The Judgment (7 page)

Ernie was coming back from a job in Detroit. It had been hot, gooey work and he needed a shower and a few quick beers. So he was in a hurry and drove that way. A Kerry County sheriff’s deputy clocked him at seventy in a fifty-five-mile-an-hour zone and pulled him over. The policeman asked to see Ernie’s truck registration and when Ernie opened the glove compartment to get the document, a .38-caliber pistol fell out.

The policeman asked if the gun belonged to Ernie. Ernie said no, he was just holding it for a friend named George. He didn’t know George’s last name.

Ernie got the speeding ticket and was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. This weapon, loaded, had its serial number filed off and the presumption was that it was stolen or had been used in a felony. There were several possible charges. The police were content with bringing the felony charge of carrying a concealed weapon.

Ernie confessed to me that he had bought the gun in Detroit on the street for fifty bucks and that he only stuck the pistol in the truck when he had to drive in the dark and dangerous streets of Detroit. He had no record except for an old conviction for driving under the influence. The prosecutor would not agree to a plea. Guns had become a political issue in Pickeral Point, so no pleas were being accepted, except in rare circumstances.

Which brought all of us to the courthouse on a sunny morning, so sunny that the snow of the night before had already begun to melt.

Jury selection went quickly. The prosecutor excused a man who was a longtime member of the National Rifle
Association, and I kicked off a lady who said she hated guns and anyone who owned one. Otherwise, the jury was run-of-the-mill, all Pickeral Point people who lived and worked in our small community. Both sides said they were satisfied.

Ernie Barker, a man in his late thirties, looked uncomfortable in what I suspected was his only suit. Ernie’s world was not populated by people in suits. He associated with men like himself, people who worked hard and asked very little of life except a friendly bar, beer, and hamburgers.

The idea of prison frightened Ernie, and sitting next to me at the counsel table, he looked ready to faint. He kept sneaking glances at the jury, the twelve people who would decide if he was to return to tar roofs, or something much more confining.

The deputy who arrested Ernie spoke in a quiet but firm voice. He was experienced, and it showed. I pretended that I didn’t believe the gun fell out of the glove compartment, but he ignored me and answered in a way that denied me the opportunity to raise the question of illegal search. I sensed the jury believed him, too, so I let the matter drop. Ernie had told me that the gun, indeed, had fallen out, just as the policeman said.

The policeman was the prosecutor’s case. The gun was introduced into evidence, and the prosecutor tried to make Ernie appear like the progeny of Al Capone by commenting on the missing serial number.

Then it was my turn. He would make a nervous witness, but he had no major record, so I put Ernie on the stand. I led him through the preliminary questions, quickly establishing who he was and what he did for a living.

“You told the police you got the gun from a man named George,” I said. “Is that true?”

He sadly shook his head. “Not exactly, no.”

“Where did you get the gun?”

“I bought it from a colored guy in Detroit. I think his name was George, but it was the only time I saw him. I
was working on a job when this guy comes up and asks me if I wanted to buy a gun. He showed it to me and said it would cost fifty bucks. Bullets included.”

“And what did you do, if anything?”

He hesitated, glanced over at the jury and then back at me. “I do a lot of work in Detroit. It’s a dangerous place. I myself have seen two gunfights, honest to God. Anyway, this guy said everyone in Detroit carried one and that I should, too, just to even up my chances of survival. Like I say, it’s a dangerous place, so I bought it.”

“Did you always carry it in the truck?”

He shook his head. “No. Just when I had to go into Detroit.”

“Ever fire it?”

“No.”

“Did you ever tell anyone you had it?”

“Show it off, you mean?”

“Whatever.”

“No. Even my wife didn’t know I had the damn thing.”

“That’s all I have,” I said to the court.

The prosecutor tried to make a lot about the filed-off numbers. Ernie told him he didn’t know about that. He didn’t know much about guns, period. It was a good answer and it shut up the prosecutor. Then we argued. The prosecutor, who has the burden of proving guilt beyond reasonable doubt, went first. He made a standard argument. If the jury didn’t convict Ernie, he said, it would send a signal to the street and soon Pickeral Point would be alive with gunfights and gunfighters. His summation was more political than legal, although he did mention they had proved every essential point needed for conviction.

Of course, they had, which made things a bit difficult for me. I abandoned the facts and argued that anyone who worked in the dangerous streets of Detroit needed to be armed.

The prosecutor tried Ernie Barker.

I tried the city of Detroit.

Frankly, I thought I did a better job.

The jury must have thought so, too. They came in with a compromise verdict, finding Ernie guilty of possessing an unregistered gun, misdemeanor.

The judge sternly lectured Ernie about the evils of pistols, which was a little hypocritical since I happened to know the judge carried a small chrome automatic at all times.

He gave Ernie six months’ probation and a three-hundred-dollar fine and ordered the gun confiscated.

I thought Ernie was going to lick my hand.

I hurried back to my office.

The jury trial had been a good way to warm up for the Conroy examination. While just a handful had been present to witness Ernie Barker’s case, it seemed that scores of the curious and the press of the entire western world had turned up for a look at Deputy Chief Conroy. The local contingent was out in strength, but also in attendance were camera and press crews from the New York tabloids and even a writer for one of the big British newspapers. Big-city graft, big-city cops—it was a strong brew. Dope money taken and stolen. It was the kind of thing where the headlines practically wrote themselves.

Conroy, again pursuant to my instructions, was decked out in his dress uniform. He looked calm but grim. His wife was with him, a nice woman, a bit stout, but attractive. She was very quiet.

“Does she know about Mary Margaret Tucker?” I whispered to Conroy.

“I told her,” he said. “She said she’d stick with me through the trial, but then she’s going to get a divorce.”

“Can you blame her?”

“No. I guess I can’t.”

I didn’t know the judge, James Horner, a young black man who had just been appointed to the 36th District Court, the one that had jurisdiction over examination in Detroit felonies. He seemed to know what he was doing,
although his manner was just a bit too crisp and a bit too authoritative. He would have to run for election, and the publicity resulting from the case was like a political donation, a big one. He wasn’t about to risk such advantage. This would be all business.

We started on time. The courtroom was jammed.

It was a big case, too, for the assistant prosecutor assigned. He had been picked to try the case on the recommendation of the mayor. Benjamin Timothy, the assistant prosecutor, was just thirty and a graduate of Yale. Despite his Ivy League background, he apparently enjoyed rolling around the dirty floors of criminal courts and had earned a fierce reputation. He had his eye on high office, and the Conroy case was going to be his ladder up.

Timothy was rail thin and wore his hair close clipped. He had a quick smile, but it seemed more mechanical than genuine. He was all business, too, as he led a procession of city officials to the stand, one after another, all testifying to the regulations regarding city funds, audits, and procedure.

It was all as dull as toenail clippings, but the kid prosecutor was doing a good job building the technical side of his case. I looked around for Conroy’s erstwhile pal, Ralph “the Mouse” Smerka.

“He’s not in the courtroom,” Conroy whispered, as if reading my mind. “They have him parked in an office upstairs.”

The officials finally completed the testimony. I had asked few questions. I didn’t want to swim in the murky accountant-filled waters, at least not yet.

It was time for the main witness.

Conroy remained at the counsel table, but I gave a brief interview to the man from
The New York Times.
He was looking for color. I gave him as much as I could, at least some color that would help our side of the case.

The judge rapped for order, and we all resumed our places.

The Mouse came in through a side door. It was like the
entry of a human mountain. He was a courtroom veteran and he looked out with complete self-assurance at the assembled people; it was as if he had called them there himself.

Like Conroy, his face was calm and stern. Veteran cops had veteran faces.

He took the oath, then squeezed himself into the witness chair. It creaked in protest.

“What is your name, please?” the prosecutor asked.

“Ralph Smerka.”

“Are you employed?”

“Yes. I’m a Detroit police officer.”

“And your rank?”

“Detective Sergeant.”

“Sergeant Smerka, what was your last assignment?”

The Mouse sat quietly. His face was the kind that gives small children nightmares. Whether acquired on the football field or by genetics, his features looked as if each had been broken several times. Hollywood would have cast him as a gangster, a very mean, very tough gangster.

He paused, then spoke. “I was a member of the chiefs’ squad, assigned to Deputy Chief Mark Conroy.”

“How long were you assigned?”

“Three years. I came to the squad when Conroy was made deputy chief.”

“You served as his assistant before that, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“As a member of the chiefs’ squad, were you assigned to handle a special fund?”

I stood up. “Objection,” I said. “The question is leading.”

“Sustained,” the judge snapped.

The prosecutor looked unruffled. “What duties were you assigned as a member of the chiefs’ squad?”

“A number of duties, whatever Chief Conroy wanted me to do. I handled the W-91 Fund.”

“Please tell the court what that fund was for.”

The Mouse looked relaxed, as if this was just another
day in a routine job. “When narcotics or a precinct confiscated cash money as part of a raid, we took that cash and applied it to the W-91 Fund.”

“What does that mean, W-91?”

“The
W
stands for witness.
91
was the year we started. It sounds mysterious, but it isn’t.”

“The cash was brought into you by the arresting officers?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Did they get a receipt?”

“Always.”

“What was the purpose of the fund?”

“We bought information.”

“What kind of information?”

“The names of drug dealers, how drug networks worked, that sort of thing.”

“How much money was collected, if you know?”

“Total?”

“Yes.”

“A million and a half, roughly.”

“All cash?”

“Yes.”

“How much is left?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you keep the money in a bank?”

“No. In a safe in Chief Conroy’s office.”

“Who had access to that safe?”

“The combination was known to the chief and myself, no one else.”

“Did you make any payouts yourself?”

“Under the direction of the chief.”

“Did you keep books?”

“No. It was a secret fund. Books would have showed who got the money. We wanted to protect our informers. No books were kept.”

“Did you take any of the money for yourself?”

“No.”

“Did the chief?”

There was a pause. The courtroom was absolutely quiet.

“The chief took money, yes.”

“In cash?”

“Always.”

“What happened to the money that the chief took?”

“Objection,” I said, setting up. “He’s calling for conjecture at best. He’s laid no foundation for the question.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

I sat down. “Tennis rules,” Conroy whispered in my ear.

“Did the chief, Conroy, ever tell you what he took the money for?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what did he say, if anything?”

The Mouse was expressionless. “He said sometimes the money was going to informants he was running himself.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Objection,” I snapped.

“Sustained. Stick to facts, not belief,” the judge said. “Continue.”

“What were some of the other uses he said he found for the money?”

“He gave money to Mary Margaret Tucker.” For just a moment, the Mouse seemed uncomfortable, but then the mask slid back in place.

“Who is Mary Margaret Tucker?”

“His girlfriend, or she was.”

“Objection,” I said. “I see no foundation laid for this testimony. It’s not relevant.”

“Overruled,” the judge said. “I presume you’re going to tie this all up, Mr. Timothy?”

“I will, Your Honor.”

“Go on, then.”

Timothy did a good job, extracting from Smerka the beginning details of the romance, and detailing the financial arrangement between Conroy and the girl.

I glanced back at Mrs. Conroy. Her face was just as calm and grim as her husband’s.

Finally, Timothy quit the Tucker girl and had Mouse testify to other payments—cars, vacations, and other luxury items—all paid for by Conroy, according to the Mouse, with the confiscated public money.

On cross-examination I tried to dent the Mouse a little, but he didn’t budge. I tried to get him to admit that he, too, had tapped the special fund, but he denied it. There was no jury, so there was no need for a show. It went quickly, too quickly.

We didn’t waste much time arguing. There was no need to. The judge bound Conroy over on the main charges, and continued his personal bond.