honor. Yesterday the grand jury voted to indict this man on all counts, regarding all three child complainants.”
A few deliberate “yeahs” came from a small group behind us—part of the neighborhood watchdog committee, no doubt still bitter from missing the arraignment. Krenwinkle waved them quiet.
“I move the bail be increased to fifty thousand dollars,” Ryan said indignantly.
Krenwinkle stared down at the prosecutor. Guevara stiffened. No doubt Krenwinkle was concerned I would then respond, and appropriately so, by stating the source of all the bail money, including his wife’s part in raising it.
“Judge,” I said, “over two dozen friends and co-workers helped raise this man’s bail. They believe in him enough to stake their hard-earned money on his returning time and again to face these charges. And they did so the very day after his arraignment. My client has been free for six full days knowing, as Mr. Ryan assured us all at arraignment, he would show up to hear he had been indicted. As a result, there have been no changed circumstances that would justify disturbing the bail set by Judge Benton.”
“Application denied,” Krenwinkle said. “Mr. Ryan you may renew your request in Supreme Court before Judge Graham, Part 30, April 6th. Case adjourned for arraignment on the indictment.”
Ryan slammed his folder shut and shoved it under his arm as if part of a military drill. “See you in Supreme, Mannino.” He brushed past Guevara and myself and left the courtroom, the smell of his cheap cologne filling the air.
Outside in the lobby Guevara gave me a pat on the back and a hug, all with the comfortable camaraderie of an old football buddy. I was amazed at how quickly his emotions changed depending on the circumstances in or out of the courtroom. But I thought it healthy that he was able to express himself so easily in view of the terrible stress he was under.
To my relief and surprise he hurried away, telling me he’d call in a couple of days.
When I returned to AP-6, Krenwinkle, no doubt relieved he and his wife weren’t the afternoon Post’s front-page news, had called a ten-minute recess.
I found him sitting behind his desk in his makeshift chambers beside the courtroom. A Daily News was draped on his lap. The headline was simpler than Newsday’s, but announced in equally horrifying terms: Spiderman Kills.
“I figured you’d be back,” Krenwinkle said, as he pushed the newspaper aside. Of course, he had no way of knowing a suspect-janitor was already in custody. “I’ve got news for you on that blonde,” he blurted.
“I thought you might.” Knew was more like it. If the Administrative Judge wanted to know the status of an active investigation in his county, he merely had to pick up a phone. Krenwinkle had lived and worked in the Bronx his whole life; he’d get whatever information he wanted, and from reliable sources too.
“That was no suicide,” he said. “She was tossed off that roof and put up one hell of a fight. The cops think she hung from the edge until her assailant stomped on her fingers. Evidently she also tried to cling to the side of the building as she fell. Her palms and fingertips were scraped to the bone from contact with the brick facade.”
“So they can’t take her fingerprints?”
“They can take them, but it ain’t gonna do much good. They’re trying to piece together her identity from partial prints. Don’t hold your breath.”
“Jesus. And no one’s come forward looking for her.”
“You got it, paisan’ . You might be of help too if you can shake some screws loose, and figure out why she wanted to see you.”
Chapter 22
I left the Bronx Criminal Court in a blur of suits, briefcases, and blue uniforms. By the time my head cleared I had walked over two blocks up the lightly traveled Sheridan Avenue, instead of along the busy Grand Concourse on my way back to the office.
The further I walked along the side streets and outside the
A few deliberate “yeahs” came from a small group behind us—part of the neighborhood watchdog committee, no doubt still bitter from missing the arraignment. Krenwinkle waved them quiet.
“I move the bail be increased to fifty thousand dollars,” Ryan said indignantly.
Krenwinkle stared down at the prosecutor. Guevara stiffened. No doubt Krenwinkle was concerned I would then respond, and appropriately so, by stating the source of all the bail money, including his wife’s part in raising it.
“Judge,” I said, “over two dozen friends and co-workers helped raise this man’s bail. They believe in him enough to stake their hard-earned money on his returning time and again to face these charges. And they did so the very day after his arraignment. My client has been free for six full days knowing, as Mr. Ryan assured us all at arraignment, he would show up to hear he had been indicted. As a result, there have been no changed circumstances that would justify disturbing the bail set by Judge Benton.”
“Application denied,” Krenwinkle said. “Mr. Ryan you may renew your request in Supreme Court before Judge Graham, Part 30, April 6th. Case adjourned for arraignment on the indictment.”
Ryan slammed his folder shut and shoved it under his arm as if part of a military drill. “See you in Supreme, Mannino.” He brushed past Guevara and myself and left the courtroom, the smell of his cheap cologne filling the air.
Outside in the lobby Guevara gave me a pat on the back and a hug, all with the comfortable camaraderie of an old football buddy. I was amazed at how quickly his emotions changed depending on the circumstances in or out of the courtroom. But I thought it healthy that he was able to express himself so easily in view of the terrible stress he was under.
To my relief and surprise he hurried away, telling me he’d call in a couple of days.
When I returned to AP-6, Krenwinkle, no doubt relieved he and his wife weren’t the afternoon Post’s front-page news, had called a ten-minute recess.
I found him sitting behind his desk in his makeshift chambers beside the courtroom. A Daily News was draped on his lap. The headline was simpler than Newsday’s, but announced in equally horrifying terms: Spiderman Kills.
“I figured you’d be back,” Krenwinkle said, as he pushed the newspaper aside. Of course, he had no way of knowing a suspect-janitor was already in custody. “I’ve got news for you on that blonde,” he blurted.
“I thought you might.” Knew was more like it. If the Administrative Judge wanted to know the status of an active investigation in his county, he merely had to pick up a phone. Krenwinkle had lived and worked in the Bronx his whole life; he’d get whatever information he wanted, and from reliable sources too.
“That was no suicide,” he said. “She was tossed off that roof and put up one hell of a fight. The cops think she hung from the edge until her assailant stomped on her fingers. Evidently she also tried to cling to the side of the building as she fell. Her palms and fingertips were scraped to the bone from contact with the brick facade.”
“So they can’t take her fingerprints?”
“They can take them, but it ain’t gonna do much good. They’re trying to piece together her identity from partial prints. Don’t hold your breath.”
“Jesus. And no one’s come forward looking for her.”
“You got it, paisan’ . You might be of help too if you can shake some screws loose, and figure out why she wanted to see you.”
Chapter 22
I left the Bronx Criminal Court in a blur of suits, briefcases, and blue uniforms. By the time my head cleared I had walked over two blocks up the lightly traveled Sheridan Avenue, instead of along the busy Grand Concourse on my way back to the office.
The further I walked along the side streets and outside the
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