PART 35

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “You could do it though, couldn’t you?”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t do this.”

  “The superintendent isn’t there to check you out each day, is he?”

  “No.”

  “You sign yourself out, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And at the end of the week, when the superintendent signs your time card, he doesn’t know for sure that you’ve really been there every hour, does he?”

  “Sure he does.”

  “You mean he has to take your word for it. He has to rely on the time you filled in on your card.”

  “Right.”

  “Suppose, Mr. Maldonado, you had left your job early on July third, 1967, say around two P.M. and you put three thirty down on your time card instead, what would happen to your job if you admitted here in court that you put the wrong time on your card?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Maldonado, if you put more time down on your card than you really worked, would you be fired?”

  “I don’t do this.”

  “If you did, would you be fired?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I have no further questions.”

  Ellis rose. “Mr. Maldonado, did you put the proper quitting time on your card on July third, 1967?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Three thirty in the afternoon.”

  “No question in your mind?”

  “No.”

  “No further questions.”

  Sandro rose. “Mr. Maldonado, you’re employed by the City of New York, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The same employer as the police?”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “If he knows, he may answer. Do you know, Mr. Maldonado?”

  “I guess so,” said Maldonado.

  “No further questions.”

  Maldonado was excused. Ellis next called Edward Steinberger to the stand. Steinberger was in the controller’s office of the Board of Education. He produced Maldonado’s time card for July 3rd, 1967, and testified that it indicated Maldonado had left work at 3:30 P.M. Ellis offered the card into evidence. It was received. Ellis had no further questions.

  Sandro asked Steinberger if he knew whether Maldonado had actually worked until 3:30 P.M. on July 3rd, 1967. Steinberger replied he knew only what was written on the card, that he worked in the office. He said Maldonado had been paid for a full day on July 3rd. Sandro had no further questions.

  Ellis rested the people’s rebuttal. The judge recessed the court until the morning.

  “Not so strong today,” said Sam.

  “There’s tomorrow, Sam. Tomorrow is our day.”

  “We’ll need it.”

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  Sandro got onto the down elevator at the tenth floor. It was empty. After the court session, he had gone to the clerk’s office to check a file, and he was now heading for the street and, ultimately, his office. The elevator stopped again on the sixth floor, one of the district attorney’s floors. Mullaly stepped in.

  “Good evening, Counselor.” Mullaly smiled his aloof, cool smile.

  “Hello, Detective Mullaly,” Sandro replied.

  Both men gazed forward, watching the numbers on the panel above the door light up as they descended.

  “Guess we’ll be winding up soon,” Mullaly said.

  “Finally. Another ten days of this, and they’d have to bury me.”

  “You really work, Counselor, I’ll say that for you.”

  “From you, that’s a compliment.”

  Mullaly’s thin lips squeaked out a half-smile, half-snort.

  The elevator door opened at the ground level. They made their way out to the street. The sun had already descended, and the Civil Court Building across the street was lighted up.

  “Let me ask you this,” said Mullaly. “As a lawyer, a man dedicated to the law, doesn’t it bother you, even a little, trying to get these guilty crumbs off?”

  “If that’s what I was doing, it might.”

  “I mean, you’re one of the people out in the street,” Mullaly continued. “Some night when one of these niggers or spics comes up behind you to mug you, you think it’s going to make a hell of a lot of difference to them that you’re a lawyer who’s always breaking his hump to get punks off and back into the street?”

  “He’d probably roll me harder, thinking I had a lot of money.”

  “So, how come you do-gooders are always bleeding all over these punks? I don’t understand it.”

  “The opposite of do-gooder, Mullaly, is do-badder. Should I be a do-badder instead?”

  “Come on, you know what I mean. These punks go around abusing everybody, demonstrations, disrupting schools, and the Supreme Court is tying our hands so we can’t even arrest anybody. Black bastards are getting away with murder. It wouldn’t be so bad, if they were only murdering each other. And then you guys with the bleeding hearts go out and save them because they had three hundred tough years.”

  “Wait a minute, Mullaly, you’ve got me a little wrong. First of all, I’m not in this thing because one of these guys is black or white. I couldn’t care less that Alvarado is Negro and has a rough three hundred years behind him, or that he’s Puerto Rican, or any of that sort of thing. The only color they have, as far as I’m concerned, is prison pallor. I’m their lawyer, and while I am, I’ll do my job. And that job, in case you don’t know it, isn’t getting them off.”

  “You sure could have fooled me, pal. What are you trying to do then? These guys are guilty. I was there. I saw Alvarado on his knees, crying, ‘I did it, I did it.’ You’re trying to get a guilty guy off!”

  They had now walked to the corner of Centre and Leonard Streets. The lights in the State Building were burning brightly, not for the workers—they had already departed—but for the cleaning crew.

  “Apparently, what you don’t understand is my function and probably your own function, Detective. You’re a gatherer of evidence. You turn it over to the D.A. He’s the prosecuting attorney, I’m the defense attorney.”

  “Thanks for the tour—”

  “Let me finish,” said Sandro.

  “Let me ask you this, Counselor,” Mullaly continued. “If you knew your guy was as guilty as sin, wouldn’t you still try to get him off?”

  “Yes.”

  Mullaly shrugged. “My conscience’d haunt me if I did that. I couldn’t sleep at night.”

  “You keep using the phrase ‘get him off.’ I’m not trying to get anyone off. You know there’s a great difference between being not guilty and being innocent?”

  “What’s the difference?” Mullaly asked.

  “Innocent is where a man absolutely didn’t do an act. He’s innocent. Not guilty means only that under the law, a defendant hasn’t been proven guilty. Even if he did do the act, he must be set free.”

  “That’s what I mean, you want to get guilty crumbs off to roam the street.”

  “Look, Detective Mullaly, I’m not God, and whether you know it or not, neither is the D.A., nor are the men in Albany who make the laws. Once drinking was illegal, and a lot of people probably died in jail because they were guilty of breaking that law. Now, drinking is legal, and what a goddamn waste all the death and suffering about Prohibition was.”

  “Murder isn’t ever going to be written off the books, believe me, pal.”

  “I believe you. And morally speaking, taking life is repugnant, evil. But the ingredients of murder under the Penal Code, the five elements, or four elements, were thought up by men. Maybe God has seventeen elements to determine guilt of murder, maybe only one. But while I’m in a courtroom, I’m going to make the D.A. prove every single facet of the elements required by the law. Suppose the defendant is guilty only of manslaughter. You want him punished for murder anyway?”

  “I guess not,” Mullaly allowed.

  �
�Why not? Lives were taken in both instances. Who said they’re different?”

  “It’s in the code.”

  “Who put it in the code?”

  “In Albany, those fakers in Albany.”

  “And if they wrote into the law that several ingredients are necessary to make an act murder instead of manslaughter, what’s wrong with my going in and fighting cheek to jowl to make them prove all of it?”

  “You fight to get the guy off, that’s the difference. You want the jury to go all the way with you.”

  “Can I do a half-ass job, with hounds like you and Ellis on my back? Are you doing half a job trying to convict the man of murder?”

  “No, the guy is guilty.”

  “That’s where you make your mistake, Detective. You think you’re in a moral court, to punish for evil. You’re not. I don’t know if the man is guilty, nor does anyone else. And I’m talking about legal, not moral guilt. And the jury has to make that determination, not you, and not me. Don’t you realize I’m as much a representative of the people as the D.A.?”

  “Hey, Counselor, what are you giving me now, a flaming liberal snow job?”

  “No, a little lesson in the law. In the adversary system, the D.A. brings in everything he can against the defendant. Defense counsel brings in everything he can in favor of the defendant. And when both lawyers are finished, it’s up to the jury. Whatever the jury says—guilty, not guilty, murder, manslaughter—that’s it. Not morally, but according to what we poor, dumb men have written into books. It’s the best system we have. It may not be infallible in your eyes, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

  “When it lets guilty crumbs out into the streets, it stinks.”

  “You know something, Mullaly. You’re thickheaded. I’ll go in and fight whether you think a man is guilty or not. My job is to make the D.A. go through his paces and prove what the law says he must. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t deserve to win his case. And don’t worry about it. If there’s a God in heaven, as I’m sure there must be somewhere, he really doesn’t need your help. He’ll give out perfect punishment someday, to everybody for everything.”

  Mullaly’s face cooled with a smug smile. “You guys are really something.”

  “Oh, by the way, Detective Mullaly, talking about that conscience that wouldn’t let you sleep—does it keep you up much when you go around screwing the wives of defendants?”

  Mullaly’s face uncurled its smile as he stared blankly after Sandro.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  Thursday, April 25th, 1968

  “Sam,” Sandro said, walking into court excitedly. “You won’t believe the phone call I just got from Siakos in the office.”

  “What was it?” Sam was unpacking his briefcase.

  “Josefina Ramirez, the woman the guy ran past on the stairs?”

  “What about her?”

  “She called Siakos up. She wants to come back to court to testify.”

  “Let her tell it to Ellis. What’s she going to do this time—identify Alvarado?”

  “No, she says she wants to testify for us.”

  “What?” Sam stared at him. “What’s she want to testify to.”

  “Alvarado was not the guy.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not about something like that.”

  “Ellis’ll go nuts. Where is she?”

  “Siakos is bringing her here.”

  Sandro called Josefina Ramirez to the stand. Ellis turned his head quickly. His face grew stern when he saw Mrs. Ramirez enter the courtroom.

  She took the stand and was informed through the interpreter that she was still under oath.

  “Mrs. Ramirez,” Sandro started. “Did you call Mr. Siakos and talk to him in Spanish?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is that why you have returned to court today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, on July third, 1967, the day the policeman was killed, did you tell the police that the man you saw on the stairs was dressed in a gray suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pants and jacket matched?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Honor,” said Ellis, rising. “This is repetitious.”

  “I am going into new matter, Your Honor. I just wanted to pick up the train of thought,” said Sandro.

  “Proceed.”

  “Did the police tell you the man was wearing a yellow jacket?”

  “I didn’t tell them that.”

  “But did they tell you that the man from the roof was not wearing a gray suit?”

  “They told me he was wearing a different color.”

  “How did they tell you the man was dressed?”

  “I think it was yellow pants. No—yellow jacket and black pants. But he was not dressed like that.”

  “Did you see the defendant Alvarado in the station house on the early morning of July fourth?”

  “Yes, the police brought me there, and I told them that I did not recognize that man.”

  “Your Honor, may I have the defendant Alvarado come closer to the witness?” Sandro asked.

  “You may.”

  Alvarado rose, and the guard accompanied him toward the witness stand. He stood directly before Mrs. Ramirez.

  “Mrs. Ramirez, look at this man. Is this the man you saw on the stairway on July third?”

  “No, sir. That’s not the man I saw running. No.”

  The jurors were looking at one another. A whisper swept through the spectators.

  “Any further questions of this witness?” the judge asked.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Any questions, Mr. Ellis?”

  “Your Honor, in view of the unusual aspect of this last witness’s appearance here this morning, I’d like a recess for a short while.”

  “Your application is granted,” said the judge. “Members of the jury, we’ll have a recess at this time. Do not discuss the case.”

  The jury filed out. Ellis had not waited for them to leave. He had already left the courtroom, his face etched with anger.

  The recess ended, Ellis, cold and as hard as steel, faced Mrs. Ramirez.

  “Mrs. Ramirez, when you appeared here before at this trial, did you not testify that you did not get a good look at the man on the stairs?” Ellis asked.

  “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Ellis is trying to impeach his own witness,” said Sam. “Mrs. Ramirez is still the prosecution’s witness.”

  “Not anymore,” Ellis said.

  “Overruled.”

  “That’s true. I cannot tell you exactly what the man looked like, but this is not the man. No. No,” insisted Mrs. Ramirez.

  “Did you not describe the man you saw to the court, the last time, as a colored man with pushed-back hair?”

  “He’s not colored!” she said, pointing to Alvarado.

  Ellis looked around at Alvarado. He studied him. The Negro guard behind Alvarado, whose skin was lighter than Alvarado’s, was leaning forward to get a better look.

  “You say the defendant Alvarado is not colored?” Ellis wondered. “How would you describe him?”

  “He’s white, like I am,” said Mrs. Ramirez.

  Ellis stared blankly at Mrs. Ramirez, his mind totally stalled. Mrs. Ramirez was white. Alvarado was almost black.

  “Are you now telling this court and jury that the defendant Alvarado is not the man you saw, even though you don’t know what the man looked like?” Ellis asked, starting forward again.

  “This man is Puerto Rican. The other man on the stairs was colored. The other man had the ‘bad’ hair. I can’t tell what the colored man looked like, but this cannot be that man.”

  “Did the lawyers for Alvarado call you after you were in court the last time?”

  “No, I called. I wanted to be sure my conscience would not bother me. I may not have said the things right. These people should know,” she said, pointing to the jury.

  “You were at the station house the night of the shooting, weren’t you?”

>   “Yes.”

  “And didn’t you see the defendant Alvarado there at that time?”

  “Yes. The police showed him to me through a glass.”

  “Do you remember there were other women in the station house at that time?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “And do you remember a woman there named Carmen Salerno, a short, young woman?” Ellis asked.

  “I don’t know the name. I don’t know,” Mrs. Ramirez replied, shrugging.

  “As a matter of fact, when you saw this defendant Alvarado in the station house the morning of July fourth, did you not tell one of those women at the station house that you recognized Alvarado as the man you saw running down the steps, but you wouldn’t tell the police that?”

  “No, sir, I never said that to anyone.”

  Sam whispered, “You can bet your ass he’s got Mrs. Salerno ready to swear up and down to that.”

  “Ellis must have had one of the detectives go and get her during the recess.”

  “Do you remember coming into my office about a month ago, Mrs. Ramirez?” Ellis continued.

  “Yes.”

  “And I showed you a picture of Alvarado?”

  “Yes. You showed me a picture of this gentleman,” the interpreter translated.

  “And did I ask you if you could recognize that man as the man who ran past you on the stairway on July third?”

  “No, that is not the man,” she replied.

  “I move that the answer be stricken as not responsive.”

  “Strike it out,” the judge ordered.

  “Ellis is going deeper and deeper into the hole,” Sandro whispered, watching intently.

  “And did you not at the time tell me that you did not see the man well enough to recognize him?” Ellis asked.

  “I couldn’t tell from the photograph. But seeing the man now, in person, I know he is not the man!”

  “I move that that answer be stricken as not responsive. I ask Your Honor to instruct the witness to answer the questions asked.”

  “Yes. Please tell Mrs. Ramirez to answer only the questions asked,” the judge told the interpreter. She complied.

  “Did you not say in my office that you didn’t know what the man who ran past you looked like?” Ellis pressed.

  “It is true. I cannot say what the man looked like, but I can say that this could not be the man.”