“Why is that, Ms. Feinstock?” he asked. “I don’t have anything before me that suggests a deviation.”
“We believe the defendant is a flight risk, Your Honor. He refused to provide the arresting officers with a local address or even a license plate number of a car. His driver’s license was issued in Alabama and we have not verified it as a legitimate issuance. So, basically, we don’t know if Harold Brisbane is even his real name. We don’t know who he is or where he lives, if he has a job or family, and until we do, he is considered a flight risk.”
“Your Honor,” Krasner jumped in. “Ms. Feinstock is misstating the facts. My client’s name is known to police. He provided a legitimate Alabama driver’s license of which there was no mention of a problem. Mr. Brisbane has just arrived in the area from Mobile seeking work and does not yet have a permanent address. When he does, he will be glad to provide it to authorities. In the meantime, he can be contacted if needed through my office and has agreed to check in twice daily with me or any representative of the court Your Honor chooses. As Your Honor knows, a deviation from the bail schedule should be based on a defendant’s propensity for flight. Not having a permanent address is in no way an acknowledgment of flight. To the contrary, Mr. Brisbane has entered a plea and waived any delays in this case. He clearly wishes to attack these charges and clear his name as soon as possible.”
“Calling your office is fine, but what about the address?” the judge asked. “Where’s he going to be? You seem to have left out of your dissertation any mention of the apparent fact that this man already fled from police prior to his arrest.”
“Your Honor, we challenge that charge. These officers were in plainclothes and at no time identified themselves as police officers. My client was carrying a rather expensive piece of camera equipment—with which, by the way, he earns his living—and feared he was about to become the victim of a robbery. That is why he ran from those people.”
“That’s all very interesting,” the judge said. “What about an address?”
“Mr. Brisbane has a room at the Holiday Inn on Pico Boulevard. From there he is endeavoring to find work. He is a freelance photographer and graphic arts designer and is confident of his prospects. He isn’t going anywhere. As I said before, he is going to fight these—”
“Yes, Mr. Krasner, as you said before. What kind of bail are you looking for here?”
“Well, sir, a quarter million dollars for a charge of throwing a trash can into the ocean is utterly incomprehensible. I think a modest bail of five to ten thousand dollars is more in line with the charges. My client has limited funds. If he uses them all to make bail, he will not have the money on which to live or pay counsel.”
“You left out the evading and vandalism.”
“Your Honor, as I said, he ran from them but he had no earthly idea that they were police officers. He thought—”
“Again, Mr. Krasner, save your arguments for the proper venue.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor, but look at the charges. It is clear this is going to be a misdemeanor case, and the bail should be set accordingly.”
“Anything else?”
“Submitted.”
“Ms. Feinstock.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Again, the people urge the Court to consider a departure from the bail schedule. The two main charges against Mr. Brisbane are felonies and will remain as such. Despite Mr. Krasner’s assurances, the people still are not convinced the defendant is not a flight risk or that his name is even Harold Brisbane. My detectives tell me that the defendant has dyed hair and that it was dyed at the time the photograph for this driver’s license was issued. This is consistent with an attempt to hide identity. We are hoping to borrow the Los Angeles Police Department’s fingerprint identification computer today and see if we can get a—”
“Your Honor,” Krasner interjected. “I have to object here on the basis that—”
“Mr. Krasner,” the judge intoned, “you had your turn.”
“In addition,” Feinstock said, “Mr. Brisbane’s arrest came as a result of other suspicious activities which he was involved in. Namely—”
“Objection!”
“—the photographing of young children—some of them unclothed—without their knowledge or the knowledge or consent of their parents. The incident for which—”
“Your Honor!”
“—the charges before you have arisen occurred when Mr. Brisbane attempted to elude the officers investigating a complaint against him.”
“Your Honor,” Krasner said loudly. “There are no outstanding charges against my client. All the district attorney is trying to do is prejudice this man before the court. It is highly improper and unethical. If Mr. Brisbane did these things, then where are the charges?”
Silence filled the cavernous courtroom. Krasner’s outburst had even served to make the other attorneys whispering to their clients hold their tongues. The gaze of the judge slowly moved from Feinstock to Krasner to Gladden before he finally looked back at the prosecutor and continued.
“Ms. Feinstock, are there currently any other charges against this man being considered by your office at this time? And I mean right at this time.”
Feinstock hesitated and then grudgingly said, “No other information has been presented for filing but the police, as I said, are continuing their investigation into the defendant’s true identity and activities.”
The judge looked down at the papers in front of him again and began to write. Krasner opened his mouth to add something but then reconsidered. It was clear by the judge’s demeanor that he had already made the decision.
“The bail schedule calls for bail to be set at ten thousand dollars,” Judge Nyberg said. “I am going to make a slight departure and set bail at fifty thousand dollars. Mr. Krasner, I will be glad to reconsider this at a later date if at that time your client has assuaged the district attorney’s concerns about identity and address, etcetera.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”
The judge called the next case. Feinstock closed the file she had in front of her, put it on the stack to her right, and took another off the stack to her left and opened it. Krasner turned to Gladden with a slight smile on his face.
“Sorry, I thought he might go twenty-five. The beauty of it is she’s probably happy. She asked for a quarter probably hoping for a dime or a nickel. She got the nickel.”
“Never mind that. Just how long until I’m out of here?”
“Sit tight. I’ll have you out in an hour.”
11
The edge of Lake Michigan was frozen, the ice left jagged and treacherous and beautiful after a storm. The upper floors of the Sears Tower were gone, swallowed whole by the grayish white shroud that hung over the city. I saw all of this while coming in on the Stevenson Expressway. It was late morning and I guessed it would be snowing again before day’s end. I had thought it was cold in Denver until I landed at Midway.
It was three years since I had been back to Chicago. And despite the cold, I missed the place. I had gone to J-school at Medill in the early eighties and learned to truly love the city. After, I had hoped to stay and get on with one of the local papers but the Tribune and Sun-Times both took passes, the interview editors telling me to go out and get some experience and then come back with my clips. It was a bitter disappointment. Not the rejection as much as having to leave the city. Of course, I could’ve stayed on at the City News Bureau, where I worked during school, but that wasn’t the kind of experience those editors were looking for, and I didn’t like the idea of working for a wire service that paid you like you were a student needing clips more than money. So I went home and got the job at the Rocky. A lot of years went by. At first I went to Chicago at least twice a year to see friends and visit favorite bars but that tapered off over the years. The last time had been three years ago. My friend Larry Bernard had just landed at the Tribune after going out and getting the same experience they had told me to get. I went up to see him and I hadn’t been back since. I guess I had the clips now for a paper like the Tribune, but I had never gotten around to sending them to Chicago.