PART 35

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

Sam shrugged. “I’m sure she’s going to identify the defendants somehow.”

  Mrs. Ramirez testified that she was married and had six children. On the day of the murder, she was living at 161 Stanton Street. About 2:15 P.M. that day, she went to pick up her youngest daughter at the child-care center.

  “She’s the woman who was on the stairs with the kid when the killer ran down,” Sam said flatly.

  Mrs. Ramirez testified that after picking up her daughter, she walked home. She had been in front of 153 Stanton Street at 2:30 and heard explosive noises coming from an upper floor. These she learned later were the shots on the roof that killed Lauria. As she and her child were climbing the stairs of 161 Stanton Street, Mrs. Ramirez said, first she heard someone running down, then she saw a Negro coming down toward them.

  “Here we go,” said Sam, not looking up from his notes.

  Sandro watched the witness.

  The interpreter indicated that the man Mrs. Ramirez saw had bad hair. He was dressed in gray and had something she could not identify concealed in his right hand. He was running quickly and breathing very hard, as if fatigued. He said nothing to Mrs. Ramirez or the child, but just kept running.

  “Did you get a good look at his face?” Ellis asked.

  “I couldn’t see him very well because he was going very fast. I saw him in a moment like this,” she replied, waving her arm through the air.

  Sam looked up. “Did she just say what I thought she said?”

  “I’m sure I heard it, but I don’t believe it.”

  Ellis asked Mrs. Ramirez what she did after the man ran past her. She said she went to her apartment, and sometime later the police came and asked her questions, and she told them about the man in the gray suit.

  “That’s where they got the description of a Negro in a gray suit,” said Sandro.

  Ellis had no further questions.

  Neither did Siakos.

  “She’s not going to identify Alvarado,” Sam said in amazement.

  “Maybe I should have him stand, and ask her if this is the man she saw.” Sandro suggested. “She won’t identify him and that will be strong in our favor.”

  “Maybe it’s a trap. She didn’t identify him. Leave it at that. Don’t ask her about Alvarado. Just about the guy on the stairs.”

  Sandro rose and walked to the jury box. The judge looked at Sandro as if to say, “The witness hasn’t touched your man; why bother?”

  “Mrs. Ramirez, this man you saw, how was he dressed?”

  “In gray, like a suit,” the interpreter translated.

  “And his hair, you said was ‘bad hair?’”

  “It’s not like our hair. It is crispy.”

  “When you say our hair, you mean yours, mine, whose?”

  “Well, my hair is straight and smooth.”

  “You mean it’s not like a Puerto Rican’s hair?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “When you say our hair, whom do you mean?”

  “It is not like my hair. It is curly hair. All plastered down.”

  “Was this man you saw tall?”

  “No, he wasn’t very tall.”

  “Was he as tall as I am?”

  “More or less, but fatter. He was taller than I am,” Mrs. Ramirez replied.

  “How tall are you, Mrs. Ramirez?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “Your Honor, may we have Mrs. Ramirez stand and be measured.”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Ramirez stood and was measured by one of the court officers. She was five feet four inches in her heels. She returned to the witness chair.

  “Mrs. Ramirez, you saw me standing next to you just now. Was the man you saw as tall as I am?”

  “More or less, but fatter.”

  “Your Honor, will you accept for the record that I am five feet ten inches?”

  “We will accept that. Anything further?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Step down. At this time, we will have a short recess.”

  The jury began to file out. Sam stood and was placing his papers in his briefcase.

  “You figure she was supposed to identify Alvarado?” Sandro wondered.

  “I’m not sure that she balked on the stand. Ellis seemed too calm. He must have known she wouldn’t identify our guy, but he needed her to support that confession. The police obviously based part of it on her description.”

  “You know, Sam, she actually helped us. She gave the guy ‘bad hair’ and made him five foot ten.”

  “Yeah, that helps. Not much, but it helps.”

  Ellis next called Claudia Lauria, sister of the dead patrolman. She testified that she went to the morgue the day after the shooting and identified the body as that of her brother Fortune Lauria.

  There was no cross-examination.

  Ellis next called Robert Soto.

  “Here’s the little bastard that led us down the garden path for Mullaly,” Sandro whispered to Sam.

  Sam nodded. “I’m glad he did. It gave you a chance to plant that story about not having any alibi witnesses. I still can’t believe Ellis hasn’t asked for a list of them.”

  “Maybe he will.”

  “Too late for that now. He would have done it before this. If those witnesses stand up the way you say they will, Ellis is going to have the shock of his life.” Sam smiled slightly, his face still in the notes before him.

  Sandro watched Soto take the stand. Soto was uneasy. He looked down at Sandro furtively, then looked away.

  Ellis had Soto describe his old apartment at 153 Stanton Street. Soto testified that on the day of the shooting he had had three television sets there. He identified the property that had been found on the roof. Soto testified that he left for work early the morning of July 3rd and was not let back into his apartment until 8 o’clock that evening. Ellis had Soto inspect photographs taken by the police of the ransacked apartment.

  Soto told the jury that there was a fire escape outside one of the windows in the living room extending over to the window of his children’s bedroom. On all the windows he had installed folding iron gates. Soto indicated that these gates were effectively locked against intruders. He testified he had special screw locks on the windows. Ellis had no further questions.

  Siakos cross-examined Soto. Soto testified that there were ordinary window locks on each window as well as the extra screw locks. Siakos had no further questions.

  “You want to take him?” asked Sam.

  “No, you take him,” Sandro replied. “You know what conversations I had with him. I think I’d jump right down his lying throat.”

  Sam walked to the jury box and faced Soto. Soto denied ever having told Sandro that a junky named Salerno, on one of the lower floors, might have been the person who burglarized his apartment. He denied that Mrs. Salerno had become friendly with his own wife after the burglary. Soto denied telling Sandro that Mullaly told him everything about the case. Soto denied calling Sandro’s office and offering to go interview witnesses with him.

  Sandro was restive. Soto never looked toward him. Sam had no further questions. Soto walked off the stand. His eyes met Sandro’s for an instant; he saw the fury there, looked away, walking quickly to the witness room.

  The judge recessed for lunch.

  Mike and Sandro, talking quietly, turned from the main corridor on their way to the elevator. They stopped short. There, alone, waiting for an elevator were Robert and Alma Soto.

  “There’s that lying little spic,” Mike muttered, loudly enough to be heard.

  “Hey, you can’t call me that.” Soto didn’t seem certain whether Mike could or couldn’t. His wife remained silent. Sandro held onto Mike’s arm.

  “I already did, you lousy liar.”

  “I’m not any spic. I’m an American just like you and him.”

  “You’re a fink. You think that’s what America’s about? People trying to hide what they are or where they’re from?”

&
nbsp; “I ain’t hidin’ nothing.”

  “You’re damn right. Everybody can see what you’re really like.” Mike drew his right foot back slightly. Soto studied him.

  “Mr. Luca,” Soto said, “your friend’s getting all excited. I don’t want to fight him.” The elevator bell rang.

  “Go ahead, Soto. Get on,” Sandro said, still holding Mike by the arm. Soto nodded and pushed his wife in ahead of him. The doors closed.

  “Why didn’t you let me smack him one?” asked Mike.

  “Why get your hands dirty?”

  Sandro and Mike took the next down elevator to the lobby. Soto and his wife were already gone.

  In the afternoon, Ellis called a detective from the ballistics squad. He testified that the bullets found on the roof and in the slain officer’s body were fired from Lauria’s own pistol. The pistol was a Smith and Wesson .38, which could be fired single action, or double action, shot after shot.

  Siakos had no questions. Sam stood and asked the detective how long it would take to fire all the shells in the gun double action. The detective answered it would take very few seconds. Sam had no further questions. The detective was excused.

  At this point, Ellis turned to the judge. “The people rest, Your Honor.”

  Sandro looked at Sam. “What about the statements the defendants gave to the D.A. at the station house? They’re supposedly confessions, too? Isn’t he going to use them?” asked Sandro.

  “I can’t figure this. Unless they’re not confessions!” said Sam. “But just let him not use them. We’ll shove them right down his throat in summation. Their absence will destroy his case. Not much of a case either, if our witnesses stand up.”

  The judge excused the jury early, explaining that the lawyers and he had some legal matters to discuss. When the jury had retired, Siakos and Sam each made the customary motions to dismiss the indictment for failure to establish a prima facie case. After legal discussions and argument, the judge denied the motions and told Siakos to have his witnesses on the stand in the morning.

  “You have your witnesses ready, Nick?” Sandro asked as they were gathering their papers.

  “Oh, sure, sure. I’ll have somebody go and get them tonight.”

  “You’ve spoken with them, haven’t you?”

  “Not personally. One of my men has, though. They’ll be fine. I only have to talk to them for a few minutes before they go on the stand.”

  Sandro and Sam left the courtroom, hoping Siakos was right.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  Mike’s car was speeding across the Williamsburg Bridge again.

  “What time did Moreno call?” Sandro asked.

  “About four fifteen. He found Julio, the guy from the school, who was in the shop that day. But Julio’s moving tonight, and if we don’t see him now, we could lose him again for good.”

  “This case isn’t going to be over until the last minute, is it?”

  Mike pulled the car up to the barber shop. Moreno was inside giving a haircut.

  “What day was it that Alvarado came into your barber shop?” Sandro flung at him quickly. Mike translated.

  Moreno studied Sandro momentarily, smiling slightly, “It was on July third.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The next day was a holiday, and I didn’t work. I saw that guy’s picture in the paper when I wasn’t working.”

  “Is there any question in your mind it was July third?”

  “No question in my mind.”

  “What time was it when he came into the store?”

  “About two twenty-five, two thirty.”

  “Perhaps it was later, two forty-five?”

  “It was two twenty-five, two thirty.”

  Sandro smiled and shook hands with Moreno. His customer was looking dumbfounded at everyone. Moreno spoke to him in Spanish, and he returned to the girlie magazine while Moreno turned back to Mike.

  “He said if we wait for him to finish this customer, he’ll come with us to the place where Julio is staying tonight, and we can speak to him.”

  “Okay, tell him we’ll wait in the car.”

  While Sandro waited in the car, Mike went into a Cuchifritos, which is the up-and-coming Puerto Rican Howard Johnson’s. He came out with something golden fried, which he told Sandro was pork.

  The three of them drove through short, dark Brooklyn streets until Moreno told Mike to stop the car. They got out and entered a building. It was dimly lighted inside. A bicycle stood under the stairs next to a baby carriage. Moreno walked to the rear apartment on the first floor and knocked. A man, obviously a friend of Moreno’s, answered. They spoke and then turned to look at Sandro. The man waved, asking them to come in.

  The kitchen table was in disarray, covered with empty plates from the evening meal. In a corner was a sink. Another man stood at the sink, peering into a mirror at his soap-lathered face. He had a razor in his hand. He appeared to be in his thirties and was very light-skinned.

  “That’s Julio,” Mike said.

  The man at the sink looked in the mirror, meeting Sandro’s eyes there. He nodded.

  “Does he speak English?”

  “Sure, I speak.”

  “Do you remember being in Francisco’s barber shop on July third?” Sandro asked.

  “I’m there all the time. I don’t know the days.”

  “Well, this was a day before a holiday. Maybe you got off from work early that day?”

  “No, I don’t remember.” He was slicing the foam off his face now.

  “Do you remember seeing this fellow in the shop at any time?” Sandro asked, handing the newspaper clippings to Mike. Mike held them in front of Julio. Julio turned from the mirror, wiped his hands on the towel hung across his shoulders, and studied the pictures.

  “No, I don’t remember.” He resumed shaving.

  “Did someone give you a dollar to let him take your place in the barber shop? It would be a day before a holiday. Do you remember that?”

  “You know, I can’t remember that. I’m in there all the time. But no guy give me a dollar. If a guy wants my place, and I not in a hurry, I let him take it. Go ahead. No, I never get a dollar. And I don’t remember that guy anyway.”

  “Are you saying, Julio, that you were there but you didn’t see this fellow, or just that you don’t remember whether you were there or not?”

  “I don’t remember if I was there or not. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t.”

  “In other words, maybe it happened. You just don’t remember?”

  “That’s right.”

  Sandro looked at Mike. “At least we won’t get hurt with this. You think of anything else?”

  “Why don’t we let Moreno talk to him, try to remind him?” Mike suggested.

  “Okay with me.”

  Mike spoke to Moreno, and Moreno spoke to Julio. They had an involved conversation in Spanish, Moreno explaining, Julio shaking his head. Moreno finally turned and spoke to Mike.

  “He just doesn’t remember,” Mike translated.

  “Okay. Thank him for us, and let’s go and see if we can find Pablo Torres before it gets too late.” They turned and left the building and got back in the car.

  “Do you think we should have taken a statement from him?” asked Mike.

  “Probably we should get a negative statement, but I’m too tired. He doesn’t know anything anyway.”

  Mike drove Moreno home, and then they continued to where Pablo Torres lived.

  “This is the restaurant. We want his house,” said Sandro as Mike parked at the curb.

  “This is the address he gave,” said Mike. “Maybe he lives above the store. There’s an entrance over here.”

  They got out of the car and entered the building. Mike searched the mailboxes and bells. “Here it is. It’s marked Basement.”

  “So give a little ring and we’ll see,” Sandro mugged. Mike rang the bell. They waited to hear a door open.

  “Quién es?” asked a voice from the rear of the 0build
ing.

  “Rivera,” Mike announced as they walked to the back. There was a stairway leading down, and at the bottom stood Pablo Torres in a white T-shirt, blue polka-dot shorts, and black ankle socks. He smiled and nodded, waving them to come down.

  “My mama wanted me to be a professional man,” Sandro said. “Do you think she knew about nights like this?”

  Mike laughed as they walked down. They entered the cellar of the building, which served as the storage area for the restaurant. There were cases of beer and soda, large burlap bags containing beans, cardboard cases of canned tomatoes. Torres walked toward the back. In one corner, a wire was strung across the ceiling, and on it was a curtain that separated his quarters from the bottles and cans and beans. Behind the curtain was a bed, unmade. Torres had obviously just risen from it to open the door. His clothes were on hangers, suspended from the walls around the bed. There was a cigarette in an ashtray on the bed, curling smoke ceilingward. An open can of beer was next to the bed.

  Torres respectfully motioned Sandro to sit on the bed. He moved two cases of tomato cans close for Mike and himself. Sandro noticed that he was a little red-eyed. If you could get used to the restricted view, Sandro reflected, it was easier than having to stagger home from a bar. Besides, he had an unlimited supply of free beer.

  “Tell him it’s coming time—”

  “Tell him it’s coming time?” Mike repeated, laughing. “You hardly speak English better than he does. Or are you being condescending, you bastard?”

  Sandro laughed. “Tell him that we’ll be needing him in court soon, and we wanted to get him prepared. Give him the whole thing—tell him to answer only what he’s asked and give positive answers.”

  Mike explained it to Torres, who sipped his beer, listening. He nodded and looked to Sandro.

  “Do you remember the man you now know as Alvarado?” Sandro asked.

  “Yes,” Mike translated.

  “Do you remember what day it was that he was in the restaurant?”

  “Yes, it was the day before the holiday. He came in to eat.”

  “Tell him only to answer the question and not give information I didn’t ask for,” said Sandro.

  Mike explained it again.

  “Do you remember what day he came in?”

  “Yes, it was the day before the holiday.”