The Judge

CHAPTER 3

I’m reading sketchy details in the morning paper, a picture of the Coconut, a file shot a column wide below the fold. Under the photo a cut-line: “Judge Arrested in Prostitution Sting.”

Just what the doctor ordered come election time. Toting my briefcase in the other hand, I emerge from the elevator on the fourth floor of the D.A.’s office, situated in one of those modern metal-and-glass buildings, no frills. This particular one sits catty-corner to the courthouse at the edge of a slum only partially reclaimed before the collapse of urban renewal. The D.A. shares space with the County Registrar’s office and some other paper-pushing bureaucracies that take up the ground floor.

A receptionist sitting behind two inches of bulletproof glass calls Lenore, and a few seconds later buzzes me through. I am down the corridor, past a dozen cubicles, the government equivalent of private offices. There are lawyers, some on phones, others laboring in silence like monks in an ancient scriptorium, bent over desks piled high with papers. Some of these offices are stacked with case files climbing halfway up the walls, all active and pending matters.

As a repository of your tax dollars, the public prosecutor’s office of any large metropolitan area of this country is likely to be the one place where you get your money’s worth. Here there are young overworked lawyers putting in the equivalent of most people’s average workweek on any single day. Some, the Future Moralists of America, are careerists out to cleanse corruption and decay from our times, law-and-order zealots who view every issue in monochrome, black or white. Others, more pragmatic, are simply paying their dues, cutting their teeth in court before selling out to one of the high-toned silk-stocking firms where crime wears a white collar and is often perpetrated over lunch in some private club.

Lenore has one of the larger offices near the corner inhabited by His Eminence, Coleman Kline. Here there is a second reception area, a couple of secretaries jealously guarding Kline’s office. I can hear his voice on the phone inside behind closed doors. The interior walls? of this place have all the tensile strength of Kleenex. Someone sneezes, and everyone down the hall goes “Gesundheit.”

I tap on the glass panel, the translucent sidelight beside Lenore’s door.

“Come in.” She has one hand over the mouthpiece of her phone as she waves me in and points to one of the client chairs on the other side of her desk.

There’s a woman in the other chair, young, maybe early twenties, with honey blond hair down to the shoulders, startling blue eyes as she looks up at me. It is one of those faces college boys dote on. Clear complexion and soft chiseled cheekbones, she has the look of a girl bred on the sands at Santa Monica. A miniskirt only partially covers her tanned thighs. There is just enough muscle tone here to be sexy, so that you can’t tell where robust ends and sultry begins. I wonder if this is Lenore’s secretary, though she does not have the look, or a notepad or pen.

“Be with you in a minute,” says Lenore.

“No. No. That’s not the deal. He cops a plea to counts one and two and we drop the rest. He does a minimum of one year with probation.

“Who said straight probation?”

A pause while she listens on the phone.

“That’s not what Mr. Kline told me.

“No, I have talked to him.”

A lot of gestures with the hand as she tries to get a word in on its edge.

“Listen, that’s the deal. Anything else, and you can tell your client to forget it. No, there’s only one deputy handling this case, and you’re talking to her.”

She listens.

“Well, I’m not responsible for what you promised your client. That’s the final word. You got it from the horse’s mouth,” she says. Another pause.

“Well, if you were a licensed veterinarian I’d be more concerned with your references to equine anatomy. As it is, you’re getting the talking part right now. If you want what comes out of the other end we can go to trial.”

I can now hear the guy coming over Lenore’s receiver six feet away, loud and clear. I think I recognize his voice. If she can reduce him to this on the phone I’m left to wonder what she might do in court.

“Fine. You go ahead and talk to him. I already have, and he’s approved the offer. Just say the word and it’s off the table.” The litigator’s cocked pistol.

There’s a lot of shouting on the phone, more haggling, Lenore holding firm.

“Take it or leave it,” she says, and finally hangs up, then utters some mild profanity under her breath.

“Can’t blame him for shopping ’til he drops,” I tell her.

“Yeah, he’s trying it in the bargain basement.” She nods a little toward the membrane that is the office wall she shares with Kline. The woman seated next to me doesn’t catch this, or it goes over her head. I can’t tell which.

I start to talk, edging toward the article in today’s paper, but Lenore cuts me off.

“Paul Madriani, I’d like to introduce Brittany Hall. Paul is a friend. He’s come by to take me to coffee,” she says.

This is news to me. But clearly whatever Lenore has to say she does not want to say in the office. I play along.

“You work here?” I’m looking at the woman called Brittany, trying not to ogle.

“In a manner of speaking.” Lenore speaks before she can. “Brittany does some work with the police department from time to time. She’s a police science major at the university, and a reserve deputy.”

“Undercover,” says the girl.

“Oh.”

“Maybe you read about her latest outing, in this morning’s paper?” Lenore can see it in my hand.

“The judge who was arrested,” she says. Lenore gives me a look, a face full of wink, like shut up. “Brittany is our key to the case. A very important witness,” says Lenore.

“Oh.” The decoy. Vice in this city has a history. They have been known on occasion to use some police groupies, women who hang out with the cops the way others shadow ballplayers. In the past they have hired a few beauty contestants to pose as hookers: “Miss Tomato” and a “Daisy Princess” or two, girls in their twenties with curves that would stop traffic on the Grand Prix circuit. Reduce them to sheer panties in a little dim light and I could think of some popes who might suffer a moral lapse. I do another take, catching the well-turned knees and a tangle of legs pressed against the front of Lenore’s desk, better than a drag net for snaring a bottom feeder like the Coconut.

“Nice job,” I tell her. There’s a definite tone of enthusiasm to my words.

She returns a million dollars in enamel, a broad smile. “Gee. Thanks.” There’s an instant of reflection, then the judgment.

“I guess he was a pretty bad guy.” She’s trying to gauge the dimension of her contribution. I think she mistakes my felicitations for a genuine interest in good government.

“Reprehensible,” I tell her. “Man’s lower than dirt.”

“And a judge, too,” she says. She makes it sound as if only presidents and governors are higher on the ethical food chain. A real notch in the old handle. She’s all smiles, loosening up. After all, I am not some starched tight-ass from one of the big firms, resentful of her activities as holding the law up to disrepute, victimizing a brother of the cloth. My view of the Coconut is not unlike the partisan’s view of Mussolini. To haul him up by the heels and shoot him could be construed as an act of sportsmanship.

“Guy has the morals of a garter snake,” I tell her. Building on the image. I would ask exactly how far this particular serpent went. But Lenore is eyeing me. Looks to kill.

“I’ve done this before and all. But, well, being that he was a judge. I had no idea. He just looked like a businessman to me.”

She sounds like some kid who just realized she’s decked the block bully.

“And today it’s all over the paper,” I tell her. This seems to put a little flush in her cheeks.

I hold up the copy in my hand. I would ask her to autograph it, but Lenore would get pissed.

“My name wasn’t in the paper.”

This seems to bother her.

“Give ’em time.” I can imagine the feeding frenzy when the press gets a gander. They will cut a big piece of cheesecake for the front page.

“Your name’s not in there for a reason,” says Lenore. “That’s the way we want to keep it. I hope you understand,” she says.

A sober nod from the woman, though I can tell the thought of anonymity does not rest well.

“We were just finishing up a little debriefing,” says Lenore. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind waiting in the outer office?”

Whether I would or not, she is showing me to the door so that she can vacuum up the dirt for the criminal complaint her staff must draw up on Acosta. I could press an ear to the keyhole, but the secretaries might not like it.

In ten minutes the cheeks of my nether-side are numb from the hard wooden bench where I sit nourishing hopes that Lenore might share something with me when she is finished, some tidbit of sleaze from the Coconut’s nighttime foraging. I can hear the undercurrent of buzzing voices in Lenore’s office, but nothing distinct. For entertainment I zone in on one-half of Kline’s conversation on the phone through his closed office door. I can tell he is dour, even with a partition between us, something on the order of a pin-striped statesman. His part of the dialogue consists of a few pointed questions. On the single occasion I had to deal with the man he used such an economy of words he bordered on the awkward.

“Yes. As I said, I will look into it and get back to you. Um-hm. Um-hm. What’s your client’s name?” Silence, as if perhaps he were taking notes.

“Any other offenses? Priors?” he says. There’s a longer pause. More notes.

“I’m not going to promise anything, but I will talk to her. No, Ms. Goya works for me. I make the final decisions.”

Clerical eyes are on me. One of the secretaries senses that I have my antennae up, feeding on what should be classified communications. She starts up the copier and I lose Kline’s voice. The woman is probably wasting a little county money, shooting some blank pages in the cause of confidence.

A few seconds later the door that was the object of my interest opens, and out strolls Coleman Kline, trim in a thousand-dollar suit, linen cuffs, and gold links, his face a bit weathered. I am told that he sails on weekends on the bay. Even with a receding hairline he is a handsome man, a picture off the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.

He’s holding a note in one hand, something scrawled on a yellow Post-it.

The secretary is out of her chair and around the public counter, a mendicant’s pose, waiting for her master’s bidding. He hands her the note.

“Get me the file on this.”

She’s off at the speed of light.

He catches a glimpse of me from the corner of one eye, utters hushed whispers over the counter to the receptionist seated at the phone bank, and inquires as to whether I am waiting for him. She assures him that I am not. Then he looks toward Lenore’s closed door.

“Is Ms. Goya in with anyone?”

“Ms. Hall.”

There’s an imperious look. “I thought I left precise instructions that Ms. Hall was to be shown into my office as soon as she arrived.”

“You were on the phone, and Ms. Goya said. .”

“I don’t care what Ms. Goya said. When I give an instruction, I expect it to be followed.”

Demure looks from the receptionist, something on the order of a whipped dog.

She sits there, eyes cast down, the picture of apology, but takes no initiative to cure this wrong.

“Well, buzz her,” he says.

“Ms. Goya?”

“Yes, Ms. Goya. And tell her to send Ms. Hall into my office. Right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Having been failed once, he now stands over her to ensure that his every word is now law. In the meantime the secretary is back.

“The file you wanted.”

“Yes. Where is it?”

“It’s checked out to Ms. Goya.”

Kline’s is a face filled with exasperation, all of it seemingly aimed at Lenore.

I can hear the com-line ring in her office, her voice answers.

“Mr. Kline wants to see Ms. Hall in his office.”

Muted tones through Lenore’s door. She has no idea of the drama being played out here. She bids for a little time. She is nearly finished gathering the information she needs for the complaint.

“He wants her right now.” Even with Kline standing over her, there is no regal ring to the receptionist’s words.

“Give me that.” He snatches the phone from her hand.

“I left instructions that when Ms. Hall arrived she was to be shown into my office. No one else was to talk to her.”

Some hesitation, as if Lenore is trying to get a word in.

“I don’t give a damn. Do you understand?”

There is stone silence from Lenore’s office. Suddenly it dawns on him, there is no need for long distance. He pitches the phone at the secretary and heads for Goya’s office. Opening it, the only civil word is to Brittany Hall, whom he asks to wait in his office. She scurries between Kline and the frame of the door like a cat ahead of the snarling jaws of a dog. Kline then closes the door behind him.

I can hear angry words, mostly deep and male. Then Lenore starts giving as good as she gets.

“You have no right to use that tone of voice. I didn’t know you left instructions, or that they were carved in stone.” I have a mental image, Lenore standing behind her desk, hands on her hips.

This sets off another salvo from Kline, assertions that she’s questioning his authority, undermining him with the staff.

“The press is all over me demanding answers,” he says. “This is a very sensitive matter. Nothing for you to handle. A public official accused of a crime. I need to know what’s going on.”

Lenore is arguing, telling him that public statements should be kept to a minimum, that there are nuances here, not the least of which may serve to alienate other judges who know Acosta. None of these could hear the case if Acosta goes to trial. Still it could raise havoc in a hundred other matters if the local bench sees the prosecutor’s office as sandbagging one of their own in the media. This is going in one ear and out the other with Kline.

“You don’t think I know how to deal with the press?”

“I didn’t say that. If you wanted a briefing I would have been happy-”

“What I want is to talk to the witness myself. I’ll be handling this case,” he says.

“Fine. Take the file,” she says.

The door opens and Kline is standing there, a disheveled pile of papers peeking from the covers of a manila folder in his arms. His face is flushed as he sees me, now realizing that some stranger has heard all of this.

Some afterthought, something to cover a loss of face. He spins in Lenore’s door.

“I almost forgot,” he says. “The Bagdonovich thing. Straight probation. We can skip the time,” he says.

“What?”

“You heard me. Straight-out probation.”

“We talked. We discussed it yesterday and you agreed,” says Lenore.

“I’ve just talked with his lawyer.”

“What does that have to do with it? Was there something you didn’t know? Some fact I hadn’t explained?”

“You don’t seem to understand who is in charge here. I don’t care to debate the issue. Just do it.”

With this, he swings the door closed in her face, and looks toward Brittany Hall, who has planted herself near the reception station.

“Ms. Hall.” He composes himself, pumping a little satisfaction into his face now that he’s stuck a final spike in Lenore. He straightens his tie and motions Hall toward his office.

“May I call you Brittany?” he says.

She gives him a bright-eyed expression. I think she senses the presence of an Aladdin who, if she rubs his lamp the right way, may produce the genie with the cameras and lights. She is all curtsies and smiles as she heads for Kline’s office, like some starlet who’s just leapfrogged onto a higher couch.

“What a prick.” Lenore is not known for mild manners when provoked.

“Take it easy. It’s time this county had a D.A. for the criminal class. Like Washington’s mayor. It ought to be part of affirmative action.”

She doesn’t laugh. We are doing coffee at the little espresso shop a half block from her office. My treat as I ply her.

“I’ve seen ten-dollar hookers strike harder bargains,” she tells me. “He thinks this is the legislature. He likes to be lobbied. A good day at the office is people taking numbers outside his door. I tell the guy’s lawyer to screw off on the phone. You heard it. And he cuts the ground out from under me.”

“That was Bagdonovich?”

She nods.

“And now he wants to do Acosta.”

“His call,” I tell her.

“Yeah. Right. It’s a headline case, and Kline wants to motor ahead of the media curve,” she says. “To hell with law and order. This is politics.”

I come to the point. “Tell me the score on Acosta.”

“You know what we know.” She gestures toward the paper.

“Yeah. Right.”

“I guess Tony gets a reprieve.” She laughs. The bright side.

“For now anyway. His Highness is not holding court today. I called his clerk, and all appointments are canceled,” I tell her.

Harry’s theory is that after getting all worked up only to be disappointed last night, Acosta is probably home polishing the family knob.

“I’m sure he will bellow about entrapment,” I say.

“The battle cry of every John,” she tells me. “But his lawyers will have a problem. Our lady was wired. The impetus for the crime sprang forth in all of its resplendent glory from the defendant’s own fly.”

I look at her.

“He took Igor out of the barn for a trot in the moonlight before they ever discussed stud fees. At least according to the witness,” she says.

“This is on the tape?” I ask her. “His primordial urgings?”

“What do you want, pictures?”

“No, just assurances that the man is dead meat.”

She looks at me.

“Poor choice of words,” I say.

“According to the witness. I haven’t heard the tape. The techs are working on it. Some problem. Something about audio quality. They’re trying to enhance it.”

“And how good is your witness?”

“She talks the queen’s English. No record. Nothing to impeach her. Hometown girl, born and bred. Good student. Wants to be a cop. Paid some political dues. Worked a few campaigns. Gofer stuff. Confined mostly to law-and-order gigs. She’s into straw boaters and pom-pom skirts. Her latest outing was on behalf of God’s gift to the criminally stupid.” She’s talking about Kline’s campaign.

“Did he bring her into this?”

She shakes her head.

“Vice. It was their show all the way. If Kline had done it we’d have found the girl’s palm prints all over the perp’s pecker, and Acosta’s lawyer would be pitching it that she offered to pay him.”

“How did they come to take the judge?” I ask. “Just random selection?”

She knows what I’m asking. I am remembering Tony Arguillo’s final comment in my office; that cops know how to take care of their own. I am wondering if this particular blanket party was planned and executed by Gus Lano and the association for the city’s finest. It would be Lano’s style, his way to quash a subpoena.

“You’ll never prove it,” she says.

“Hey, do I look like the village ombudsman? Medals of honor all around as far as I’m concerned.”

“Consider the subject,” she says. “Laws of probability. Sin enough times, you’re bound to go to hell.”

“Pure chance. Random selection,” I say. My contribution to this orgy of agreement.

“Do you think the good judge will try to cut some kind of a deal?”

“Knowing the resolve in our office,” she says, “he’ll probably claim he thought that stiff thing was the turn indicator and get it all reduced to a moving violation.”

I ignore this.

“There’s not much he can step down to.” Soliciting for prostitution is only a misdemeanor, a citable offense in this state for which the perpetrator is ordinarily not even taken into custody. A citation is issued with a summons to appear, Vice’s own kind of speeding violation. Any other John would pay the thousand-dollar fine, do a little counseling on the mystical protection of latex, and go on with his life. The thought that sends little shivers in this case is that misdemeanor or not, it is a crime of moral turpitude. It is not the first time a judge in this state has been charged-and the usual course is removal from the bench.