Felony Murder

by Joseph T. Klempner

  “What does it have to do with?” Dean asked.

  “It has to do with good cops trying to do a job against a stacked deck, trying to keep this city out of the hands of the animals out there in the jungle.”

  “But Wilson didn’t see it that way,” Dean said.

  “I’m afraid not,” Childs agreed. “We kept him out of it for over two years, despite the fact that the file was sitting there in his office the whole time. When we finally needed to bring him in on it, we sat him down and explained the situation to him in as fair and honest a way as we could, hoping to persuade him to support the plan.”

  “But he wasn’t buying.”

  “Not for a moment. Wilson was a good cop,” Childs said, as though he meant it, “but he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. All he kept saying was that cops had lied and that the department had withheld material that should have been turned over to the defense in hundreds of cases, thousands of cases.”

  “He had a point,” said Dean.

  “Perhaps,” Childs agreed, “but it was a very technical point when compared to the damage that would have been done if we suddenly had to turn over the entire Brady File to the courts. Can you imagine the consequences?”

  “A lot of bad guys walking out of prison?” was Dean’s guess.

  “And a lot of good cops walking in to take their places,” added Childs. “Talk about an Alice-in-Wonderland situation.”

  “So . . .”

  “So we couldn’t let that happen,” Childs said. “Our statisticians created a computer model from which we were able to estimate that, given the number of violent criminals whose cases would have to be reversed and who could no longer be tried, we’d have an additional 450 murders over the next five years. Four hundred and fifty murders! Mostly of innocent victims. And that’s a conservative estimate, without the assaults, the rapes, and the robberies, let alone the drug traffic.

  “We did everything humanly possible to try to convince Wilson. He even agreed with our statistics, more or less. But all he would say was that he was sworn to uphold the law and let the chips fall where they might.”

  “Something to be said for that, I suppose,” Dean said.

  “Bullshit!” Childs roared. “These aren’t chips, these are human lives!” He repacked the bowl of his pipe as though to regain his composure. “In the weeks before Wilson’s death, we tried everything we knew to persuade him to at least hold off going public for a while. But he was adamant. The night of his death, he told us he’d be calling a press conference the following day. We had to make a judgment: hundreds of lives, or one.”

  “So you poisoned him.”

  Dean thought he noticed Childs nod ever so slightly, but certainly no explicit spoken confirmation was forthcoming. When Childs put down his pipe after a long moment, he said simply, “One life.”

  “Until Joey Spadafino decided to go through Wilson’s pockets,” Dean said.

  “Yes,” Childs said. “Your client certainly managed to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, as they say. But for him, everything would have gone down smoothly. Man with a heart condition exerts himself by partying too late, drinking too much, walking in the snow. Has a second heart attack, a fatal one. End of story. No criminal case, no snooping defense lawyer.”

  “And Mr. Chang?” Dean asked.

  “Yes, poor Mr. Chang. Regrettable. But Mr. Chang was very stupid and kept insisting that your client never robbed the Commissioner, only picked his pocket as he lay dead on the ground.”

  “And why was that so terrible?”

  “Ordinarily, it might not have been. But by the time we located Mr. Chang, our detectives had already committed themselves to saying that your client had confessed to robbing Wilson while he was alive and standing up. They couldn’t very well all of a sudden retract their grand jury testimony, or make your client’s written confession disappear, could they?”

  “And Officer Santana?” Dean asked.

  “That was truly an accident, the lieutenant here tells me,” Childs said, pointing with his pipe to Leo Silvestri.

  “We didn’t know who was sending you the letters,” Leo picked up the narrative. “We followed you along Canal Street at a distance. I recognized Officer Santana when I saw him strike up a conversation with you. All we were trying to do was keep him from telling you too much for your own good. In a way, you might say we were looking to protect you.”

  “Thanks,” Dean muttered sarcastically.

  “We had no intention of harming Officer Santana. We could have dealt with him, gotten him to see the big picture. How were we supposed to know he’d panic and go one-on-one with a dump truck?”

  “Sounds like three down so far,” said Dean, “If you count Mr. Chang.”

  “Yes,” Childs agreed, “and I can tell you I speak for the entire department when I say how terribly sorry we are that innocent lives have been lost. If it helps any, you should know that Mrs. Wilson and her family will be generously taken care of. So, too, Officer Santana’s widow and children. In due time, we’ll even do the right thing for Mr. Chang’s relatives, though any payment to them will be made anonymously.

  “Mr. Abernathy, we very much want there to be no further casualties. Three is already too many. We are moral people, and we never intended a number like that, even if it is far less than 450. The point is, it’s got to end.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” said Childs, pausing again to relight his pipe, “we’re prepared to do anything within reason to avoid further casualties.”

  Dean thought for a minute. He was suddenly aware that he was holding Janet’s hand in his under the table between them. He had no idea how long he had been doing so. When he finally spoke, he said, “My job is pretty straightforward here. I represent a man who says he’s innocent of all charges, except perhaps a simple petit larceny he’s not even accused of. He wants a trial.”

  “He doesn’t want a trial, Mr. Abernathy,” said Childs with a smile. “He, like most defendants, wants to go home.”

  “He, unlike most defendants, has no home,” corrected Dean.

  “Then he wants to hit the street,” Childs said. “Suppose we could arrange that?”

  “How?”

  “Several possibilities come to mind. If Mr. Spadafino is willing to forgo a trial, the department could release newly discovered tissue studies that suggest that Commissioner Wilson’s death actually resulted from a condition unrelated to the robbery. Based on those studies, the DA will offer your client a plea to precisely the petit larceny you suggest. I believe,” Childs added, “that could be done as what you lawyers would call a lesser included charge under the robbery count.” Childs was right, Dean knew; he had done his homework. “Since petit larceny is only a misdemeanor, the maximum sentence is a year, on which you do eight months. By the time of sentencing, your client will have done it already. Time served, I believe they call it?”

  “And if my client insists on a trial?” Dean asked.

  “Well,” said Childs, between puffs, “it seems to me that there are two very different trials that could take place here, under the circumstances. In the first, you behave yourself, and Miss Killian stays completely away. No talk of any Brady File, no accusations of any conspiracy or cover-up or any department involvement whatsoever. Toward the very end of the trial, that same tissue study surfaces. If you like, we’ll supply it directly to you, let you pull the rabbit out of the hat, so to speak. The DA will be compelled to dismiss all charges but petit larceny. Maybe the jury convicts your guy, maybe they acquit him. Either way, he comes up a winner. Worst case scenario is the same as the other way: time served. And you’re a hero. Every criminal in the city will be knocking down your door looking for you to represent him.”

  “And the other kind of trial?”

  “The other kind of trial,” said Childs softly, “is if you go for broke and try to prove what you know.”

  “What happens then?”

  Childs thought a moment.
“Let me emphasize once again, Mr. Abernathy,” he said at length, “that we are good men. Not perfect, certainly, but good. We’ve done some things we’re not particularly proud of. We’re not anxious to continue doing those things. But I think you can imagine that if the situation demands, we’ll do whatever we have to do to contain this business. We’re simply not going to stand by while you turn the key that lets thousands of murderers, rapists, and drug dealers loose on the streets of our city to prey upon our weakest members. Understand, it’s not the police who have the most to fear; we’re armed and able-bodied, and most of us live on Staten Island or Long Island or in some other part of the suburbs. It’s the people of this city who stand to lose. The very young, the very old, the frail, the unarmed. The usual victims, you might say. Four hundred and fifty of them. And that’s only by the most conservative estimates - and only the deaths - in the first five years alone. That only scratches the surface.”

  “I’m going to need some time to think about this,” Dean said.

  “You’ll get as much as you like,” Childs replied.

  “How does that work?” Dean knew they weren’t simply going to let Janet and him go home to decide. He recognized that Childs and his people needed a way to keep them from contacting other law-enforcement agencies.

  “Very simple,” said Childs. “As soon as you’re ready to leave, Mr. Abernathy, you’ll be brought back to the city. Miss Killian will remain with us.” Dean felt Janet squeeze his hand. He tried to give her a reassuring squeeze back, but he doubted that it served its purpose.

  “I’m a hostage?” Janet spoke for the first time.

  “I prefer to think of you as insurance,” Childs said.

  “You think of it however you like,” Janet said, her voice breaking from the strain. “This is kidnapping!”

  If Childs was flustered by the comment, he gave no sign of it. “I can assure you,” he said, smiling, “that you’ll be the most comfortable person who’s ever been ‘kidnapped,’ as you insist on putting it.” Then, turning to Detective Rasmussen, he said, “Richie, why don’t you show Miss Killian to her quarters? Mr. Abernathy, you may accompany them to assure yourself that Miss Killian will be comfortable. I don’t want you to be under the impression that we’ll be keeping the lady locked up in a dungeon.” Childs picked up a set of keys from the table and handed them to the detective.

  Janet and Dean followed Rasmussen out of the meeting room and back down the corridor, past the wooden doors with only numbers on them, past D. M. Ferguson’s door, until they came to a door without a number. Unlike the others, it was metal. There were no less than four locks on the door, including a massive slide bolt that worked from the outside. It took Rasmussen several minutes to match the various locks with the proper keys. It certainly seemed like a dungeon so far.

  Inside, however, it was a totally different story. A flick of a wall switch revealed a well-appointed, if somewhat Ramada Inn-ish, suite, complete with living room, bedroom, kitchenette, and bath. There was a large color TV and VCR, a coffeemaker, and an AM/FM radio. Conspicuously absent was any sign of a telephone. A bookcase was filled with titles running from Moby-Dick to Silent Spring, and there were even attractive prints on the walls. While Janet looked over what was meant to be her living quarters, Dean turned his attention to possible escape routes. He didn’t like what he saw. The only door was the one through which they had entered, and he knew already that its locks were well beyond his very amateur level of expertise. The windows in the living room and bedroom, which were covered by both Venetian blinds and heavy drapes, were of the non-opening variety; fresh air was apparently supplied by a central ventilation system.

  “Okay to use the bathroom?” Dean asked.

  “Sure, Counselor, why not?”

  Dean stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He lifted the toilet seat noisily and turned on the faucet of the sink while he checked the window. It was small, no more than nine or ten inches wide, certainly too narrow for his body to fit through. The glass was frosted, making seeing out impossible. But, unlike the others, it was designed to open. He turned off the faucet, flushed the toilet, and left the seat up. He figured Rasmussen could relate to that.

  Back in the living room, Dean asked the detective if Janet and he could spend a few moments together.

  “Okay, Counselor, but make it quick. I’m supposed to bring you back.” And with that, Rasmussen walked to the door, where he stood with his arms crossed, well within earshot.

  “What are we going to do?” Janet asked Dean.

  “We have no choice,” Dean answered. “I have to act in my client’s best interest. Joey Spadafino’s going to jump for joy at the idea of time served. I can’t deprive him of that, even if I think these guys are dead wrong. And I’m not so sure I do.” Then, despite the fact that Janet was dry-eyed, he added, “Now don’t start crying.”

  She looked puzzled for only an instant, then broke into a breathless sobbing, which she punctuated with a running commentary on how much she missed her baby. Dean took her in his arms as though to comfort her, and as she nuzzled her head against his shoulder, he lowered his mouth to her ear.

  “I’ll think of something” was all he could think to whisper to her.

  To Rasmussen, it must have seemed nothing more than a weepy broad and a guy trying his best to score.

  “Okay, lovebirds, break it up,” called Rasmussen. “Miss Killian, a woman detective will be looking in on you later to see what you need. Counselor, you come with me.”

  Back in the meeting room, Bennett Childs laid out the ground rules to Dean. “You’ll be driven home now,” he explained. “You’ll be free to go about your life, attend to your business. Wherever you go, we’ll be there, close by. Whoever you call, we’ll know instantly. As for Miss Killian, we shall retain custody of her until this thing is over. From this point on, however, in a very real sense we are no longer responsible for her life. You are. Do I make myself clear enough?”

  “Yes,” said Dean.

  With nothing further said, Dean was blindfolded and led out of the room by Rasmussen and, he supposed, Detective Mogavero. They walked him to the elevator, which the three of them rode down to the basement-level parking garage. Dean was helped into the back of what he assumed was the same van that Janet and he had arrived in.

  As soon as the doors closed, Dean pulled the blindfold off, but the interior of the van was as black as it had been earlier. When the engine started, and they began moving, Dean groped around the floor, hoping to find paper and something to write with, so that he might record the turns they made and the approximate length of travel between each one, in order to get a crude idea of where he had been. But though he found a single square of thin paper under one of the benches, he was unable to locate a pen or a pencil. He tried to keep track nevertheless, but the disorientation produced by the darkness prevented him from being able to gauge the turns with any degree of certainty, and he soon had to give up the attempt. He settled for trying to time the trip as best as he could and be alert for any clues along the way.

  He noticed that, unlike the earlier trip, the return trip contained a toll booth, evident from the van’s coming to a stop, then inching forward for the next several minutes before suddenly accelerating. Immediately thereafter, there was a downgrade, followed by the same echo sensation he had experienced on the way out. Then an incline, leaving Dean with the distinct impression that they had, as before, emerged from a tunnel.

  Once again, the trip took roughly a half hour. As Rasmussen opened the back doors of the van, Dean shielded his eyes to protect them from the light he expected to stream in, but he was surprised to find that it was dark outside. He lowered his hands and recognized his own street, his own building.

  Rasmussen left Dean with a warning. “Don’t do anything dumb, Abernathy. There’s a lotta people back in that room hoping you will.”

  “You tell them they’re going to be disappointed, okay?”

  “I’ll tell
‘em,” Rasmussen said, “but they’re not going to believe it. The betting is three-to-two you’re going to get carried out before this thing’s over.”

  Upstairs, Dean collapsed in exhaustion on his sofa and kicked off his sneakers. He emptied the contents of his pockets onto the floor next to him, slipped out of his jeans, and curled up on his side in a fetal position, hands between his knees. He had seen James Dean fall asleep that way in Rebel Without a Cause.

  Had he been a counter of sheep, he might have reached three or four.

  Sometime during the night, Joey Spadafino gets awakened from his sleep by the blinding beam of a flashlight. It takes him a few seconds to realize where he is. Then he recognizes the floor of his cell alongside his thin mattress and remembers he’s in the Hole.

  He shields his eyes with his hands to try to see who’s holding the flashlight, but a sudden blow to his right side, just under his armpit, that he identifies as a kick, informs him that he’s not supposed to see who his visitor is. He brings his knees up against his chest, readying himself for whatever kick or cut or blow’s coming next. But instead of an attack, the second message is delivered in words.

  “Spadafino,” says a voice he doesn’t recognize but which bears the unmistakable arrogance of a CO or someone else in power, “you betta not make waves, you hear? You take that time served, and you keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Anything else, you’re one dead Eye-talian. Got it?”

  Joey’s afraid to answer, so he doesn’t. A second kick, to the same spot as before but even harder, causes him to cry out.

  “Yessir,” he manages to say to the flashlight, “I got it.”

  Only later, after the CO has left him alone with his broken ribs and is out of earshot, does Joey manage to mutter his answer. “Fuck you and all your asshole buddies” is what he says.

  Dean half awoke during the night to the sound of rain. He was vaguely aware that he’d been dreaming of castles and dungeons, of knights on white horses and damsels in distress. He rolled over and kept his eyes tightly closed, fighting off the impulse to look at the clock, knowing that no matter what time it turned out to be, his awareness of the hour would then keep him awake. Instead, he listened to the raindrops landing on top of his air conditioner until exhaustion settled over him again.