The Judgment by William J. Coughlin Page B

compartment, but he ignored me and answered in a way that denied me the opportunity to raise the question of illegal search. I sensed the jury believed him, too, so I let the matter drop. Ernie had told me that the gun, indeed, had fallen out, just as the policeman said.
    The policeman was the prosecutor’s case. The gun was introduced into evidence, and the prosecutor tried to make Ernie appear like the progeny of Al Capone by commenting on the missing serial number.
    Then it was my turn. He would make a nervous witness, but he had no major record, so I put Ernie on the stand. I led him through the preliminary questions, quickly establishing who he was and what he did for a living.
    “You told the police you got the gun from a man named George,” I said. “Is that true?”
    He sadly shook his head. “Not exactly, no.”
    “Where did you get the gun?”
    “I bought it from a colored guy in Detroit. I think his name was George, but it was the only time I saw him. Iwas working on a job when this guy comes up and asks me if I wanted to buy a gun. He showed it to me and said it would cost fifty bucks. Bullets included.”
    “And what did you do, if anything?”
    He hesitated, glanced over at the jury and then back at me. “I do a lot of work in Detroit. It’s a dangerous place. I myself have seen two gunfights, honest to God. Anyway, this guy said everyone in Detroit carried one and that I should, too, just to even up my chances of survival. Like I say, it’s a dangerous place, so I bought it.”
    “Did you always carry it in the truck?”
    He shook his head. “No. Just when I had to go into Detroit.”
    “Ever fire it?”
    “No.”
    “Did you ever tell anyone you had it?”
    “Show it off, you mean?”
    “Whatever.”
    “No. Even my wife didn’t know I had the damn thing.”
    “That’s all I have,” I said to the court.
    The prosecutor tried to make a lot about the filed-off numbers. Ernie told him he didn’t know about that. He didn’t know much about guns, period. It was a good answer and it shut up the prosecutor. Then we argued. The prosecutor, who has the burden of proving guilt beyond reasonable doubt, went first. He made a standard argument. If the jury didn’t convict Ernie, he said, it would send a signal to the street and soon Pickeral Point would be alive with gunfights and gunfighters. His summation was more political than legal, although he did mention they had proved every essential point needed for conviction.
    Of course, they had, which made things a bit difficult for me. I abandoned the facts and argued that anyone who worked in the dangerous streets of Detroit needed to be armed.
    The prosecutor tried Ernie Barker.
    I tried the city of Detroit.
    Frankly, I thought I did a better job.
    The jury must have thought so, too. They came in with a compromise verdict, finding Ernie guilty of possessing an unregistered gun, misdemeanor.
    The judge sternly lectured Ernie about the evils of pistols, which was a little hypocritical since I happened to know the judge carried a small chrome automatic at all times.
    He gave Ernie six months’ probation and a three-hundred-dollar fine and ordered the gun confiscated.
    I thought Ernie was going to lick my hand.
    I hurried back to my office.
    The jury trial had been a good way to warm up for the Conroy examination. While just a handful had been present to witness Ernie Barker’s case, it seemed that scores of the curious and the press of the entire western world had turned up for a look at Deputy Chief Conroy. The local contingent was out in strength, but also in attendance were camera and press crews from the New York tabloids and even a writer for one of the big British newspapers. Big-city graft, big-city cops—it was a strong brew. Dope money taken and stolen. It was the kind of thing where the headlines practically wrote themselves.
    Conroy, again pursuant to my instructions, was decked out in his dress uniform. He looked calm but grim. His wife