PART 35

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Face to face.” Her hand raised flat, palm down, she made a parallel motion.

  Alvarado, according to Mrs. Santos, then ascended the fire escape. She went back to watch television in the living room. In about a half-hour, she heard many shots from the roof.

  “Your witness.” Ellis sat.

  Siakos stood and walked toward the jury box. He wheeled.

  “Mrs. Santos, are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Legally married?”

  “Yes.”

  Siakos studied her. He asked if she had any prior acquaintance with Hernandez. Although he lived on the same block, she said, she didn’t know him personally. She had seen him before, however.

  “Are you pregnant now?”

  “No.”

  “Did you have another child?”

  “I was pregnant, but I lost it.”

  Siakos nodded stiffly. His manner was haughty, caused more by nearsightedness than by arrogance. He studied the floor.

  “And how many months were you pregnant at the time of this crime, at the time you saw the two men?” He was digging, hoping to come up with something.

  “Five months.”

  “While you were on the stoop, Mrs. Santos, did you see the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was it as exactly as you can tell us?”

  “It was at One fifty-nine or something. I don’t know the exact numbers of the building. I lived in One fifty-three.”

  “Was the car across the street from you, or was it on the same side as your home?”

  “They was on the same side.”

  Sandro took one of the photographs that Ellis had introduced into evidence. In it, the double-parked car was pictured on the side of the street opposite 153, approximately in front of 160. Sandro slid the picture unobtrusively across the counsel table toward Sam. Sam studied it and looked up at the witness. He inclined his head toward Sandro.

  “Does Siakos know this?” he whispered.

  Sandro nodded.

  “Same side of you as your house, right?” Siakos inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “In other words, it was parked in front of One sixty-one?”

  “Something like that. I can’t tell you the exact number of the building,” the interpreter said.

  “But it was in front of a building that lies on the same side as your house, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Siakos turned away from the witness and consulted his notes. When he turned back, he asked Mrs. Santos what the men were doing in the car. Mrs. Santos, almost unblinking, with dark, round eyes, was watching every move of Siakos, answering his questions without hesitation.

  Sandro looked up at the clock. It was only five after four. Siakos had to have another fifty-five minutes of questions to last out the day. Siakos continued, asking her what time it was when she went out to look for her friend and saw the car instead.

  “More or less, it was after one thirty when I went out.”

  “Would you say that this double-parked car was in front of the bodega, the grocery store?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the grocery store is on the same side of the street as your building. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Siakos turned away from the jury and winked at Sam. He turned back and asked about the previous occasions when she had seen Hernandez.

  Sandro looked at the time. Four fifteen.

  Siakos asked Mrs. Santos about the time she went into the toilet closet in the hall. She said she had been there only a minute and she came out immediately upon hearing a noise.

  “And what did you see?”

  “He was going up the steps.” She pointed at Hernandez again.

  “This gentleman was going up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was he when you saw him? Was it in the hallway?”

  “He was on the staircase, going up.”

  Sandro looked at the time. Four twenty. He knew Siakos had little more to question. The judge wouldn’t let him be repetitious or ask questions about what she saw on the fire escape because that didn’t pertain to his client. Siakos hadn’t dented her story in the slightest. Sandro stood and walked toward him. Siakos moved away from the jury and inclined his head to Sandro.

  “Stretch it. We need until the end of the day,” Sandro urged, pointing to his notes as if offering Siakos an important reminder.

  “I’ll see if I can. I don’t have too much more,” Siakos whispered. He looked quickly at the clock, then returned and questioned Mrs. Santos about the length of time she saw Hernandez and how much of him she saw. She said she saw him for about a second or two, from the waist up, as he ascended. Siakos then returned to questions about her son, his TV program, and whether or not it was a cowboy picture.

  The judge was becoming restless. The jury began to look at the spectators.

  “Are you almost finished, Mr. Siakos?” Judge Porta asked, shifting in his seat.

  “Not quite, Your Honor. A few more minutes.”

  “We’ll adjourn for the day. Remember, gentlemen and ladies of the jury, do not discuss this case amongst yourselves or with anyone else. Ten A.M. tomorrow morning.”

  Sandro looked at the clock. Four forty-seven. He winked at Siakos.

  The jury and the judge filed out. The prisoners were escorted back to the Tombs.

  “He didn’t touch her. Not a bit,” Sam said. “She’s hurting us bad right now.”

  “She couldn’t have seen what she said. I know that hall,” replied Sandro. “There’s a wall there, obstructing the view into and out of the rear part.”

  “You’ve got to knock her brains out, Sandro.”

  “I’m going to call Jerry Ball. I hope he’s still at his studio.” Sandro moved quickly toward the corridor. “I think you ought to go up with us, Sam, to get a view of the place.”

  Sam took his briefcase and walked to the corridor sighing.

  “Okay. Okay. You’re finally going to get me over to that lousy neighborhood.”

  CHAPTER IV

  It was 6:45 P.M. when Mike Rivera ascended the stoop at 153 Stanton Street. Jerry Ball followed. Behind them were Sam Bemer and Sandro. They entered the first-floor hallway. The stairs lay directly ahead. As they reached them, the rear portion of the hallway became visible. It was on the left beside the stairs. They walked down it toward Apartment 1B, whose door faced them at the end of the hallway.

  “So this is it?” said Sam, looking around with displeasure.

  “That’s the wall I was telling you about,” Sandro said, pointing back the way they had come. If the rear part of the hallway had not been visible from the front, the front door could not be seen from where they now stood.

  “I guess this is Mrs. Santos’s old apartment. This must be the common toilet she went to.” Sam opened a door on the right, under the stairway. The toilet had a pull-chain mechanism.

  “Let’s get cracking,” said Sandro. “Jerry has to get back to his studio to develop and enlarge these pictures if we want to have them for tomorrow morning.”

  “What pictures do you want?” Jerry asked. He put his camera bag down and assembled the flash unit.

  “Take some looking down here from the front of the hall so we get a view of Mrs. Santos’s apartment. Then I want some from the back here, right where Mrs. Santos said she was standing when she came out of the toilet closet and saw Hernandez. Let’s see where she was. Mike, stand on the second step, please.”

  “Okay.”

  Sandro entered the tiny cubicle. He turned and stepped back into the hallway. “She must have been standing right here.” Without moving, Sandro looked toward the front hall and the stairs. On his left he could see the wall supporting the stairs, the wall into which the toilet closet was set. He could also see the banister and the banister post. Sandro twisted and moved, trying to get a view of the stairs. But as long as he remained near the door of the toilet closet, he could see no part of Mike, no part of the front
hall beyond.

  “That lying bitch,” Sandro said. “Sam, come here and look at this.”

  Sam walked to the spot where Sandro was standing. “You’re right, absolutely right. You can’t see a goddamn thing from here.”

  “Take some right from here, Jerry. Get as close as you can to the wall opposite the toilet closet. I want to give her the benefit of every doubt.” Sandro and Sam returned to the front of the hallway as Jerry moved his equipment to the back.

  “I’ll stand by the foot of the steps,” Sam suggested.

  “Right. Don’t even stand on the second step,” Sandro added. “And put your hand on the banister post. Lean right against it so we can get you in the picture.”

  Sam got in position, leaning against the banister, his hand on the post.

  “Jerry, take this shot while Sam stands near the steps, so we can get exactly what she said she saw.”

  “Okay, Sandro, just let me finish with this flashgun,” Jerry said absently as he bent over his bag and wound the film into his camera. He stood.

  “And when you finish that, let’s get a shot of the inside of that toilet closet. And then get a picture of the hall with the closet door open, so we have a picture of which way it opens.”

  “Okay, Sandro. Is this where you want me to stand to take the shot of the stairs?”

  Sandro looked back. “Get back a little, so you can get that closet door in the foreground as a point of reference. Wait until I move out of the way. I don’t want to be in the picture.” Sandro stepped back. “Can you see me here, Jerry?”

  “No. The angle in the wall here by the stairs blocks the whole front hall.”

  “Okay, take your shots.”

  “Hey, Sandro, don’t you want Sam standing at the stairway when I take this picture?” Jerry called as he sighted his camera.

  “Jerry, Sam is standing there. Right at the stairway. His hand is on the banister.” Sandro looked at Sam.

  “Jesus Christ, you know I didn’t even see him there,” Jerry exclaimed, walking forward to the stairs and looking left to see Sam. “I couldn’t see a goddamn thing from back there.”

  Sam snorted. “Well, I know some broad who said she could.”

  “Not after we get finished with her tomorrow,” said Sandro. “Let’s shoot the pictures, Jerry.”

  Jerry returned to his post. The flashgun flared in the dim hallway again and again. Sandro, Sam, and Mike stood motionless as Jerry moved about them.

  “Okay, I got them,” he announced.

  “Great,” said Sandro. “I guess you’d better get back right away to develop these things and enlarge them. I want Sam to look around a bit as long as he’s here.”

  “Usual, it takes a veek,” Jerry mugged, “but for you—”

  Sandro smiled.

  “Do you want Mike to give you a lift to where you can catch a cab?”

  “I think it’d be a good idea. I don’t like walking around this neighborhood with all this equipment.”

  “Mike, could you come back for us? Sam and I are just going to look around a bit,” said Sandro.

  “And hurry up,” said Sam, the unwilling tourist.

  Mike and Jerry walked out to the street. Sam and Sandro started for the stairs.

  “Soto’s apartment is on the top floor,” Sandro said as they ascended.

  “How about these other apartments? Did anyone see anything that day?” Sam asked.

  “We canvassed them. So did the police. No one saw anything. Hey!” Sandro exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “The police canvass on the day of the shooting must have included Mrs. Santos. We probably have a DD5 that includes her in it.”

  “You’re probably right,” Sam said. “We can use it on her in the morning. Now we’re making some progress, I feel a litttle better about Mrs. Santos.”

  They reached the top floor. “This was Soto’s apartment,” said Sandro.

  “It doesn’t look any different from the others.” Sam studied the hall, fixing it in his mind.

  “And up here is the roof,” Sandro said, walking up. Sam followed. Sandro opened the door, throwing sudden light into the darkness. Startled figures moved through it. There was a sound of running footsteps. Sandro stopped short, and Sam bumped into him from behind.

  “Camarones, camarones,” someone yelled.

  There was a thud as a young Puerto Rican fell, sprawled out, into the light. He rose quickly to his knees, his eyes fixed on Sandro and Sam. The sweat on his face shone in the light. One sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to the elbow. His eyes were wide and wild. His mouth twitched. He reached into his pocket as he got to his feet, his eyes still fixed on the men in the doorway. The light suddenly caught the silver flash of a knife blade.

  “Jesus Christ!” Sam moved backward.

  The young Puerto Rican, his knees bent, his body poised to spring, held the knife in front of him, underhand, moving it slightly from side to side.

  “No policía, chico,” Sandro said quickly, summoning up fragments of street Spanish mixed with Italian. Yo soy abogado—para un hombre puertorriqueño. No problema, chico. No problema. Va! Va!”

  The young Puerto Rican’s eyes shifted from Sandro to Sam. He wheeled and disappeared into the black shadows. His footsteps echoed across the roof. In a moment there came the sound of another roof door several buildings away being opened. The light shone from within, momentarily, before the door banged shut. The night enveloped them again in silence. Sam sat on the top step and opened his tie and top shirt button.

  “Sandro. Sandro.” The words sounded choked.

  “Okay, Sam, it’s over.”

  “So’s our goddamn visit. Bullshit …” Sam stood abruptly and started down the stairs. He stopped in midfiight and turned, spluttering.

  Sandro was laughing now. Sam was looking up, pointing a finger at him, apparently unable to say anything. Sandro came down and put an arm around the older man’s shoulders, turning him back around. They both descended.

  “Screw you and this whole place,” Sam said finally.

  Sandro laughed. But he didn’t think it was funny.

  CHAPTER V

  Tuesday, April 2nd, 1968

  The coal-black circles of Mrs. Santos’s eyes stared down from the witness chair at Siakos. He was groping for her motive again, with questions about her husband. Sandro was restive. He had prepared a cross-examination the night before after the visit to Stanton Street; he had Jerry Ball’s pictures. He wanted to get at her before Siakos put the jury to sleep.

  Siakos turned his inquiry to the stairway on which she said she saw Hernandez. She testified that the stairway was ahead and on the left as she would look from the door of her apartment, that the toilet closet was also on the left, and that opposite its door, on the right, was a blank wall.

  Siakos nodded and walked back to the counsel table. “Let me borrow those pictures you showed me this morning, Sandro,” he whispered.

  Sandro looked at Sam. The jury was watching.

  “Better give them to him,” Sam said, shielding his annoyance from the jury.

  Siakos took the photos, and walked back to the witness. He handed her the picture Jerry had taken in front of the toilet closet. Mrs. Santos identified it as the hallway outside her old apartment.

  “Would you say that this photograph fairly represents the way it looked on July third, 1967, with the exception of what appears to be a hand on this stanchion there?” Siakos pointed out the banister post and Sam’s hand to her.

  “Yes, it looks like it, yes.”

  Sandro leaned over to look at Sam’s notes. “The stupid son of a bitch.”

  Sam kept writing, not looking up. “All right, forget it. Just listen and see if you can pick up the pieces.”

  Siakos offered the picture into evidence. Ellis studied it and had no objection. Siakos also offered a picture of the interior of the toilet closet.

  “Show it to the district attorney,” the judge advised.

  Ellis stud
ied the picture. “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?”

  Judge Porta nodded. All the lawyers huddled at the sidebar away from the jury. The stenographer slipped in beside the judge.

  “Your Honor, for the life of me, I can’t see the materiality of a toilet bowl and a pull-chain,” said Ellis. “I object.”

  “May I see the picture, please.” A court officer handed the photo to the judge. The judge studied it. From his position in the huddle, Sandro could see Alvarado sitting in the folds of the huge Madras jacket. Alvarado winked his right eye, the one on the side away from the jury. The guard behind Alvarado had his shoes off and was massaging the sole of his foot on the rung of Alvarado’s chair.

  “What is the purpose of this photograph?” the judge asked in a whisper. “What bearing does this toilet bowl have on the case?” The reporter’s fingers recorded the proceedings. The corners of the judge’s eyes crinkled.

  “Your Honor,” Sandro began.

  “Let Mr. Siakos speak first.”

  Sandro turned to let Siakos move closer to the reporter. “Position of the witness,” Sandro whispered to him.

  “I want to show the position of a person in this little room, and therefore what position that person would have to take in order to exit from it. The exit from this toilet is most germane and relevant,” Siakos explained.

  “You’re certainly out in left field with your pants down on this,” the judge commented, starting to laugh. The lawyers began to laugh. “Objection sustained,” the judge said, resuming his chair at the top of the bench.

  Siakos returned to face Mrs. Santos. She testified that the door of the toilet closet opened from right to left as one exited from it.

  “That would be toward the front door,” Sandro whispered to Sam. “The door would have blocked her view.”

  In answer to another Siakos question, Mrs. Santos insisted she saw Hernandez on the second step as she came out of the toilet closet. Siakos turned toward the counsel table. “I have no further questions.”

  Sam nudged Sandro with his knee. “She’s all yours, kid,” he whispered.

  Sandro rose. Mrs. Santos eyed the new enemy warily. She leaned forward, her hands folded in her lap.