by Tom Straw
“Is this what you call sharing?”
“I am sharing. And you know why? To give you a sneak preview of the horror show. So I can save you embarrassment and the taxpayers a lengthy trial that’s a lock from the git-go.”
Not terribly surprised at getting baited like this by a lawyer who talked more about winning than justice, Macie said, “Well, that is collegial of you. And here I was afraid you’d just try to spook me into jumping at a plea deal.”
“Mike Jerome was going to take it.”
“Mike Jerome is off the case.” Wild fixed her with a determined gaze. “Guess we’ll see each other in court.” Macie’s rebuff came wrapped in acrimony. The elephant had spoken.
The assistant district attorney paused. “What do you want, counselor?”
“A fair shot, that’s all. I want discovery so I can mount the defense my client is entitled to.”
The prosecutor sucked her teeth while she considered. At last she nodded to herself and said, “All right. Here’s what I’m willing to do. I’ll sweeten the plea down. Twenty years, add parole after fifteen—but I need an answer. ASAP.”
Ever the lawyer, Wild held her ground, speaking confidently. “Jackson Hall didn’t murder anyone. Much less his friend. And unless you want to rack up yet another botched prosecution, I suggest you stop playing hardball with me and go after the real killer.”
Macie had landed a punch, but the ADA never blinked. She barely paused and said, “That’s odd. Then why do we have an eyewitness to an altercation between your client and his friend just prior to the killing?”
“That’s a bluff to get me to jump at your deal.” Even as she said the words, Macie doubted them.
“A witness who heard your client threaten Mr. Pinto’s life, yelling, ‘I’m looking at a dead man,’ quote, unquote.”
“Give me the name of this witness.”
“Oh, you’ll get it. At trial, if you don’t get your head out of your ass.”
“We’re into a Brady violation here, and I’ll file. The Supreme Court ruled—”
“‘—Prosecutors or their agents cannot withhold from the defense,’ blahdy, blahdy, blah. You PDs don’t live in the real world. You act like this is moot court at NYU where you can invoke Brady v. Maryland and get me to wet my pants.” Fontanelli stood again and grabbed her briefcase. “You are obligated to present this deal to your client, so I’ll cut you a favor and give you some time. Not much, so don’t be stupid.” Instead of leaving, Fontanelli quickly sat back down. “I have a picture of your client’s head, documenting a wound at the base of his skull consistent with a fist fight.” She slid the police photo out of the folder, held it out to Macie, then set it face up on the tabletop.
“That only supports Mr. Hall’s depiction of having been blindsided at Rikers last night.”
“Really. Then ask yourself this: How could Mr. Hall have been blindsided at Rikers when this was taken by EMTs at the precinct before he even went out to Fantasy Island?” She tapped the photo with a manicured finger and grinned. “This one, you can keep.” The ADA dumped the picture with her food garbage on the table and walked out leaving Macie stunned by one prevailing thought: WTF?
C H A P T E R • 4
* * *
Shortly after eight the next morning, armed with a go cup from the lobby canteen, Macie Wild parked herself on an ass-worn oak bench in a hallway of the Criminal Courts Building to set about managing her day and deploying her team. The New York County Courthouse had opened only ten minutes before, and, by setting up shop in the frenzied corridor outside Arraignment Part One, she had been able to meet with three public defenders from the Manhattan Center, who, like her, were waiting for prisoners to finish getting docketed after overnight arrests. All three lawyers were happy to cover Macie’s bail hearings for two misdemeanor clients plus another who had an order of protection violation so she could get a toehold on her Jackson Hall defense. It was common practice for the PDs to handle each other’s cases when pressing circumstances called for it, and nobody disputed—or envied—the uphill road with Wild’s tabloid client, the Buzz Killer himself.
Tiger Foley arrived, dreadlocks rocking, with two cups of coffee: his cream-and-sugar and a black, one Equal, for Macie. She slid it with a whoosh into her empty then accepted hard copies of the court packages her paralegal had obtained: forms consolidating each defendant’s arrest report, complaint, rap sheet, and the bail recommendation compiled by the Criminal Justice Agency. These packages routinely went to the judge, prosecutor, and defense counsel of each case just before arraignment, and were seldom uplifting. She gave them a scan for accuracy then had Tiger distribute them to the various lawyers who would be covering her three clients.
Wild glanced up at the wall clock above the court cashier windows which, for reasons unknown, was the same ninety-one minutes off it had been since 2013. She didn’t need a tuned clock to know her team investigator was late. Checking her iPhone for the apology text that also was absent, Macie started naming the old-school investigators, the Popeye Doyles with beer guts and untucked shirts, who had been axed by her boss. “I miss McElhinney. I miss Felz. Even Whittinghill.”
“Speaking as a gay black man who believed they fantasized about back-shooting me for the sport of it, they were, at least, punctual.”
“They’d never get you, T. You’re much too quick.”
“How a brother man reaches thirty.”
“Sorry to be a little late,” called Jonathan Monheit as he arrived, casting a puzzled double take at the errant wall clock.
Wild came at him crisply. “I need to make it to a conference with Jackson Hall at Rikers at four p.m., with miles to go in-between. Every minute’s taken, understood?”
“The garage said, ‘lot full.’ It’s never ‘lot full,’ and I—” A woman flew past Monheit and landed on the bench on top of Tiger. A teenage girl followed, pouncing on the woman in full Jerry Springer mode, hurling a flurry of punches, gouges, and “fuckin’ bitches.” Tiger got pinned under the action, so Macie tried to pull the teenager away. Three court officers, an attorney, and two of the woman’s sons (one dressed for his arraignment) waded in to separate the pair, a mother and daughter, as it turned out. Spitting and shouting curses that echoed in the marble hall, they got wrestled away, leaving Macie with an empty cup, one shoe full of warm coffee, and a paralegal with a torn shirt. As she helped Tiger to his feet, she spied Monheit way across the corridor with his jaw slack.
This small incident called out her central worry: If her lead investigator couldn’t even work around a ‘lot full’ sign, and cowered instead of helping a team member in trouble, how could she trust him with the fate of Jackson Hall? Wild made a snap decision and turned to her paralegal. “Change of plan, T. Clear my calendar for the day. I’m heading out into the field.”
A picture of millennial entitlement under siege, Monheit’s head turreted from Tiger to her. “You’re going in the field? To do what?”
“To help you with the investigation.” What she really meant was to run it.
Pretty much painting dance steps on the floor for him, Macie directed Monheit to hook up with Rúben Pinto’s parole officer. She recited a bullet list of things for him to ask about—like his recent straight jobs, if any, and if there were reports of coworker conflicts that could be murder motives. Wild also wanted him to have Pinto’s probation case worker give up a list of his late client’s friends and known associates, hopefully scoring a lead on the crew chief of his burglary team. From there, he should seek out and interview them about Pinto’s recent activities and what was going on in his life. “Cast a wide net. See if they’ll talk about any suspicious visitors or phone calls he might have mentioned, expressions of worry or high emotion, recent changes in habits or behavior, money changes either up or down, pissed-off husbands of lovers, alcohol or drug concerns. Basically, whatever kicks out that could be a lead. Mr. Hall said Pinto had a breakup recently. Find the ex, if you can.”
For her part, she
would head to the crime scene to try to gain unofficial entry through the super and to question neighbors in the apartment building. Macie especially wanted to sniff out anyone who saw the altercation with Jackson Hall that Fontanelli claimed.
Her newbie gumshoe couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Wouldn’t our efforts be better spent building his mitigation case?” he asked.
Wild hated thinking loss strategy, and gave herself a cleansing three count before she spoke calmly but firmly. “Jonathan, get one thing straight. Just because we’re the defense doesn’t mean we sit back and play defense. We need to become the detectives. Because the only way to clear our client is to solve this ourselves. The police will not help. Therefore we need to think like cops and act like cops to find out who the real killer is.”
A pause and a slight head bobble. “I can support that,” said Monheit. Behind him, Tiger gave Monheit the finger.
♢ ♢ ♢
Rúben Pinto had been murdered in his fourth-floor apartment in a Chelsea walk-up that, so far, had survived the neighborhood’s forced morph from gritty ruggedness into gentrified coolness epitomized by an Equinox gym, the new Whitney, and the stunning IAC tower. Even celebrity contrarian Anthony Bourdain was taking over Pier 57 to construct his international gourmet food experience. Pinto’s murder had been a brutal one, and, as Macie stood across West Sixteenth Street from his haggard building, she was reminded that, tony chefs and glass skyscrapers notwithstanding, the letting of blood kept it all real. Creeping hipness offered zero immunity from chill reality.
She mounted the three concrete steps from the sidewalk to the front door, and as Macie reached for the handle, a sharp glare reflected off the glass. Wild looked across Sixteenth and caught a shimmer of sun flare kicking off the lens of a video camera resting on a man’s shoulder. Pinto’s building front had been in the papers and on TV news for days. Looking at the cameraman, she thought, unfortunately for her client, the Buzz Killer story still had legs.
The vestibule was all Wild’s when she entered. She made a quick survey through the inner security door in hopes of spotting the superintendent or a resident who could help her find him, but there was no activity. For yucks she gave it a rattle, but it was locked. It crossed her mind to employ Jackson Hall’s MO and start buzzing apartment buttons on the panel until someone let her in, but that wouldn’t guarantee access to the crime scene. So she scanned the directory for the super’s listing and pressed that one. After a pause the voice of an accented older woman cut through the crackle. “Who is there?”
“Uh, hi . . . it’s Macie Wild. I’m an attorney, here to see the building superintendent.”
After a beat of static came a curt, “I page him.” And a click.
As she waited in the airless vestibule, Macie occupied herself by examining the directory to locate Pinto’s name, which was still there. After some more dead time she kicked a toe on the unsightly pile of takeout menus on the floor under the “No Menus” sign. When they were loosely corralled, she occupied herself with another look outside. Some nagging memory grit pestered her: kind of unusual to see a cameraman but no news van. Wild gave the block a once-over but the video shooter was gone.
The security door opened behind her and an old man in matching gray Carhartt pants and a crisp tucked-in work shirt stepped through from the inside. The musical jangle of keys on his belt would be the singular festive part of their meeting. A bony strongman in his late sixties, the super’s hawk-like expression said, “go away,” before he had barely set foot in the room. “You ask for me?” he said more than asked.
Macie handed him a business card. “I’m associated with the case concerning the homicide that took place here.” Experience had long ago taught her not to say outright that she was defending an accused killer.
“You are not with the police, not the district attorney?” He handed the card back to her. “You have to move along, miss.” He spoke sharply and packed some no-nonsense, Eastern European backbone in the order.
“All I want to do is see Mr. Pinto’s apartment. I won’t disturb anything. In fact, you can come with me.”
“No, you can come with me.” He brushed past her. His wad of keys clacked against the front door when he opened it to indicate the way out.
“Can we at least have a conversation about this?”
“The police told me no entry. And I have tenants—oh, are they pissed. All the disrupting and reporters and—no. Już nie. My boss, the landlord, say he want no more attention drawn here. So go now, or I call cops for trespassing.” He thrust his nose, which had four—exactly four—wiry hairs sprouting on its surface, toward West Sixteenth.
Truth be known, it was far from the first time she had been ejected from private property. That’s the plight of the defense lawyer, operating without the police power of a search warrant. As she moved on, her only solace was that Jonathan Monheit hadn’t been there to witness it.
♢ ♢ ♢
She phone-checked Tiger to get the address of the gambling speakeasy Jackson Hall had given her to alibi his whereabouts the afternoon of the murder. While Tiger looked it up, the paralegal shared that Jonathan Monheit had returned to the MCPD offices for the day with “bugger all” to show for his efforts with Rúben Pinto’s parole officer. The indignity of her own crime scene expulsion tempered Macie’s reaction, and she had Tiger transfer her to the investigator, who whined that the “parole prick” was unwilling to release names of Pinto’s associates, and only came forth with a very short list of straight jobs Pinto had reported. Wild could picture that meeting: an oversubscribed DOC transitional assistance caseworker confronted by a self-empowered college grad expecting him to spit out information on demand as if he’d clicked onto a search engine.
“OK, good, Jonathan, you got the list of jobs. What did you learn there?”
“Nil. Pinto’s coworkers didn’t even remember him until I showed his mug shot. He worked two different places but only came in to get his paycheck.”
Macie waited at a red light and urged herself patience. “What you learned is that Mr. Pinto had paper jobs to buff his parole jacket. It’s a common favor from one con to another. They hire them and pay them. Then they take the money back under the counter, usually with vig.”
“I know vig. That’s like interest!” said the business major. Wild told him to try again with the parole worker the next day and to have Tiger go along. Then she ended the call before her head exploded.
Inside the Stealer’s Wheel, a dive bar hunkered under the elevated Metro-North tracks near Harlem-125th, Macie stood a full minute listening to Curtis Mayfield while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Daytime drinkers sat along the bar, spaced by solitude gaps resembling meth mouth. Brooding chins hung over their drinks until they spotted Wild. Half of them turned and fixed her with hungry leers. When she asked the bartender for the manager, a few of the patrons cockroached away, abandoning their shots and brews for the randomness of Martin Luther King Boulevard. Sometimes a woman in a suit gave off a cop stink.
Jumbo Crouch made her stand before him at a back table where he was eating a sausage and peppers on a roll. On a mild late-spring day, he had a pink polo collar showing under a lime green sweatshirt. Why? Because it was not only dark in the Stealer’s Wheel, the AC was blasting. Macie felt warmer on trips to the morgue. Her receptions there were cozier too. “What you got?” the manager said, chewing around a wad of his lunch.
“I’d like to ask about one of your regulars. Jackson Hall.”
His expression gave nothing away at the mention of the name. He only sucked a tendril of onion from his top front teeth. It got stubborn so he plucked it out with his thumb and forefinger, examined it, then licked it down. “I don’t talk about my customers. Policy.” Wild put a hand on a chair back to pull it out. “No, we’re done.”
“I’m his public defender. He’s up on a murder charge and needs help verifying his movements over the past few days.” Crouch had both hands on the sandwich so she set her car
d on the table next to his plate.
He broke into a smile, exposing short stubs of teeth. “Jackson’s lawyer, huh? Pull on up.” Jumbo set down his food and gestured her to sit. “How’s he doing?”
“Been better. He said you have a secret casino downstairs, and he was here playing cards.”
“Not much of a secret, then, is it? Not if you’re here asking about it.” A chorus of raucous whoops bled through the closed door behind him. Somebody in the basement must have won big. He ignored it. “Jackson’s mellow. Even when he loses. Want to hear his nickname at the poker table? The ATM. Know why?”
“Because . . . he dispenses money?”
“He told?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Don’t tell him I said.” He surveyed his plate like it called out his name but he shoved it an inch away and used a terry bar towel to clean his fingers. “Whatever I can do for him, just say.”
Wild poised her pen above her notebook. “Can you help me verify his story that he was here?”
“You got it. Tell me whatever, and I’ll swear to it.”
“Thank you for that. But, you see, I only need verification of what actually happened.” He showed his row of stubby teeth and nodded. Macie wanted to be careful not to derail his cooperation so she proceeded with caution. “Great. Mr. Hall says he was here playing Hold ’Em and Midnight Baseball in your game room for three hours.”
“Sure. Sounds good. I’ll go six hours, if you want. Anything for Jackson.” A man in black slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt slipped out of the basement door and whispered in his boss’s ear. Crouch shook his head. “Fuck no. You tell him nothing until he pays back the last advance. Which is a week late, and I’m thinking of fucking him up. You tell him that.” The visitor returned to the gaming room and the manager shrugged. “They’re like kids, you know?”
“I’m sure. Jackson Hall. Think. Can you tell me when he was here last?”
