That night in July 1988 Dexter was working the night shift as an on-call attorney who could be allocated a client on the say-so of an over-busy judge. It was 2 a.m. and he was trying to slip away when a voice summoned him back to Court AR2A. He sighed; one did not argue with Judge Hasselblad.
He approached the bench to join an Assistant District Attorney already standing there clutching a file.
‘You’re tired, Mr Dexter.’
‘I guess we all are, your honour.’
‘No dispute, but there is one more case I’d like you to take on. Not tomorrow, now. Take the file. This young man seems to be in serious trouble.’
‘Your wish is my command, judge.’
Hasselblad’s face widened in a grin.
‘I just love deference,’ he rejoined.
Dexter took the file from the ADA and they left the court together. The file cover read: ‘People of the State of New York versus Washington Lee’.
‘Where is he?’ asked Dexter.
‘Right here in a holding cell,’ said the ADA.
As he had thought from the mugshot staring at him from the file, his client was a skinny kid with the air of bewildered hopelessness worn by the uneducated who are sucked in, chewed up and spat out by any judicial system in the world. He seemed more bewildered than smart.
The accused was eighteen years old, a denizen of that charm-free district known as Bedford Stuyvesant, a part of Brooklyn that is virtually a black ghetto. That alone aroused Dexter’s interest. Why was he being charged in Manhattan? He presumed the kid had crossed the river and stolen a car or mugged someone with a wallet worth stealing.
But no, the charge was bank fraud. So, passing a forged cheque, attempting to use a stolen credit card, even the old trick of simultaneous withdrawals at the opposite ends of the counter from a dummy account? No.
The charge was odd, unspecific. The District Attorney had laid a ‘bareboned’ charge alleging fraud in excess of $10,000. The victim was the East River Bank, headquarters in midtown Manhattan, which explained why the charge was being pursued on the island, not in Brooklyn. The fraud had been detected by the bank security staff and the bank wished to pursue with maximum vigour according to corporate policy.
Dexter smiled encouragingly, introduced himself, sat down and offered cigarettes. He did not smoke but 99 per cent of his clients dragged happily on the white sticks. Washington Lee shook his head.
‘They’re bad for your health, man.’
Dexter was tempted to say that seven years in the state pen was not going to do great things for it either, but forbore. Mr Lee, he noted, was not just homely, he was downright ugly. So how had he charmed a bank into handing over so much money? The way he looked, shuffled, slumped, he would hardly have been allowed across the Italian marble lobby of the prestigious East River Bank.
Calvin Dexter needed more time than was available to give the case file full and proper attention. The immediate concern was to get through the formality of the arraignment and see if there was even a remote possibility of bail. He doubted it.
An hour later Dexter and the ADA were back in court. Washington Lee, looking completely bewildered, was duly arraigned.
‘Are we ready to proceed
?’ asked Judge Hasselblad.
‘May it please the court, I have to ask for a continuance,’ said Dexter.
‘Approach,’ ordered the judge. When the two lawyers stood beneath the bench he asked: ‘You have a problem, Mr Dexter?’
‘This is a more complex case than at first appears, your honour. This is not hubcaps. The charge refers to over ten thousand dollars, embezzled from a blue-chip bank. I need more study time.’
The judge glanced at the ADA who shrugged, meaning no objection.
‘This day week,’ said the judge.
‘I’d like to ask for bail,’ said Dexter.
‘Opposed, your honour,’ said the ADA.
‘I’m setting the bail at the sum named in the charge, ten thousand dollars,’ said Judge Hasselblad.