Эд Макбейн - Ice

He was wondering who to try next when the knock sounded on his door. He went to the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Me,” she answered. Her voice sounded very weary and very small.

He took off the night chain, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door. She was wearing a navy pea jacket over blue jeans and black boots. Her long red hair was hanging loose around her face. In the dim illumination of the hallway lightbulb, he could see that her face was discolored and bruised, her lip swollen.

“Okay to come in?” she asked.

“Come in,” he said, and immediately, “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” she said.

He locked the door behind her, and put on the night chain. When he turned from the door, she was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“We got him,” she said. “Fourteen years old,” she said. “I almost killed him,” she said.

Their eyes met.

“Would you mind very much making love to me?” she said.

In some cities, it was called a “first appearance.” In this city, it was called an “arraignment.” However you sliced it and whatever you called it, it was the first time a person charged with a crime appeared in a courtroom before a judge.

They had talked over their strategy beforehand with the assistant district attorney assigned to the case. They knew Moore’s attorney would advise him to plead not guilty to all the charges, and whereas they were certain the dope charge would stick, they were on more tenuous ground where it came to the murders. Their fear was that they’d come up against a lenient judge who might accept Moore’s contention that Brother Anthony’s murder was committed in self-defense, and might set what he thought to be a reasonable bail for the drug offense. Even though the ballistics tests on the Smith & Wesson would not be completed until the case was presented to a grand jury sometime next week, they decided to tack on to their complaint the three additional counts of Murder One, hoping a judge would be intimidated by quantity and weight when it came time to grant or deny bail. If the gun that had killed Brother Anthony turned out to be the same gun that had fired the fatal bullets into Paco Lopez, Sally Anderson, and Marvin Edelman, they felt there was a good chance the grand jury would hand down a true bill on all four murder counts. When the case later came to trial, it would then be Moore’s word alone that would keep him from spending more time in prison than there were days on an eternal calendar. The important thing now was to make sure he did not walk out of that courthouse. They felt certain that if bail was granted, they would never see him again.

The judge hearing the case was Walking Wilbur Harris.

The court attendant, who was called a bridge in this city, sat before Harris’s bench and read off the name of the defendant, and then the charges against him. Harris looked out over his rimless spectacles and said, “Are these charges correct, officer?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Carella said.

The four of them were standing before the judge’s bench, Carella with the assistant DA, Moore with his attorney. Harris turned to Moore.

“You may have a hearing in this court,” he said, “or an adjournment for purpose of obtaining a lawyer or witnesses, or waive that hearing and let the case go to a grand jury. Do you have a lawyer?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Moore said.

“Is he here present?”

“I am representing the defendant,” Moore’s attorney said.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Wilcox,” Harris said. “Didn’t recognize you.”

Wilcox smiled. “Your Honor,” he said, in recognition of the recognition.

“How do you plead to these charges?” Harris asked. “First count, Criminal Possession of a controlled substance in the First Degree, contrary to penal law, Section 220.21.”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Moore said.

“Second, third, fourth, and fifth counts, Murder in the First Degree, contrary to penal law, Section 125.27.”

“Not guilty, Your Honor,” Moore said.

“Pending a grand jury hearing,” Wilcox said, going straight for the jugular, “may I at this time request bail for the defendant?”

“The man’s been charged with four counts of First Degree Murder!” Harris said, looking surprised.

“He acted in self-defense on the first count, Your Honor, and had nothing whatever to do with the other three murders charged.”

“Mr. Delmonico?” Harris said, turning to the ADA.

“We have good and reasonable cause to believe the same weapon was used in all four murders, Your Honor.”

“What good and reasonable cause?” Harris asked.

“Detective Carella here has ballistics reports indicating the same gun was used in the murders of Paco Lopez, Sally Anderson, and Marvin Edelman.”

“What about this other one?” Harris said. “Anthony Scalzo.”

“The man was killed—”

“The gun is now with—”

“One at a time,” Harris said.

“The man was killed in self-defense, Your Honor,” Wilcox said. “He was armed when he broke into the defendant’s apartment. There was a struggle during which my client disarmed him and shot him. In self-defense.”

“Mr. Delmonico?”

“The gun is now with Ballistics Section, Your Honor. We should have a report sometime before the grand jury hearing next week.”

“What makes you think it’s the same gun?” Harris asked.

“It’s a .38-caliber Smith and Wesson, Your Honor. That’s the make and caliber of the gun used in the previous three murders. The same gun for all three murders.”

“But you don’t know if it’s the same gun that was used in this fourth homicide.”

“Not yet, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor—,” Wilcox said.

“Your Honor—,” Delmonico said.

“Just a minute here,” Harris said. “Mr. Wilcox?”

“Your Honor,” Wilcox said, “there is no ballistics evidence that would link the gun used in the previous murders with the shooting that took place in my client’s apartment yesterday. But even if there did exist such evidence, it’s our contention that the gun belonged to Anthony Scalzo and not my client.”

“Mr. Delmonico?”

“Your Honor,” Delmonico said, “we feel such evidence will be forthcoming. In any event, given the gravity of the charges before you, I respectfully submit that the granting of bail would be inadvisable in this case.”

“Yes, well, that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” Harris said.

“Yes, Your Honor, of course.”

“Bail is granted in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars,” Harris said.

“We are prepared to meet that bail, Your Honor,” Wilcox said.

“Very well, remand the defendant.”

“May I have a few words with my client?” Wilcox asked.

“Take him aside. Next case.”

As the bridge read off the name of the next defendant and the charges against him, Carella watched Wilcox in whispered conversation with Moore. Wilcox was a good lawyer, Carella knew he’d have discussed with Moore beforehand the amount of bail he thought he could meet. All they had to come up with now was $10,000 in cash and collateral for the rest, easy enough when you owned twenty-five carats of diamonds worth a cool $300,000. Or would Wilcox simply phone Moore’s mother in Miami and ask her to wire him a mere $100,000? Either way, Moore would spend a relaxed day in custody at either the Municipal House of Detention crosstown on Daley Street, or else in the Parsons Island Jail in the middle of the river Dix. By nightfall, he’d be out on the street again. He watched as they led Moore out. He watched as Wilcox exchanged a few words with the bail bondsman. He rarely thought in Italian, but the words La comedia é finita crossed his mind. He walked to the back of the courtroom, where Delmonico and Meyer were waiting.