“It was passed because of organized crime, Your Honor.”
“The statute was aimed at extortionists, murderers, and loan sharks. The typical organized criminals, correct?”
The young lawyer looks puzzled. “Yes, Judge Galanter.”
“It prohibits a pattern of racketeering activity, the so-called predicate acts, does it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
Armen shifts in his high-backed chair.
“But your client isn’t suing mobsters under RICO, is he, counsel?” Galanter says.
“With all due respect, Your Honor, I think this appeal presents a matter of national importance. It involves the manipulation of—”
“Flower peddlers, isn’t that right, counsel? Not mobsters, not extortionists, not killers. Florists. The ad says, Nothing but the Best for Your Wedding or Bar Mitzvah.” He chuckles, as does the gallery. They have to, he’s an Article III judge, as in Article III of the Constitution; if you don’t laugh, the FBI shows up at your door.
“Yes, the defendants are floral vendors.”
Galanter’s thin lips part in an approximation of a smile and he arches an eyebrow so blond it’s almost invisible. “Floral vendors? Is that a term of art, counsel?”
The gallery laughs again.
“Florists,” the lawyer concedes.
“Thank you. Now, carnations are the bulk of your client’s business, is that correct?” Galanter flips through the appendix with assurance and reads aloud. “‘Pink ones, red ones, even the sprayed ones,’ according to your client’s affidavit. Although I see sweetheart roses did well in February.” He pauses to look significantly at Judge Townsend, but Townsend’s eyes are closed; God knows which way he’ll go on this case. He thinks people enter his dreams to have sex with him, so it’s impossible to tell right now if he’s pondering RICO law or watching lesbians frolic.
“They’re a group of florists. A network of florists.”
“Oh, I see, a ring of florists. Do you think Congress intended even a ring of florists to be covered by this racketeering statute?”
Armen hunches over his microphone. “Counsel, does it really matter what they sell?”
“Go get ’em, boss,” I say under my breath.
“Sir?” says the lawyer. He grabs the side of the podium like a kid stowed away on a sinking ship.
“It wouldn’t make sense to have a rule of law that turned on the occupation of the defendant, would it?”
“No, sir,” says the lawyer, shaking his head.
Armen leans forward, his eyes dark as Turkish coffee. “In fact, after what the Supreme Court said in Scheidler, even a group of abortion protestors can be subject to RICO, isn’t that right, Mr. Noble?”
Galanter glances over at Armen like a jockey on a Thoroughbred. “But Chief Justice Rehnquist made clear in Scheidler that there was a pattern of extortion, of federal crimes. Where’s the federal crimes with the floral conspiracy? Florists wielding pruning shears? Gimme that money or I snip the orchid?” Galanter shudders comically and the gallery laughs on cue.
“But they do threaten society,” the lawyer says, fumbling for the rigging. “Mr. Canavan signed a contract, and they didn’t send him any orders. They intended to drive Canavan Flowers into bankruptcy. It was part of a plan.”
“Your client did file for Chapter Eleven protection, didn’t he?” Armen says.
Suddenly Judge Townsend emits a noisy snort that sounds like an ancient steamboat chugging to life. Armen and Galanter look over as Judge Townsend’s heavy-lidded eyes creak open. “If I may, I have a question,” he says, smacking his dry lips.
“Go right ahead,” Armen says. Galanter forces a well-bred smile.
“Thank you, Chief Judge Gregorian,” Judge Townsend says. He nods graciously. “Now, counselor, why are you letting my colleagues badger you?”
The smile on Galanter’s face freezes in place. The gallery laughs uncertainly.
“Sir?” the lawyer says.
Judge Townsend snorts again and lists gently to the starboard side. “As I see it, the question with this new statute is always the same.”
Ben whispers, “New? RICO was passed in the seventies.”
“The question is always, How is this case different from a case of garden variety fraud? How is it different from other injuries to one’s business, which we decide under the common law?” Judge Townsend waves his wrinkled hand in the air; it cuts a jagged swath. “In other words, have you got some precedent for us? A case to hang your hat on?”
The lawyer reads his notes. “Wait a minute, Your Honor.”
Judge Townsend blinks once, then again. Galanter smooths back the few hairs he has left. The lawyers in the gallery glance at one another. They’re all thinking the same thing: Nobody tells the Third Circuit to wait a minute. The answers are supposed to roll off your tongue. The case is supposed to be at your fingertips. Better you should pee on the counsel table.
“Way to go, Einstein,” Ben says.
“I know I have the case somewhere,” says the attorney, nervously riffling through his legal pad. He should be nervous; the circuit court is the last stop before the Supreme Court, which takes fewer appeals each year. It’s all those speaking engagements.
“Armen’s upset,” Sarah whispers, and I follow her eyes. Armen is looking down, worried about the appeal. The only sound in the tense courtroom is a frantic rustling as the lawyer ransacks the podium. A yellow page sails to the rich navy carpet.
The silence seems to intensify.
Galanter glares at the lawyer’s bent head.
A sound shatters the silence—ticktickticktickticktick—from the back of the courtroom.
The back rows of the gallery turn around. The sound is loud, unmistakable.
Ticktickticktickticktick.
Row after row looks back in disbelief, then in alarm.
Ticktickticktickticktick.
“It’s a bomb!” one of the lawyers shouts.
“A bomb!” yells an older lawyer. “No!”
Ticktickticktickticktick.
The crowded courtroom bursts into chaos. The gallery surges to its feet in confusion and fear. Lawyers grab their briefcases and files. People slam into each other in panic, trying to escape to the exit doors.
“No!” someone shouts. “Stay calm!”
I look wildly toward the back row where Artie was sitting. I can’t see him at all. The mob at the back is pushing and shouting.
Tickticktickticktickticktick.
Ben and other law clerks run for the judges’ exit next to the dais. My heart begins to thunder. Time is slowed, stretched out.
“Artie’s back there!” I shout.
Sarah grabs my arm. “Armen!”
I look back at the dais. Armen stands at the center, shielding his eyes from the overhead lights, squinting into the back row. Judge Townsend is stalled at his chair.
Galanter snatches Armen’s gavel and pounds it on the dais: boom boom boom! “Order! Order, I say!” he bellows, red-faced. He slams the chief judge’s gavel again and again. “Order!”