Broken (23 page)

Anna Mae pushed the phone tight against her ear and looked through the wire embedded glass at JD. “You’ve gotta be kidding!”

“I’m dead serious,” he said. “I think the DA…Tom Simon is really George Siminoski. Didn’t you see Simon’s face when I said George was a nerd?”

“No...”

“And that weird little walk—didn’t you notice that?”

“No,” she said. “Didn’t George go to Duquesne University’s Law School?”

“He did. Have you seen him since he left the valley eight years ago?”

“I haven’t seen him since the night of the party after I left—when he attacked me in front of Vinko’s.”

“He did what?”

“He hid his car in the alley behind Vinko’s then jumped out at me when I walked by. He said that someday he was going to ‘get me.’ I haven’t seen him since. He wasn’t even at his mother’s funeral. At least not while I was there.”

“So it could be him,” said JD as he winced and rubbed the thigh of his amputated leg. “Damn thing still hurts!”

Anna Mae, too involved in her own problems to appreciate JD’s pain, said, “But he can’t do this trial if he knows me, can he?”

“I think he can,” said JD. “But he threatened you, and that’s prejudicial. But let’s not jump the gun. After he’s through with me on the witness stand, I’ll do some investigating. Meanwhile, don’t say anything to Hammerstein. If it is George, and things are going bad for you, I think Ivan can call a mistrial. But if we’re winning, well, the hell with it. Did anyone hear George threaten you?”

“Joey Barns did. He was right there.”

“Well, if that DA is George, he’s not going to be able to think as clearly as an objective lawyer would, especially since he can’t have had that much experience. He might be his own worst enemy.”

Anna Mae thought about that for a few moments and then said, “I’m sorry about your leg. I didn’t know it still hurts.”

“It doesn’t hurt all the time. It’s the damn weather. It’s freezing out there.”

“It’s cold in here too. This jail has to be over a hundred years old.”

“I better go,” said JD, “Angelo’s waiting to talk to you. I like him. He’s a great guy.”

When JD got up to leave, a fat woman in a scraggly, brown fur coat moved over and grabbed the phone.

“She’s not done,” said JD balancing on his crutches. “She has another visitor.”

The lady looked at Anna Mae and said, “Shit!”

*              *              *

Wednesday 2:30 AM

In the dark, on the cot in her cold and lonely cell, Anna Mae lay unable to sleep. Where was her mother? Why didn’t she come to visit? Why was she not in the courtroom? Was she drinking again?

She turned on her side, curling herself into a ball, pulling the scratchy blanket over her cold nose. David was such a support. He had been to see her at least once a week and told her if she wanted to call home, he would pay for the collect call with his paper route money. When Sarah answered the phone Anna Mae never knew what to say. Most of the time, before Sarah was put in the position to accept or reject the call, Anna Mae hung up.

Sarah was grieving. She had waited so long for her husband to get out of jail. And now this. Sarah was at the trial every day. But she always sat near the back of the courtroom. She never came to visit.

Does she hate me? Does she think I killed Walter? Lord, why did you let this happen? What did I ever do to deserve this? Why don’t you help me?

What kind of a God are you? I’m sick of praying—tired of begging. Maybe I should go to the devil for help. Maybe he’ll care. Because you don’t. You just don’t care!

Father John had been to see her on Sunday. He said that God is good and that she should trust Him. But she told Father John—came right out and said it: God isn’t good! A loving God, a God who really cared, wouldn’t let bad things happen to good people. Father John said God wasn’t responsible for what happened, that we all live in a fallen world—out of Eden was the way he put it. Anna Mae wouldn’t buy it. She was mad at God. She no longer trusted Him.

That night, when Anna Mae was asleep, she spent her dream staring at the pieces of the broken cross. She didn’t want to fix it. It was just a pile of big sticks. That’s all. A pile of big, dirty sticks!

*              *              *

After the lunch break, Olga Nikovich took the stand. Her pulled back hair was now silvery white, and she wore a stylish, maroon, two piece dress. When she hoisted her short body into the witness chair, her feet dangled an inch from the floor. She folded her pudgy hands in her lap and looked Tom Simon directly in the eyes.

Olga was not the least bit intimidated by the prosecutor’s aggressive approach as he hurried her through her relationship with the Lipinskis in general and Anna Mae in specific. In her broken English, she blocked his every effort to twist her words. “She is good girl, Annie is. She don’t hurt nobody and to me she is always a sweetheart.”

Simon grunted as though Olga’s last comment was ludicrous. He then said, “Now let’s go back to Tuesday, October 14th. Where were you that afternoon around two o’clock?”

“In my kitchen I was, making strudels.”

Simon stepped aside so the jury had full view of the witness. “Now tell the court what you heard and what you did that day.”

Olga glanced at the jury. The schoolteacher, her head slightly tilted, listened intently. The mill worker leaned forward, a look of empathy in his eyes. Olga looked back to the little man who stood before her. His puffed-up posture reminded her of a picture she once saw of the czar.

“Answer the question,” said the judge.

Olga’s attention slipped back to the present. She looked straight ahead, beyond Simon to the packed courtroom. So many people!

Tom Simon opened his mouth, but before he could speak she straightened her shoulders and began to talk. “I was stretching the strudel dough across mine kitchen table when this horrible screamink—I heard it. My hands, they went,” she demonstrated a quick flip of her wrists. “A big hole in the dough, I made it. But I didn’t know about that hole. I yelled, ‘Pete! Peter! We haf to go and see what is somethink bad happens next door.’ Peter, my husband, he shouldn’t hear so well maybe the screamink, so he hollered at me, ‘Don’t you go get into someone’s business!’

“But, I call him again. ‘Peter Nikovich you come here right now!’ But he didn’t, so I tink—the hell vith you, and by myself I go next door. Poor Annie! She was screamink so loud and I go through the back door and I was going to find Annie and I almost tripped—he was right there, down on the kitchen floor—that was Walter, but Annie was screamink. So I went around Walter on the floor and poor Annie under the steps. I tried to get hold of her. She was pushing and pushing me—like this.” Another demonstration.

“And screamink! Like…like…like…I don’t know. And she don’t stop. She hides in the hall, under the steps, so I was there. ‘Annie! Stop screamink,’ I said it. Then she was crying and the police came right in the house. And that is what happened and what I saw.”

Simon waited a few seconds, then asked, “Was the back door open or closed when you reached the house?”

“I don’t remember,” said Olga, shaken by having to recall the scene.

“There are two doors at the back of the house, are there not? A storm door and the main door, correct?”

Olga mumbled something as she rummaged through her purse for her embroidered handkerchief, which she used to wipe her eyes. Simon, too wrapped up in what he was trying to accomplish, asked a bit louder, “At the back of the Lipinski house, there is a storm door and the main door, correct?”

Olga ran her wrinkled fingers over the lace on the edge of the handkerchief. “One door that in the summer it had the screen, and the other one.”

“The door that used to have the screen, you had to pull that open, didn’t you?”

Olga nodded.

The judge gently reminded her, “Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ so that the court reporter can write it down.”

Olga looked at the court reporter whose fingers had been flying over some keys, but she was not writing anything. Frowning, Olga said, “Yes, I pull it open.”

“And the other door, it was closed tight, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Now think hard.” Simon emphasized every word. “Was the main back door closed? Not the one that used to have the screen—the other one—the main door. Did you have to open it when you were going to see what all the screamink…screaming was about?”

“That door, I told you, I don’t remember anythink about it. You can ask me fifty times about that door and I don’t remember.”

Simon walked back to the prosecution table to check his notes and then gathering a few, walked back to the witness.

“What was the condition of the kitchen when you entered the Lipinski house?” Simon asked.

“Walter was on the floor.”

“And the rest of the kitchen? How did it look?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was there blood?”

Tom Simon impatiently waited for a reply that didn’t come. “You said that you saw Walter on the floor,” he pressed on. “Did you, at that time, know he was dead?”

Olga straightened her shoulders and replied, “I thought he vas drunk.”

A snicker from the courtroom quickly came and went.

“Did you, at that time, see any blood?” he asked again.

“I don’t look for blood. Poor Annie vas screamink!”

“Did you notice that Anna Mae’s clothes were soaked with blood?”

“Objection! Leading!”

“Sustained. Rephrase that question, counselor.”

“Was there anything on Anna Mae’s clothes?”

“Blood.”

“Do you remember seeing blood on her hands?”

Olga wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “No. Only on da clothes.”

Simon looked thoughtfully at the jury. Olga looked to see what he was looking at. She saw compassion in the steelworker’s eyes. The schoolteacher was glaring at Tom Simon.

“Your Honor, I have no more questions at this time. However, I would like to reserve the right to recall this witness at a later date.”

“Noted,” said Judge Wittier. “Mr. Hammerstein?”

Ivan Hammerstein approached Olga Nikovich while buttoning his pinstripe jacket. He looked warmly at the witness as he asked, “Are you absolutely sure you do not remember that the back door was wide open?”

“Objection! He’s leading the witness!”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “The jury will disregard that question.” And then to Hammerstein, “You know better than that! Rephrase the question.”

“Was the door wide open?”

Olga sighed. “I said it. I don’t remember!”

“That’s fine, Mrs. Nikovich. I have one more question for you.”

Olga waited.

“Did the strudel turn out good?”

“It had a big hole. I trew that dough away.”

Olga wriggled forward out of the witness chair until her feet touched the floor. She then stood up, hooked her purse in the crook of her arm, and marched up the aisle to the middle of the courtroom where Peter was sitting. A young man in a sport coat got up so Olga could sit next to her husband.

At that same moment, the doors at the back of the courtroom flew open. Officer Joe Murphy walked down the aisle in full dress uniform with his shoulders back, his head held high, and his hat tucked under his arm. At the front of the courtroom, his hand on the Bible and standing as stiff as The Castle Guard, he swore to tell the truth. After checking to assure his tie was straight, he sat down.

Simon quickly led his new witness through the necessary preliminaries. He then took him to the day of the murder: “Tell the court what happened when you were on duty on October 14, 1970.”

“Officer Zacowitz and I had just completed an accident call. Actually, it was only a fender bender. Some people make such a big deal of these things,” he said, absently running his fingers over the silver emblem on his cap. “Anyway, we had just returned to the squad car when we got a call over the radio that there was a disturbance at 927 Vickroy Street. I recognized the address immediately. That was the Lipinski house at the top of the hill. I also remembered that Walter Lipinski had just gotten out of prison. I knew we better get going fast. I snapped on the siren and we took off.”

“What did you see as you approached the house?”

“There were several neighbors standing around outside.”

“Now describe what happened when you entered the house.”

“I went in first,” said Murphy. “Someone was screaming like a wild woman. Someone else was telling her to calm down. From the front door, I could see up the steps to the second floor and down the hall to the kitchen. Olga Nikovich was standing in the hallway near the back of the steps. I approached her. That’s when I saw the young woman on the floor behind the steps acting all hysterical.”

“Is the person you saw in the courtroom?”

Murphy pointed to Anna Mae. “She’s right over there.”

“Let the notes show that the witness has pointed to the defendant.”

Anna Mae shuddered, afraid that what the officer was about to describe would throw her back into shocking memories and she would go berserk in court.
And what if she did kill Walter and it came out in front of all these people? In front of Sarah!
She tried not to listen to Officer Murphy’s description of Walter’s bludgeoned body as it lay face down in a pool of blood, feet pointing in the direction of the hallway.

When the district attorney displayed an evidence bag containing blood-splattered clothing, Anna Mae asked her attorney, “Are those mine?”

“Be quiet!” snapped Hammerstein.

Her lawyer’s harsh reproof destroyed what little comfort she felt by his presence and she closed her eyes, wanting to disappear, wanting to die. As Officer Murphy continued his testimony, Anna Mae was assailed with a fear she had not felt while listening to the other witnesses. Maybe it was because he was the first person on the stand that was not a hostile witness and that he seemed to revel in this limelight. In addition, she felt that for whatever reason, he disliked her intensely. The pain in her abdomen returned and she wished she had accepted the anti-acid offered by the guard, Harriet Clauson. She closed her eyes and placed her hand on her stomach.

Ivan jabbed her with his bony elbow. “Open your eyes! Lift up your head! Pay attention!”

She forced herself to do as she was told.

“…so I put in a call to homicide.”

“Where was your partner, Officer Zacowitz, when all this was going on?”

“He was a few minutes behind me. I think he tripped on the front step and hurt his ankle. Anyway, when he finally did get into the house, he looked after the old lady—I mean Mrs. Nako…Nako...”

“Nikovich,” said Simon.

“That’s right. Mrs. Nikovich.”

“Officer Murphy,” said Simon in a tone that indicated a change of direction. “Was there another time in your career when you encountered the defendant, Anna Mae McBride?”

“Yes, when she gave her cousin, Stanley, the drugs that killed him.”

“OBJECTION!” Hammerstein flew across the twelve feet to the bench and skidded to a halt in front of Simon. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Like you didn’t know!” barked Simon.

The air was now charged with tension. Judge Wittier glared at the two attorneys and said something that Anna Mae couldn’t hear. She felt the jury’s accusing gaze as she watched the animated discussion before the bench. She took deep breaths, trying to stop her stomach from hurting and her head from spinning.

“My chambers!” snapped Judge Wittier. He then made it clear to the jury that they were to completely disregard Officer Murphy’s last remark. After that the judge checked his watch and adjourned for the day. Ivan told Anna Mae to go with the sheriff. Then he walked away, leaving her to struggle with the fear that weakened her knees and caused her heart to pound. She was grateful to the sheriff who allowed her to lean on his arm as she left the courtroom.

*     *     *

Judge Wittier took his seat behind his huge mahogany desk. On the other side of the desk, seated in a straight back chair, Ivan Hammerstein felt as though he’d been hit in the head by a two by four. A few feet away, in two comfortable upholstered chairs, Tom Simon sat next to Officer Murphy. Ivan Hammerstein glared at them. What the hell had Murphy been talking about? What did that cop know that he should have known?

Judge Wittier looked at Hammerstein. “You didn’t know about this?”

“No!”

“It’s not in the police file,” said Simon.

Hammerstein could barely contain his fury. “How in the hell can he say that in court when there’s nothing to substantiate his claim? And even if it’s true, which I seriously doubt—it’s outrageously inadmissible!”

Ignoring Hammerstein’s outburst, Simon addressed the judge: “I intend to use it to establish the defendant’s psychotic tendencies.”

“My client has a clean record. There is nothing...”

Simon interrupted: “It may not be on record. But I can prove...”

Hammerstein stood up, towered over Simon and shouted, “What you proved is that you’re an ass-hole and this is good cause for a mistrial.”

“He’s right—about the mistrial,” said the Judge. Then looking up at Hammerstein, “Is that what you want, counselor? A mistrial?”

Ivan was beside himself with frustration. He paced before the desk. “If you will tell the jury,” he said to the Judge, “that there was no basis for Officer Murphy’s remark and that he has incurred a hefty fine for his misleading and slanderous remark, I’ll agree to continue with this trial.”

“Done!” said the judge. “And as for you, Simon, if you allow one more witness to speak so appallingly out of turn, I’ll throw you both in jail!”

Ivan Hammerstein was not completely appeased; however, to stop the trial at this point may be more than Anna Mae could cope with. In addition, the jury may be so outraged by Murphy’s erroneous testimony and the DA’s part in it, Tom Simon’s credibility might go down the drain.

He decided not to pursue it further with Anna Mae. The kid was on the verge of falling apart and she didn’t need her own attorney questioning her past. He had personally checked her record and there was nothing in any police report. That was good enough for Ivan Hammerstein.

*              *              *

Wednesday, 6:45 P.M.

Anna Mae looked through the wire embedded glass, seeing, but not seeing Angelo. She was tired, angry, and horribly discouraged. Ivan had talked to her at length about Officer Murphy’s shocking remarks, but even though Ivan had made his best effort, it had taken a great deal of time to settle her down—somewhat.

Now Angelo was rattling on about the disputed Lipinski back door. The issue as to whether Olga found it open or closed was pertinent to the case. Anna Mae heard nothing he said. She was thinking about Chocolate, who had just been sentenced to three to five years in the State Penitentiary. Anna Mae would miss the young, black woman. More than once Chocolate had stuck her neck out to protect Anna Mae. In addition, if it hadn’t been for Chocolate’s constant coaching, Anna Mae would have been an easy mark for the numerous perverted and violent inmates. Now Chocolate was gone.

“Are you listening?” Angelo barked into the phone.

“What!” Anna Mae shot back.

“I’ve been telling you that Ivan thinks Olga couldn’t have heard you screaming if the back door was closed. Ivan thinks he can prove that the back door was left open by whoever killed Walter. They’re going to the house tonight to test it out.”

“Good for them,” said Anna Mae dryly.

“Anna Mae—sweetheart,” pleaded Angelo, “If Ivan can prove the back door was open, that paves the way for another suspect.” When she didn’t respond he added, “I love you so much, Anna Mae. This will all be over soon. I promise.”

At last, Anna Mae really looked at Angelo. She ached to reach out and touch the curls that tumbled onto his forehead, to kiss his slightly full and sensuous lips. Angelo placed his hand on the glass. She matched her own hand with his, feeling the cold surface that kept them apart.

“Anna Mae?”

“Yes?”

“Everything is going to be all right,” he said softly. “Why don’t we pray together?”

She jerked back, pulling her hand away. “Pray?” she snapped. “To who? God? Just pray and do the right thing and everything will be all right. Angelo! That’s bullshit!”

Angelo lowered his hand and tried to say something, but she talked over him. “All my life, Angelo, I’ve tried to do the right thing. But all Sarah ever cared about was Walter—Walter, Walter, Walter! My whole life is screwed up because of that bastard!’”

Angelo cringed at the language Anna Mae heard every day. He wondered if she realized how much of it was slipping into her own vocabulary. He hated the change in her. His sweet, soft-spoken Anna Mae was becoming more crass every day. As he watched her through the wire embedded glass, her blue eyes were as hard as crystal.

“…and…and…and you know the blackouts?” she fumed, “I knew, way back…way, way, way back, why I had those blackouts. I knew Walter was beating me. Even when I was too young to know, I knew. It just took me a long time to face it. And still I tried to do the right thing. I stuck by Sarah when Walter was in prison. I got a job to help with bills. I went to school and made decent grades...”

As Anna Mae rattled on, it occurred to Angelo that all during their long relationship he had never heard her complain. Never before had she expressed resentment over the rotten cards she had been dealt in her life. He held up his hands, palms forward. “Whoa! Settle down, Anna Mae.”

But she didn’t stop, and tears began pouring down her face. “I could have been on the honor roll. But no! I had everybody else’s shit to deal with. And that son-of-a-bitch...”

He sighed and shook his head at the profanity.

“…that son-of-a-bitch gets out of prison…he comes home, and I even leave him my keys so he can use my car and I take a goddamn bus to Becky’s house and when I get there I find out that—that bastard!...that fuckin’ bastard is my father...”

Angelo held the phone inches from his ear, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care.

“But that wasn’t enough! I go home and I’m gonna’ confront him, but he’s sleeping. God, I’m so damn considerate. I don’t want to bother him. He’s lied to me and beat me all my life and Miss Idiot here…I just let him sleep.

“I go upstairs, wait until I hear him get up and I go downstairs to confront him. I want that bastard to finally admit the truth. And suddenly I’m in here!” she sobbed. “And you want me to pray?” she added, wiping her forearm across her nose. “Where the hell is God? Where is He?”

“Anna Mae…don’t...”

“I want to go home. I don’t want to be here, Angelo,” she seethed, unable to see him through a blur of tears. “I just want to go home!”

Angelo was silent as he watched her cry. Eventually she looked up at him. He didn’t know how to comfort her. Finally, he said, “I’m so sorry you have to go through all this.”

By morning, Anna Mae had convinced herself that she was not a murderess. At 9:00 A.M., she took her seat at the defense table with new determination. She would beat this thing. She had a good lawyer and more than ten witnesses ready to testify on her behalf. Dr. Rhukov would convince the jury that she truly didn’t remember what she saw on the day Walter was killed. And Ivan would prove that the real killer ran out the back door.

The jury had not yet entered. Anna Mae looked around for David, who had told Angelo he would skip school to be in court today. She didn’t see David. However, Bob McCarthy was in his usual seat at the back. He was looking straight at her. He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. She quickly turned away. A minute later, the jury filed into the courtroom and soon afterwards, Tom Simon called his first witness of the day.

Homicide Detective Nancy Miller, sharp featured, short and rail thin, described the murder scene pretty much as the other witnesses had. Then Ivan Hammerstein’s cross established that no murder weapon had been found. His precise question was, “Detective Miller, I find it odd that the district attorney has thus far not produced a murder weapon. Can you shed any light on this issue?”