Down Here (4 page)

“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—”

“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.

M
y 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.”

T
hat 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.

I’d known Wesley since we were little kids. Both State-raised, without parents we ever knew. Back then, I was always scared. I was incubated in terror, and it took only a glance, a gesture, or even a smell to open the floodgates inside me.

But nothing scared Wesley. Fear is a feeling. “I’m not a man,” he told me once. “I’m a bomb.”

When I was a young man, he was everything I ever wanted to be. Ice-cold, remorseless, never-miss efficient. You could kill Wesley—at least, that’s what
some
people thought—but you could never hurt him.

I finally found my family. The one I chose; the one that chose me. Wesley never looked for kin. Only for targets. No friends, no family, no home. And, finally, no reason to be here anymore.

The end kicked off when a Mafia don named Torenelli didn’t pay Wesley for some work. Bodies started dropping all over the city, all family men. Torenelli went into hiding. Wesley kept killing, sending the message. When that didn’t make the Mob give him up, Wesley decapitated Torenelli’s daughter, right in her own upscale co-op. Telling them he didn’t play by their Hollywood “code.” Rules and roles didn’t matter to a man who believed the difference between a priest and a pimp wasn’t what they sold, only what they charged.

Then Torenelli played his last card. An old viper named Julio I’d known since prison. Years before, Julio had hired me to do something about a freak who was sex-stalking his niece. That was a straightforward job, and I got it done easy enough. Julio said he had hired me, instead of using one of his own men, because he was Old School—you never mixed private business with family business. It had sounded right when he said it.

But when Julio hired me to meet Wesley, offer him whatever money the assassin wanted to call off the hit on Torenelli, I knew I was being middled. Just carrying the offer would be enough to convince Wesley I had gone over.

It didn’t happen like that. Julio thought Wesley and I were stalking each other, but what we were doing was making a trade.

After a while, they all got dead.

That should have ended it. But by then, Wesley’s hell-bound train had finally jumped the tracks. A decade before Columbine became an American nightmare, Wesley walked into a suburban high school with enough ordnance to take out every living creature in the place. After lobbing some grenades, then gunning down dozens of random victims, he released a deadly gas from the truck he had driven to the scene.

While the cops thought they were still negotiating with the maniac they had trapped inside, Wesley climbed to the roof of the high school. Before the police helicopters could even get off a shot, he held a bunch of dynamite sticks taped together over his head, like a psycho version of the Statue of Liberty, and blew himself into atoms.

We watched him go. Live on TV. It was on every channel, just like when they cover a war.

The package arrived a couple of weeks later: a nine-by-twelve flat envelope, thick with paper.
His dark thumbprint was at the bottom of the last page.