"But he is different, Judge. You know that and so do I. This courtroom is packed with newspeople, and they're not here to report on the general state of the criminal justice system. They have, in fact, been tipped off by the U.S. Attorney's office to be here at your court to see Frank Bellarosa led away in cuffs." I added, "The press knew before even you or I knew that Frank Bellarosa would be in this courtroom."

Judge Rosen nodded. "That may be true, Mr Sutter. But it doesn't change the charge or the general policy of refusing bail in cases of homicide." Still tete-a-tete, I whispered, "Your Honour, my client may or may not be involved in so-called organized crime. But if he is who the press alleges he is, you must be aware that no major figure such as Mr Bellarosa has fled U.S. jurisdiction for many decades."

"So what?" She looked at me a moment, then said, "Mr Sutter, I sense that you are not a criminal lawyer and that you are not familiar with Federal Court. Correct?"

I nodded.

"Well, Mr Sutter, this is another world, different, I'm sure, from the one you come from."

You can say that again, lady. But good Lord, do I really look and sound like some son of Wall Street Wasp, or worse yet, a la-di-da society lawyer from Long Island? I said lo Judge Rosen, "I'm here to see that justice is done. I may not know how things are usually done here, but I know that my client has a right under Constitutional law to have a fair bail hearing."

"He does. Next week."

"No, Judge. Now."

Her eyebrows rose, and she was about to throw me out and put Bellarosa in the slammer, but as luck would have it, Miss Larkin interrupted. Obviously Miss Larkin didn't like all this talk that she couldn't hear, so she said, "Your Honour, may I speak?"

Judge Rosen looked at her. "All right."

Miss Larkin came closer to the bench but spoke in a normal volume. "Judge, whether or not the accused came into custody peacefully is not relevant in determining bail when the charge is murder. Nor is this the time or place to consider other circumstances that defence counsel might wish to put before the court. The government has reason to believe that the accused committed murder, and is a danger to the community, and has the resources and ample reason to flee the country if released on bail."

Judge Rosen, who had had enough of me a minute before, now felt obligated, I think, to give the defence the last word before she kicked me out. She looked at me. "Mr Sutter?"

I glanced at Miss Larkin, who still reminded me of Carolyn. I had an urge to scold her but said instead to her, "Miss Larkin, the suggestion that my client is a danger to the community is ludicrous." I turned to Judge Rosen and continued, loud enough now for everyone to hear, "Your Honour, this is a middle-aged man who has a home, a wife, three children, and no history of violence." I couldn't help but glance back at Mr Mancuso, who made a funny face, sort of a wince as if I'd stepped on his foot. I continued, "Judge, I have here in this briefcase the names and addresses of all the companies that my client is associated with." Well, maybe not all, but most. "I have here, also, my client's passport, which I am prepared to surrender to the court. I have here also -" Just then, the side door swung open, and in strode Alphonse Ferragamo, looking none too happy. Ferragamo was a tall, slender man with a hooked nose set between eyes that looked like tired oysters. He had thin, sandy hair and pale, thin lips that needed blood or lip rouge.

His presence caused a stir in the court because nearly everyone recognized him; such was his ability to keep his face before the public. Ferragamo had been called an Italian Tom Dewey, and it was no secret that he had his eye on either the governor's mansion or, a la Tom Dewey, the bigger house in Washington. His major problem in running for elective office, I thought, was that he had a face that no one liked. But I guess no one wanted to tell him that. Judge Rosen, of course, knew him and nodded to him but said to me, "Continue." So I continued. "I have here, too, the ability to post a substantial bail, enough to -" "Your Honour," interrupted Alphonse Ferragamo, ignoring all court etiquette. "Your Honour, I can't believe that the court would even entertain a discussion of bail in a case of wilful and wanton murder, in a case of execution-style murder, a case of drug-related, underworld assassination." The jerk went on, describing the murder of Juan Carranza with more adjectives and adverbs than I thought anyone could muster for a single act. Also, he was into word stressing, which I find annoying in court, almost whiny. Judge Rosen did not look real pleased with Alphonse Ferragamo charging into her court like – pardon the expression – gangbusters, and running off at the mouth. In fact, she said to Alphonse, "Mr Ferragamo, a man's liberty is at stake, and defence counsel has indicated that he wishes to present certain facts to the court which may influence the question of bail. Mr Sutter was speaking as you entered." But Alphonse did not take the hint and put his mouth into gear again. Clearly, the man was agitated, and for whatever reason – justice or personal vendetta – Alphonse Ferragamo desperately wanted Frank Bellarosa in prison. Meanwhile, Miss Larkin, who in her own way had handled this open-and-shut case better by keeping her mouth mostly shut, sort of slipped off and sat beside Mr Mancuso at the prosecutor's table.

"Your Honour," Ferragamo continued, "the accused is a notorious gangster, a man who the Justice Department believes is the head of the nation's largest organized crime family, a man who we believe, through investigation and through the testimony of witnesses, has committed a drug-related murder." In a monumental Freudian slip, Ferragamo added, "This is not a personal vendetta, this is fact," leaving everyone wondering about personal vendettas. Obviously, this guy hadn't been in a courtroom for some time. I mean, I don't do much court work either, but even I could do better than this clown. I listened as Mr Ferragamo did everything in his power to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. I was tempted to interrupt a few times, but as that old Machiavellian Napoleon Bonaparte once said, "Never interrupt an enemy while he's making a mistake."

I glanced at Judge Rosen and saw that she was clearly and openly annoyed. But even a judge has to think twice before she tells a U.S. Attorney to shut up, and the more Ferragamo talked, the more time I felt I would be given to present my arguments.

The interesting thing about what Ferragamo was saying now was that it didn't relate directly to the question of bail. Instead, Ferragamo was going on about Bellarosa's alleged problems in the drug trade, especially in regard to Colombians and rival Mafia gangs. The man sounded as if he were holding a press conference. Actually, he was. Ferragamo informed everyone, "The heroin trade, which has been traditionally controlled by the Cosa Nostra, the Mafia, is now only a small part of the lucrative trade in illegal drugs. The Bellarosa crime family is seeking to muscle in on the cocaine and crack trade, and to do so, they must eliminate their rivals. Thus, the murder of Juan Carranza." Good Lord, Alphonse, why don't you just paint a target on Bellarosa's forehead and turn him loose in a Colombian neighbourhood? I glanced at Frank and saw he was smiling enigmatically.

Judge Rosen coughed, then said, "Mr Ferragamo, I think we understand that you believe the defendant has committed murder. That's why he's here. But pre-trial incarceration is not a punishment, it is a precaution, and Mr Bellarosa is innocent until proven guilty. I want you to tell me why you believe he will forfeit his bail and flee."

Mr Ferragamo thought about that a moment. Meanwhile, Frank Bellarosa just stood there, the object of all this attention but with no speaking part. I'll give him credit for his demeanour though. He wasn't sneering at Ferragamo, he wasn't cocky or arrogant, nor did he seem deferential or crestfallen. He just stood there as if he had a Sony Walkman stuck in his ear, listening to La Traviata while waiting for a bus.