Robert Tanenbaum - No Lesser Plea

McFarley said, “Butch, the judge wants to see you before he takes the bench. He’s at an administrative meeting, should be here in about a half an hour.” He waved at the courtroom. “Better get this moving.”

“What does he want to see me for? Oh no! He finally found out I never passed the bar.”

“We all knew that when you tried your first case.”

“Thanks, Jim, I love you too.” Karp turned to the crowd and began the morning ritual of learning about the cases he would have to prosecute in just a few minutes. The first step was finding out which witnesses were present in the crowd. He had, of course, never met any of them before.

Karp walked to the gate and scanned the crowd. Pitching his voice to cut through the chattering, he said, “Excuse me! May I have your attention, please! All private defense attorneys, please check in with the clerk. Would all civilian witnesses, all witnesses who are not police officers and are here to testify, please come forward.”

One by one, the witnesses snapped out of their lethargy and began gathering in the well of the court. Quickly the space around Karp’s desk became crowded. He picked up a clipboard holding his copy of the day’s calendar. “People, listen up a minute. When I point to you, I want you to tell me what case you’re here for. And, if you know it, tell me the calendar number of your case. Then I may ask you a couple of brief questions. The important thing is for me to find out who is here and who isn’t. Does everyone understand?” Murmurs of comprehension. “Fine. OK, what are you here for?” Karp asked the man nearest to him, a balding, thin black man with thick glasses.

“Ballroy. He assaulted me.”

“What’s the number on the calendar?”

“Thirty-seven.”

Karp found the number on his calendar and saw that it had been circled in red by the clerk, indicating that he was supposed to have the case complaint in his stack. He riffled through the stack and found the complaint, making a notation on it to remind himself that the witness was present.

“You must be Alan Simms,” he said, reading the name off the top of the affidavit.

“That’s right.”

“Fine. Have a seat, and I’ll be calling you as a witness.” Karp repeated this sequence with the rest of the two dozen or so people in the crowd.

After he checked through these, there was only one person, a tall, thin woman in her thirties, left standing by the table.

“What are you here for,” asked Karp.

“Mancusi, attempted murder. I’m his sister and I saw the whole thing. He’s innocent.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s innocent, I don’t care what the bitch says.”

“I think you’re here as a defense witness. You’ll have to …”

“Yeah, defense.”

“Well I’m speaking with witnesses for the prosecution. Does your brother have an attorney?”

“No. Just Legal Aid.”

“That’s an attorney, lady. Look, when the Legal Aid lawyer comes he’ll speak with you. Now go sit down.”

Karp went back to the railing and called out, “All police officers who are the principal complainants, please step up here now.” Nine cops, some off duty, some in dark blue, some detectives in street clothes, came up to the prosecutor’s table. Some had physical evidence connected with the crime, which they had retrieved from the police property clerk before coming to court.

“What d’you got?” Karp asked the first cop, a young off-duty patrol officer with dark, close-cropped hair and a bushy mustache.

“Resisting arrest. Defendant’s name is Marshall, a real scumbag.” He glanced at the pink slip in his hand. “It’s case one thirty-seven on the calendar.”

Karp found the case on his calendar, circled it, picked up his yellow pad. “OK, shoot. Start with your name.”

“Collingsworth, Ansel. I’m with the one-seven. This guy Marshall we collared maybe half a dozen times on burglaries on the East Side.”

As Collingsworth spoke, Karp was searching his stack for the case’s paper work. He found the complaint, which had the defendant’s jacket clipped to it.

“Yeah, I see he’s got nine burglary convictions and some trespasses.”

“That’s what I mean,” the cop went on. “So I’m walking along the alley, on foot patrol. It’s about one in the afternoon and I see this guy get off the fire escape from an apartment building. He’s carrying one of those big, heavy color TVs. I sorta recognize him, so I say, ‘Hey, where ya goin’?’ So he walks right up to me and starts throwing some bullshit about how he’s a TV repairman and had to come down the escape because the front door’s too narrow? So I look him in the eyes and say, ‘Repairman, my ass. I seen you before, sucker.’ So the shithead drops the TV on my foot.”

The other cops laughed. Karp looked down and saw that the young cop’s foot was in a cast and covered with a white sock.

“He resisted arrest with a TV set?” Karp asked.

“Fuck no! The scumbag punched me in the mouth and took off. I had to chase him down with a busted toe.”

“All right, have a seat,” said Karp, putting a star next to the defendant’s name on top of the affidavit, to remind himself that this case was to be prosecuted to the fullest extent, with no plea bargaining. Then he went through the remaining eight cases, jotting down brief notes in anticipation of the arguments that might be made by the defense.

Looking up, he noticed a small, sixtyish woman in a gray suit sitting in the row of benches directly behind the prosecutor’s table. He noticed her because she was scared, her face stiff, her body twitching like a cornered mouse. She kept glancing over to her left and then sharply looking away. Karp followed her glance and spotted a skinny kid with a turned-up porkpie hat jammed low over his eyes. He wore tight, black pants and a cream-leather sport coat, and every time the old lady glanced at him he grinned and shook his head slightly, no-no. He had a gold front tooth.

Karp went over and spoke quietly to the woman. “Excuse me, my name is Roger Karp and I’m the assistant district attorney in this courtroom. Is anything wrong?”

“That man,” she said in a whisper, eyes darting to her left. “He’s the one. He hit me and took my purse.”

Karp glared at the kid, who returned the stare for an instant and then, smirking, dropped his eyes.

“And you’re here to testify against him?”

“Yes. But he’s trying to scare me.”

“OK, let me tell you something, Mrs….”

“Murcovitch, Edith Murcovitch. Look, mister I don’t want no more trouble …”

“Mrs. Murcovitch, you’re not in trouble. He’s in trouble. Now come right through here and sit next to me, at this table.”

Mrs. Murcovitch came through the gate and sat down. Karp went through his affidavits until he found her case. “This guy’s name is Jenkins?”

“That’s right. He hit me in the face.”

“Ma’am, I don’t want you to worry anymore. When the case is called I’m going to ask you to testify and I don’t want you to be scared of him. Just tell the judge what happened.”

He motioned to one of the cops he had just interviewed, the biggest and meanest-looking of the lot. When the cop came up to the railing, Karp said, “Doug, see that scumbag with the hat? He’s hassling my witness. Do me a favor, could you go sit by him and make him be nice?”

“Glad to, Chief,” said the cop. He sat down next to the kid and gave him the New York’s Finest cop glare. The kid decided to take a nap.

Karp went up to the clerk’s desk. “Jim, I’m about set. One thing, this case eighty-nine, could you call it first? The defendant is hassling my witness and I want to move her out of here as soon as possible.”