Andrew Vachss - Down Here

“How about forensics?” Davidson boomed, on full boil now. “Got any of that ? You got a weapon? Fingerprints? Fibers? Blood spatter? What? Come on! If you’ve got it, bring it! Give this court one lousy piece of evidence besides what some scumbag supposedly said to some unnamed cop, I’ll drop my bail application right now, how’s that?”

“Oh, this is perfect,” Hauser said, scribbling and chuckling at the same time. “Lansing’s trying to do push-ups in quicksand, and Davidson keeps stepping on his head.”

“Your Honor! I must protest. Counsel’s description of a gunshot victim as a ‘scumbag’ is well beyond the bounds of—”

“Tell this court that this ‘victim’ of yours isn’t a convicted rapist, and I’ll apologize,” Davidson said. “You think just because you conveniently forget to mention it we couldn’t find out on our own?”

“Good one!” Hauser said, absently, intent on his writing.

“He’s a serial rapist, judge,” Davidson said, passionately. “With victims scattered all over the city. If you’re looking for someone with a good motive to shoot Wychek, you don’t have to look past—”

Wolfe stood up quickly, tugged sharply at Davidson’s sleeve, shutting off the lava flow. She pulled at his lapel, whispered something in his ear.

“Judge,” the DA said, “there’s the statement. . . .”

“ What damn statement?” Davidson shot back. “There’s nothing in writing. All the People have is a word he spoke. Supposedly spoke. One word. ‘Wolf.’ That could mean anything, Your Honor. ‘Wolf’ can be a first name, too. There’s probably a couple of thousand of them in the Manhattan phone book alone. And it’s a common street name, too.”

“That’s ridic—” the DA said.

“I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous,” Davidson stepped in. “Charging a citizen on crap that’s not even going to get past the Grand Jury. For all we know, the victim was saying he sold one too many ‘wolf’ tickets, and someone popped him for it.”

“Your Honor!” the DA protested.

Davidson rolled on, undeterred, spreading his arms wide in a “look how reasonable I’m being” gesture. “Judge, the purpose of bail is to ensure the defendant’s presence at trial. The People aren’t even going to pretend they believe my client is going to flee the jurisdiction. The so-called victim could be in a coma for months, for all we know. When he recovers, or when the DA’s Office finally kicks loose enough information for us to prove Ms. Wolfe couldn’t possibly have done this, who is going to compensate my client for all that time out of her life then?”

“Do you have an updated medical report?” the judge asked the DA.

“As of . . .” Lansing replied, glancing at his watch, “two hours ago, the victim’s condition was unchanged.”

The judge eye-swept the front rows, picking out the press like a pigeon pecking edible morsels off an alley floor. “In view of all the competing considerations placed before this court, bail is set . . .” He paused for effect. “. . . in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars.”

“Judge . . .” Davidson began.

“That’s all, counsel,” the judge said, banging his gavel lightly.

“Very cute,” Hauser said, in disgust. “He knows any remand would get overturned by the Appellate Division, but he doesn’t want anyone saying he gave special consideration to a former prosecutor. So he sets bail, but makes it a monster. How is Wolfe going to raise—?”

“Your Honor,” Wolfe said, on her feet, “may I be heard?”

“Is the defendant discharging her counsel and going pro se ?” Lansing asked snidely, playing to the gallery.

“Ms. Wolfe is my co -counsel, judge,” Davidson shot back. “As such, she is—”

“I will hear you, Ms. Wolfe,” Hutto said. “Briefly.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Wolfe said, her courtroom-honed voice knifing through the buzz and hum from the back benches. “I understand you’ve already made your ruling concerning bail. And though I anticipate, with all respect, that your decision will not withstand appeal, my purpose in addressing this court concerns my conditions of confinement while awaiting release.”

“Do you wish to be held in protective custody?” Hutto asked.

“No, judge. That doesn’t concern me. I have every confidence that the Department of Corrections will see to my safety.”

Wolfe deliberately turned sideways, making it clear she wasn’t speaking only to the judge. “What I wish to place on the record is that I am not going to discuss this so-called case with anyone other than my own attorney. I am not going to be having any private conversations with inmates, correctional officers, or anyone else while I am confined.”

Wolfe shifted her body some more, virtually turning her back on the judge. “So, if the DA’s Office trots out some jailhouse snitch who claims I ‘confessed’ to them, everyone will know that such a statement is pure perjury.”

“Christ, she’s beautiful!” Hauser whispered to me.

“Judge, that is an outrage, ” Lansing yelled. “The defendant has just accused our office of—”

“—trying to rescue your garbage cases with testimony from jailhouse informants?” Wolfe sneered at him. “You’ve got that right.”

“Ms. Wolfe,” the judge said, mildly, “you have placed your statement on the record. And now, if there are no further—”

“The People demand an apology!” Lansing shouted.

“You going to give me one, when the truth comes out?” Wolfe shouted back.

“You mean, when they let it out!” Davidson out-volumed her.

“Take the defendant,” the judge told the court officer.

“Talk to you later,” I told Hauser, pulling out my cell phone and hitting the speed-dial number.

My Plymouth was waiting out back. When I saw Clarence behind the wheel, I knew Mama had passed the word.

I climbed in next to him. The Prof and Max were in the backseat.

“Did she get to go, bro?” the Prof asked me.

“No,” I said, shaking my head so Max would pick up on it, too. “They set her bail at a half-million.” For Max, I held up both hands, fingers spread, to indicate “ten.” Then I pointed toward the sky, for “power,” and held up one hand plus one thumb. “Ten to the sixth” means a million to anyone raised on street-shorthand. I sliced my hand down, signifying “half.” Max nodded.

“Mama’s holding enough of mine for the points,” I told them. “But I don’t know how long it would take for her to put her hands on the green. And we’ll still need a bondsman who’ll write the paper for a number that high.”

“Big Nate?” the Prof said.

“He’s the only one I know I could lean on that hard,” I agreed.

“You who ?” the Prof said. “Big Nate won’t get on the case if he don’t know your face, Schoolboy. Burke be dead, remember?”

“That’s what they say about Wesley, too, Prof,” I said, very soft. “What some say?”

“You going to be the ghost with the most, huh? All right, son. Let’s ride.”

That night, Wesley was riding with us. He had once been the most feared assassin in the city. An artist of death. His reputation went all the way back, and not a word of it was a lie. Wesley was the ultimate contract man. The only way he ever interacted with the human race was to remove some of it.

Wesley didn’t make statements. He just made people dead. And he only did it for money. Nobody ever saw him; nobody ever wanted to. Everything was done over phones and dead-drops.