Misdemeanor Trials

by Milton Schacter

  He saw the 11:30 Ferry on his right moving, creating a small wake as it moved towards the Bridge. He could hear the sound of the Ferry's bell as it approached the bridge. John reached over his rifle and steadied his hand. Looking through the rangefinder he could see Carlos standing alone in the back area of the top deck a few steps away from three other men who were clearly with Carlos, probably in case the planned drug exchange went south. The three were standing closer to the stairway leading to the lower deck. Carlos was closest to John’s side of the river, he was leaning on the rail, looking straight at the building where John was. John followed Carlos through his rangefinder as the Ferry moved. He began to perspire, though there was nothing in the cold air that was warm. He did not want to pull the trigger. He did not want to kill again. His finger moved to the trigger and he slowed his breathing, and his stomach began to cringe and a sense of nausea crept in. Slowly he pulled enough pressure, felt the slight kick and heard the muffled suppressed sound as the bullet began its trip to greet Carlos Zelaya.

  He watched for a moment through his view-finder. He saw Zelaya reach for his neck and fall to the deck. He saw blood and knew the bullet had found the mark. He pulled back his rifle, and wrapped the rifle, and viewfinder, in the small rug. He stacked the boxes where he had found them, picked up the spent cartridge, ran a rag over the disturbed dust on the floor beneath the window, and walked down the stairs. John walked to his car, and looked towards the water. The Ferry was long gone under the bridge, and he was aware of the quiet loneliness of the street. He put the rifle in the trunk of his car, and drove home. At his home he put the rifle into the closet. He told himself he would clean it tomorrow. He went to the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and sat down on his couch and put the beer on the table. He leaned forward, head in his hands, and felt like crying, but he didn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  THE EYE IN THE SKY

  “History is no longer written, it is recorded real time on web cams.”

  ---Martin Croak from the movie “Unseen”

  O'Reilly and his partner were the weekend on-call duty homicide detectives when he got the call of a DB on the Ferry. The Ferry was docked at Oars pier. He arrived in a sweatshirt, his police medallion hanging around his neck. The uniformed officers had been taking names of the passengers as they disembarked. The officers reported to him that they found one passenger who said he saw something that happened to make him look at the back of the Ferry. But other passengers reported they heard nothing, nor did they see anything on the Ferry. The one witness said he didn't see much, but he did see several guys on the deck, and then saw them walking quickly down the stairs from the deck at the same time the Ferry was somewhere near the bridge.

  O'Reilly and his partner were on the dock. They approached the gangplank to the Ferry and asked the uniform where the DB was. O'Reilly walked from the dock up to the Ferry and made his way to the back deck. The yellow police tape blocked the top of the stairs where a uniform stood, protecting the crime scene. “You have a name on the vic yet?” asked O'Reilly. The uniform said, “His ID says he is Carlos Zelaya.” O'Reilly heard the name and it resonated through his body. He paused for a moment to work out the new complexity of the case, and he felt a strange sense of disappointment. He walked over to the body. He recognized Zelaya who lay in a pool of blood.

  One of the forensic team was near the body. He looked at O'Reilly and said, “We haven't moved the body. We took his wallet to I.D. him, but we've been taking photos while we waited for you,” said the forensic investigator. He continued, “It looks initially like one neck wound, about four inches front to back that severed his carotid artery. Can't tell if it is a bullet wound or a knife wound. The Medical Examiner will have to figure that one out. There's no way this could have been an accident. There is nothing around this deck that is sharp and hard enough to cause that type of wound. That's why we called you. It looks like a homicide.”

  “Let me know when you are done. I want to search the body,” said O'Reilly.

  “Shouldn't be more than a few minutes,” said the M.E. Investigator. “We'll run a blood scan when we get back.”

  “I don't think you'll find anything. Zelaya was a dealer, not a user,” said O'Reilly.

  O'Reilly walked around the back deck. There were no signs of a struggle. It was clear Zelaya had not been moved or dragged to the spot where he bled out. O'Reilly looked for any evidence, such as a bullet cartridge, a sharp object, or anything he could relate to the crime. The deck cover was a slip-proof surface. There were no shoe prints in blood, or discarded apparel that suggested Zelaya had been anything but alone on the deck when he died. Zelaya contemplated his own sense of disappointment. He wanted to bring Zelaya in, put him in jail, have him go through the agony of a trial that would put him in prison forever, or possibly he might get the needle. He wondered about the motive. Zelaya had few friends and this could mean the beginning of a turf war among drug dealers. He would alert the Narcotics team. He knew the city could be facing increased violence from dealers, who would try to expand their turf with the death of Zelaya, or from the competitor that may have killed Zelaya. The whole thing spelled nothing but trouble.

  The next morning O'Reilly drove to the Winton pier and grabbed the same Ferry Zelaya had taken. O'Reilly walked to the fantail of the Ferry. It had been cleaned up and there was no sign of blood or a dead body anywhere on the fantail. As the Ferry pulled from the dock, O'Reilly pulled out a cigarette, lighted it, and began looking around the area. He saw a surveillance camera at the dock pointing in the direction of the Ferry. That would be a good one to see, if he could pull tape from the day before. He left a message on his own phone to remind himself to see if he could map any and all cameras that were on the route. When the Ferry passed under the bridge he saw another camera pointing towards the oncoming Ferry, and when the Ferry passed under the bridge, he saw another camera pointing towards the Ferry after it passed under the bridge. When O'Reilly returned to the Winton pier, O'Reilly found the administration office. It was closed. He walked around and found no one who was in charge of the pier that Sunday. All tickets sales were automated.

  Monday morning O'Reilly returned to the Winton pier and the administrative offices were open. He was told that the cameras were all operated by the Port Authority downtown. After wasting another 30 minutes in Monday morning traffic, O'Reilly arrived at the Port Authority office. He approached the information desk manned by a uniformed security guard with a Port Authority badge. O'Reilly flashed his badge, and asked where he could find the person in charge of the waterway cameras. “Through that door marked 'Security'.” He pointed down the hallway. “Ask for Jefferson. He can help you.” O'Reilly walked over and opened the door. Behind a counter and at a desk was a middle aged, matronly, somewhat overweight female guard wearing the same Port Authority uniform.

  O'Reilly said, “I am looking for Jefferson.”

  “I'll call him,” she said. She picked up the phone and a few minutes later a thin wirey middle aged man walked in behind the counter. He was not wearing a uniform.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Jefferson.

  O'Reilly showed his badge and said, “I'm investigating the death that occurred last week on the Ferry from Winton pier. I was told that the Port Authority was responsible for waterway cameras and I was hoping you might have some recordings from that day.”

  “Interesting that you should ask,” said Jefferson. “We have been reviewing the tapes for the last hour or so to see if there were any helpful recordings. Follow me.”

  O'Reilly followed Jefferson down the short hallway and through a door. In the room was a bank of video display terminals with three men sitting, each watching a bank of the terminals. “We monitor all the waterway cameras and most of the dock cameras, trying to keep some order among the ships, barges and boats. We have what might be interesting to you.” Jefferson spoke to one of the men monitoring a bank of cameras. “Jess, pull up the tapes we found from the Winton Pier and the
bridge.” Jefferson guided O'Reilly to a chair behind Jess. “Watch this,” said Jefferson.

  O'Reilly watched the Ferry that he recognized from the Winton pier. Passengers had loaded the Ferry and it was pulling away. He saw four men, including Zelaya, walk up the stair to the fantail. The Ferry pulled away and soon they were out of view of the camera. “Now look at this,” said Jefferson, and pointed to another terminal. “This is the bridge camera.” O'Reilly watch the Ferry as it approached the bridge. The men on the fantail were barely identifiable from that distance, but they looked like the four men who boarded the Ferry at Winton. One of them, probably Zelaya, was separated from the others. He was leaning on the guardrail looking towards the east side bank. The Ferry passed from the view of the camera. Jefferson then said, “The next view should be interesting. Jess, put on the other camera from the bridge.” O'Reilly saw the bow of the Ferry appear in the lower portion of the video. When the fantail appeared he could see Zelaya on the deck and the three men quickly leaving down the stairs away from the fantail. Zelaya's body was alone, lying on the deck and he was dead or dying. O'Reilly saw that the body had fallen back from the standing position Zelaya was in when he stood on the fantail. O'Reilly thought that he might have been pulled back by one of the three persons who boarded with him, but their position was on the other side of the fantail, at least fifteen feet away, as they crossed under the bridge as seen on the first camera. The force that hit his neck and caused him to fall backwards must have come from the east side of the river. He made a mental note that he would have to visit the area on the east shore near the bridge.

  “Can you cut me copies of these videos?” asked O'Reilly.

  “Sure. Give me your address and I'll send over copies this afternoon,” said Jefferson.

  O'Reilly paused for a moment and then asked, “Do you know of any other cameras in or around the bridge?”

  “There is at least one bridge train traffic camera that I know of. You will have to contact the city to get a copy of that, if they have a copy, or can make one. There's also a weather cam under the bridge that belongs to the National Weather Service. It feeds information and video to weather.com and accuweather, and I think just about anyone who can access the site. I think it only makes still shots, but you can ask them. I have the card of the fellow who maintains the site in my desk.” Jefferson walked over to a desk and pulled out a stack of business cards and pulled one out. “Let me write this down for you.” He handed the information to O'Reilly. “Good luck. I hope you find out how this guy died. The Port Authority doesn't like it when people die on the Ferry, especially violently and especially when it hits the papers. If you can keep us in the loop, my supervisors would like that.”

  When John got back to his car he called the telephone number that Jefferson had given him. A voice answered, “Johnson.”

  O'Reilly told him who he was and that he would like to see the images from the National Weather Service Camera. Johnson said, “The camera only makes still shots every ten minutes. The only copies of earlier still shots are stored on the DVR disc that is on site as well as an access log.”

  “That might be good. When can I see what you have?” said O’Reilly.

  “I can meet you there in thirty minutes,” said Johnson.

  “Okay,” said O'Reilly. “Where is the camera?”

  “It is on the west bank, underneath the bridge. There is an agency equipment lot right off the road on the west side of the bridge. The gate will be open. Park anywhere and I will meet you in thirty minutes,” said Johnson.

  O'Reilly started the Crown Vic and entered the stop and go traffic on the city streets. Twenty minutes later he found the gate that opened to the equipment parking lot on the west end of the bridge. A man that O'Reilly could only describe as obese got out of a pickup truck with an N.O.A.A. insignia on the door. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a shirt that barely fell within the definition of a uniform. He waved at O'Reilly and they introduced themselves. The shirt did have the N.O.A.A. patch on the shoulder and a name tag for Henry Johnson over his pocket. “Follow me,” said Johnson. They walked to the bridge and descended steps under the bridge, slippery from the lack of sun, and the ever present damp environment. They reached a platform and Johnson pointed up to a camera on the north side of the bridge that pointed towards the water and the skyline above it. “That's the camera. It is a shot that gives the water, sky and fog conditions. Inside we have the recordings and access documents.” Johnson took a key from his key ring that had no less than fifty keys. He grabbed the right key the first time and opened the door. He switched on a light, and even with the light, the room seemed dark and cool. “We don't have remote access to the history of hits, or to the still shots taken by the camera. Poor funding. But we may have something for you. Tell me the time and date you want photos and I can pull them up from the DVR.” O'Reilly told him the date and time he wanted. Johnson went to a small terminal and typed in something. A few seconds later he told O'Reilly, “These are the sequence of photos that I have on the DVR for the few minutes before and after the time you wanted.” O'Reilly looked at the photo and saw the bow of the Ferry in one photo, but the next photo did not have the Ferry, which obviously passed under the bridge.

  “What kind of access information do you have?” asked O'Reilly.

  “I can show you. I will pull up the information for that morning.” A few seconds later O'Reilly was looking at a line by line report of when and what had accessed the camera and meteorological data. There were about a hundred hits on the site that morning, but one caught his eye that he recognized.”

  “Can you print out sheets for that morning?” asked O'Reilly. Johnson highlighted the hits from the morning of Zelaya's passing and pressed the print button on the keyboard. On the other side of the room O'Reilly heard a printer and turned around to see a dot-matrix printer slowly spew out on a continuous sheet that would show, line by line, what access had been made to the computer. “That is a dot-matrix printer?”

  “Funding issues,” said Johnson.

  O'Reilly returned to his office and was able to use his computer to call up the railroad traffic webcams on the bridge. They did not show anything but railroad tracks on the bridge and there were no views of the water.

  O'Reilly looked at the printout he had on his desk, and the one line of it that piqued his interest was there. The one hit on that one line of the printout churned in his mind, and he began to develop a theory of the murder, and wondered how much he should put into his report.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  THE FEDS

  “Quickest way to lose a war is to surrender.”

  ---George Orwell

  John could see that Summer was just about there. The weather was warming, the days were getting longer, and he began to feel confident about the trial he was scheduled to start today. It was a vehicular manslaughter case. It was the most serious misdemeanor trial he had so far because the mother of three children died when she was hit by a car while crossing the street, and flew thirty feet into the air after being hit by the teenage driver who was eating French fries from a bag on his front seat. As John walked into his cubicle he saw the red flashing message light on his phone. He picked it up and checked his voice-mails. One was from Sally, the D.A.’s confidential secretary. It told him to come to the D.A.’s office as soon as he arrived. John put down his briefcase and walked to the elevator. When he walked out of the elevator he immediately saw Sally and said, “I’m here.”

  Sally smiled and winked at him, picked up the phone and said, “Mr. Trader is here.” She looked at John and said, “Go right in.”

  John opened the door to a large corner office befitting the highest law enforcement officer in the County. The D.A. was still an overweight sixty year old man. He had the bearing of someone not to be toyed with, and John had come to know that his bearing reflected his personality. His reputation was that of a person who had a truncated vocabulary, and used words sparingly. The D.A. was behind his de
sk, Tom Benton was there, and two other men who John did not know and had never seen. They were in their 30’s, dark suits, white shirts and short hair. They had the classic look of the Federal Government. Before John could offer his hand, the D.A. said, “Sit down, John.” He paused for a moment, “These two gentlemen are from the Federal Government and they have a few things they would like to discuss with you about that misdemeanor case with a fellow named Madani. You recall that case, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” answered John.

  “Let me fill you in on what happened,” said the DA. “Our Office investigators ran the license plate from the limo you saw at Madani’s home. It had been rented the day before by a person named Darby Rhodes. They also looked for and found the house Madani described as the location where he was taken by the kidnappers. I sent two investigators to the home described by Madani. They found two DB’s about a week old, both with single bullet wounds. The DB’s were two Iranian nationals. When forensics ran the bullets through AFIS there was a match to a bullet found in a physician who was killed that same day. One bullet matched the gun found on Madani, the other bullet matched a gun found at the house. Madani's story is holding together. We ran Madani’s DNA against DNA found from the Federal Building bomb attack several years ago that the Federal government supplied to us. There is definitely a family relationship in the DNA found at the Federal Building and Madani. It confirms Madani’s story. We charged Madani with homicide of the Iranian nationals and called the Feds.” The D.A. turned to the two Federal Agents and said, “Go ahead.”