Read Online INDEFENSIBLE: One Lawyer's Journey Into the Inferno of American Justice by David Feige - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Feige
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deli-counter napkins, all she had left in the world.
“Cassandra, I want you to think really, really carefully now --have you been arrested since I saw you last, or have you gotten any tickets that you were supposed to go to court for but didn’t? Are there any warrants out for your arrest for any reason at all?”
A long pause.
“I think I got some tickets,” Cassandra said, nodding.
“Do you remember what they were for?”
“For loitering and having an open beer, I think, and maybe one for sleeping in the park.”
“Did you give them your actual name?” I asked, suddenly seeing a perfect way out of the whole problem.
“Yes, David.”
Ten minutes later, I was on the telephone with an incredulous sergeant at the Bronx Warrant Squad.
“You’re her lawyer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you want us to come and arrest her?”
“Right.”
“You don’t want to turn her in voluntarily?”
“Right --she’s here now, and if we wait until tomorrow, I’m likely to lose her to the streets again.”
“And she knows she’s gonna be arrested?”
“Yes. That’s what we want.”
“And you want me to call you when she’s in court?”
“Right. And make sure that the lawyer doing her arraignment tomorrow gets the letter that I’m going to give her.”
“Okay, Counselor, you got it. Gimee your address and I’ll send a team over.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“Be about twenty minutes.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Hanging up the phone, I turned back to Cassandra. “What medications do you need and in what dosages do you need them?”
“Ah . . . I’m not on my medication, David.”
“I know, Cassandra . . . but when you get to the jail, they are going to put you back on them. That’s the point.”
“Ooooh . . . okay,” Cassandra said slowly, then listed the particular drugs and specific dosages she should have been taking. After jotting all of it down, I headed upstairs and typed out a quick letter to accompany Cassandra on her journey through the system --a letter I hoped would ensure that at the very least she’d get her medications and that I’d be notified before she saw a judge. I printed three copies --two for Cassandra (in case she lost one) and one for the detectives.
The Warrant Squad arrived as promised. There were three of them --one African American man and two white guys --all big and muscular with cold gazes. I led them to the courtyard and introduced them to Cassandra. I explained that we’d decided that she needed to spend a few weeks in jail and that I’d hoped that they’d help me out by making sure that when she got to court her attorney got the letter I’d prepared. The African American cop offered to take the letter. “It has a list of the medications she needs, my home and cell numbers, and a specific request that the judge set five hundred dollars’ bail and adjourn the case for two weeks,” I told him.
“Counselor,” one of the white detectives said, “your client . . . ah . . . she knows we’re gonna have to cuff her, right?”
I told him we knew.
Just before the white guy reached for his cuffs, the African American detective interrupted. Turning slightly away from his colleagues, he leaned close. “You know they’re gonna search her when we get to the precinct --are we okay or do you need a minute to, ahh, talk to her?”
I smiled up at him, grateful for his decency. “We’re okay,” I told him. “Already took
“Cassandra, I want you to think really, really carefully now --have you been arrested since I saw you last, or have you gotten any tickets that you were supposed to go to court for but didn’t? Are there any warrants out for your arrest for any reason at all?”
A long pause.
“I think I got some tickets,” Cassandra said, nodding.
“Do you remember what they were for?”
“For loitering and having an open beer, I think, and maybe one for sleeping in the park.”
“Did you give them your actual name?” I asked, suddenly seeing a perfect way out of the whole problem.
“Yes, David.”
Ten minutes later, I was on the telephone with an incredulous sergeant at the Bronx Warrant Squad.
“You’re her lawyer?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you want us to come and arrest her?”
“Right.”
“You don’t want to turn her in voluntarily?”
“Right --she’s here now, and if we wait until tomorrow, I’m likely to lose her to the streets again.”
“And she knows she’s gonna be arrested?”
“Yes. That’s what we want.”
“And you want me to call you when she’s in court?”
“Right. And make sure that the lawyer doing her arraignment tomorrow gets the letter that I’m going to give her.”
“Okay, Counselor, you got it. Gimee your address and I’ll send a team over.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“Be about twenty minutes.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
Hanging up the phone, I turned back to Cassandra. “What medications do you need and in what dosages do you need them?”
“Ah . . . I’m not on my medication, David.”
“I know, Cassandra . . . but when you get to the jail, they are going to put you back on them. That’s the point.”
“Ooooh . . . okay,” Cassandra said slowly, then listed the particular drugs and specific dosages she should have been taking. After jotting all of it down, I headed upstairs and typed out a quick letter to accompany Cassandra on her journey through the system --a letter I hoped would ensure that at the very least she’d get her medications and that I’d be notified before she saw a judge. I printed three copies --two for Cassandra (in case she lost one) and one for the detectives.
The Warrant Squad arrived as promised. There were three of them --one African American man and two white guys --all big and muscular with cold gazes. I led them to the courtyard and introduced them to Cassandra. I explained that we’d decided that she needed to spend a few weeks in jail and that I’d hoped that they’d help me out by making sure that when she got to court her attorney got the letter I’d prepared. The African American cop offered to take the letter. “It has a list of the medications she needs, my home and cell numbers, and a specific request that the judge set five hundred dollars’ bail and adjourn the case for two weeks,” I told him.
“Counselor,” one of the white detectives said, “your client . . . ah . . . she knows we’re gonna have to cuff her, right?”
I told him we knew.
Just before the white guy reached for his cuffs, the African American detective interrupted. Turning slightly away from his colleagues, he leaned close. “You know they’re gonna search her when we get to the precinct --are we okay or do you need a minute to, ahh, talk to her?”
I smiled up at him, grateful for his decency. “We’re okay,” I told him. “Already took
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