But the zero was what counted. Louis would be up for parole immediately. In most cases with a zero-to-twelve sentence, the Parole Board would insist on at least a year in prison, but here was a man who had “served” two years in Matteawan. With Sussman’s help, the Parole Board might quickly dispose of Louis’s case. It was, after all, under considerable pressure to relieve the monstrous overcrowding of Attica. He could be out walking in a matter of weeks. The board had its own numbers game.
Pennberry was uncomfortable, not so much about Louis walking but about how the twelve-year max would look. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
“Judge, this man is charged with two common law intentional murders, two felony murders and armed robbery. I think the minimum acceptable plea is zip to fifteen.”
Sussman returned to the defendant’s table and spoke softly to Louis: “Well, Mister Louis?”
Louis glanced over at Pennberry, who was nervously fiddling with his bow tie. “No. Stick with the twelve. I don’t want a fifteen-year sentence confusing the parole board.”
Sussman spoke from the table. “Your Honor, in light of the fact that the defendant has spent over two years in a mental institution, we still think that zero to twelve is a reasonable sentence.”
Stein did not like the way this was going. He looked at the wall clock. He was falling behind schedule. He frowned at Pennberry and asked both counsels to approach the bench.
“Dean, let’s be reasonable. This is a stale case, one, and two, this is what we usually give to cases of this type, Matteawan returnees. I mean, face it, what else can you do? There’s no way you’re going to get a conviction on a two-year-old case. Now go back and take another look at the file and see if we can’t get a disposal on this right now.” He flashed a false and paternal smile and winked at Sussman.
Pennberry trotted back to his table. He glanced at the defendant, who looked like a clerk or a schoolteacher. Pennberry thumbed through the file. He was starting to sweat. Every eye in the courtroom was on him; this was a lot worse than being called on to answer a question in law school. The file was a blur.
Then salvation swam up to him in big red letters. He cleared his throat and said in a loud voice, “Your Honor, I see here that I am instructed to accept no lesser plea than Murder One.”
“What!” said Stein. “Where does it say that? Who instructed you?”
“Ah, Judge, that would be Mister Karp, of the Homicide Bureau.”
Pennberry shrugged and tried a nervous smile. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. There’s nothing I can do. It’s Karp’s case.”
Stein glanced again at the wall clock. “Get Karp down here. Now!” he snapped to his clerk.
Sussman went back to Louis and explained what was going on.
Louis had forgotten who Karp was. Sussman reminded him.
“Oh, him. The big muthafucka.”
“Yes, him,” said Sussman, wondering how long this endless and quite unpleasant case was going to drag on. “I think we may have a little problem, Mister Louis.”
Karp took the call in his office, and was standing in Part 30 three minutes later. Stein gave Karp a long, sour look. “Mr. Karp, we are trying to reach a fair and equitable disposition here. The defense has agreed to plead guilty, but we seem to have run into some problems.”
“What problems, Judge? A plea of guilty to Murder One is perfectly acceptable to the People,” said Karp mildly.
“The plea is to Man One, Mister Karp, with zero to twelve.”
“Oh. Well that plea is totally unacceptable to the People.”
Karp smiled. Stein glared. “Mister Karp, will you approach the bench?”
Karp didn’t move. “Your Honor, everything can be kept on the record.”
Stein turned his glare on the stenographer. “Karp, you’re obstructing the orderly progress of this court. What is this goddamn crap about no lesser plea?” The stenographer’s flashing fingers halted. There was more than one way of keeping things off the record.
Karp was unperturbed. “It’s simple, Your Honor. We are ready to try this case, unless the defendant wants to take a murder plea.” Murder was the one exception to the Max-out Rule. By statute, fifteen years was the absolute minimum time a convicted murderer had to serve in prison. The Parole Board liked to add another five to the fifteen, to show it was on the job, which meant that pleading guilty to murder meant at least twenty years in Attica.
Sussman explained this to Louis, not without some satisfaction. “Mister Louis,” he whispered, “your current strategy seems to be in ruins. Go to trial. You can beat this in court. Can I change your plea to ‘not guilty’?” Louis shook his head and said nothing, but began toying with the zipper of his jumpsuit.
Stein said, “Mister Karp, I’m sure we all appreciate your diligence, but surely you’re aware that this is a two-year-old case. You still have evidence and witnesses?”
“The People are ready, Your Honor. All we need is a two-week adjournment to prepare for trial. And that’s what we intend to do, unless the defendant is ready to plead guilty to the top count of the indictment.” He turned and looked at Louis: “Murder One.”
Louis’s response to this was to stand up, pull down his zipper, and urinate onto the neatly stacked papers covering the defendant’s table. “Aiiiie! They’re after me! They’re after me!” he shrieked in a loud falsetto voice.
He then climbed up on the table and began stripping off his jumpsuit. Two guards leaped forward to control him, trying to avoid the stream of urine that sprayed in all directions. Sussman jumped backward in panic, but not before a row of dark stains was drawn like a sash across his immaculate pearl-gray suit coat.
The guards at last pinned Louis facedown on the table and cuffed his hands behind his back. His body was still thrashing about, arched backward like a bow. His face was contorted, mouth open and drooling ropes of saliva, eyes rolled up into his head, showing only yellowish whites. Karp noticed again that Louis had somehow removed his glasses before throwing his fit.
Stein was pounding his gavel. The packed courtroom was in pandemonium, the spectators and the eternal waiters on justice delighted with this amusing break in their mortal boredom. Somebody yelled, “Shit, boy, if you hadna run out of piss, you coulda got away.”
Finally, Stein was able to stop gaveling. Louis’s heavy breathing could be heard above the shuffling and coughing of the crowd. “Get that man out of here,” Stein told the guards and they picked Louis up by his shoulders and ankles and began to carry him across the well of the court to the holding-pen door.
As they carried him past Karp, he said, “Hey, Louis, take care of those eyeglasses, now.” For an instant, Karp thought he saw Louis’s eyes snap down and focus on Karp’s own. Karp grinned. The eyes disappeared, and in half a minute, so did Louis.
“Mister Sussman, I am remanding your client to Bellevue Hospital, for observation,” said Judge Stein. “Next case.”
Karp strolled over to Pennberry and patted his shoulder.
“Thanks for keeping awake, kid. I know it’s hard.”
“That’s all right, Mister Karp, ah … Butch. Thanks,” said Pennberry, feeling for the first time like Mr. District Attorney.
Sussman was gathering his papers, dabbing at the damp ones with a wad of tissues. As Karp walked by him he said, “Your client’s quite the pisser, hey, Mister Sussman. So to speak.”
Sussman looked up bleakly. “It’s a dirty business, Mister Karp.”
“It is that, Mister Sussman. It is that,” said Karp.
“Mister Karp, if you have no more business in this courtroom, I will ask you to leave forthwith,” said Judge Stein from the bench.
“Your Honor, my business is concluded,” said Karp, and trotted up the center aisle.
“Sonny? Butch. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, especially now, but … ah … we got to talk.”