There was more discussion and ruminating on Feldman’s part, but at the end of the day this was a probable cause hearing, and he was bound to rule that the AG’s office had made its case. Bolds would stand trial again, this time not for being a criminal but for having an identified “mental abnormality” and considered dangerous.
“Mr. Bolds, I find that the state has met its low burden for the purposes of this hearing. You’ll stand trial for civil management on a date to be determined. In the meantime, I’ll allow you to remain unconfined, but you’ll be assigned to a new pretrial officer for checkups. Good day, sir. Next case.”
CHAPTER 23
2:48 p.m.
“Really, Joe?” Ben asked as the two left the courtroom with Bolds a few feet behind them. Ben was a short, neat-looking guy of Chinese descent with black hair and dark eyes. Joe liked him. He was a straight shooter and a good litigator. “This guy? For civil management?”
“OMH gives my office permission to file. In real terms, that means we’d better file. Either that or the AG takes the blame if this guy snaps again in an elevator. I’m a soldier, and those are my orders. You know that.”
“I get the politics, but this guy isn’t Aaron Hathorne. Far from it.”
“No one is Aaron Hathorne,” Joe said. “I know this case sucks. It’s a dog, and I’ve gotta walk it.”
Ben shrugged and nodded. It was a sentiment all trial lawyers understood. He asked about some additional records on Bolds that Joe was supposed to bring, and Joe led them over to a bench outside the courtroom.
“Mr. Bolds, sit for a second, okay?” Ben asked. Bolds sat silently, his hands moving to his lap like it was a trained response. He stared downward.
Joe set out a couple of thick accordion files and thumbed through them while Ben looked at some messages on his phone. Joe produced the documents and then heard a loud crash. Across the hall, another courtroom door had flown open and struck the wall.
“Fuck you, Vera! This shit ain’t over!” a young man screamed, stomping into the hallway and tossing court papers behind him. He then winged a cell phone down the polished tile floor of the hallway like it was a skipping stone. Three uniformed men from the Office of Court Administration, or OCA, took notice. One barked into his radio while the other two chased the phone thrower down.
A sobbing woman, visibly pregnant, walked out from the same courtroom a few seconds later and bent over to pick up the discarded papers. She was carrying her own fat file of legal paperwork and looked like she might fall over. Joe and Ben both called out to her. “Miss, please!” and “Whoa, lady, hang on!” were overlaid on each other. The two men gathered the papers and pointed her toward the elevator. In the distance, the phone thrower bellowed like a bear in a trap as he was subdued.
“Will they arrest him?” Ben asked, brushing his hands clean.
“Nah, not as long as he shuts up,” Joe said. “If OCA had to collar every guy who acted like that in family court, they’d be doing nothing else.” From the pile of paperwork on the bench, he pulled out the reports for Ben and handed them over. Beside the two men, Evan Bolds continued to stare like nothing remotely disturbing had just taken place. That’s prison, Joe thought. He’s used to ignoring outbursts.
“Mr. Bolds, let’s go,” Ben said. “I’ll show you where you’ll need to report next.” Bolds rose, poised to follow him. He had an almost robotic air about him, something between an impeccably mannered child and an obsequious servant.
“Okay,” he said. Ben and Joe shook hands, ready to part. Then Bolds turned to Joe. “Um, you have a good day too, Mr. DeSantos.” Joe looked back at him quizzically. Most guys in Bolds’s position didn’t talk to the other side’s lawyer.
“You too, sir,” Joe said. He winked at Ben and turned away.
Next stop was for a hot dog. It was almost three o’clock, and Joe hadn’t eaten anything all day. He waited a solid minute for an elevator; the ones at 111 Centre Street were notoriously slow. A crowded one arrived, and Joe stepped in as he riffled through the Bolds file again. He frowned at the messiness, knowing he’d have to reorganize it at the office. He had done little with the case file since right after Lois’s body had been found. It had been an unproductive week.
Booze filled, more like it.
The elevator came to a stop, paused for another aching moment, and slid open. The echo-laden noise of the courthouse lobby and some fresh air billowed in. Joe was about to pull his hand from the folder when his fingers brushed plastic. He fished out a small ziplock bag with something that looked like a postcard or a photograph inside. When he glanced at the thing in the bag, his breath caught in his throat. People were already pushing out behind him, forcing him into the tributary of the courthouse exit that fed the river of humanity that was Lower Manhattan. The thing in the baggie wasn’t a postcard or an old photograph; it was an old, rather flimsy-looking baseball card.