Tainted Evidence

by Robert Daley

  The chief assistant had remained seated behind his desk. He said: "Juries are--"

  "Yeah, I know, unpredictable."

  "Five cops shot," said Harbison. "Because they behaved like buffoons. Do we want the city to know that?” His voice was dry, his manner cold. "Besides which, McCarthy will start a race riot in court. Take the plea."

  "Take the plea," said Karen. "I see."

  "Other than that I have nothing to say to you."

  "Norm--"

  "Nothing whatever."

  "You intended to go to trial on it."

  "How do you know what I intended to do?"

  "Can I ask you a favor, Norm? Will you please not lie to me. You intended to go to trial on it."

  "That was me," said Harbison. "You are--you."

  He gave a shrug whose meaning was only too clear. His own skill and experience would have been sufficient to convict Epps, whereas hers were not.

  "Nice," said Karen. "Really nice."

  When she got back to her office she found the Reverend Hiram Johnson sitting beside her desk. Who let this guy in, she thought, and what does he want? Johnson was a 45 year old black man, extremely tall, cadaverous, wearing a brown suit, a huge cross hanging from his neck, the bottom of it reaching almost to his crotch.

  "Reverend.” She gave him a nod, sat down in her chair, and watched him warily.

  "It's good to see you again," Johnson began. "I have been watching your career with great interest."

  Karen doubted this.

  "You have won many successes, all richly deserved."

  "Thank you.”

  For a moment they gazed at each other in silence. Get on with it, Karen thought. What is it you want here?

  Johnson said: "How strong is the evidence against this young man Epps?"

  "Very."

  "I understand you've been offered a plea by Mr. McCarthy."

  "About twenty minutes ago. How'd you find out so quickly?” She watched the reverend's face and found her answer there. "Oh, I see. He told you. He's very clever, isn't he?” Obviously McCarthy had been to see the DA too. A new image presented itself to Karen: of McCarthy moving through the city gathering allies, natural ones or otherwise, so as to exert maximum pressure on the District Attorney, and on her as well, trying to stop the trial before it ever began.

  "If you should go to trial on this matter," said Reverend Johnson, "I'm worried about the possible reaction among my constituents."

  "Constituents, Reverend?"

  "Parishioners. The boy's been acquitted twice."

  "Those were other crimes, other juries."

  "In Harlem it sounds like he's being harassed by the law."

  "Getting twelve people to agree is hard."

  "Harlem is already an alienated community."

  "Reverend, he shot five cops."

  "A trial could cause demonstrations.”

  Johnson had about two hundred core demonstrators that he used. Men who were out of work and standing around. A few women, too. He brought them to sites in chartered buses. He paid them five dollars a head as they stepped off the buses and picked up the signs they were to carry in the line of march. It was his own money. He was a free lance pastor who moved from church to church giving what he called "homilies", passing the plate afterwards. Some of the signs he had drawn and lettered himself. Others he had had made. "Stop the War Against Black America" was a typical one. At the end of each march the signs were collected, for they could be reused. The signs didn't change from one demonstration to the next, whatever the nature of the protest, and the marchers didn't change much either.

  "A demonstration would be out of my hands."

  "We certainly want to avoid demonstrations," Karen said. I don't believe this, she thought.

  "Those things can get very ugly at times."

  Karen decided to say: "On television you always seem to be out in front of such demonstrations."

  "I'm a man of God. I follow the dictums of the Prince of Peace.” The holy man rose to his feet. "Think about it."

  With the bemused Karen staring after him, Johnson went out, passing Coombs, who was coming in, in the anteroom.

  Coombs glanced from Karen to the exiting Johnson and back again. "What did that guy want?”

  "I think I've just been threatened.”

  "Think?"

  "It was part of a sermon."

  "Yes, all of Reverend Johnson's statements sound like sermons, and the reaction to them is purely religious," said Coombs. "The minute he opens his mouth people start praying."

  It made Karen smile.

  "Mayors, Governors, city officials, they go down on their knees."

  "Everybody's afraid of him."

  "Because he knows how to put on demonstrations."

  "No," said Karen, "because he claims that twenty two percent of the city's population believes in him."

  "Oh they believe in him all right," said Coombs. "They've always had faith in men like Johnson.” Coombs' grin broadened. "They've been disappointed time and again."

  "He's a complete charlatan."

  Coombs grinned. "He's full of shit, I think you're trying to say."

  "He warned that if we put Epps on trial there may be demonstrations."

  "It's possible."

  "With him at the head of them, he seemed to say."

  "It's possible."

  Demonstrations had a way of turning into riots. Elected officials were terrified of them and so, whenever possible, they acceded to Johnson's demands.

  "So what do we do?" Karen asked.

  "We go to trial," said Coombs.

  Karen looked at him. How young he is, she thought. By now she had forgotten he was black. He was just another trusting young lawyer. She felt like his mother. The young, she thought, see the big questions as obvious, simple. She envied him.

  Coombs had been carrying an armload of dossiers which he now dropped on her desk.

  "These are the cops involved in the case," he explained. "You going to interview all twenty or what?"

  There wasn't enough time left to interview twenty cops in depth, which Coombs knew as well as she did. Karen began to feel a bit desperate.

  Her secretary appeared again at the door. "The police commissioner wants to see you."

  She had no time for the police commissioner, who had no power over her. He belonged to a separate arm of the system. Nonetheless, she felt she must try to fit him in. "All right, schedule an appointment tomorrow or the next day."

  "No," said the woman, "he's here. He wants to see you right now."

  Knowing she had twenty cops to interview, and other witnesses as well, Karen gave an exasperated sigh. Instead of dealing with her witnesses, she was obliged to fend off McCarthy, the DA, Reverend Johnson, and now the PC--what could the PC possibly want? This case was out of police hands. It had nothing to do with him any longer.

  She could see him standing behind her secretary, big and florid faced, the ex-street cop wearing civilian clothes that didn't quite fit. She had met him only once before. He was surrounded now by uniformed brass hats, six other high ranking men in all. Quite an entourage, she thought. Forcing a smile, she rose to greet him.

  "You fellows wait outside for me," the PC ordered his commanders. He then turned to Karen and demanded bluntly: "What's this about accepting a plea?”

  "What plea is that?" Karen asked him.

  "I happened to be in the building and I heard you're accepting a plea."

  "You've been misinformed."

  "If this case is lost--”

  "Slow down," said Karen, still trying to smile. "What makes you think I'll lose it?"

  "--You'll have a police revolution on your hands. I'll speak to the DA. In my opinion, this case needs a man prosecuting it. A man who'll go all the way with it."

  She hadn't known that such Neanderthal types as this still existed.

  "--A man who thinks he can win it."

  "Commissioner, that's an outrageous thing to say."

&n
bsp; "That's why I'm here. To impress on you how strongly the police department feels about this case."

  "I feel strongly about it myself," Karen said tightly. "Now if you'll excuse me--"

  "I want your assurance that--”

  She was trying to herd him out into the hall where his entourage milled about waiting for him.

  "Remember my warning. I won't be responsible--”

  Finally she succeeded in shutting her door on him, but as she stood closed into her office she found she had sweated into her dress and was almost trembling.

  The mayor and two assistants were in conference. When the mayor's secretary entered, leaning over to whisper in his ear, the police commissioner was already visible in the anteroom through the half open door. The mayor could do nothing but nod that he be shown in. The two assistants remained in their chairs, but the PC, entering, ignored them and spoke directly to the mayor.

  "May I see you in private, Mr. Mayor?"

  "Lewis, Irving," said the mayor, "we'll take this up later."

  The assistants gathered their papers and left.

  "Mr. Mayor, there's a trial coming up.” The PC was trying but failing to speak calmly. "Lionel Epps," he said.

  The mayor nodded. "I know the case. Shot five of your men."

  "To cops it's the most important trial in the history of the city."

  "Yes, I can see how they might feel that way. What's eating you, Charlie?"

  "The DA's given up on it. The assistant who now has the case, Karen Henning--"

  "Surprised me too."

  "If that woman accepts a plea or loses this case--"

  The mayor put his finger to his lips. "Ssshh. Half the electorate is of the gentler sex, Charlie."

  "--I won't be able to control my men. How can a female even understand how important this case is to the department? I go to see her and she practically throws me out."

  "Did you compliment her on her hairdo, on her fingernail polish?"

  The PC did not answer.

  "That's where you made your mistake, Charlie. She's a good looking woman, isn't she?"

  "I suppose."

  "Good looking women like to be complimented. You should take that into account."

  The PC did not know whether the mayor was joking or not.

  "Alright," the mayor said, "what is it you expect me to do?"

  "Make it plain to the DA that he is to go all out. Tell him to give the case back to Norm Harbison."

  The mayor seemed to be considering this idea, but in fact he was stalling for time. His most immediate problem, he saw, was not the Epps case but his police commissioner. "What do you think happened there?" he asked. "Why the switch away from Harbison?"

  "First of all the DA doesn't want Harbison getting that much ink."

  If it was as obvious as this to the police commissioner, thought the mayor, it was obvious to everyone. "The party might get ideas about passing the torch to a new generation," agreed the mayor.

  "That's right."

  "Which means the old fart's going to run again," said the mayor. "I'm sure of it."

  "Mr. Mayor, you're the only one who can turn this around."

  The mayor shook his head sadly and got up to escort the PC to the door.

  "The DA is an elected official, Charlie, and not subject to my orders.”

  "Mr. Mayor, you appointed me. I've always leveled with you. I don't want to be around the day that woman loses this case."

  "In the last election my share of the black vote was down l2.2%. My share of the Hispanic vote declined by 7.7% White women, on the other hand, love me. Let's hope none of them gets wind of this conversation."

  The mayor had moved the PC out into the anteroom. He had his arm around him.

  "Calm down, Charlie. She's competent, I'm told. Besides which, it's an open and shut case. I haven't practiced law in thirty years, but even I could get a conviction on this one."

  Karen at her desk, looked up at Coombs, who had been waiting patiently.

  "I'll speak to these two first," she told him, and pushed across the top two files.

  Coombs read the names on them and nodded: Muldoon and Barone. It was where anyone would start.

  "Call their command, have them report here tomorrow morning," Karen said.

  When she came out of the building to go home there were television crews waiting on the sidewalk. The blinding lights came on and she was asked about the rumor that the prosecution intended to accept a plea. She denied it as succinctly and coolly as she could.

  "The trial will go forward as scheduled."

  Chapter 9

  Tonight there were three detectives in the car. Barone was again driving, with Muldoon beside him and the new guy, Ritter, in the back. They were showing Ritter the sights of the precinct, of which there were not many, and most of those that existed were significant to themselves only. Such as 145th Street, for instance, where the drug dealers stood alongside their swanky cars watching men wash them by hand.

  "See those cars at the curb? In the drug business, getting some mutt to wash your car out of a pail means status."

  Such as the undertaking parlor on St. Nicholas--another status symbol--from which drug dealers liked to get buried when they met with accidents. "See that sign in the window: Because You Deserve The Best."

  Back and forth. Up and down--the precinct was really quite small. The same few streets over and over. To Ritter they must all look the same.

  "I had my first homicide in there.” They had begun to point out specific buildings. "There was a knife in her back long as your fucken arm. Came out her left tit."

  "Fucken mutt's girlfriend was in the can with his sister. He starts screaming that he has to piss, and they wouldn't open the door, so he starts firing his piece through the door. Put a bullet through his girlfriend's ass. We arrested him. Mutt was fifteen years old."

  An entire people known to a certain group of men only by their crimes. By the most bizarre of their crimes. They were trying to tell Ritter this without actually telling him. Perhaps they didn't know it themselves. They imagined these were only stories. Tall stories that weren't tall. It was all true. Stories that were amusing, not shocking. No cop would be shocked. Stories that were meant to instruct as well.

  "Threw him off the roof. He landed on some stolen bicycles, so we solved that case too."

  In addition they were setting themselves apart from Ritter--they had seen all this, and he had not. They imagined they understood what they had seen, which they didn't. No one did. No one could. But at least they had seen it, whereas Ritter, who had been a cop only four years, a detective only eight months, had come to the Three-Two from Staten Island. Staten Island was practically rural, for crissake. He knew nothing about people who did such things to each other.

  Barone had turned out onto Lenox Avenue, except that the street signs read: Malcolm X Boulevard.

  "What's Malcolm X Boulevard?" inquired Ritter.

  "Lenox," said Barone.

  "They renamed the streets after these mutts," said Muldoon.

  "Eighth Avenue," said Barone, "is now Frederick Douglass Boulevard, Seventh is now Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard."

  "Last couple of years you need a map to find your way around fucken Harlem," complained Muldoon.

  They passed in front of the International Bar.

  "Fucken International Bar," muttered Muldoon. "Nothing but Jamaicans in there."

  "Cowboys," said Barone. "Shoot first, ask questions later."

  Ritter listened respectfully as young detectives should.

  "Fucken triple homicide."

  "There's a witness we've been looking for for weeks," said Barone. "We can't seem to find him."

  Although Ritter was all ears, they fell silent, even as Barone pulled into the curb.

  They locked the car and crossed the sidewalk to the bar.

  "On Staten Island we never bothered to lock the cars," Ritter commented.

  "Leave a police vehicle unlocked in Harlem, yo
u don't know what you'll find when you come back," said Barone.

  "Maybe nothing," said Muldoon.

  "No car," said Barone.

  "Or maybe some nice guy will have dumped a few bags of dogshit in on the seats."

  The barroom was long, narrow. The six or eight men at the bar went silent at once. Along the wall opposite were three widely spaced wooden tables, none of which matched each other in size, shape or even stability. At them people sat drinking, mostly men, two or three women. They too went silent. Above their heads was painted a long primitive mural of Caribbean scenes: villages, mountains, the seafront. In places chunks of mural were missing.

  "Bullet holes?" asked Ritter in a low voice.

  "Of course bullet holes, what do you think?" said Muldoon.

  The detectives moved further into the silence. Ritter was glancing curiously around. Barone and Muldoon stood apart, facing in different directions, their hands on their hips, meaning near their guns, just in case. They were not afraid or even nervous. Nothing would happen to them in here. No one would dare.

  Barone said to the barman: "Hello there, Wilfred, how ya doing?”

  Wilfred was a huge man, bald, very black. His reaction was a grin that was overlarge, overly ingratiating.

  "Everything quiet, Wilfred?

  "Yes sir, Chief."

  Barone reached over the bar and they shook hands. "Nobody shooting up the place lately?"

  Wilfred gave a great obsequious laugh. "Not so's I've noticed."

  "Not like the night of the trouble, eh Wilfred?"

  "That was some night, that was," conceded the grinning Wilfred.

  The missing witness, as expected, was not present. Barone nodded in the direction of the other patrons, and led the way back onto the street.

  As he pulled out into traffic he brooded about the case, as did Muldoon, but neither spoke.

  "So what happened the night of the shooting?" asked Ritter.

  "Three mutts DRT," said Muldoon.

  "You mean DOA?"

  "I mean DRT. Dead right there."

  "I hadn't heard that expression," said Ritter.

  "Fucken triple homicide," said Muldoon, thinking: guy comes from Staten Island, probably never saw a fucken body in his life.