You know perfectly well. Nancy, that police chiefs normally do not make arrests and end
up in court. When was the last time that you heard of such a thing? I’m asking you to
work with me on this.”
Gorelick didn’t care who anybody was, especially not this chief of police, with her
personal wealth and fame. All in Gorelick’s courtroom had jobs waiting for them, busy
schedules, and demands on their time, except the defendants, of course, who generally
had nothing in their Day Timers but empty spaces to fill with trouble. Gorelick had never
been especially fond of Judy Hammer. The chief was arrogant, competitive, power
drunk, non collaborative and vain. She spent considerable money on designer suits and
pearls and accessories, and, in a word, did not suffer from the same problems, such as
body fat, adult acne, estrogen volatilities, and rejection, as others.
“I was not elected to work with you or anyone,” Gorelick stated.
“It is my job to set trial dates that please the court, and that is what I have done. Vacation plans are not the business of the court, and you will have to make whatever adjustments
are necessary. As will everyone else involved.”
Hammer noted that Gorelick was over buffed as usual. She had a penchant for short
skirts, bright colors, and open necklines that were an invitation whenever she bent over to
look at documents, dockets, or cases. She wore too much makeup, especially mascara.
There were rumors about her many affairs, but Hammer had chosen to view these as
unfounded until this moment. This was the woman the cops called the DA Whorelick.
She was lower than dirt, and a slut. Office psychology dictated that Hammer should get
up from her chair.
She did, and leaned against the desk, helping herself to her opponent’s domain, breathing
all the air she wished, picking up a crystal paperweight of US Bank and fiddling with it.
Hammer was very comfortable and in charge. She spoke rationally, softly, and sincerely.
“The press, of course, has been calling me about yesterday’s incident,” Hammer
confessed, and her fooling with the paperweight was clearly bothering Gorelick.
“National press. The Washington Post, Time, Newsweek, CBS This
Morning, Jay Leno, New York Times, Don Imus, Howard Stern.” She began to pace, tapping the US Bank in her palm, as if it were a slapjack.
“They’ll want to cover the trial, I’m sure. It’s a big story, I guess.” She paced and tapped.
“I suppose when you stop to think about it, when has something like this ever happened?
That reminds me.” She laughed.
“Some studio and a couple producers from Hollywood called, too. Can you imagine?”
Gorelick wasn’t feeling well.
“It is an unusual situation,” she had to agree.
“An amazing example of community policing, Nancy. People doing the right thing.”
Hammer paced and gestured with the little crystal building wearing a crown.
“Your treating a chief and deputy chief just like anyone else, making no special
considerations.” She nodded.
“I
think all those reporters are going to like that. Don’t you? ”
Gorelick would be ruined, would look like the dickhead she was.
Someone would run against her next fall. She’d have to go work in a law firm as a lowly
junior attorney to a bunch of overbearing partners who wouldn’t want her to join their
exclusive ranks.
“I’m going to tell them all about it.” Hammer smiled at her.
“Right now. I guess the best thing would be a press conference.”
The court date was moved ahead a week, and landed on a day convenient for all, except
Johnny Martino, aka Magic the Man, who was sitting in his jail cell, dejected in a blaze
orange jumpsuit with DEPT OF CORR stenciled in on the back. Everybody in the Corr
wore one, and now and then, when he gave much thought to the matter, he wondered
what the hell the Corr was. As in Marine Corps, Peace Corps, CeyO RailRoad maybe?
His old man worked for Amtrak, cleaning up cars after all those passengers got off.
No way young Martino was ever doing shit work like that. No fucking way. He couldn’t
believe how bad his leg hurt from where that bitch kicked him. The guns people carried