The Courthouse

He held the umbrella for me, even though we only had to cross the ten feet of sidewalk to the waiting van. The rain was relentless for most of the day--eagerly soaked up by everything green but hard to swallow for the people, who much prefer last week's sunshine. The ride through Manhattan was supposed to be a step up from the subway system, which is how I got into this mess in the first place, but it ended up being dreary and congested, presumably because of the rain. An hour and a half later we arrived at the imposing block of courthouse buildings on Centre Street. We were ushered in, our escort flashing his badge exactly as they do in the movies. In fact, he couldn't have been more handsome and official--swirling government-issue raincoat over impeccable uniform, voice and eyes descended from Greek heroes but softened now into a paternal, hard working protector of the innocent from the city's criminals.
Metal detectors, identification, visitor badges and a confusing rat maze of hallways and cubicles, surrounded by stacks of files and portable closets (undercover gear? Judges robes?) led us to a nondescript row of chairs, whose leather upholstery color was so bland as to elude a color descriptor altogether. The building I have seen countless times on film--maybe not exactly this one, but close. The same warm wood trim contrasted with sharp metal edges, gold painted letters on the windows of the office doors giving that sense of private detective-ness. The government aura suffused with the ghosts of those whose dramas have unfolded here, the bureaucracy and fervent attempts at justice both uplifting and suffocating at the same time.
The D.A. we were working with was a master multi-tasker. She fielded no less than 10 phone calls during our brief interview, she switched effortlessly between the three of us, throwing 15 digit credit card numbers and details around as if they were nothing, she answered our questions, put together our cases, looked things up in law books and typed summary sheets.
There was a lot of hurry up and waiting.
Then finally, I was called in front of the Grand Jury.
I had been prepped on what was going to happen, and it did happen, much as they said it would. But still, nothing prepares you for the real thing. All eyes on you--the jury--bored and weary with their slouches and matching water bottles , the judge--trying to be friendly, but with an unmistakable sense of power and sharp-eyed skills of observation, the D.A.--breathless and overflowing with detailed information that she tried to pour out in meaningful order.
It was over pretty quickly, and I was released to find my way back to the real world, which suddenly seemed dangerous and cold, full of calculating thieves and confusing chaos.
I wandered through Chinatown toward the subway, ducking into a Starbucks that served as a familiar retreat in which to re-center.
I pondered this whole saga--that my wallet had been stolen a week a half ago on the subway. They caught the culprit and linked him to me because of the Metrocard on his person, confirmed to have been purchased with (my) stolen credit card. I now know this person is part of a larger team of 6 or 7 people who work together, working crowded subways and buses. Stealing for a living and considering their probable 4 years in jail for grand larceny just a cost of doing business. I have learned that the credit card companies don't bat an eye--even at thousands of dollars worth of fraudulent charges--their losses are covered in their interest rates, and they don't even require a police report to assume liability for those purchases.
I am amazed that in such a large city they manage to catch these guys, and prosecute them within a couple weeks. But even more amazed to learn that they will be on the streets again in a few years, right back at it. The jail time does little more than to postpone their next opportunity by a few years.
Ah, well, certainly was a side of NYC that I hadn't previously seen.