Chapter 16
THE CITY OF New York does not call it a bail hearing.
The City of New York calls it a “pre-hearing evaluation and recommendation.” So Maddy and Belinda are seated in a small, dirty room on Centre Street in downtown Manhattan.
There are five metal chairs and two crappy tables that appear to be identical to the crappy table and chairs in Belinda’s “holding cell.”
“The only thing missing is that asshole boss of yours, R.J.,” says Belinda, who is fidgeting and complaining. “Oh, and that dickwad doctor who kept asking me how I got hurt.”
“That doctor was doing his job,” Maddy reminds her. Maddy took Belinda for her medical examination after she shared how the other half lives. Belinda let him treat her cuts and bruises but fell silent when he asked questions.
Maddy doesn’t know if the girl is protecting herself or the people she works for.
“Well,” Maddy says, trying very hard not to show her own distress at R.J.’s absence. “We don’t have an attorney, but we also don’t have a judge yet.”
“The judge. Will he be sitting up there?” Belinda asks, pointing to the one chair that rests in the front of the room behind another crappy table, only that table is made of wood.
“Yes, that’s where she will be sitting,” Maddy says. “Just so you know. The judge is a woman.”
“How’d you know that?” Belinda asks.
“I’m a forensic genius… I read the nameplate on the judge’s desk.” Then Maddy reads the name out loud to Belinda, pointing, HONORABLE ROSALIE MARTINEZ-HERMANN.
As if she’d been waiting for an entrance cue, the Honorable Judge Martinez-Hermann—heavyset and serious-looking—heads to her “bench” and sits. Meanwhile, Belinda turns to Maddy and whispers, “This isn’t going to be good.”
“Let’s wait and see,” Maddy says. Yet the moment after Maddy speaks, the judge looks up from her desk and says, “Good morning, and let’s hustle. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”
As if on cue, R.J. Werner walks through the side door into the room.
Belinda mutters, “My lawyer looks like crap.”
Maddy tells her to be quiet but silently agrees with Belinda. R.J. is wearing a pair of unwashed baggy chinos and a dark-blue shirt open at the neck—no tie—and is sporting at least three days of stubble.
“Are you connected with this case, sir?” the judge asks, eyebrows going up.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m the appointed attorney and I want to apologize for—”
“Too late,” says the judge, clearly irritated by both his lateness and his appearance.
She rattles off the arresting officer’s report (the words illicit substance show up three times) and then says, “Please submit information that will persuade the court to warrant pretrial independence without restriction. Counselor, begin.”
R.J. is barely able to walk across the very small room and address the judge.
“Your Honor, the great city of New York is a… a…” He searches for a word, but the word is not appearing. Finally, he says, “This city is a great temple to freedom.”
The judge is immediately pissed. “Which is it, sir, a great city or a great temple?”
R.J. looks like the startled honoree at a birthday party when the crowd has just yelled, “Surprise!”
He tries to recover by saying, “Both. Both. It’s both. A great city and a great temple and…” He is clearly off track. “And a great client. This woman, Linda, is a great person.”
“Counselor!” Judge Martinez-Hermann yells. “Stop. You are wasting this court’s time. I simply want the evidence that this young woman—whose name is Belinda, by the way—is capable of self-care and controlled independence before her scheduled trial. I need risk info and background.”
And it is now, at this crucial moment, that Maddy stands up and places her hand on Belinda’s shoulder.
“Your Honor, may I speak?”
“Who might you be?” asks the judge, turning her anger toward Maddy, who barrels ahead in the hope that the hearing won’t be canceled.
“I also work for the public defender’s office, and I merely want to point out that the police record shows no previous evidence of conviction for our client.”
“You’re telling me that there is no previous arrest record?” the judge asks.
“Well, not precisely. Five arrests are listed in the file,” Maddy says, as she loses her footing. Beside her, Belinda flinches.
That’s when Maddy decides to call upon her newly polished powers of mind control.
Maddy continues. “We realize that five arrests for possession is a large number, but the fact that no convictions took place seems to indicate that the NYPD may have been unfairly aggressive in their pursuit of my client.”
Judge Martinez-Hermann nods and says, “Very well, this court will allow the subject self-oversight. The City of New York will contact the subject to inform her of a trial date, if any. One stipulation is that the subject report in person to Social Services. That would be…”
“R.J. Werner,” says R.J. Werner.
“No, not you,” the judge says. “The other one. The woman with a brain.”
“That’s you,” whispers Belinda to Maddy.
“Oh, okay. I’m Maddy,” says Maddy.
“What is that? Like Cher or Beyoncé? You have a last name?”
“Cranston. My name is Cranston. Maddy Cranston.”
She only hesitates for a moment; she and Grandma Jessica both changed their last names from Gomes to Cranston after Lamont and Margo were married, in celebration of their newly united family.
The judge wrinkles her brow and says, “Cranston. Cranston. Hmm. That name sounds familiar.”