DETROIT 68
NEW YORK 60
“Shit,” said Dean, clicking off the set. He got up and went to the kitchen. An inventory of the refrigerator revealed a pitcher containing either apple juice or iced tea, he couldn’t remember which. Something scary in a Chinese food container. Six Clementines: Dean generally succumbed to the Korean grocer, who in this case had marked them six for ninety-nine cents, but he made a point of maintaining the illusion of free will by rejecting the penny change. A bruised tomato. Two carrots that would either require a peeler - which Dean had temporarily misplaced - or taste like earth.
Dean closed the refrigerator door and tried the freezer. Much better. A box that promised pizza made on French bread. A package of tender, tiny peas. Several plastic containers of mysterious leftovers. A number of foil-wrapped objects of different shapes and sizes, none suggesting food. He settled on the French bread pizza.
Rejecting the microwave his brother Alan had bought him after watching Dean go through a pack of matches trying to light his oven without sacrificing body parts, Dean deftly lit the flame on the second try. He had learned to hold the match with something other than his fingers - a pair of pliers worked best, though tonight he could not locate them and settled for an old roach clip left over from his marijuana days.
Dean lived alone, partly by choice, partly by virtue of the fact that Elna Terjesen, his onetime roommate and sometimes bedmate, had six months earlier left him a note one evening in place of herself and her worldly belongings. He still had the note.
Dear Dean,
I cannot compeat for your attention with your work any longer. I know you are “on trial,” as you call it. But when you get home at midnight, as you have every night this week, and then ignore me, it is too much. I have kneads too.
I wish you a good life.
Elna
It was just as well, thought Dean. Who wants a girlfriend with kneads, anyway? Dean walked back into the living room, settled into the overstuffed chair that had over the years taken on the shape of his own body, and clicked the game back on in time to see Joe Dumars hit from three-point range.
DETROIT 77
NEW YORK 62
He clicked the game off again and picked up his copy of the Times, which he hadn’t had a chance to read during the day.
POLICE COMMISSIONER WILSON DIES DURING A MUGGING ATTEMPT
Wilson Is Apparent Heart Attack Victim
Suspect, 28, Is Arrested
Police Commissioner Edward Wilson collapsed and died early Sunday morning during a mugging attempt in front of his Bleecker Street townhouse in Greenwich Village.
A twenty-eight-year-old ex-convict, Joseph Spadafino, was being held by the police and was expected to be charged with murder. It was not immediately clear whether the suspect would also be charged with robbery or attempted robbery.
Commissioner Wilson, sixty-two, had been the most decorated black patrolman in the history of the Department. He had risen through the ranks to the position of Chief of Patrol before being appointed Commissioner by the Mayor three years ago.
Had Heart Condition
Last January, Commissioner Wilson suffered what was described at the time as a “minor” heart attack. He missed six and a half weeks while recuperating, and was given a clean bill of health by his physicians.
Sources close to the Commissioner’s office confirmed that Mr. Wilson had been feeling “under the weather” for the past several days. (Continued on page Bl)
When Dean looked for the continuation of the article, he recalled that he had used Section B as his tablecloth at lunchtime, and it had ended up being thrown out because it smelled of tuna-fish.
Dean clicked the television back on. A red pickup truck muscled its way up rocks on an impossible incline as a male chorus sang about the Heartbeat of America. He clicked off the sound and pinched the bridge of his nose, allowing his eyes to close for the first time since five-thirty in the morning.
In his dream, he was back in college, hitting jump shot after jump shot, from the corner, from the top of the keyhole, from half-court. They put Joe Dumars on him, then Isiah Thomas. Dennis Rodman stepped up to triple-team him, but he continued to hit. With the clock winding down, he dribbled through the entire defense, then took a last-second, off-balance jumper from three-quarter court. The buzzer sounded with Dean falling out of bounds, into the adoring crowd, the ball in midair, arcing perfectly, inevitably toward the basket. The buzzer continued, but in a high, piercing whine that brought Dean up out of his dream, out of his sleep, to the sound of his smoke detector and the unmistakable smell of burned pizza.
Joey’s first night back on Rikers Island makes him feel like he’s reliving a bad dream. By the time the bus arrives at C-93, he’s so exhausted that he can barely stand up. Someone says it’s 1:30 a.m. If that’s so, Joey has been awake for close to forty-eight hours. During that time he’s been allowed one sandwich, consisting of two pieces of white bread and one slab of bologna, sliced thick, which caused him to gag and almost throw up, and five containers of watery coffee. He’s managed to bum three and a half cigarettes from other inmates, and a Wintogreen Life Saver from a CO. It’s the combination of the cigarettes and bologna he can taste, however; the Life Saver lost out long ago.
As tired as Joey is, he knows he’s got to stay alert, has to keep his guard up. He’s small, which sometimes can actually be good - he isn’t regarded as a threat, or as somebody whose intimidation will earn sudden respect for another inmate. But at the same time, being small makes him an easy target, and he can’t afford to seem like a pussy or a pushover on top of that.
So when the driver sets the emergency brake and the CO up front tells them to get up and move out, Joey’s the first one up, yanking at the handcuffs that join him and a Puerto Rican whose clothes smell like beer and marijuana.
As their turn comes, they file off the bus. It’s cold in the courtyard, and there’s snow on the ground, something Joey couldn’t see through the steamy windows of the bus. He fights to keep from shivering. Inside C-93, Joey and the Puerto Rican are uncuffed for the first time in three hours. Joey rubs his wrists; they’re sore and red, and his skin is broken in two places.
“Gonzalez! Mobley! Richardson! Spadafino!” A black corrections officer shouting names off cards directs Joey and three other inmates through another gate and leads them into a room without furniture. “Strip down,” he tells them. “Stop when you get to skin.”
That Joey’s been through this routine a dozen times before makes it no less humiliating. He removes his clothes, and since there’s no place else to put them, sets them in a pile on the concrete floor. He feels puny, pale, and unmasculine.
He’s made to raise his arms for the CO so that his armpits can be checked as well as his hair, his mouth, his scrotum, and the soles of his feet. Then, while the CO goes through the clothing piles on the floor, an Indian or Pakistani-looking man in a white lab coat, who looks like a doctor but probably isn’t, comes into the room carrying a pen-sized flashlight and snapping a rubber glove on one hand. Joey takes his turn bending over and spreading his cheeks. This is done in front of the corrections officer, the Indian, and the other three inmates. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth as a finger enters and probes his rectum painfully.
Welcome back to the Rock.
The following afternoon Dean got a call from Walter Bingham.
“How’re you doing, Dean?”
“Okay. What’s up, Walter? My client kill anyone else?”
“No, not that I know of,” said Bingham. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be finishing up the grand jury presentation tomorrow, and I want to make sure you don’t want him to testify.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. But thanks for checking.” Dean could not decide if Bingham was truly being thoughtful or really wanted Spadafino to testify so he could have another crack at him. But Spadafino had already implicated himself to Bingham in the videotaped Q&A, so Dean decided to give Bingham the benefit of t
he doubt on this one.
“Listen,” Dean said, “I’d really like to get the Q&A. And the statements he made to the detectives. I’m not putting him into the grand jury, Walter. I’ll put it in writing if you want.”
“You could always withdraw it.”
“Give me a fucking break, Walter.”
“All right,” said Bingham finally. “Get me a blank tape and I’ll make you a copy.”
God forbid the District Attorney’s Office should spring for the $3 a blank tape cost, Dean said to himself, particularly when they bought them by the case and probably paid fifty cents apiece for them. No matter, Dean wanted to see the Q&A.
So Dean took a slight detour from his office on Broadway, walking up to Canal Street. There Senegalese street peddlers sold what could pass for Louis Vuitton handbags, car stereo shops offered tape decks only slightly scratched from being pried out of dashboards the night before, and Chinese merchants displayed trays of watches bearing names like Rolex, Movado, and Piaget for under $10. The odors of fresh fish, skewered meats, and incense filled the winter air, and the sounds were a blend of accents and dialects imploring the passersby to “Check it out, man, check it out” . . . “Three dolla, three dolla” . . . “Swetta, swetta, swetta.” A Puerto Rican three-card monte player dealt his cards on an inverted carton, dutifully paying off his shill, while his lookout scanned the street for the police. A black man displayed a single gold-colored chain in his palm, his furtive look meant to convey that it was both genuine and hot, and that the price was very negotiable. Dean bought one low-quality blank videotape at a stand run by a Korean woman who grumbled impatiently as she scribbled out the receipt Dean requested.
At the District Attorney’s Office on the seventh floor of the Criminal Court Building, Walter Bingham was signed out to the grand jury, no doubt presenting evidence in the case of the People of the State of New York v. Joseph Spadafino. He had, however, left a manila envelope with Dean’s name on it and a note inside.
Dean:
This is the statement Spadafino made to Det. Rasmussen of Manhattan South Homicide.
Leave me a tape and I’ll have a copy of the Q&A made for you. It should be ready for you to pick up tomorrow morning.
Walter
Annoyed that he would have to wait another day for the Q&A, but consoled with the written statement, Dean left the tape for Bingham and headed back to his office to see just how badly his client had incriminated himself.
Pretty badly, it turned out.
STATEMENT OF JOSEPH SPADAFINO TAKEN AT MANHATTAN SOUTH HOMICIDE OFFICE. PRESENT ARE MR. SPADAFINO, DETECTIVE RICHARD RASMUSSEN, AND DETECTIVE DOMINICK MOGAVERO. INTERVIEW COMMENCES AT 0445 HOURS.
I, Joseph Spadafino, having first waived my Miranda rights, do voluntarily make the following statement of my own free will.
Detectives sure do have a way with the English language, thought Dean.
Early this morning, at approximately 2:00 to 2:30 a.m., I was in the vicinity of Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, lower Manhattan. I was in a doorway, trying to keep out of the snow. I had been there several hours and was very cold. I am homeless and I had no place to go.
So far, so good.
At the above time and place I observed a black male approach in my direction. I noticed that there was nobody else on the block at the time. I thought that the black male would make a perfect target for a robbery, in that he did not appear to be paying attention to his surroundings.
Oops.
I considered robbing the black male. I could see that he was well dressed. He was wearing an expensive-looking coat.
I did not hit the black male at any time. I did not cut him or hurt him in any way. I did take the black male’s money and a metal money clip that was holding the money. I did this while the black male was lying on the sidewalk.
Shit.
It was never my intention to harm the black male in any way. I only wanted his money, because I was cold and hungry.
END OF PAGE 1 OF 2 PAGES. SIGNED
STATEMENT OF JOSEPH SPADAFINO (CONTINUED)
When the black man came alongside me, I jumped out and yelled, “Freeze, motherfucker!” as loud as I could. Then I told him to give me his money. The black man suddenly grabbed his chest and fell down. That is when I took his money and his money clip.
After I took the money I heard voices and saw people in the building across the street. I threw the money clip away. I put the money in my pocket. I walked away. When I heard sirens I began to run and got caught after a chase.
The money I had on me when I was apprehended was the money I took from the black man.
This statement has been read to me by Det. Rasmussen and it is true.
INTERVIEW CONCLUDES AT 0525. END OF PAGE 2 OF 2 PAGES. SIGNED
So much for Joey Spadafino. A perfect felony murder confession, Dean said to himself. As was so often the case in felony murders, the suspect, anxious to distance himself from the homicide, readily admits the underlying felony while insisting - often quite truthfully - that he never intended to kill the victim. But the very admission of the underlying felony is his undoing, since his guilt of that felony, now fully acknowledged, makes him equally and automatically guilty of murder for the death that occurred during it.
Dean reread the statement. It was all there: the intent to rob, the demand for money, the actual taking. That added up to a robbery. A third-degree robbery, to be sure, since there was no weapon and no accomplice. But a robbery of any sort would do. Add a death during the commission - even if it was never intended, even if it was the sudden giving out of the heart of a man with a known heart condition - and you had a classic felony murder.
And in that instant, Dean could predict the future for Joey Spadafino with absolute clarity. Given the notoriety of the case, the popularity of the victim, and the overwhelming evidence against his client, there would be no plea bargaining for this defendant, not even in New York County, the plea-bargaining capital of the Western world. Joey Spadafino would end up pleading guilty to felony murder. His sentence would be life imprisonment, with a minimum of somewhere between fifteen to twenty-five years.
Dean felt suddenly very tired. He recognized the familiar tide of depression that seemed to well up and engulf him so often in this business. Why should he be upset about a two-bit punk who had caused the death of a good, innocent man? And in realizing that he should not be, he realized too that his depression was not only for Joey Spadafino, it was for Dean Abernathy. For he knew already that he would lose this case, that he would be powerless, that Walter Bingham would beat him, that there would not be one fucking thing he could do about it.
Funeral services for Commissioner Wilson were held the following day. If an Inspector’s funeral is an impressive display, drawing the top brass in the Department and a supporting cast of hundreds of uniformed officers, a funeral for the Police Commissioner himself is an awesome spectacle. Because police officers work in what essentially breaks down to eight-hour shifts, at any given moment for every officer on duty, there are two others off duty. And on this cold and overcast day in February, it seemed that every off-duty cop in the city joined the hundreds officially assigned to the ceremony, having put on his or her dress blues and white gloves and queued up on the frozen ground of Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx, where Deshawn African Wilson was to be laid to rest. A dark blue sea made up of literally thousands of uniformed personnel, most on their own time, assembled to pay their respects. Every senior officer, from the rank of lieutenant on up through captains, precinct commanders, inspectors, and deputy chiefs, turned out in the gold braids and bars that distinguished their uniforms from those of the rank and file.
The Mayor attended, joined up front by the Governor and the Vice President of the United States. Two United States Senators, six congressional representatives, and a justice of the Supreme Court were amid the hundreds of dignitaries assembled. Among those to address the crowd were the Mayor, the Reverend Jesse Jackson, and the slain Commissione
r’s son, Dwight Wilson, himself a sergeant in the Thirtieth Precinct. A twenty-one-gun salute marked the lowering of an American flag and the presentation of the colors to the Commissioner’s widow, a tall, unveiled woman who somehow managed to maintain her composure and dignity throughout. A final benediction, intoned by His Holiness John Cardinal O’Connor, ended with a prayer for divine mercy on the poor, misguided soul who had cut short the life and career of a true soldier of God.
The same day that last respects were being paid to Edward Wilson in Woodlawn Cemetery, Dean Abernathy picked up his copy of the videotape from Walter Bingham at the District Attorney’s Office. This time, Bingham was in.
“Get your indictment yet?” Dean asked him.
“You know I can’t tell you that.” Technically, Bingham was right. The grand jury, by laws the origins of which can be traced back to the days of the Inquisition, operates in secret. A group of ordinary citizens - twenty-three at full strength, with a quorum of at least sixteen required to vote - are drawn from the same rolls as those that provide trial (or “petit”) jurors. They serve for set terms, typically a month, meeting in regular half-day sessions, either mornings or afternoons. They sit in a room designed like a small amphitheater, filling seats that radiate out from the front of the room, where a witness sits behind a wooden table. No judge presides in the grand jury room. The prosecutor, an Assistant District Attorney such as Walter Bingham, stands at a podium at the rear of the room, from where he questions the witness. The law bestows upon him the quasi-judicial duty of legal adviser to the grand jurors. But in reality, he is there to present witnesses and seek indictments against criminal defendants accused of felony charges.
Felony Murder Page 3