Without Fear or Favor

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Well, are you aware that here in New York City, blacks commit seventy-five percent of all shootings, seventy percent of all robberies, and sixty-six percent of all violent crime, but they make up only twenty-three percent of the population?”

  “I wasn’t aware of those statistics. But I think they are probably a reflection of white oppression of the black community that encourages criminal activity due to poverty and other socioeconomic factors.”

  “Whatever the reason, there’s more criminality, so don’t you agree that officers are more likely to use force in areas where there are more violent criminals and armed suspects?”

  “I guess that stands to reason,” Feldinghaus agreed. “Though there are many factors at work here.”

  “Well, you’re the numbers guy,” Karp said. “If blacks commit, oh, let’s round it off and say seventy percent of the violent crime, wouldn’t you expect that blacks would account for more than twenty-six percent of fatal police shootings? In fact, shouldn’t it be higher, or at around seventy percent of fatal police shootings?”

  “Well, again, there’s more . . . a lot more . . . to it than that.” Feldinghaus was now looking less self-assured.

  “Well, here are some more numbers with respect to homicide.” Karp looked down at his pad. “Of all homicides committed against whites and Hispanics, the police were responsible for twelve percent. However, of all homicides committed against blacks, the police accounted for only four percent.”

  “No one is doubting that black-on-black crime is a serious issue . . . very serious,” Feldinghaus said.

  “But you deliberately make it sound as if it’s the police, working for some omnipotent, evil power structure, who are waging a war on black males.”

  “You’re talking apples and oranges, Karp,” Feldinghaus retorted.

  “Am I?” Karp walked along the jury rail, every juror’s eyes on him now. “You also made it a point to say that unarmed black men are more likely to die at the hands of police than are unarmed white men.”

  “That’s an absolute fact,” Feldinghaus shot back.

  “But doesn’t some of that have to do with unarmed blacks in violent, crime-ridden communities being more likely to be violent criminals and try to resist arrest or even attempt to take the officer’s weapon?”

  “Maybe they have more reason to fear the police and to fight back.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s one of those cases where statistics can be taken out of context, correct?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Feldinghaus replied, now starting to squirm a bit in his seat.

  Karp again referred to his legal pad. “And didn’t a report from your own agency about a study conducted in Philadelphia demonstrate that black and Hispanic police officers were more likely than white officers to discharge their weapons?”

  “We’re going to revisit that report.”

  “Why? Because it didn’t fit your narrative? Because it backs up a study conducted by a University of Pennsylvania professor who concluded that black cops were more than three times more likely than white officers to fire their guns?”

  “We believe that studies would show that black officers have been co-opted by the white power structure in such a way that they actually overreact to members of their own community.”

  “Well, what about FBI data that shows that forty percent of convicted cop killers are black? And that cops are eighteen and a half times more likely to be killed by a black man than an unarmed black man is to be killed by a cop?”

  “Again, it’s not taking into account the gestalt of all that is occurring,” Feldinghaus said, shooting Nash a get-me-out-of-here look, but the defense attorney sat slack jawed and useless in the face of Karp’s attack.

  Karp walked over and sat on the edge of the prosecution table. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Feldinghaus, that people like you, and your pals in the media, have essentially made a dangerous job—being a cop—even more dangerous?”

  “I think a case can be made that they’ve brought it upon themselves.”

  “And what about the rest of us? Haven’t you made our streets, especially in the minority community, more dangerous because the police are afraid to do their jobs in violent neighborhoods for two basic reasons: One, because gutless politicians, demagogues, and the media will rush to judgment and not support them. The second reason is that it’s simply more dangerous for the officers. Due to the political climate, they may hesitate to shoot or act, and that could cost them their lives. Isn’t that a big part of what’s behind that ‘serious issue’ of black-on-black violence?”

  “I don’t understand your point.”

  “My point is this: policing the streets has been irrevocably altered. For example, a routine, legitimate police stop is more likely to end in a deadly ambush. So aren’t you, and the people you work for, who advocate a false narrative, a serious part of the problem, not the solution?”

  Feldinghaus stammered for a moment and then set his jaw angrily. “I’ve got nothing more to add to this conversation.”

  Karp walked over to him and asked, eye to eye, “Mr. Feldinghaus, this isn’t some feel-good encounter session that you can end when it becomes uncomfortable for you. This is a search for the truth and, frankly, that’s something you can’t handle.”

  24

  “FUCK THIS, I’M TESTIFYING!”

  The words shot out of Anthony Johnson’s mouth like bullets from a gun. And his defense attorney recoiled as if ducking their impact.

  “You can’t,” Nash argued. “Karp’ll tear you apart.”

  “I can handle his white ass,” Johnson said. “Hell, if those motherfucking jurors can get all choked up by that old whore’s bullshit story, I’ll give them one that will leave them sobbing.”

  The pair were speaking in the holding room for prisoners off the courtroom following the disastrous appearances of Schofield and Feldinghaus. The latter had stormed out of the courtroom, slamming the doors as he left.

  Watching the theatrics with arched eyebrows, Judge Kershner had looked at Nash and drily asked her to call her next witness. The defense attorney had called Lupe Torres to the stand to repudiate her sister’s testimony and claim that Johnson had been with her when Tony Cippio was murdered, as well as during the attempted murder of Bryce Kim.

  After Lupe stepped down, giving Johnson a smile and a wiggle as she walked past the defense table and out of the courtroom, Kershner again asked for the next witness. But there was no one else left, just Johnson.

  “Just a moment, Your Honor,” Nash requested, and engaged in an animated conversation with Johnson, who hissed, “Put me on the stand.”

  Nash rose and addressed the court. “Your Honor, Lupe Torres was our last witness. However, my client, Mr. Johnson, is contemplating whether to testify to counter these outrageous accusations and fallacious testimony brought forth by the People’s case. As you know, this is a very serious decision, and I ask that he be given the rest of the day to confer with me and make a reasoned choice when the stress of today’s testimony has diminished.”

  Kershner, who had seemingly grown less and less amenable to defense requests as the trial went on, furrowed her brow and looked at the clock. “It’s noon,” she said, “and I’m not inclined to delay these proceedings any more than necessary.” She nodded to the jurors. “These good people have put their lives on hold long enough without this court asking them to give even more so that your client can think about this. We’ll take our lunch recess, during which you can confer, and I’ll expect your decision when we return.”

  After the judge recessed the court, Johnson and Nash were escorted to the holding pen area, where he refused to hear her out. “They’re laughing at me,” he snarled. “Nobody laughs at me and gets away with it!”

  “Can’t you see that Karp’s been egging you on? He set up those witnesses, like Rose Torres, and called you a coward, to get under your skin so that you’ll take the stand. If you do, you’ll expose yourself to questions not just about this c
ase but also your criminal history.”

  “Fuck him,” Johnson ranted. “I ain’t no coward. I’m a stone-cold gangsta from the hood. I’m a motherfucking cop killer!”

  Johnson saw the look on his attorney’s face and smirked. She’d never asked him if he’d really done it. He’d told her that he was a victim of police lies, and she’d worked with that ever since. These white liberals, he thought, with their little games and political remedies and agendas, are a joke. They didn’t live in the real world—not like him and even Karp.

  “Yeah, that’s right, I killed that motherfucking cop while he was begging me for his life so he could go home to his little white wife and little white kids.” He laughed, enjoying the moment of truth. “I shot him down like a dog, and then I turned his ass over just like they said I done, and I looked him in the eye, listened to him beg me for his life, and then put a hot one in his head. Now, what are you going to do about that?”

  Nash closed her eyes for a moment and then let out a sigh. “I’m going to do my job,” she said. “None of that matters. I’m going to make the State prove you’re guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s how the system works.”

  “The system,” Johnson said, contempt in his voice. “The system is all about keeping the black man in his place. Make him be a good little house nigger, and if he gets uppity, shoot him or put him in the joint. Well, fuck that. If I’m going down, I’m going down fighting. But first I’m going to see if I can talk my way out of this after that shit show defense you put on.”

  Nash looked at him coldly. “I did the best I could with what I had to work with. Like you just admitted, you’re a cop killer, and that’s what the evidence says. But I’m still going to do my job because this isn’t just about you, it’s about a bigger picture.”

  “Fine.” Johnson laughed. “Do whatever you want so you can go to your little white liberal cocktail parties and fund-raisers, and tell your friends how you tried to save the bad black man from hisself. Now let’s get this done. You ask the right questions, and I’ll come up with the right answers, and maybe one of them dumb motherfucking jurors will buy it.”

  After Nash left the room, Johnson dropped the tough façade. He felt a chill, and a voice in his head started telling him that he was going away for a long time, the rest of his life. There’d be no more Lupe Torres or any other bitch to pass the long nights with. His world would be defined by prison walls, steel bars, a community of broken, angry men and prison guards. He’d have a certain cachet as a cop killer, but that in itself would also add to the danger. Prisons were all about pecking order, and taking down a cop killer might be considered a step up for somebody.

  As Johnson’s fear grew, so did his anger. He was angry at Big George for not taking care of Tyrone and Maurice Greene. Without them, Karp would have never been able to place him at Marcus Garvey Park. And he should have taken care of DeShawn Lakes and his old man himself, before they could put him with Ricky Watts. But it wasn’t just Big George who had failed him. His old friend Martin Bell, from San Quentin, messed up by not killing Judy Pardo. He sneered. Nash was a fine one to talk about the system when she’d been the one to pass him Vansand’s note about where to find the women’s shelter.

  “She knew what she was doing,” he said aloud to himself.

  Relying on Moto Juku and pawning the revolver was his mistake. But he’d needed money, and the gun was the only thing of value he had.

  “Too many loose ends,” he said to the wall.

  Vansand and the rest of the media had abandoned him, too. He could see it in their eyes whenever he turned around in the courtroom. The smiles and nods when he was their meal ticket were now cold-eyed stares and frowns. “Well, fuck them, too. And fuck Hussein Mufti.”

  The reverend had come to visit him at the jail only once, and it had ended on a bad note. “What I want to know is what you’re going to do to get me out of this,” Johnson had demanded over the telephone as they’d sat across from each other, divided by Plexiglas and watched by a guard.

  “Get you out of this?” Mufti asked.

  “Yeah, out of this,” he’d repeated, pointing to his surroundings.

  “Get you out of the Tombs?” Mufti said incredulously, and then he’d laughed. “Son, I don’t know what you been smoking, but nobody gets out of the Tombs unless they let you out or, like my man Imani Sefu, they take you out in a body bag.”

  Johnson had suggested maybe an attack on the courtroom to spring him. “I’ll give you some names of some of my homies who’ll help.” But Mufti had laughed even louder.

  “Boy, you been watching too much television. You better hope that your attorney can convince one of them jurors to save your black ass, or you going to be singing the Attica blues, and there ain’t nothing I can do about that.”

  “Are you dump-trucking me?”

  Mufti shook his head. “Oh, I’ll continue to speak out about the injustice. And I’m sure somebody in the press or one of the white liberals will take up your cause and demand a retrial. And maybe, if you’re lucky, when enough time goes by you’ll be able to talk some lifer into taking the fall for you. But that’s down the road a ways. Until then, you’ll be doing hard time.”

  Johnson realized then that he was on his own, the way it had always been. The only person he could trust was himself. That meant that he was going to take the stand and find the one juror he could con.

  There was a knock on the door, and one of the court security officers entered. “It’s time,” the man said.

  “You got that straight,” Johnson said, standing up.

  A few minutes later, he was seated at the defense table when the judge asked if he’d reached a decision on whether to testify before he brought in the jury.

  Nash stood up. “Yes, Your Honor. My client has decided to take the stand and testify in his defense. I’d like the record to note that I am opposed to this and find it ill-advised. I believe that the district attorney has overstepped his authority and purposefully needled and insulted and backed Mr. Johnson into a corner until he feels that he has no choice but to defend himself. It is my opinion that this treatment has caused Mr. Johnson to suffer from a mental breakdown that renders him incapable of properly understanding the ramifications of testifying. So I’m requesting a continuance of this trial until such time as Mr. Johnson’s mental state can be evaluated by a psychologist.”

  Kershner looked over at the prosecution table. “Mr. Karp, your response?”

  Karp rose from his seat. “My response is that’s utter nonsense. It is certainly Mr. Johnson’s right to take the stand, and while defense counsel is correct to caution him, in the end it is his choice. As for counsel’s concerns about anything I’ve said, I’d remind her that this is a murder trial of someone accused of the heinous, brutal execution of a young police officer who had been doing nothing worse than playing basketball with some children. The evidence clearly shows that he is guilty of this crime, and we’re confident the jury will agree. As for the request for a mental health evaluation, one was already conducted at the beginning of this process and the defendant was found competent, meaning he understood the nature and consequences of the charges against him and was capable of assisting counsel in his defense. It is the People’s position that this is nothing more than stall tactics to delay the inevitable.”

  Kershner nodded and looked at Johnson. “Is it my understanding that you wish to testify?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you are making this decision after discussing the potential risks of exposing yourself to cross-examination by the district attorney?”

  Johnson looked at Karp and sneered. “I ain’t afraid of that man.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Kershner said. “As for your other comments, Ms. Nash, you may argue those on appeal if you wish, but I don’t find that Mr. Karp overstepped. Also, your request that these proceedings be continued until such time as the defendant can undergo another mental evaluation is denied.” She looked at
the chief court clerk. “Please bring in the jury.”

  “I’d ask that Your Honor admonish the jury regarding Mr. Johnson’s right to decline to testify, and that if Mr. Karp introduces his criminal history, my client is only on trial for these charges,” Nash interjected.

  Kershner looked at Karp, who shrugged. “I can do that,” the judge said.

  When the jurors were seated, Kershner addressed them. “Before we broke for lunch, I asked defense counsel if the defendant wished to testify on his own behalf, and she requested time to confer with him. That has been accomplished, and the defendant, Mr. Johnson, has decided to testify from the witness stand. But before he is sworn in, I want to remind you that he was under no obligation to speak, and had he chosen differently, it should not have been taken by you as an admission of guilt. As it has been since the beginning of these proceedings, the presumption is that he is innocent and that it is the State’s obligation to prove that he is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That presumption remains even after he is called to the stand. Is that clear?”

  The jurors nodded. “Good.” The judge continued, “It may or may not occur today, but when a defendant takes the stand, his history, including any prior criminal convictions, which would normally be off-limits, become fair game for the prosecutor to examine. However, I remind you that the defendant is currently on trial only for the two charges before you. While the prosecutor is free to address these issues in order to help you determine the defendant’s credibility, truthfulness, and motivations, it is not to imply that because he was convicted of another crime that makes him guilty of these crimes. Is that clear?”

  Again, the jurors nodded as one. Kershner turned to Nash. “Please call your witness.”

  “The defense calls Anthony Johnson.”

  Johnson rose, assuming what he thought of as a look of righteous indignation and noble purpose. He walked purposefully over to the chief court clerk, who waited by the witness stand to swear him in; afterward, he sat down in the witness chair.