Free Courthouse by John Nicholas Iannuzzi Page A

on the eighth floor the other day, these bastards’ll probably be looking for you to give you their goddamn demands too.”
    â€œThey’ll probably have a few more by now,” added Lanza.
    â€œMaybe they’ll want two desserts,” George added lightly.
    The Mayor was only half listening; he was apparently absorbed in something else. His face was stern, tinged with a look of hurt. “And after we gave them more contact and dialogue than inmates have received anywhere else in the country. I simply don’t understand what the hell is wrong now.”
    â€œMaybe the other floors just want to vent their spleen, have their say,” suggested Lanza. “From the information George got, the eighth floor hasn’t even taken part in this one. They must be satisfied from Monday.”
    â€œThe rest of the inmates didn’t imagine we were just going to take care of the eighth floor and not bother about the other floors, did they?” wondered the Mayor.
    George shrugged. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
    â€œNot to me either,” agreed the Mayor. “But then neither does the whole blasted riot. But I tell you this, George, I want the whole damn problem cleared up, and I want it cleared up quick.” The Mayor speared the air with his index finger. “We can’t afford this kind of image smeared all over the headlines. Not at this time.”
    â€œIt may not be as bad as all that,” consoled Lanza. The Mayor turned to him. “Remember the polls; there’s a law-and-order wave that’s sweeping the City, Lanza continued. “The people in Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island won’t hold it against you that prisoners aren’t getting filet mignon and two desserts in the jails.”
    â€œBut chaos and inefficiency …” George started to add.
    â€œChaos and inefficiency?” demanded the Mayor, whirling. “Where the hell did that come from? Chaos? Inefficiency?”
    â€œThat’s what the prisoners were griping about the other day, Mayor,” George explained hastily. “No bail, no trials, just rotting in The Tombs for months on end before they get to court. And the courts are backlogged and log jammed, they say. That’s what they emphasized most in their demands the other day. Speedier trials.”
    â€œIs what they say true, George?” the Mayor asked. “Are the courts inefficient? Are those judges I appoint just sitting on their asses, doing nothing?” The Mayor walked across the room and turned Lanza’s air conditioner higher. He gazed out at the trees hanging limp in the heat. “The other day when we swore in Broder, Brauder …”
    â€œBauer,” George suggested.
    â€œWhat the hell’s the difference?” the Mayor said impatiently. “You know who the hell I mean. When we swore him in everybody was making grand speeches about how well the courts are doing, how many cases they’re moving. Are they all playing with themselves? And with me?”
    â€œNot from the reports I get each week, Mayor,” George replied. “It’s all been fine up to now.”
    â€œAre you on top of this, George?” the Mayor asked pointedly. “I mean do you really keep on top of it? Do you really know what’s going on?”
    â€œYes, Mayor, I am,” George said firmly. “There is a great backlog of cases, Mayor. But there are lots of, thousands more, arrests each year than the year before. We … the whole country,” he added quickly, “is in the midst of a crime wave. We just don’t have enough courts, enough judges …”
    â€œEnough money,” the Mayor added flatly. “If the Federal Government would only give us the additional money we need. That bastard in the White House. He’s orchestrating the whole thing to make himself appear like Saint George coming to the rescue. We’re the ones who have to cope with the