Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  Under this system, the vast majority of judges sitting in the Criminal Division of the Supreme Court in the City of New York, are ‘Acting’ Judges, with no tenure or term, serving at the pleasure and whim of those who appoint them. They can be ‘flopped’ back to the lower court any time they do not perform according to the standard determined by the current Administration. These flopped judges return, their tails between their legs, to the Criminal Court, serving thereafter without the title, authority, or the salary of a Supreme Court Justice. The Damocles Sword keeps the ‘Acting’ Justices in line, preventing random or rogue decisions which do not comport to the ideals of the Administration.

  “Rouse,” called a white-shirted Captain of Corrections.

  “Right here,” said Sandro, walking toward the captain.

  “Your client Hettie Rouse?” the Captain asked, eyeing Sandro carefully.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s in segregation—you understand why, I’m sure—she can’t be brought here to visit. Being that she’s a female in segregation, we don’t have the facilities here for those kinds of counsel visits. You’ll have to go to Rikers.”

  “I called yesterday, I told them exactly who I wanted produced, the office said okay, she’d be produced. Why didn’t somebody tell me yesterday that she couldn’t be produced here?”

  “Can’t tell you that, Counselor. Only thing I know is that she isn’t here. You have to go to Rikers if you want to see her.”

  “That’s just great.”

  “Sorry, Counselor.” The Captain leaned toward Sandro to whisper, “somebody’s liable to shank her over here for what she’s done.”

  “She hasn’t been convicted yet,” said Sandro.

  “Right, right.” The Captain looked deeply into Sandro’s eyes, and in that one look, conveyed the reality of the entire system: these are only technical maneuvers we’re going through, for the sake of appearance.

  The next day, Sandro drove to Hazen Street in Queens, then across a bridge that spanned the water which coursed around LaGuardia Airport before it emptied into Long Island Sound. From there, he was transported by bus to the Women’s House of Detention. After a long wait, Hettie Rouse was brought to the caged entrance of the Lawyers Visiting Room. No matter where she was brought, and by whom, Sandro noticed that everyone—guards, prisoners, even other lawyers in the visiting area—looked in her direction with silent revulsion.

  As the Guard was inserting the large key into the barred gate to let Hettie into the visiting area, Hettie’s eyes searched the interior of the room. When her eyes met Sandro’s through the bars, she nodded slightly, meekly. Upon entering, she quickly moved to the chair across the little desk at which Sandro sat. The other lawyers and defendants around them began to speak amongst themselves.

  “Hello, Hettie,” said Sandro.

  Hettie looked at Sandro with her frightened eyes, winced her lips momentarily, then looked down, looked up again for an instant, then stared over Sandro’s shoulder at the far wall.

  “I wanted to talk with you, to make sure you understood everything that’s gone on so far.”

  “Yes, sir,” she murmured.

  “We don’t have to go back to court for about ten days. In the meantime, we’ll be receiving Discovery materials from the D.A.”

  “Discovering what, Mr.—?”

  “Luca. Papers, documents, facts about the case that have been gathered by the police, so we have some idea what they are going to present in court.”

  “What will I do with them when I get them?” asked Hettie, glancing at Sandro for a moment.

  “The Prosecutor will send all the information, and photographs, crime scene information to me. Then I’ll bring the material for you to see.”

  “I don’t want to see no pictures, Mr.… what’s your name again, mister?”

  “Luca.”

  “Mr. Luke. No pictures.” Hettie shook her head forlornly, staring down at the table. “No pictures.”

  “Okay, no pictures. Another thing the D.A. will supply is any statements that have been made. I understand you made a statement to the Police.”

  Hettie shrugged slowly without looking up.

  “Did you say things to the police about the case?”

  “That mean I spoke to them, told them what went down?”

  “Yes,” said Sandro.

  Hettie nodded. Her face was impassive, not angry, not sad, not anything. Just impassive, vague, focused elsewhere. Sandro wondered how Hettie’s 730 Examination would turn out. Did she know what was going on? he wondered.

  “Did you speak to any psych … to any doctors since you’ve been back here from court?” Sandro said.

  “At the police?”

  “No, since you were in court a few days ago, with me?”

  Hettie shook her head. “Don’t talk to nobody.”

  “When you were at the police station, did the police tell you what your rights were before you spoke to them? Did they tell you that you didn’t have to speak to them, that you could have a lawyer, things like that?”

  She nodded, not looking up. “Yes, sir, mm hmm, they did, Mr. Luke.”

  “Before you made any statement, before you spoke to them and told them what happened?”

  “Just call me Li’l Bit. That’s what everybody calls me, Li’l Bit.”

  Sandro nodded. He wanted to make notes, but he didn’t take out a pad and pencil. Note taking often made clients self-conscious, apprehensive, stopped them from talking freely. Right now, Sandro wanted Hettie to talk, to hear her speak, to listen to her mind working.

  “The police explained that you didn’t have to talk to them, that you could have a lawyer, that anything you said could be used against you?”

  “Yes they did.”

  “Before you made any statements, told them what happened with your daughter?”

  “Yes, sir, they did. Is that bad, Mister Luke?” She looked at Sandro for a moment again.

  “No, no, it’s fine, Hettie—Li’l Bit. That’s what they’re supposed to do.” That eliminates a Miranda violation, thought Sandro. “What did you tell them?”

  Hettie shook her head with excruciating slowness, her eyes lowered to the table, focused on some other place, some other time.

  “Do you remember what you told them?”

  Hettie began to nod with the same slow beat with which she had been shaking her head, her face calm, her eyes staring ahead, her lips pursed tight.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?” asked Sandro.

  Hettie began shaking her head in the negative again, her lips pursing a bit tighter.

  “We’ll have to talk about it one of these days, Hettie.”

  She almost smiled for a fraction of a second. Still, she did not look at Sandro. “Only my Daddy called me Hettie. He was the only one. Everybody else just called me Li’l Bit.”

  “Tell me about your father.”

  “About what?”

  “About when you were a little girl.” In his mind, Sandro was already far down the line as far as the case was concerned, already past the guilt phase, the question of whether she and Alvarado committed the crime. The evidence, the statements they each made, implicating each other, simultaneously implicating themselves, left room for little doubt, certainly not reasonable doubt before a jury that would ordinarily be revulsed by any murder, more particularly, the murder of a little child, by her mother, in conjunction with a man who was then and there raping the little child. In Sandro’s mind, the trial was already lost. No question. The only avenue was to concentrate on the second phase of the trial which would be dedicated exclusively to death, and whether the State should visit such punishment on Hettie Rouse.

  Hettie shrugged. “Not much to tell. Not much to remember.”

  “What kind of childhood did you have?” Sandro asked easily, searching for mitigation, facts, if any, which might show that Hettie was not such a monster as the raw, unvarnished facts and circumstances suggested.

  Hettie shrugge
d. “Nice.”

  “You had a nice childhood? Is that what you’re saying?” said Sandro.

  “You remind me of my Daddy,” said Hettie.

  “I remind you of your Daddy?” said Sandro, purposely entering a reflective conversational mode, reflecting the prisoners own words back into a question, to keep their thoughts going, to draw their thoughts out of themselves.

  Hettie nodded her head quickly this time, almost a real smile on her lips for a second. “He was a nice man.” The smile disappeared. “Didn’t know him too much. He lit out when I was four. We lived at 465 West 147th Street, in a little apartment on the top floor. That was before the trouble.”

  “The trouble?”

  “Trouble ’tween him and my Mom. He come up the stairs one night. You could hear him shouting from downstairs. ‘Bitch’, he shouted. ‘Whore bitch’, too. My mother and him had a big fight. He saying my mother was selling herself in the street, saying he wouldn’t stand for it, saying he was a man. And, then he was gone.” Hettie was staring at the table again, nodding slowly.

  “He said she was selling herself, and they had a big fight, and he was gone?”

  Hettie kept nodding silently, rocking on her seat now.

  Sandro watched her silently, waiting for her to finish her thoughts. Hettie just kept rocking forward and back.

  “What about your mother, Hettie? What happened after the big fight?”

  Hettie kept rocking silently, shaking her head.

  “Does she still live in the same place?”

  Hettie nodded, still rocking, then shook her head again, slowly, over and over as she rocked.

  “We’re going to have to talk about these things, Hettie.”

  A flicker of a smile appeared when he spoke her name, then a tighter pursing of her lips.

  “I need—I want you to sign something for me, Hettie.” Sandro took an authorization form out of his briefcase. He wanted to begin searching into her past, into the past of her parents, her grandparents, her brothers, sisters—everyone and everything that had gone into making her Hettie Rouse, sitting across from a lawyer, charged with an unspeakably horrible crime.

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s an authorization form. I want to get your school records, your medical records.”

  “Nothing wrong with me,” she said curtly.

  “I know that. I have to get your school records, other old records, for the case. You have to sign this so I can get them.”

  “You going to talk to my Momma?”

  “Not unless I tell you first.”

  She looked into Sandro’s eyes for a moment. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Don’t forget, you promised, right?” said Hettie, looking at the table again.

  “You ever a Girl Scout?” Sandro raised three fingers of his right hand.

  “Un, unh,” she shook her head negatively. She looked at Sandro’s hand, making the three finger salute, then at Sandro for a long moment now. “You a nice man, Mister Luke. I’m glad you my lawyer.”

  “Me, too, Hettie.” Sandro smiled at her softly.

  “You funning me, Mister Luke?”

  “I’ll never fun you, Hettie, never. I’m glad I’m your lawyer, too.”

  “You not going to bother my Momma, or nobody?”

  “Not right now. I will have to at some time—” She studied Sandro’s face again, “—not unless I tell you about it first.”

  “Nobody? Not my Momma. Or Father, or my Brother?”

  “Not no one, not no how,” said Sandro. Hettie did not pick up on the Wizard of Oz language.

  Hettie studied Sandro’s eyes for a few seconds more, then reached with her left hand toward the piece of paper he had put on the table.

  Sandro handed Hettie his pen.

  Flash Inn : July 27, 1996 : 2:45 P.M.

  “I don’t have much time,” said Money Dozier, his eyelids fluttering. Awgust Nichols sat across the table. “I’m on my way from the lawyer’s office, and I have to be home in about an hour or the bracelet people’ll report me missing.” They were seated in the side dining room, at the back of the Flash Inn. There were no other customers in the area. Soft light from the tin shaded lamps that hung over each table cut silent, v-shaped swaths through the wood of the decor and the red of the table cloths. “Red called me and told me he wants you to rearrange his finances, get him more liquid. He’s got things he has to do, things to take care of.”

  Nichols nodded.

  “He also said he wants you to visit him at the M.C.C.—he’s putting you on his visiting list—he’ll explain everything to you hisself.”

  Nichols nodded again. “When should I go?”

  “It takes a little time for you to get approved for his visiting list. When you coming up for sentence?” he asked Anton Taylor, who was seated on the left side of the table, between Money and Awgust.

  “My lawyer—Mr. Darrow, I call him,” said Taylor, making a derisive sound, “he asked for a postponement. Needs time to get me buried.”

  Money nodded. “Whatever you do with Red’s holdings,” he said, turning his fluttering eyelids back toward Nichols, “do the same for me.”

  The men stopped speaking as the old waiter walked toward the table, balancing a tray of drinks held at shoulder level. He swivelled his wrist slowly, bringing the tray down to his waist. “There you are, Mr. Money,” he said, placing a drink in front of Money, “a very, very, very dry martini, stirred, not shaken, just like Mr. Red and you likes.”

  “Thank you, Matthew. Best waiter in New York. Not Harlem, mind you, but in all of New York.” Money sliced a quick smile, accompanied by fluttered eyelids.

  “Thank you, Mr. Money.” He placed a drink in front of Anton Taylor. “I sure hope Mr. Red is okay.” The waiter shook his head. “Terrible thing, Mr. Money. Terrible. Mr. Red sent my daughter to school, you know,” he said to Nichols and Taylor. “Fine man, Mr. Red. Arranged her to get in and paid the tuition hisself, Mr. Red did.” Matthew stood nodding his appreciation for another moment. “I hope your friend’s girlfriend from the other day is feeling better,” he said to Nichols as he placed a drink in front of him. “The one with the Long Island Ice Tea.”

  Nichols looked blankly at the waiter, then glanced at Money.

  “Trouble?” said Money as he sipped his drink.

  “No trouble. Just some friendly I-talians from up in Pelham, going to the game the other day,” Nichols said. “They get so carried away when they talk that I-talian. Their hands always movin’ an’ all. One of them had a girlfriend that had a little too much to drink, that’s all.”

  “Mmmm.” Money lifted his glass. “Better days.” He winced a smile, then closed his eyes thoughtfully. “Days could hardly be worse.”

  “Better days,” said Nichols, touching his glass to Money’s. Taylor did the same.

  “I’ll be up in the front if you want anything, Mr. Money. Gentlemen.” The waiter moved slowly back toward the bar.

  The three men sat silently at the table for a few moments. “Everything else okay?” Money said absently to Nichols.

  “It’s a struggle keeping everything balanced,” Nichols smiled, shrugged, “but it’s okay.”

  Money nodded. “Mmm. Don’t like thinking about Mr. Red sitting there in that jail.”

  “No,” said Nichols.

  “No.” Money looked off toward the far wall. “Well, I guess I better be getting back to my apartment before the bracelet people miss me,” said Money, rising. “Don’t forget what Mr. Red wants,” he said to Awgust. “Good luck,” he said to Taylor.

  “Maybe something good’ll happen for Anton we don’t even know about,” said Nichols.

  “Yeah, like maybe that Judge’ll fall down, break her skinny neck,” said Taylor.

  “Mmm. Stopped expectin’ miracles a long time ago. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He walked toward the bar. When he reached the partition that separated the dining area from the bar, Matthew, the waiter, stepped out of the alco
ve where coats and hats were checked. His unexpected appearance made Money hesitate momentarily.

  “Sorry, Mr. Money,” said Matthew. “Just wanted to tell you. Them folks that were here the other day with—” he nodded his head toward the back dining area “—they were not I-talians.”

  “The ones with Awgust?” Money’s eyelids fluttered as he glanced toward the ceiling.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Money. Just now I overheard Mr. Nichols tell you his friends were I-talian.” Matthew shook his head. “I worked in a I-talian restaurant, down in East Harlem. And Mr. Danny and Mr. Joe here are I-talian. I know how I-talian sounds. And them folks that was here wasn’t talkin’ no I-talian.”

  “Hmmmm. Interesting. What were they talkin’, Mathew? You know?”

  “Can’t say exactly, Mr. Money. Not Spanish neither. Somethin’ strange’s all I know. Positively sure it was no I-talian.”

  “Hmmmm. That’s very perplexin’ Matthew.”

  A nearby telephone rang. Matthew, standing right next to the desk where the phone was located, picked up the receiver. “Flash Inn.” He listened, then smiled. “He’s standin’ right here,” Matthew said into the phone. Money looked quizzically at Matthew. “It’s Mr. Red.”

  Money took the receiver. “Hello?” His eyes fluttered as he tilted back his head.

  “That you, Money?” said Red.

  “It’s me, Mr. Red.”

  “I thought you’d be there for a very, very dry martini. Am I right? Is that what you’re drinking?”

  “You got it exactly,” said Money.

  “Have one for me, while you’re at it.”

  “I surely will, Mr. Red.”

  “You see Awgust?”

  “He’s here now, Mr. Red. I was just talking to him about those things you and me talked about on the phone.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. You tell him I want him to come to see me?”

  “I did that as well. Just as you asked.” Money motioned to Matthew, the waiter, who was standing near the end of the partition, watching the dining room.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Money?” said Matthew.

  “You sure those people speaking to Mr. Nichols were not speaking I-talian?”

  “Positive, Mr. Money. They were speaking some foreign language, but definitely not I-talian. And they weren’t talking with their hands, except one of them gentlemen smacked a lady that was with them right in the face. Pretty good slap, too.”