Katie Beers (12 page)

“Katie,” one of the men said. He knew my name. “It’s safe for you to come out.”

I didn’t believe it for a minute. Not at all. Maybe Big John was testing me, having his friends play a trick on me to see how I would react to being free? If I didn’t respond correctly, would I get into trouble when
the trick was over? Big John was always playing the “what if” game: What if people stopped looking for me, would we be able to live normal lives together? What if police thought that I was dead? What if we moved away from New York? Maybe this was another one of his games; what if Katie thought she was free? I couldn’t take any chances by responding the wrong way. I was also playing a “what if” game in my head: What if I was given my freedom, but it was all a cruel joke? Could Big John take away my freedom as quickly as he had dangled it in front of me?

So I stayed put, frozen.

But the men asked me to come down. “We are police,” one said, in calm, soothing voice. “Are you okay?”

What? Did I hear him right? I still didn’t know if I should believe him, so I did not.

I slowly climbed out as I was told to do and stood in the bigger box while Big John showed the men around. Conversation with me was minimal. I just stood there, my mind racing.

One of the men then told me to gather my stuff and head upstairs. I did what he said as quickly as I could, still doubting, but realizing, as I was crawling on my belly somewhere between my last foot leaving the dungeon and my head emerging from the closet floor, that at last, I was getting out of the sealed prison that had held me.

I was the first of the four of us through the tunnel and up the ladder. When I got to the top, a uniformed cop pulled me out. I never thought I would see light again. I never thought I would see the outside again. Yet here I was, in Big John’s dimly lit office, and what little light there was in that room from drawn blinds was a welcome burn to my slowly adjusting eyes.

Uniformed men led me to the living room where Big John was already sitting, looking pale and sad. There I sat while questions were shot at me from two sides of the room. It’s the first time I can remember ever seeing another adult in his house. The living room wasn’t typical for a grownup. There were two couches, a table or two, and the metal spiral staircase that went upstairs to the game room. There was no television in the living room. The only television in the whole house was upstairs in his bedroom, and the only place to sit and watch television in his bedroom was on his unmade bed. How is it possible no one thought it odd for a
man in his mid-forties to have children over to his house so often and the only television was in his bedroom? But then, no adults were ever there to notice or care. We were children left alone with a man-child. He must have smelled the scent of a lone, unattended child the way animals sniff out their prey.

The questioners called themselves police officers, but I wouldn’t believe anything that they would say until I was out of Big John’s house and his presence. I was sitting on the little brown plaid couch with a “police officer” sitting next to me. Big John was on the big couch with a “police officer” sitting next to him. I couldn’t pay attention to what was being asked. I was anxious, petrified I would end up back in the dungeon after the questioning was over. I answered the men’s questions but didn’t let them know that I was terrified of Big John and what I still thought could be a new round of a stomach-turning game.

Looking back, I cannot believe they kept me in the same room as my kidnapper for that long. But I
can
believe what has since been relayed to me—that, when it was time to go, I hugged Big John and told him I loved him. I have no memory of that, and it’s something I wish I hadn’t said to my captor. It wouldn’t surprise me though. The hole was still open, the concrete slab still dangling from a hook above the cutout in the floor only a few feet from where we sat. I wasn’t yet free.

The police officers walked me outside to a car that was waiting in the driveway.

“Climb in, get ready,” one of them said, with a hint of excitement.

The police car slowly pulled out in reverse, through the double stockade gate that leads to Saxon Avenue. I left Big John’s house behind me, not looking back. Was I free?

Beyond the gate, there was a sea of photographers now running on either side of the car taking pictures. I had never seen anything like this before. The photographers weren’t even looking into the lenses. They were just snapping the pictures high above their heads. Men with big video cameras on their shoulders ran alongside the car as we drove off. A cop in the car told me to smile and wave. I leaned my head on the back seat window and finally, wearily, closed my eyes.

The cold numbness I had felt for weeks began to lift. I didn’t, or rather, I
couldn’t
believe that this day had come. I was free. Finally. I could breathe!

I left that prison on Saxon Avenue with my life. But I took with me a fear of some things that will forever elicit sheer terror in me: Baby Monitors; The song,
I Will Always Love You,
by Whitney Houston. It had just come out and was played over and over on MTV and VH1. A hundred times a day. It made me cry each time as I would picture Marilyn, my brother and grandmother and believed I would never see them again; After Eight Mints;
Edward Sissorhands
. The television version of the movie was a fixture on cable TV. Edward, like me, was trapped. The surreal story offered me hope. He escaped his captivity. I could possibly survive mine.

I had five hundred dollars with me, the bribe money Big John gave me daily, in twenty dollar bills. I had stuffed them under the pillow and clenched them in my hands as we drove away that afternoon. The police officer in the backseat with me asked me if the money was real. I didn’t know. He looked at it and told me that he had to confiscate it because it was evidence. I got it back years later. It was in a crime scene evidence bag and the bills had turned blue. But it was still legal tender. I removed the bills from the bag and went shopping—for myself.

Four video cameras and two stills were trained on the small vertical window of the cell block door in Central Islip’s arraignment court. John Esposito emerged, wearing a tan leather jacket, purple shirt and jeans, looking more florist than felon. He glanced at the packed gallery and then turned toward the bench, hands cuffed behind his back. He wore a defeated scowl.

“People vs. John Esposito, kidnapping in second degree” a voice bellowed.

Attorneys put their names on the record and the assistant DA was asked, “Do the people wish to be heard on the question of bail?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I do,” said steely-haired and distinguished looking William Ferris. “The defendant is charged with Kidnapping Second Degree. It’s a very serious charge, a violent felony. If the defendant is convicted on this, he faces twenty-five years. There has been much media attention in this case and the people are going forward vigorously with the prosecution. We are going to ask the court to hold the defendant without bail in this matter. I want the court to know the case is very strong. I want to commend the counsel in this case because what we have here is the defendant abducted and restrained this young girl from December 28 until yesterday. She was found in a subterranean vault, if you will, underneath this house.”

The arraignment, as were most court proceedings in New York State at that time, was open to news cameras. Six videographers in the corner of the courtroom pressed eyes against lenses and zoomed in tight on John’s perspiring face.

“I’d like the court to know there was a search warrant executed a few days ago in this house and notwithstanding the best efforts of police they were unable to uncover what was underneath this house. And we have information from the young girl that she tried to make noise in that chamber but she was unsuccessful because it was soundproofed. She saw apparently on video what was going on with police officers searching
upstairs but was unable to be heard. This defendant knew what he was doing. He even went to the press publicly saying he wished to find Katie. We have a person who knew full well what he was about. I am going to ask, therefore, that he be held without any bail whatsoever. The case is going forward to a grand jury, as soon as possible.”

Andrew Siben addressed Judge Patrick Barton next, making a unique case for bail. “Your Honor, the defendant, John Esposito is forty-three years of age. He is a lifelong resident of Bay Shore, owner of a home in Bay Shore; he is a general contractor in Suffolk County. His only prior criminal history is an incident that occurred fifteen years ago. I can honestly say that Mr. Esposito was instrumental in the recovery of Katie Beers. Katie Beers may not be alive if Mr. Esposito did not cooperate. Mr. Esposito has shown a sense of responsibility and compassion by not fleeing when he had the opportunity to do so. He is not a threat to anyone in the community. Your Honor, it’s my understanding the purpose of bail is to assure the court that the defendant will return to court. By Mr. Esposito’s own actions, Your Honor, he knows he will face serious charges and is prepared to let justice take its course.”

John stood shoulder to shoulder with Siben, eyes clenched shut, biting his bottom lip.

“In view of his sense of responsibility, compassion and his cooperation of coming forward to help law enforcement to solve this perplexing and baffling mystery, I would respectfully ask the court to set reasonable bail. I repeat, Your Honor, without the help of Mr. Esposito, this mystery may never have been solved.”

Without Mr. Esposito, this mystery would never have been created. Reporters visibly winced as they hurriedly scribbled notes.

The Sibens seemed genuinely floored by John’s announcement the day before that Katie was alive and hidden somewhere in his house. The bomb was dropped by John in person. He had arrived first thing in the morning with his sister-in-law, anxiously requesting to see Sidney Siben at once. No one could believe what John was saying. Police had been all over his house. Where could Katie possibly be? In a secret room, John admitted, something like a bomb shelter. “She’s behind the wall—I’ve had her there the whole time.”
¹¹

Andrew Siben drove to Hauppauge and met face to face with District Attorney James Catterson to deliver the jaw-dropping news: John Esposito had confessed that Katie was alive. Siben and fellow attorney, Ira Kash, planned to also negotiate John’s surrender and bail. Catterson, a no nonsense seasoned prosecutor who knew the little girl’s life could well hinge on the outcome of this negotiation, was as patient as he had ever been. During the high stakes conversation, he was told only that Katie was alive, but apparently not where she could be found.

The hours that passed while closed-door discussions were underway and Katie remained entombed would become the subject of public speculation and criticism. The Sibens would later say they were concerned for the child’s safety; if police responded too hastily, Katie could be killed in a botched rescue attempt. John had mentioned a two-hundred pound concrete slab that only he could safely open. They also knew that the matter of client-attorney privilege was at stake. They could be disbarred if they went to police or prosecutors without John’s waiver. Sidney Siben, who stayed back in his office with the now potentially suicidal Esposito, got him to sign a release. In the interim, one of the attorneys tipped off
Newsday
that Katie was alive and hidden somewhere in Esposito’s house. That’s how the press corps beat cops to the house. Katie was alive, and police were informed by a
Newsday
reporter. And it was a
Newsday
manager who phoned Catterson, mid-negotiation, providing him with information the men who sat in front of him did not—that Katie was located right under police noses.

Catterson was later livid over the leak. “I’m here negotiating with his lawyers. What is Siben doing? This is like ducking out of the talks at Panmunjom and going to the press.”
¹²
Catterson was a Korean War veteran and the reference to armistice talks was lost on younger reporters, but not the eighty-one-year-old Siben. The thickly-spectacled law firm elder made no apologies about his tactics and his insatiable appetite for publicity. He later crowed, “I wanted to have (Esposito) surrender the little girl to a
Newsday
reporter.”
¹³

Sidney and Andrew Siben went along with police in a small pack that followed John into his office closet as he silently unscrewed bolts, opened hatches, and cranked up a piece of the concrete foundation. In utter silence, they listened with incredulity as John pressed a button on an
intercom speaker and announced, “Katie, I’m coming down.”

As Katie emerged from the tomb, “… I heard a young child’s voice and I knew she was fine,” Andrew later said. “I told her, ‘Katie, everything’s fine. Everybody loves you and you’re now going to be safe.’”
¹⁴
Katie, he said, propped herself up and greeted him with a smile.

“I feel good!” she said, waving to neighbors and reporters who had lined up outside. Then, she got into the back seat of an unmarked grey police sedan. Behind the wheel, breathing a colossal sigh of relief was the chief of the Kidnap Task Force, Detective Lieutenant Dominick Varrone.

Later, Sidney Siben made Katie’s time in captivity sound more like a play date than a kidnapping. “A little bruise on her knee. She was happy. Very excited. We called. We didn’t hear an answer. Then she said, ‘I’m here, I’m happy.’”

What was her reaction when she saw Esposito?

“She was very happy when she saw John. She likes him.
¹⁵
He’s been very good to her. Her home conditions were such that she had more happiness and comfort with John Esposito.”
¹⁶

Detective Lieutenant Varrone saw it a very different way. At a news conference inside an auditorium in the Medical Examiner’s office adjacent to the Fourth Precinct where the Kidnap Task Force was headquartered, he told an enormous collection of cameras and reporters, “There is no way that you could describe this little girl’s ordeal as anything other than barbaric. I believe she survived because of toughness and a desire to live coming out of her own experiences growing up. I don’t think his intentions were very good…we are very fortunate she is alive.”