“What the hell happened, Peter?”
I have just become the guy who is responsible for getting Denny Coughlin’s godson, the son he never had, shot.
“At five o’clock this morning, we picked up the doers of the Goldblatt job.”
“‘We’ presumably meaning Highway,” Coughlin said coldly. “I didn’t know that Matt was in Highway. When did that happen?”
“ACT Teams from Special Operations, working with Homicide, made the arrests. Simultaneously—”
“Not Highway?”
“No, sir. Not Highway.”
“Go on, Peter.”
“Mickey O’Hara was there. I invited him. I sent Matt with him to make sure Mickey didn’t get in the way, get himself hurt. One of the doers, a scumbag named Charles D. Stevens, apparently saw either the cars, or more likely the Homicide guy sitting on him, and then the cars. As the ACT cars were getting in place, he—this is conjecture Chief, but I think this is it—made his way to either the next house, or the house next to that, and tried to get away through the alley. O’Hara and Matt were at the head of the alley. He—Stevens—started shooting. And got Matt.”
“Did you get Stevens?”
“Matt got Stevens. He shot at him four times and hit him twice. Once in the arm, and once in the liver. Stevens was brought here. I have the feeling he’s not going to live.”
“But Matt is in no danger?”
“No, sir. I don’t even think there is going to be much muscle damage. As I said, I think the bullet lost much of its momentum—”
“That’s nice,” Coughlin said.
“He’s more worried about his car than anything else, Chief.”
“What about his car?”
“We formed up in the playground of the school at Castor and Frankford. Matt went to the scene with Lieutenant Suffern. And left his car, with the keys in it in the playground.”
“You’re taking care of it, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you called the commissioner?”
“No, sir. Chief Lowenstein is doing that.”
“Lowenstein was there?”
“No, sir. But he heard about it, and told me he would take care of calling the commissioner.”
“Is the Department going to look bad in this, Peter?”
“No, sir. I don’t see how. The other seven arrests went very smoothly. They’re all down at 8th and Race already. As soon as I get off the phone, I’m going down there.”
“Have you notified Matt’s family?”
“No, sir. I thought I should call you before I did that.”
“Well, at least your brain wasn’t entirely disengaged,” Coughlin said. And then, immediately, “Sorry, Peter. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Forget it, Chief. I don’t think I have to tell you how bad I feel about this. And I know how you feel about Matt.”
“I’ve been on the job twenty-seven years and I’ve never been hurt,” Coughlin said. “Matt’s father gets killed. His Uncle Dutch gets killed, and now he damned near does.”
“I thought about that too, Chief.”
“I’ll take care of notifying his family,” Coughlin said. “You make sure nobody else gets carried away with procedure and tries to.”
“I’ve already done that, Chief.”
“You’re sure he’s going to be all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep yourself available, Peter. You say you’re going to be at Homicide?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Stillwell asked me to be there.”
“Farnsworth Stillwell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you can break loose, it might be a good idea to go back to the hospital; to have a word with Matt’s family.”
“Yes, sir, I’d planned to do that.”
“Well, don’t blame yourself for this, Peter. These things happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coughlin, without another word, hung up. He swung his feet out of bed, pulled open the drawer of a bedside table, and took out a telephone book. He dialed a number.
“Police Department.”
“Let me speak to the senior officer on duty.”
“Maybe I can help you.”
“This is Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin. Get the senior police officer present on the telephone!”
“This is Lieutenant Swann. Can I help you?”
“This is Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin—”
“Oh, sure. How are you, Chief?”
“I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“You know where the Payne house is on Providence Road in Wallingford?”
“Sure.”
“Their son is a police officer. He has just been shot in the line of duty. He is in Frankford Hospital. I am about to notify them. I would consider it a personal favor if you would provide an escort for them from their home to the Philadelphia city line. I’ll have a car meet you there.”
“Chief, when the Paynes come out of their driveway, a car will be sitting there.”
“Thank you.”
“He hurt bad?”
“We don’t think so.”
“Thank God.”
“Thank God,” Denny Coughlin repeated, and, unable to trust his voice any further, hung up.
He walked into the kitchen, poured an inch and a half of John Jameson’s Irish whiskey in a plastic cup, drank it down, and then reached for the telephone on the wall. He dialed a number from memory. It took a long time to answer.
Please, God, don’t let Patty answer.
“Hello?”
“Brewster, this is Denny Coughlin.”
“Is something wrong, Denny?” Brewster Cortland Payne, suddenly wide awake, asked.
“What is it?” a familiar female voice came faintly over the telephone.
“Matt’s got himself shot,” Denny Coughlin said very quickly. “Not seriously. He’s in Frankford Hospital. By the time you get dressed, there will be a police car waiting in your driveway to escort you to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”
“All right.”
“My God, I’m sorry, Brewster.”
“Yes, I know. We’ll see you there, Denny.”
The phone went dead.
Coughlin broke the connection with his finger and then dialed another number from memory.
“Highway.”
“This is Chief Coughlin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have cleared this with Inspector Wohl. A Media police car is about to escort a car to the city line. I want a Highway car to meet it and take it the rest of the way to Frankford Hospital. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Coughlin said, and hung up. Then he went into his bedroom and started to get dressed. As he was tying his shoes, he suddenly looked up, at the crucifix hanging over his bed.
“It could be worse. Thank you,” he said.
FOURTEEN
Shortly after Mr. Michael J. O’Hara appeared in the city room of the Philadelphia Bulletin at a little after six A.M., the Bulletin’s city and managing editors decided that since they had an exclusive (the term “scoop” is considered déclassé by modern journalists) in Mr. O’Hara’s coverage of the shooting during the arrest of the Islamic Liberation Army, together with some really great pictures, it clearly behooved them to run with it.
The front pages of Sections A and B were redone. On Page 1A, a photograph of the President of the United States shaking hands with some foreign dignitary in flowing robes was replaced with a photograph of the cop bleeding all over himself as he held his gun on the guy who had shot him. Under it was the caption:
* * *
Special Operations Officer Matthew M. Payne, blood streaming from his wounds, holds his pistol on Charles D. Stevens, whom he had just bested in an early morning gun battle in Frankford. Stevens was one of eight men, alleged to be participants in the murder-robbery of Goldblatt’s furniture store, whom police rounded up at dawn. Payne
collapsed moments after this photo was taken. Full details on Page 1B. [Bulletin Photograph by Michael J. O’Hara.]
* * *
Most of Page 1B was redone. When finished it had three photographs lining the top, and a headline reading, EXCLUSIVE BULLETIN COVERAGE OF EARLY MORNING SHOOTOUT.
Below the photographs—which showed Matt Payne being held up by the ACT cop; Charles D. Stevens being rolled into Frankford Hospital on a gurney; and Matt Payne, his face caked with blood, on his gurney in the corridor at Frankford Hospital—was the story:
* * *
By Michael J. O’Hara
Bulletin Staff Writer
Blood stained the freshly fallen snow in an alley in Frankford early this morning after Charles D. Stevens chose to shoot it out with the cops rather than submit to arrest and picked the wrong cop for his deadly duel.
Stevens, who sometimes calls himself Abu Ben Mohammed, is one of eight suspects in the murder-robbery of Goldblatt’s Furniture earlier this week. It was the intention of Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, commanding the Special Operations Division, to arrest all eight suspects at once, and in the wee hours, to minimize risks to both the public and his officers.
Seven of the eight carefully orchestrated arrests went smoothly. But, as this reporter and Officer Matthew M. Payne, administrative assistant to Inspector Wohl, waited in a dark alley behind Stevens’s house in the 4700 block of Hawthorne Street for the meticulously planned arrest procedure to begin, Stevens suddenly appeared in the alley, a blazing .45 automatic in his hand.
As this reporter dove for cover, two of Stevens’s bullets struck Payne, who had been assigned to escort this reporter during Stevens’s arrest. Payne went down, but he was not out. Somehow, Payne managed to get his own pistol into action. When the shooting was over, Stevens was critically, possibly fatally, wounded, and the young cop he had tried to gun down without warning was standing over him, blood dripping from his own wounds.
This was not the first battle for his life fought by Payne, who is twenty-two and a bachelor. Three months ago, while attempting to arrest Warren K. Fletcher, the Northwest Philadelphia serial rapist, Fletcher, who had his latest victim in his van, tried to run over the young policeman. Moments later he was dead of a bullet in the brain fired by the then six-months-on-the-police-force rookie.
Payne, who collapsed moments after making sure Stevens posed no further threat, was taken to Frankford Hospital, where he underwent surgery for the removal of the bullet in his leg. His condition is described as “good.”
Stevens, who was also rushed to Frankford Hospital by police, is in intensive care, his condition described as “critical” by hospital authorities.
Chief Inspector Matt Lowenstein, who commands the Detective Division, under whose overall command the mass arrest took place, said that Stevens, if he lives, will have assault with a deadly weapon and resisting arrest added to the other charges, which include first-degree murder, already lodged against him.
“I regret that force was necessary,” Chief Lowenstein said. “Inspector Wohl and his men took every step they could think of to avoid it. But I cannot conceal my admiration for this young officer (Payne) who bravely stood up to this vicious criminal.”
* * *
By 6:45 A.M., the appropriate plates had been replaced on the presses, and with a deep growl, they began to roll again.
It was the opinion of the managing editor that they could probably sell an additional thirty-five or forty thousand copies of the paper. Blood and shooting always sold.
How that goddamn O’Hara manages to always be in on things like this is a mystery, but giving the sonofabitch his due, he always is, and he probably is worth all the money we have to pay him.
Hector Carlos Estivez was in the first of the vans carrying the prisoners to arrive at the Police Administration Building at 8th and Race Streets in downtown Philadelphia. The others arrived over the next fifteen minutes.
The van carrying Mr. Estivez entered the parking lot at the rear of the Roundhouse, and immediately backed up down the ramp leading to the Central Cell Room.
The driver and his partner got out and went to the rear of the van. They found Homicide detective Joe D’Amata, who had driven in his own car from Frankford, waiting for them. The driver opened the rear door of the van and Mr. Estivez, who had been handcuffed, was helped out of the van.
Detective D’Amata took one of Mr. Estivez’s arms, and one of the officers who had been in the back of the van with him took the other.
Mr. Estivez was then led through the Cell Room to an elevator, and taken in it to the Homicide Bureau on the third floor.
There were several people standing just outside the office of Captain Henry Q. Quaire, commanding officer of the Homicide Bureau. Mr. Estivez recognized only one of them, Sergeant Jason Washington. The others were Farnsworth Stillwell, an assistant district attorney of Philadelphia County; Staff Inspector Peter Wohl; and Captain Quaire himself.
Mr. Estivez was taken to a small room furnished with an Early American-style chair and a small table. There was a window with one-way glass in one wall of the room. The chair was made of steel and was bolted to the floor. One end of a pair of handcuffs was looped through a hole in the chair seat.
Mr. Estivez’s handcuffs were removed. Detective D’Amata told him to sit down and, when he had done so, put Mr. Estivez’s left wrist in the handcuff cuffed to the chair.
Mr. Estivez was then left alone.
He looked with a mixture of contempt and uneasiness at the one-way glass window. There was no way of telling if someone was on the other side, looking in at him.
A minute or so later the door to the room opened, and Detective D’Amata returned. On his heels came Sergeant Jason Washington, Staff Inspector Wohl, and Assistant District Attorney Stillwell.
“Which one is this one?” Sergeant Washington inquired.
“This is Mr. Hector Carlos Estivez,” Detective D’Amata replied.
Sergeant Washington, a carefully calculated (and in fact, once practiced before a mirror) look of contempt, scorn, and dislike on his face, then took two steps toward Mr. Estivez. Mr. Estivez, who was sitting, had to look up at him. There was no way that Mr. Estivez could not be aware of Washington’s considerable bulk.
Sergeant Washington then squatted down, so that his face was on a level with Mr. Estivez, and examined him carefully for twenty seconds or so.
He then grunted, stood erect, said, “Okay, Hector Carlos Estivez. Fine,” and scribbled something in his notebook.
This was a little psychological warfare, Jason Washington having long ago come to believe that the greatest fear is the fear of the unknown.
Washington knew he enjoyed a certain fame (perhaps notoriety) in the criminal community. There was a perhaps fifty-fifty chance that Estivez knew who he was. And even if he didn’t, Washington was sure that the sight of a very large, very well-dressed black man in an obvious position of police authority would be unnerving.
Jason Washington then covered his mouth with his hand and said softly, so that Mr. Estivez could not understand him, “Obviously a pillar of his community, wouldn’t you say?”
The remark caused Wohl to smile, which was Washington’s intention. He had long ago also come to believe that knowing that one is the source of amusement, but not knowing specifically how, is also psychologically disturbing, particularly if the person amused holds great—if undefined—power over you.
At that point, Inspector Wohl, Assistant District Attorney Stillwell, and Sergeant Washington left the interview room, closing the door behind them and leaving Detective D’Amata alone with Mr. Estivez.
“Mr. Estivez,” Detective D’Amata said, “you have been arrested on warrants charging you with murder and armed robbery. Before I say anything else, I want to make sure that you are aware of your rights under the Constitution.”
He then took a small card from his jacket pocket and read Mr. Estivez his rights under the Miranda Decision. Mr. Estivez had seen them enoug
h on television to know them by heart, but he listened attentively anyway.
“Do you understand the rights I have pointed out to you?” Detective D’Amata said.
“Yeah,” Mr. Estivez said. “I’m not going to say one fucking word without my lawyer.”
“That is your right, sir,” Detective D’Amata said.
He then left Mr. Estivez alone in the interview room again.
“Mr. Estivez,” Detective D’Amata said dryly to Mssrs. Washington, Wohl, and Stillwell, “has elected to exercise his rights under the Miranda Decision.”
“Really?” Wohl replied with a smile.
“So what happens now?” Farnsworth Stillwell asked. “We’re not going to run into trouble with the Six-Hour Rule are we?”
The Pennsylvania Supreme Court had issued another ruling designed to protect the innocent from the police. It had decreed that unless an accused was brought before an arraignment judge within six hours of his arrest, any statement he had made could not be used against him.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Counselor,” Jason Washington said with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “but as I understand the Six-Hour-Rule, it does not prohibit the use of a statement inadmissable against the individual who made it being used against other participants in the offense.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right.” Stillwell said. It was obvious he did not like being lectured on the law.
“We’ll take him back downstairs, process him, and send him over to the House of Detention,” D’Amata replied.
“What I’m going to do, Inspector, unless you have something else in mind,” Jason Washington announced, “is give them all day to thoughtfully consider their situation, and maybe get a little sound advice from the legal profession. Then, after they have had their supper, and are convinced that nothing further is going to happen to them today, starting at six-fifteen, I’m going to run them all through the lineup, for a positive identification by Mr. Monahan. Then I will give them the rest of the night to consider their situation, now that they know we have a witness, and then starting at eight tomorrow morning, I will interview them.”
The Witness Page 24
