Reversible Error
Page 21
“But a black cop, a black cop was like a fuckin king up here, you understand? Power of life and death. Money coming in from the whores, from numbers, liquor violations. Fuckin dude hasn’t bought a meal or a suit of clothes or a bottle of J&B in Harlem in all that time. Shit, fuckin Dugman used to perform weddings. Get the picture?”
“Yeah,” said Maus, “kind of.” He shifted on his knees and checked the mirrors. There were half a dozen young men and a couple of girls lounging on the steps leading to the house they were watching. An old woman in black climbed painfully up the steps dragging two shopping bags. Without stopping his observation, he said, “By the way, what makes you so sure this sweetheart is gonna show today?”
“His girlfriend live there. Also this the end of the month. Tomorrow welfare Tuesday—jingle day in the ghet-to, you dig? He gonna slip in there, get her pussy feelin good, and also make sure nobody else there for the payday.”
“Wait a minute—I thought this guy shanked his girlfriend; that’s why we’re chasing him.”
Jeffers smiled pityingly. “That was a different girlfriend. Take a couple, three mommas to support our boy in the style to which he has been accustomed. What’s the matter, you disapprove of the life-styles of the poor and soulful?”
“Hey, no shit, I love all you people,” said Maus, straight-faced. “The sense of rhythm, Harry Belafonte, Martin Luther King, watermelon, chitlins—the whole nine yards.”
Jeffers grimaced and flicked icy water from the cooler at his companion. Maus laughed and said, “But go on about Dugman and the Loo. You’re saying that old-time Harlem had something to do with why Art’s pissed off?”
“Yeah. OK, so Art’s dirty, but it’s clean dirt. There’s a line he draws. The skells, the bad niggers, the drugs—especially the drugs—are on one side. He’s on the other. He gonna shoot people, but nobody else gets to shoot people. Not on his stand. Like that. And the paddies downtown think that’s just great; as long as he keep passing along a piece of the pad from his action, keep the brothers from running riot up here, he’s golden. He’s never gonna make higher than sergeant, but what the fuck, he’s a dinge, right?
“So then comes Knapp. Turn on the lights in Harlem and people running around like roaches. Art’s shakin—he’s going down. And who saves his black ass?”
“Fulton?”
“Yeah, Fulton. This was just before you got here. You never heard this story?”
“Yeah, I heard. They were getting charges ready on Art, and Fulton cashed in some chips.”
“Yeah, that’s how it went. But, dig it, it was more than that,” said Jeffers. “Look at it from Art’s point of view. Here’s this black guy and he’s everything Art ain’t. College graduate. One of the first black detective loos in history. The guy’s platinum. Besides, the dude is one tough motherfucker street cop—first guy through the door, wounded in action twice, police medal of honor, commendations up one side and down the other. So afterwards, when they drop the charges, he lay down the law to old Art; things has changed. I cover your ass, I ain’t gonna hassle you about no chickenshit, but no fuckin cash better change hands no more.
“And Art buys it. What, he’s only got three, four years max he’s gonna stay. You got it now?”
“I got it,” said Maus thoughtfully. “What you’re saying is that if Fulton is really killing guys for pay, for pushers, Art is like the asshole of the century.”
“Yeah, man. And Art can’t afford to look like no asshole in Harlem. It’s his fuckin neck on the street. And you know something else? Underneath, what hurt him worse’n even that—Art love that boy. Seeing a black kid gettin over like that—”
“Hey,” Maus interrupted. “Check this out!”
Jeffers slid forward and looked at the mirrored image. Maus said, “The dude in the blue track suit talking to the mutts on the stoop. He looks good.”
Jeffers nodded. He picked up an Ithaca pump gun and jacked a round into the chamber. “Yeah, that’s him. Wait’ll he goes inside. We’ll get him on the stairs.”
Marlene sat at the prosecution table of Part 30 waiting for the court officer to call People v. Meissner so that the panty-hose killer could be arraigned on the grand jury’s indictment. She glanced sideways across the aisle at her opponent and his client. Henry Polaner was a small man with a large head decorated with an abundance of pepper-and-salt hair through which prominent ears peeked like inquisitive jungle animals. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his nose bulbous, and his infrequent smiles showed a rank of perfectly capped teeth. His favored expression was bored amusement, as if to challenge anyone’s serious belief in the farrago of legal nonsense brought by the prosecution.
His client, now undisguised, was an unprepossessing man of about thirty. His hair was medium brown, his eyes were pale hazel, his build was average. His features were even and conventionally handsome. His nose was straight and long, without bumps, and he had all his fingers. The only remarkable thing about him was his expression, and that only remarkable in a man facing trial on a charge of murder. He seemed like someone about to watch a play or a sporting event, long-anticipated and promising pleasure. He liked to smile, and his smile was that of a mischievous little boy caught at some trivial misdemeanor by an indulgent parent.
The case was called. The formal reading of the indictment was waived; in calendar courts in New York County, briskness is all, as is repetition. The average felony case makes fourteen court appearances before disposition. The judge asked for the plea.
Polaner stood and said, “Not guilty, your Honor, and may I say that I believe we have an excellent motion to dismiss based on the content of the grand-jury indictment. Apparently a good deal of evidence was presented that was both irrelevant and highly prejudicial to the case.”
The judge looked over at Marlene. “Miss Ciampi, was all evidence in this case presented to the same grand jury?”
“Yes, your Honor,” said Marlene. The question struck her as odd. Evidence in complex major cases had often been presented to grand juries composed of different people on different days, and indictments had been struck down because of the practice. The law said that the actual jurors bringing an indictment had to have heard exactly the same evidence. But it was defense attorneys, not judges, who were supposed to bring that question out in court. Marlene felt the first presentiment that this was not going to be a routine arraignment.
Polaner said, “Your Honor, at this time I ask for access to the minutes of the grand jury. I believe such access is warranted in order to demonstrate the prejudicial nature of the evidence presented.”
Marlene said, “Your Honor, it’s been the practice of the court to turn over grand-jury minutes only after the appearances of the relevant witnesses at trial.”
The judge looked down at Marlene and frowned. “Young lady, don’t tell me what the practice of the court has been! The practice of this court is whatever I say it is. I’m not going to lay myself open to reversible error just to suit your convenience. Now, counsel has argued that the grand jury has been prejudiced by the nature of the People’s evidence, and he needs those minutes to establish prejudice. I want you to turn those minutes over to the defense forthwith.”
“Yes, your Honor,” said Marlene meekly. Inside she seethed: something was wrong, terribly wrong. This should not be happening in a calendar court.
“Move thirty days to prepare motions, your Honor,” said Polaner.
“Granted.”
“And as a final matter, your Honor, I ask that a reasonable bail be granted in this case. My client has lived in this community all his life. He is a college graduate, gainfully employed in a professional position. He has strong family and neighborhood ties and is additionally the sole support of his widowed mother.”
“Your Honor, we strongly object to setting bail in this case,” said Marlene with a sinking heart. “We have an overwhelming case on the evidence, and the charge is murder. Both these elements make flight before trial a distinct possibility.”
“Next case,” said Judge Nolan.
Marlene gathered up her papers and walked out of the courtroom, feeling as if she were wading in taffy. The press was there in force, people shoving mikes and cameras in her face. She put her head down and no-commented her way to the elevator. Her face seemed larger and hotter than normal. It was a nightmare. The guy walked!
“The guy walked,” Marlene wailed as she burst into Karp’s office.
“Who did, babe?” asked Karp, alarmed. Marlene’s face was blanched and her good eye was wild in its socket.
“Meissner. The fucking judge walked him on twenty-five K, and he made me turn my grand-jury minutes over to him.”
“What!”
“Yeah. According to Mr. Motion, the evidence presented at the grand jury, meaning the five rape cases with the panty hose, was prejudicial and irrelevant.”
“And the judge bought it? What was he, senile?” Karp asked this not at all facetiously.
Marlene shook her head. “Not so you’d notice. It was Nolan, for God’s sake! Oh, and he was all of a sudden concerned about reversible error. Yes, well you may gape—Judge Nolan, who has been reversed so many times he has a gearshift stuck up his ass. Here’s a bastard who never walked an accused homicide in his life, and you would think, wouldn’t you, that when he finally gets a chance to show it’s not just black and PR thugs who get put away, he’d … What’s wrong?”
Karp was biting his upper lip and staring at the floor in thought. “Nolan,” he said. “It’s not the first time he walked one. He did it on Tecumseh Booth too.”
Marlene wrinkled her brow in confusion. “What’re you talking about? What does Meissner have to do with the drug killings?”
“Nothing, I don’t think,” answered Karp. “Except for the honorable Nolan. I’m pretty sure that somebody told him to spring Booth. Springing Meissner might have been a freebie.”
“But why? On a case like this? It can’t make him look good.”
“Judges don’t have to look good,” said Karp. “Besides, he was just protecting our precious civil liberties. We have to look good. Bloom does and I do, assuming …”
“Assuming what?”
“Assuming I’m interested in running for D.A. anytime soon. Meissner is a hot public case. Maybe somebody’s sending me a message. Like, lay off Nolan.”
“I didn’t know you were on Nolan,” snapped Marlene, her anger shifting, as it often did, from the issue at hand to the person of her own sweet lover.
“I need to know who put the fix in on Booth,” said Karp. “I asked V.T. to look into Nolan’s finances, see if maybe there was a connection to Congressman Fane or somebody like him. That was it. Word must have got around.”
“Yeah, well, if that happened, it seems to have royally fucked up my case. Christ! What the hell am I gonna tell the women?”
“Tell them we get shafted sometimes but we’re not out of the game yet. You’ll do a great job responding to Polaner’s motions, and meanwhile things could change all around. Also, I’ll check out what’s going on with my newfound friends in high places.”
“OK,” said Marlene grumpily, “but anybody who fucks with me on this one is dead meat.”
Dick Manning had a small but elegant apartment off West End Avenue in the Eighties. He had decorated it in masculine modern, full of the type featured in Playboy magazine: the furniture covered in pale or dark leather, the lamps of spidery black metal, tables of glass and gilt steel. He had African masks on the walls and some colorful primitive paintings he had picked up for a song on a Haitian vacation, and which were now, he had heard, appreciating nicely in value. His stereo and TV were large and expensive, with immense flattened speakers reaching halfway to the ceiling. One wall was covered with gold-flecked mirror squares; another wall was windows, looking out over the avenue.
Manning sat in a large leather armchair. Fulton was on the Haitian-cotton couch opposite and Amalfi was in a chrome-and-leather sling chair off to one side. It was Fulton’s first visit, and he regarded it as a good sign, the only good sign in a period of intense frustration. Six weeks had passed since he had revealed Tecumseh’s tape to Manning and Amalfi, weeks devoid of action. All the remaining dope dealers were healthy. Fulton had no play except to sink deeper into his persona as a bad cop. As a result, no cop would talk to him unless he had to. Even the King Cole Trio was giving him furtive, hostile stares and responding to his orders with sullen obedience.
Manning poured Hennessey and orange juice into glasses and handed one to Fulton. Amalfi came over to the coffee table and got his. Manning said, “Drink up, Fulton. You look like you could use it.”
“I’m psyched,” said Fulton. “Long time, no action.”
Manning lifted an eyebrow. “You think there’s gonna be action?”
“Yeah. You didn’t drag me up here to, ah, solidify our close friendship. So what is it?”
A broad smile spread over Manning’s face. “You sharp, Clay. They told me you was a smart mother, and it’s true. Ain’t it, Sid?”
Amalfi said unenthusiastically, “Yeah, Dick, he’s a sharp one, all right.”
“Yeah, we do have a little job for you tonight,” Manning continued. “You know Nicky Benning?”
“What about him?”
“We’re taking him down,” said Manning.
Fulton snorted. “Benning? With what army? Fucking guy runs half the dope in Harlem and all of it in the South Bronx. There’s fifteen layers of operation between him and the street. Nobody’s even seen him on the street for years. How the fuck you gonna get close to Benning?”
“Easy,” said Manning. He took a sip from his glass and lit a cigarette, enjoying the pause and the attention it generated. “Brother Benning is in the hospital. Seems his ulcer bust day before yesterday. Must be a tense business running all that skag through town. So he’s in a private room at Roosevelt under a phony name. No guards. It’s a easy hit.”
Fulton said, “How did you find out about it?”
Manning grinned. “I got a little bird, tells me stuff. So—you wanted some action. You in on this, or what?”
“I’m in,” said Fulton. “What, you figure I go in alone?”
“Uh-uh, we don’t work alone,” said Manning. “Sid’ll go with you.”
“Yeah, OK,” said Fulton carefully. “You staying?”
“No, I’ll go out with you. I got some business uptown. Lemme get my jacket.”
Manning went into the bedroom. Fulton stood up. The mirrored wall dimly reflected the inside of the bedroom. Fulton saw Manning take a pale sport coat and a shoulder holster from a closet. He put on the shoulder holster and took an automatic pistol from a bureau drawer and stuck it in the holster. Then he took a small revolver from the same drawer and, propping his foot up on the bed, placed it in an ankle holster strapped to his right leg. He put his jacket on and checked himself in a long mirror. As he emerged, Fulton turned quickly away from the mirror and noticed Amalfi staring at him. Amalfi looked peaked and gray. There was a twitch in one eye. Fulton had a good idea why he was nervous.
Roosevelt Hospital, on Ninth and 59th, was only ten minutes from Manning’s apartment. Fulton and Amalfi parked Amalfi’s old car near the emergency entrance. Amalfi handed Fulton a brass key. “This’ll open the fire door from the outside. He’s in room 523.”
“I gotta walk up five flights?”
“Unless you want to go up the elevator with a bunch of witnesses. The room is between the fire stairs and the nurse’s station. You should be in and out in three minutes. Wrap the gun in the pillow.”
“Good advice, Sid,�
�� said Fulton. “I can tell you’re the brains of the outfit. You gonna stay here?”
“Yeah, it’s a one-man deal.”
Fulton nodded and got out of the car. He found the fire door, opened it with no problem, and walked quickly up to the fifth floor. Nicky Benning was where he was supposed to be, draped with various tubes, sleeping, unguarded.
Fulton went back to the fire stairs and waited on the landing for a few minutes. Then he went back to the hallway and took the elevator down to the ground floor. He went through the emergency room and paused in the shadows by the doorway. He could see Amalfi’s car clearly. As Fulton had expected, Amalfi was no longer in it.
As he walked back to the fire door, Fulton wondered how they planned to do it. They couldn’t just shoot him in the back, not a detective lieutenant. It would have to be a confrontation. They would get the drop on him and set it up. A couple in the chest and then his gun pressed into his own dead hand and a shot fired. Sorry, but I had no choice. I caught him red-handed after he killed Benning, he shot at me and I dropped him. It might have worked, Fulton thought, with a realization that chilled him. Karp would bitch, but he couldn’t do much without the cooperation of the police. And of course the investigation would be handled by guess-who. Even Denton couldn’t do much, without destroying himself. The other brass would go along with it, if the killings stopped and Manning and Amalfi left the country. To protect the department.
Slowly he inserted the key in the lock with his left hand. He pulled and cocked his .38 Air-weight. There were two good places for an ambush. One was up on the fifth floor, to the left of the fire door. The other was in the little blind corridor to the right of the first flight of fire stairs. Fulton didn’t figure Amalfi for a man who would walk up five flights unless he absolutely had to.