apologetically. He nodded his head toward Sandro, inquiring if there was anything else he wanted to say to Red before he took him away.
“I’ll get on it immediately,” was all that Sandro could say.
“This is horse manure, downright horse manure.” Red was angry, he turned toward Dineen. “I don’t need, don’t want any protection. Mr. Dineen.”
Dineen was already walking toward the back of the courtroom. Geraghty pushed the shopping cart filled with documents and evidence directly behind Dineen.
“I’m sorry, Red,” said the Marshal.
“Don’t worry about it, Frank. This hasn’t anything to do with you.” He started to walk with the Marshal toward the detention cells. “Sandro, this is absolute nonsense,” he said, turning to glance over his shoulder.
“I’ll do everything I can. I’ll come over to see you as soon as they process you.”
“That may take all day,” the Marshal said. “You’re probably talking tomorrow at the earliest.”
Sandro nodded. His words sounded hollow, without conviction, he thought. He hated the feeling of being useless to his client.
Brighton Beach, Brooklyn: June 20, 1996 :10:30 A.M.
The telephone rang. Irina Broganskaya was standing at her kitchen sink, washing the dishes from yesterday’s breakfast and last night’s supper, which she needed for this morning’s breakfast. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The phone rang again. Inside, baby Elena was alternately crying and laughing as she sat in her playpen, crying because her diaper was wet, laughing as the toys she was throwing, one at a time, over the railing of the playpen, crashed onto the living room floor.
Irina flipped open the cellular phone that was on the counter next to her. “Alooah?” she said in Russian.
“It’s me,” said Dmitri Broganski in almost accentless English. “What’s happening? You hear from anybody?” Having emigrated from Russia with his parents when he was eight years old, having attended Boy’s High in Brooklyn, Broganski was very Americanized. He spoke Russian fluently, as did Irina, his wife, but their language of choice, their everyday language, was English.
“Everybody,” Irina responded.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means that everybody is calling,” said Irina. “Everybody wants flowers. And I have nothing. Not a thing.”
“In that everybody, is Sascha Ulanov included?” he said.
“If Sascha Ulanov had called, I wouldn’t be saying I don’t have anything, da ilye nyet, yes or no?”
“Da, da. Listen, I can’t come right now. I’m supposed to meet Sascha, over there, you know, the usual place. I can’t come now.” Actually, Dmitri was about 125 miles south of Brighton Beach’s waterfront. He was in Atlantic City, where he had been all night, playing blackjack, craps, drinking cognac, smoking cigars. He was with Jacov Volovnik and Yan Cechinko. Dmitri was pretty sober now, having experienced the extremes of drunkenness twice during the night as he gambled at the tables.
“What time are you supposed to meet him?” asked Irina. There was another crash in the living room.
“What’s that?”
“That’s your daughter, having a good time, throwing all her toys out of the playpen again, for the fortieth time.”
“As long as she’s having fun,” said Dmitri.
“Great. She’s having fun. You’re having fun. And I’m here with my hands in the sink, washing dishes.”
&n
bsp; “Listen, Kotchonik, as soon as we get a little better established, you can use the dishes just once and throw them away. And I don’t mean paper plates, neither.”
“If you gave me the money you lose when you go where you are now, I could do it already,” said Irina.
“What, lose? I’m winning. This is just relaxation, a little diversion.”
“You’re winning? How much?”
“Not much, five-hundred. But it’s better than losing, right?” Dmitri didn’t tell her that the five-hundred he was now ahead, had to be subtracted from the three thousand he had lost throughout the night. In his mind, Dmitri started over this morning, when he was flat busted and had to borrow a hundred from Jacov. Since then, so far, he was five-hundred ahead.
“Da. If he calls, you want I should meet Sascha?”
“Yeah, you know where he is every day, about eleven, right?”
“Da,” said Irina.
“Go there. Take the baby for a walk, you know what I mean? And when you see him, he’ll give you some flowers. This way, at least, whatever he gives you, at least you’ll have some decoration in the apartment if people want to come and drop in. You know what I’m talking?”
“Da, da.”
Shortly thereafter, Irina dressed Elena, put her in the stroller, and wheeled her to the elevator. Dmitri and Irina lived on the eleventh floor of a high-rise housing development in Brighton Beach, at the edge of the boardwalk overlooking the sea. As she was riding down, the elevator stopped at a lower floor, and an older woman, still quite attractive, buxom, very carefully made up with eye-shadow and pale lipstick edged in a darker outline, entered. Irina and the woman began to converse in Russian. They knew each other as neighbors who met occasionally in the elevator or at the mail boxes, or shopping nearby. The woman spoke no English, although she had once indicated to Irina that she had been in the United States for twelve years.
Condemned Page 18
