Steve Martini - The Judge

“There was no time,” says Howie. “There was a tip they were movin’ the stuff today.”

“I’ll tell you what’s happening,” I say.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Howie has his baton in my face.

“Your pals are rousting a lawyer in the middle of a murder trial by planting evidence in my house,” I tell the sergeant. “Look at his name under the flak jacket. It says ‘Mike.’ He posed as a cable repairman to plant the stuff in my bathroom.”

Howie has something between a sick smile and rage on his face. I ask him if he’s going to fix my television set like he promised before he leaves. He raises the baton, but doesn’t hit me.

He is getting some serious looks from the uniformed cop.

“Howie. I’m ashamed of you.”

Howie laughs, like big joke. How can he believe a pusher?

The sergeant’s face is an enigma.

One of the other cops comes in with the dogs on a short tether, big German shepherds, and they head straight down the hall.

“Maybe you’d like to be here for this.” Howie’s talking to the sergeant.

They both stroll down the hall.

I hear the dog go ape-shit in the bathroom, barking, scratching the walls. Howie tells the sergeant it’s in there someplace.

“Hope for your sake you find it,” says the sergeant. They both stroll out and join us in the living room again. “’Cuz the watch commander’s on his way over.”

“Who the hell called him?”

“I did.”

This has Howie stomping around in the middle of my living room floor.

“What the fuck for?” he says.

“My turf,” says the sergeant. “You don’t come into my area without telling me, Howie. I think you got some explaining to do.”

The cavalry is on its way.

Howie stops his stomping long enough to look down the hall.

“Kennedy. Did you find it?”

“No.”

“Shit.” Howie’s down the hall to help.

We are left in the living room with the baseball cap, one of the hooded cops, and the two uniforms.

“I’m Sergeant Lincoln,” says the uniform. “Who are you?” He’s talking to me.

“I don’t think Howie wants you talking to them.” This from the guy in the baseball cap.

The sergeant gives him a look that, if baseball cap had a brain, would kill him in place.

“Knelly, do I actually look like I give a shit what Howie wants?”

When the guy doesn’t answer, the sergeant gets in his face, two inches away. “Well, do I?”

The guy called Knelly actually blanches, holds his ground for an instant, then turns away.

“Why don’t you go and sniff for drugs,” says the sergeant. Knelly leaves the room, his baton dangling from one hand like a deflated dick.

“And you,” says the sergeant. He’s talking to the other hooded wonder. “Douglas. Take that damn thing off your head. You look ridiculous. Get outta here. We’ll watch your prisoners.”

The guy joins his compatriots.

The sergeant turns back to me. “Now one more time. Who are you?”

“My name is Paul Madriani.”

“Heard of you,” he says. “And you?”

Lenore’s face is now puffed out, and she is showing all the signs of a shiner, her right lid beginning to close.

“Let me introduce you,” I say. “This is Lenore Goya, formerly of the district attorney’s office.”

I hear Lenore give a palpable sigh. I think for a moment she thought they were actually going to kill us.

This morning Radovich is conducting his own inquisition in chambers. He has called the city’s police chief and Kline on the carpet to explain the raid on my house. While he is taking no official position, and dodging questions from the press on the matter, he is clearly concerned that news reports of this may affect the trial.

“Why wasn’t I told about this? Who the hell’s running your office?” Radovich is pressing Kline for answers.

Harry and I sit quietly on a couch against the wall, a Band-Aid on my forehead where there are four stitches, bruises clearly visible on my neck. Acosta sits in a chair next to me, one of the bailiffs behind him, and a guard outside the door. I have insisted that he be present as he has read the accounts of the raid in the paper. He is worried as to how this may affect his trial.

It took the watch commander only ten minutes to sweep cable man and his clan from my house. After nearly tearing the floorboards from my bathroom they came up with nothing. It took a little longer to get Sarah back from downtown. Child Protective Services had a million questions. They wanted to keep her overnight. After a threat of litigation and a call to the county counsel they came to their senses.

In all of this, not a single person in the ranks of government has issued an apology. They are holding their breath to see if Lenore and I will sue.

While the dogs went wild in the bathroom, their trail of sniffing apparently ended at the wall below the window. All things taken together, they might have found it, except for the interference of the brass, the watch commander and his lieutenant. Those in authority have their own way of rectifying abuses in the ranks. In my case their penance was to be ordered off the scene before they could complete their search.

This morning Kline is a catalog of excuses, most of them coming down to a single point; that he was never told of the raid himself.

“Your Honor”-he’s standing at the edge of Radovich’s desk-“I want you to understand that I had no part in this.” He seems genuinely at a loss, insisting that he was out of the loop.

“Had I known, of course I would have consulted the court.”

“Somebody must have issued a search warrant,” says Radovich.

“A new appointee,” says Kline. “Muni court judge on call. It was cleared early Saturday morning, through one of the junior deputies in my office, also on call.”

According to Kline, the cops told his deputy, a kid seven months out of law school, that there were exigent circumstances, no time to wait. According to the police, the drugs were about to be moved that morning.

“My deputy didn’t connect Mr. Madriani’s name on the warrant. If he had, I’m sure I would have been alerted.” Kline turns his head and says this for my benefit. This is the closest thing to an apology I have yet heard.

“Sounds to me like somebody in your department was shopping.” Radovich turns his attention to Wallace Hansen, the chief of police.

“New judge. Young prosecutor,” says Radovich.

“We’re looking into it,” says Hansen.

“What about the information on the affidavit?” Radovich is talking about the statement of evidence sworn under oath, by the cops, what is required to establish probable cause for the issuance of a search warrant.

“Where did it come from?” says Radovich.

“An informant,” says the chief. “A reliable source.”

Hansen has the complexion of an albino, reddish blond hair, and a face that looks as if it is in a state of perpetual hostility.

“So reliable you came up with squat,” says the judge.

“Believe me, it wasn’t for want of trying,” I tell Radovich. “The adjuster is still tallying the damage to my house.”

Hansen wants to know if I intend to sue the city.

“You’ll know when he files,” says Harry.

I have told Radovich privately that the cops planted the drugs in my home, something that he clearly did not want to hear. His advice was that I not repeat the charge here, in mixed company, for fear that it might tend to incriminate-confirmation that drugs were in fact present. Hansen would no doubt demand to know where they were. He is the kind of stand-up cop who will take abuse for his men, even when he suspects there is something untoward. Dirty linen he would air in private.