The clergy did state that no actual Hasidic Jew had been involved in the shooting: they were “decoy cops” and that of course was another problem. The question of entrapment was examined rather broadly at the open-air rallies.
“Why aren’t medicated darts of some kind used in instances such as this terrible thing? Wouldn’t that be better than shooting eight deadly bullets into the body of a helpless child? Such darts are used to subdue wild animals, with much success and no harm.”
This question was asked by a well-meaning but luckless young white minister from a wealthy, liberal, politically activist Upper East Side church. His suggestion was greeted with fury by the black clergy, who were in no mood for an unfortunate choice of words. A black child had been placed in the same category as a wild animal. That’s how they see us, ultimately, isn’t it? Wild animals!
The suggestion caused a predictable breakdown in further communication among groups who were basically in sympathy with one another.
The street violence Sunday night involved more than the burning and looting and destruction of property.
The Jewish Defense League took to the streets and were joined by a large group of sturdy young men who called themselves “Concerned Citizens of Little Italy.” It wasn’t long before they all found opportunities to display their concern in face-to-face, baseball-bat-and-brick to chain-and-knife confrontations.
Whites were assaulted randomly and brutally wherever encountered by roving black street gangs in the theater district and around Times Square. Subways were declared unsafe in the off-hours and there was a distinct shortage of taxicabs in troubled areas.
Earlier in the evening, the Mayor tried a face-to-face visit with various groups of people. However, his being an argumentative rather than a pacifying personality, he quickly alienated even people who agreed with him. His chief aides, reinforced by the Police Commissioner, prevailed upon his good sense and all breathed easier when he finally consented to return to his office.
The orders to the Police Department were carefully changed but rigid in one respect: take control but do not provoke. Which is a pretty good order to issue from a wide antique desk and on contemplation of “trouble spots” that are identified by the color of the pin stuck in the map. But the city was determined, and rightfully so, in my opinion, to contain the situation without calling in the National Guard, which had been put on standby at the order of the Governor.
The first “round-up” types of arrest were being made in what previously had been considered the more stable sections of the city. Cheering the police on, with clenched fists of anger rather than support aimed in the general direction of the looters, were the heartsick black merchants who, within a matter of hours, had seen their small, expensive, stylish and highly mortgaged little shops swept away in the arms of grinning youths who were not only surprised but furious to find themselves, empty-handed, shoved into police wagons.
In Crown Heights, arrests were made selectively among the busted skulls and the skull-busters. Black and white together, youths were snatched, spun around, frisked, disarmed and shoved yelling, all-in-together, on top of each other or sideways or any other way, into the wagon or up the steps of the precinct. Young blacks deprived of the pointed, deadly looking Afro-combs demanded that the Jews be deprived of their yarmulkes: “They got long pins in their hats, man, can split your throat open.” The young Jewish Defense Leaguers, who did indeed sport the longest, thickest, sharpest hatpins ever seen, swore their religion was being interfered with and yelled First Amendment.
Young attorneys from activist organizations and middle-aged sorrowful-looking family lawyers as well as district leaders, black and white, reporters, photographers, cameramen, all met and mixed in whirling arguments, pleas, threats, demands, confrontations, pushing, shoving, knocking-down and knocking-over action. It was hard to know who was actually in custody and who was there to speak on behalf of those confined. The only absolute police instruction was not to have blacks and whites cohabit: no murder within the precinct house, things were tough enough.
The only people who had sense enough to maintain a low, quiet profile, to make remote observations on the rolling anger all around them, were the professional thieves who had been caught in the general net and hoped to get tossed out with the rest of them when things quieted down.
CHAPTER 32
WE WERE REMOTE FROM all the street action, members of my Squad and I, although we kept up to date via telephone, radio and television. We had spent the entire weekend putting together—or examining—the case against Dr. David Cohen. The District Attorney had instructed me to prepare the case for Grand Jury presentation “as soon as possible.”
By late Sunday afternoon, what we had, more or less, made us decide to charge Dr. David Cohen with attempted murder, atrocious assault, dismemberment, assault with a deadly weapon, rape, sodomy, and whatever else might stick. To this end, we had assembled:
Sanderalee Dawson’s detailed accusation;
Statement by Timothy Doyle that the running shoes we had confiscated under our search warrant were “similar to” the shoes he had seen on the feet of the man who had accompanied the plaintiff on the night of the attack;
Statement by Timothy Doyle that to the best of his recollection Sanderalee Dawson was not limping on the night of the attack;
Lab report to the effect that a tiny, almost microscopic thread of blue mohair found on the sleeve of one of David Cohen’s navy blue running suits was very similar to the mohair [angora] with which Sanderalee’s scarf was knit (they gave a complicated point-by-point system of comparison); possible but not conclusive one way or the other;
Lab report to the effect that all three of Dr. Cohen’s navy blue miracle-fabric running suits had recently been laundered; detergent used: Tide. Two of the suits were taken from his apartment; one from his cottage in East Hampton; no trace of blood found on any of the three;
Lab report to the effect that there were no traces of blood on any of the six (three pairs) of custom-made running shoes (two pairs from apartment; one pair from East Hampton);
Further examination of these shoes indicated that a special built-up arch and hidden elevation was constructed in the right shoe (to compensate for Dr. Cohen’s polio-shortened leg); as with the running suits, it would appear that the meticulous doctor was in the habit of rotating his running shoes;
Note: Sam Hendrikson has contacted manufacturer of these special orthopedically designed running shoes for further information.
There was one other possibly significant piece of information provided by Jim Barrow’s man. Sam had visited the microsurgery class taught by Dr. David Cohen and his report was very interesting.
“Out of a total of fourteen people interviewed relative to Dr. Cohen’s account of how he received the injury to his left cheek, four stated, unequivocally, that they had actually seen the accident and the injury occur. Three did not see anything; they arrived as Dr. Cohen, clutching a handkerchief to his face, was rushed to the Emergency Room.
“But seven of the ‘witnesses to the event’ stated that on careful consideration they had not actually seen the accident, which appeared to have occurred right before their eyes. These witnesses are very intelligent and analytical young physicians and, in sum, what each of them stated to the undersigned is as follows (note—individual signed statements of these three attached hereto):
“Dr. Cohen entered the room very quickly as the class settled in. Usually, he was already at his desk, preparing his notes for the lecture. On the date in question, however, he entered rapidly, his right profile to the class. As he reached the desk, Dr. Cohen appeared to have slipped. There was a thudding sound at the corner of his desk and it was the distinct impression of at least seven of these witnesses that the ‘thud’ was caused by Dr. Cohen’s slapping the desk with the flat of his hand rather than with the side of his face. Dr. Cohen disappeared for a moment, under the desk; general commotion and concern; he emerged, hand to left side of fa
ce. Blood was squirting; he pulled out a handkerchief and held it to the wound. Two of the witnesses closest to Dr. Cohen’s desk stated it appeared to them that the handkerchief already had bloodstains on it.
“Dr. Cohen, holding handkerchief to face, kicked out at a flattened yogurt container and stated loudly, ‘I slipped on this damn garbage and hit my face on the edge of this damn desk. Look, the metal edge is exposed. I guess I’d better get this seen to.’ Someone suggested tetanus shots. One of the witnesses examined the desk edge, which did in fact have a rough metal edge exposed. It appeared to have been pried in some manner.
“Dr. Cohen was escorted by several students, including one of these seven, and at the ER he repeated that he had slipped on yogurt container, hit face on exposed metal desk edge. He was given t.a.t shots; two stitches in cheek; class canceled for that day.
“On careful consideration, each of the seven witnesses whose reports are attached herewith state that in some peculiar way, they felt that Dr. Cohen had ‘stage-managed’ the accident. He was immediately taken at his word, and the students proceeded to repeat to each other and to people who asked about the incident later exactly what he had called out to his audience, in almost his identical words. It was the impression—without any substantial grounds—of at least two of Cohen’s students that when he entered the lecture room, he already had a wound on his face, newly opened. They reiterate this is a ‘feeling.’ Careful investigation failed to discover anyone, at all, who remembered seeing Dr. Cohen at any time prior to the ‘accident’ that is described above.
“Efforts continuing.
“Det. Sam Hendrikson, Shield 340432”
All of which gave us something to think about, but wasn’t really of too much use if Dr. Cohen would be able to match us, witness for witness, with people who would verify his version of the wounding of his cheek.
Motive of each of the skeptics would have to be examined and they would have to be squeaky clean with no score to settle against Cohen.
From the laboratory came the information that a small—less than a quarter-inch—thread of blue mohair had turned up adhering to the sleeve of Dr. David Cohen’s running jacket. Now that would seem conclusive, establishing his presence in her apartment, right?
Not necessarily.
I asked Bobby Jones, who seemed very willing to defend David Cohen against the guilty appearance of the mohair thread on his running jacket.
It took Bobby about three minutes to alienate everyone in the room. It wasn’t that his argument would hold up, necessarily. It was that he presented it so willingly.
“The mohair thread? Why, Dr. David Cohen arrived at the hospital on the night of the crime and had close physical contact with Sanderalee Dawson, who had, on her own word, been wearing a mohair hat and scarf that night. Some small threads of mohair had very likely adhered to some part of her—her hair, most likely. During his initial physical examination of her, which was not done under sterile conditions, the thread attached itself to Dr. Cohen. To his sleeve, his arm, his head, his neck, whatever. After ten hours of surgery, he returned to his apartment and the practically invisible mohair thread was still on his clothing. He might have hung up his running jacket, or brushed against it, or whatever; the mohair thread floated onto the sleeve of his jacket. A perfectly innocent transference of the dreaded mohair thread.”
“Transferring the goddamn mohair thread innocently to his goddamn jacket. Goddamn it, Bobby Jones. I mean, yes, that’s possible, but my God.”
“But Lynne, that’s what we’re doing here, right? Examining every possible angle, evaluating what you have to bring to the Grand Jury?”
“I hardly think I’ll offer them your ‘innocent mohair thread theory.’ I rather think I’ll go with my own ‘guilty mohair thread theory.’ Which I consider more likely. Much more likely.”
The one area that caused problems—more among the men of my Squad than among the women—was the very basic question: why had Sanderalee Dawson invited Dr. David Cohen, a.k.a. the culprit, to her apartment in the first place? Her explanation was unlikely: she had turned her ankle; he claimed to be a doctor and offered to massage it. Her explanation was downright silly.
“A pickup,” Sheila Kennedy, one year out of Fordham Law School, said abruptly. “Two adults meeting and mutually agreeing to return to her apartment. So what?”
“So it sounds like soliciting,” Sam Hendrikson volunteered.
“We won’t go into the old clichés about ‘prostitutes can be raped,’ shall we?”
Ms. Kennedy took offense at that immediately. “Really, Lynne. Are you suggesting that Sanderalee was out prostituting herself?”
“What Sanderalee actually said,” Bobby Jones said carefully, “was that she thought she recognized the runner. She thought she knew him from the Jog-gon-Inn. Alan Greco told us that Sanderalee often brought ‘runners’ home with her.”
“It’s a given that she invited a man into her home,” I said. “No one alleges that he forced his way into her apartment. And no one is accusing Sanderalee Dawson of good judgment. That’s all beside the point.”
“And at what point does sexual intercourse become rape?” one of our young law students asked rhetorically. “When the lady says no.”
“When the lady says no prior to penetration and the gentleman proceeds either through physical force, fear or coercion. Sanderalee had a perfect right to invite anyone she wanted up to her apartment. She had a perfect right to allow him certain expectations of a sexual nature. We are not evaluating her common sense, her morals, her wisdom or her promiscuity. Even if he hadn’t beaten her, but merely forced her through threat or coercion, she has a right to charge him with rape.”
“Even if she asked for it?” Sam Hendrikson inquired.
I took one deep breath and pressed my hand over my eyes. “Yes, if you mean that by her actions prior to the sexual act, by her invitation to her apartment, by her general and specific behavior, she led him to believe she was interested in him as a sexual partner. According to Sanderalee, the man had her sit down, he manipulated her ankle exactly as he said he would. He told her he was a doctor and did in fact work some kind of adjustment on her ankle. She was getting ready for some kind of sociability: she was in the process of pouring out Perrier when he assaulted her from behind, without warning. Christ, maybe if he’d just waited, sipped his Perrier and listened to some music, it might have turned into a night of love. But he didn’t. What he did was what he apparently had in mind all along: he viciously beat and physically subdued her. He raped her through the use of superior physical force, fear, coercion. He half killed her. All of which was hardly necessary, given the rather pleasant circumstances in which he found himself.”
“Which means,” Sheila Kennedy said solemnly, “that this kind of sexual assault was what he needed; was what he apparently had in mind from the first encounter.”
“We don’t have to get into David Cohen’s mind. We just have to describe his actions. His motives are loony-tunes as far as we’re concerned. We leave that to the shrinks.”
Which covered the rape charge. For about the tenth time that day. During the endless discussion and argument and reviewing we went over the other potential charges. Again, again, again: the sodomy, the felonious assault by some version of open-handed karate-type blows; the assault with a deadly weapon; assault with intent to kill; the mutilation-dismemberment.
Someone raised a question about the fact that when Sanderalee was found on the kitchen floor, she was wearing her running pants and a sweater. Her bra and bikini underpants were found tossed on the living room floor. In her state of shock, had she been capable of partially dressing herself? Would she be able to recall doing so? No big deal, just a little peculiar, but something we would have to prepare for: against a defense attorney’s questions. Stick to the facts: if you don’t remember, Sanderalee, then you don’t remember—period.
Finally, “I don’t anticipate any problems with the Grand Jury on any of this, really
. Given the extent of the injuries inflicted on her; given the ferocity of the assault. There will be one or two questions relative to her judgment. Remember, Alan Greco told us, Bobby, that he’d been afraid of just this kind of thing happening. He said she’d apparently picked up the wrong guy. That it hadn’t surprised him. I will grant to the Grand Jury that Sanderalee showed very bad judgment. We’ve got until trial date to handle this case—to defend Sanderalee’s honor and to cop out on her judgment. Which led to her being raped, sodomized, beaten, mutilated. At the trial, we’ll let the good Dr. Cohen’s attorney question Sanderalee’s motives in extending what is, in effect, a street-corner invitation to a stranger.”
“Or to a stranger she thinks she recognizes. From having seen him around the Jog-gon-Inn,” Bobby Jones added, his eyes fixed on me intently.
And then, when we had all decided to call it a day, a weekend, there was a phone call about our good Lucy Capella, who, I wish sometimes, was not all that damned good.
Not only had the city reached the boiling point, not only were people robbing, looting, hitting, hurting, shooting, pillaging and just plain messing up, but now good strong reliable Lucy Capella was not to be available, when she was most needed.
Lucy and her damned stray dogs.
CHAPTER 33
LUCY CAPELLA HAD BEEN on her way back to New York Hospital from her day off at her small rented home in Queens when, in the glare of flashing headlights, she saw a large, bone-thin, terrified, injured dog cringing against the wall of an underpass on Grand Central Parkway.
As God does occasionally watch over her own, this abandoned dog had been waiting for rescue by Lucy Capella, who had never in her entire life refused a needy human—infant or crone—or any animal in any stage of distress.
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