Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [9]
"That will be enough," the judge said, looking at Wolfe.
"From who?" she snapped back.
"From both of you. The Court has heard enough. Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars."
The white–haired lawyer smiled.
"Application to surrender his passport, Your Honor"—from Wolfe.
"Your Honor, I really don't think…"
"Granted," said the judge.
One of the fancy lawyer's assistants walked over to the clerk to make the bail arrangements as they brought me forward for my turn. The white–haired lawyer walked up to Wolfe. "My client…"
"Tell him to go play with his nitrous oxide," Wolfe snarled at him. She looked up as Davidson stepped in next to me. A lovely woman, tall and shapely, her dark hair drawn back from her face, streaks of white like wings sweeping through it. Our eyes met. She said something out of the side of her mouth to the heavyweight who was with her. Swept her papers into a big briefcase and walked away. We all watched her leave, spike heels clicking on the old marble floor.
The heavyweight stepped in next to me, barrel chest against my shoulder. "You got money on the books?" You go down broke, you stay broke. Wolfe knew what you have to do to get cigarette money inside jail. And she didn't want me doing it. The kind of law enforcement they never taught her in the DA's Office.
I nodded. He left to follow Wolfe, covering her back like he always does.
I shook hands with Davidson. "You didn't make a statement," he said, making one of his own.
The ADA who took Wolfe's place was a young guy. Tired–looking. Mustache too big for his face. The B Team detective was standing next to him, looking more like a lawyer than anyone else there.
The judge stared down from the bench. I stared back—I'd seen him before. One of those "why not the best?" political appointees who climbed the ladder using Preparation H for lip gloss. "Gentlemen…any point in discussing this?" He wasn't talking to me.
The ADA started to approach the bench.
Davidson stayed where he was. "No" is all he said.
The ADA went back to his stand. "Judge, the charge is Murder Two. The defendant has an extensive criminal history, including the use of firearms to commit violence. He has no roots in the community, and there is a significant possibility he will flee before trial."
Davidson's face was already red. "What trial? There isn't going to be a trial, Judge. This was a pretextual arrest, and the People know it. Or they should know it. This case won't survive the Grand Jury. I examined these so–called papers I was handed an hour ago," he barked, waving the yellow–backed sheaf that signaled Felony. "My client is alleged to have killed one Robert Morgan, whoever that is, several months ago. Period. I don't see a hint of what this arrest was based on: no statements, no evidence…we aren't even told how this person allegedly died…was he shot, stabbed, stomped, poisoned…what? My client was arrested on the street. If he was going to flee, he's had enough time to circle the globe, much less leave New York. Where's the connection between this Robert Morgan and my client? Where's the motive? Hell, where's the body?" he sneered, looking directly at the detective. Telling him he knew.
The judge was unmoved—he only jumped for state senators on up. "Mr. Gonzales?" he asked the ADA.
"Your Honor, Mr. Davidson knows he can file discovery motions and learn the substance of the People's case. This is an arraignment, not a trial."
"Probable cause!" shouted Davidson.
"We don't need probable cause for an arraignment!"
"You need it for a damn arrest!"
"Gentlemen! Approach the bench, please."
I couldn't hear what they were saying. Davidson kept shoving his husky body at the ADA, his face turning as dark as his beard. The ADA kept shrugging his shoulders, tilting his head toward the detective. The judge called the detective up front. Listened, a flat, skeptical look on his face.
Davidson came back to the counsel table. Whispered "Three days" under his breath.
The judge swept the tables with his eyes. "The defendant is