There wasn’t any small talk or introductions. Neither Armstrong nor Gadd sat down.
It was obvious to Michael what was coming, although he had, up until that moment, held out some delusional hope that he would ultimately walk away.
Armstrong placed a black digital recorder on the table and pressed the button on its side. Numbers appeared on the recorder’s small gray screen, counting the seconds.
“Michael Collins, I am now serving you with an indictment and placing you under arrest,” Armstrong handed a small stack of papers to Michael.
Michael closed his eyes.
He let the words wash over him as he pictured himself back at Hut No. 7, a paperback in one hand and a Corona in the other.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Armstrong continued with the speech. He knew that Michael knew his rights and did not need the recitation, but it was required. It was part of the dance. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You also have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”
Agent Armstrong paused. “Mr. Collins, do you understand these rights?”
Michael opened his eyes and nodded his head. “I do.”
“Would you like to waive your right to be silent and speak to us today?”
Michael looked at Quentin, and then looked back at Agent Armstrong. “No, I do not.” Michael attempted to muster a brave voice.
“As you know, I have an attorney and invoke my right to silence and to an attorney.”
Agent Armstrong nodded.
“Very well.” He looked at Brenda Gadd. It was as they both had expected.
Agent Armstrong then picked the digital recorder off of the conference room table and turned it off. The numbers that had been counting the length of the recording stopped, frozen.
Armstrong put the device in his pocket and asked Michael to stand up.
After Michael pushed his chair away from the table and stood, Armstrong put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. Armstrong gently turned Michael around.
“Please place your hands behind your back.”
A cold chill ran up Michael’s spine. A sickness settled over him as he complied with the request.
“Are the handcuffs really necessary?” Quentin asked, but his question was ignored.
Agent Armstrong tightened the cuffs. He led Michael out of the conference room and down the hallway. In the distance, Michael saw a freight elevator next to an emergency exit. That was where they were headed.
Quentin started to follow behind, but Gadd told him that he couldn’t.
“You can meet Mr. Collins at the federal courthouse where he’ll make his first appearance,” she said.
Gadd pointed in the direction of the reception desk.
“I’ll see you out to the front door. It’s sort of a maze in here.”
Silently, Michael and Armstrong continued by themselves. They walked down the hallway until they reached the elevator. They stopped and Agent Armstrong pressed the button. Behind the heavy elevator doors, its mechanicals hummed.
“This is a beautiful sight.”
Michael didn’t turn around. He knew who it was, and he wasn’t going to take the bait.
“Come on,” Vatch said. “Cat got your tongue? I wanted to take a moment to reminisce about all the good times we —”
Agent Armstrong interrupted. “I think Ms. Gadd was clear that I’m handling the transport.”
“Hear that, Mr. Collins?” Vatch hissed. “Looks like you might’ve made a friend.”
“I think that’s enough.” Armstrong pressed the elevator button, again, hoping that it would arrive a little faster. A second passed that seemed like an eternity, and then the elevator bell rang.
“I’d watch your back, Armstrong,” Vatch said as the elevator door opened. “You’re playing out of your league, here.”
Armstrong and Collins went inside the elevator. Armstrong pressed the button for the basement, and the doors started to close. Michael thought that would be the end, but Vatch couldn’t resist one more shot.
“And Collins,” Vatch’s voice rose. “I correct myself. Armstrong’s not your friend. You haven’t got any friends anymore.” His tongue flicked. “Remember that while you sit in jail. I give your girlfriend two days before she flips.”
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Michael sat in the basement holding cell of the federal courthouse, imagining a different life. He could have continued at Wabash, Kramer and Moore. He could have made partner. He could have married a woman that was content to live in a big house, take care of a few kids, and spend his money while he was working seventy or eighty hours a week. In other words, he could have been just like the thousands of other depressed, unhealthy, workaholic lawyers who populate the outer-ring suburbs of every major metropolitan area in the country.
That could have been his life, Michael thought, could have been.
For the first time, Michael actually wanted to be a schlub. It sounded nice, driving into the office at five in the morning to avoid traffic and avoid any interaction with the family and their problems. It seemed to be a far better alternative to his current surroundings.
Michael looked around the dark room. It was gray cinderblock. Metal benches were bolted to the floor around the perimeter. Large fluorescent lights hung down from the ceiling, but still too high to reach.
There were about twenty people waiting to be processed. Michael stood off to the side. Nobody in the room talked. They just stared at a large, flat-screen monitor bolted on the wall. The screen had the time, date, and a list of three names. It dictated who needed to be transported up to the courtroom and in what order.
Michael watched as three names disappeared, replaced by three new names. A half-hour passed, and the names changed again. This time, he was on the bottom of the list. It was his turn.
He walked to a white line painted on the floor underneath the monitor. Since he was the last name on the list, Michael lined up behind two other men in custody. The elevator doors opened, and the man at the front of the line was led inside. The doors slid shut, and he disappeared.
Five minutes later, the elevator returned. The second man was led inside and disappeared up the shaft.
Eventually it was Michael’s turn.
The elevator doors opened. Michael stepped inside the polished metal box, and the U.S. Marshal instructed Michael to stand with his back against the wall. Then the U.S. Marshal turned a key and pressed a button.
The doors closed.
As the elevator moved upward, Michael saw his reflection in the stainless steel. He almost didn’t recognize himself. Wearing an orange jumpsuit and his hands cuffed behind his back, Michael stared at the image. He was different now. He looked like a criminal.
###
A door opened. Michael was escorted out of the small, back holding room on the tenth floor and into the courtroom. The benches in the back were full. Michael scanned the room for Andie’s face. She had to be here, thought Michael, starting to panic when he didn’t see her.
He walked toward Quentin and stopped, still scanning the crowd.
“Mr. Collins,” The judge coughed. “The important stuff is happening up here.”
Quentin put his hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“You have to look at the judge, Michael.”
Michael nodded, and, as he turned, Michael saw Andie and Kermit in the far back corner of the room. The sight of them made Michael feel better, although he didn’t know why.
“May we now note our appearances for the record?” The magistrate judge leaned forward, writing down the names of the various attorneys as they introduced themselves. Writing down the names was simply a habit. It served no discernible purpose. All of the appearances would be recorded by the court reporter, and they were also simultaneously entered into the court’s computer system by a court clerk. But it made the judge feel like he was in control, so writing the names down was just something that he did.
&nb
sp; The magistrate judge wasn’t going to handle Michael’s case. The trial would be assigned to a Federal District Court Judge. The magistrate, one step lower in the judicial hierarchy, was simply processing the initial appearances and hearing preliminary arguments.
“Have you received a copy of the complaint and indictment?” The judge peered at Quentin over a pair of thick glasses that rested on the tip of his nose. The glasses looked like they were purchased in 1978. They were so out of style that they were now back in style.
“We have, Your Honor.” Quentin handed Michael a packet of paper. “Let the record reflect that I’ve handed my client another copy of the complaint and the indictment, and we waive a formal reading of the complaint and charges.”
The judge nodded. Nobody ever asked the court to read the complaint in its entirety and on the record. In fact, if a defense attorney did, their client would pay dearly for wasting the judge’s time.
“Very well.” The magistrate judge turned to the prosecutor. “As for release pending trial?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” United States Attorney Brenda Gadd stood. Usually these preliminary hearings were handled by a fairly low-level Assistant United States Attorney, but Michael Collins was a priority. Brenda Gadd wanted the judge to know that this was not an ordinary case, and so she came to the hearing herself.
“We believe that Mr. Collins is a flight risk.” Brenda Gadd looked over at Michael Collins. Her eyes narrowed, making it clear that she had no empathy for him, and then she looked back at the judge.
Once upon a time, she was considering a run for the United States Senate. Her arrest and prosecution of Michael Collins nearly five years ago was going to show how tough she was on white-collar criminals, especially lawyers (who very few voters held in high esteem). But Michael Collins had evaded arrest and prosecution. Her nascent dreams of being Senator Brenda Gadd faded away. She’d never forgiven him, and perhaps she was also looking for a political comeback.
“He has no permanent residence in New York. He has no family that we are aware of, and he has been living abroad for several years. Therefore, we’re asking that this hearing be continued for three days to allow for the defendant to be interviewed by pre-trial services and evaluated.”
The magistrate judge laughed, leaning back in his seat.
“Evaluated? You’ve been investigating this case for years, what’s left to evaluate?”
Gadd was used to the give and take, and the judge’s sarcasm didn’t rattle her.
“I think it’s appropriate.” Gadd paused and looked down, as if carefully considering the judge’s concern. “Of course, we have a lot of information regarding Defendant Collins, but the ordinary procedure is to go through a pre-trial services interview.”
A pre-trial services interview would also give her a little free discovery, an opportunity to probe into Michael’s life.
The judge turned to Quentin. “Mr. Robinson?”
Quentin looked at Michael, not quite sure how to read the magistrate judge’s mood. He then looked at the judge. He said, “I’d also like a little more time to prepare for the argument as well, Your Honor. Mr. Collins does have a house that he is renting in New York and he turned himself in. That shows stability and a willingness to appear at all court hearings, which will be verified and assuage any concerns that the court may have about my client.”
“Very well.” The judge turned to the clerk. “Set a hearing for three days. The defendant shall cooperate with the PTI.”
The judge wrote the information down on his notepad. The hearing was over within minutes. Paper shuffled.
Brenda Gadd gathered her things and left. Michael stood still as Quentin put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. Quentin whispered something in Michael’s ear, but Michael was in a fog.
His first court appearance was over. There was no drama. There were no surprises. He was just another widget being processed through the law factory.
Michael bowed his head, and started walking back to the transport elevator.
Reality came.
He wasn’t going home this time, Michael thought, he was going to spend his first night in jail.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
It was a shock to see him. The crowd raged when Michael Collins had emerged from the side door of the courtroom. It took everything for Brent Krane to sit still. He wanted to scream out. He wanted to run down the aisle. He wanted to attack.
When the hearing finally ended and Michael Collins was led back into custody, Brent remained seated. He sat motionless, staring at the ground.
When Michael Collins had not shown up at the funeral, Brent Krane rode high. Collins’ absence was confirmation that he was dead. He chided the crowd for its lack of faith.
Now the new information swirled, kicking the crowd into a frenzy.
“Let’s go.” Tad Garvin tapped Brent Krane on the shoulder. “I want to catch Brenda Gadd before she leaves.”
Brent Krane looked up. Garvin and his sister stood above him. Brea gave him a look of pity, and then they both turned and walked toward the exit.
Brent Krane waited a second, then followed.
In the hallway, Garvin gestured at the U.S. Attorney.
“Ms. Gadd, a moment?” Garvin’s voice was authoritative. He took a half-dozen quick steps to close the distance.
The United States Attorney lowered her shoulders at the sound of Garvin’s voice. It was bad enough that she had been forced to handle an initial criminal hearing, now she had to help an overpriced attorney pad his legal bill.
“Yes,” Gadd turned, forcing a smile. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Garvin extended his soft, manicured hand. The two shook, and then Garvin gestured to his clients. “As you know, this is Brea Krane and back there is her brother Brent. The victim’s children.”
“Yes,” Gadd nodded. She had a difficult time considering Joshua Krane a victim. Krane was a thief that was killed and then robbed by another thief. Cops often called such situations a “two-fer,” as in getting two crooks for the price of one.
“Thank you for coming to the hearing today,” Gadd checked her watch, suggesting that she was late for a meeting. “It will be especially important for you to be at the trial,” she said to Brea Krane. “The judge and the jury need to see you and know you.”
“About that,” Garvin interrupted. “I was a little surprised that you didn’t ask for Michael Collins to be held today without further evaluation. I have to admit that I agreed with the judge. You’ve had plenty of time. In private practice, a client would be furious about the delays.” Arrogance oozed from Garvin. “I didn’t see any reason for a pre-trial investigation. It’s obvious that he should be held. And we’re just wasting resources by having him submit to some questionnaire —”
Gadd held out her hand. She had to be polite, but she didn’t need to be second-guessed by a rich lawyer who had never gone to trial in his life.
“It’s standard procedure.”
“I know,” Garvin said, even though he knew very little about criminal law. His expertise focused more on wealthy people buying and selling things from other wealthy people, and then suing when things went bad. “But it seems like this case is not very standard. It’s a very important case to me and my client.”
Gadd didn’t raise her voice, but she was the United States Attorney for New York and she was done. The conversation was over.
“I agree that this case is important, which is why I handled this hearing myself instead of sending a deputy or an assistant to court.” Gadd paused, but it was clear that she did not want anybody to respond. “The pre-trial assessment will give me some free discovery about Michael Collins, box him into a narrative early in the case, and eliminate issues for appeal. A pre-trial investigation will illustrate to any appellate court that this magistrate judge’s decision to hold Collins was not arbitrary and capricious, which, as you know, Mr. Garvin, is the standard of review.”
The dig sent Garvin a message and he backed down.
“Very well. We’ll see you at the next —”
Brent Krane interrupted. “Where’s he staying?”
Brea shot her brother a look of concern. She stepped forward, between her brother and Brenda Gadd.
“Thank you,” Brea extended her hand to Gadd, ending the hallway conversation and preventing her brother from saying anything further.
“No,” Brent said. “We’re not done.” He tried to move around his sister. The crowd encouraged him to keep pushing. “Is that true? He’s rented a house in New York. Did you know that? Nobody had said anything about a house. Where is it? Where is he staying? I’m supposed to be kept informed. That’s what you promised us.”
Gadd, somewhat startled by the new interrogation, took Brea’s hand and shook it, and decided to simply ignore Brea’s brother.
“It was a pleasure seeing you again. All of the information about Mr. Collins should be available in the PTI report. I’ll make sure Mr. Garvin receives a copy.”
Gadd turned and walked away.
Brent started to protest, but Brea pulled him aside.
“You need to shut up.”
“Get your hands off me,” Brent pushed away from her.
“I told you to cool it,” Brea looked back down the hallway.
“I just want to know.”
“Why?” Brea lowered her voice and continued in a whisper. “So you can light it on fire?”
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
The chubby prison bureaucrat placed a small white card in front of Michael.
“This is your number.” She pointed at the number printed on the card. “It will be your number for as long as you are in the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons. It’s critical that your attorney, family and friends have this number and include this number on all correspondence to you.”
Michael adjusted himself, trying to find a comfortable position.
The chair, however, was not built for comfort. The chair was manufactured to be indestructible.
Michael tried a different position, and noticed that the table as well as all of the other furniture in the Metropolitan Detention Center’s intake room appeared to be designed by Soviet utilitarians.
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