But Ryan’s response brought Arsenault up short. She told him that the problem was Terry Quinn, who had a habit of producing witnesses at times that Rather told him were inconvenient. Arsenault, she said, was overreacting and should leave Rather alone. He knew what he was doing. This advice struck Arsenault as odd, and not just because he felt his concern was genuine and needed to be addressed. In the past, Ryan had always chided him because his supervision was too lackadaisical and urged him to get more involved in his assistants’ cases. “Suddenly I went from being too detached to being a micro-manager,” Arsenault recalls.
Arsenault didn’t think too much of the incident at the time. With the case slated to go to the grand jury for indictment at the end of May, there were strategic issues of size and timing that needed to be resolved. Arsenault wanted to cast as wide a net over the gang as possible, then press the lower-echelon workers to cooperate against the leaders. Accordingly, he wanted to indict 40 to 50 gang members, nearly twice as many as in the Gheri Curl case; Tebbens and Dugan, who between them had spent years compiling dossiers on the Cowboys and their associates, envisioned an indictment with even more than that.
But Rather seemed intent on narrowing the field to 20 to 30. In fact, unbeknownst to the unit, he’d begun pleading out gang members who’d been arrested on drug charges earlier in the investigation. When the detectives found out later that summer, they were furious and complained to Arsenault.
Even more controversial was the so-called must-haves list. In all its gang cases, HIU tried to arrest the leaders and most violent members early—in part to get them off the street, but also to prevent them from fleeing on the chance they got spooked by the investigation. This was especially true for Dominican gangs like the Cowboys, because the Dominican Republic, having no extradition treaty with the United States, provides fugitives with a relatively safe haven. Nelson was already in the Dominican Republic, and Lenny and Platano were in jail, but Don Hill was eager to apprehend Fat Danny, a defendant in the Quad, who had managed to get free on bail and was rumored to be planning to abscond to the Dominican Republic. Hill was fuming that a predicate felon charged with four murders could be on the loose, and had made it a condition of the Bronx’s joining HIU’s case that they arrest Fat Danny at the earliest opportunity.
Arsenault and Quinn were also eager to nab Pasqualito, though for a different reason. Numerous informants had told Quinn that Pasqualito was extremely dangerous, that he had bragged to them that he would draw down on cops if they tried to arrest him. Quinn knew that Pasqualito had upcoming hearing dates in the Michael Cruz shooting case and wanted to arrest him in court, where he wouldn’t be armed.
The problem was that there were no warrants outstanding on either Fat Danny or Pasqualito. So Arsenault and Hill wanted Rather to have the grand jury vote out a piece of the conspiracy indictment, and use it to arrest the two Cowboys.
Rather wasn’t keen on the idea. Though he never told Hill he wouldn’t arrest Fat Danny at an early date, it had taken until June—well over a year since Rather had begun his investigation—to get the case to the grand jury, and Fat Danny’s indictment still seemed weeks away. Rather seemed even less enthusiastic about Pasqualito. He clearly felt that indicting both Fat Danny and Pasqualito would send the rest of the gang into hiding. And neither Rather nor Ryan, who sided with his position, felt that Pasqualito posed as grave a security risk as Quinn did. Sometime later when Quinn voiced his concerns about the dangers of taking Pasqualito in the open, Ryan told the fiery detective, “Why, Terry, I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.”
SITTING in the back of the van, Pasqualito hadn’t seen Carlos work the clavo switches on the dashboard or noticed the hidden compartment open near his feet. When he looked down, he saw a trench full of automatic weapons, enough firepower to storm a small precinct. The large, heavyset man sitting across from him smiled.
“Anything happens,” he said, pointing at the guns, “I’m behind you.”
It was a warm June night, the last night of spring, and though it was past eleven, Broadway was crowded with people, men in shirtsleeves and young women in shorts and tank tops. Pasqualito caressed the 9 mm pistol he’d been holding in his lap; he felt nervous and impatient, more so than usual before a hit. Tonight his target was a celebrity. His gallery included notables as well. Sitting beside him, his wheelchair angled toward Pasqualito, was El Feo, and next to El Feo, Freddy Krueger, the most feared killer in the Heights.
“There he is,” Carlos said. Craning his neck, Pasqualito saw the Lincoln Town Car parked halfway up the block on their left, its passenger-side door open. Leaning into the door frame was the broad, unmistakable back of Frankie Cuevas.
Moments ago, at Pasqualito’s hangout on West 171st Street, one of his men had told him that he’d spotted Cuevas visiting his girlfriend nearby. Jumping at the opportunity, Pasqualito flagged down El Feo and Krueger, who had business on the block, and the three of them set up the hit. Pasqualito armed himself with the 9 mm, donned a wig made of dreadlocks, and together they headed up Broadway in El Feo’s van.
Carlos double-parked the van two cars down from the Lincoln, and Pasqualito slid open the side door and jumped down lightly into the street. He noted a white Chevy belonging to Cuevas’ lieutenant Roberto Peralta parked behind the Lincoln, but Peralta was standing at the corner with another gang member some fifty feet away. There was nobody between Pasqualito and his target. Suddenly, as he crept up on the tail of the Lincoln and raised his gun in front of him, a young woman sprang out from behind Cuevas’ hunched-over frame—a wraithlike figure—and darted around the front of the car. Cuevas’ girlfriend, Patricia. Cuevas spun around to see what had spooked her. Clad in a gray silk shirt, Frankie was huge, with a mountainous chest and fierce mustache. But it was his eyes that drew Pasqualito’s gaze. They already seemed dead, frozen with the certain knowledge of what was about to happen. Pasqualito squeezed off the first shot.
Sitting behind the wheel of the Lincoln, Manny Guerrero whirled around a split second after Frankie. He recognized Pasqualito, saw his gun light up, and heard the shot all within the same broken fragment of time. He began searching frantically for the gun that he kept hidden under his seat. But it had slid out of easy reach, and Manny already realized there wasn’t time. He heard the pops of gunfire—nine, ten—then, looking up, saw Frankie’s body crumpled in the street and Pasqualito staring at him through the open door of the Lincoln.
Casually, almost as if in an afterthought, Pasqualito tossed a final shot into the car, splitting Guerrero’s belly. The adrenaline was still coursing through him as he climbed into the back of the van. He let out a yell of jubilation as Carlos peeled out into the street, the side door still open, and when they got to the corner, fired several times into the air. Frankie Cuevas, Lenny’s archrival and a legend among the gangs of Washington Heights, was dead, and he, Pasqualito, had killed him.
THE BLOWUP
SUMMER 1993
ARSENAULT was standing in front of Quinn’s office in an alcove behind the squad room, feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks, when he saw Rather striding toward him, his face clenched, a document in hand. It was the last Monday in June, and he was waiting for Camacho and Dan Brownell, a homicide assistant who’d recently joined HIU. That afternoon the three of them had planned to drive down to the MAGLOCLEN Conference, a federally sponsored gang fighters’ convention held each summer in Baltimore. It was a chance for Arsenault to talk shop with far-flung colleagues, showcase his unit’s accomplishments for an appreciative audience, and knock back a few drinks in the evenings. But with Rather bearing down on him, he knew his getaway wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Tensions had continued to run high between the two men since Rather had convened the special grand jury at the end of May. Even before the start of the proceedings, they sparred over the order of witnesses. Arsenault wanted to lead off with Terry Quinn to explain the nature of violent drug gangs and give jurors an overview of the case. Rather arg
ued for Freddie Sendra, the former Cowboy gang member, now in prison for shooting at police. He felt Sendra could provide a picture of life inside the Cowboys that Quinn could only relate from hearsay. In the end, Rather deferred to Arsenault, but when the unit chief prompted Rather in the first session about another prosecutor’s examination, Rather apparently complained to Ryan. According to Arsenault, Ryan told him to get off Rather’s back. (Ryan denies saying anything to Arsenault.)
Arsenault had been stunned and felt that his advice was unwelcome at the hearings. Grand juries are the forums in which DAs obtain charges, in the form of indictments, against the targets in their investigations. But they’re also a prosecutor’s first chance to officially lay out his case, and thus provide a record and template for subsequent trials. How a DA decides to tell his story, from whose point of view, using what witnesses and what evidence, is important in a simple felony; in a big, complex conspiracy case like the Cowboys, it’s vital. By admonishing Arsenault, Ryan had weakened one of his main supervisory functions.
But it was the fact of Ryan’s intervention that troubled Arsenault more. Ryan had been his political mentor, his protector on the eighth floor. Who could he turn to now? Having to fence with an assistant over a tricky case was bad enough, but a poor relationship with Ryan could have a disastrous impact on the unit.
Through the spring, unit members had cautioned Arsenault about Rather’s close relationship with Ryan. Rather had begun quoting Ryan to Hill and Grifa as the case arbiter, even before Rather’s dislike for Arsenault became known. With its long hours and insular culture, the DA’s office was a kind of petri dish for gossip, and Arsenault had dismissed the warnings that his role as supervisor was being undercut. But now he was forced to take the problem seriously. He couldn’t ignore the fact that the head of the Trial Division, his chief supporter, sided with one of his assistants over routine management issues.
For weeks Arsenault was gloomy, padding through the unit head down, shoulders slumped. “You could see physically he was beat-up,” recalls Luke Rettler, the Asian Gang chief, who shared offices with HIU. “He’d drop by my office, plunk down on the sofa, and not say anything. I’d ask him how the case was going, and he’d say, ‘Ask Nancy. It’s her case now. I don’t even get the grand jury minutes on time anymore; they go straight to the eighth floor.’”
But as so often happens in HIU’s cases, events in the street soon overtook issues in the courtroom. Cuevas’ homicide on June 20 jolted the unit, not only adding a bloody new execution to the case but ratcheting up the pressure on Rather to wrap up his investigation and take down the gang. Arsenault argued he couldn’t afford to leave the Cowboys out on the street. Why wasn’t he already indicting and arresting the gang’s more violent members? Pasqualito himself was no longer an issue. Having executed Cuevas in front of several eyewitnesses, including Cuevas’ bodyguard, Manny Guerrero, Pasqualito was rumored to have fled New York to the Dominican Republic, using the passport of one of his lieutenants. But in view of Pasqualito’s actions, Don Hill was lobbying more intensively than ever for Fat Danny’s arrest. If Pasqualito could kill and flee the country, so could Fat Danny.
Once again Arsenault and Rather were cast on opposite sides of the argument. Arsenault supported Hill’s position, both on its merits and because HIU had promised Hill, as part of their deal with the Bronx, to get Fat Danny remanded at the earliest opportunity. What’s more, Arsenault knew that Hill was under pressure from Ira Globerman, the Bronx Supreme Court judge handling the Quad, to issue a new indictment that would supersede the previous charges. Until then, the Quad would remain on Globerman’s docket, and he would have to keep adjourning the case while the defendants languished in jail. Sooner or later, Hill argued and Arsenault agreed, Globerman was going to lose patience and let them go.
Rather doubted that would happen—after all, the defendants were murder suspects in a big press case—and he continued to conduct the grand jury investigation at a pace that struck Hill as irritatingly deliberate. Moreover, he resisted Hill’s efforts to proceed against Fat Danny. On the one hand, Rather felt that Danny wasn’t much of a flight risk: if he were intending to abscond, he would already have left. On the other, Rather didn’t want to tip his hand to the gang’s lawyers by voting out pieces of the indictment early and arresting gang members piecemeal.
Whatever the issues between Rather and Arsenault, their debates had begun to take on a nasty, political edge. Rather was convinced that Arsenault and Quinn were trying to wrest control of the case from him and take credit for work he had already done. But Arsenault had always applauded his assistants, regardless of the role he played in their cases. More important, the Cowboys had become HIU’s biggest case. The unit had vast amounts of time and resources, not to mention prestige, invested in its outcome. To many working on the case, the efforts by Rather, a newcomer to the unit, to belittle Arsenault’s advice was extraordinary.
Instead, their colleagues felt the disagreements between the two men were personal. Something about Arsenault—his brusqueness, his inscrutability—set Rather off and skewed even their most straightforward dealings. Rather claimed that Arsenault had simply been inaccessible to him, though other prosecutors in the unit had had the opposite experience. Whatever the reason, Rather developed a visceral dislike for his chief; and he seemed to physically recoil when Arsenault was in his presence. “The tension was escalating,” Garry Dugan remembers. “If Mark and I were in Dan’s office discussing the case and Walter came in, Rather’s attitude and demeanor would change. He didn’t want to deal with Walter. If Walter would ask him, say, to change the indictment, it was like putting a knife down his throat.”
Hill recalls one incident about that time that brought home to him how far things had gone. Hill had driven up to Columbia-Presbyterian with Rather and several investigators to videotape a Q & A with Manny Guerrero, recovering from the gunshot wound he’d received in the Cuevas shooting. It had been a difficult interview. Guerrero feared what would happen to himself and his family if he cooperated, and Hill had to coax him for twenty minutes—at one point literally holding his hand—before he’d allow Rather to question him. Rather got him to name Pasqualito as Cuevas’ assassin, but perhaps in his haste to debrief Guerrero, he failed to have Guerrero identify Pasqualito by stating his real name or by picking him out of a photo array.
Back at the unit, when Arsenault reviewed the tape, he pointed out the oversight to Rather in front of the rest of the team. “This is legally insufficient,” he said. “You’re going to have to go back up there and do it again.”
It was an obvious error, and Hill recognized it right away, admitting that he’d been distracted during the interview. But Rather bristled at Arsenault’s criticism. Instead of simply owning up to his mistake, Rather played down its significance, according to Hill, forcing a heated exchange with Arsenault before grudgingly agreeing to redo the interview.
Others in the unit had noticed Rather’s stubbornness. He was bright and good-looking with an undeniable charm, and his famous connection imbued him with an aura of glamour, all the more so because he downplayed it. But some colleagues thought it was an act. They felt the office had given him an easy ride, and that he’d exploited his status in subtle ways: taking extra time on an investigation, shying away from the courtroom, getting bumped up to a homicide unit without having tried a homicide. To his detractors—in and out of the unit—he seemed to radiate a sense of entitlement. He didn’t take criticism well, he became defensive when challenged, and he had a bluff, arrogant streak that expressed itself at odd times, in marked contrast to his usually friendly, low-key demeanor.
None of that would have mattered, perhaps, had Arsenault been another kind of administrator, had he been more politic or indulgent, or had he reached out more strenuously to Rather at the start of his tenure. But Arsenault, though he was devoted to the unit, rarely socialized outside of work, wasn’t demonstrative or tactful, and was quick to anger if he felt ambushed or betrayed, as h
e clearly did by Rather and Ryan.
Things came to a head on that Monday, June 28, the day Arsenault and other members of the unit were scheduled to leave for the MAGLOCLEN Conference. A few days earlier, Hill, tired of what he viewed as Rather’s foot-dragging, had cobbled up a rough draft of an indictment against Fat Danny, the first step in his plan to take down the Cowboy leader early. Hill brought the draft to Arsenault, who approved it, then presented it to Rather. Hill says that Rather told him he was not going to attend the conference, and that they’d work on the indictment together and vote it out during the week when everyone was away.
Rather denies making such a commitment to Hill. In fact, he says he read the indictment over the weekend and hated it. That Monday, furious that Arsenault had authorized Hill’s plan without consulting him, Rather decided to confront the unit chief. Brandishing Hill’s indictment, he strode up to Arsenault, standing in front of Quinn’s office. “Did you authorize this?” Rather asked, thrusting the document at Arsenault.
Arsenault, taken aback at Rather’s vehemence, said he did.
“Who the hell are you making deals with out-of-county DAs?” Rather demanded. “Stop fucking up my case.”
“It wasn’t your case until I gave it to you, and I’ll damn well do what I please,” Arsenault replied.
“Fine, then you do the case.”
“You’ll do what I tell you,” Arsenault shouted back. “I’m the boss of this unit, and I make the fucking decisions around here.” Their voices carried back to the squad room. Dugan recalls wandering into the alcove to use the copying machine next to Quinn’s office and hearing the two men arguing over the number of defendants in the proposed indictment. Arsenault wanted more. Rather wanted fewer. But there wasn’t much substance to the discussion, and tempers escalated quickly.
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