Felony Murder
Page 38
What he hadn’t figured on was that by the time he entered the courtroom, everyone - including the jury - would be present and waiting for him. Apparently Judge Rothwax had decided to dramatize Dean’s lateness by forcing everyone to sit in their places pending his arrival.
As Dean came through the door, every head in the courtroom - and it was packed to standing capacity - swiveled to look at him. He hesitated for a second, then started to make his way up the aisle, his hands hanging empty at his sides, his head bloody and bruised, wearing an outfit that could charitably be described as uncoordinated and ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He was aware of an audible, collective gasp.
Still he walked forward, up to the rail that separated the audience section from the lawyers’ well. Every pair of eyes followed him. At the far end of the room, Judge Rothwax peered at him over rimless reading glasses from the bench. A television camera with a red light on top of it followed his progress. On both sides of the aisle, Dean’s peripheral vision spotted familiar faces: There were the men he still thought of as Leo Silvestri, Bennett Childs, and Bobby McGrane, and several others he recognized from those who’d been following him for the past week or so. Up at the prosecutor’s table, Walter Bingham had swung around and was shaking his head slowly from side to side. Even Joey Spadafino had turned in his seat at the defense table, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
Joey sits in his chair waiting, trying to figure out what’s going on, angry that they’re not telling him. But that’s the way it works, he knows. He’s come to realize that of all the people in the courtroom, he’s the one who matters least - he’s just the defendant.
Just then there’s a noise from the back of the courtroom, way behind Joey. Next thing, everybody’s looking back there. Joey tries to turn in his chair, but the court officers keep his chair pushed up so close to the table it’s hard for him to see what’s going on. There’s some kind of a commotion at the doorway, he can tell, and people in the courtroom start whispering, so it sounds like the whole room is buzzing. He hears the judge banging his wooden hammer, but no one seems to be paying attention. What Joey sees finally is someone coming up the aisle, a man with a big bandage on his forehead, wearing a suit that looks like he slept in it for a week. The man continues up the aisle, getting within arm’s length of Joey before he realizes it’s Dean.
At the rail, a court officer unhooked the chain for Dean and admitted him to the well. He was aware that Judge Rothwax was saying something to him because he could see the judge’s mouth moving and his hand gesturing Dean to come forward. But for some reason, he couldn’t hear what the judge was saying. There was too much noise - some sort of a commotion behind Dean. He turned to see what was happening.
What he sees is someone trying to rush up the center aisle, and others - he can make out Leo Silvestri and Bobby McGrane among them - are moving to restrain the person, trying to hold him back. But just when it seems they’ve got him tackled, he breaks free. Only Dean can see now it isn’t a he at all - it’s a woman, a dark-haired Hispanic woman, who slips through them and runs all the way to the chain before it stops her in her tracks, her momentum doubling her over at the waist. As Judge Rothwax bangs his gavel on the bench, the woman’s pursuers catch up to her. Assisted by court officers, they grab at her flailing arms in an effort to subdue her, but at the last moment she cries out “Mira! Mira!” and flings something in Dean’s direction. Reflexively, he raises his hands, as though to shield himself, but whatever it is comes directly at him, and he ends up catching it, feeling a heavy paper package landing in his hands.
“It’s a bomb!” somebody yells, and Dean hears screaming.
“Look out!” someone else shouts. There is bedlam.
A court officer rushes over to Dean and reaches for the package, and Dean extends it toward him with both hands, his eyes riveted on it, absolutely certain it’s going to blow up in his hands any second-
And sees the letter S pasted on it.
Just as the officer grabs for it, Dean pulls it slightly to one side so that the officer grabs nothing but air. Dean runs his hands over the package and makes out the shape of a thick book of some sort. Other people reach him, but he twists around in such a way as to place his body between them and the package. And begins to tear it open as quickly as he can.
He’s right, of course. It’s a book, a large black book, totally blank on the outside. Everyone around him stops. Somebody calls out that it’s okay, it isn’t a bomb. Eventually, the hysteria begins to subside, and the banging of Judge Rothwax’s gavel can be heard again. The room gradually quiets down.
A single sheet of paper has slipped from the package to the floor, and Dean stoops to retrieve it. It is a letter, printed in a childish hand. Balanced on one knee, he reads it to himself.
Dear Mr. Lawyer,
My husband give this to me when he is still alive.
He said if ever any thing happen to him I give it to the mans lawyer.
Marisol Santana
He opens the book to the first page and sees only three words,
THE BRADY FILE
before his eyes fill with tears and the words blur. For a moment, he feels so lightheaded that he has to place one palm on the floor for extra balance. The other hand he uses to tuck his prize under his arm like a running back would protect a football. Then, slowly, he rises to his feet. He is the hero who’s recovered the fumble in the closing seconds to save the victory. He extends his free hand as if to straight-arm away anyone who would get too close to him. For this is the game ball, and it’s his alone.
Those who are closest to him react by backing away from him warily, all the while staring at him as though he’s gone completely mad. Order eventually returns to the room. The woman has been removed, everyone else returns to their seats, and quiet is restored.
This time, Dean is able to hear what Judge Rothwax is asking him.
“Mr. Abernathy, would you like a recess before we resume? Under the circumstances-”
“No,” he says. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Do you wish to make an opening statement on behalf of the defendant?”
“Yes, I do.” He rises, clutching the book in both hands. He makes his way to the podium that faces the jury box. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. And tells himself that he can do this, that he’s done it a hundred times before.
“This case,” he begins, his voice cracking at first, “is much more than a murder case. It involves not merely one death, but several. Not just a single death that appears to have occurred during some botched-up mugging attempt, but an entire series of cold, calculated, premeditated murders.” His voice grows stronger. “For this case is about a conspiracy, a conspiracy that reaches into the very highest levels of the New York Police Department.”
He pauses to let that sink in. There is silence in the room = absolute, stone-cold silence.
“You see, Edward Wilson didn’t die as the result of being mugged by Joey Spadafino or anybody else. He died because of a book. The name of the book is The Brady File. The authors of the book are police officers. It is a book that is at once so true and so powerful and so dangerous that ultimately the police officers who wrote it felt it necessary to murder people in order to try to prevent its publication. One of the people they murdered was Edward Wilson. He was their own leader, and your own Police Commissioner.
“And this,” he says, holding it aloft, both arms extended full-length above his head, “this is the book.”
He walks to the rail and looks out into the audience. “Now for some strange reason - I’m sure I don’t know why - many of the officers who wrote the book and murdered Commissioner Wilson are seated right here in this courtroom at this very moment.”
Almost as if on cue, they begin to rise, trying their best to cover their faces and make themselves invisible as they work their way toward the aisles: first Bennett Childs, then Leo Silvestri, then Bobby McGrane, followed by a half-dozen others. As they step into the aisles and hu
rry for the door, a single reporter rises tentatively from the first row and moves to follow them. He’s joined by a second, and a third . . .
The actual trial in the case of the People of the State of New York v. Joseph Spadafino lasted only three days. Upon the motion of Assistant District Attorney Walter Bingham, a mistrial was declared. Since the defendant had by that time been officially placed in jeopardy, any retrial would have been prohibited by the double-jeopardy clause of the constitutions of both the United States and the State of New York, and Spadafino walked out of the courtroom a free man.
Of the twenty-two New York Police Department members who were arrested during the following weeks by federal agents operating under the direction of the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York, thirteen were indicted. Inspector Barry Childress, also known as Bennett Childs, served the longest of the prison sentences handed out, just over eleven years. Five others received prison terms ranging from six months to seven years. True to Walter Bingham’s prediction, there were two suicides. Lieutenant Vincent Nomelini, aka Leo Silvestri, blew off the top of his head with a blast from a shotgun inserted in his mouth, and Det. Richard Rasmussen was killed when his personal vehicle crashed into an overpass abutment the night before his trial was scheduled to start. The speedometer on his car had stuck at 114 miles per hour. Detective Robert Gervaise, aka Bobby McGrane, fled to Ireland and has not been apprehended to this date.
The Spadafino case was the last trial for Dean Abernathy. He spent six weeks recovering from the injuries he had sustained while rescuing Janet Killian.
Dean, Janet, and Nicole entered the Federal Witness Protection Program run by the United States Marshal Service and remained in it for close to two years. Today the three of them live together under new names at an undisclosed location somewhere in the southwestern United States, where Dean writes and teaches, and where Janet has resumed her nursing career.
Walter Bingham was rewarded for his role in prosecuting the conspirators by being appointed a New York City Criminal Court Judge. Despite Bingham’s worst fears, the prison doors were never thrown open to the likes of David Billups, Johnny Casado, and Richard Spraigue. The New York Court of Appeals ruled that while the Brady File revealed improprieties in many cases, no prisoners whose cases had already been reviewed on appeal could avail themselves of material contained in the file. While the ruling seemed to fly in the face of several decades of precedent and surprised many in legal circles, most observers breathed a collective sigh of relief. Some accused the court of playing politics, and several appeals were taken to the United States Supreme Court, which, in the end, declined to consider the cases on the grounds that it was a matter of interpretation of state law better left for the state courts to decide.
Joey Spadafino lived in New Jersey with his mother for the first several months of his freedom. Gradually, he became restless and began spending less time with her and more on the streets of New York City. Nineteen months to the day of his release, he was shot and killed in a minor drug deal on Fourteenth Street.
Published by New Word City LLC, 2016
www.NewWordCity.com
© Joseph T. Klempner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-61230-936-1