The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  She asked me, “Will the police go to see him?”

  I replied, “Yes, they will.”

  She didn’t seem happy about that, so I said, “It’s just standard procedure. To get his side of it.” But in truth, the detectives who followed up on this complaint were, as I said, going to take the opportunity to give Anthony Bellarosa a hard time and, more importantly, to deliver an unambiguous warning to him and tell him he was under the eye. And if luck was really with us, he’d say something incriminating, and they’d have cause to arrest him. But even if they didn’t arrest him, Anthony would be one pissed-off paesano, which was probably Susan’s concern. Well, he was already pissed off, and now he needed to be put on notice.

  We got out of the car and walked around to the front. The precinct house was a one-story brick colonial-style structure with white trim and shutters, and it reminded me of the Friendly’s ice cream restaurant that we had just passed. We walked through the front door into a vestibule that led into a public reception area.

  There was a long counter on the far side of the room, manned by two uniformed officers. As we approached, the younger of the two officers, whose name tag read Anderson, eyeballed Susan, then turned his attention to me and asked, “How can I help you?”

  I said, “We’re here to file a complaint.”

  “Okay. What kind of complaint?”

  I replied, “A physical threat directed at this woman.”

  He looked at Susan again and asked her, “Who made this threat?”

  She replied, “A neighbor.”

  I expanded on that and said, “The neighbor is a man named Anthony Bellarosa, who may be involved in organized crime.”

  “Yeah? How do you know that?”

  Apparently Officer Anderson wasn’t familiar with that name, and I knew that Anthony Bellarosa kept a very low profile, so I replied, “He is the son of Frank Bellarosa.”

  The young officer still didn’t seem to know the name and said, “Okay. And who are you?”

  “I am this lady’s attorney.”

  That seemed to get his attention, and he sized up the situation, noting, I’m sure, our clothing and prep school accents, and he probably concluded that this could be something interesting. Interesting was not his department, so he turned around and asked the higher-ranking officer at the desk behind him, “Hey, Lieutenant—you ever hear of a wiseguy named Anthony Bellarosa?”

  The lieutenant looked up from his computer, looked at Susan and me, and replied to Anderson, “Yeah. Why?”

  Officer Anderson informed him, “This woman is a neighbor of his, and she says he made threats against her.”

  The lieutenant stood and came over to the counter and asked me, “Is this your wife, sir?”

  “Soon to be. My name is John Sutter, and this is Susan Sutter, and I am her attorney.” And so he didn’t think I was marrying my sister, I explained, “We have been previously married to each other.”

  “Okay.” He said to Officer Anderson, “Show them into the interview room and take a case report.”

  Officer Anderson found some forms behind the counter, then came around and escorted us into a small room off to the right. He said, “Have a seat, and let’s talk about what happened.”

  He began by filling out a police form, apparently used to initiate reporting of any type of occurrence that could possibly come to the attention of a law enforcement agency. Officer Anderson asked for our names, address, and related information to identify Susan as the complainant in this report, and then requested a brief description of what had occurred, including the identity of the parties involved in the incident. I did most, if not all, of the talking on behalf of my client.

  After completing this report, Officer Anderson began to take a full statement from us on another police form as to the extent of our complaint against Anthony Bellarosa and the specific details involved. Again, I was Susan’s mouthpiece, and I outlined the conversations that I had with Anthony Bellarosa, and in particular the statements he made as they related to Susan’s well-being. When Officer Anderson finished writing, he handed me the form, PDCN Form 32A, which I read, and then gave to Susan along with my pen and said, “Sign here.”

  She signed it without looking at it, which is what she always does. She hadn’t even read the prenuptial agreement that her father’s attorneys had drawn up. And why should she bother after the opening line, which said, “The husband gets to keep nothing beyond the pen he used to sign this document”?

  Officer Anderson took the forms and stood, telling us to wait in the room while he inquired if a detective was available to follow up on any related investigation and take a more extensive statement if required. When he left the room, I advised Susan, “If someone else interviews you, please try to show some interest in this.”

  She shrugged.

  A few minutes later, a man in civilian clothes carrying the report entered the room and introduced himself as Detective A. J. Nastasi, and we all shook hands.

  Detective Nastasi was an intelligent-looking man and he was in his forties, so he was old enough to remember the original incident that had brought us here. He was dressed in a very dapper pinstripe suit that would blend in nicely at my old law firm. He seemed to be a man of few words—the thoughtful, silent detective type—and I’m sure he’d heard it all by now.

  Detective Nastasi glanced at the report and said to Susan, “So, Anthony Bellarosa has threatened you.”

  She replied, “No.”

  “Okay . . . but you think he may pose a threat to you.”

  She replied, “I’m not sure.”

  Detective Nastasi wasn’t sure either, so I said, “Detective, I’m the one who has heard what I believe are threats made by Anthony Bellarosa and directed toward Mrs. Sutter, and I’m prepared to provide you with a statement to that effect.”

  “Good.” He said, “Please follow me.”

  Susan and I followed Detective Nastasi back through the open area, then down a flight of stairs into the detective squad room, which was buzzing with activity—civilians being questioned or making statements to detectives, and phones ringing.

  We passed through the busy squad room, and Detective Nastasi opened a door marked detective lieutenant patrick conway—commanding officer.

  Detective Nastasi ushered us into the quiet office, which was unoccupied. He said, “We can use this room.” He added, “More private.”

  Apparently, we’d gotten someone’s attention, or Anthony Bellarosa had.

  Detective Nastasi sat behind his commanding officer’s desk, and we sat in the two facing chairs. He played with the computer awhile, reading the screen, then said, “Just so you know, Anthony Bellarosa has never been charged with a crime, and there have been no complaints of any type lodged against him.” He looked at us and said, “But to be real, he’s not the kind of man anyone would complain about.” He looked at Susan and added, “So, if you begin this, then you should understand that we will pay him a visit, and discuss with him what you’ve alleged. Okay?”

  I replied, “That’s why we’re here.”

  He kept looking at Susan and asked, “Okay?”

  She didn’t reply, and Nastasi leaned back in his chair and asked, “You want to withdraw this sworn complaint?”

  I replied, “Speaking as her attorney, she does not.”

  He continued to look at Susan, sizing up the situation, but, getting no response, he went back to his computer and began typing on the keyboard.

  I was becoming a little annoyed with her. I mean, all I was trying to do was to save her life, and the least she could do was to cooperate.

  As Detective Nastasi kept typing, I wondered if the police had taken her here ten years ago after they’d led her off from Alhambra in handcuffs. But most likely they’d have taken her directly to the Homicide Squad at police headquarters in Mineola, which is the county seat. Though when you’ve seen the inside of one police station, you’ve seen them all, so I wanted to be sensitive to what she was feeling now,
and sensitive to the bad memories that she was reliving. But I needed to be tough with her so that this potential threat did not become a reality. Unfortunately, reality was, and had always been, a problem with Susan. So, to wake her up, I said to her, “All right. Let’s go.” I stood and said to Detective Nastasi, “We need to think about this. In the meantime, we want to withdraw the complaint.” I turned to Susan and said again, “Let’s go.”

  She started to rise, glanced at me, then sat back in her chair and said, “Let’s finish this.”

  That seemed to make Detective Nastasi happy, and I thought he understood and appreciated my bluff. He said to Susan, “I think you’re making the right decision, Mrs. Sutter.” He assured her, “Let us worry about this, so you don’t have to.”

  She informed him, “I am not worried.”

  “Okay.” He looked at me and said, “But you’re worried.”

  “I am.”

  “Right. Tell me why you’re worried.”

  I replied, “Detective, as I said, I’m the one who actually heard what I believe are credible threats made by Anthony Bellarosa and directed toward Mrs. Sutter.” I continued, “Mrs. Sutter is my former wife, and to give you some background about why I think these threats are credible—”

  “Right. I know all that.” He informed us, “I was there that night.”

  I looked at him, and he did seem familiar, but there had been a lot of county detectives, FBI agents, and forensic people at Alhambra that night. However, in the interest of bonding with Detective Nastasi, I said, “Yes, I remember you.”

  He informed me, “And I remember you.” He looked at Susan and said, “You, too.” He asked her, “Didn’t you leave this state?”

  She replied, “I did.”

  “And you are back now”—he tapped the complaint form—“at this address?”

  “I am.”

  He said, “And Bellarosa’s at his father’s old address.”

  I replied, “In a manner of speaking.” I explained about the sub-division without sounding judgmental about multimillion-dollar McMansions.

  Detective Nastasi consulted his computer monitor as I spoke. Then he said to me, “That case was never resolved in state court.”

  I assumed he was speaking of the homicide charge against Susan Sutter, so I replied, “It was resolved in Federal court.” I added, “The . . . the murder victim was a government witness.”

  Detective Nastasi nodded, then looked at Susan, and said to me, “Off the record, I wasn’t too happy about that. But, okay, it’s done, and we need to talk about what’s happening now because of what happened then.”

  I glanced at Susan, who had withdrawn into a place I call Susan-Land, and she didn’t seem annoyed or upset about Detective Nastasi’s off-the-record statement, nor did she seem contrite about the murder, or sheepish about beating the rap.

  To get this back on track, I said again to Detective Nastasi, “I’m prepared to give you a statement now.”

  He said to me, “Usually, we hear from the complainant first, but . . . I’ll take your statement first.” He swiveled his chair back to the keyboard and said, “I type fast, but take a breather now and then.”

  I reminded him, “I’m an attorney.”

  “Okay, Counselor. Ready when you are.”

  After the preliminaries of who I was, where I lived, and so forth, I began my statement by mentioning the murder of Frank Bellarosa ten years ago, then I stated that I had been living in London for the past seven years, but that I was still admitted to the New York State Bar. Detective A. J. Nastasi typed as I spoke.

  I then recounted the night that Mr. Anthony Bellarosa paid me an unannounced visit at the gatehouse where I was temporarily living, and without getting into everything that was said that night, I got to the crux of the matter and recounted my conversation with Mr. Bellarosa regarding my former wife, Susan Sutter.

  Detective Nastasi continued to type, appreciating, I hope, my clear, factual narrative as well as my good grammar and diction.

  Susan, who was hearing some of this for the first time, didn’t react, but just sat there staring into space.

  I then told of my dinner with Mr. Bellarosa at Wong Lee’s restaurant, and I mentioned his offer to hire me as one of his attorneys.

  Detective Nastasi glanced at me for the first time, then continued to type.

  I’m obviously good at sworn testimony, despite what two of my incarcerated tax clients may think, and I stuck to the pertinent facts of the complaint—omitting any facts that might be misconstrued as me and Anthony negotiating a job offer.

  I then went on to the chance meeting I had with Bellarosa when I had been jogging on Grace Lane, and my car ride with him and his driver to Oyster Bay, and our visit to the building that Mr. Bellarosa was thinking of buying, and his further attempts to convince me to work for him.

  Some of this wasn’t relevant to the issue of the threats, but I could tell that Detective Nastasi was intrigued by all of this. Susan, however, seemed to be getting a bit annoyed, perhaps about my flirting with her dead lover’s son. I could almost hear her say, “Are you insane?”

  I explained, for the record, that I had negative feelings about Mr. Bellarosa’s interest in me, but I was concerned about Susan’s safety, so I thought it might be a good idea to continue to engage in these conversations with Mr. Bellarosa so that I could better determine the threat level, and also determine my next course of action.

  Detective Nastasi interrupted me for the first time. “You and Mrs. Sutter had at this time decided to remarry.”

  I replied, “No.”

  “Okay. But you were speaking about it?”

  I replied, “We were not speaking at all.” I added, “We hadn’t spoken in about three years.”

  Susan said, “Four.”

  “Right, four.” I was glad she’d been listening.

  Detective Nastasi nodded, then asked me, “So why were you bothering to go through this trouble?”

  I glanced at Susan and replied to Detective Nastasi, “I . . . I still had positive feelings toward her, and she is the mother of our children.” Plus, I wasn’t paying alimony, so there was no good reason for me to want her dead.

  There was a silence in the room, so I continued, “Because we weren’t romantically involved, my growing concern about Bellarosa’s intentions toward Mrs. Sutter was not colored by emotion.” I added, “Now the situation between Mrs. Sutter and me has changed, so I was able to discuss this with her, and we decided to come here as a precaution.”

  Nastasi nodded, probably wondering how much spin I was putting on this for him and for Susan. He said to me, “I think I understand why you were speaking to Bellarosa, Mr. Sutter.” He then editorialized, “But it’s not a good idea to talk about business opportunities with a man who may be involved in organized crime.”

  “Thank you for the advice, Detective. But as you say, his rap sheet is as clean as I assume yours is.”

  Detective Nastasi smiled for the first time, then turned back to his keyboard and said, “Please continue.”

  I concluded with my visit to the Bellarosa home for Sunday dinner, mentioning that by this time, Mrs. Sutter and I had reunited, and that she had advised against this. I also mentioned that Mr. Salvatore D’Alessio, a.k.a. Sally Da-da, had been there briefly.

  Detective Nastasi asked me, “And you’d met him before?”

  “Yes. Ten years ago when I was doing some legal work for Frank Bellarosa.”

  “Right.” He commented, “These are very bad guys you were having Sunday dinner with, Mr. Sutter.”

  “I didn’t actually stay for dinner.”

  “Good.” He stopped typing, and I could tell he was thinking about something, and he said to me, “Hey, you were at that failed hit in Little Italy.”

  Apparently, he’d made a word association between Salvatore D’Alessio, Frank Bellarosa, and the attempted whack. I replied, “That’s correct.”

  “You saved Bellarosa’s life.”


  “I stopped the bleeding.” I added, “Good Samaritan.”

  He glanced at Susan, probably thinking about the irony of me saving the life of my wife’s lover, and the further irony of her later killing the man whose life I’d saved. But if Detective Nastasi had anything to say about that, or about us, he kept it to himself and continued, “Okay, so on this occasion—at Anthony Bellarosa’s house yesterday, did Anthony Bellarosa make any threats against Mrs. Sutter?”

  “He did.” I related some of our conversation out on the front lawn and quoted Anthony directly. “He said, apropos of something I said, ‘None of that changes what your wife did. Just so you know.’”

  Detective Nastasi asked me, “And that was a direct quote?”

  “Word for word.”

  “Okay. And you said?”

  “I asked him if that was a threat, and he replied, quote, ‘Take it any way you want.’” I added, “The last thing he said to me was, ‘You think guys like you don’t have to worry about guys like me. Well, Counselor, you’re wrong about that.’”

  Detective Nastasi finished typing that, then asked me, “Did you take that as a personal threat?”

  “I did.”

  “Okay. Anything else to add?”

  I replied, “Just that I take these threats against Mrs. Sutter—and me—seriously, based on what I heard and based on the fact that Mrs. Sutter killed Anthony Bellarosa’s father.”

  Detective Nastasi duly recorded that on his keyboard, and looked at Susan and asked, “Do you want to add anything to Mr. Sutter’s statement?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to say something about how you feel about this possible threat on your life?”

  Susan thought a moment, then replied, “Well . . . having heard all of this—some of it for the first time—I believe the threat may exist.”

  Detective Nastasi typed that without comment, then swiveled around and said to us, “Usually, these guys never threaten. They just do. So maybe this is all talk.”