"Yes, your Honor," said Marlene meekly. Inside she seethed: something was wrong, terribly wrong. This should not be happening in a calendar court.
"Move thirty days to prepare motions, your Honor," said Polaner.
"Granted."
"And as a final matter, your Honor, I ask that a reasonable bail be granted in this case. My client has lived in this community all his life. He is a college graduate, gainfully employed in a professional position. He has strong family and neighborhood ties and is additionally the sole support of his widowed mother."
"Your Honor, we strongly object to setting bail in this case," said Marlene with a sinking heart. "We have an overwhelming case on the evidence, and the charge is murder. Both these elements make flight before trial a distinct possibility."
"Yes," said the judge blandly, "but there seems to be some doubt about this so-called evidence. Bail is set at twenty-five thousand dollars." The gavel came down. Polaner turned to his client and shook his hand and clasped him on the shoulder. But Meissner wasn't looking at the lawyer. He was looking over Polaner's shoulder, directly at Marlene. He smiled at her, a confident and mocking smile. He winked.
"Next case," said Judge Nolan.
Marlene gathered up her papers and walked out of the courtroom, feeling as if she were wading in taffy. The press was there in force, people shoving mikes and cameras in her face. She put her head down and no-commented her way to the elevator. Her face seemed larger and hotter than normal. It was a nightmare. The guy walked!
"The guy walked," Marlene wailed as she burst into Karp's office.
"Who did, babe?" asked Karp, alarmed. Marlene's face was blanched and her good eye was wild in its socket.
"Meissner. The fucking judge walked him on twenty-five K, and he made me turn my grand-jury minutes over to him."
"What!"
"Yeah. According to Mr. Motion, the evidence presented at the grand jury, meaning the five rape cases with the panty hose, was prejudicial and irrelevant."
"And the judge bought it? What was he, senile?" Karp asked this not at all facetiously.
Marlene shook her head. "Not so you'd notice. It was Nolan, for God's sake! Oh, and he was all of a sudden concerned about reversible error. Yes, well you may gape-Judge Nolan, who has been reversed so many times he has a gearshift stuck up his ass. Here's a bastard who never walked an accused homicide in his life, and you would think, wouldn't you, that when he finally gets a chance to show it's not just black and PR thugs who get put away, he'd… What's wrong?"
Karp was biting his upper lip and staring at the floor in thought. "Nolan," he said. "It's not the first time he walked one. He did it on Tecumseh Booth too."
Marlene wrinkled her brow in confusion. "What're you talking about? What does Meissner have to do with the drug killings?"
"Nothing, I don't think," answered Karp. "Except for the honorable Nolan. I'm pretty sure that somebody told him to spring Booth. Springing Meissner might have been a freebie."
"But why? On a case like this? It can't make him look good."
"Judges don't have to look good," said Karp. "Besides, he was just protecting our precious civil liberties. We have to look good. Bloom does and I do, assuming…"
"Assuming what?"
"Assuming I'm interested in running for D.A. anytime soon. Meissner is a hot public case. Maybe somebody's sending me a message. Like, lay off Nolan."
"I didn't know you were on Nolan," snapped Marlene, her anger shifting, as it often did, from the issue at hand to the person of her own sweet lover.
"I need to know who put the fix in on Booth," said Karp. "I asked V.T. to look into Nolan's finances, see if maybe there was a connection to Congressman Fane or somebody like him. That was it. Word must have got around."
"Yeah, well, if that happened, it seems to have royally fucked up my case. Christ! What the hell am I gonna tell the women?"
"Tell them we get shafted sometimes but we're not out of the game yet. You'll do a great job responding to Polaner's motions, and meanwhile things could change all around. Also, I'll check out what's going on with my newfound friends in high places."
"OK," said Marlene grumpily, "but anybody who fucks with me on this one is dead meat."
Dick Manning had a small but elegant apartment off West End Avenue in the Eighties. He had decorated it in masculine modern, full of the type featured in Playboy magazine: the furniture covered in pale or dark leather, the lamps of spidery black metal, tables of glass and gilt steel. He had African masks on the walls and some colorful primitive paintings he had picked up for a song on a Haitian vacation, and which were now, he had heard, appreciating nicely in value. His stereo and TV were large and expensive, with immense flattened speakers reaching halfway to the ceiling. One wall was covered with gold-flecked mirror squares; another wall was windows, looking out over the avenue.
Manning sat in a large leather armchair. Fulton was on the Haitian-cotton couch opposite and Amalfi was in a chrome-and-leather sling chair off to one side. It was Fulton's first visit, and he regarded it as a good sign, the only good sign in a period of intense frustration. Six weeks had passed since he had revealed Tecumseh's tape to Manning and Amalfi, weeks devoid of action. All the remaining dope dealers were healthy. Fulton had no play except to sink deeper into his persona as a bad cop. As a result, no cop would talk to him unless he had to. Even the King Cole Trio was giving him furtive, hostile stares and responding to his orders with sullen obedience.
Manning poured Hennessey and orange juice into glasses and handed one to Fulton. Amalfi came over to the coffee table and got his. Manning said, "Drink up, Fulton. You look like you could use it."
"I'm psyched," said Fulton. "Long time, no action."
Manning lifted an eyebrow. "You think there's gonna be action?"
"Yeah. You didn't drag me up here to, ah, solidify our close friendship. So what is it?"
A broad smile spread over Manning's face. "You sharp, Clay. They told me you was a smart mother, and it's true. Ain't it, Sid?"
Amalfi said unenthusiastically, "Yeah, Dick, he's a sharp one, all right."
"Yeah, we do have a little job for you tonight," Manning continued. "You know Nicky Benning?"
"What about him?"
"We're taking him down," said Manning.
Fulton snorted. "Benning? With what army? Fucking guy runs half the dope in Harlem and all of it in the South Bronx. There's fifteen layers of operation between him and the street. Nobody's even seen him on the street for years. How the fuck you gonna get close to Benning?"
"Easy," said Manning. He took a sip from his glass and lit a cigarette, enjoying the pause and the attention it generated. "Brother Benning is in the hospital. Seems his ulcer bust day before yesterday. Must be a tense business running all that skag through town. So he's in a private room at Roosevelt under a phony name. No guards. It's a easy hit."
Fulton said, "How did you find out about it?"
Manning grinned. "I got a little bird, tells me stuff. So-you wanted some action. You in on this, or what?"
"I'm in," said Fulton. "What, you figure I go in alone?"
"Uh-uh, we don't work alone," said Manning. "Sid'll go with you."
"Yeah, OK," said Fulton carefully. "You staying?"
"No, I'll go out with you. I got some business uptown. Lemme get my jacket."
Manning went into the bedroom. Fulton stood up. The mirrored wall dimly reflected the inside of the bedroom. Fulton saw Manning take a pale sport coat and a shoulder holster from a closet. He put on the shoulder holster and took an automatic pistol from a bureau drawer and stuck it in the holster. Then he took a small revolver from the same drawer and, propping his foot up on the bed, placed it in an ankle holster strapped to his right leg. He put his jacket on and checked himself in a long mirror. As he emerged, Fulton turned quickly away from the mirror and noticed Amalfi staring at him. Amalfi looked peaked and gray. There was a twitch in one eye. Fulton had a good idea why he was nervous.