“Who from? The press?” Melanie asked, resisting a powerful urge to turn and look over her shoulder. The whole thing about knowing when you were being watched was a complete myth. Whenever she’d been watched-and it had happened in other cases-she’d never had a clue until way too late.
“Mostly press,” he was saying. “But a couple of guys I didn’t like the looks of, too. Came in claiming to be friends of the victims. Looked like bad news to me. I pointed ’em out to the marshals just in case. Anyways, I don’t see ’em now,” he said, eyes scanning the spectator benches.
“Can you describe them?” Melanie asked.
“Real bruiser types. One black, the other white with a scar from a bullet aquí en la cara,” he said, touching his finger to his cheek. “They asked if we had anything come in on the schoolgirls case. I didn’t tell ’em a thing.”
Melanie felt a prickling sensation run down the back of her neck. She tried to tell herself it was because the courtroom was drafty, but she didn’t believe herself. Why would two thugs be looking into this? Esposito, maybe?
“They sound familiar?” Gabriel asked, eyeing her with concern.
“Not really, no. But let me know if you see them again, okay?”
“Sure. Meanwhile, be careful. Watch out if you go to the little girls’ room.”
“Don’t worry about me, Gabe. I can take care of myself.”
Nooo problem. She could take on a couple of huge, hulking bruisers. Melanie wiped her suddenly sweaty palms against her skirt, feeling slightly ill. She gathered up her papers, now stamped with docket numbers, and turned away. But after collecting her thoughts for a second, she turned back. If these goons were still here somewhere watching, they would see Trevor Leonard get arraigned. Think about someone other than yourself, she told herself. Melanie had plans for Trevor. He’d make a great informant in an investigation against Esposito. Arraigning him in open court would blow that possibility sky high. Not to mention that he seemed like a decent kid, and she would never want any harm to come to him.
“Any chance the judge would entertain a motion to close the courtroom?” Melanie asked, already knowing the answer.
“From the government? Get over yourself, mami! There’s gotta be a hundred people in here we’d have to clear. Besides, you know how the judge feels about Big Brother stomping on the public’s right to know.”
She knew how the left-wing Judge Warner felt about the government, was what she knew. Deny the prosecution’s every request, even if it meant getting a witness killed.
“At least take the arraignment in chambers instead of in open court?” Melanie wheedled.
“Not a chance.” Gabriel shook his head firmly but then stopped after seeing the stricken expression on Melanie’s face. “Why? You got a cooperator?” he asked.
“Possibly.”
“He been threatened?” Gabriel asked.
“Not yet, but he probably will be. And he’s young. I’m not sure he can handle himself.”
“The judge likes to see evidence of actual threat on the defendant’s life before he takes anything in camera,” Gabriel said.
“That’s not required by the statute.”
“The statute is interpreted differently in this courtroom. The judge has his own rules. You know that.”
“You can’t always produce evidence of a threat, Gabe, even when it’s real and the witness is at risk. You know that,” she said.
Gabriel was Dominican, from the Bronx. He knew how the streets worked. “Yeah, okay, I know.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. “It might be different if the motion came from the defense.”
“Who’s on duty from Legal Aid today?” she asked.
“Ah, what am I saying? No good. It’s Stewart Steinberg.”
“Shit. That totally sucks.”
Stewart Steinberg was a short, stocky defense lawyer-slash-ideologue-slash-prima donna, a sixties throwback, intimate of Kunstler and Kuby, who hated prosecutors on principle. He argued every point to his last wheezing breath no matter how counterproductive for his client. People he represented refused to cooperate and turned down sweet plea bargains, mesmerized by his angry rhetoric, never realizing what a disservice their lawyer had done them. It was said that Stewart Steinberg got more people locked up for longer time than the FBI and NYPD put together.
“Not your day, huh, mami?” Gabriel said.
“Well, with Stewart representing him, at least I don’t need to worry about death threats. The kid’ll never cooperate,” she said bitterly.
“You know, it pains me to see a beautiful woman look so unhappy. You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles, and that would be a tragedy. So papi’s gonna take care of you.”
Gabriel picked up his phone and dialed Legal Aid.
“Yeah, Sandra?…Gabriel from Judge Warner’s chambers. How you doing, mami?…Sure, I’d be into that, especially the part about the cute chicks. You send me the invitation in the interoffice, okay?…Listen, I got a little problem. A new case came in. Stewart Steinberg’s up, but he’s nowhere to be found. Is he there?…Yeah, I’ll hold.” He covered the receiver with his hand, smiling at Melanie with sparkly white teeth. “Don’t worry. Fat Stewie went over to the mob diner for his afternoon snack fifteen minutes ago,” he said, referring to a diner across the plaza frequented by organized-crime figures. “He won’t be back anytime soon.”
Gabriel held up his hand for silence. “Yeah, Sandra? What? What you mean, woman? The case is getting ready to be called. The judge ain’t gonna be happy, and he’s in a worse mood than usual today. I hate to see him take it out on the entire Legal Aid Society…Okay, okay, tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna cover for you. I’ll appoint other counsel under the Criminal Justice Act. How’s that?…Yeah, you owe me one, baby. Tell Mr. Disappearing Steinberg that, too. Fat Stewie owes me big time. Bye, now.”
Gabriel hung up and grinned broadly at Melanie, then pulled a typed list of names from a folder on his desk. “As if papi ain’t do you mad favors already.” He dialed a pager, punched in a callback number, and hung up. “I’m gonna give you Patty Atkins to represent your cooperator. Just don’t forget who’s your candy man, babe,” he said, winking at her.
19
IN JUDGE WARNER’S private chambers, everything went according to plan.
They stood before the judge’s imposing walnut desk. Gabriel Colón turned on the tape recorder, called the case, and placed Dan O’Reilly under oath. Dan raised his right hand and attested to the truth of the information in the search and arrest warrants. Judge Warner signed the warrants with a flourish and handed them to Melanie. Trevor Leonard, who stood shackled between Patty Atkins and two burly deputy marshals, looked young and remorseful and spoke in a tiny voice. He’d been ferried up in the back service elevator just in case those thugs were still lurking around somewhere. And Melanie made her carefully rehearsed pitch, seconded enthusiastically by prosecutor-turned-defense lawyer Patty Atkins, who knew a good deal when she saw one.
“I hereby find that the defendant poses neither a risk of flight nor a danger to the community,” Judge Warner intoned into the tape recorder, peering severely over his half-glasses. “This finding is made on the joint motion of the government and the defense, and takes into account that the defendant has agreed to cooperate with agents of the Elite Narcotics Task Force as requested. Mr. Leonard is ordered released on a twenty-thousand-dollar personal-recognizance bond, secured by his own signature. He will remain within the five boroughs unless permission to travel is sought and granted by this court. Anything further, Ms. Vargas?” Judge Warner asked, glaring at Melanie.