Hornet's Nest

  "You will provide that for the court," the judge said, screwing on the cap.

  "Yes, Your Honor. Only, where this transaction occurred isn't precisely at the old address, but rather farther back, approximately eighty feet, and then another fifty feet, I'd say, at a sixty-degree angle, northeast, from the Independence Welfare building that was there, that was razed, in a thicket where Mr. Anthony had set up a hobo camp, of sorts, for the purposes of buying and selling and smoking crack cocaine and eating crabs with associates on that night. Of July twenty-second."

  ADA Pond had the attention, however briefly, of Hammer, and West, plus Johnny Martino's mother, and the conscious courtroom, in addition to two bailiffs and a probation officer. All stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and lack of comprehension.

  "The court requires an address," the judge repeated.

  She took another gulp of water and felt contempt for her psychiatrist, and for manic-depressive people everywhere.

  Not only did lithium necessitate drinking a tub of water daily, but it caused frequent urination, which by Judge Bovine's definition, was double jeopardy. Her bladder and kidneys were a drip coffee maker that she could feel and measure as she drove back and forth from Gaston County, and sat on the bench, and went to the movies, and flew on crowded airplanes, or walked on the track and found the field house locked.

  Because she was a superior court judge, she could adjourn every fifteen, twenty, or thirty minutes, or until after lunch, if her need was great and she so chose. She could wheel in a damn Porta-John, do whatever she liked, ipso facto. But what she would never do, not once during this life and on this planet, was to interrupt a case after it was started, because above all else, the judge was a well-bred lady who had grown up in an antebellum house and gone to Queens College.

  Judge Bovine was tough, but never rude. She did not tolerate fools or classless people, and no one could accuse her of anything less than impeccable manners. There was nothing more important than manners, really.

  ADA Pond hesitated. Hammer had faded away again;

  West could not get comfortable. The bench seat was wood, and it pressed her police belt and the small of her back. She was perspiring and waiting for her pager to vibrate. Brazil was decompensating. It was something West sensed, yet she wasn't certain why, or what to do about it.

  "Mr. Pond," the judge said, 'please continue. "

  "Thank you. Your Honor. On this particular night of July twenty-second, Mr. Anthony did sell crack cocaine to an undercover Charlotte police officer."

  "Is this officer in the courtroom?" The judge squinted at the sea of wretches below her.

  Mungo stood. West turned around, dismayed when she saw who had caused such creaking and shuffling and whispering. Oh God, not again. West's sense of foreboding darkened. Hammer remembered Seth bringing her breakfast in bed and dropping keys on the tray. The new Triumph Spitfire was green with burl wood, and she had been a sergeant with free time, and he was the rich son of a rich land developer. Back then, they went on long drives and had picnics. She would come home from work, and music filled the house. When did Seth stop listening to Beethoven, Mozart, Mahler, and Bach, and start turning on the TV? When did Seth decide he wanted to die?

  "The subject, Mr. Anthony," Mungo was saying, 'was sitting on a blanket in the thicket Mr. Pond has just described. He was with two other subjects, drinking Magnum Forty-four and Colt Forty-five. Between them they had a dozen steamed crabs in a brown paper bag. "

  "A dozen?" Judge Bovine queried.

  "You counted them, Detective Mungo?"

  "Most were gone. Your Honor. I was told there had been a dozen originally. When I looked there were three left, I believe."

  "Go on, go on." What patience the judge had for this drivel from the dregs of humanity was inversely proportional to her filling bladder as she took another slug of water and thought of what she would eat for lunch.

  "The subject, Mr. Anthony, offered to sell me a rock of cocaine, in a vial, for fifteen dollars," Mungo continued.

  "Bullshit," was Mr. Anthony's comment.

  "I offered you a fucking crab, man."

  "Mr. Anthony, if you aren't quiet, I will hold you in contempt of court," Judge Bovine warned.

  "It was a crab. Only time I used the word crack was when I told him to crack it himself."

  Mungo said, "Your Honor, I asked the subject what was in the bag, and he distinctly replied, " crack. "

  "Did not." Mr. Anthony was about to approach the bench, his public defender restraining him by a sleeve that still had the label sewed on it.

  "Did too," Mungo said.

  "Did not!"

  "Too."

  "Uh uh."

  "Order!" the judge declared.

  "Mr. Anthony, one more outburst and ..."

  "Let me tell my side for once!" Mr. Anthony went on.

  "That is what you have a lawyer for," the judge said severely, and was beginning to feel the pressure of water and a loss of composure.

  "Oh yeah? This piece of shit?" Mr. Anthony glowered at his free-lunch defense.

  The courtroom was awake and interested, more so than ADA Pond had ever witnessed before this morning. Something was going to happen, and no one was about to miss it, people nudging each other and making silent bets. Jake on the third row, defendant's side, was putting his money on Mr. Anthony ending up with his butt in jail. Shontay two rows over was betting on the undercover detective who reminded her of a haystack wearing a wrinkled pinstripe suit. Cops always won, no matter how wrong they might be, it was her belief, based on hearsay. Quik, way in the back, didn't give a fuck as he practiced flicking his thumb out like a switchblade. As soon as he could, the asshole responsible for Quik's show cause warrant was gonna pay. Ratting on him like that.

  Man.

  "Detective Mungo." Judge Bovine had had enough.

  "What probable cause did you have to search Mr. Anthony's brown paper bag?"

  "Your Honor, it's like I said." Mungo was unmoved.

  "I asked him what was in the bag. He told me."

  "He told you crabs, and suggested you crack these crabs yourself," said the judge, who really had to go now.

  "Gee. I don't know. I thought he said crack." Mungo tried to be fair.

  This sort of thing happened to Mungo more times than not. He'd always found it easier to hear whatever he wanted, and when one was as big as him, one could. The case was dismissed, and before the judge could adjourn to her chambers, the agitated ADA called the next, and the next, and the next, and the judge did not interrupt, because it was one thing she would not do. Citizens arrested for burglaries, car thefts, rape, murder, and more drug dealers and those who patronized them stood with their public defenders. ADA Pond was mindful of the judge's constricted body language and miserable demeanor. Pond was accustomed to the judge's frequent visits to her chambers, and knew that capitalizing on her disability was his only hope.

  Each time Her Honor started to rise from her bench, ADA Pond was off and running on the next case. As fast as he could, he announced the Johnny Martino once again, in hopes Pond would break the judge, wear her down, and subject her to the water treatment until she could take no more. Her Honor would hear the state of North Carolina versus Johnny Martino so Hammer and West could return to life's highways, and the hospital. ADA Pond prayed Hammer would think kindly of him when he ran for DA in three years.

  "Johnny Martino," ADA Pond said as fast as he could, again, moments later.

  "I'm not ready to hear that case yet." The judge could barely talk.

  "Alex Brown," the ADA blurted out.

  "Yeah." Mr. Brown stood, as did his counsel.

  "How do you plead to malicious wounding?"

  "He started it," Mr. Brown stated for the record.

  "What I'm supposed to do, huh? In Church's getting a quart of chicken livers and he decides he wants the same thing, only he's going to get mine and not pay."

  Hammer had tuned back in long enough to make an assessment
of her surroundings and those in it. This was much more disheartening than she had imagined. No wonder her beat officers and investigators got so discouraged, so jaded and cynical. There had been a time when she'd had no sympathy or use for people like this. They were lazy, no-account, self-destructive, self-absorbed wastrels who added nothing to society and took from everyone around them. She thought of Seth, of his money, privilege, and opportunity. She thought of the love she and others had given him. Chief Hammer thought of many people she knew who were no better than anybody in this courtroom, really.

  West wanted to kill Judge Bovine. It was outrageous making a chief and deputy chief sit through all this. West's attention wandered back to Brazil about every other minute. She wondered if he had returned to the newspaper, and her ominous foreshadowing got denser and more chilling. If she didn't get out of this court room soon, she might cause a scene. Her boss, oddly, had returned to the present and seemed fascinated by everything around her, as if Hammer could sit here all day and think those private thoughts that had made her who and what she was.

  "Johnny Martino," ADA Pond struck again.

  "I'm not going to hear that case now," the judge snapped as she carefully got to her feet.

  That would be the end of it for at least half an hour, West thought with fury. So she and Hammer would get to sit in the hallway and wait.

  Oh great. This would have been exactly right had Johnny Martino's mother permitted it. Like West, Mrs. Martino had been pushed too far.

  Mrs. Martino knew exactly what was going on. She knew that those two ladies in front were Batman and Robin, and that the judge had to pee.

  Mrs. Martino rose before the judge could climb down from her throne.

  "Now hold on one minute," Mrs. Martino loudly said as she made her way over people and up to the bench, in her nice dress and loafers.

  "I

  been sitting here this whole time seeing exactly what's going on. "

  "Ma'am ... I' Her Honor protested, by now standing and in crisis, as a reporter for New Country WTDR radio slipped into the back of the courtroom.

  "Don't you ma'am me!" Mrs. Martino wagged her finger.

  "The boy who robbed all those innocent folks is my son. So I got a right to say whatever the hell I want. And I also know who these women are." She gave them a deep nod.

  "Risking themselves to help all those poor folk when that rotten-ass boy of mine climbed on that bus with the gun he got from some drug dealer out there. Well, I tell you what."

  West, Hammer, ADA Pond, and the courtroom, listened to Mrs. Martino with keen interest. The judge deemed it best to reseat herself and hold tight. Mrs. Martino had been waiting all her life for her day in court, and she began to pace like an experienced trial lawyer. Radio reporter Tim Nicks was writing down everything, his blood singing and playing drums in his ears. This was too good to be true.

  "Let me tell you something, judge," Mrs. Martino went on.

  "I know a game when I see one. And every time you could let those poor busy ladies out of here, you pass on it, say move on, no way, not now, ummm ummm." She shook her head, striding, swinging arms wide, "Now why you want to be doing that to people who help, to people trying to make a difference out there? It's a disgrace, that's exactly what it is."

  "Ma'am, please be seated..." Her Honor tried again.

  Johnny Martino was in Mecklenburg orange and flip- flops when he was brought in from the jail. He raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth one more time in his life. Hammer was sitting up straight, filled with shining admiration for Mrs. Martino, who had no intention of being silenced, and in fact, now that her son had appeared, was only getting started. West was fascinated by how Judge Cow was going to get herself out of an udder disaster, ha! West stifled laughter, suddenly on the verge of hysteria and another hot flash. ADA Pond smiled, and Reporter Nicks wrote furiously in his notepad.

  "You want roe to sit down, judge?" Mrs. Martino walked up closer to the bench, and put her hands on her sturdy hips.

  "Then I tell you what.

  You do the right thing. You hear Johnny's case this minute, listen to his guilty, lying, stealing ass. Then let these fine crusading ladies be on their way, out there saving more lives, helping more folks who can't help themselves, delivering us from evil. "

  "Ma'am, I am hearing the case," Judge Bovine tried to explain.

  "That's what we're doing ..."

  But Mrs. Martino had her mind made up about the way things were. She turned around and gave Johnny the eye.

  "Tell me now." She swept her arms over the courtroom, touching all.

  "Anybody here who insists on stepping ahead of these Christian ladies?" She looked around, taking in the silence, not finding a raised hand to count.

  "Speak now," she called out.

  "All right then! Do we want to set these ladies free?"

  The courtroom cheered and roared, people doing high- fives for Batman and Robin, who could do nothing but watch, enchanted.

  "Johnny Martino, how do you plead to ten counts of robbery with a dangerous weapon?" the ADA called out.

  Judge Bovine's teeth were clamped, and a sleeve of her robe flapped empty and useless as she held in her objections, her legs crossed.

  "Guilty," Johnny Martino mumbled.

  "What says the state," the judge whispered, in pain.

  "Mr. Martino boarded a Greyhound bus on July eleventh at one-eleven p.m.," ADA Pond summarized.

  "He robbed ten passengers at gunpoint before being apprehended and restrained by Chief Judy Hammer and Deputy Chief Virginia West ..."

  "Yo Batman," someone yelled.

  "Robin!"

  The cheering began again. Judge Bovine could endure no more. She might have called the sheriff for intervention, but she had more pressing concerns. She had been polite, well mannered, well bred, and had lost control of her courtroom. This was a first. Someone had to pay. It might as well be the son of a bitch who caused all this when he climbed on that damn bus.

  "The state agrees to consolidate sentencing under ten counts," the judge announced rapidly and with no attempt at drama.

  "Defendant is a prior record level two and will receive in each of the ten counts a sentence of seventy months minimum or ninety-three months maximum, for a total of seven hundred months minimum and nine hundred and thirty months maximum. The court is recessed until one." She gathered her robe in one hand and fled as Mr. Martino checked the judge's math.

  Reporter Nicks fled back to South McDowell Street, where Today's Hot New Country and "Your All Time Favorites could be heard on 96.9. It was rare his station got breaking news, scoops, tips, or leaks, as if to imply that a country music audience didn't vote or care about crime or want crack dealers in jail. The point was, no city official or Deep Throat had ever bothered to think of Nicks when something went down.

  This was his day, and he was out of his '67 Chevelle with such urgency that he had to run back twice to get his notepad and lock the doors.

  Chapter Twenty-two.

  The sensational courtroom drama of the caped crusaders sitting on the front row, while the joker of the judge dissed them, bristled over the airwaves. It was bounced from radio tower to radio tower throughout the Carolinas. Don Imus picked it up, embellishing as only he could, and Paul Harvey told the rest of the story. While Hammer was back and forth to SICU and aware of little else. West drove Charlotte's streets, looking for Brazil, who had not been seen since Thursday. It was Saturday morning now.

  Packer was out with the dog again when West called. He got on the phone, irritable and perplexed. He had heard nothing from Brazil, either. In Davidson, Mrs. Brazil snored on the living-room couch, sleeping through Northside Baptist's televised service, as usual. The phone rang and rang, an overflowing ashtray and bottle of vodka on the coffee table. West was driving past the Knight-Ridder building, hanging up her portable phone in frustration.

  "Goddamn it!" she blurted.

  "Andy! Don't do this!"

  v^iA TW
Mrs. Brazil barely opened her eyes. She managed to sit up an inch, thinking she heard something. A choir in blue with gold stoles praised God. Maybe that was the noise. She reached for her glass, and it shook violently as she finished what she had started the night before. Mrs. Brazil fell back into old sour couch cushions, the magic potion heating blood, carrying her away to that place nowhere special. She drank again, realizing she was low on fuel with nothing open but the Quick Mart. After noon, she could get beer or wine, she supposed. Where was Andy? Had he been in and out while she was resting?

  Night came, and West stayed home and did not want to be with anyone.