Sly Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  Yolanda Torres had testified that Gonzales had admitted that he’d murdered Benita. Maria Hildago had testified that Gonzales had bragged about killing Benita. The defendant’s daughter had described how her father had awakened her and sent her to get milk from the kitchen that he’d put there. And finally, the jurors had heard Carlos Gonzales’s own voice on a tape recording describing how he had poisoned the milk and held his wife prisoner in their bedroom until she was dead.

  I made no attempt to explain the inconsistency, nor could I, between Carmen’s testimony about her stepmother being beaten and no record of injuries on Benita’s back.

  Having reviewed the evidence, I now spoke about the victim. “Benita was in the middle of Christmas; in the middle of raising a family; in the middle of her life when Carlos Gonzales—not God—decided he would end it. She had been Christmas shopping. She was in the midst of wrapping presents. She’d put up a tree. There were festive lights inside and outside her house. Mr. Pisani has called this a circumstantial case. Yes, there are no eyewitnesses. But come along with me and see if that circumstantial evidence is strong enough that you are unable to deny that this defendant killed his wife.”

  I stepped away from the podium and spoke without notes, while looking directly at the jurors. “Let’s look at how Benita spends her last day alive. She takes her children to a shopping mall, she poses with Santa Claus with her baby boy. She gives her children money to buy presents, and when they get home, Benita tells her stepdaughter to leave the lights on the Christmas tree burning because the children love seeing them. If the children woke up, they’d see the lights and not be afraid. Benita tells her children that she can’t wait to open the tiny present they had bought for her that day. Perfume. Benita was looking forward to Christmas. This was not a suicidal woman. Benita was enjoying her life as best she could.”

  I paused for a moment to let my words sink in. “Now let’s talk about how that blissful day changed after Carlos Gonzales came home. We know there was a fight. The defendant’s temper is immediate, it is urgent, it is unprovoked. We know this defendant knows cocaine. He buys it, he abuses it. We only bring that in to show you he has access to the instrument of death. He knows he can hide cocaine in milk. He knows how much to put into the milk to kill her. And that’s exactly what he does. And then he wakes up his own daughter who is sleeping—dreaming about Christmas—and he sends her into the kitchen to get the poisoned milk for her mother. He sends a child to poison the mother of his children.”

  I hesitated again so that the jurors could picture the scene in the Gonzales’s home that fatal evening. “What happens next? Does he call for help? Does he rush Benita to the hospital to get her stomach pumped? Of course not. Dr. Swante testified that it took about an hour for Benita to die. She died a painful death. What did the defendant do while she was dying? Maybe he smokes a cigarette. Maybe he has a glass of wine or snorts a line of cocaine. Who knows? But we do know that he was there in that bedroom, watching Benita, watching her go into convulsions. He was there, holding her down as she struggled, keeping her from getting help. He was there staring into her eyes as she frantically gasped for air and finally, painfully died.”

  I took a deep breath and said, “What does Carlos Gonzales do next? He wakes up Hector and Carmen and tells them to tidy up the room. He calls the cops and the paramedics but first he warns Hector and Carmen to keep quiet about the fights, about the beatings, and to tell everyone that theirs was a happy family. He orders them to lie.”

  By this point, I had covered all the evidence, reviewed all the testimony, and recounted the night of the murder. But there was still one final point that I needed to make. I was now ready to drop a hammer that I had been holding back for the entire trial.

  Stepping briskly over to the table where the exhibits were on display, I picked up the Polaroid photograph of a smiling Benita Gonzales holding her young son while posing with a jolly-faced shopping-mall Santa.

  “Before you go into the jury room to deliberate, you need to hear from one final witness: Benita Gonzales—the victim. Look at this photograph. Mr. Pisani would have you believe that Benita was suicidal. Look at her eyebrows in this photo. They are perfectly tweezed. You can see where she created an arch from the small stubs coming in. Look at her fingernails. They are perfectly manicured with bright red nail polish. Look at her hair. It is recently styled. This is not a woman winding down her affairs. This was a woman preparing for the holidays.”

  Still holding the photo in front of them, I said, “Does a woman who is going to kill herself that night worry about her eyebrows? Does she paint her fingernails? Does she go to her hairdresser? Does she take her children shopping and, when they get home that afternoon, reach under the Christmas tree and pick up the present that her children have just bought her and tease them by saying that she can’t wait until Christmas morning, when she can open their precious gift?”

  I looked into the faces of the women on the jury. These were the kinds of details a man may not have noticed or understood. The women jurors would.

  Pointing at Gonzales, I said, “This man murdered Benita. She had every intention of celebrating the Christmas holidays with her children. She did not put cocaine in her own milk. She did not want to die. She did not accidentally or intentionally commit suicide. He poisoned her. You want hard evidence? Listen to what Benita Gonzales is telling you in this photo. She speaks to you from the grave. Look at her beaming smile, her manicured hands, her love of life, and her love for her children.”

  Lowering the photo, I said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, while you are in the jury room deliberating, we will be waiting. Waiting for justice for Benita Gonzales.”

  I sat down.

  Moments later, after the jurors had been escorted out and Judge Morano had left the room, my mom came up to me.

  “Dear,” she said, “that was a brilliant closing statement, but there’s something on the edge of your mouth.” I wiped my mouth. There was a smudge of chocolate on my lip.

  59

  Two hours into jury deliberations, the bailiff advised Judge Morano that the jury had a question regarding one of the court’s instructions and reading of the law. We all reconvened as the jury was brought into the courtroom.

  “I understand, Mr. Foreman, that the jury has a question,” Judge Morano said.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the foreman replied. “Please tell us again about reasonable doubt.”

  I gulped and Mr. Invincible smirked. It wasn’t a good sign for me.

  Judge Morano ordered his stenographer to reread the definition of reasonable doubt that he had given earlier to the jury. For me, every word was painful and they were the last words the jury heard as they again retired into the jury room.

  Obviously a juror, or jurors, didn’t believe I’d proven my case beyond a reasonable doubt. I felt sick.

  Every defense attorney knows time is on his side; the longer the wait the better the chance of acquittal. As each hour passed, Mr. Invincible became evermore self-assured and I became less and less confident.

  How could this be happening? I saw Carmen in the hallway and turned away from the teenager because I didn’t want her to see the self-doubt in my eyes.

  Only the court officers who arranged for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and travel knew what the jurors were doing in that room. They were close enough to hear the yelling and then the silence during the deliberations. If only I could be a fly on the wall. The wait was becoming unbearable. I couldn’t think of anything else. I went through a painstaking analysis. Had I made my points, did I miss something in my summation, did they have enough common sense to connect the dots? Were they strong enough to render a verdict of guilty of murder without having heard from an eyewitness?

  Finally, the knock on the jury door came. Was it another question for clarification, a read back of witness testimony, or a verdict? The court officer announced, “The jurors have reached a verdict.”

  I hurried inside the empty courtroom knowi
ng it would take forever to get the judge, the defense, the stenographer, and the defendant from the bull pen. Mom was with me. The clerk waited patiently with the two of us. Word spread quickly through the halls. Spectators with reserved seats began filing into the courtroom.

  Finally, the defendant appeared. His cuffs were unlocked as he stood at the defense table. I looked behind me and was surprised to see the courtroom, which had been empty only minutes before, packed. Carmen was there with her brother, Hector. And in the very back row, near the door, was FBI Agent Longhorn. I avoided his eyes and he avoided mine.

  The unbearable silence was broken by a loud voice saying, “All rise,” as Judge Morano walked directly into the room and took his seat. In his gruff voice, he told everyone to be seated and announced the obvious: that a verdict had been reached. My heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear him direct the court officers to bring in the jury.

  They filed in slowly, one by one, without expression. I searched their faces for some sign—any sign—any clue—any indication of what they’d decided. Nothing. But wait, there was one. It looked like one of the women jurors had been crying. One juror made eye contact with me and nodded as he took his seat. Was that a good sign?

  “Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Morano asked.

  The foreman stood and answered, “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”

  “Please hand up the verdict sheet.” A court officer fetched it and gave it to the clerk, who passed it to Judge Morano. As I had with the jurors, I now searched Judge Morano’s face for a clue as he silently read the verdict. I knew Mr. Invincible was doing the same.

  Without the slightest trace of emotion, Judge Morano handed the sheet to his clerk and said: “There will be no outbursts in the courtroom when the verdict is announced.”

  He directed his clerk to “inquire of the foreman” and ordered Carlos Gonzales to rise from his seat.

  The clerk said in a loud, clear voice, “In the matter of the People of the State of New York versus Carlos Gonzales—”

  My mind was racing. Had I done the right thing by indicting Gonzales for murder in the second degree or had it been too much to ask twelve people to agree unanimously, beyond a reasonable doubt, without an eyewitness, without a confession, without even a clear manner of death, when even the M.E. originally said it was suicide?

  The clerk said: “On count one—murder in the second degree—how do you find the defendant?”

  Standing in the jury box, the foreman answered, “Guilty.”

  I breathed in, not realizing I had been holding my breath. Gonzales glared at the foreman and each juror. Mr. Invincible simply glanced down at the defense table.

  As each juror was individually polled, their answers of “yes” faded in the distance as I thought about how long it had taken to get justice for Benita Gonzales. There would be no escape into federal protection now. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see Agent Longhorn duck from the courtroom.

  While Judge Morano was thanking the jury and dismissing them, I noticed one of them staring at me. It was juror number five, a retired schoolteacher. She was in her midsixties and I had seen her eyeing the Polaroid with intensity when I was giving my closing statement. I wasn’t able to give her any further thought, because as soon as Gonzales was taken away and Judge Morano had exited the courtroom, Carmen raced up to me and gave me a tight hug.

  “You did it!” she said, smiling.

  “He’s going to prison. He’ll never hurt you again.”

  My mother was standing next to Carmen.

  “Your father would be so proud of you if he were here,” she said.

  “I feel as if he is here, Mom. Smiling down from heaven.”

  Paul Pisani left the courtroom without speaking to me. I didn’t expect a compliment, but I thought he might make a snide remark or a sexual innuendo. In the end, he simply tucked his tail between his legs and ran away.

  O’Brien was waiting to escort me from the courtroom.

  As I stepped outside, Will Harris and other reporters came running up to me. I answered their questions and then, when all of them were leaving, I called Harris to the side.

  “You’re one of the reasons why I won this case. You told me about the cop in prison and he told me about the boom microphone and the damning tape recordings. I am willing to explain on the record for your readers the role that you played in this case. That way you can write an exclusive and claim credit for helping solve it.”

  Harris beamed. “I can see a headline in my head: ‘Daily Reporter Helps Crack Murder Case.’”

  “I like that a lot,” I replied.

  “But I think you may be giving me too much credit. I just interviewed juror number five and she said it wasn’t the tape recording that convinced the jurors. It was your summation—you showing them Benita’s photo and pointing out how well-groomed she was. That photo is what did it. As a woman, she understood.”

  60

  O’Brien invited me to O’Toole’s to celebrate with the boys. But I declined. I also turned down an invitation from my mom. All I wanted to do was go home, take a hot bath, grill a steak, and eat a box of dark chocolates for dessert.

  I let Wilbur into the kitchen and gave him a can of corn to tide him over until dinner. I stepped outside and lit some charcoal on my hibachi. It took several minutes for the coals to turn red, so I spent them making myself a salad and adding peanut butter to apples for Wilbur. The steak tasted great and Wilbur loved the apples.

  By the time I had cleaned up the kitchen, it had turned dark and started raining. I led a reluctant Wilbur outside to his pen. There was no way that I was going to risk having him wake me up grunting in the morning. I was emotionally and physically exhausted and wanted to sleep late for once on a Saturday morning.

  Lightning crackled and the rain felt good and cool on my skin as I dashed back inside. I locked the back door and crossed through the kitchen on my way to the bathroom to start a bath. As I entered the dining room, I noticed my front door was wide open.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  My purse with the .357 snub nose was on the dining-room table. I was taking a step toward it when I was smacked hard in my right shoulder by a baseball bat with such force that I was knocked to the floor. I heard a crack and knew my collarbone was broken. The pain was immediate and intense.

  Looking up from the floor where I was lying on my back, I saw the masked face of a man dressed in black, towering above me with a wooden bat in his hand. There was no way I could get to my purse and pistol now because he was standing between me and the table.

  He threw the baseball bat to one side, reached into the front pouch of his black sweatshirt, and withdrew a knife, which he flipped open with a twist of his wrist. Without warning, he kicked me in my abdomen, causing me to gasp for air. Stepping backward, he used his left hand to remove his ski mask.

  Juan Lopez looked down at me.

  “I told you that Maya was mine but you didn’t listen.”

  He kicked me again, causing me to roll from my side completely over onto my stomach. As I was lying helpless and in pain on the floor watching him, Juan put his knife on the dining-room table and pulled his sweatshirt over his head. I could see the “MAYA” carved in his flabby stomach.

  Retrieving his blade, he said, “I’m going to slit my own wrists and join Maya in heaven—right after I send you to hell.”

  Using my good arm, I pushed myself up and managed to bolt across the dining room. I was trying to get into my bedroom where my second gun, the .38 Wesson revolver, was on the nightstand.

  “Run, run,” he taunted me. “But you can’t hide.”

  As I entered my bedroom, he caught up with me, grabbed my hair, and jerked me backward, causing my legs to fly out from under me. I landed hard on the floorboards and felt something warm flowing from my head. I was dazed but knew it was blood.

  “Juan, hurting me isn’t going to bring back Maya!”

  “Oh, I’m going to hu
rt you. I’m going to hurt you bad. I’m going to carve a name into your chest. You know what name? BITCH. And then I’m going to put you in the oven just like I did Maya. The heat is going to purify your soul and burn away your sins.”

  He bent down, reaching for my blouse, but I was able to spin out of the way and roll into the hallway. Juan was now standing between me and my nightstand. I managed to get on my feet as he stepped forward swinging the knife at my face.

  I ducked and ran faster than I thought imaginable toward the still-open front door.

  He swung at me again as he chased me but missed as I dashed through the doorway out onto the front porch. The surface was wet and I started to slip backward. I immediately compensated by throwing my body forward—a move that caused me to lose my footing and tumble off the porch onto the wet front lawn. I hit so hard that the fall knocked the breath from my lungs. I spun over onto my back and looked up just in time to see Juan looming over me as the rain pelted both of us in the evening darkness. He raised the knife, which he was now holding with both hands, and was about to plunge the blade down into me when I heard a low boom and watched as a huge hole burst open in Juan’s naked chest. His entire body flew backward. He hit the porch hard and didn’t move.

  O’Brien came running up to me holding a .12-gauge shotgun.

  “You okay?”

  I was soaked, my shoulder hurt like hell, and I’d been kicked in the gut and traumatized by a knife-wielding madman who wanted to cut my chest and stick me in an oven. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “I thought you might need a bit of watching tonight,” he said. “I decided to skip going to O’Toole’s with the boys.”

  He helped me to my feet and we walked over to where Juan’s body was lying motionless on my porch. O’Brien kicked Juan’s foot.

  “Huh. I thought it would be Rudy Hitchins lying here, not Juan Lopez,” O’Brien said.

  I felt a chill. Rudy Hitchins was still out there somewhere in the darkness, still seeking revenge.