No Time To Run (Legal Thriller Featuring Michael Collins, Book 1) by J.D. Trafford
Authors: J.D. Trafford
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FOURTEEN
Michael sat on a bench across the street from the New York Criminal Courthouse. It was a large building on Broadway shaped like a wedding cake covered with gray frosting. On a typical day the street would have been full of lawyers and government employees catching a minute of fresh air or eating lunch, but the temperature had dropped and the street was empty.
General K had included a long, wool trench coat and leather gloves as part of his overall makeover package. It was for a “very reasonable price,” according to the General. “A very reasonable price for a super-special customer.”
Michael sunk his hands further into the silk-lined pockets of his coat and tried to clear his head. The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with him, and he couldn’t quite get comfortable in the suit.
It hadn’t felt like this before. The tailored clothes and ties had used to make Michael feel good. They had provided a little bit of confidence when he was unsure, but not anymore.
A series of bells rang from a nearby steeple, and Michael got up from the bench, crossed the street, and walked up the courthouse steps.
As soon as he was through the door, the winter calm gave way to mothers with crying babies, strung-out junkies arguing over cab fare, lawyers trying to sound smart, and cops looking tough. Some were just hanging out until their hearing, but most were moving through the metal detectors and security screen like bees returning to the hive.
Michael found what may have been construed as a line. Past a group of gangster trainees still not old enough to shave, he wedged himself in.
Each person in line did the security shuffle to the random beeps of detectors and wands. Michael followed their lead.
“ Arms up.”
Michael raised his arms out like a kid playing airplane, and then the security guard ran a black stick up one side and down the other.
“ Okay.” The guard gave a slight nudge. Michael stepped away from him to the conveyor, picked up his briefcase, and started walking toward the court administrator’s office.
Everywhere he went, Michael felt like eyes were on him. Some of the people who passed were a little too clean or a little too dirty, or didn’t seem like they were at the courthouse for any particular reason other than to steal a glance at him. Maybe he was being paranoid, but it wouldn’t surprise him if Vatch had set something up. At least he hoped it was Vatch and not someone else.
Michael walked up a large set of marble stairs to the second floor. This was where the government clerks and record keepers processed and housed the thousands of pieces of paper that came through on any given day.
Past the service windows, there was a bulletin board with postings of the day’s calendar. He was happy to see that it hadn’t changed or been replaced by some computer terminal that cost three times as much and didn’t work half as well.
Michael found Andie’s name on the schedule, and then made his way to the courtroom on the fourth floor.
His mind drifted to Father Stiles. Michael wasn't sure whether he was glad to know about the subpoena or not. Grand jury proceedings were to simply evaluate a prosecutor’s case and determine if the government had probable cause to press formal charges and proceed with a trial. Although the term “evaluate” suggests that a grand jury scrutinizes the evidence, in practice the proceedings were a rubber stamp. There would be no judge, no defense lawyer, and no testimony from the defense; just the prosecutor and the jurors alone. Michael knew that with that set-up, a good prosecutor could indict Mother Theresa.
###
Judge Christopher A. Baumann III looked over his courtroom with a wary eye. In a monotone voice, he called out the next case to be arraigned. Judge Baumann had been appointed to the bench in the early 1980s. He had been old then, and Michael couldn’t believe that the man was still alive and looked exactly the
Michael sat on a bench across the street from the New York Criminal Courthouse. It was a large building on Broadway shaped like a wedding cake covered with gray frosting. On a typical day the street would have been full of lawyers and government employees catching a minute of fresh air or eating lunch, but the temperature had dropped and the street was empty.
General K had included a long, wool trench coat and leather gloves as part of his overall makeover package. It was for a “very reasonable price,” according to the General. “A very reasonable price for a super-special customer.”
Michael sunk his hands further into the silk-lined pockets of his coat and tried to clear his head. The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with him, and he couldn’t quite get comfortable in the suit.
It hadn’t felt like this before. The tailored clothes and ties had used to make Michael feel good. They had provided a little bit of confidence when he was unsure, but not anymore.
A series of bells rang from a nearby steeple, and Michael got up from the bench, crossed the street, and walked up the courthouse steps.
As soon as he was through the door, the winter calm gave way to mothers with crying babies, strung-out junkies arguing over cab fare, lawyers trying to sound smart, and cops looking tough. Some were just hanging out until their hearing, but most were moving through the metal detectors and security screen like bees returning to the hive.
Michael found what may have been construed as a line. Past a group of gangster trainees still not old enough to shave, he wedged himself in.
Each person in line did the security shuffle to the random beeps of detectors and wands. Michael followed their lead.
“ Arms up.”
Michael raised his arms out like a kid playing airplane, and then the security guard ran a black stick up one side and down the other.
“ Okay.” The guard gave a slight nudge. Michael stepped away from him to the conveyor, picked up his briefcase, and started walking toward the court administrator’s office.
Everywhere he went, Michael felt like eyes were on him. Some of the people who passed were a little too clean or a little too dirty, or didn’t seem like they were at the courthouse for any particular reason other than to steal a glance at him. Maybe he was being paranoid, but it wouldn’t surprise him if Vatch had set something up. At least he hoped it was Vatch and not someone else.
Michael walked up a large set of marble stairs to the second floor. This was where the government clerks and record keepers processed and housed the thousands of pieces of paper that came through on any given day.
Past the service windows, there was a bulletin board with postings of the day’s calendar. He was happy to see that it hadn’t changed or been replaced by some computer terminal that cost three times as much and didn’t work half as well.
Michael found Andie’s name on the schedule, and then made his way to the courtroom on the fourth floor.
His mind drifted to Father Stiles. Michael wasn't sure whether he was glad to know about the subpoena or not. Grand jury proceedings were to simply evaluate a prosecutor’s case and determine if the government had probable cause to press formal charges and proceed with a trial. Although the term “evaluate” suggests that a grand jury scrutinizes the evidence, in practice the proceedings were a rubber stamp. There would be no judge, no defense lawyer, and no testimony from the defense; just the prosecutor and the jurors alone. Michael knew that with that set-up, a good prosecutor could indict Mother Theresa.
###
Judge Christopher A. Baumann III looked over his courtroom with a wary eye. In a monotone voice, he called out the next case to be arraigned. Judge Baumann had been appointed to the bench in the early 1980s. He had been old then, and Michael couldn’t believe that the man was still alive and looked exactly the
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