Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Hey, hey—you a lawyer, right?” said a young black man with a red handkerchief tied around his head. Sandro nodded. “You know lawyer Nusman?” Sandro nodded again. “You see him in court?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Sandro.

  “You got a card, man. How much you charge to take my case, man?”

  “You’ve got a lawyer, a good lawyer,” said Sandro.

  “Hey, man—how much you charge? Maybe I take you for my lawyer.”

  Sandro continued in the direction the guard had pointed.

  The 12th floor of the Criminal Courts Building was entirely filled with cells, corridors, Correction Department work stations, and lawyers visiting rooms, all arranged to deliver Detainees to the courtrooms of the Supreme Court on the 11th and 13th floors of the courthouse. The 12th floor was connected with the Tombs, a jail facility in the most northerly wing of 100 Centre. On the 3rd floor, a similar maze of steel and cement fed the Criminal Court Courtrooms on the 2nd and 4th floors.

  100 Centre Street was a complex in which most of the criminal cases in New York County (Manhattan—the smallest, but most illustrious county in the United States) were processed. The Criminal Court, the court of lower jurisdiction (cases classified as misdemeanors), was housed on the first four floors of the building. The District Attorney’s Office occupied the 6th through 9th floors, with a separate entrance on Hogan Place, named after the legendary former District Attorney, Frank Hogan, at the south of the building. On the 10th floor, the Clerk’s Office and the Probation Department were housed. Eleven through sixteen, except for the detention cells on twelve, were Supreme Court parts or courtrooms. On seventeen, the judges had their chambers and law library.

  At the end of the corridor, Sandro was faced with a locked door of steel bars. “Gate,” he called aloud.

  Somewhere in the distance, Sandro could hear a guard talking to someone about a testimonial dinner for a retiring officer.

  “Gate!”

  “Hold onto it,” the Guard’s voice called back harshly. The conversation about the retirement party continued. In a few moments, there was the sound of a phone being hung up. “Sandro?” said a voice in the corridor behind him. It was Sol Walter Cohen, an older lawyer who had been handling criminal cases for many years. He was sometimes called Sir Walter Cohen by inmates who couldn’t catch his name correctly. Not a brilliant, shooting-star lawyer, but Cohen was battle-tested, resilient, capable enough. He, too, was on the list of Capital Defenders.

  “Hello, Sol.”

  “I got the co-defendant,” said Sol.

  “In my case?” Cohen nodded. “That’s great, Sol.”

  Cohen did a combination nod and non-committal shrug. “We might have antagonistic positions. But, knowing you and me,” he shrugged again, “we’ll work it out.”

  “What’s antagonistic?” said Sandro.

  “Statements. She made statements to the cops and the D.A., put my guy right in the middle of it—along with herself, of course.”

  “So, you’ll move for a severance.”

  Cohen nodded and shrugged again. “A lot of good that’s going to do. They got my guy by the short hairs even without it. Schmuck made his own statements, implicating himself right up to his eyeballs. But, it’s a motion.”

  “You here to see your guy?” asked Sandro.

  “I saw him already. He’s not so appetizing. It’s an ugly case, Sandro. Really ugly. Wait “till you see the crime scene photos.”

  “You’ve seen them already?”

  Cohen nodded. “Quintalian let me go over last night, about five-thirty. Horrible pictures. Horrible! What these fucking animals did to that little kid. Burns, scars. Oy.” Cohen combined a shudder and shrug. “I just wanted to let you know about the statements—and the antagonistic defense.”

  “No problem; you know that, Sol.”

  Another nod and shrug.

  “Hey, Counselor. What you making all the racket for?” called a Guard from deep inside the corridor as he walked toward the gate. The Guard inserted a large key into the lock of the barred gate. “I only got two—hands, that is—-just like you,”

  “How you doing today?” said Sandro pleasantly. He would have to pass through these portals often again.

  “Who you have to see?”

  “Hettie Rouse.”

  The Guard’s bottom lip curled slightly as he poked a thumb toward an interior corridor. “She’s over with the women, in Section A. Hit the main corridor, hang a right to the end, then right again. “And you, Counselor?” he said to Sir Walter.

  “I already seen mine,” said Cohen, waving his hand in dismissal, turning to go down the stairs.

  Sandro walked to the main corridor of the jail complex, the area known as the Bridge. Officers in blue shirts and silver badges, Supervisors in white shirts and gold badges, were busy with paper work at a large central desk. Off the main corridor were many tributaries leading to the various courtrooms. A stream of prisoners, escorted by guards, continually flowed in both directions, going to court or the lawyer interview room, or being escorted back from the bullpens to be held and returned to their cell blocks on Rikers Island. At the far end of the corridor, a female officer was seated at a desk, various sign-in books before her.

  “Honey!” said the female Officer with a big smile when she saw Sandro. She was very dark, with ruby red lipstick and nails to match. “How you been, honey? And where you been?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling lousy,” said Sandro.

  “What’s the matter, darlin’?”

  “I’ve been missing you like crazy.”

  The officer whooped with a loud laugh, reaching out to slap Sandro’s palm. “Who you here to see today, hon?”

  “Hettie Rouse.”

  “Uh—oh,” the Officer said softly.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing with you, honey,” the Officer said with a shrug, a displeased grimace changing her face. “Ugly shit, that case. Real ugly. She’s over there,” the Officer indicated with a jut of her head.

  Sandro walked past a cell with four women sitting on the bench against the back wall. One was an Hispanic dyke with her hair cut like a man, another an older woman; the other two, black, young.

  “Rouse?” Sandro called through the bar, “Hettie Rouse.”

  “That fucking cunt!” burst the dyke, rushing toward the bars. “You represent that cunt? What kind of fucking shyster are you?”

  “Sit down,” shouted the Officer.

  “That fucking cunt’s got to die. What she did,” the dyke said to the other women in the cell. “You fucking nigger,” the dyke put her face against the bars and shouted out toward other cells further along the corridor.

  “Keep it down!” The Officer walked to the bars, staring the dyke back to her bench. She turned back to Sandro. “See what I mean, baby? Ugly.” She pointed Sandro to a cell deeper into the corridor. “Let me tell you something,” the Officer said softly as she and Sandro walked toward the other cell. “Something funny, maybe.”

  “What’s that?” said Sandro.

  “A case like this, you never put her,” she nodded toward Rouse’s cell “in there with them.” She nodded back toward the dyke and the others. ‘You keep her isolated. At least at first, you know? But when I got here this morning, she was in there, with them. The bull dyke wasn’t there then. Someone sent this bull dyke to be put in the cell with her. Man, I don’t need that kind of shit on my shift. I moved Rouse by herself before I had a riot or a dead body on my hands. That’s a funny thing to happen, you dig?”

  “You think somebody put her in there and sent the dyke purposely, maybe to let her get hurt?”

  The officer shrugged. “I don’t get paid to think, Hon.”

  “You really think that could happen—about somebody putting her in there purposely?”

  “Might be a mistake. But then again, might not. Might be on purpose; somebody not liking somebody accused of such a thing. I’m not sayin’ one
way or the other. I just tell you that, honey, because you don’t need that kind of shit either, you dig what I’m sayin’?”

  “I do. Thank you.”

  “I don’t know if it means anything. That’s why I’m telling you. Two heads are better than one. Especially if they’re huddled together having drinks, you dig what I’m sayin’, darlin’?”

  “You’re on.”

  The Officer smiled. “I’ll wait to hear from you. She’s over there.”

  Sandro walked past an empty cell. In a third cell, a small black woman, a girl really, sat on the bench against the far wall. She was frail, with bony arms, short hair, no make up, wearing a white tee-shirt and black jeans. This was the same outfit Rouse had been wearing when the photographers took the picture that was splashed over the entire front of the News and the Post. Even the Times carried a smaller version of Hettie Rouse being led by police, her face calm, composed, impassive.

  “Hettie Rouse?” Sandro said softly. The woman looked up, her eyes wide, doe like, frightened. She nodded. “I’m Sandro Luca. I’m Red Hardie’s lawyer. He asked me to talk to you.”

  The woman rose and walked to the bars, looking into Sandro’s eyes. Her expression was flat, passive.

  “Hello,” said Sandro, reaching his hand through the bar. He felt three weak fingers and a thumb as she nodded her head again.

  “This is my card.” He handed a card through the bars. “In the future, if you need anything, want to talk to me, call me. Collect if you haven’t any money. Okay?”

  She nodded, studying the card.

  “While you’re here, don’t talk to anyone, anyone, not a policeman, not a detective, not a guard, not even other prisoners about your case, understand?” She nodded. ‘You call me before saying or doing anything with anyone, okay?” She nodded again. “We’re going to have to go down to court in a few minutes. Nothing is going to happen today. They’ll just ask you how you plead, whether you’re guilty or not, understand? You just say ‘Not Guilty’.”

  Hettie’s forehead creased with some confusion.

  “I’ll be standing right next to you. I’ll be right beside you,” said Sandro.

  “You fuckin’ nigger cunt,” called out the dyke from two cells over. Hettie’s eyes and mouth quivered involuntarily with fear. “Killing a kid! Your own kid. A gift, a gift from God. Letting that piece of shit stick it to your own kid. Someone’s going to stick it to you, you fuckin’ cunt!”

  “Keep it down over there,” shouted the Officer.

  “Fuck her and fuck you.”

  “Take it easy,” cautioned the Guard.

  Hettie began to weep silently, shaking her head.

  “It’s okay, Hettie. That’ll stop in a few days. Where are they keeping you?”

  “The Bing?”

  “Segregation?”

  Hettie nodded and made an affirmative sound.

  “It’s for your own good,” said Sandro. Hettie nodded. “When we go downstairs to court—”

  “Rouse,” called the Guard, walking toward the cell.

  “Fuckin’ cunt!”

  “Quiet!” the Officer said sharply. “They want her downstairs, Counselor.”

  “Okay. When they ask you, Hettie, just say ‘Not Guilty’,” said Sandro. “I’ll take care of everything else. Understand?”

  Hettie’s eyes studied Sandro carefully, letting his instructions sink in.

  “You understand? The only thing you’ll have to say is ‘Not Guilty’.”

  Hettie nodded. “How’s Mister Red?” she murmured.

  “He’s fine. He wanted me to help you.”

  Hettie began weeping again as the Officer led her out of the cell. She and Sandro walked toward the corridor leading to the courtroom.

  “Let me out of here one second. I’ll save everybody the trouble,” shouted the dyke, her face pressed into the bars, as Hettie walked past the other cell. All the women in that cell were standing up by the bars now to watch Hettie. “Look at that fuckin’ piece of shit cunt. I’ll cut your fuckin’ head off and shit in your neck, you filthy bitch.”

  Hettie grabbed and clung to Sandro’s arm.

  “Shut up,” said the Guard.

  D.E.A. Headquarters, N.Y.: June 20, 1996 : 11: 20 A.M.

  “You busy, Boss?” Pete Mulvehill asked. He was standing at the open doorway of Supervisor Becker’s office.

  “Come in,” said Becker, looking up from some papers on his desk. His jacket was off. He was wearing a pair of U.S. of A. suspenders: one brace red and white striped; the other blue with white stars. “What’s up?”

  “Just got an interesting—well, unusual call from a reporter at The New York Post.”

  “Oh?” Becker indicated a chair in front of his desk.

  One wall of Becker’s office was covered with baseball caps with embroidered emblems and shields from at least 20 law enforcement agencies around the region and nation: Customs; F.B.I.; Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms; Sheriff Departments; U.S. Marshals; Police Departments in several states. On a coat-hook in the corner, was a dark colored jacket with large yellow D.E.A. letters emblazoned on the back and sleeves. On another wall were pictures of Becker with people in various locales, all smiling and shaking hands. Side by side on the third wall were pictures of the President, the Vice President, and the D.E.A. Administrator.

  Mulvehill sat. “The reporter wanted to know about some cash seizures that we made, including the one a couple of nights ago in Queens.”

  “Really?” Becker leaned back in his chair, waiting.

  “He wanted to know how much money was seized on each occasion, what happened to the money after we seized it, and why there were no arrests in any of the cases.”

  “Did he mention any specifics?” said Becker.

  “I brought the files,” Mulvehill handed Becker three folders he had taken from the file cabinets. “All Queens, six hundred thou on one, a mil on another, we grabbed it from the back of a girl’s car, and two hundred-thirty.” He handed the files to Becker. “He’s also asking about one that we don’t have a file for yet, the two point four mil we counted up last night, thanks to the snitch in Miami.”

  Becker had begun to read the top file. “Who’s the reporter?” he asked, glancing up at Mulvehill.

  “Jones. Greg Jones, from the Post.”

  “How’d he ask about the cases? By amount? Names? Location?” Becker began skimming through the second file.

  “On the first three, he had all the information, name, amount, location. On the two point four, he just gave me the amount—but the file on that hasn’t been put together yet.” Mulvehill stopped talking, waiting for Becker to finish reading or ask another question. He knew Becker to be like a Marine drill sergeant; he wanted snappy, direct answers, and was impatient with what he called ‘gratuitous comments’.

  “And you told him?” Becker was skimming the third file. His eyes stopped moving as he waited for the answer.

  “Nothing for me to tell him. I told him I’d have to find, look for the files.”

  Becker nodded slightly, his eyes continuing to scan the third file. “The interesting thing is that all these files have a common thread,” said Becker, re-opening the first file.

  “I didn’t read them, yet,” said Mulvehill.

  “They’re all cases where Sandro Luca, the lawyer, made inquiries or put in claims for clients.” Becker picked up his phone and pressed a couple of the numbers. “Including, if I’m not mistaken, the two point four mil.” He listened to the phone receiver. “Lou, did a lawyer call in, inquiring about a couple of million dollar seizure yesterday?” He paused. “That’s what I thought. Seems a reporter from the Post is calling about some cash seizures, including that last one. Come in a minute, will you?” He was about to hang up the receiver, then, with another thought, touched other buttons on the key pad. “I think we ought to have Geraghty, too—Marty,” he said into the phone, “come on in. Yes, right away.” Becker hung up, his eyes roving through the files again. “Lou Castoro
just told me that Luca called in late this morning about the two point four as well,” he said, not looking up.

  “You wanted to see me, Boss?” Marty Geraghty said, coming to the doorway of Becker’s office.

  “Yes, come in. Sit down.” He continued to read. “I’m just waiting for Lou.”

  “Hey, bro,” Geraghty smiled at Mulvehill. They clasped each other’s hand and thumb in a ‘brothers’ handshake.

  “I think you two might be getting a little too close to your work,” Becker said, studying his two agents.

  Geraghty and Mulvehill exchanged quick, amused glances. Geraghty sat.

  In a few moments, Lou Castoro, very tall and big, sometimes called Moose, came into Becker’s office. He low-fived both Geraghty and Mulvehill.

  “Sit down, bros,” Becker said with a hard look at Castoro. “Pete just told me that he received a call from a reporter at The Post, a fellow by the name of Jones.”

  “I know the guy,” said Geraghty. “He covers the Southern District.” Geraghty thought a moment. “He’s also the guy who wrote that story on how you can find traces of cocaine on almost every twenty dollar bill in everybody’s pocket, a couple of months back.”

  “I read that,” said Mulvehill. He shifted his body on Becker’s couch so he could cross his heavy legs. “It was kind of a, ‘isn’t it time to do something else?’ article, as I remember it. He’s one of those do-gooders who wants to legalize drugs.”

  “As opposed to a do-badder?” said Geraghty.

  Mulvehill and Castoro chuckled.

  “Listen up, you three,” said Becker, serious. The Agents fell silent quickly. “The intriguing thing about Mr. Jones’s call is that he inquired about particular cash seizures, referring to them by specific amounts. Is that right?” he said to Mulvehill.

  Mulvehill nodded. “Rounded the amounts, but pretty much right on the button, the six hundred was actually—”

  “The point is,” Becker cut him off, “three of these cases involved stops we made in Queens, as a result of information from the same singular, local Colombian C.I.—whose identity we particularly want to keep under wraps. Even more interesting: the fourth amount is a seizure that hasn’t even had time to have a file made on it …” Becker paused, thinking silently.