Maculano reached across the table to offer his guest a selection of olives. “And still, we have this to be grateful for.” He smiled. “Though posterity may not forgive us our failure, we may, at least, take comfort in the certainty it will never remember our names.”
For a moment Sinceri considered the bowl and the words.
At last, the Lord Prosecutor’s expression mellowed. A thin smile came to his lips. “Yes. You’re right, Fra Vincenzo. If it’s not a sin to regard life too seriously, it is nonetheless surely an impediment to its enjoyment.”
He transferred an olive onto his plate, then placed a second beside it.
NIGHT COURT
BY S. J. ROZAN
It had been a hell of a long time since they’d held night court here.
For sure, Murph reflected as he entered the robing room, that was a good sign. It meant things were under control, the crazy times past. And good riddance. Those years had been tough, gangs duking it out block by block here in town, meth labs at the end of every country road, the entire county awash in a chaos of drugs and guns. That rats’ nest took some serious cleaning, some tough talk, and tougher action. But they’d straightened it out. For a while now they’d been living in what Rossi called a Golden Age, an Era of Order and Peace.
Of course, Rossi couldn’t drink coffee without calling it the Elixir of Life, so his characterizations were suspect. Still, no one could deny things were better now. Nor could anyone deny that he, Murph, had had a lot to do with it. He was in charge here, and he’d made that clear as often and as forcefully as he’d had to. He’d instituted new procedures and streamlined existing ones, not afraid to jettison some of the old ways and, when necessary, the old personnel. He’d gotten objections and whining, sure. People had their little fiefdoms. They expected to be able to go on indefinitely doing what worked for them, even if in the larger picture they and their systems were roadblocks, not… what was the opposite of a roadblock? Murph sighed. You’re getting old, kiddo, he told himself, groping for the heavy velvet drapes. He pulled them tight, made sure they overlapped to keep light from leaking out, then flicked the switch.
Why was it, he grumbled as he looked around, that now that things were better, the county peaceful and prosperous, this courthouse was still a dump? You’d think the town fathers would take more pride. All the place needed was a little paint, a few yards of new carpet. God knew, enough of his annual income, and everyone else’s, went straight into the town’s coffers. They should be able to spare a few coins to polish the brass occasionally.
But taking pride, that was always a problem. Me, me, me, everything was self-interest these days. Not that looking out for you and yours was a bad thing. What depressed Murph was how many people couldn’t see that certain things—like taking pride, like hard work, like loyalty—weren’t only abstract virtues, they were part and parcel of self-interest. When everyone benefited, everyone benefited—why was that so hard to understand?
The case they were trying tonight, for example: that’s what it was all about. Another greedy bastard thinking me, me, me.
Murph slid the hangers in the judges’ closet, searching out the smallest robe. Even that one was too big, the way it always had been. He shrugged into it and examined himself in the standing mirror. He had to admit what was looking back was worse than it used to be. His skin was getting looser as he got older, and the chicken neck sticking out of the folds was genuinely comical.
If truth be told, these masses of black cloth, even when they fit, made everyone look like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Of course, for night court they could have dispensed with them. And with the formal reading of the indictment, people standing when he walked in, all that. They could have gone with a level of informality unacceptable in these rooms in daylight. But Murph, who’d been the one to institute night court to begin with back in the crazy days, had understood the need for pomp and tradition. They put the weight of history and the stamp of legitimacy on the proceedings. It wasn’t exactly Shock and Awe, but it worked. From the beginning, the night court juries’ verdicts were accepted as legitimate and Murph’s sentences carried out assiduously and immediately.
Murph sat at the robing-room table and read the paperwork Rossi had given him. Rossi’s fondness for flowery phrases applied, thank God, only to speech. On paper he came through as precise and detailed, and Murph read what he’d provided with appreciation. Murph already knew the general outline of the case. Nothing got this far without his active involvement. Only he, after all, could assign a case to night court. But the indictment laid out the particulars, and the accompanying material included both sides’ witness lists, their evidence, and an outline of their arguments. Rossi was a terrific clerk. Murph knew he dreamed of a judgeship, but he was relieved and grateful that Rossi understood it wasn’t going to happen. Murph had given considerable thought to succession; he couldn’t go on forever. Given the declining rate of night court cases lately, this might even be his last. He had no intention of resigning his position, but as to his presiding here, he wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t occur again.
And, he thought with a crooked smile, I’ve already lasted longer than a lot of people had predicted. But eventually he’d be gone, and the man who stepped into his job would have to be a big thinker, like Murph, not a detail man. He’d have to command respect right from the start, to keep chaos from erupting again.
That, in fact, was the real reason they were holding night court tonight.
Oh, the case was real enough, worthy on its merits. But it could have been dealt with in other ways. It was the men who had come up in the rotation for the prosecution and defense that had made up Murph’s mind to bring this case to trial.
For the prosecution, Cameron. A dedicated man, hardworking and loyal, but lacking in imagination. Actually, he had enough to see himself in Murph’s job, Murph knew that. But not to truly understand what it would mean. It was on Jefferson, who’d be representing the defendant, that Murph’s eye was trained.
And tonight’s was a terrific case, perfect for what Murph needed. Leopold, the weasel in the defendant’s chair, was guilty as sin, in Murph’s personal, and highly informed, opinion. If Jefferson managed to convince the jury there was any doubt and they let Leopold go, Jefferson would come across as a golden-tongued genius. If not, this loss wouldn’t stain his reputation. His willingness to take the case had already impressed people with his sense of fair play.
And as a bonus, both men were quick and efficient. That was vital. Night court, from the beginning, had been limited to three hours, strictly enforced. An hour for each side to present its case and rebut the other guy’s, a half hour for jury deliberations, a half hour for Murph’s bench rulings, the sentence, and general cocking around. They started at one a.m. and were out by four. Inviolable, and they all knew it. It worked, too. Cases were argued, verdicts rendered, and sentences passed and executed well within their time limit. Murph sometimes thought it was a pity the day guys couldn’t be here to take lessons.
Speaking of which, it was one on the nose, and here was Rossi, opening the door.
Murph took his seat on the bench, after which the assembled multitudes, who had been bidden by Rossi to stand, sat also. Not that they were all that multitudinous: night court didn’t allow spectators. The only people here were directly connected with the case. The attorneys, the witnesses, Rossi, the guards, the jury. And the defendant. Murph watched Leopold squirm. The guy looked pale. Well, he ought to. He was in big trouble.
For the next two-plus hours, everyone played their roles with skill and seriousness. Cameron presented the prosecution’s case: the defendant had systematically stolen from, defrauded, and betrayed his employer. Cameron’s lack of imagination served him well. He avoided hyperbole, supporting every allegation with testimony and evidence. Murph approved of this approach. Leopold was such an arrogant, unrepentant schemer, he was almost larger than life already. If Cameron had tried dramatics, the jury might have begun to wonder if
Leopold really could be that blatant, or that stupid.
In fact, that was Jefferson’s defense strategy. In addition to calling Cameron’s case largely hearsay and opinion, he tried to plant doubt in the minds of the jurors as to whether anyone with two brain cells to rub together would have stepped so far outside such clearly defined lines. The guy was a great talker, and Murph saw a frown on a juror every now and then.
But Jefferson lost. Deliberations were short, and Leopold was convicted. Because he was guilty. He was so effing guilty, Murph could have sentenced him two weeks ago when his duplicity and greed came to light, without going through the hassle of night court. But it had been worth it. Jefferson had wowed the jury, the witnesses, the guards. He’d lost because this case was unwinnable, but word would get out. He’d be treated with a new respect, and that had been Murph’s real aim: to raise Jefferson’s profile. So when Murph began to make it clear Jefferson was the heir apparent, opposition, if it existed at all, would be minimal.
Murph thanked the jury, banged the gavel, and passed his sentence. Leopold blanched and started shaking. Murph stifled an irritated sigh. The sentence couldn’t have come as a surprise.
Guards clasped Leopold’s arms and propelled him from the courtroom. His eyes were wild; if it hadn’t been for the gag, he’d be howling for sure. Everyone else could be trusted to keep quiet, but after they’d had such trouble at the first night court, Murph had ordered that the defendants be silenced before sentence was read.
He checked his watch. Three thirty. Not bad at all. He dismissed the jury, thanked the attorneys with a particular nod to Jefferson, and waited for everyone to stand so he could leave the bench and return to the robing room. He shed the black robe, listening to the quiet sounds of the courtroom emptying. The rule was, when court was done, everyone out fast; but he was Murph, so, hanging the robe, he gave himself a moment to reflect on the trial, and all the past trials, his years presiding here in this institution he’d created. He felt a twinge of nostalgia at the thought that he might not be back, and a glow of satisfaction at the thought of his protégé, Jefferson. He left, quickly and silently.
He didn’t check on the guards, who were responsible for carrying out the sentence. They knew their jobs. They’d wait with the prisoner in the alley until everyone was gone. By morning, when the real judges, the real juries—the people who legitimately occupied this courthouse—arrived, Leopold would have been found. This time where in the rotation? That’s right—down by the creek. The headlines would scream about “execution-style” killings. The mayor and the county executive would make fiery statements decrying lawlessness. There’d be a flurry of activity, but it would fade. Lawlessness. Hardly. That’s what had been wrong with this county in the crazy days, before Murph took over the meth labs, the girls, and the gambling. Now citizens could walk the streets without fear of stray bullets, and revenue flowed in an orderly stream. Every now and then a mutt like Leopold thought he saw his main chance, and order had to be reestablished.
In a way everyone would understand.
Night court.
Murph ambled down the dark street, pleased with the peace and quiet of this town.
HARD BLOWS
BY MORLEY SWINGLE
Which one is yours?”
The raspy voice was an unwelcome intrusion. Jack Hogan glanced at the man sitting next to him on the bleachers at Star Power Gymnastics. Jack suppressed his irritation. The guy had no way of knowing he had just interrupted the closing argument Jack was rehearsing in his thoughts for next Thursday’s jury trial. His inquisitor was just one more father of a budding gymnast, trying to make conversation while waiting for his daughter’s practice session to end.
“She’s the one in the bright blue leotard,” Jack said, pointing to Amber.
Jack refrained from posing the reciprocal question requesting the man to identify his own daughter. Jack did not want to participate in an extended conversation. He would barely be able to carve out sufficient minutes between now and next Thursday to adequately prepare for the Porterfield jury trial, a particularly tough rape case certain to boil down to a swearing match between the victim and her rapist. At a key point in his closing argument, Jack was going to recite a list of factors showing that the teenage girl should be believed when she said she did not consent to the sexual intercourse. He had come up with seven good reasons so far. He was hoping to add three more. Ten would pack a more biblical punch for the jury.
As a prosecutor with a heavy caseload, Jack was always in the throes of preparing for one trial or another. He had discovered long ago that if he chose a seat on the bleachers farthest from the gymnasium door, most of the other parents would stay away from him during his daughter’s gymnastics lessons and he could silently practice his opening statements and closing arguments in relative privacy. By necessity, Jack was a master at using his time efficiently.
It had almost worked on this weekday evening. Most of the parents were clustered on the bleachers near the entrance to the cavernous room. Only Jack and the one talkative father sat on this side of the gymnastics academy. A former warehouse, its high ceilings and mat-covered, spacious floor made a serviceable gymnasium.
“She sure knows what she’s doing on that balance beam,” the man said. “She’s impressive.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. He forced himself to refrain from bragging about Amber’s gymnastics talent. She had always been one of the best gymnasts in her age group. She’d been doing perfect round-off cartwheels since she was four years old. She was fearless on the balance beam and the parallel bars. She was naturally graceful on the floor exercise. Jack was proud of her. He enjoyed watching her practice sessions, even if he did use the time to hone his courtroom oratory. He stole a look at the gymnastics instructor, Leesa Beecher, a former national champion. It didn’t hurt that the teacher typically wore a tube top and tight gym shorts during the lessons. She had the best-looking ass he’d ever seen. That’s what twenty years of gymnastics would do for you, he supposed. Since he was happily married, he always tried not to openly gawk. “Happily married” did not mean you did not look. It meant that out of consideration for your wife you tried not to get caught looking.
Jack wondered if Wendy had gotten home yet. After seeing a few patients at the hospital, she had gone to St. Louis for a training seminar for speech pathologists. He looked forward to hearing about her trip. His wife had a knack for turning any episode of her life into an entertaining story. That was one of the things he loved most about her. Maybe the three of them could pick up some Chinese takeout when he and Amber got home from gymnastics.
“What do you do?” the man asked.
Once again, Jack hid his frustration. Apparently a conversation was going to be unavoidable. So much for the closing-argument rehearsal.
“I’m a prosecutor. Jack Hogan, county prosecuting attorney.”
Jack held out his hand. Most likely the guy had heard of him. Jack was frequently in the news.
The man stared at the outstretched hand. For a moment Jack thought he might not shake, but the man eventually clasped his hand. Jack practically winced at the power in the grip.
“Prosecutor, huh?” the man said. “Sounds like an interesting job.”
“It is,” Jack said, examining his hand for broken bones and bruises. “I know it sounds corny, but there’s a lot of job satisfaction in knowing you’re helping make your community a safer place.”
“I’ll bet there is.”
Jack watched Amber as she moved to the parallel bars and began dusting her hands amid a cloud of chalk. The lithe twelve-year-old girl moved with the grace of a seasoned athlete. It gave him tremendous pleasure and pride just to watch his only daughter walk across the mat. It would be interesting to see which sports she chose to play in high school. Unlike her father, she was good at them all. So far, gymnastics was her true love.
“Do you ever worry you might send an innocent man to jail?”
Jack glanced at the man, so determined
to engage in chitchat. Alert gray eyes were staring at him a bit too directly. Did he detect a hint of insolence in the tone of voice? Jack was not sure. The man’s face was strong-jawed and clean-shaven. The iron-gray hair was longish, hanging over the ears but not touching the shoulders. The man was slender, but his muscle-bound torso rippled with power. He wore a skin-tight black Grateful Dead T-shirt, stiff new blue jeans, and a red St. Louis Cardinals warm-up jacket. He had the look of an aging bodybuilder.
“A prosecutor has an ethical duty not to prosecute an innocent man,” Jack said. “I teach my assistant prosecutors to dismiss a case if they develop a reasonable doubt about a defendant’s guilt. Better to dismiss it than risk the chance that an innocent man might be convicted.”
The man raised his eyebrows.
“Well, I sure didn’t know prosecutors thought that way. I assumed you all just collected scalps and sought convictions at any cost.”
“Real life isn’t like it’s portrayed on TV,” Jack said. “In fact, most prosecutors take to heart the famous quote from Justice George Sutherland that the prosecutor should strike hard blows but fair ones. Our duty is not simply to convict but to achieve justice.”
Jack had quoted the line so many times it came out of his mouth like a speech. He debated whether to elaborate by discussing the equally famous comment of Justice Robert Jackson that the prosecutor had more control over life, liberty, and reputation than any other person in America. By simply filing a charge, a prosecutor could destroy the reputation of any member of his community. If Jack mentioned the quote, though, it might sound like he was bragging about the importance of his job. On the other hand, if he took the time to fully explain his deep sense of responsibility to make sure he did the right thing in every case, his conversation with this man might last a very long time. The gymnastics lesson was only half over. A full hour still remained. He really did not want to spend the entire time talking with this guy. If he could somehow extricate himself from the conversation, he might still be able to hammer out a few more kinks in the Porterfield closing argument. The trial was going to be upon him before he knew it.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests Page 31
