PART 35

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Is that the dispatch book from that night?” Sandro asked.

  “Yes. I’ll show it to you when we get upstairs.”

  The door slid open, and the three men entered the elevator. At the fourth floor, they alighted.

  “It’s at this end of the hall,” said the doctor, walking to his right. Jerry and Sandro followed. They entered a small office at the end of the corridor. There was a room for secretaries, a working office for the doctor, and a door marked LIBRARY, which the doctor walked through, Sandro and Jerry following him. “Here it is, Sandro. In this book, I found Alvarado’s name as having been brought here July ninth, 1967, and having been brought back to the prison on the tenth. Now let me find the exact page,” the doctor thumbed through. “Here it is.”

  Sandro moved closer, his eyes scanning the lines until he saw Alvarado, Luis. And there it was, the dispatch record indicating Alvarado had been returned to the Tombs from the Bellevue prison ward at 2:30 A.M. on July 10th, 1967.

  “This is tremendous,” Sandro exclaimed. “This can’t be denied. No one would ever have thought of looking for this to destroy it. Jerry, can you get pictures of this?”

  Jerry, who had been looking over Sandro’s shoulder, unbuckled his equipment bag. He took out a camera with flashgun and started to focus several times.

  “You know, I feel like Shapiro the spy or something, taking these pictures,” Jerry grinned. He focused again, and the camera flashed. “Okay, I’ve got pictures of these two pages. Any more?”

  “No, that’s fine,” said Sandro, closing the book.

  “I’ve got to get this book downstairs before anybody realizes it’s gone. You sure you have everything you need from it?” Travers asked, putting the book under his arm.

  “Yes, sure. Jerry’ll develop the pictures. We don’t even have to write anything.”

  “Okay, fine. Wait for me here.” The doctor went out. Sandro slouched down into a big leather chair. Jerry took out a medical journal and leafed through it. In a few minutes, the doctor returned without the book.

  “I’d rather just you came Sandro. Not that I don’t like you, Jerry,” he grinned. “It’s just that the less conspicuous we are, the better. Jerry can wait right here for us. Nobody will bother you. If anybody comes in, just say you’re waiting for me.”

  Dr. Travers led Sandro along the corridor into and through another corridor which led to an adjoining building of the Bellevue compound. They continued through long, dismal, tiled corridors, which were occasionally stirred by moans, into another building, and finally ascended several flights of stairs. They approached an iron-bars-over-sheet-steel door. There was a bell at the side of the door.

  “Yes?” asked the policeman, who peered through the Judas eye in the steel door.

  “I’m Dr.Travers. I want to come in to see one of the doctors inside.”

  “Who’s he, Doctor?” the officer pointed his chin at Sandro.

  “This is one of my associates. We’re just here to check the records, not to go into the ward.”

  “All right, Doctor.” The officer unlocked the door and allowed Sandro and the doctor to enter. The room was used as a clerical office, doctors’ station, and police office. Opposite the steel door, through which they had come, was a wall of bars separating the office from the prisoners. Beyond, under constant scrutiny, was a roomful of prisoner-patients in blue prison-ward pajamas. Some of the prisoners were in beds lined against the wall on the sides of the ward; some were in wheelchairs; others sat on chairs, talking among themselves.

  Dr.Travers approached the nurse and spoke with her. She led him to a large ledger book on the desk. The doctor opened it and began searching its papers. He motioned to Sandro to help him. The doctor’s attention was drawn suddenly to one of the pages.

  “Look at this, Sandro,” said Travers, pointing to a line in the book under the date July 9th, 1967. It was the name Luis Alvarado. The entry indicated that Alvarado arrived at 10 P.M., July 9th, and was sent for X-rays and examination. Under the column marked Diagnosis was the notation RO internal bleeding.

  “What does this ‘RO internal bleeding’ mean?” Sandro asked.

  “It would seem there was some reason to make the doctor on duty believe that Alvarado might be having internal bleeding, and he sent him for X-rays and to make sure whether there actually was internal bleeding. RO means Rule-out, a medical abbreviation—check for internal bleeding and rule it out or affirm it as the diagnosis.”

  “Well? What happened? Did they find internal bleeding?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no further information here. Let me ask the nurse.” Travers motioned to the nurse. “Miss Dawson,” he said, addressing her by the name-badge pinned to her uniform, at the tip of her left breast. “Is there any record here, other than this book, which would indicate the diagnosis or the treatment the patient received?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said in a soft southern accent. “I only know that they mark everything down here and that’s all.”

  “Well, doesn’t the doctor make out a diagnosis sheet or some report after the examination?” Sandro asked.

  “There is a sheet, just a single sheet of paper that the doctor fills out, I guess when he examines the patient,” she replied.

  “Where is it in this case?” Sandro pressed, pointing to Alvarado’s name. “Do you have it on file?”

  “The doctor sends that back to the prison when the prisoner is returned,” the nurse explained. “That’s where it probably is now, so the prison doctors can treat the prisoner.”

  “Damn. If it’s at the prison it will be inaccessible until I subpoena it at trial,” Sandro said. He turned back to the nurse. “Is there any way of knowing the name of the doctor who treated or examined Alvarado that night?”

  She studied the ledger. “Dr. Waxman’s signature? Yes, this is Dr.Waxman’s signature. He probably examined the patient.”

  “Is he here? Is he still at Bellevue, Nurse?” the doctor asked.

  “No, sir. I think he’s at New York University Hospital now.”

  “Thank you.” He shrugged at Sandro. “Guard, will you let us out now?” Travers asked.

  The steel door shut with a heavy thud as Sandro and the doctor retraced their footsteps toward the library.

  “Is there anything else you want to do here, Sandro?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll have to talk to this Dr. Waxman. Can you set up some sort of appointment with him, George?”

  “I can’t right now. I have to get back to the clinic. I’ll give him a call as soon as I’m free and try to arrange a meeting.”

  Jerry Ball and Sandro lounged in the back of the cab as it drove across town. “The weather’s getting nippy. Let’s have a couple of drinks to celebrate and warm up at the same time,” Sandro suggested.

  “Hey! I’m going to like this job.”

  “This is the greatest thing in the case so far.”

  “But even if you find that this guy of yours was bleeding, how do you prove that whatever he had to go to the hospital for was a result of the cops?”

  “I don’t have to prove it was a beating. They have to prove it wasn’t.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Jerry said.

  “In order to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the confession is voluntary, they have to account for his physical condition. That is, he was healthy when he went into the police station. They have to account for any physical disability that might have developed in there and show that it was not the result of a beating. If they can’t, then there goes their case.”

  “That makes sense. You think you have enough to make them start worrying?”

  “Not yet. But we’re closing the gaps.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Despite the cold, rainy, October weather, Sandro was still cheerful as he walked into Sam’s office. This was his first stop of the morning. The secretary buzzed Sam on the intercom and showed Sandro into his office.

  “I’ve got it, I’ve got it,
Sam,” Sandro announced victoriously. “Dr.Travers found the goddamn record that shows that Alvarado was in Bellevue on the ninth of July. There’s your acid proof.”

  “Jesus, Sandro,” Sam exclaimed. He stood to shake Sandro’s hand. “That’s powerful stuff. Where is it?”

  “A photographer, Jerry Ball, took pictures. I’ll have them in a couple of days. Well?”

  Sam sat smiling. “They may have denied most of our motion for a bill of particulars, but we don’t need it now. Now Ellis has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Alvarado wasn’t beaten. That’s the Barbato case. That was my case in the Court of Appeals.”

  “You think they can justify his condition, Sam?”

  “What did the diagnosis say?”

  “I couldn’t get the diagnosis chart. It was sent back to the Tombs with him. But he went up there for internal bleeding.”

  “Goddamn, you got them cold. How can they account for internal bleeding. I mean, Alvarado hasn’t got an ulcer, for Christ’s sake.”

  “We’ll destroy them,” Sandro heard himself say. The words sounded familiar, like what Don Vincenzo had said about destroying the D.A. and finishing him off. “Taking some guy walking home from the movies and beating him to get a confession,” he went on. “And now they want to talk him into the electric chair. The merciless bastards.”

  “Bullshit. That’s pure bullshit, Sandro,” Sam said dryly.

  “What do you mean? You think these cops should get away with it?”

  “Look, Sandro, I’ve been on both sides of the fence. So I’ve got the benefit of a little experience you don’t have.”

  “And that makes what I said bullshit?”

  “No, but I know what I’m talking about. Don’t lay all the blame on the cops. Just think about it for a minute. You’ve got a guy like Lauria, getting paid how much? Nine thousand bucks a year. And for that, every day, day in, day out, he had to be ready to go get his ass shot at, to go into dark apartments with madmen inside, armed madmen. Or maybe jump in the river to save nuts who want to kill themselves, or maybe deliver babies, catch thieves and junkies, a million and one other things full of danger. How much would you want, Sandro, to run into a hail of bullets from a killer or burglar? Would you do it for nine thousand per?”

  “I wouldn’t do it for anything,” Sandro replied.

  “Damn right. Me neither.”

  “Does that make busting a guy’s head to get a confession out of him right?”

  “Of course not, Sandro. There are other things though.” Sam puffed his cigar. “How many cops are there in New York City?”

  “About thirty thousand.”

  “Okay, thirty thousand, and there are eight million people, maybe more, plus millions of visitors. And all the cops aren’t on the street all the time; two, three thousand at one time at most? You know how many people each cop’s got to cope with. Thousands. One cop. One guy that bleeds like you and me. A guy that gets scared, too. And he gets paid a lousy nine thousand. Who the hell do you expect to take that kind of job, atom scientists, Nobel Prize winners? You get just ordinary, everyday guys, kids. And they do a goddamn good job keeping your ass and my ass safe while we’re sleeping.”

  “Climb off the soapbox, Sam—”

  “No, let me finish, because I want to be objective about this trial. I’ve watched you getting more and more hot under the collar with every piece of evidence. Now you’ve got what you wanted. Okay. But don’t go off half-cocked.”

  Sandro watched Sam, waiting for him to continue.

  “When you give an inadequate force inadequate pay to do an impossible job, there’s something wrong with it. You pay for what you get, and you get what you pay for in this life, Sandro. The people want to pay nothing, and get everything. So the cops do the job the best they can, and then the people complain they don’t like the methods.”

  “You’re the one who knows what it’s like. You’re the one who told me the stories. Do you think that’s right?”

  “You think you’re kidding. That’s not such a bad idea. The moon. That’s good, Sandro. All the criminals’d be in one place, the court like it was a turnstile? All these professional bleeding-hearts, they want to love everybody. They haven’t been in the street, they don’t know they’re dealing with animals who want to be loved only long enough to get your purse or your wallet. When there’s a knife at your throat, it’s too late to know you were wrong.”

  “That’s very nice, in the abstract, Sam. Let’s take specifics, take Alvarado. He had three convictions. You want to lock him away for being picked up by mistake, grind him into a wall because he’s a junky? That piece of human debris is reading, trying to dope out the law in his cell, so he can understand his own case. Maybe it’s too late for him to make it on the outside, but Christ, he’s only a couple of generations behind our people, yours and mine. Would you want to be treated like that? I’ve still got people over on Mott Street. I had an uncle with balls and brains enough to be President of the United States if he had had the chances I have. What do you want to do, give the cops a free hand to break people’s heads because they come from some shitty neighborhood?”

  “Tell that to the goddamn judges, the sociologists, the liberals. Tell that to Lauria’s mother.” They stared at each other. “When a guy does something, let him pay for it, let him stand up and pay for it like a goddamn man.”

  “Lock a guy away as if he were an animal, throw away the key? What good is that doing him? What good is that doing society?”

  “No good. Our system of penology is so out of date we ought to be ashamed of ourselves. You don’t want to hurt the dear boys? Well, with all the money this country is spending getting to the moon, we could spend some money to let the scientists devise some new system, some escape-proof place where criminals can be alone, in their own society, to farm, to kill, to do whatever they want. What’s more humane than that. No bars, no incarceration. Just a life among their own kind.”

  “When do they get back?”

  “There could be a system of evaluation. They could return when they’re not hostile, bellicose.”

  “With all your talents, Sam, I never suspected you were a crackpot visionary. I’d like to see how your evaluators could go in to find out who isn’t hostile or bellicose anymore. Maybe we could send all the criminals to the moon. No one could escape that.”

  “Listen, you think it’s right that cops keep picking up the same crumbs, time after time, because the judges let them go through nice people in another. Then the cops could devote more kid-glove time to defendants.”

  “Let’s get back to this case. Are you telling me I should forget all about this evidence that the cops beat Alvarado?”

  “I guess I didn’t make myself clear. Knock them on their ass with it. That’s okay. That’s the way it should be. Just remember, they’re doing a job, same as we are. They don’t really give a personal damn about the defendants. They didn’t invent the system. They’re stuck with it, just as we are. And part of that system is, don’t expect cops to be geniuses or saints. Part of the system is that the judges are too merciful; the people too cheap; the politicians too political; the criminals too criminal. Blame everybody for just being human, imperfect. It’s not just cops. They’re the frontline troops, they’re the first to get hit with shit. But we’re all responsible for the system. If it stinks, it’s not the cops’ fault. That’s a popular cop-out, if you don’t mind a pun. You understand? When we reach the millennium, it’ll be better.” Sam paused. “Now, I think we can really kick the shit out of them with this Bellevue stuff.”

  “I’m glad we could get together on something.”

  Sam smiled. So did Sandro.

  CHAPTER XVII

  “I tol’ you I was in Bellevue, Mr. Luca, I tol’ you.” Alvarado was triumphant.

  “I believe you, Luis. I saw the record with my own eyes.”

  “And you saw the barber and the colored girl with the peaches pits, and they remembered me? She remembered me chan
ging the hundred dollar?”

  “Yes. I didn’t even have to ask the girl about you. She told me. She knew all about it. I was glad of that. She made your story more true. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” He nodded and smiled.

  Alvarado and Sandro watched each other’s eyes. An understanding and confidence passed between them. For Sandro the understanding was belief in the man he defended; for Alvarado, it was confidence in the man defending him.

  “I spoken to him, Hernandez,” Alvarado said. “They got him on a different floor from me. In church the other night, I talk a little bit to him. Wait a minute, though. Before I tell you that, you know the barber shop I was to? Before I went to that barber shop, you know, I went to a restaurant. It was after I change the hundred-dollar bill.”

  “Now wait a minute yourself, Luis. Every time I come here you tell me more places you were at that day. It’s like you sit up nights, making this stuff up.”

  “But what I telling you, it’s truth, Mr. Luca. You know that. You checking it out yourself.”

  “But if all these things happened the day the cop was killed, and it’s so important to you, what the hell is taking you so long to tell it to me all at one time.”

  “How can I tell you that? I sit in that cell there, and then I remember somesing. I cannot say to my head, remember more things for Mr. Luca. When it remembers things, I tell you right away. I only been to the fifth grades, Mr. Luca.”

  “I can’t argue with that, Luis. When you remember, you tell me. But think hard, try and bring it all back to mind.”

  “I tryin’, Mr. Luca, believe me that thing. I tryin’. I been in the death house, cookin’, Mr. Luca. It ain’t nice there. I don’t want to go back there to be cooked.”

  “You were in the death house?”