PART 35 (45 page)

“Because the cops want to place her in her apartment at one thirty so she couldn't have seen any karate chop, that's why,” Sam said.

Mike nodded. “Oh well, too bad we haven't come up with the gang-bang between the Anglo-Saxons and the Puerto Ricans.” He shrugged. “It's a racy theory, though. You know what I mean?”

“One more crummy joke like that and I'll have Happy cut you off from the firewater,” Sandro said.

In the afternoon, Ellis called Detective John Tracy of the Manhattan South Homicide Squad. Tracy was tall and thin, his features sharp-lined and alert. According to Alvarado, it had been Tracy who tried to stop the other detectives from continuing to beat him.

Ellis again posed his perfunctory questions about whether, at any time, Tracy or anyone in his presence had punched, kicked, or hit Hernandez. Tracy said he had seen nothing of the sort. Tracy testified that he had helped interview Hernandez, but at no time did he or anyone else ask Hernandez questions relating to the crime.

While Tracy was on the stand, Sandro located the DD5 reports the detective had filed on July 3rd and 4th. He handed one of them to Siakos. Siakos read it, nodded absently, and continued to listen to the testimony.

“Even when he reads, he doesn't read,” Sandro whispered hopelessly. “He could tear Tracy apart with that DD5.”

“If he doesn't, you get up and do it,” said Sam.

“But it has nothing to do with our client. It only relates to Hernandez.”

“Everything in this trial relates to our client, and the judge can't say it doesn't.” Sam continued making notes.

As he cross-examined, Siakos held Tracy's DD5 in his hand. He rolled it lengthwise and used it as a pointer.

Tracy testified that Mullaly had been Hernandez's main interviewer.

“Don't you love that word
interviewer?
” Sandro whispered to Sam.

Siakos unrolled the DD5 and asked Tracy if the signature on it was his. He said it was. Siakos offered it into evidence.

“Show it to Mr. Ellis,” said the judge. The court officer did.

“You thought he'd screw it up. He's all right,” whispered Sam, putting his pen down for the moment. “Look at Ellis, studying the DD5 like he never saw it before. If he doesn't have copies of every one of them in his file, I'll eat every bench in this courtroom.”

“No objection, Your Honor,” said Ellis.

“Received.”

Siakos took the DD5 and walked to the jury box. “May I read this to the jury, Your Honor?”

“Surely.”

Siakos read aloud:

Subject: Investigation of Ramon Hernandez—male, white PR, twenty-eight years, of One sixty-three Stanton Street, Apartment Sixteen, under this department as G265327:

1.   On this date the assigned with Detective Mullaly, Shield 7316, and Detective Johnson, Shield 7268, of the Seventh Squad interrogated the above-named subject at the Seventh Detective Squad relative to this case and the ownership of a 1961 Chevrolet.

2.   As a result of this interrogation, the assigned took a statement.

3.    Request this case be marked Active.

Siakos finished reading, then looked up at the jury for a moment. “No further questions,” he said.

Sandro looked at Sam.

“Don't carry on. The jury's right in front of you,” Sam said without turning. “If you want to use it, get up on your feet.”

Sandro strode toward the jury-box shelf where Siakos had left the DD5.

“Is it your testimony, sir, that during the time you were on the third floor, the defendant Hernandez was not questioned about this case?”

“About the perpetration? No, sir. He volunteered.”

“No questions from yourself?”

“Correct, sir.”

“And no questions from Detective Mullaly.”

“About the death of Lauria? No, sir.”

“May I see counsel, for a moment,” the judge requested. All counsel approached the bench. “I'm never the one to stop a cross-examination, especially in a capital case, but this detective hasn't testified about your man at all, Sandro. I hardly see any point to this interrogation.” He turned to Sam. “Maybe you can tell me, Sam.”

“There's a purpose, Judge. Sandro has a purpose.”

“All right, but let's get on with it,” the judge insisted.

“God love you, Judge,” Sam said smiling. The judge smiled back indulgently. As they walked away from the bench, Sam whispered, “Don't let the judge stop you if you've got something.”

Sandro picked up the DD5 again and studied it. “Now, sir, you know what the word
interrogated
means, as far as police work is concerned?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, sir, when you said on this DD5 that you interrogated Ramon Hernandez relative to this case—and the DD5 was filed in relation to the death of Fortune Lauria—did that mean that you interrogated Hernandez relative to the death of Lauria?”

“I haven't read the DD5 in a while. I don't know.”

“If I say that this says the three of you interrogated the above-named relative to this case, would that mean to you in the ordinary circumstance of a DD5 that the defendant was questioned about the case?”

“Your Honor, I respectfully object to the form of the question,” Ellis said. “Mr. Luca is not reading the entire content of the sentence put down by the detective.”

“I am not hiding it, Your Honor,” said Sandro. “I am going at it piece by piece, if I may.”

“If it is taken out of context, I will sustain the objection. Let me see it,” said the judge. He read the DD5. “I will allow it. Overruled.”

“When you said on this DD5
interrogated the above-named
—and the above-named is Hernandez—
relative to this case
—and the case is the death of Fortune Lauria—did that not mean at the time you made this report, Detective Tracy, that Hernandez had been interrogated about the death of Lauria?”

“It would.”

“That would mean, in other words, he was asked questions about the death of Fortune Lauria?”

“Yes.”

“And questions were asked because Hernandez hadn't given all the answers the detectives wanted, isn't that right?”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Counselor.”

“You weren't asking him questions to waste time, were you?”

“No, sir.”

“You asked them because he hadn't supplied certain information and he had to be interrogated, isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“I have no further questions,” said Sandro.

“That's using it, kid,” Sam said as Sandro sat at the counsel table.

“At this point, Your Honor,” Ellis said, rising, “the people rest their case on the voir dire relating to the statement made by Hernandez.”

“Very well.” The judge looked to Siakos.

“Your Honor, I move, on behalf of the defendant Hernandez, to suppress any statement allegedly made by the defendant on the ground that the people have failed in their burden of proving thai any alleged statement was free of coercion, or was not the result of physical brutality.”

“I'm going to deny that application, Mr. Siakos. I am going to leave the question of the voluntariness of the alleged statement up to the jury for their deliberation. Therefore, the district attorney may continue with the orderly presentation of evidence, including any statement that he may have in which he believes the defendant Hernandez incriminated himself.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Ellis. “I wonder if we might adjourn a little early this afternoon. The next evidence I'll present is Hernandez's statement, and since the direct and cross-examination shall be lengthy, I think an adjournment at this time would be beneficial to an orderly presentation.”

“You're not forgetting we're scheduled to take the jury to the scene of the crime tomorrow, are you, Mr. Ellis?”

“Not at all, Your Honor. However, it would be more orderly not to start the testimony now and have to cut it short today and have the trip tomorrow separate it further.”

“I grant your application. We'll meet here tomorrow morning at ten thirty, members of the jury. Do not discuss this case.”

CHAPTER XV

Wednesday, April 10th, 1968

The large bus, its motor idling, stood at the curb in front of the courthouse. The jurors, accompanied by the court officers, were already seated at the back. The clerk counted heads, then returned to the lobby, where Judge Porta was standing with the attorneys. The judge, in a gray striped suit and a fedora, was smoking a cigarette. Siakos and Sam also wore fedoras. Ellis was without a hat, as was Sandro.

“They're all in the bus, Your Honor,” said the clerk.

“Okay. Is the stenographer in there?”

“Here he comes now, Judge.”

One of the stenographers came out of the elevator, carrying a stenographic machine. He nodded to the judge, moving quickly toward the bus.

“Tell the captain to bring the defendants out,” the judge instructed. The clerk disappeared through a door that led to a private elevator, usually reserved for the judges. Alvarado and Hernandez, handcuffed to each other, emerged into the lobby. They looked about them unfamiliarly, curiously. This was the first time they had been in the outside world since July 3rd, 1967. People walking through the lobby saw the handcuffed pair, paused momentarily, then continued on their way. Prisoners and defendants are everyday business in the Criminal Courts Building.

“Let's get on the bus, shall we, gentlemen,” said the judge, starting out through the revolving door. He waited while the defendants entered the bus and were seated about half a dozen rows from the front. Each defendant sat in a separate row, on the window side of the seat, handcuffed to the armrest with a guard next to him. The judge and the attorneys sat in the first rows; the stenographer moved close behind the judge.

The driver shut the door. In a burst of compressed air, the brakes were released, and the bus moved slowly from the curb.

The clerk polled the jury for the official record and noted the presence of both defendants and their attorneys.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge, standing in the aisle, still wearing his fedora, “although it might not seem so, the court is as much in session as if we were inside the courthouse. So you will listen to my instructions as carefully, follow my directions, and comport yourselves as if in the courtroom. As soon as we've finished our tour of the Stanton Street building, we'll come back to the courthouse, but we will not have a courtroom session this afternoon. As you know, I have other cases, and I've scheduled some unfinished matters this afternoon. Is is okay with everybody if you take off a little early today?” He asked smiling.

Most of the jurors smiled back. The letter carrier and the young telephone repairman cheered. The judge motioned them silent with his hands.

The bus turned east on Canal Street, then north on the Bowery. The riders were silent, watching the city slide by the windows. On the sidewalk, three drunks, bearded and tattered, were passing around a pint of wine, their hungry eyes watching that no one took too much. Another derelict was curled up on a doorstep, asleep. One of his shoes was missing. A younger but equally tattered man stooped next to the sleeping derelict and rifled through his pockets. The sleeper roused himself and yelled coarsely, drunkenly as the younger man fled.

“You see that?” Sam asked Sandro.

Sandro nodded.

“What a way to live, if it is living,” Sam added.

“One compensation, Sam. You ever see a bald bum?”

Sam thought, then shrugged as he lifted his hat and scratched his head. “What a price for a head of hair, though.”

Two Negro derelicts were fighting, throwing weak punches at each other, staggering, but not from the punches.

They passed Sid Goodman's Pawnshop. Sandro looked, but could not see anything through the display window as the bus moved on.

They turned east again on Houston Street. On the corner stood some men who had retained slightly more of their humanity than those on the Bowery. These men were waiting for trucks that might stop, with drivers offering a day's pay for a helper.

“A couple of blocks from Suffolk and Stanton streets,” announced the judge in his best tour-guide voice, “is Katz's Delicatessen. If you wish, we can stop there and the officers can take our orders, and we can have a kosher lunch. The menu features frankfurters, knishes, and celery tonic. This reminds me of my younger days, when I was running for Congress.” He turned to see the jurors.

“Everybody seems to go for that, Your Honor,” Haverly, the foreman, answered.

The bus turned into Suffolk Street, and then into Stanton Street. The police from the Seventh Precinct had been notified, and they had reserved a large parking spot directly in front of the building. A small crowd stood on the sidewalk, watching as the bus pulled up. Women came to their windows to watch, some leaning on pillows. With equal curiosity, the jurors and officers in the bus gazed out at the people on the sidewalks and at the windows.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the judge said, standing. “I've already indicated this is as much a courtroom as if we were back at One hundred Centre Street. Actually, even stricter compliance with my instructions and the directions of the court officers is necessary here in order to insure these defendants of a fair trial. Now we will see some of the physical features of this building we've heard about in the courtroom. There may be other features that you want to see, but I'm allowing you to view only what I believe shall be fair and nonprejudicial. I direct you to follow instructions exactly. And no one—I repeat, no one—is allowed to return here on his own, just out of curiosity, even well-intentioned curiosity. Does everyone understand?”

The jurors nodded. Alvarado and Hernandez were studying the onlookers, particularly the women. A Spanish song was coming out of loudspeakers in front of a record store near Norfolk Street.