The scrum of reporters assembles in the pre-dawn quiet two blocks from the border of Chinatown. It is more than two hours before Dominique Strauss-Kahn is scheduled to make an appearance, but it doesn’t matter. On Monday the curtain will lift on Act I of the trial of the new century, and the courtroom has precious few seats. Two hours early might be too late.
After being herded through metal detectors, we ride the nearest elevator to the 13th floor. The doors open, and middle-aged Europeans to my left and right take off in a dead sprint. I don’t realize why until I see a line assembling behind a velvet rope: the people are seeking admission to an exclusive club. I played two sports in college, and though I’m well out of my prime shape, I am able to catch up and elbow my way into the throng.
The hallway outside of Part 51 at the Manhattan criminal court looks like an old, crumbling train station. Faded marble walls flank scuffed green linoleum floors; a sign over one restroom reads “Public Toilet-Women.” There is little air conditioning, and soon the hallway became stifling with the cluster of humanity. Inside the courtroom, the white walls are half covered with faded wood paneling, and the benches for the observers might resemble church pews, save for the wood dividers separating one person’s bum from the next.
The crime Strauss-Kahn is accused of committing allegedly occurred in a $3,000-a-night hotel suite in midtown Manhattan. When he was arrested, he was yanked from a first-class seat on a flight to Paris. What might he be thinking as he sits in this aging hall of justice, little changed since it was built in 1941 under Mayor F.H. LaGuardia?
After a few minutes, two enormous gentlemen sit right in front of me in the first row, nearly blocking my view. I think they are detectives until I recognize their faces from the pictures of the defendant being led from his temporary home. They are his bodyguards, probably hired by Stroz Friedberg, the firm handling Strauss-Kahn’s security to the tune of $200,000 a month.