But any interest Dominic had in stalling waned after he read the White Plains Daily article about how Rudy Hitchins had become a test case and also learned at the police station that I had refused to move forward on the additional resisting charges.
All this was heady stuff for Alexander Dominic Esq., opening his eyes to a real opportunity. If he was lucky, he could get his name and photograph in the newspaper, too.
And publicity, even bad publicity, was good for his business.
For those reasons, when Dominic made his first official appearance in court in the matter of the People of the State of New York v. Rudolph Hitchins, aka Rudy Hitchins, the pudgy defense attorney announced that he wanted to get his client’s case fast-tracked. What he actually said was more grandiose, which was his modus operandi.
“Your Honor,” Dominic declared loudly, “an innocent man such as my client shouldn’t have to spend one day longer than necessary with these ugly and false charges hanging over his head and clouding his future.”
His speech nearly made me gag. The only future Hitchins had waiting for him was a 6-by-6 cell. I was seated at the prosecutor’s table entirely by myself. Because of my dustup with Detective O’Brien, my boss had decided to hide out at the Westchester Country Club’s ninth hole. The courtroom was half-filled mostly with other attorneys and their clients, since this was merely a hearing to set a possible trial date. I glanced back and saw a man furiously taking notes. I assumed that he was Will Harris, covering the arraignment for a follow-up story.
Judge Michael Morano, who was well familiar with Alexander Dominic and his sad-sack clientele, couldn’t help himself from smirking at the defense attorney’s remarks, knowing full well that the idea of Dominic actually representing an innocent client was mind-boggling.
From a prosecutor’s point of view, I saw no reason to delay. In fact, I welcomed it. In his haste, Dominic had overlooked an important fact about the victim. Mary Margaret was pregnant and had such severe injuries that it would take months for them to heal. When Judge Morano scheduled the case to be heard in five months, I was elated. My victim would be on the verge of giving birth and having a pregnant victim testify about being beaten would have an emotional impact on jurors.
Dominic thanked the judge for speeding up the trial and declared in a voice loud enough for our local reporter to hear, “Your Honor, I’m not even sure I will need to call a single witness because these charges are so groundless.” Just the same, Judge Morano set aside two days on his judicial calendar for the trial. The good judge then announced that he wanted to see both of us in his chambers, an office directly behind the courtroom. Dominic waddled in behind Judge Morano with me bringing up the rear, but I stopped short in the doorway of his chambers. Judge Morano had removed his heavy black robe and fired up a thick cigar. Dominic had taken this gesture to mean that he could light an unfiltered Camel.
Judge Morano noted that I had hesitated and said, “I’m going to need you all the way in here so we can close the door.”
“Judge, I have asthma. I’m allergic to smoke.”
“Oh,” he responded in what, at first, sounded like a concerned voice. He glanced at Dominic, who began puffing madly, trying to get as much nicotine into his lungs as possible before the judge told him to put it out.
But rather than lowering his foul-smelling cigar, Judge Morano took a long, slow, and apparently satisfying pull on it, causing the dark ashes at its tip to burn red. He smiled and said, “Well, that’s a real shame, dear. Now get in here so I can talk to you both.”
Reluctantly, I took another step inside his office and closed the door behind me. I was standing at the outer edge of a Spartan room that had clearly been furnished by the lowest government bidder. The walls were lined with metal shelves that contained leather-bound volumes of New York State’s penal law, most of which appeared as if they had never been opened. There were no family photographs, no legal degrees, no plants, no paintings. The place reeked of cigar smoke and coffee. The tiles on the floor were covered with layer upon layer of wax, which made them look yellow, not white.
Judge Morano looked directly at me and said, “When I first met you in the courthouse elevator, young lady, I told you my courtroom was for serious crimes, so why are you cluttering up my docket with this bullshit?”
Without waiting for me to respond, he said, “This is a marital dispute; the case should be in family court, not here.” I explained to the judge that although the parties shared the same last name they were never married. Under Section 812 of New York’s Family Court Act, an unmarried couple could not appear in family court. Judges do not like being lectured about the law, and judging by his irked look, Judge Morano, in particular, didn’t appreciate it. Turning his attention to Dominic, the judge demanded, “Why hasn’t this matter been plea-bargained?”
Dominic shrugged his shoulders, did his best to look bewildered, and nodded in my direction, much like a schoolboy escaping blame. “Your Honor, I told her the defense is willing to plead to a misdemeanor, but she won’t negotiate.”
Both men looked at me.
“Your client savagely beat Mary Margaret Finn, putting her into the hospital with life-threatening injuries. We’re not going to reduce this attack to a misdemeanor.”
“Let’s cut through the crap,” Judge Morano said. “I saw the newspaper article about how you and District Attorney Whitaker are hoping to make this matter into some sort of women’s liberation case. And I don’t like it at all. Politics have no place in my courtroom and my courtroom is not a test laboratory or a platform for political theater. How many times do I have to tell you, Miss Fox, my court deals with real crimes?”
“Your Honor, the reason this matter is in your court is because it is a real crime.”
Judge Morano apparently didn’t like my answer, because he rested his cigar in the ceramic ashtray that was perched atop a stack of yellow legal files on his cluttered metal desk and said, “I would strongly urge both of you to reach some sort of agreement before the trial date so we are not wasting the taxpayers’ hard-earned money and taking me away from more important cases. Am I making myself clear?”
“Judge,” said Dominic, “I’m all about making a deal. It’s her.”
“Yes, I can see that,” the judge said, fetching his cigar from the ashtray. I noticed his caterpillar eyebrows were starting to pump up and down nervously as if they were in Marine boot camp doing push-ups.
“Judge,” Dominic said, breaking the momentary silence. “If I may, there’s something else.”
“What’s that? Don’t you think you’ve wasted enough of my time today?”
“My client is in jail; he was unable to post bond—a bond that was unreasonably high given the minor nature of this matter.” He hesitated for a bit of dramatic effect and then added, “His incarceration is beginning to have an impact on his livelihood and ability to pay bills.”
Because Judge Morano was already upset with me, I bit my tongue, but pictured the “livelihood” that Hitchins would be earning on the streets. The image of a terrified woman having her purse snatched and being beaten with a clenched fist popped into my head.
I’d been standing with my back pressed against the closed chamber’s door to keep myself as far away from the two human chimneys in front of me, but now I stepped forward. “Your Honor, the reason the bond was set at five thousand dollars was because of the ongoing threat that Mr. Dominic’s client poses to the victim of his attack.”
Judge Morano addressed Dominic: “Why hasn’t your client gotten a bondsman to release him?”
Dominic made another of his well-schooled, blank looks.
“The reason why a bondsman doesn’t want to mess with Mr. Dominic’s client,” I piped in, “is because he has a reputation for not paying his debts and using violence to keep people from collecting them.”
The dumbfounded expression on Dominic’s face turned into one of fake outrage, but before he could speak, Judge Morano said, “I’ve issued a temp
orary order of protection instructing Rudy Hitchins to stay away from the alleged victim. Ergo, I’m going to release your client on his own personal recognizance.”
“What?” I exclaimed, stepping even closer. Leaning down, I put both of my palms on the judge’s desk and bent forward to address him. “Your Honor, this man is dangerous. There’s no telling what he’ll do to the victim.”
Judge Morano looked with disdain at my hands on his desk and I quickly removed them. He leaned back in his seat with a smug smile and said, “Young lady, if you are so concerned about your client’s welfare, then I strongly suggest that you and Mr. Dominic step outside my chambers and reach a resolution.”
He blew a mouthful of stale smoke directly at my face and said, “Mr. Dominic’s client will be released this afternoon. We’re done here.”
As soon as I returned to my office, I thought about who I needed to call for help. I could think of only one name so I mentally prepared myself for a big slice of humble pie and dialed O’Brien’s number.
“O’Brien here.”
“Detective,” I said, mustering up my courage. “This is—”
“I know who it is, Counselor. I recognize your voice. I’m a detective, remember? Why the hell are you calling me?”
“Judge Morano is going to release Rudy Hitchins this afternoon on his own recognizance.”
“What? Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I tried. But he wouldn’t listen. I’m afraid Hitchins is going to do something to Mary Margaret. She’s still in the hospital and I—”
O’Brien interrupted: “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”
I could smell the humble pie heading toward my lips.
“So Judge Morano is freeing Hitchins because the good judge doesn’t think that piece of pond scum is a threat. Oh, but then, you didn’t think that either, did you, Counselor?”
I resisted the urge to reply. More pie was clearly coming my way.
O’Brien said, “Do you need to hear me say it? Do I need to tell you how this would not be happening if you had done what every other goddamn assistant district attorney in White Plains would have done when I brought you those additional charges?” Raising his voice, he said, “It could have been so easy. And now you call me for help. You got some balls!”
I thought about reminding him that we’d already discussed my lower anatomy during our first meeting when he’d been impressed that I was willing to prosecute the Hitchins case. But when you are eating humble pie, it’s best to keep such thoughts to yourself.
“I realize you’re angry with me, but I’m worried. I really—”
In the middle of my sentence, Detective O’Brien cut me off.
“I’ll see if I can get someone to watch Hitchins. I doubt he’ll do anything as long as she’s in the hospital.”
“Thank—”
He hung up on me.
12
I drove directly to the hospital to tell Mary Margaret and her mother that Judge Morano was going to release Rudy Hitchins, but I assured them that Detective O’Brien had promised to have the cops keep an eye on him. Mrs. Finn told me that O’Brien had already stopped at the hospital and briefed them.
Feeling somewhat relieved, I drove home. I live in a simple bungalow-style home less than two miles from my mom’s place. She helped me buy it after my father died and we decided to move here from Elmira. I wanted my own place to live, even though she would have loved for me to live with her. Besides, it wasn’t like I lived alone. I had Wilbur, my pet pig, for company.
Wilbur is a Vietnamese pot belly, a breed of domesticated pig that obviously originated in Vietnam. As far as pigs go, he’s considerably smaller than most and about the size of a large-breed dog. Just the same, Wilbur had grown up to weigh 110 pounds and stand eighteen inches high. He has upright ears, a straight tail, and a swayed back because his big belly drops within inches of the ground. His favorite foods are apples and peanut butter, and he is always hungry. I keep him in a pen in my backyard. He waits at the pen’s gate for me every night when I get off work. I let him loose and, much like a dog, he follows me into the house.
People think of pigs as being dumb and dirty, but they’re intelligent and clean animals that can be house-trained. Just the same, I keep Wilbur sealed off in my kitchen. He has a large mat there that he likes to burrow under at night; he actually made a good watchdog—as long as the burglar didn’t arrive with food.
I parked my Triumph in the driveway and went immediately to the backyard to break the bad news to Wilbur.
“Sorry, but it’s my turn to drive to Albany to meet Bob this weekend.”
I paid a neighbor boy to feed Wilbur on the weekends when I was traveling so I knew Wilbur would be fine. Just the same, when he grunted, I felt guilty leaving him in his pen. As I was unlocking the back door, I heard the kitchen phone ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, beautiful,” I heard Bob say.
“Hi. I was just outside saying good-bye to Wilbur. I’ll pack and hit the road, so I’ll get to your apartment just before eight o’clock. Where are you taking me to dinner?”
“I got bad news, honey. I’m jammed and really need the entire weekend to study. I want to see you, but this is just one of those weekends.”
It seemed we’d had a lot of them lately between his studies and my work.
“I understand, but I’ve had a really rough week and I need to escape from here.”
He asked me to tell him what had happened so I filled him in on the Hitchins case. Because Bob and I have been sweethearts since we were in high school, I knew he wouldn’t be putting off seeing me unless he had a good reason.
“What if I drove up just for tonight?” I volunteered. “I promise I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” God, I was sounding desperate.
“I’d love that normally, but I’m really buried here with work. I’ve got a study group tonight. I just can’t take the time, sweetheart. I really can’t. The pressure is on, just like when you were in law school. Remember?”
I did. I remembered the pressure that I had put on myself to graduate at the top of my class. Could I expect anything less from him?
“Okay, Wilbur and I will spend the night here. But you should know, he’s a poor substitute.”
“I hope so!” Bob said.
“Call me tomorrow, please, just for a few seconds. I just want to hear your voice,” I said.
“Why don’t you go to church with your mom? She’d like that.”
“Maybe I will. But call, please.” I missed him.
We ended the call, as we always did, by saying each how much we loved the other.
As I was hanging up the phone, I thought about my third year in law school when I had been under pressure and the two of us had managed to sneak away on Christmas Eve for a much-needed break. We’d driven home to Elmira a day earlier to check in with our folks, but then escaped to Bob’s grandfather’s farm. His family leased the 120 acres to a tenant farmer but kept the main farmhouse for a private getaway.
Snowflakes were blowing and the evening moon cast a blue hue over the white-blanketed earth. Icicles were hanging from trees. We rode in Bob’s Jeep Wrangler through rolling hills where his grandparents had once raised crops, grown apples, and herded livestock. Because it was still a working farm, there were chickens, cows, horses, and pigs in the huge barn near the main house. Their tenant lived in a more modest house about a mile from the main one.
I loved coming to the farm. As we burst through drifts of snow on the gravel road, we laughed in pure joy. I reached over and touched Bob’s right leg with anticipation of our night ahead. Bob Dylan, Bob’s favorite singer, was playing on the radio: “Girl from the North Country.” It was a mellow, sweet song whose lines described a snowflake storm, frozen rivers, howling winds, and the need for the singer’s lover to keep warm. I’m sure Bob was thinking about me as he sang along in a deep voice. Although I smiled appreciatively, the song reminded me of my mom and her never-ending co
ncern for dressing me warm and protecting me from winter’s colds and sniffles. It also made me a bit sad that I would miss Christmas Eve dinner with her. But Bob and I would reconnect on Christmas Day with our families and relatives to attend mass.
“I see the farmhouse, Dani.”
I looked through the wet windshield and spotted the lights coming from the old two-story wood-framed house. Bob had called ahead and the tenant had turned the lights on for us.
“I’ve brought along a great bottle of red wine,” Bob said.
“You won’t need to get me drunk, Doc. I’m a sure thing tonight.”
Bob downshifted and rolled right up to the front porch. The ignition was barely off when he wrapped his arms around me and pulled my body into his. His kiss was wet, warm, and longing. It was going to be another great night.
I lugged the basket of precooked turkey, yams, brown gravy, mashed potatoes, and cranberries from the back of the Jeep while Bob hurried inside to start a fire.
“I hope you cooked as good as last year,” Bob called.
“Do I ever let you down?”
I was lying. Mom had actually cooked everything earlier in the day.
Inside, we kicked off our boots and I put the food in the oven to warm. By the time I emerged from the kitchen, Bob had poured two tall goblets full of wine and there was a beautiful blaze in the fireplace. He motioned me to join him and I could feel the fire’s warmth on my legs as we stood before the hearth.
“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” he mimicked, raising his glass.
“Okay, Doctor Bogart, right back at you.”
We were so eager to pull off each other’s clothing that we barely had time for our first sip.
“Don’t you want to eat first?” I asked.
“Hell no, don’t you dare go anywhere.” We fell to our knees in front of the stonework. He whispered into my ear how much I meant to him and I did the same as we fumbled with each other’s shirts. As I undid his buttons, he slipped his hands up the back of my white turtleneck sweater and unsnapped my bra. I tugged his shirt out of his jeans and off his toned body. I kissed his face, his neck, his chest, and moved down to his stomach as he pulled my top off.
Sly Fox: A Dani Fox Novel Page 8
