Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 04 - BOY ON TRIAL - A Legal Thriller

by Clifford Irving

  “No, sir,” I said, “that’s not a fact. It’s a possibility, and it sounds like it’s probably part of the truth — but it’s not a fact. It’s a supposition. I don’t know what I was thinking when I picked up the pistol. I just did it.”

  He swallowed that; he was remarkably patient. “Didn’t it occur to you, Billy, that you could throw it away and render it a neutral object?”

  I considered that.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “You didn’t see that possibility?”

  “Not really. I do now. I didn’t then.”

  “What were your feelings about Mr. Bedford at that time?”

  “There? That moment? In the yard outside his house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pretty negative,” I said.

  “Did you want to kill him?”

  “Not then,” I said.

  “Are you implying that at another time, prior to that moment when you held his pistol in your hand, and fired the shot that ended his life, the answer was yes?”

  “Oh, yes. Many times. I dreamed about it.”

  “Daydream or night dream? Which one do you mean?”

  “Both. We had an argument once about Amy. Carter called me a ‘smartass city Jewboy.’ He put the barrel of his pistol in my mouth. Another time he tried to drown me in the ocean. I dreamed about stabbing him with my Swiss Army knife, and running him over with a Humvee. I staked him out in the desert and the ants ate him. I shot him once, too. Those were daytime dreams.”

  Soon after that, the judge decided that he had no more questions, and the prosecutor decided to quit while he was ahead.

  There were what they call final arguments by Ginger and then Mr. Hull, but I can hardly remember them. They didn’t bring up anything new.

  The judge said he needed a few days to reach a decision, and he set a date for sentencing.

  Chapter 42

  We showed up for the judge’s decision, the sentencing, on a rainy day in late August: my mom, my dad, Simon, Ginger, Uncle Bernie, Aunt Grace, and Inez, with the media people outside on the steps of the courthouse, yelling at us and shoving mikes at us in the hopes of a sound byte for the six o’clock news.

  Several times my dad said, “No comment.”

  Simon was wearing a button that they sold for fifty cents in the pizza parlors and hardware stores all over Eastern Long Island. It said: FREE BILLY — as if I’d already been sentenced to the maximum six years in Spofford. My dad made Simon unclip the button before we walked into the courtroom.

  The prosecutor avoided looking me in the eye. The judge’s eyes were bloodshot; his features seemed to have sagged since I’d last seen him. He was not a man of oak and iron, he was a judge who had to deal all the time with the antisocial violent things that young human beings did.

  He had his decision printed out, but he put the stack of paperwork aside and spoke to us directly. He explained that he would deal with the charges one at a time, starting with the charge of rape. That had hardly been dealt with at the fact-finding inquiry, but it had not been dismissed, and suddenly, from behind me, I heard my mom suck in her breath.

  “The law in the State of New York,” Judge Walsh said, “makes clear that rape is a sexual act committed without consent of the victim, and that a person who’s under seventeen years of age is deemed incapable of consent. The law also states that when the victim is less than thirteen and the perpetrator, the actor, is eighteen or older, the act, even when the victim gives consent, is considered forcible compulsion. That’s rape in the first degree, a Class B felony.

  “With a twelve-year-old male actor and a twelve-year-old female victim, there’s a gray area. The law is not precise. You could even say, it’s absent. Therefore the burden lies on the prosecution to prove a consciousness of the wrongfulness of the act, and the relevance of that consciousness. Is that clear?”

  We all nodded, except Inez. To her the judge could have been talking in Swahili.

  “I believe,” the judge said, “from what I’ve heard in his voluntary admissions, that the defendant, Billy Braverman, was conscious that the act he performed with Amy Bedford was a wrongful one. He didn’t want to do it. But why is that relevant? A twelve-year-old is not an adult. He may have the IQ of a near-genius, and he may be clever as all get-out and know how to get things done, but that doesn’t make him a responsible adult. His criminal capacity is irrelevant. He’s a child.

  “Furthermore, there’s doubt, based on testimony by Miss Bedford, as to who was the actor in the event. You can’t jail even a grown man for stealing a jewel if a shopkeeper shoves the jewel into the man’s pocket, and says, ‘Take it.’ No, I don’t believe that, in conscience, you can do that.

  “So, in re the charge of rape, the court finds the defendant not guilty.”

  Ginger had told me that’s what would happen. The judge consulted his papers. He was rubbing his forehead, breathing deep through clogged nostrils.

  “In re the charge of second-degree murder, the court notes that Billy Braverman defends his act in part by stating in direct examination that he was protecting Amy Bedford against her father, Carter Bedford. Billy Braverman alleges that Mr. Bedford had committed criminal sexual acts against his daughter, had kept her locked up in what amounted to a prison cell, and had announced that he was heading for the State of Florida where, Billy Braverman believed, Mr. Bedford would continue to commit the same criminal acts.

  “I want to make clear” — Judge Walsh scanned the paperwork — “that the court’s recital of the above allegations does not go to the truth of the accusations, which are not asserted by the victim’s daughter, but goes to defendant’s supposed state of mind at the time of the alleged murder.”

  He laid the paperwork aside.

  “Now then, I’ve heard the eyewitnesses describe the event we’re talking about. Before it happened, the victim — if he was a victim, he wasn’t one yet — brandished a loaded pistol. He pointed it at the defendant and also at Mr. Duwayne Williams. He fired a shot at the feet of Mr. Williams. He uttered insulting words, and what appears to have been a minor racial slur. He then struck Ms. Inez Tur with the barrel of the pistol.

  “After which, Billy Braverman picked up a handy fireplace poker and struck Mr. Bedford on the arm, causing Mr. Bedford’s pistol to fall to the ground.

  “Billy Braverman, the respondent, picked up the pistol immediately from where it had fallen. He did not hesitate.”

  The judge sighed and drank from his glass of water. I could feel Ginger stiffen.

  “Billy Braverman did not throw the pistol away,” the judge said. “He could have done so. It was a lethal weapon. He knew that. He could have thrown it into a far corner of the yard. He could have thrown it over the wire fence into the surrounding forest. He could have… but he didn’t.

  “Instead, the respondent fired a single shot that struck Carter Bedford in the upper chest. It pierced Mr. Bedford’s heart, and it killed him.

  “The respondent says, and eyewitnesses corroborate, that prior to the shot being fired, Mr. Bedford picked up the fireplace poker and raised it in a threatening manner, as if to strike the respondent. The court notes that Mr. Bedford was forty years old, height five feet eleven inches, weight one hundred seventy two pounds, worked out at a gym and was supposed to be in prime physical shape. The respondent is twelve years old, four feet six inches tall, and weighs seventy pounds soaking wet.

  “Eyewitnesses also state that in the minute or so preceding the event, Mr. Bedford said, ‘I’m going to spill your brains in the dust.’ Or similar words.

  “What could the respondent have done? He could have reasoned with Mr. Bedford. He could have retreated. Anyone pleading, or even insinuating, self-defense, always has a duty to retreat. Billy Braverman did not retreat. That, in retrospect, seems to have been an error. Had Billy Braverman retreated, Mr. Bedford might be alive today. Or not.

  “No one knows.

  “And Mr. Bedford isn’t here to tell us wh
at he would or would not have done in reaction to the boy’s backing away.

  “And we are not here to judge what Billy Braverman could have done. We may regret that he didn’t see the alternatives to his act, but those alternatives are theoretical. We are here to deal with, and to judge, facts. What did happen, not what might have happened. To speculate in life about what might have happened, but didn’t, I have found, is usually a fruitless pursuit of unprovable, and often seemingly endless, possibilities. This court will not indulge in speculation. Billy Braverman admits that in the past he had daydreams of killing Mr. Bedford. Daydreams are not reality — or, at least, not a reality that we can work with in the law. And they do not serve as evidence. Many of us dream of things, both good and bad, that we would never really do. Or are not capable of doing.”

  I thought I could hear my mom, not too far behind me, sucking air in a kind of prayer.

  The judge said, “Billy Braverman acted, the court believes, to save his own person from serious bodily harm. Therefore, in re the charge of second-degree murder, the court finds the defendant not guilty by reason of self-defense.”

  I heard my mom begin to cry.

  Judge Walsh looked me straight in the eye. I think he knew. I think he understood what had happened even better than I did.

  “We come then,” he said, “to the final charge of breaking-and-entering. Billy Braverman, on the morning of June 22 you stole a key from the premises of A-1 Self-Storage. You used that stolen key to enter the premises on the morning of June 23. You didn’t have anyone’s permission to do what you did. You’re a child of privilege and you’re exceptionally intelligent. You might possibly achieve great things in life. You’re not mentally disturbed and you know right from wrong. You knew that what you did was an illegal act. It was premeditated. You defend the act by saying that you had to do it so that Amy Bedford could run away with you a second time — it was a necessary part of your scheme. Surely you must realize that’s like saying, ‘I wanted to give a big donation to the American Cancer Society, so I robbed a bank to get the money.’ The end doesn’t justify the means when the means break the law.

  “I said before that a twelve-year-old isn’t a responsible adult. He’s a child, without a genuine criminal capacity. On the other hand, in some matters, he is definitely responsible. Breaking into a house is pretty clear-cut.” He pointed that accusatory finger at me once again. “You are not an incorrigible child as defined by the law. What you are, however, is dogged, reckless, and determined to have your own way no matter what the consequences.

  “For example, no charges have been made in this matter, but I note that you encouraged Duwayne Williams — sixteen years old, and not in possession of a driver’s license, which you knew — to drive a motor vehicle in order to effect your getaway.”

  I was nodding all the time. My head was moving up and down. I agreed with everything he’d said.

  “And,” he continued, “you orally contracted to pay Mr. Williams the sum of $500 for these illegal services. It wasn’t just a favor. You hired him to help you break the law.”

  I nodded again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ginger’s face, her lips pressed hard together, her eyes sparking.

  For God’s sake, Billy, stop nodding.

  “That’s not a monstrous offense,” the judge said, “but it’s indicative of an attitude. Some check, or enforced brake, on this attitude seems necessary. Not just for the sake of society, but for your own sake, Billy Braverman. Or you could get into a lot of trouble. Worse than this.”

  I didn’t nod at that, but it was too late.

  “Therefore, in re the charge of breaking-and-entering, the court finds you guilty. And I sentence you to one year’s detention, and impose a fine of two thousand five hundred dollars.”

  From behind me I heard Simon gasp, and my mom moan.

  “Sentence to be suspended,” the judge continued, “and you will remain under the supervision of your parents. You’ll report on a regular basis to the Office of Children & Family Services, Suffolk County. If during that year of probation you don’t commit any more felonies, misdemeanors, or status offenses, the finding of guilt will be expunged from the record.”

  Ginger reached out to squeeze my hand.

  But the judge wasn’t finished. He held up his own hand like a traffic cop, and said, “I’m going to take this opportunity to read a postscript to my decision.”

  He thumbed through the document that lay in front of him on the conference table, until he found what he wanted. He read: “… ‘This concludes the facts and pertinent testimony in State of New York (Juvenile) v. William Braverman, etcetera.’

  “‘The court makes the following recommendation to the Child Protective Service of the Office of Children & Family Services, Suffolk County. Based on the preponderance of testimony in the course of this hearing, and further based on an unannounced visit by the court to the Bedford residence at Number One Jail Road, Springs, East Hampton township, this court recommends that the minor child, Amy Bedford, be removed forthwith from the guardianship of her mother and placed under the guardianship of CPS Suffolk, until such time as placement in foster care can be arranged by the Office of Children & Family Services.’”

  He banged his gavel.

  Outside the courtroom, my mom and Inez cried on each other’s shoulder. Simon said, “Cool, bro.”

  My dad clasped Ginger’s hand. “If you ever feel you want to get rich working for a law firm, give me a call.”

  He knew she wasn’t interested in big law firms, but he said it anyway.

  After giving me one of those hugs that took my breath away, Ginger headed off for New York with Uncle Bernie. They were friends now. We would talk later; we both knew that.

  The family battled its way down the courthouse steps, through the warm August drizzle, past the reporters and the television cameras. We jumped into my dad’s Mercedes and drove home to Amagansett.

  We had barely left the outskirts of Riverhead when I said, “What about Amy?”

  I’d wanted to free her. But I’d never wanted to free her so that I wouldn’t see her again. I saw that as failure.

  My dad said, “I believe you can count on the judge’s recommendation as virtually an order. I don’t think Amy has anything to worry about on that score.”

  “Except where they’ll put her.”

  “She might have some choice in the matter. I’m not exactly sure of the procedures in foster care.”

  “Dad, you remember when I asked you guys to let Amy live with us?”

  He nodded slowly; and so did my mom.

  “You gave me all those reasons why it wouldn’t work. But those reasons don’t count anymore. You could take her in now. You two could be her foster parents. I could be, like, her brother. Would you think about it? Would you consider it?”

  My mom was in the back seat with me and Simon, but she and my dad locked eyes for a moment by way of the rear-view mirror. I waited. My mouth went totally dry. I could see their eyes flickering at each other. They were having a dialogue and making a decision without words. Finally my dad turned back to me.

  He said, “We’ll consider it, Billy. I don’t know how Amy feels, though. You did end the life of her father. Whatever kind of man he was, he was her father.”

  I knew that, but I still thought it could work. I knew Amy didn’t hate me for what I had done. I had freed her.

  “We’ll consider it,” my dad repeated. “And we’ll let you know as soon as we decide.”

  It didn’t take twenty four hours before my mom came to me, tears in her eyes, and said, “Billy, we want to make you happy. We’ll make the application.”.

  By the end of the week I was back in the lemonade business, and in what seemed to me a remarkably short time the State of New York had separated Amy from her mother and two younger brothers, who took off for Bradenton, Florida in their friend Woody’s van. Ginette still had most of her late husband’s ill-gotten twenty five thousand dollars. I thin
k she and Woody came to a mutually beneficial understanding. Ginette didn’t love Amy. She had stabbed her and could have killed her. She was probably frightened of Amy. She couldn’t control Amy. She could control the boys and she could make a fresh start.

  Amy was placed by CPS to a juvenile facility up island in Ronkonkoma. The facility was an old three-story home with about twenty-five kids living in six-person dormitories under CPS supervision. I telephoned once a day. The kids weren’t locked up, Amy explained. They were fed lots of meat loaf and french fries and gallons of chocolate milk.

  “The other kids are mostly fat freaks,” Amy said.

  I told her about my parents’ decision.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Cool,” she said.

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Why not?”

  I was thrilled. A week later my dad flew to Texas on his new pro bono case. A twenty-year-old guy who hadn’t been smart enough to get past seventh grade had taken his stepfather’s shotgun and blown away a fifteen-year-old neighbor girl because, he said, “She called me bad names.” A Galveston jury had found him guilty, and the state intended to kill him by lethal injection.

  My dad was going to try to prevent that.

  The day he left, my mom came home late from her office. I heard the front door close more softly than usual. She came up to my room, where I was reading a book about Mohammed Ali, one of my heroes. Iphigenia sat on my head, hunting for lice, ever hopeful.

  I could feel the cloud of gloom preceding my mom into the room even before I swiveled round in my chair.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  “Darling, I don’t know how to tell you this…” Her eyes looked like holes burned in paper. “They turned us down. We can’t have Amy.”

  “Mom, don’t joke with me.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Billy.”

  CPS, she said, had called her that morning. My mom abandoned some brokerage negotiation for Modern Age Core Internet and drove right away to the office in East Hampton to see Susan Dury and Lou Fox face to face. To try and make something happen, as she put it. But she couldn’t.