Day of wrath, p.11
Day of Wrath, page 11
By the second day Tingle had established the routine. He sat with Harbor behind a large executive desk in the chambers of the executive judge. A long line of attorneys waited outside, each man clutching a file. It was bargain basement day in criminal court.
The first attorney was ushered in by the court officer. “Good morning, Mr. Justice,” he beamed at Tingle. “Good morning, Your Honor,” he said in a slightly less deferential tone to Harbor.
“Whatcha got?” Tingle asked.
“Embezzlement,” the attorney replied. He was an old-timer with a whiskey nose and a beer belly. His skin had the patchy red gloss of a heavy drinker.
“How much?” Tingle asked.
“Pardon me?” The lawyer looked puzzled.
“How much do they allege he took?” Tingle replied, spelling it out.
“Oh! They claim he took six thousand dollars.”
Harbor felt he had to take an active part. “Why isn’t this a federal prosecution?”
The attorney smiled, showing a multitude of lead fillings in his yellowed teeth. “He took the money from a state-chartered credit union. They don’t have any connection with federal law. They didn’t even have depositors’ insurance, so it’s just a state bust.”
“Can he make restitution?” Tingle asked.
“Most, but not all. His mother can come up with a couple grand. He hasn’t got a pot to piss in.”
“Criminal record?” Tingle asked, leafing through the file, looking for a record printout.
“Couple of traffic things, speeding, but nothing else.”
“Okay,” Tingle said, making up his mind. “How about simple larceny? Just a misdemeanor. We’ll put him on probation. You have his old lady pay in what she can, and he can make payments of five or ten bucks a week until it’s all paid off.”
“It’s really paid off now, Mr. Justice. He was bonded. The insurance company took care of it.”
Tingle shrugged his massive shoulders. “Fuck the insurance company. I’m not going to be a collection agent for them. We’ll make it simple larceny and give him a twenty-five-dollar fine, no jail or probation. How’s that?”
“Jesus.” The attorney almost squeaked the word in surprise. “That’s one hell of a break. I appreciate it.” Suddenly he stopped, and a worried frown replaced a look of elation. “I don’t think the cops will go along…”
“The police will do what we tell them,” Tingle said firmly. He paused and then continued in a more conversational tone. “The crush of cases here dictates that the police, attorneys, and judges all cooperate. Everyone understands that this is a crisis.”
“Well, maybe,” the lawyer said skeptically. “But you’ll have to tell them, they’ll never believe me.”
Tingle grinned. The man obviously had a bad reputation with the police; probably he had cut one corner too many on cases to help pay for his drinking.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing, Counsel.” Tingle assumed his most solemn and sincere expression, speaking in a deep, authoritative voice. “We have designed a form to take care of any questions. In other words, we give it to you in writing. Judge Harbor, will you please fill in a form and sign it for this gentleman?”
Harbor dutifully began to scribble the agreement on a form taken from a stack in front of him.
“This is a formal order of the court,” Tingle continued. “It will cover almost all situations. Judge Harbor will just fill in the name, file number, and disposition. In this matter the reduced charge and the sentence will be set down. Judge Harbor himself will sign the order.”
The attorney’s red face twisted with agitation. “But the cops,” he said. “Jesus, Mr. Justice, they’ll want some kind of say in this.”
“And they have it.” Tingle smiled. “This order will go to the clerk’s office, where it will be reviewed by an assistant prosecutor. If the policemen in charge of a case have any complaints, they can make them to that prosecutor. And if the prosecutor thinks the complaints may be justified, he will bring the matter before Judge Harbor and myself. We will then reexamine the entire case. This usually takes place at the end of the day.” Tingle had invented this bit of procedure to offset any complaints. It appeared to be fair and evenhanded. It wasn’t, but that’s how it would look. It would take care of any critics.
“In other words, I won’t know if I’ve got a deal until tonight?”
“There is no ‘deal’ here,” Judge Harbor snarled, his moustache twitching above his small lips. “I resent your implication, Counselor!”
Tingle sighed to himself. Harbor was a monumental pain in the ass, but unfortunately he was a necessary pain. “I’m sure counsel intended no implication at all,” he said soothingly, putting his large hand on Harbor’s shoulder to emphasize his sincerity. “He has to tell his client what he may expect, that’s all.”
Without waiting for Harbor to reply, Tingle looked up at the lawyer. “You can check with the clerk at four o’clock. There might be a line, but the clerk will let you know then if anything’s changed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” The man almost bowed his way out, as if in the presence of royalty.
“I didn’t like his attitude. It was…well…snotty,” Harbor persisted.
“These lawyers are used to a different system, Milton. It will take a while for them to adjust their thinking. For years around here it’s been tough getting a plea reduced; now it’s suddenly easy. They all think they smell a rat, that’s all. Once they get used to this new procedure, everything will run smoothly enough.”
“I just didn’t like his attitude…”
“We better hurry along, Milton.” Tingle’s voice took on a stern, commanding quality. “If we move along, we can get the job done. As I figure it, we can only spend three minutes on each case, and that’s all. It’s just mathematics. If we can’t turn them out that fast, we won’t make a significant dent in the backlog. Remember, we have over six thousand cases to dispose of. We must move them along, Milton.” Tingle forced himself to remain civil.
“I appreciate the problem,” Harbor said petulantly, “but I really think there should be more safeguards. After all, if the lawyers aren’t telling the truth and we haven’t heard from the police, I don’t think we can arrive at a proper decision.”
“The prosecutor assigned to the clerk’s office will handle any cases where the attorneys may have misrepresented the facts. That’s a big safeguard. So far, Milton, no one has had a complaint about the process.”
“Still, I think…”
Tingle’s great hand raised up like a stop sign, and Harbor shut his mouth. The hand was larger than Harbor’s head.
“Milton.” Tingle’s voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “Buck says it has to be done this way. We have to produce. You haven’t forgotten about the court of appeals, have you? Buck is watching to see how you do.”
Like a dog on a leash, thought Tingle to himself as he watched the small man jerk perceptibly at the mention of the chief justice.
“Well,” Harbor said quickly, “I didn’t mean that we shouldn’t move the cases. I was just expressing concern…oh, well, forget it.”
“No problem.” Tingle patted Harbor on the back. “Bring the next case in,” he said to the uniformed court officer at the door.
Both judges recognized the next attorney. Balding and wide-shouldered, the man’s large eyes peered through thick glasses. His expression was set, determined like a fighter just before the bell. He was well known in the courts and generally considered to be the leading murder defense lawyer in the city.
“Mr. Justice,” the man said, shaking hands with Tingle. He ignored Harbor.
Tingle smiled. “A pleasure, Mr. Ambrose. We don’t see enough of you up at the supreme court. We always enjoy your presentations. Have a seat.”
The lawyer sat on the edge of a chair facing both jurists. His manner was alert but tense, suggesting a wary animal about to leap to the attack.
“Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Well, I—” Harbor started to speak, but he was cut off.
“Feel free,” Tingle said, glad for an excuse. Harbor disliked smoking. “I’ll join you. Care for a cigar?” He offered one of his special big cigars to the lawyer.
“No, thank you. A cigarette will do fine.”
“What do you have, Mr. Ambrose?” Tingle was casual but respectful, his manner much different with this attorney. A man had to be careful with a lawyer like Carl Ambrose.
“First-degree murder.”
“What’s the story?” Tingle lit the cigar, emitting clouds of thick smoke, most of which enshrouded Judge Harbor.
Ambrose took a file from his briefcase. He adjusted the thick glasses pushing the frame back over the bridge of his nose. “My client, Harold Revelle, is accused of shooting and killing a taxi driver. The police allege that the cabbie was shot resisting a holdup. They have a witness who saw a struggle and can identify my client as firing the fatal shot. My client denies the robbery and says that the cab-driver tried to cheat him. There was an argument, and during the ensuing fight the cabby was shot. My client claims the gun belonged to the cabdriver.”
“Any proof of that?” Tingle asked.
“None.”
“How about past convictions?”
The attorney inhaled the cigarette deeply before answering. As he spoke, smoke poured from his mouth and nose. “He has a rather bad record: car theft and robbery.
He was convicted of unarmed robbery and, later, of armed robbery. He was out of prison a month before the shooting took place.”
“That doesn’t sound so good,” Tingle commented.
Carl Ambrose nodded. “Perhaps. But if we go to trial,” he said with quiet confidence, “the jury may believe my client’s story that he was acting only in self-defense.”
“With that record?” Harbor interjected.
The attorney’s cool eyes glanced over at Harbor for the first time. “I don’t plan to put him on the stand. They can’t bring out his record unless he testifies.” The disgust in his voice made the words sound like an answer to an idiot who should have known better than to propose the question. “He told his story about acting in self-defense to the detectives. They’ll have to relate that at the trial.”
“You’ll lose,” Harbor said, irritated at the lawyer’s obvious attitude toward him.
Tingle leaned back in his chair, eyeing his cigar as if he had never seen it before. “Mr. Ambrose, I’m the first one to admit that you have a certain way with juries. Still…”
The attorney allowed himself a faint, cold smile. “I’ll grant you the case isn’t the best from the viewpoint of the defense, but I’ve won cases much more difficult than this one, as I’m sure you’re both aware.”
Tingle nodded. “Perhaps. Would you consider a plea?”
“Manslaughter,” the attorney said without a moment’s hesitation.
Tingle laughed. “This isn’t Christmas, and I’m not Santa Claus, Mr. Ambrose. I was thinking of second-degree murder. That would be quite a break, under the circumstances.”
“Perhaps, but he could draw a long prison term under that. The sentencing judge could give him forty or fifty years,” Ambrose said.
“Suppose he got a life sentence?”
The lawyer’s eyes showed a flicker of interest. “Straight life?”
Tingle nodded. “Straight life. That means he would be eligible for parole in ten years. If he kept his nose clean in prison, there’s no way the parole board could deny him, at least under present law.”
The lawyer ground out his cigarette in the large desktop ashtray. “I think my client would agree to that. Of course, he would have to have some assurance that his sentence would be straight life.”
“No problem,” Tingle said. “We’ll give it to you in writing. We’ll issue an order accepting the plea to second-degree murder with a statement in the order that the sentence will be life in prison.”
“In writing?”
Tingle smiled. “Court order, no less. Judge Harbor will issue it. The case will remain with him. He’ll impose the sentence after the presentence report.”
“There’s liable to be trouble on this one,” the lawyer said. “The homicide detectives believe my client has killed a number of cabbies. They can’t prove it, but the method of operation was the same in all cases. I think you may draw some heat by reducing the plea. I thought I should warn you, in all fairness.”
“I appreciate it,” Tingle said. “I’ll be ready if anything comes up, Mr. Ambrose. However, the public doesn’t know the difference between a life sentence and a sentence for a term of years. If the police should object to a man receiving a life sentence, the public will think they are crazy. I doubt anyone will make waves on this.”
“You know best.” The lawyer nodded.
“Make out the order,” Tingle said to Harbor.
The small judge looked as if he might protest. It was a murder case, and the lawyer’s warning had been plain enough even for him. There was political danger in signing the order.
“Come on, Milton,” Tingle said gently. “Remember, we have to keep these cases moving. We are fighting time.”
Harbor signed, remembering the promise of a higher bench. That was really all that was important anyway. He handed a carbon copy to the lawyer, keeping the original for the court file.
“Thank you,” Ambrose said as he left; however, the words were addressed only to Tingle.
Harbor’s face reflected his anger. “Really, I think we should have at least consulted with—”
“Get the next case,” Tingle said to the officer at the door. Then he turned to Harbor. “We’re moving cases, Milton. Believe me, when this is all done, you can expect nothing but applause and glowing editorials. You’ll be a hero, man, a real hero.” And I’ll be rich, Tingle thought to himself. He knew that the word would spread quickly on the street: King Tingle had complete command of the criminal court. The offers would start coming in soon.
“Good morning!” The next lawyer was a young woman, short but with a good figure. She almost seemed to bounce into the office. She had carefully accentuated her best features with makeup and hairstyle to highlight an otherwise plain face. Although she was a militant feminist, she was not above using her feminine charms for all they were worth if the situation demanded.
Tingle stood up, his huge form rising like a mountain. Milton Harbor remained seated, his moustache twitching with impatience.
“I’m Francey Monroe,” she said brightly. “I represent a man charged with passing bad checks.”
Tingle eased his bulk back into his chair. “How much paper did he hang?”
She grinned at him. “Twelve checks. They total about five hundred dollars.”
“Any record?” Tingle asked.
“Convicted twice, both bad-check charges.”
“Restitution?”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t have a dime. Wrote the checks for food money.”
Tingle liked her; but then, he liked most women. “How about attempted uttering and publishing?” he said. “Uttering and publishing carries fourteen years. Attempt is half, so the most he can do is seven years. I suspect an understanding judge might only give him a year. Probably have to give him some time, what with that record and all those people holding bad paper.”
“That sounds great to me.”
“Then we’ll lower the charge and send the case to Judge Noonan,” Tingle said. The girl met his appraising gaze without flinching. “We have to spread the goodies around a bit.” He smiled. “This way Judge Noonan gets an easy plea and credit for a case. Judge Harbor will sign a form telling Judge Noonan that we’ve agreed to the lesser charge. You’ll have to take the sentence up with Judge Noonan, but I understand he has a soft spot for pretty women, so you should do all right.”
“Thank you. My client will be delighted, by the way.”
Harbor wrote out the order as Tingle boldly looked her over. “You get much criminal business?”
“Not too much. I do mostly workmen’s compensation. But I get over to criminal court every so often.”
Harbor handed her the paper.
“Nice doing business with you, Ms. Monroe,” Tingle said.
“Call me Francey,” she replied, her eyes conveying subtle invitation. “And it has been my pleasure.” She walked out swinging her hips.
“Should be more women lawyers,” Tingle said, mostly to himself. Then he raised his voice and spoke to the court officer. “Show the next customer in,” he said.
chapter five
the world liberation army
“It should be easy, man. From what I could find out, there ain’t nothin’ more than just token security for them judges’ meetings. They all meet in the executive judge’s courtroom; that’s on the second floor. For those court people it ain’t no big deal. They don’t attach no great importance to it, if you see what I mean.” Flash Johnson lounged on the apartment sofa, enjoying being the center of attention.
“Are you sure no one became suspicious because of your questions?” Larry Gormley feared that Flash Johnson might give their plan away. He had developed an active dislike for the cocky Negro and distrusted the man’s abilities.
Flash’s black face reflected his arrogance. “Hey, man, I was down among my people. I mean, I didn’t just walk up to anybody and tell them we was planning to blow away the judges. Shit, I’m no fool, I don’t want to get my black ass shot off. I was cool. I talked a bit to this one, a bit to that one. Just rappin’, ya know, cool and easy. No one suspects anything.” He smirked, obviously pleased with his own performance.
“What about your brother?” Thelma Sturdevant asked. “Did you get to see him?”
Flash frowned. “Man, that was a rough scene. I made out a visitor’s pass application. You do that in that public main room of the jail. I gave it to one of them turnkeys, and as soon as he sees who I am, the whole place is ass-deep in cops. They searched me and then spent about half an hour questioning hell out of me. I was lucky I left my knife and smoke things at home. They would have really busted my ass if they found me with weed and a switchblade.”
