Edge of the Law Page 9

  “Yeah,” Sands said. “Good luck for him and bad for me.”

  “You have any idea who might want to frame you?”

  “Renzo Amatti has a grudge. Both Harry Thompson and I were giving him a little trouble.”

  Amos Swert looked startled. “Amatti, eh? That puts a different complexion on things.”

  “Why?”

  The lawyer pursed his lips again. When he spoke, it was obvious he was choosing his words carefully. “Are you familiar with Mr. Amatti’s position in the town, Mr. Sands?”

  “I know he runs it.”

  Swert nodded. “Certain elements of it, at least. He has tremendous political influence, and he’s been known to wield it rather ruthlessly against enemies.” He paused to seek exactly the right words to explain what he meant without opening himself to a charge of slander. “It has been alleged that on occasion the police and the district attorney’s office may have—ah—suppressed or manufactured evidence at Mr. Amatti’s request. It has even been suggested. though I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it myself, that even our judges sometimes interpret the law in a manner that—ah—Mr. Amatti won’t find offensive.”

  Sands thought of the first conversation he had ever had with Amatti, when the swarthy racketeer had bragged, “I could have you arrested, tried and convicted of a murder you never committed, if I wanted to.”

  He said glumly. “You mean it doesn’t have to be a good frame if Amatti rigs it, huh? The grateful officials he got elected will tidy it up in court.”

  There was no way to answer this discreetly. Swert abandoned all effort to phrase what he said with care. “I’m afraid that’s what it amounts to, Mr. Sands,” he said on a note of apology.

  Sands examined him curiously. “You sound as though you think it’s your fault.”

  The lawyer said ruefully, “My tone reflects my shame for Ridgeford. I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Sands. In any honest court of law, I think I could get this charge kicked out for lack of evidence without difficulty. But if Renzo Amatti is after you, we’re beat before we start. I’ll do my best, but Clarence Darrow himself couldn’t beat a rigged prosecution in a crooked court.”

  Swert drew a deep breath, and his florid face reddened even more in amazement at his own frankness. But his expression didn’t suggest that he regretted the words. He looked honestly angry. Sands found himself beginning to like the man.

  “That’s certainly frank,” Sands said.

  The lawyer calmed a little. “Of course this is only a preliminary hearing, not a trial. The most the court can do is hold you over for the grand jury. Since the local D.A. will present his evidence to the grand jury also. I doubt that I can block an indictment. But once you’re indicted, I can request a change of venue for the actual trial.”

  “Think you can get it?”

  Swert said a little uncomfortably, “If Amatti really wants a conviction, it isn’t likely. His influence reaches to most of our district judges, too. And we can depend on the case coming before one of his picked judges.”

  “Then it’s a lost cause, counselor?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Swert protested. “We’re not absolutely sure Renzo Amatti is behind this, are we?”

  Sands said dourly. “I have a chance if he isn’t, eh? Otherwise it is a lost cause.”

  “We won’t throw in the towel just yet,” Swert said. “I’ll see you in court at two P.M.”

  He called for the guard to come let him out of the cell.

  When the lawyer had departed, Sands bleakly considered his future. Unless, by some remote chance, he was mistaken in his belief that Amatti was pulling strings to get him convicted, it seemed certain that he had no chance in court. If, by some miracle, he did manage to beat the rap, Amatti wasn’t likely to give up. He would still have the racketeer’s hired guns to face. And if he managed to survive them, there was still the problem of Henny Ault. Even if he succeeded in besting Ault, his troubles wouldn’t be over. As Bridget had suggested, Mark Fallon could continue to throw killers at him as fast as he eliminated them.

  He didn’t feel like a very good insurance risk.

  At one thirty he was taken from his cell and escorted to the booking desk. The desk sergeant returned all his belongings and had him sign a receipt.

  “You won’t be coming back here,” he explained.

  “I won’t?” Sands said with a ray of hope.

  The sergeant dashed the hope. “The judge will remand you to the county jail to await grand jury action.”

  Sands said, “You’ve got me convicted already, huh?”

  The sergeant looked at him. “Oh, if they throw your case out, you won’t go to the county jail. But you still won’t be coming back here.”

  “Thanks for small favors,” Sands growled. “The county jail can’t be any dirtier.”

  He was walked across the street to the City Hall handcuffed to a policeman. The courtroom was on the second floor. There was a bullpen to one side of it where accused felons were cooped while awaiting their hearings. Sands was uncuffed and locked in the bullpen with two other prisoners. Both men gave him glum nods, but neither made any attempt at conversation.

  Apparently the afternoon session didn’t begin until two, for the courtroom was empty when he was led to the bullpen. Through the grilled door of the pen he could get a full view of the courtroom, and he watched as people began to drift in.

  The two front rows filled with lawyers and their clients, all presumably misdemeanor cases, since they weren’t required to suffer the indignity of the bullpen. The third row was reserved for the press, and behind the reporters were spectators and witnesses. Apparently no jury trials were scheduled for today, for the jury box remained empty.

  Just before two Sands saw Bridget O’Rourke enter the courtroom alone. Gazing around, she finally spotted him behind the grilled door and moved toward the bullpen. A bailiff headed her off in front of it.

  “You can’t speak to the prisoners, ma’am,” he told her.

  “Oh,” she said. Looking past him at Sands, she gave him a tremulous smile.

  He smiled back, trying to make it reassuring. At least Bridget still seemed to be on his side, he thought, feeling a little better.

  Bridget took a seat immediately behind the press section.

  Exactly at two Amos Swert arrived accompanied by Ginny. Ginny wore a dark blue dress of severe cut and a small blue hat with a veil. While she wasn’t in what was once called “widow’s weeds,” it only took a look at her face to know her garb was meant as mourning attire. She was even paler than usual and there was a pinched, dazed look about her eyes.

  Ginny seated herself at the back and Amos Swert continued on to the lawyers’ section. A moment later court was called to order and the judge mounted the bench.

  This was only a municipal court, and a long series of misdemeanors had to be disposed of before the judge got around to the men in the bullpen. Though they were handled in assembly-line order, some taking less than a minute and few taking more than five minutes, it was nearly three before the last was disposed of.

  Then the court clerk announced, “Case of the people versus Judson Sands.”

  The bailiff guarding the bullpen unlocked the door and let Sands out. Locking it again, he led Sands to a table on the far side of the room. Amos Swert rose and went to the table too. A sleek, well-dressed man wearing horn-rimmed glasses seated himself at a similar table on the opposite side of the bench and began removing papers from a briefcase.

  Glancing across at the other table, Amos Swert frowned. “Looks like they’re going all out,” he murmured. “Usually just some assistant from the D.A.’s office handles preliminary hearings.”

  Sands gave the lawyer an inquiring look.

  “That’s Martin Coombs,” Swert said. “The D.A. himself.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE FIRST witness the prosecution called to the stand was Lieutenant Sam Orsby. His testimony consisted merely of a description of the investigation he had made a
t the scene of the crime, a mention that the victim had been identified as one Harry Thompson by his widow, and the statement that he had placed Judson Sands under arrest when an eyewitness pointed him out as the bomber.

  Amos Swert waived cross-examination.

  Next the sleek Martin Coombs called three technical experts in a row. The first was a medical examiner, who testified that his examination of the body disclosed that death had been caused partly by a massive penetration of shards of steel into various vital organs, partly by an explosion which had ripped the body apart. Again Swert made no cross-examination.

  The second expert was the police photographer who had taken pictures at the scene. He merely identified the photographs he had taken and presented them for the court’s examination. Beyond asking to see the photographs also, Swert did not cross-examine him either.

  Last came a lab technician, who testified that from recovered bomb fragments he had identified the murder implement as a hand grenade of the type the army used. This time Amos Swert cross-examined.

  “Did this grenade have any sort of serial number on it which would make it traceable?” he asked.

  The lab technician shook his hand. “They aren’t numbered, like guns.”

  “They aren’t easily obtainable, either, are they? If I wanted to buy such a grenade, wouldn’t I find it difficult?”

  “To buy, yes, sir,” the technician admitted. “But there must be plenty of them around as souvenirs of World War II and Korea. A lot of soldiers brought them home to make paper weights and stuff out of.”

  “Wouldn’t those be unarmed? And the explosive removed?”

  “They should be. But some guys never got around to it. There have been cases reported in the papers of kids blowing themselves up with souvenir grenades they found in attics.”

  Martin Coembs said smoothly, “Your Honor, we have learned that the defendant is a veteran of the Korean War. He was in the infantry and had access to such grenades during service. We have also learned, by wires to various out-of-state police departments, that he has a record of association with members of organized underworld groups in a number of cities. It is common knowledge that such groups have no difficulty obtaining grenades, for they are a standard weapon in extortion rackets. By the time this case comes to trial, we hope to be able to trace this bomb from its source straight to the defendant. But surely it isn’t necessary to go so deeply into the matter in a preliminary hearing. It should be enough at this point merely to show that the defendant had the connections to obtain such a bomb, if he wanted one.”

  “The court is inclined to agree with you,” the judge said. “Let’s get on to the other evidence.”

  “Just a minute, Your Honor,” Swert protested. “Under the guise of wanting to save the court’s time, counsel for the prosecution has managed to insert a completely unsupported charge that my client is an associate of out-of-state gangsters. Unless he is prepared to offer corroborating evidence of this charge, and show its pertinence to this particular case, I want his irresponsible remarks withdrawn.”

  The judge said, “The court is quite capable of separating wheat from chaff, counselor. If I decide any of the district attorney’s remarks are irresponsible, you may rest assured they will be disregarded. Do you have any more questions for this witness?”

  After staring at the judge for a moment, Swert gave his head an irritable shake and sat down.

  The next witness was the thin, reedy customer called Iggy. When sworn in, he gave his name as Isador Umlat and his occupation as a factory worker. Under Martin Coombs’ adroit questioning he stated in a positive tone that Sands had walked into the tavern and tossed the bomb.

  “Your witness,” Coombs told Swert in a smug tone.

  The plump lawyer advanced on the witness. “Mr. Umlat, did you actually see the grenade pass through the air?”

  Iggy frowned. “I wasn’t looking directly at him right then. But I heard it land.”

  “Then you didn’t see it. But when the defendant walked in, you did look directly at him, didn’t you?”

  “Sure. When I heard the door open, I looked over to see who was coming in.”

  “Was he carrying anything in either hand?”

  Iggy considered. “I didn’t notice. But he must of been. Unless he had it in his pocket.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Umlat,” Swert said. “A hand grenade is nearly the size of a baseball. It couldn’t be concealed in a closed fist. If you looked directly at the defendant, wouldn’t you have noticed that large an object, if he had been carrying it?”

  “I wasn’t looking at his hands,” Iggy said belligerently. “I was looking at his face.”

  “You didn’t see the bomb in his hand, and you didn’t see him throw it. Yet you make the positive statement that he did. Why?”

  “Look,” Iggy said. “This guy walks in. I glance at him and then look away. I heard a thump behind the bar, and out of the corner of my eye I see this guy dive for the floor. Before the bomb goes off, see. Nobody else dropped till after, and a lot of us were closer than he was. Now why would he hit the deck if he wasn’t expecting no explosion?”

  “Did it occur to you that he might have seen the bomb tossed? And hit the deck, as you express it, merely because his reaction to danger was faster than yours or any of the other customers’?”

  Iggy snorted. “No one else saw no bomb come from that door behind the bar he claims it come out of.”

  “No one saw it come from my client’s hand either,” Swert pointed out. “Yet the place was packed. It seems that no one but you, out of all those people, even suspected the defendant threw it.”

  “I know what I seen,” Iggy muttered.

  Swert switched tack. “What time did you enter Harry’s Bar and Grill last night, Mr. Umlat?”

  Iggy thought. “About a quarter of six, it must of been. I ate supper there. I stopped after work, and I get off at five thirty.”

  “After eating, I suppose you went home to clean up before coming back,” the lawyer suggested.

  Iggy looked surprised. “Clean up for what? To sit at a bar? I was still in my work clothes when the place blew up.”

  “Then you were in the place constantly from a quarter of six until the bomb exploded shortly after eleven?”

  “Yeah,” Iggy admitted.

  “What were you drinking during all that time, Mr. Umlat? Boiler-makers, perhaps?”

  Martin Coombs was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. If the defense intends to imply that this witness was drunk merely because he spent some hours in a tavern, I’ll recall Lieutenant Orsby, who questioned the man at the scene. The lieutenant told me that the witness was in full possession of his faculties, and I’m sure he would make the same statement on the stand. But this will only lengthen the hearing. If counsel for the defense wants to try to impeach this witness’s testimony, he should be instructed to save such monkeyshines for the actual trial.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said tonelessly.

  Amos Swert looked at the bench in astonishment. “You mean I’m not allowed even to question the reliability of a key prosecution witness, Your Honor? I have to accept the prosecution’s evaluation of its own witness?”

  “You may question it in District Court as much as you please,” the judge told him. “This court works on a more rigid time schedule than District Court. I’m satisfied that if the district attorney states he could show that this witness was sober, he could show it, if called upon to do so. But I’m not going to waste the court’s time by making him do it.”

  “It might save the District Court’s time,” Swert said angrily. “If we get an adequate hearing, you’ll throw this case out.”

  “Are you suggesting that you won’t get an adequate hearing in this court, counselor?” the judge asked ominously.

  “I’m suggesting that this witness may well have been drunk. I want to know how many of what kind of drinks he had in the five hours he sat at that bar.”

  “I’ve already ruled on
that,” the judge said peremptorily. “Proceed with some other line of questioning.”

  Amos Swert threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat and abruptly sat down.

  “See what I meant?” he said to Sands between clenched teeth.

  “Uh-huh,” Sands said. “Guess Amatti must have passed the word to get me fair or foul.”

  “It certainly looks that way. This is about as raw a performance as I’ve seen. And I’ve seen some raw ones when Renzo Amatti had a finger in the pie.”

  While a bailiff went to the witness room after the next witness, Sands ran his gaze over the spectators. It touched Bridget, who gave him a smile intended to be encouraging, but which looked more as though she were on the verge of tears. It intrigued him that the girl seemed automatically to assume he was innocent, when all she could know of the case was what she had read in the papers and had heard here. Though it wasn’t of much practical help, it was good to have her moral support.

  He moved his gaze on to Ginny at the back of the room. She was too far away to make out her expression. All he could see was the paleness of her face.

  Running his eyes over the rest of the crowd, he suddenly spotted a familiar face halfway back. Amatti’s gray-faced bodyguard Joey, his right arm in a sling, had come to witness the show.

  So far it must be giving him considerable pleasure, Sands thought wryly.

  He glanced back at the witness stand and was surprised to see the blond Jack Carroll being sworn in.

  “That’s the day bartender at Harry’s Bar and Grill,” he told Swert. “He wasn’t even there when it happened.”

  The district attorney asked a few questions designed merely to establish the witness’s identity and that he worked as a bartender for the deceased Harry Thompson.

  Then Coombs said, “Will you describe to the court your first meeting with the defendant, Mr. Carroll?”