curt order to check them out.
“You want what, boss? Rap sheets, interviews …”
“Both.”
“You know I gotta buy the rap sheets.” He glanced at the list. “Number of people you got down, we’re lookin’ at a grand. At least.”
“Thelma’s check’ll clear in a couple of days.”
Julie waved a stripped chicken wing in my direction. “Don’t forget, we’ve got rent to pay on both places. Not to mention the note on the furniture.”
“Thank you for sharing that,” I said. “Let’s hope you’re paying as much attention to the solutions as you are to the problems.”
It was Julie’s task to prepare rough drafts of the various written documents we’d file within fifteen days after Priscilla’s arraignment. These included a demand letter asking for the prosecution’s witness list as well as police reports, autopsy results, and forensic analyses.
The process is called discovery and every accused citizen is theoretically entitled to this material as soon as it’s available. In practice, the prosecution stalls, claiming the paperwork has not been completed and/or compiled (a lie that virtually all New York judges accept without question), until after the trial, or the hearing in which the evidence is to be presented actually begins. The overwhelming majority of defendants, represented by Legal Aid attorneys, are allowed no more than a pro forma objection. I, on the other hand, had Phoebe Morris. And what I hoped would become an army of outraged feminists.
In addition to the demand letter, Julie was drafting several pre-trial motions requesting that all of the evidence found inside Priscilla Sweet’s apartment be excluded. Our theory was simple enough. First, the cops who responded to the 911 call entered the premises without benefit of a warrant, thus violating the Payton Rule. As a result, every subsequent action was in violation of the 14th Amendment to the Federal Constitution, as well as Article 1, Section 6 of the New York State Constitution. Second, even if the 911 call had been specific enough to justify the initial entry by the responding patrolmen, the detectives had no right to search a suitcase in the back of a closet without first obtaining a search warrant.
There would be a Mapp hearing on these issues just before the actual trial, at which time I would have an opportunity to call and examine witnesses. Meanwhile, it was important to submit a motion that cited every conceivable legal argument because we had no idea what evidence, besides the coke and the gun, the prosecution intended to present.
“I found the doctor,” Caleb said as he stacked the dinner plates, “who treated Priscilla four years ago, after Byron attacked her in a joint called Pentangles Bar and Grill. He’s still at Bellevue. Dr. Grace says that he has no specific memory of Priscilla Sweet and doesn’t feel he has to testify. I found the social worker, Miriam Farber, too. The one who talked Priscilla into prosecuting Byron. It was Farber who took the photos that eventually sent Byron to Rikers.”
I leaned back to light a cigarette. As I’d cooked dinner, cleaning up was not my chore. “Don’t worry about Grace, Caleb. He’ll change his mind when he’s served with a subpoena. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Caleb said. “Something I heard this afternoon. I don’t know how good it is, but there’s a rumor going around that Byron’s blood-alcohol level was .42 when his wife pulled the trigger. That maybe he was too drunk to be a threat.”
“What about cocaine? He have cocaine in his system?”
“Don’t know.” Caleb got up, took a dish towel, began to dry the dishes. “We’re talkin’ about a rumor, boss. And what I’m gonna do, as I go along, is ask about Byron’s capacity. See if he could hold his booze.”
I slid my chair away from the table, stood up, and cleared my throat. “You guys wanna hold off for a minute. I have a little speech to make.” Folding my arms across my chest, I
“You want what, boss? Rap sheets, interviews …”
“Both.”
“You know I gotta buy the rap sheets.” He glanced at the list. “Number of people you got down, we’re lookin’ at a grand. At least.”
“Thelma’s check’ll clear in a couple of days.”
Julie waved a stripped chicken wing in my direction. “Don’t forget, we’ve got rent to pay on both places. Not to mention the note on the furniture.”
“Thank you for sharing that,” I said. “Let’s hope you’re paying as much attention to the solutions as you are to the problems.”
It was Julie’s task to prepare rough drafts of the various written documents we’d file within fifteen days after Priscilla’s arraignment. These included a demand letter asking for the prosecution’s witness list as well as police reports, autopsy results, and forensic analyses.
The process is called discovery and every accused citizen is theoretically entitled to this material as soon as it’s available. In practice, the prosecution stalls, claiming the paperwork has not been completed and/or compiled (a lie that virtually all New York judges accept without question), until after the trial, or the hearing in which the evidence is to be presented actually begins. The overwhelming majority of defendants, represented by Legal Aid attorneys, are allowed no more than a pro forma objection. I, on the other hand, had Phoebe Morris. And what I hoped would become an army of outraged feminists.
In addition to the demand letter, Julie was drafting several pre-trial motions requesting that all of the evidence found inside Priscilla Sweet’s apartment be excluded. Our theory was simple enough. First, the cops who responded to the 911 call entered the premises without benefit of a warrant, thus violating the Payton Rule. As a result, every subsequent action was in violation of the 14th Amendment to the Federal Constitution, as well as Article 1, Section 6 of the New York State Constitution. Second, even if the 911 call had been specific enough to justify the initial entry by the responding patrolmen, the detectives had no right to search a suitcase in the back of a closet without first obtaining a search warrant.
There would be a Mapp hearing on these issues just before the actual trial, at which time I would have an opportunity to call and examine witnesses. Meanwhile, it was important to submit a motion that cited every conceivable legal argument because we had no idea what evidence, besides the coke and the gun, the prosecution intended to present.
“I found the doctor,” Caleb said as he stacked the dinner plates, “who treated Priscilla four years ago, after Byron attacked her in a joint called Pentangles Bar and Grill. He’s still at Bellevue. Dr. Grace says that he has no specific memory of Priscilla Sweet and doesn’t feel he has to testify. I found the social worker, Miriam Farber, too. The one who talked Priscilla into prosecuting Byron. It was Farber who took the photos that eventually sent Byron to Rikers.”
I leaned back to light a cigarette. As I’d cooked dinner, cleaning up was not my chore. “Don’t worry about Grace, Caleb. He’ll change his mind when he’s served with a subpoena. Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Caleb said. “Something I heard this afternoon. I don’t know how good it is, but there’s a rumor going around that Byron’s blood-alcohol level was .42 when his wife pulled the trigger. That maybe he was too drunk to be a threat.”
“What about cocaine? He have cocaine in his system?”
“Don’t know.” Caleb got up, took a dish towel, began to dry the dishes. “We’re talkin’ about a rumor, boss. And what I’m gonna do, as I go along, is ask about Byron’s capacity. See if he could hold his booze.”
I slid my chair away from the table, stood up, and cleared my throat. “You guys wanna hold off for a minute. I have a little speech to make.” Folding my arms across my chest, I
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