Steve Martini - The Judge

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.

Gus Lano is abrasive and a bully. In circumstances involving conflict he can be seen doing facial high fives with his own ego after scoring any point on an adversary. He is crude one moment, and smug and self-righteous the next, in the way that only overbearing middle-aged men can be. In a word, he would have made a wonderful trial lawyer.

When Harry and I are finally ushered into Lano’s office it is almost five o’clock. We have been cooling our heels in his antechamber for nearly an hour. He is seated behind a large redwood burl desk, made of polished wood, with a galaxy of grains running in every direction-a star guide to the man’s personal ambitions.

Hovering behind are two of his underlings, part of the shadow army of subordinates who follow him as if he were Moses, passing through the Red Sea on the way to labor’s promised land. These are people from the scorched-earth school of collective bargaining-slash-and-burn types who will go to any excess to achieve a purpose. Recently there have been rumblings from the underground. A group calling itself the OLA, “Officers Liberation Army,” a splinter of Lano’s forces, no doubt, has taken to publishing the private telephone numbers and addresses of captains and others who are part of police management, with maps to their homes. To Lano and his crowd the thought of a Gray Line tour of ex-cons with your private number and home address is just a little something to give you pause during bargaining sessions.

One of Lano’s cohorts puffs on a cigarette, dripping ash like Vesuvius on Lano’s shoulder. He hands his boss papers and whispers in his ear as Harry and I sit biding our time, waiting to converse with labor’s guru.

This is all done at public expense, since they are on the city payroll at all times, peace officers given time off to conduct union activities. They have interpreted this to mean full time. It seems those responsible for managing city finances lack the mettle to match Lano’s mendacity.

“You’d think it was the council’s own goddamn money the way they hoard it,” says Lano. He is not speaking to anyone in particular, other than perhaps the God whose name he has just profaned.

“Two percent cost of living, after a freeze last year, and they call it generous,” he says. He tugs a little on the sleeve of his cashmere sweater. Labor cannot be seen in suits. It is not done.

He juggles scraps of paper with numbers on them. From their conversation it is evident that these are the latest figures from a marathon bargaining session that collapsed last evening, crushing the hopes of a state mediator.

Harry is with me because I would not dare to venture here alone. He will vouch for what I say against Lano’s two attendants.

I do not know if they have been called before the grand jury, or if so, what they may have said. But I will not have it claimed later that I attempted to tamper with witnesses. On this, Harry is my prover.

“You represent Officer Arguillo,” says Lano. “I hope Tony’s getting his money’s worth. So what brings you here?”

“The scene of the crime,” I tell him.

I get big eyes looking at me from across the desk.

“What crime?” he says.

“I thought maybe you could tell me. Tony’s problems seemed to start with his involvement in the union.”

“Problems? Somebody having problems?” He leans back, spinning in a slow arc in his chair, head tilted back against the rest, a lot of laughter and hearty bullshit between Lano and his two echoes. No problems they know of.

“I’m unaware of any problem,” he says.

“The grand jury,” I tell him.

“Ah, that,” he says. “On hold.” He says it as if this has been arranged with all the difficulty of punching a button on his phone. Which is probably how he arranged it. Whether or not Lano is behind the Coconut’s latest legal misfortunes is not clear. But it is crystalline that he would have the world believe he is. The powers of illusion.

“On hold maybe for the time being,” I tell him.

“Yeah. While they scrape the judge off the wall.” This from Lano. There’s a lot of sniggering and slinking around by the two slugs behind him, moving and feinting like college jocks who just fed a ball for a slam dunk.

“Wonder what he wears under his robes?” says one of them.

Lano looks down at his own crotch. “Whoa, it shrunk.” A lot of laughter. There’s some dribble down Lano’s chin as his tongue searches to recover it.

Harry and I could join in this frivolity, but it might be unseemly. Somehow to have a common enemy with Gus Lano makes me feel unclean.

“How is it that Tony ended up doing the union’s books?” I ask him. “You guys couldn’t afford a CPA?”

“Why pay when it’s free?” he says. “We trust Tony. Don’t we?” Looking up, a chorus of nods.