“You’re much too kind. I received the same word myself this morning. I’m delighted we’ll be working together.”
“I hope it’ll be a delight. I’m sort of in the dark about murder cases,” said Sandro. “Where do we start on this?”
“Well, the first thing we want to do is to talk to our client and hear his story. Then we’ll talk to the D.A. to see what we’re faced with. Of course, with a cop-killer, it’s tough to do very much except try the case. The D.A. doesn’t usually entertain any plea to a lesser charge for a cop-killer. You go over to the court and get out the file. See whatever there is to be seen. Then we can meet and go to the Tombs to see this Alvarez.”
“I think it’s Alvarado.”
“Whatever. His being a spic is just another strike against him.”
“Another?”
“I read about this one in the newspapers when it happened. Some guys read stocks, sports. I read crimes. I think our guy is a junky besides. And he’s a colored Puerto Rican. And he’s got a record. And he’s charged with killing a cop. And besides all that, I think he confessed to the cops. This case is like walking into a furnace.”
There was a pause as Sandro digested these words.
“When shall we get together?” he finally asked.
“Let’s see. How about tomorrow, say eleven, at the Tombs?” Bemer suggested.
“My calendar is open.”
“Fine. Oh, it might not be a bad idea if you could pick up copies of all the newspapers that carried the story. The reporters get a lot of off-the-cuff stuff from the cops. You never know how helpful it might be.”
“Right.”
“Don’t be glum,” said Bemer. “In a case like this, where there’s nothing to lose, we can take the long shots, pull out all the stops. The experience’ll be good for you.”
“I hope it’s good for our client.”
“He’s lucky already; don’t worry about him.”
“How is he lucky?” asked Sandro.
“The cops didn’t kill him in the station house.”
CHAPTER III
As Sandro turned the corner from Centre Street into White Street, he could see Sam Bemer standing atop the four-step entrance to the Tombs. Officially it is the Manhattan House of Detention for Men. But everyone calls it the Tombs. It is probably the busiest prison in the world, housing every person detained for trial in Manhattan and Staten Island, as well as all those who have been arrested in other boroughs and are arraigned in night court. There is a turnover of at least six hundred men a day in the Tombs, three to four hundred new inmates received, three to four hundred released or bailed, each with papers, physical examinations, photographs, files, cards, and a host of other records.
Sam saw Sandro and started to nod his head, a smile spreading from either side of the cigar in the center of his mouth.
“Hi, Sam.”
“Sandro,” Sam responded, removing the cigar, still smiling, nodding his head in tight, muscular movements. Sandro shook Sam’s large hand.
“Waiting long?” Sandro asked, as they turned to enter the vestibule.
“Not more than two or three minutes. You certainly look prosperous.”
“Well, I’m keeping busy, not doing too badly.”
“That’s fine—fine.”
Ahead was a huge door made of a grid of steel bars over thick glass with a frame of brass-faced steel. In the top part of the door a hinged glass panel, called a Judas eye, opened, and a wizened face appeared.
“Morning, Counselor,” said the front-door guard.
“Morning, Joe,” said Sam. Joe turned a large key in one of the door’s locks, and the huge door swung open. Sam and Sandro entered the reception area. There were offices to the right and left. Those on the right were enclosed within five-foot-high half-glass panels. In them, men in the blue uniform of the Department of Correction were sifting through files, answering phones, writing. On the left were the executive offices. Straight ahead was an entire wall of bars with a gate in the center. On the other side of that was a lawyers’ waiting area, and twenty feet beyond that was still another wall, with its own steel and glass door. The lawyers’ waiting area gave the appearance of a cage. Inside it, a uniformed Negro sat at a desk. There were also a few chairs and oil paintings on the walls.
“Want to sign the book, Counselors?” said Joe, directing them to a desk to the left of the entrance. Sam wrote the name of the prisoner Alvarado, his own name, and Sandro’s name. Sam also filled out a slip of paper with the prisoner’s name on it.
“You know what floor he’s on, Counselor?” asked Joe, taking the slip.
“No. This is the first time with this fellow, Joe,” said Sam.
“I’ll get it for you,” said Joe, handing the slip over to one of the uniformed men, who fingered through a file of orange cards, wrote something on the slip of paper, and handed it back to Joe.
“He’s on the seventh floor, Counselor.” Joe handed the slip of paper through the bars to the guard at the desk inside the waiting area. He stood, selected a key from a ring of large keys, and opened the barred gate.
Sandro and Sam stepped into the cage and sat while the guard crossed the room to the door in the far wall. He handed Sam’s slip of paper through the Judas eye to an unseen guard within.
Sandro got up to inspect the paintings. They were the work of men awaiting trial. One depicted the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse against a gray background. The horses were elongated; the artist was probably a better burglar than painter. There was another of President Kennedy, one of Pope John XXIII, a clipper ship at sea, flowers. A few were quite well done. Perhaps some painters got arrested, too.
“Did you have a chance to get any of those newspapers I suggested?” Sam asked.
“Yes, they’re in my bag. I read them.”
“Well, what’s the story?”
“From the newspaper accounts, these two were burglarizing an apartment in the Delancey area, on Stanton Street. Someone called the cops. Two cops arrived. One of them ran to the roof, became involved in a struggle, and was shot in the back with his own gun. By the time the other cop got up to the roof, the killer was gone. They picked up one of these guys at the scene. He lived a few doors away. He confessed and named the fellow we represent, who was picked up at his home several hours later, about one A.M., and subsequently confessed.”
“Both Puerto Rican? Both junkies?”
“Yes. You were right. Alvarado is Negro, too. Very dark. Now there’s a question for you. Is he Negro or Puerto Rican or both?”
“Negro, Puerto Rican, junky, a police record, a cop killed, and he’s supposed to have confessed. Well, let’s see what this fellow has to say for himself. You can’t always trust these newspaper accounts. Sometimes you have to wonder how the hell anyone could have invented some of the stuff they write.”
Sandro didn’t speak. He sat watching Sam and then the Negro guard, who continually thrust his keys into the gate or the door, maintaining a flow of traffic. Presently, a slip of paper was passed through the Judas eye in the door in the far wall. The guard took it and read. “Alvarado?”
“Yes,” said Sam. They walked to the door on the right, which the guard unlocked for them. It led into a large room with frosted windows covered by steel bars. Doorless cubicles, each furnished with a small table and two chairs, lined both side walls. There was a bench against the wall at the end of the room. On it, a short, trim Negro with a pencil-thin moustache sat studying the two lawyers as they entered. A guard sat in one of the rear cubicles, reading a newspaper.
“Alvarado?” asked Sam.
“I’m him,” said the man on the bench, rising, walking toward them. He was about five feet six. He had short hair and was quite dark. His features were Caucasian. He wore chino pants and a white T-shirt, no belt, and laceless scuff slippers; most prisoners held for serious crimes are never allowed laces and belts, in order to discourage suicide attempts.
“I’m Mr. Bemer, this is Mr. Luca.” Sam mo
tioned toward an empty cubicle. “Grab another chair, will you, Sandro?” said Sam. Sandro took a chair from another cubicle, and the three men surrounded one of the small tables. They looked at each other silently. The adventure of life and death was about to begin.
“As you probably already know, Mr. Alvarado,” Sam plunged in, “we’ve been appointed by the court to defend you on the charge of murder in the first degree. We don’t know anything about what happened, or what this is about. We can only go by what you’ll tell us. Now, what’s the story?”
Alvarado had not stopped studying them. His eyes went from one to the other, watching. He listened attentively as Sam spoke, his tongue just poised on the edge of his bottom lip.
Now he shrugged, his two hands shrugging too. “I know little as you,” he said with a Spanish clip to his English. “These guys arrest me, beat my ass, and I here. They keep sayin’, ‘You know, man, you know what happen on that roof.’ And then one of these gentlemens, a big fuck, a baldie, he do like that”—Alvarado gave a short, violent straight punch to the air—“and they get me right here.” Alvarado placed his fist at the center of his chest, just beneath his breastbone. “They gave me a lot of punches. I told them nothing. They gave me more. Then I go out.”
“You went out where?” Sam queried.
“On d’floor. An’ I gasps for breath. But I couldn’t get none.”
“When you say you went out, you mean unconscious?” Sandro suggested.
“Unconscious, yeah,” Alvarado nodded, looking at Sandro.
“Wait a minute,” said Sam. “Let me get some facts from the beginning. Where do you live?”
“I was have a room on South Ninth Street, Brooklyn.”
Sam took out a pad, wrote July 26, 1967, on the top, and then began to make detailed notes of everything Alvarado said.
“Married or single?”
“I got a wife in Puerto Rico, but I ain’t living with her for years.” His word years, Spanish-clipped, sounded like jeers. “I living with a woman here for a while though.”
“Children?”
“Sure. Two in Puerto Rico, and four here.”
Sam looked at him. “Four children with this other woman?”
“Yeah. I got two other childrens with some other woman, but I don’t see her for a long time.”
“Eight children all together. Any more?” Sam was noting everything.
“I don’t know any more if they are,” he smiled briefly, looking to both lawyers. They didn’t smile. Alvarado wiped his hand across the smile, quickly removing it from his face. He twisted sideways in his chair, leaning his back against the wall. He looked out through the glass partition to see where the guard was.
“You got a match for me?” he asked, keeping his eye on the guard. He took a crushed package of Pall Mall from a trouser pocket. Sam slid a book of matches across the table.
“Now, what do you know about this crime, about the cop on the roof?” asked Sam.
“Like I said, I know nothing. The cops gotta get somebody, so they get me, but I don’t know enough as them how it happen.” Alvarado saw the guard’s attention distracted. He struck a match and took a long drag. He palmed the cigarette, fanning the air constantly to distribute the smoke. He slid the matches back to Sam.
“Look, we have to know the truth if we’re going to be able to help you in any way,” said Sam. “So don’t bullshit us. I’ll lay it right on the line, bullshit won’t do you any good with us.”
“I know it. I know it. I swear to you, I don’t know what these men are sayin’.” He took another drag, then continued the sweeping motions, which dispersed the smoke. “I went home and I stopped to see the super. Jorge is the super. I went into his apartment.”
“When was this?”
“The night the cops got me, July, I think third. Yeah, July third, late night, like one A.M. No Independence Day for me, believe me. Three cops were waiting upstairs. They been there all along, but I wasn’t home, so they waiting, and when I go to his apartment, Jorge says, ‘Luis, did you kill a copy?’ An’ I look at Jorge. I say, ‘Jorge, you crazy? Why you ask a thing like that to me, Jorge?’ And he tell me, ‘The cops are here, waiting upstairs, three detectives.’ I looked at him, you know. I say, ‘Jorge, is this a joke?’ and he said, ‘No, Luis, three guys are waiting.’ I say to Jorge, ‘Come on. I got nothin’ to hide. Let’s see these cops.’
“I turned and Jorge walked with me outside, and when I start up the stairs outside—the stoop—these three cops got their guns point-in’ at my brains. I ask them, ‘What’s this about?’ And one of them says to me, ‘You’ll find out.’ I had a paper with me and in there was the story about the cop being shot, and I said, ‘You’re not bringing me in for this?’ And I pointed to the paper, cause there in the subway I read about the cop killed. And it said there the cops were looking for a tall Negro, five nine or five ten, so I know it couldn’t be me. And the cop tells me, ‘You’ll find out at the station house. You’ll tell us about the roof.’
“Then they take me to the station house, you know. And I walk in, and the place is full with peoples. And they sayin’ to me, ‘Hello Luis, hi, Luis,’ and I don’t know any of these peoples, and I thinkin’, how they know me? One cop, I don’t know his name, a baldie, but red hair like fire on the sides, takes me up the stairs, and we go up to this room, all the way up, on the third floor, and there are these… these”—Alvarado motioned a rectangle with his hands—“closets, little ones, of ‘eye-ron,’ metal.”
“Lockers?” suggested Sandro.
“That’s it, lockers rooms. And they put my hands in my back with handcuffs, you know, like this.” He demonstrated. “And they asked me I know Chaco? I says, I know someone called Chaco.”
“Who’s this Chaco?” asked Sam.
“That’s Hernandez, the other guy the cops bring here.”
“He’s the one who told the police your name, the one who lived on the block where the cop was killed?” asked Sam.
“Must be he tol’ that to them,” Alvarado answered.
“Then what happened?” prodded Sam.
“About seven, eight other cops, without uniforms, I think off duty, come in, and they get around me like a circle, and one of them, the big baldie guy, give me punches here.” He again demonstrated with his fist in the center of his chest. “And they ask me, ‘What happen on that roof?’ And I tell them, ‘I don’t know nothin’ about that roof, cause I wasn’t there.’ Then this baldie starts working on me some more. Then I go out, like I said before. And one cop, an old guy with red face, says, ‘You ain’t out yet, spic,’ and two guys pull me up and hold me, and this big baldie keeps punch-in’ me, and I keep tellin’ him I don’t know what happen, I wasn’t there.”
“How long did this go on?”
Alvarado studied the air for a moment. “I can’t tell you that, but I believe it was a long time they was beatin’ me. Maybe one hour.” Alvarado took a long drag, then stepped on the tip of the half-finished smoke, and preserved it carefully in his pocket.
“Go on.”
“They keep it up more. Once somebody was comin’ up the stairs, so they listen at the door, and one guy puts his hand on my chest and listen to my heart, and he put his fist in my face and told me keep quiet. And then somebody who came go away, and they start again with punches, askin’ about the roof. And I told them, ‘You gonna kill me here, cause I don’t know what happened.’
“Then I went out a couple times more. I don’t know for how long. I remember next they pick me up, and told me I was going to tell them about the roof, cause Chaco already told them about me. And I told them that if he already told them, they didn’t have to ask me. And this big guy make his teeth show and he hit me. I was ascared of this guy. He was big, and he was like crazy. And he smell like whiskey, you know.”
They watched Alvarado as he spoke, Sam looking down intermittently to make notes. Alvarado was calm and unhurried.
“Then another cop says, ‘Don’t hit that man agai
n.’ And they stop the punches, but they keep askin’ these questions about the cop and the roof, and all. I tell them I wasn’t the guy, and if they want to kill me, okay, but I wasn’t the guy.”
“Then they pick me up in the air. One guy picks up one leg and holds it behind me, and the other guy pulls my other leg to the front. You know, they holding me up in the air by my legs wide open, and one of them says, ‘Okay, kick him in the balls.’ And I scream and beg them and tell them I got a operation there and a kick will kill me. They let me down and keep workin’ punches on my chest. Later, they tell me wash up cause the district attorney was coming and I was going to speak to the D.A. They bring me downstairs again and I wash my hands, my face, and they puts handcuffs behind me, in my back, on a chair, and they say, if I tell the D.A. about what happen, you know, beating me, I don’t know what a beating is yet. And I waiting for the D.A., and they clean my nails, take some stuff from my nails. And another cop puts some toilet paper on my hand.”
“Toilet paper?”
“That’s what it look like, toilet paper, you know, long, and they put it here, on my palms. That’s what it’s call, right?”
“For traces of gunpowder,” Sandro interpreted.
“No,” Sam corrected. “They haven’t done that for twenty years. It must have been for palm prints.”
Sandro nodded.
“Then while I’m waiting, the cops bring in a radio, a TV, and they showed me fingerprints on them, you know, with white powder on them, and one guy says: ‘You better talk. We got your prints all over this stuff.’ And I told him, ‘Maybe you take prints, but you don’t read good, cause those can’t be mine.’”
“Look,” Sam interrupted, “I told you, no bullshit. I’m your lawyer, not the D.A.”
“I know I got to tell you. I’m sayin’ the truth. I got no reason to say a lie.” He was not excited.
“Well if you didn’t confess to the cops, what the hell was the D.A. coming for?” Sam asked sharply. “The cops don’t send for the D.A. just to waste time, not in New York County. They send for him when they’ve got something for him to listen to. Now, you were waiting for the D.A. What for, if you didn’t confess?”
PART 35 Page 2