[The trial of Anthony Cavallo continues. Will justice be served?]
Tommy scratched his jaw. He had shaved that morning, of course, and didn’t need to worry about a beard, but he nevertheless found it comforting to scratch his jaw. It seemed so…intellectual? While he did so, his antagonist continued.
“You stated that I was driving 55, but in a 40 zone. Is that correct, Officer?”
“Yeah…”
“…and that this was more than a quarter-mile or so before the Cherry Street intersection, since that last quarter of a mile has a 25 miles per hour limit, true?”
“Yeah…”
“And you were where? Off to the side? Perhaps at the intersection with Davis Avenue?”
“Yeah, the speed limit’s 40 back there.”
“And when you caught up with me, I was still in the 40-zone, or had I reached the 25-zone?”
“The speed limit was still 40 miles per hour. You were going 55, like I said.”
“55, as you said,” echoed Cavallo, nodding his head. “But officer: Isn’t it true that 97 rises up in a hill before finally descending some distance south of Davis Avenue.”
By now, Tommy not only felt like a trapped animal; he was beginning to look like one, too. Judge Doyle was clearly not going to bail him out, and there would be hell to pay if this fucking Dago bastard beat him on a speeding ticket. He shrugged his shoulders, and conceded the point. “Yeah…”
“Good. Now, Officer—Let’s return to your testimony. You said that you estimated my speed at between 50 and 60 miles per hour, and I’m sure that you’re especially trained at making such estimates on cars moving in the dark. How long would you guess that it took you to make that estimate?”
What was this guy thinking? Where was he going with this argument? Tommy was confused, very confused. “Er, uh…five, maybe six seconds?” he replied.
“Five or six seconds? Is that your testimony, Officer?”
Tommy reflected (for perhaps five or six seconds) before responding, “Yeah. That’s about right. Five or six seconds.” The answer sounded plausible.
“And how long would it take you to activate your radar device from the off position, aim it at the vehicle in question, and confirm the speed? Just for the sake of argument, let’s make your life easier and assume that this was the only vehicle on the road, even though your citation indicates that the traffic volume was ‘heavy’ that evening.”
Tommy needed less time on this one. After about a second or two, he replied, “A coupla seconds. Maybe only one.”
Anthony Cavallo was not a math genius, but he came to court well prepared in his own defense. “Let’s see,” he began. “Five or six seconds to estimate my speed, and one or two seconds to confirm it with the radar device. Is that correct, Officer?”
Every cell in Tommy Pudgekins’ body was screaming, “It’s a trap! It’s a trap!” Still, there wasn’t much he could do. The math was pretty simple. With a shrug of his shoulder, he conceded an “Uh-huh.”
“Well, Officer, that means that I was traveling 55 miles per hour for a minimum of six seconds and perhaps as many as eight, doesn’t it?”
Tommy mumbled inaudibly, whereupon Judge Doyle snapped to attention, instructing him to answer. “Yeah.”
“Now, Officer, we come to the tricky part. Were you able to see my car while it was on the other side of the hill on 97?”
This was an easy question. “No! Of course not!” Tommy replied quickly. “I ain’t Superman, and I don’t got x-ray vision!” he added, chuckling at his wit, and noticing, to his relief, that Judge Doyle had also cracked a smile.
“So, between the time that my car began coming down the hill until the time that I more or less reached the intersection of 97 and Jefferson Davis Avenue, something like six to eight seconds must have passed, is that true?”
The math seemed reasonable. With one more glance at the judge, Tommy nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Up until this point, Cavallo had seemed quite calm, but now he grew animated, as though he wanted to shout, “Aha, I’ve got you now, you sunovabitch!” With little thought, he made the damning conclusion, addressing it directly to Judge Doyle.
“Your Honor, may it please the Court: The distance from the top of the hill—the point at which my car first became visible—and Jefferson Davis Avenue is just about 40 yards, or 120 feet. I was allegedly driving at 55 miles per hour. That’s slight more than 80 feet per second. If the officer required even as few as six seconds to confirm my alleged speed, I would have gone at least 480 feet. Moreover, 97 North slows to 25 miles per hour at exactly 135 yards, or 405 feet, from the crest of the hill, yet Officer Pudgekins testifies that I was still in the 40-zone. I respectfully submit that there is absolutely no way that he could have made this determination, and politely add that I have now caught him in no fewer than eight errors of fact.”
Before the judge could reply, Tommy began shouting heatedly. “I wasn’t on Davis Avenue. He placed me on Jefferson Davis. I was on a side street, Daniels Road.”
And lo, as Sir Walter Scott taught us long ago, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” Without so much as blinking, Cavallo replied, “Your Honor—I stand corrected. That makes nine errors of fact, since the road bends to the left, and he could not even have seen the intersection from Daniels Road, which is also far north of Cherry Street. Furthermore, I feel that in light of the officer’s own testimony, the Court should—”
But to everyone’s surprise, it was Judge David Doyle who interrupted, and the stern tone in his voice indicated that he expected his authority to be respected. “All right! That’s enough!” he bellowed, smashing his gavel for emphasis. “This is a routine traffic case, and you two have made a mockery of my courtroom,” he snarled. “I shall admonish the police officer that he must deliver better testimony in the future. I shall admonish the defendant that the judge is the one who determines what this Court should or should not do. Is that clear?”
The question was rhetorical. Tommy hung his head down, afraid to return the judge’s penetrating stare. Cavallo, somewhat taken aback by the sudden turn in events, simply nodded his assent.
“Good!” said His Honor with a sigh. “Now then. This has gone on far too long already, and the Court should be in recess.”
How did the honorable justice intend to rule at this point? We cannot be altogether certain, for now there interposed…a noise. What else can be said? Beneath the robe of Judge Doyle was heard a crescendo of cascading flatulence, coming to its climax with unmistakable wetness. Some in the chamber were more successful at suppressing their giggles than others. Tommy evaded the stern glare of His Honor by dropping the paper with his prepared testimony and stooping to pick it up, but Mr. Cavallo, on whom that worthy gentleman’s eyes had been focused, was clearly amused. Perhaps the smile he vainly sought to conceal by biting his gums sealed his doom.
“I find this case for…the Town of Wentworth! The Defendant is hereby ordered to pay the fine to the Clerk of Courts within thirty days, or face incarceration if he attempts to operate a motor vehicle anywhere within this state. Do I make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Cavallo?” the judge bellowed.
“What?!” screamed that party, in genuine outrage. “Your Honor! This is unconscionable! I’ll appeal! The officer is a liar, and I’ve caught him lying time and again. Why—”
Judge Doyle had been pounding his gavel to no avail. In fury, he screamed for the bailiff. “I find the defendant in contempt of Court and sentence him to three days in jail!” he roared.
It took the bailiff and three police officers to drag Mr. Cavallo to a holding cell. There, true justice was served a short while later, when another prisoner, who had been arrested for breaking-and-entering, first tried to sodomize him and, rebuffed in the attempt, proceeded to bury a shiv in between the poor man’s ribs. Cavallo was pronounced dead on arrival at the county hospital.
Cavallo’s assassin, Chuck Hawkins, was charged with first-degree murder. At the trial, his defense attorney prevailed through the most perverse legal chicanery. This was a short story, but an impressive one.
“Now, Chuckie. I want y’all to tell the Court the truth. Did you attempt to sodomize Mr. Cavallo before you kilt him?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
“No, Sir. I couldn’t even get it up.”
The attorney smiled. “Well, then!” he concluded with a smile. “Yo’ Honuh. Defense makes a motion to change the charge to ‘assault with a dead weapon,’—that is, if it please the Court.”
This verdict met with the approval of all (including the prosecutor, who was in on the deal). The judge—a worthy colleague of Mr. Doyle and far better qualified to handle such difficult cases—sentenced Mr. Hawkins to two years in County Prison, with the last 18 months suspended, the sentence running concurrently with his three-month sentence for breaking-and-entering. He was out on parole after two months.
So, notwithstanding a minor glitch here or there, the wheels of Justice kept rolling. This (as we shall see) was indeed a positive development, because there was yet more ground to cover!
This is hysterical and sad at the same time.