When Long got to the Mag court there was a long line of cases in front of his. Kandinsky had caught a child porn Violation of Supervised Release, a taciturn man whom the US Attorney's Office accused of backsliding into amine abuse of infants.

  The defendant had also sent an envelope with white powder to the FBI agent who had initially investigated and arrested him -- allegedly, allegedly sent, Long repeated to himself.

   The Federal Defenders took that case, because they had represented the short eyes in his first case. In for a penny, in for a pound. But Long was being assigned a stranger case.

 It was described in the elevator pitch as a Brooklyn-based literary agent charged with cyber stalking some investment fund guy on the Upper East Side. "Whatever," Long said. It would pay the rent of his office over the Ali Baba fruit stand while he waited for cases more to his liking.

   Long sat in the back row of the Mag Court gallery, accompanied only by a Court Security Officer.

The Pre-Trial Services report painted a wild picture of the literary agent. She's driven to New York from Minnesota, getting a speeding ticket in Indiana for driving 107 miles an hour. She'd been texting the investment guy, Victim-1 (the PTS report, like the complaint, didn't have his name), ranging from pillow talk to "I'm going to kill you." Investment boy had apparently taken it to the NYPD, then to the FBI. Now the literary agent was detained.

  Her name was Polish: Wanessa Wronecka. Long pulled out his smart phone and start Googling her. She's spoken at some literary conferences, maybe the kind that drew in suckers to pay money to have their long shot manuscript read - by cyber stalkers, as it turned out.

  Anyway, Long thought he should be able to get her out on bond. But first he'd have to get appointed.

   Long approached the Marshall sitting by the cell block door. "Leave your phone out here, counselor," the Marshall said. "You know the rules." He did.

  Wronecka was not in good shape. She had obviously been crying and it took Long a few minutes to convince her he was her lawyer, although not yet formally assigned, and not another detective. He had to get her to fill out the CJA financial affidavit. She said she wasn't currently making any money from her literary agency -- she emphasized that word, currently -- but drew $6000 a month from an inheritance.

  It crossed Long's mind that she might not be eligible for his free (to her) services. But the Mag Court judges usually fudged it, letting the assigned District Judge later review if the defendant would have to start paying part of the attorneys fees.

  "I'm going to try to get you out on bond," Long told Janczuk. "Do you have anyone who could co-sign a bond?"

  Janczuk shook her hand, and her glasses almost fell off.

   "Not even any family members?"

  It turned out one sibling was overseas - she didn't say where - and the other, she never spoke to. Long could smell burned bridges, like the burning rubber of her car tires in Indiana.

  "How about cash?" he asked.

  Wronecka nodded. She had cash in the bank. That could be a problem too, Long thought, for him to get appointed.  But first things first. They were up next out in the Mag Court.

         The assigned AUSA was a newbie. He said Wronecka should be detained, as a danger to the community or at least Victim-1 and his family, and also as a flight risk, witness the fast driving from Indiana. She could just reverse course.

   Long made his pitch: "This could all just be a misunderstanding, Judge," he said. "Some people perceive  a love letter as a threat. My client hasn't done anything on this since mid-2020 --"

  The AUSA cut in. "Not true. She called Victim 1 yesterday."

  The judge took an interest. "You have a wire tap up on her?"

  Robinson didn't answer right away. "No," he said, "we in touch with the Victim. He told us."

  Long made a point of writing this down, and letting the AUSA if not the Judge see it. Had the authorities entrapped Wronecka? Had they coached old Victim-1 to get her to act crazier so they could arrest her?

   Long offered $15,000 cash to secure a $50,000 personal recognizance bond, and dodged the judge's questions about Wronecka's lack of friends or family. It was hard to say she had roots in the community, unless those roots were all poisoned. But she should be getting out tonight.

 Except.

 There was always an except. The judge wanted Wronecka to get fitted with a location monitoring bracelet, and it was too late to get one installed.

  Long made another pitch. "I'm worried about COVID, judge," he said. "Not just that she might be exposed to it in the MDC, the number one Omicron site in the Bureau of Prisons rights. But also whether, given the COVID protocols, if they would even bring her back tomorrow to be fitted with the GPS bracelet."

   "Mr. Marshall, can you make that happen?" the judge asked.

   "As long as the government sends us an email ordering it," the Marshal answered.

   "So I'm ordering remand," the judge said. "Ms. Wronecka, you will be guest of the government tonight."

 "NO!" Wronecka shouted, slamming on the defense table and making a move to run out of the courtroom. The Marshal grabbed her. "Counselor," he hissed at Long.

  It was Long's job to make this go smoother. "Don't make this harder on yourself, Vanessa," he said.

  "Wanessa," she said, insisting on pronouncing the W. Then they led her out.

  * * *

   Sitting at the PACER terminal in the press room Kurt Wheelock saw a text on his folded up Samsung Galaxy flip phone when it came in. He dropped his research into the Guiffre v. Prince Andrew case and put on his N-95 mask, the kind now required anywhere in the courthouse.

  He took the elevator up to 8 and walked across the empty passage way, with its views out onto the Manhattan Bridge, the swervy Chathan Green, the brutalist Chatham towers, and even the Ali Baba fruit stand where Michael Randall Long had his office on the second floor.

   He took the other, high-rise elevator down to 5 and the Mag Court. Inside after fist bumping with the Marshal and thanking him, Kurt sat in the back bench and saw up at counsel table none other than Michael Randall Long, whispering with a disheveled looking white woman while the Assistant US Attorney looked on. Probably overhearing, Kurt thought. He didn't it past them. The only thing that constrained them was ambition, how big their signing bonus would be when they cashed out to a white shoe law firm.

  Kurt took notes on the back and forth that followed, that the defendant, a Polish name he couldn't quite catch much less spell, was a literary agent but made no money from her literary agency, instead lived off $6000 a month from an inheritance.  Kurt had fought to get Michael Avenatti's financial affidavit to get free lawyers unsealed, and had won. It had even been reported by AP, and behind a paywall by the New York Law Journal and then the National Law Journal, which called him not a blogger but a journalist specialize in reporting on the SDNY.

  "And other courts," Kurt had added when he retweeted the photo of the article. You could only read it if you paid Law.com and he didn't.

    Suddenly after the Polish lady was ordered remanded to the MDC he saw her slam the defense table and be grabbed by the chatty Marshal. Kurt jumped up and more to the front, right at the railing like you might at a hockey game without many people in the stands, like at Madison Square Garden for the Rangers during most of Kurt's childhood.

   "Take it easy," the Marshal told the lady. Then "Counselor," aimed at Michael Randall Long.

   Long said from a cautious distance from the lady, "Don't make this harder on yourself, Veronica."

  The lady replied, "Wanessa," like with a W. Then the Marshal took her out into the holding cell. Kurt exchanged nods with Michael Randall Long - "later," Long mouthed at him, before turning and walking up to the judge's bench.

   "Do you have the docket number?" Kurt asked.

    "That again," the Marshal said. But he pulled a folded up piece of paper out of the side pocket of his khakis. "It's 21-mag-10886," he said. "Wanessa Wronecka. Double W's."

  Kurt looked over the Marshal's shoulder to be sure to get the spelling right. He thanked hm and the Court Security Officer still in his arm chair at the back of the Mag. Then he reversed in route on the elevators and went to the Press Room to write the story. The case wasn't in PACER yet, so he didn't get the details from the complaint. But he had enough, what with the literary agent without income but an inheritance, slamming the table to not go to jail from stalking.

  But would Kurt Wheelock be stalked next?  The answer was yes - watch this site.