“I take it Mr. Lam had no clue about what was really going down?” I said.
“No. I told him it was a favor and I’d owe him. That’s enough for Harry Lam. This is Chinatown—most of the real money around here passes under the table anyway, so it’s not unusual,” said Jiang.
A few minutes later, Vinnie came out of the restaurant shaking his head. He looked pissed.
“This is your fault,” he said, pointing a finger at me.
“We’re five grand light. How the hell is this our fault if you can’t even make a simple drop? And you’re the one who insisted on the case being dumped—remember that. This case has a decent profile, and we got reporters all over. This is down to you. Five grand, Vinnie, before nine a.m.,” I said, and together we turned and walked away from Vinnie as he swore and kicked at a pile of trash beside a fire hydrant.
“Eddie, tell me we’re not making a huge mistake,” said Jack.
The taut skin on his bony face shined with sweat.
I tore my gaze away from him and said, “We’re okay. For now.”
In truth, I didn’t believe it. Things had gone as planned so far. I thought that right here and now, if Vinnie had to think of the worst possible person he could hand five grand to, he couldn’t have picked worse than Harry Lam.
Without knowing it, Vinnie had fallen back into his old ways.
Chapter Twenty
The crowd in the courtroom was a strange mix of people. Some reporters, fewer than I’d expected, but a lot of representatives from civil rights groups. Men and women who devoted their time to helping their communities and giving a voice to those who needed it. Some of them had rallied around Maria Hernandez in the immediate aftermath of Chilli’s death. They made bold statements of condemnation to TV anchors, bloggers and reporters, and anyone else with a platform. But they didn’t offer Maria any help in funding a case against the NYPD. They all said that Chilli’s background made him “inappropriate” for a test case. They were waiting for an innocent Hispanic or African-American kid to get choked to death before they put money on the table.
I couldn’t blame them. Their passion for their cause was righteous, and given Chilli’s criminal history and the NYPD’s case that Chilli had killed a man the day before he died, it didn’t make this case a sympathetic one with the media.
It was 8:50 a.m. No sign of Vinnie or his client. Jack was out gathering the last pieces of our puzzle, and McAllister was back at Internal Affairs, trying to get a moment to bust open Frost’s filing cabinet.
The city’s lawyer, Alfred Boles, tapped his pen on the table impatiently.
In the seat beside me, Maria wiped at her eyes with a tissue and blew her nose. She was still in her twenties, with a soft, kind face and generous eyes. She wore the same floral patterned maternity dress that I’d seen her wearing the last few times we’d met. Money was beyond tight for Maria. Gently, she rocked back and forth. Her fingers locked around the child in her belly. I put a hand on her shoulder and she stopped.
“We’re gonna do our best, Maria.”
She nodded and forced a smile. “I know. You told me how hard this would be, but I didn’t think it would be this hard.”
More tears, more black lines on her tissue from her mascara.
“It’s not right, what happened to Chilli. I know he’s watching. I have to make them understand that they can’t do this to people. Look at them—they don’t even care,” she said, gesturing toward Boles.
In fairness to Boles, he was a career lawyer with the city. He’d been defending the city for more than thirty years. That length of experience on the job will build you a layer of cynicism an inch thick. It was partly protection for Boles, some form of self-preservation; let’s face it—if you go home to the wife and kids every night believing you’re a bad guy, you simply won’t last in the job. Instead, you let yourself get suckered into believing your client is good and other people are bad. You fool yourself—and hope that it’s true. This wasn’t the first time Boles had defended a cop accused of killing an innocent civilian, and unfortunately, it was unlikely to be his last. Most cases settled, but this one was different. The city was keeping its distance from Marzone, for the right reasons legally, but my God, if only they knew the half of it.
“He’s just doing his job,” I said.
“I know, but how does he sleep at night?”
At that moment, a guy who presumably slept pretty well at night came into court like a walking refrigerator.
It was the first time I’d laid eyes on Marzone in person. His suit must’ve been specially made to fit him, and if the tailor knew what he was doing, he probably charged for the cloth by the yard. He was a true hulk with a flat, dead face and arms that could break me in half. A wide seat had been left out at his defense table. He just about fit into it. Roark came in behind Marzone and sat close to him. Vinnie approached me, and I got up to meet him halfway between the plaintiff and defense tables.
“We’re done. I’ve got another five in my car. You can get it after you pull the case.”
“Things have changed, Vinnie. I don’t trust you,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, inclined his head; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You got a death wish? There’s somebody on their way here, you know? This guy wants to make sure this case goes away. I wouldn’t mess with this man if I were you.”
Marzone and Roark were already in court. Vinnie was talking about the hit man. He knew of the connection between the Morgue Squad and the killer—but I doubted if he knew the true significance of that relationship. If Vinnie knew everything, I doubt he’d get himself involved, unless, of course, he didn’t have a choice in the matter. It’s hard to say no to a man who could put a bullet in your head.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, turning away from him.
I took my seat at the plaintiff’s table and gave Maria’s arm a light squeeze.
“They want to buy us off with five grand,” I said.
She wasn’t listening. Her eyes were fixed on Marzone, who, in turn, stared straight ahead and was careful not to make eye contact with Maria.
“He is the one,” she said.
“That’s Detective Marzone,” I said. “Don’t look at him. It’ll only upset you.”
“No, I want to look at his face.”
Almost as if he could feel Maria’s stare, Marzone turned and stared back at her. The left side of his face cracked into a knowing, cold smile before he looked away.
There were no more tears from Maria Hernandez. She’d looked her husband’s killer in the eyes. It was he who had broken that stare. How the hell could he look at her at all?
No sign of Jack or McAllister.
The court clerk announced the entrance of Judge Winter, and we all stood. Winter took his time to get to his seat, then sat down slowly, slipped a hand beneath his robes, and retrieved three pens from his shirt pocket. Only after he’d lined up the black, red, and green pens on the table beside his notebook did he say, “You may be seated.”
Most of the crowd had already sat down as soon as the judge had. I noticed Boles, Vinnie, and their clients all stood with me and Maria until the judge’s invitation to sit. These guys knew their judges. They knew that pandering to judicial idiosyncrasies could give you a head start on your opponents. Any lawyer or client who took their seat before Winter laid out his pens got a harsh stare from the judge and a rough ride during the trial. For a second, I looked at Vinnie and Boles, and in turn, they looked at each other and then at me. We knew, all of us, that we were playing a game here. Justice, or whatever the hell that meant, was a poker game. And as Winter called for the jury, we sat silently awaiting the twelve good men and women who would decide the case, though they had no idea they were even in the game.
Chapter Twenty-One
Running a trial, even when it’s going well, is a real roller-coaster ride. There are slow, dreary moments when you drag your sorry case uphill, only to have your opponent bl
ow you away in cross-examination and that scream-inducing slide back down is so fast and hard your eyes feel like they’re being sucked clean out of your head.
But there are ways of telling how you’re doing, subtle hints. Over time I’d learned to ignore the judge and watch the jury; follow their eyes, watch what lines of questioning resonate with them, what bores them, what grabs their attention.
A jury is an audience, and they have to be worked just like any crowd.
I waited until Judge Winter had selected his black pen, opened his notebook, clicked the top of the pen to release the nib, and looked up at me. That was my cue. I stood, buttoned my jacket, and walked slowly toward the well of the court: the no-man’s-land between the lawyers, the witness box, the judge, and the jury.
“You will all remember me from jury selection, but just for the record, my name is Eddie Flynn and I represent Maria Hernandez.”
Pause. Let them look at her. Look at the swollen face, the red eyes, and the unborn child she carried to court.
“Maria’s husband, Chilli Hernandez, was killed. You won’t be asked to decide who killed Chilli Hernandez. We already know who killed him. It was this man,” I said, pointing to Marzone. All eyes fell on the mountain next to Vinnie. Even the judge took a good look at the detective. In turn, Marzone looked at me without expression, only a mild shake of the head.
“Detective Fred Marzone put his arm around the deceased’s throat, and he squeezed hard enough to rupture the vagal nerve and collapse the windpipe. The cause of death is not disputed in this case, and you have in front of you the medical examiner’s report, which confirms death occurred due to strangulation.”
A pause. Letting them take this in, nice and slow, let them start forming questions in their mind—questions I was about to answer.
“Detective Marzone will tell you that he was defending himself, that he believed Chilli Hernandez would kill him. His partner, Detective Roark, will tell you the same thing. In fact, they will talk a lot about Chilli Hernandez. They will tell you that he was a violent ex-con. That’s true. But what they won’t tell you is that they acted in breach of the code that governs the behavior of police officers in our city. A code they are sworn to uphold.”
Another pause to let the question build: What code? What breach?
“There is one important fact in this case that you must never let slip from your mind. NYPD officers are forbidden from choking a suspect or using any hold that may inhibit breathing. They cannot do this.”
“The first defendant in this case, Detective Marzone, broke that code and killed Chilli Hernandez.
“The second defendant in this case is the city itself, the NYPD who employed Detective Marzone. They train and equip their officers for the street, and if one of them steps out of line, the NYPD are responsible. Members of the jury, this is not a complicated case. It’s simple. The lawyers for Detective Marzone and the city will try to tell you differently. They will even tell you that this case is really about Chilli Hernandez—but remember, please, that Chilli Hernandez is not on trial here. He has not been convicted of any crime associated with the attempted arrest by Detective Marzone. He is innocent and will remain so.”
Soft crying behind me—Maria.
“When I began this speech I asked what this case was all about. Really, when you get right down to it, it’s about you. Every one of you. And me and everyone in this courtroom and everyone in this building and every single citizen of this fine city. We trust the NYPD to protect us. All of us. When one of their officers breaks the rules and kills one of us, we have to take a stand. We have an obligation to our fellow citizens to protect them. You will have an opportunity during this case to do just that. I hope you take it.”
I turned and walked slowly back to my seat as the applause began in the gallery; then people stood and clapped. Judge Winter hollered at the crowd to be silent. But they ignored him and applauded until I sat down.
Vinnie had to stand for a full two minutes before order was finally restored by Winter threatening to clear the court.
In his shiny blue suit, Vinnie took up a position in the exact same spot as I had.
“Members of the jury, I won’t get any applause for what I’m about to tell you. And that is shameful. Because the man that I have the honor of representing is a loyal, dedicated servant of this city. Our case will show that Detective Fred Marzone fought for his life on the night of October tenth. He fought against the knife in the hand of Chilli Hernandez. Do you think it’s fair that he was allowed to fight back? To defend himself? There is only one answer to that question, and the evidence will prove it.”
Shorty, snappy—this was Vinnie’s style. He’d highlighted the major weakness in the case straight off. We had no witnesses to Chilli’s arrest. Nothing to contradict Marzone and Roark’s testimony. The only witness we had was Chilli’s corpse. The entire case stood or fell on my cross-examination of these guys. If I could shake their credibility, we had a chance. A small one. It all came down to my cross.
As Vinnie took his seat, he held out a hand to Alfred Boles, who stood, nodded and smiled, and decided to make this short opening statement from the defense table.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Alfred Boles, and I represent the city of New York. In effect, I represent the New York City Police Department, and I’ve had the honor of doing so on many occasions. You’ve heard from Mr. Flynn and Mr. Federof, and right about now you’re probably thinking that there are two sides to every story. Well, I’m not here to make your job more difficult than it already is, but I’m here to tell you there is a third side to this story.”
A dry, mirthless laugh from Boles was not reciprocated by any of the jury. They’d already marked Boles as the corporate man, and he would have an uphill struggle.
“It may be that at the end of this case you believe Detective Marzone acted lawfully and in self-defense, so the plaintiff will lose their case. It’s possible you might decide Detective Marzone used excessive force. If that is the case, then we all know what that force was, don’t we? A choke hold. Our Police Academy provides every officer with carefully planned control and restraint training courses. Detective Marzone was trained in that same academy—and he was trained to never, ever use a choke hold. Our case will establish this as a fact. If you accept that Detective Marzone unlawfully killed Chilli Hernandez, we ask you to accept the fact that the NYPD did everything in its power to make sure their officers did not behave in that manner. What more could the city do?”
A tap on my shoulder. Jack was behind me with a file under his arm. He slipped it in front of me, bowed to Judge Winter, and took the extra seat at the table.
I opened the file Jack had given me and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Maria gave her testimony with all the emotional depth and dignity I’d expected. She talked about how she and Chilli had first met; she was waitressing in her father’s taco joint and fell in love with Chilli almost at first sight. The defendants were bound to bring up Chilli’s violent past, so we did it first. Sure there were a number of convictions for assault, but crucially, none for resisting arrest or assault on a police officer. Each time Chilli got busted, he’d gone peacefully with the cops. That went in his favor.
The last questions were in relation to Chilli’s time in prison and his exemplary behavior since release. He’d gotten his first job, lost it when the gang came and he refused to join up, and then got work on his own after that, washing cars.
“He told me he was through with that life, and I believed him,” said Maria.
“And on the night of the murder of Mr. Genarro, where was your husband?”
“He was working in the car wash on the corner. He worked till it got dark, and then he came home.”
“When he came home that night, was there anything unusual about his appearance or his manner?”
“No.”
“Was there any blood on his clothes?”
“No.”
�
��At any time, did you see your husband with a knife resembling the one allegedly recovered by Detective Marzone?”
“No. I never saw that knife before.”
“How would you describe your husband in the days immediately before his death?”
Her face tore up. I stood in silence, with the rest of the courtroom, while Maria cried.
“He . . . aw . . . he talked about the baby. Constantly. Said it was going to be a boy; he had no doubt in his mind. All he talked about was ‘mi chico.’”
“Thank you,” I said, making my way to my seat.
Before I’d even sat down, the cross-examination from Vinnie was over.
“Mrs. Hernandez, were you present at Tupelo Street, at the scene of your husband’s arrest on October tenth of last year?”
“No.”
“Thank you. No further questions,” said Vinnie.
Devastating.
Simple and risky, but it served to create the impression for the jury that everything Maria had just said didn’t matter in the slightest. Roark and Marzone were the only people who’d been there. Vinnie was a crook and a slimeball, but damn, he knew how to work a jury.
“Mr. Boles?” said Judge Winter.
I thought Boles was just as surprised as everyone else at Vinnie’s one-question cross. Counsel for the city looked startled and more than a little perplexed. We’d both been awaiting a few hours of Vinnie attacking Maria on her husband’s record and putting it to her that the knife he attacked Marzone with had blood on it from Genarro. He did none of those things. Probably because he knew that it would make him look bad in front of the jury. But now Boles got his shot at cross-examination, and he would have to go into all of that. He would feel compelled to do it. And all the unfavorable bullying looks would fall on the city instead of the hero cop.
“Vinnie’s a genius,” said Jack.
“Let’s hope not,” I said.
The Cross: An Eddie Flynn Novella Page 8
