True, the state was paying Siakos and Sandro a thousand dollars each to defend these men, but what is one lawyer and a thousand dollars against a district attorney’s staff of hundreds, a police force of thousands, and the public’s fear of a criminal world known only through the blood and guts of newsprint.
“I’d like to talk to your man’s wife,” said Sandro. “She might have some information that could be helpful.” Sandro didn’t mention that he wanted to know more about where Hernandez claimed to be at the time of the killing. If Hernandez had a good alibi, he would be worthless to the D.A. “Would you mind if I asked her some questions about that?”
“Oh, sure, sure. As soon as I talk to her, I’ll tell her you want to talk to her, and maybe we can make a date in your office or my office.”
“That’ll be fine,” said Sandro. “I’ll call you tomorrow to confirm the appointment. Okay?”
“Yes, okay. Perhaps tomorrow is too soon, though. Let me set things up and then we can all get together.”
“Sure.” Stalled, thought Sandro. “I have to read these papers now, Nick. I made a motion for a bill of particulars in this case.”
“Oh good, good. I intended to make that motion. I’m glad you did. That saves me work.” Siakos laughed. “Will you give me a copy of the bill of particulars when you get it, so I can read it? Maybe I won’t have to make my motion.”
“Sure.” Sandro forced himself to smile. “I want to cooperate with you on this case. Even though we represent different interests, I’m sure we can work something out between us to help both men.”
“Sure, sure. I’m sure of it.” Siakos smiled widely. “Okay, I’ll talk to you in a few days then. Let me know what happens about the bill of particulars.”
Sandro peered up at the bench. A prisoner was being arraigned before the judge, a court officer standing on either side of him. Sandro saw Ellis sitting at the D.A.’s counsel table. He was not handling the case before the judge. Sandro walked forward and sat in the first bench of the spectators’ section of the courtroom. Ellis turned and nodded toward Sandro. Sandro moved forward to the railing.
“They call the motion calendar yet?” Sandro whispered.
“No.” Ellis was a crafty fighter who worked slowly, precisely, with deadly intensity, whose face never revealed emotion or gave away any unnecessary information. He had two facial expressions; one, blank, the second just a few wrinkles added to the bridge of his nose.
“Let’s go outside for a smoke, David,” Sandro suggested.
Ellis nodded. They walked out of the courtroom and stood in the corridor.
“What’s on your mind, Sandro?” He studied Sandro’s face. Ellis, like so many D.A.’s, policemen, law-enforcement officials, was a bloodhound by profession, by dedication, by imprisonment. He was a prisoner of the system to which he had sworn allegiance. His role as prosecutor had become his life, and his tolerance for mere mortals was limited. Having seen and prosecuted so many criminals, men like Ellis sometimes delude themselves into believing that everyone except the sworn minions of the law are out to topple the system. Not only do they lose their perspective but, in direct proportion, their humor, as well.
“I wanted to see how you stood on this motion for a bill of particulars. Are you going to oppose it?” Sandro asked for openers.
“Certainly. I’m not going to give you all the information you asked for in that demand of yours.”
“What’s the difference if I know the exact time the crime was committed, or where it was committed, or what injuries the man has sustained, and by what pistol?”
“Look, Sandro, you know as well as I do that you’re not entitled to some of that information. I don’t make the laws; I just follow them. Besides, I don’t see why we have to give you a preview of every piece of information that the police uncovered and we’re going to use in the trial.”
“But the physical evidence, David, the dead body in the position it was found, the burglarized apartment—they no longer exist. Certainly, I can’t change the pictures of them, nor does my knowing about them hurt your case. What there was, there was. I just want to prepare my case on facts, not what I have to conjecture.”
“You want me to open my file to you, is that it?”
“I’m not asking for a full disclosure, but it would be nice to know something about what Alvarado is charged with besides the wording of the indictment, ‘did cause the death of Lauria with a pistol.’ At least let me begin the race from the same starting line. Didn’t Judge Botein suggest a trial should be a more informed search for the truth?”
“We’ll see what this judge has to say.” Ellis didn’t intend to argue, knowing the judge would probably agree with him.
“David, I understand there are certain witnesses involved in this case,” Sandro probed. “Are you willing at least to let me have a copy of their statements, or must I make another motion?” Sandro said straight-faced, wanting to get a rise out of Ellis.
“Are you kidding?” Ellis was stunned. “You think I’m going to give you witness statements in this case?”
“Well, the Court of Appeals has indicated I’m entitled to the statements of witnesses,” Sandro continued, knowing he was stretching the Court of Appeals decisions.
“In what decisions?” Ellis looked at Sandro, his somber eyes curious.
“All of the cases which follow People v. Rosario,” Sandro replied. “They indicate that I’m entitled to witness statements.”
“But not now,” Ellis emphasized hurriedly. “When the witness is on the stand and you cross-examine, maybe then you can get them. You think I’ve gone crazy, that I’m going to give you witness statements in advance? Defendants are getting away with murder these days, and you defense counsel always want more. Soon we won’t be able to put anybody in jail.”
“Come on, Dave, you’re kidding me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not kidding.” He wasn’t. “With the decisions that are coming down from those clean-handed judges in Washington these days, in a short time it’s going to be impossible for the district attorney to put anybody in jail.”
“You’ve got such an advantage over a defendant and defense attorney now, particularly in a case like this, where I’m assigned by the court, that you can win hands down,” Sandro said. “To begin with, you have thirty thousand policemen working with you. All I have is myself and maybe, maybe, a couple of fellows whom I have to persuade to help me out, and then I have to pay them from my own pocket, hoping the court will reimburse me. Besides, you’re the district attorney. You have the badge to show people. They have to cooperate with you or you subpoena them to the grand jury, and if they refuse to testify you can have them put in jail for contempt.”
“What’s wrong with that? We have to investigate, or don’t you want us to do that either?”
“I have to beg witnesses to talk to me, and if they don’t feel like getting involved, don’t want to run afoul of the cops because this is a cop-killing, they can thumb their noses at me, and I can’t do a damn thing about it. A lot of people won’t even talk to me just so they don’t get involved with the cop on the beat.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never have too much trouble getting a witness.” Ellis smiled. “I just call one of the detectives, and they bring the witness down to my office.”
“Thanks for the salt. You just have them brought down! And then you have the grand jury to hear the evidence and indict a defendant. As secret a proceeding as Henry the Eighth’s Court of Star Chamber—and just as antiquated. Can we get the grand jury minutes, find out who was there, what they said? Sure. At the trial, when the witness takes the stand. Always too late. You get the case prepared in advance, and we have to juggle on the run, catch as catch can, after the trial is in full motion. If we have something that we discover during the trial, we have to go out at night and investigate it ourselves. You go to sleep and have a detective do it for you.”
“You think I have slaves to carry me home, too,” Ellis said curtly.
“No. You have a case to prepare for the next day, as a lawyer should. But we have to prepare and investigate. We can do one or the other, but we can’t do both well and sleep too.”
“I can’t help that.”
“Then you have the fingerprint bureau and the police lab and the engineers and architects and the ballistics men, every sort of expert, all of them working for you, figuring things out, giving you expert opinions on everything from shoelaces to baby powder. Do I have any of that? Can I afford to utilize anything like it for a guy like Alvarado, who had to sign a pauper’s oath to get a lawyer?”
“No, you only have the Supreme Court of the United States telling us we have to warn a defendant of his rights before we can even let him confess to us. And we can’t detain people, or search them, or anything else. You must be kidding with all of that.”
“Because others in the past didn’t get the rights they deserved, does that mean we should continue to deny defendants their rights to the end of time? Everybody’s rights have to be protected, not just the ones that you think deserve it. For Christ’s sake, David. The only difference between the old days of anything goes and now is that the cops have to add a couple of words to their testimony that they advised a defendant of his rights, that they were suspicious of a defendant before they searched him.”
Ellis stared at Sandro. “You’re not going to stand there and tell me that every cop is a liar and gets on the stand and commits perjury?” Ellis’s back was stiffening visibly.
“No. But I am saying that the advantages you say defendants now have are easily canceled out by testimony. The advantages over a defendant that you have are practically insurmountable.”
“I think you’re exaggerating a great deal. This state isn’t run for the benefit of criminals.”
“No, for the citizens. Defendants weren’t born with numbers under their chins. I don’t even know, and I won’t know until the trial, what the hell this crime is all about. I only know Lauria was shot. They refused a preliminary hearing down in the lower court in this case because it was going to the grand jury. How would you like to prepare a case totally in the dark?”
“Look, Sandro, I’m only doing my job. I’m not the district attorney, only one of his assistants. Take this up with him—or with the chaplain.”
Sandro checked himself from mentioning also that Ellis had the power to demand a bill of particulars setting forth the names, addresses, and places of employment of all alibi witnesses. He had gone to the Code of Criminal Procedure as Sam had advised. Failure to provide any of that information, he soon realized, would get his witnesses disqualified.
“You have all of that going for you,” continued Sandro, ignoring Ellis’s taunt, “and you’re going to oppose even my request to know of what wounds the cop died, at what time? For crying out loud, David, you have a ninety-nine to one shot to win any case you come up against. No, thirty thousand to one.”
“You’ve got subpoena power. Subpoena the information you want,” Ellis suggested.
“That’s only at the time of trial and relates to police records and the like. What about witness statements?”
“I don’t make the law, Sandro, I just apply it.” He shrugged. “I’m not going to give you the witness statements, that’s for sure. You can even make a motion. You can do whatever you want. I’m not going to give you witness statements.”
“I was sure of that, David.”
“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to help you. It’s just that I have my job to do. I know this is a tough case. I don’t think you should feel bad when you lose, if you lose, because it’s a tough case.”
“Thanks, David. I’ll keep that in mind. I wouldn’t want you to feel bad either if you lose.”
Ellis studied Sandro as he held the door open. The two adversaries re-entered the courtroom.
CHAPTER XV
Sandro walked along the dim, empty corridor of Bellevue Hospital with Dr. Travers and Jerry Ball. Ball was a professional photographer who sometimes worked with Sandro, more for friendship’s sake than money. Their footsteps echoed within the green-tiled and green-painted walls.
“By then, I had checked every possibility except one,” George Travers was saying. “I checked and double-checked the hospital entry records, the X-rays, the admission lists, everything for a Luis Alvarado who was here sometime in mid-July. The ambulance records were the very last possibility I could think of. At first it didn’t sink in when you said he must have come here by ambulance from the prison. But that’s exactly where I found the only record I could find. An ambulance call to the detention prison in the ambulance-dispatch book.”
“Name, date, and all?”
“Right.” The doctor took a small piece of handwritten paper from the pocket of his white jacket. He read from it. “He came here July ninth, 1967, about ten P.M. and was released about two thirty on the morning of July tenth. He was returned to the prison in ambulance number twenty-one. The driver was J. Lacqua, and the attendant was Winston Smylen.”
“Did the ambulance book indicate any diagnosis?” Sandro asked.
“No,” replied the doctor. “There was just the transportation notation. But now that we know what day he was here, we can check upstairs in the prison-ward log. I was really just lucky to find this notation in the dispatch book. No one has access to it except the dispatcher. I took a chance and looked at it today while I was passing. I still can’t find any hospital record, the actual diagnostic record. Did you try and get it through official channels?”
“No, George,” Sandro replied. “I want to have a copy in my hands first. Then I’ll order it through official channels just to cover us. I don’t want to alert anyone and have the records destroyed before I get a copy of it. Besides, if I can produce a copy, it’ll make destruction of the record look even worse.”
“You think they’d really destroy such a record?” asked Dr.Travers.
“I don’t know. I’m not about to take a chance on it though. That’s why Jerry came along tonight with his camera.”
Jerry, tall and lean, lifted his equipment bag forward so the doctor could see it.
“All right. We’ll go over there. I’ll get the book somehow, bring it to the office, and you can photograph it in my office. Then we can go to the prison ward.”
The three men walked past the cafeteria to the ambulance entrance. An ambulance pulled up, and through the double doors, half-glass, half-wood, they saw the attendant jump from the back of the ambulance, moving toward a stretcher on wheels.
“This one’s really a mess,” the attendant announced to other drivers sitting near the dispatch office, awaiting assignment. One of the attendants who had been sitting near the ambulance entrance helped to push the stretcher to the ambulance. Within was a man lying on a pallet. His head was swathed in bandages oozing blood. His hair was matted with dirt and blood. His clothes were old, soiled, ripped, bound on with cords and string. The two attendants eased the body onto the rolling stretcher and moved him through the double doors and turned right into the emergency ward.
Sandro and Jerry watched with fascination. Dr.Travers hardly noticed.
“Wait here for a minute,” said the doctor. “I’ll go to the dispatch office. If the book is there, I’ll get it now.” Dr. Travers walked quickly down the corridor.
Sandro and Jerry were standing outside the emergency room entrance. Within were people sitting on chairs, sitting on tables, lying on tables, propped against the wall, waiting for treatment, hoping for relief. Some were in wheelchairs. All looked uncomfortable, poor, pained, afraid. A wheelchair with a heavy woman in a nightdress, gasping for air, was being pushed down the hall by a thin, effeminate Negro attendant. A large man with gray hair and purpled cheeks was lying on his side in the emergency waiting room. Except for the blood-lines etched on his cheeks, his face was ashen. His eyes stared numbly at a wall. He did not stir, except for an occasional soft inhalation. A Puerto Rican man carrying a child, wrapped in an adult�
�s jacket, entered the emergency room; a frantic woman and two small children trailed behind.
The waiting room of the emergency clinic was just a long corridor leading into a room outfitted for emergency care. The corridor was filled with a line of sufferers, looking neglected and forlorn, waiting, while some bled, some died, all suffered. And as they waited, more people continued to stream into emergency, to be herded into line to wait their turn.
“This place is fantastic,” commented Jerry as he stood next to Sandro.
“One look at this and you don’t want ever to get sick,” replied Sandro.
A man with one leg was wheeled down a corridor in a wheelchair. The stub seemed to be seeping fresh blood.
Another man carrying a child in his arms came through the doors into the hospital. The child was awake, her eyes opened but motionless. She was resigned, content in that fortress of her father’s arms where nothing could harm her. The father looked around hopelessly, frantically.
“You want emergency? Emergencia?” Sandro inquired.
The man nodded quickly, the slightest hint of a smile of thanks seeping through his strained face.
“This way,” said Sandro, pointing. An attendant was passing. “This man needs emergency,” said Sandro, pointing to the father and child.
“Right in the emergency room. We’ll get to him as soon as we can,” replied the attendant, with weariness and apathy.
Sandro shrugged and pointed to the waiting room. The man gave that slight hint of a smile again and walked in to stand at the end of the line with the child in his arms.
“Here’s the doctor,” said Jerry as Travers returned, walking quickly, carrying a large ledger book under his arm. He walked past Sandro and Jerry without stopping or turning his head their way.
“Come on,” he whispered as he passed.
Sandro and Jerry looked at each other, hesitated, then began to follow the doctor at a distance which would eliminate any suspicion of their being together. The doctor stopped in front of the huge elevator door in the hospital’s A Building. Sandro and Jerry sauntered up and stood beside him. Sandro looked around to be sure they were alone and could not be overheard.
PART 35 Page 11
