Andrew Vachss: Down Here

“Pretty scummy, all right. But where does Wolfe come in? All she did was prosecute him. And she doesn’t work for the DA’s Office anymore.”

“No. But she got a letter there. From Wychek. After he got out.”

“And . . . ?”

“I haven’t seen a copy, but it pretty much laughed at her. ‘You stupid fucking cunt’ was one of his favorite phrases. He walked the line pretty good. Said someone ‘should’ fuck her to death for how she prosecuted an innocent man, but he didn’t say he was going to do it. And he danced around a lot, hinting that he had done a lot of women, and could do more. Nothing you could prosecute him on, but real scary stuff.”

“And the cops say Wolfe gunned him down for writing that letter? Hell, if she shot every freak who wrote her a letter like that, she’d make Charles Manson look like a jaywalker.”

“The timing is bad,” Davidson said. “But, by itself, it’s nothing, you’re right. Only thing is, whoever shot him didn’t do a good enough job. The EMTs got him going, but then they lost him again, into a coma. Supposedly, before he lapsed out, he said it was Wolfe who shot him. That’s their case.”

“ I’m taking a guess,” a man said, behind us.

Both Davidson and I turned around.

Hauser. Dressed in a blue chalk-striped suit, with a white shirt and a wine-colored tie. His beard was gone, but I’d have known him anywhere.

“What’s up?” Davidson asked, reaching over to shake hands. He and Hauser went way back. Not close, but friendly.

“I was supposed to meet someone here tonight,” Hauser said. “Figured I might find him where I found you.”

“You did,” I told him. “Come on over.”

Hauser got up, walked around, and sat down next to me.

“You got something?” I asked him.

“I—”

“They’re bringing her out!” Davidson hard-whispered, getting to his feet.

Atall, lanky court officer walked Wolfe over to the counsel table like he was escorting a prom date. Her long dark hair glistened as if she’d just stepped out of a salon, trademark white wings flowing back from her high forehead. She was wearing a white silk sheath, adorned only with a single black spiral stripe, weaving around her body like a protective snake.

Wolfe always wore black-and-white outfits when she summed up before a jury. Combat clothes, hammering home her message: No “shades of gray” here, people. Bruiser’s performance must have bought her enough time to change.

“Christ, look at her!” Hauser said admiringly. “It’s like it’s her courtroom.”

The ADA who had been at the counsel table all night was suddenly replaced by a much older man, all spiffed out. They read out the charges: attempted murder, assault one, and a bunch of other tacked-on crap nobody paid any attention to.

“That’s Russ Lansing,” Hauser whispered to me. “Been with the DA’s Office a hundred years. He’s no trial man, but he won’t make any mistakes with the press, I promise you that.”

“You know the judge?” I asked him.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Hauser said. “But only because I covered a trial he presided over. Leonard Hutto.”

“You covered a case in criminal court?”

“Brooklyn Supreme,” Hauser said. “A celebrity divorce. Hutto’s a cut above the usual politico that ends up with a bench seat as a reward for loyalty. A good law man. Probably just here tonight on rotation.”

“I’ll hear from the People on bail,” the judge said.

“Given the extraordinary circumstances of this case, the People ask for the defendant to be remanded, Your Honor,” the spiffy man intoned.

“What’s extraordinary is that Ms. Wolfe has even been arrested, ” Davidson bellowed. “These charges are absurd on their face. In addition, Ms. Wolfe has significant roots in the community. She is a homeowner, a taxpayer, a woman with a long record of public service and no criminal history of any kind. Remand, judge? This nonsense should be ROR’ed.”

“What is the basis of the People’s application?” the judge asked, the soul of judicialness, playing to the press.

“The victim was shot three times!” the spiffy old ADA said. “Clearly, the intent was to kill him. But the basis of our application for remand is that this may well become a homicide, even as we stand here before this court. The victim lapsed into a coma, from which he may not recover. And if he does not, the charge will be murder in the second degree, for which remand is mandatory.”

“That’s a speech,” Davidson said. “Not evidence.”

“The evidence . . .” the ADA said, pausing for effect, “is that, just before the victim lost consciousness, he specifically identified the defendant as the shooter.”

“How do we know that?” Davidson demanded. “The People don’t have the victim’s statement, Your Honor. They’ve got some cop’s statement, saying what the victim allegedly said. And even if such a statement was actually made,” he went on, his voice so heavy with sarcasm that it would have taken a team of Clydesdales to pull it, “it’s garbage on its face.”

The ADA jumped from his seat. “A dying declaration—”

“—has to be made by someone who’s dead, ” Davidson finished for him. “I haven’t been given a scrap of discovery, judge. I thought the DA’s Office had this new policy. You know, the one they did all the press releases about? They were going to front-end everything, try and get all the pleas pre -indictment. I guess they don’t bother when they know they don’t have a case.”

“Your Honor!”

“Yes, Mr. Lansing? It seems counsel for the defendant has a point, don’t you agree? Has it not been the policy of your office to offer at least basic discovery at arraignments, for the purpose of expediting the process?”

“It . . . it has, Your Honor. But because things happened so quickly in this matter—”

Davidson fired back, “So quick you don’t know where or when the so-called victim was shot? Judge,” he said, spreading his arms wide, as if to encompass the entire courthouse, “if we even knew when this supposed assault took place, we could probably walk out of here tonight, and the police could go back to looking for the actual assailant. For example, if the assault took place this past Thursday, Ms. Wolfe was delivering the keynote address at the national VAWA Conference in Washington, D.C.”

“What’s this ‘VAWA’?” the ADA said.

“Fucking moron,” Hauser muttered under his breath.

“That would be the Violence Against Women Act, counselor,” Davidson sneered at him. “You know, the federal legislation?” He turned back to the bench. “But that isn’t the point, Your Honor. What we are saying is that Ms. Wolfe may well have the kind of alibi that would convince even this office to concentrate its efforts elsewhere, but the DA’s deliberate withholding of basic discovery while simultaneously asking for a remand is a joke. A dirty joke.”

“Mr. Lansing?” the judge said, in a voice that told you he was raising his eyebrows as he spoke.

“We . . . we don’t know the exact time of the shooting, Your Honor. The victim was . . . discovered by a visitor, lying in a comatose state.”

“So that’s why you didn’t put my client in a lineup, huh?” Davidson half shouted. “Because there isn’t one single eyewitness to any of this. You’re asking to lock up my client with no bail, and you’ve got nothing. ”

“Judge,” Lansing squawked, “I don’t have to—”