Stone Cold Dead (17 page)

The family court was located in the County Administration Building, just one floor above the sheriff’s office. Judge Anthony Albertone, a portly man of about forty with slick, black hair and a Thomas Dewey mustache, entered the room at precisely 10:00 a.m., climbed the two steps up to the bench, and motioned absently for the assembled to take their seats. He retrieved some papers from a leather case, unfolded his half-moon spectacles, and began to read. Then he cleared his throat. He said nothing for the next few minutes, absorbed as he was with his reading, but he had cleared the airways just in case the urge moved him. At length, he whispered something to the bailiff, who nodded and stepped over to the door to the left of the judge. He disappeared inside, only to emerge a few seconds later pushing Joey Figlio before him.

Joey wasn’t shackled—as I had hoped and expected—and looked like a kid heading to school. He shuffled over to the large table in front of the bench wearing a wrinkled blue-and-white panel shirt, buttoned up to the collar, sleeves not quite reaching his bony wrists; brown slacks; and a pair of old, black leather shoes. He looked ahead, seemingly without seeing, with the same witless void in his eyes and anesthetized expression on his face. If he saw me, he didn’t show it.

I’d covered family court for the paper many times in the previous three years. In my experience, New Holland courts worked pragmatically and often quickly, especially in juvenile cases. It wasn’t unusual for the arraignment and fact-finding hearing to take place one after the other without adjournment. That’s why I was present, in case I had to give evidence against my aggressor, that dirty little JD, Joey Figlio.

Stan Pulaski was seated a row behind me. All business, he nodded at me without smiling. He was also in attendance in the event he’d be called to testify about the arrest. Behind Stan, a couple of tired-looking old men and three ladies wrapped in heavy winter coats appeared to be ready for a warm snooze out of the cold. The salacious details of the case might prove to be an entertaining bonus. From a seat near the door, a severe man in his late forties, looking somehow startled and angry at the same time, stared at me as if to trying to see through me. His hair was cropped close to his head, but still stuck up in thorny defiance, and I was sure his pillow played a greater role in his grooming than did his comb. I leaned back and asked Stan Pulaski who the gruff-looking man was, and he told me that it was Joey’s father, Orlando Figlio. As Judge Albertone tapped his gavel to call the court to order, Dr. Arnold Dienst, principal of Fulton Reform School, slipped through the door and took a seat next to Joey’s father. The two exchanged a silent look. They might have been through this before.

The court clerk asked all to sit, and that’s when I noticed Joey’s lawyer. Oh, God. It was Steve Herbert, a man I’d been seeing casually until I decided I’d rather pluck my fingernails out one by one than spend another night in his arms. Wasn’t this some kind of conflict of interest? Shouldn’t he recuse himself ? He threw me the slightest hint of a smile and blinked slowly in a way to suggest everything would be all right. I can’t say for certain, but I must have blushed crimson.

The judge announced that this was an arraignment of Joseph Figlio, a minor, accused of multiple probation violations, grand theft automobile (two counts), and assault with a deadly weapon (the butter knife, two counts). The judge cleared his throat once more and asked Joey if he understood the charges lodged against him. Joey shrugged.

“Is that a yes or a no, young man?” asked Albertone.

Steve Herbert whispered in Joey’s ear, and the boy told the judge, “Sure, I guess so.”

“You guess so?” asked Albertone. “Some of these charges are felonies. These are very serious offenses, young man.”

“Yeah, but I’m a minor,” said Joey, much to the consternation of his counsel. “I can’t get into too much trouble on account of I’m not an adult.”

The judge was taken aback but didn’t have an answer for him. At length, he asked the defendant for his plea.

“Innocent,” said Joey, without consulting his lawyer.

“Very well,” said the judge. “In that case, I will remand the boy without bail to the county jail until the fact-finding hearing can take place.”

“Your Honor,” piped up my pal Steve Herbert. “We ask that the defendant be remanded to the Fulton reformatory instead. Dr. Arnold Dienst, principal of that facility, is present in the courtroom today and will assume responsibility for the boy.”

Damn Steve Herbert! Whose side was he on anyway?

“That’s correct, Your Honor,” piped up Dienst from the back of the room. “I will guarantee the boy’s detention until the fact-finding hearing.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, jumping from my seat. “If the floor is open to all, I’ve got a few things I’d like to add to the record.”

“Sit down, miss!” ordered the judge. “I’ll have order in this courtroom. Now, who are you, exactly?”

“Eleonora Stone, Your Honor. I’m the person whose car that little delinquent stole,” I said. “Twice.”

“Allegedly, Your Honor,” interjected good old Steve.

“All right,” said Albertone. “Procedure will be followed in my court. Now, I see no reason to set bail, as the defendant was already under an order of detention at Fulton at the time of these offenses. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Herbert?”

Joey Figlio tapped Steve Herbert on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Steve stood and addressed the judge.

“My client would like to ask the court a question,” he said.

Judge Albertone frowned, but allowed it. Joey stood and dug his right hand into his trouser pocket to retrieve a wadded-up piece of paper.

“I want to show you that that lady, Ellie Stone, can’t charge me with nothing,” he said. “She wrote me love letters and asked me to take her car.”

“What?” That was me, on my feet again. “Your Honor!”

“It’s all right here, sir,” said Joey, taking a few steps forward and holding out the sheet of paper. The court clerk took it from him and handed it to the judge.

I looked to Steve Herbert for some assistance, but he was watching Judge Albertone, who was reading the paper Joey had produced.

“‘Dear Joey,’” read the judge. “‘Please come to my car and I will help you escape from Fulton. You can take my car and drive it to wherever you want.’”

At this point, I decided to sit down and keep my mouth shut. Joey’s letter was speaking eloquently enough for me.

“‘Also, thank you for the knife for my kitchen,’” continued the judge. “‘It’s a nice present ’cause I said I wanted one for spreading butter on my toast.’”

Judge Albertone peered over his reading glasses at Joey, who looked as inscrutable as ever. “Young man, are you telling me that that young lady over there—Miss Stone, is it?—wrote this letter to you?”

“Yeah,” said Joey. “She digs me.”

“Miss?” the judge asked, looking to me. “Please spell your full name.”

I stood and complied.

“Thank you,” he said then turned back to Joey. “The handwriting on this letter is an abominable scrawl, written in pencil, with many misspellings of simple words. Furthermore, if I am to believe you, Miss Stone has misspelled her own name.” He paused to let his words register. “What do you have to say about that?”

Joey sat silent for a moment, then opined that I was probably too emotional and girlish to get the spelling right.

“Her own name?” asked the judge, incredulous.

Joey shrugged. “Sure. Look at her. She came here today to beg my forgiveness for getting me pinched by the cops.”

Judge Albertone sighed and put down the paper. He shook his head in woe and pursed his lips.

“The defendant will be remanded to the Fulton Reform School for Boys until the date of the fact-finding hearing, which I will schedule for next week. I request that counsel make a recommendation so we can avoid an actual hearing. As for you, Mr. Figlio,” he said, staring down my nemesis, “you will not leave the school grounds, and you will keep your distance from Miss Stone. And, for God’s sake, stop stealing automobiles.”

“Yes, sir,” said Joey. “But please tell her to stop bothering me. My heart belongs to another.”

The judge cracked a smile and shook his head. “Miss Stone, the court hereby instructs you that Mr. Figlio’s heart belongs to another. Try to cope with it.” He pounded his gavel and declared the hearing adjourned.

Joey was escorted from the room, and Dr. Dienst followed him out. Orlando Figlio stayed put in his seat, still watching me in startled anger. Steve Herbert sidled up to me.

“I’ll bet you weren’t expecting to see me,” he said, smiling broadly, flashing his perfect white teeth.

“I certainly wasn’t expecting you to double-cross me,” I said. “That kid should be locked up in the county jail until they can ship him off to Attica.”

“Come on, Ellie,” he said, waving a hand at me. “You’re overreacting, don’t you think? And I was doing my job. The kid deserves a proper defense, doesn’t he?”

“He didn’t throw you out of your car onto the frozen road.”

“He’s not a bad kid, Ellie. Come on, let’s go somewhere quiet for a couple of hours. I don’t have any appointments until after lunch.”

“Start holding your breath, Steve,” I said.

“Don’t you mean, ‘Don’t hold your breath’?”

“No, Steve. I was suggesting you asphyxiate yourself,” I said and turned on my heel.

As I approached the door, Orlando Figlio stood and blocked my exit. I took a step back and scanned the room for the bailiff. He’d already decamped. Why had I been so rude to Steve Herbert?

“Is there a problem, sir?” came a voice behind me. Stan Pulaski. “Is he bothering you, Ellie?”

“No problem, Officer,” said the man. Then to me, “I don’t mean no harm, miss. I’m that no-good boy’s father, and I just want to apologize for the trouble he’s given you.”

“It’s all right, Stan,” I said, dismissing my champion, who seemed unsure about leaving me. He stepped away but watched intently as Joey’s father and I sat down on the bench to talk.

“He’s just no good,” said Mr. Figlio, shaking his head. “I’ve tried to reason with him, tried beating some good behavior into him, but nothing works. He’s just a stubborn little so and so.”

“Can you tell me about his girlfriend?” I asked. “Darleen Hicks.”

“He never brought her around much. Once or twice. She was quiet. Didn’t say much at all to my wife and me. I thought she was a little slow, if you know what I mean.”

“Did they seem happy together?” I asked, wondering how Darleen could seem slow when standing next to Joey Figlio. “Your son says they were in love.”

Orlando Figlio scratched his head, his scruffy eyebrows arching and eyes yawning wide open as if pulled up by strings. “What do kids know about love? Besides, Joey wouldn’t have told me nothing anyway. We don’t talk much.”

“What about his mother? Did Joey confide in her?”

He shrugged. “Sure, I suppose he did. Mother’s a boy’s best friend, after all.”

“Do you suppose I could speak to your wife about Joey?” I asked.

He eyed me with suspicion. “What do you want to know about Joey for anyway?”

“I’m not in love with your son, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “I’m investigating Darleen Hicks’s disappearance, and Joey told me they were planning to get married and run away together. Maybe he said something to your wife.”

Orlando Figlio thought about it then said he didn’t like the idea. “What do you mean, ‘investigating’? What’s a girl like you got to investigate? I just wanted to apologize to you for what my boy did. I didn’t think you’d want to start playing policeman.”

“I’m a reporter for the paper, Mr. Figlio, not a cop,” I said, reaching out and touching his arm. “Trust me. I’m looking for Darleen. I don’t want to investigate Joey.”

He smiled at me and blushed. His teeth were long and gray, but his crazy eyes sparkled, the result of my hand on his arm, surely. There was something about the soft touch of a girl’s hand that he liked. He said he would ask his wife.

“But she’s in Cobleskill visiting her aunt. That’s why she ain’t here. She’ll be home Sunday.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be in touch.”

FRIDAY, JANUARY 6, 1961

The next afternoon, I was at my desk, rolling another sheet of paper into the Underwood. Norma Geary was leaning over my shoulder, waiting for the final version of my story to spirit away to Composition.

“It’s not going to get written any faster with you hovering over me,” I said as I began to type.

“Harry’s waiting,” she said, referring to our typesetter. “If you want this in tomorrow’s edition, it’s got to go now. The entire paper is put to bed except your story and the basketball-game story, which, by the way, is also yours.”

“Jeepers, I must be good,” I said. “How much do they pay me?”

Norma feigned a smile. “They’ve left space for your basketball story. Harry said he’ll fit it in tomorrow morning before going to print. Now, about your Darleen Hicks story . . .”

There wasn’t much left for me to write about except the Trailways receipt and everything its very existence suggested. Once finished, my article would all but close the disappearance of the ninth grader.