"Judge, that was the Family Court!" yelled the defense attorney, firing his best shot.
It wasn't good enough. The DA. let a dark undertone into her soft voice-it carried to the back of the room. "Surely Your Honor is not ruling that an order of one court is entitled to more respect than the order of another? A defendant who will spit on the lawful order of one court has displayed his true character and his utter disregard for the law. Indeed, if this court grants bail to this defendant, it will be providing him with a motive to flee. He is only charged in this court-he stands all-but-convicted in another. The People respectfully request a remand, not only for the protection of the victim herein, and for the protection of the community at large, but to give the Family Court the opportunity to impose such sentence as it deems appropriate for the violation. If bail is granted, and the defendant flees," and there she paused, holding it for a long count, "the child will certainly be in danger. This court should not provide such an opportunity."
"This is ridiculous, Your Honor," shot back the defense attorney. "Ms. Wolfe cannot know what is in my client's mind!"
"I don't need to, do I?" asked Wolfe. The message was clear.
The judge was caught. He scanned the courtroom quickly, looking for some help. I thought I'd give him some-I whipped out a reporter's notebook and started scribbling away. He looked closely, trying to figure out who I was, or what paper I worked for-and then he decided he couldn't take the chance.
"Defendant is remanded for transportation to the Family Court. If sentence is not imposed by that court, he shall be returned before me for additional bail arguments.
The creep looked wiped out. He looked to his lawyer for reassurance, listened while the lawyer told him he'd go right over to the Family Court, and then got shakily to his feet. The court officers moved to take him into custody, passing right by the court reporter's stand. The court reporter looked up from his machine. His combat-deadened eyes caught those of the freak. Making no effort to keep his voice down, the court reporter gave the officers some advice.
"Don't take away his belt," he said, getting off his stool and walking toward the back before the defense attorney had a chance to protest.
They took the creep away. The defense attorney went over to the D.A.'s table, preparing himself to play Let's Make a Deal.
"Ms. Wolfe?"
"Yes?"
"Ahassume you'll be going to Family Court on this personally?"
"Yes-and right now."
"Well, so am I. Could I give you a ride?"
"No, thank you," she told him in the same calm voice, stuffing papers into her briefcase.
"You've got no win on this one, you know," he told her.
Wolfe stood up, hands on hips, and stared him down. She'd been through this before. "You mean I can't lose this one, don't you, counselor? This is a fifteen-round fight, and your guy has to win every round. You win this trial-he'll do it again, and I'll get another shot. Sooner or later I'll drop him for the count. And when he goes down, he's going down hard."
The defense attorney's mouth opened, but nothing came out. She walked past him to the gate which separates the front of the court from the spectators, nodded to the officer who swung it open for her, and walked toward the exit. Her body swayed gently in the silk dress, and her high heels tapped the floor. I could smell her perfume in the air. A rare jewel, she was-never more beautiful than when she was doing her work. Like Flood.
18
I GOT downstairs before Wolfe did. I knew where she'd be parked, and I waited. The tapping of her heels echoed down the corridor just before she stepped into the sunlight on Baxter Street, behind the courthouse. I didn't want to spook her, so I made sure she had me in her sights before I said anything.
"Ms. Wolfe?"
"Yes," she responded, in exactly the same neutral tone she'd used with the defense attorney.
Now that I had her attention, I didn't know what to say. "I…just wanted to tell you that I admire the way you handled yourself in the courtroom."
"Thank you," she said, dismissing me and turning to go.
I wanted to talk to her again, make some contact with her-let her know we were on the same side-but nothing came out. I don't have many friends in law enforcement.
"Can I walk you to your car?" I asked her.
She gave me a brief flash of her smile. "That won't be necessary-it's only a short distance."
"Well," I shrugged, "this neighborhood…"
"It's not a problem," she said, and I caught the dull sheen of the thick silver band on her left hand. I knew what it was-a twine-cutter's ring, the kind with a hooked razor on the other side. The guys in the twine factories run the string through their hands and just flick the ring against the cord when they want to cut it. You put one of those things against a guy's face and you come away with his nose.
"You think that ring's going to keep the skells away?" I asked her.
She looked at me closely for the first time, seemed to be making up her mind about something.
"I appreciate your concern, Mr…?"
"Burke," I told her.
"Oh, yes. I've heard about you."
"Was it a good reference?"
"Good enough-Toby Ringer said you pull your own weight. And that you helped him on some cases."
"Maybe I could help you."
"I don't think so, Mr. Burke. Toby also said you work the other side of the street too often."
"Not when it comes to freaks," I told her.
"I know," Wolfe said, giving me just the hint of what I knew could be a beautiful smile-for someone else.
"It was me who found that dirtbag you just dropped inside, right? You think the Warrant Squad would've turned him up?"
"No," she admitted, "but this case is finished."
We were slowly walking toward her car-a dull, faded blue Audi sedan. The parking lot was bathed in sunlight, but the watchers were there. A pro wouldn't try to strong-arm anyone in the D.A.'s parking lot, but a junkie would.
"That's my car," Wolfe said, reaching in her pocketbook for the keys. I stepped ahead of her like I was going to hold the door-and a massive dark form shot up from the back seat. Its huge head was a black slab laced with gleaming shark's teeth. A Rottweiler-a good lapdog if you were King Kong. They look as if some mad scientist took a Doberman, injected it with anabolic steroids, and bashed its face in with a sledgehammer. I froze where I was-this was one lady who didn't need an escort.
Wolfe opened the door and the Rottweiler lunged forward. "Bruiser! Down!" she snapped, and the beast reluctantly moved back to let her in. She turned to me over her shoulder. "Mr. Burke, if you ever get a case that I'd be interested in, give me a call, okay?"
It was a dismissal. I bowed to her and the Rottweiler, touched the brim of my hat, and moved back where I belonged. The huge beast pinned me with his killer's eyes out the back window as the Audi moved off.
19
I MADE my way back through the dirty marble corridors of the Criminal Court, thinking my thoughts. Wolfe reminded me of Flood-so did the Rottweiler.
It was late March, but the sun was already blasting the front steps of the court. Maybe a real summer this year, not like the whore's promise we'd been getting for the past weeks-the sun would shine but the cold would be right there too. Only city people really hate the cold. In the city, it gets inside your bones and it freezes your guts. In the country, people sit around their fireplaces and look at the white stuff outside-saying how pretty it is, how clean it looks. The snow is never clean in the city. Here, people die when the Hawk comes down-if the cold doesn't get them, the fires they start to keep warm will.