Strega - Andrew H. Vachss [29]
Most of the time the D.A.'s office wouldn't even think about prosecuting a guy like this. They got more excuses than Richard Nixon: the guy's the family breadwinner, the trial would be too tough on the kid, all that crap. The bottom line is that they don't want to mess with their sacred conviction rates—most of these family–style sex cases only get prosecuted when the perpetrator confesses, and even then the D.A.'s office doesn't get too worked up about it. After all, the family unit is the bedrock of America.
But they finally formed this new unit—City–Wide Special Victims Bureau. It's supposed to cover all crimes against children, in all courts. I heard the D.A. in this case was really going to go for it, and I wanted to see for myself.
I walked in all dressed up: dark–blue pinstripe, white shirt, dark–red tie, polished black shoes—even an attaché case. I wasn't carrying a piece—in the Supreme Court, they use metal detectors at the entrance because some politically wired judge complained about the dangerous radicals who might invade his courtroom and shoot it out with the guards. This happens in the Supreme Court about every other century, but you can't be too careful. On the other hand, right across the street in the Family Court, the average litigant carries some kind of weapon and violence is an everyday thing, but there's no metal detectors. That's New York—even the names of the courts are total bullshit—the lowest trial court is the "Supreme" Court, and the place where we turn abused kids into monsters is the "Family" Court. In this city, the name means more than the game.
The Assistant District Attorney was one I hadn't seen before—a tall brunette with a white streak in her thick mane of swept–back hair, wearing a gray silk dress and a string of pearls. She had a sweet face, but her eyes were cold. She wasn't from the Manhattan office—I guess they sent her over because she was handling another case against the same guy over in Queens or something. The court officers all seemed to know her, though, so I guess she was a trial veteran—those are the only ones they remember.
I sat in the front row—the one reserved for attorneys only. Nobody asked any questions—they never do.
The defense attorney was a real piece of work. His haircut cost more than my suit, and diamonds flashed from everywhere. It looked like it was only going to be a hearing on bail, and the lawyer had a long list of reasons why his man should be let back out on the street—the defendant was employed, sole support of his family, active in Little League.. and that stuff. He looked like a weasel. His eyes darted around the courtroom—caught mine, and dropped. His wife wasn't even there.
The only person I recognized was the court reporter—the guy who takes down everything they say on one of those machines that don't make any noise. He was a tall guy with big hands, slumped over his machine. He'd gone to Vietnam about the same time I last went to prison, and it burned him out. I'd watched him a lot of times and he never changed expression, no matter what went down. I asked him about that once and he told me the courtroom was the same as 'Nam—only here they did it with words instead of with bullets.
The argument went on and on, and then the defense attorney made a mistake. He put his client on the stand, figuring the guy's long list of social contacts would get over on the judge. And it might have too, until the D.A. took her shot.
She stood up at her table and began questioning the creep in a soft voice, just background questions about his job, and where he'd be staying while waiting for trial—crap like that. She shuffled through some papers at the table as if she couldn't think of the next question to ask; then she took a step closer to him.
"Sir, on April twenty–fifth, did you enter your wife's home?"
"It's my home," the creep smirked, "I paid for it…I'm still paying the mortgage on it."
"Objection, Your Honor," said the defense attorney. "What does this have to do with a bail application?"
"It has to do with credibility," shot back the