"One, same as every morning. You new here?"
"I guess so. Where is Judge Rosen's courtroom?" He told me and added, "She's a bitch on bail, especially for wiseguy types."
So, with that encouraging news, I walked quickly but with no outward signs of the anxiety that was growing inside me to the door of the courtroom marked JUDGE SARAH ROSEN and opened it.
Indeed, the court was in session, and two marshals eyed me as I entered. Sitting in the benches where spectators normally sit at a trial were about thirty people, mostly men, and almost all, I suspected, were defence attorneys, though there might be some arresting officers as well, and perhaps a few defendants who were deemed not dangerous and thus were uncuffed. I looked for my client's blue suit and for Mancuso's distinctive pate among the heads and shoulders but did not see either. There was an arraignment in progress. A defendant and his attorney stood in front of Judge Sarah Rosen. To the right of the defendant was a young assistant U.S. Attorney, a woman of about twenty-five. She was in profile, and for some reason, she reminded me of my daughter, Carolyn. The courtroom was quiet, yet everyone up front was speaking so softly that I could catch only a word or two. The only thing I heard clearly was the defendant, a middle-aged, well-dressed man, say, "Not guilty," as if he meant it and believed it.
The criminal justice system in America is basically an eighteenth-century morality play that the actors try to adapt to twentieth-century society. The whole concept of arraignments, for instance, the public reading of the charges, the haggling over bail in open court, is somewhat archaic, I think. But I suppose it's better than other systems where justice is done in dark, private places.
One of the marshals was motioning me to sit down, so I sat. The arraignment in progress was finished, and the defendant was led away in cuffs, bail denied. Not good. The court officer called out the next case. "Johnson, Nigel!" Presently, a tall, thin black man wearing a white suit and dreadlocks was escorted into the courtroom through the side door, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had been. An attorney rose and made his way toward the judge's bench. If I had to guess, I'd say the gentleman standing before Judge Rosen was a Jamaican and the charge probably had something to do with drug trafficking or illegal immigration or both. The arraignment could take as long as fifteen minutes if there was an argument over bail. Meanwhile, Ferragamo could have pulled a really neat trick, and my client could be standing in front of another judge in Brooklyn Federal Court, offering his Rolex watch for bail. The courtroom was cool, but I was still sweating. Think, Sutter.
As I thought, I was aware that the door behind me had opened a few times, and I noticed that men and women were making their way to the front of the court and finding seats. I also noticed two men and one woman in the otherwise empty jury box. They were sketch artists, which I thought was unusual at an arraignment. Sitting a few feet to my left was an attorney doing some paperwork on his briefcase. I leaned toward him and asked, "Have you been here long?" He looked over at me. "Since nine."
"Have you heard Frank Bellarosa's case called?"
He shook his head. "No. Is he going to be arraigned here?" "I don't know. I'm representing him, but I'm not familiar with the Federal Courts. How would I find -" "Quiet in the court!" bellowed the fat marshal, who probably saw me rather than heard me. These guys are power freaks, all full of themselves with their guns and badges and potbellies. I recalled that Mark Twain once observed, "If you want to see the dregs of humanity, go down to the jail and watch the changing of the guard." I wish Uncle Walt had said that. Anyway, I settled back and considered my options.
The arraignment of the tall fellow had begun, and indeed it was a drug charge.
The U.S. Attorney, the defence attorney, and Judge Rosen were conferring. Apparently, the defence attorney wasn't getting his point across, because the judge was shaking her head and the U.S. Attorney, still in profile, seemed smug, and the defendant was staring at his feet. Presently, a guard came, and the defendant became the prisoner again. She's a bitch on bail. Yes, indeed. If, in fact, Frank Bellarosa came before her, I could think of no reason in the world why she would set bail for him on a murder charge.
The longer I sat there, the more convinced I became that this whole thing had been stacked against me from the beginning. I was sure that my client was in Federal Court in Brooklyn right now. I could ask for a bail hearing, take an appeal, get a writ of habeas corpus, and try to get him sprung sometime in the near future. But that's not what I was getting paid for, nor what he wanted. I got up, took my briefcase, and left.
I went to the holding cells located in a far corner of the third floor and checked with the U.S. Marshal who was in charge of the cells. But my client had disappeared as surely as if he had been swallowed into the Gulag. I went to the public phone booths and called both my offices, but there was no message from my client. So, I sat there, contemplating my next move. Just then, the deputy marshal that I'd spoken to regarding the arraignments came up to me. He said, "Oh, I'm glad I found you, Counsellor. Your guy, Bellarosa, is going to be arraigned at Brooklyn Federal Court."
I stood up. "Are you sure?"
That's what I hear from my boss. Too bad. I wanted to see him." "I'll get you his autograph," I said as I raced toward the elevators. I rode down to the lobby, rushed out the doors, down the steps, and hailed a cab in Foley Square. I could be across the Brooklyn Bridge and in Federal Court in about twenty minutes. A taxi stopped and I opened the door, but as I was getting in, I happened to notice an NBC news van. Then it hit me. That group of people who had walked into the courtroom, and the three sketch artists in the jury box. "Damn it!" I left the taxi door open and raced back toward the courthouse. That bastard! That bastard Ferragamo! What a conniving son of a bitch!" I took a deep breath and charged back up the steps – there were forty-six of them, and the five million dollars was getting heavier.
I passed through the metal detector again, smiled at Wyatt Earp, who gave me a surprised look as I walked in long strides toward the elevators. I watched Earp out of the corner of my eye until an elevator came. I got in and rode up to the third floor.
I went directly to Part One and pulled open the door to Judge Rosen's courtroom in time to hear the court officer bellow, "Bellarosa, Frank!" A murmur went up from the crowd, as they say, and people actually began to stand, then a few people moved into the aisle to get a better view, and I found myself pushing to get through.
The courtroom deputy was shouting, "Order in the court! Sit down! Sit down!" Through the crowd, I caught a glimpse of Bellarosa as he was escorted in through the side door.
As I made my way to the front, the courtroom deputy called out, "Is the attorney for Frank Bellarosa present?"
I reached the spectator rail and said, "Here!"
Bellarosa turned to me but did not smile, though he nodded to show he appreciated my resourcefulness in figuring out what had happened that morning. I actually felt very proud of myself despite the fact that what I was doing was not serving humanity or Western civilization in the least. I passed through the gate in the spectator rail and put the briefcase on the defence table. I glanced at Judge Rosen, who registered no surprise that I was there, and I deduced that she was not part of the set-up. But the Assistant U.S. Attorney seemed rather surprised, and she couldn't hide it. She looked around the courtroom as if she expected someone to come to her assistance. Judge Rosen said to me, "Counsellor, have you entered your appearance in court?"
"No, Your Honour. I just now arrived."
She looked at me, and I could tell she had seen me earlier. She shrugged. "Your name?"
"John Sutter."
"Let the record show that the defendant is represented by counsel." Judge Rosen then advised Frank Bellarosa of his right to remain silent and so forth. "Do you understand?" she asked him in a tone of voice that suggested she was unimpressed by his notoriety.