“I do not believe I’m required to show this to the district attorney, Your Honor,” said Sandro.
“Your view of the law is correct, sir,” replied Judge Porta.
“However, the defense at least is interested in making all the evidence available to the jury,” said Sandro.
“I object to such statements, Your Honor,” said Ellis.
“Sustained. Strike it out. Don’t make speeches, Mr. Luca. Sum up at the proper time. Do you want to show Mr. Ellis the witness’s statement or not?”
Sandro fished out a sealed envelope from his file and slit it open. He handed the envelope to Ellis without looking at its contents.
“May I note for the record,” said Sandro, “that this statement was written in Spanish, and the signature of this witness appears thereunder. However, I have supplied to Mr. Ellis, on the same page, beneath the Spanish, what I have been informed is an accurate translation.”
The judge nodded.
Ellis stood, reading the statement. He handed it to Moreno, who identified his signature. Ellis’s face suddenly showed he tasted blood. Sandro wondered what Ellis had hooked into. He took a photostatic copy of the same statement from the file. Siakos came over, and the three defense lawyers read the statement.
“Did you say to Mr. Luca that around two thirty or three o’clock, two thirty or three o’clock, about that time, Alvarado was in your shop?”
“Yes. Well, it was about two twenty-five, but I started to cut his hair about two thirty.”
“But did you tell Mr. Luca it was about two thirty or three o’clock when Alvarado was in your shop?” Ellis asked, reading directly from the English translation.
“I object, Your Honor,” said Siakos, rising.
“Overruled,” said the judge impatiently.
“May I explain my objection, Your Honor, on the record?”
“You may, sir.”
Siakos held the copy of the statement in his hand. “This statement in Spanish, which is the one signed by the witness, says ‘between two thirty and three o’clock.’ In Spanish, the word appears y—and—three o’clock, not or three o’clock.”
Ellis, his back to the jury, glared at Siakos. “Did you see this statement?” Ellis asked. He handed the paper to Siakos.
“I saw it,” replied Siakos. “I saw a copy of it, and I challenge the translation.”
“You can’t challenge my translation because this is the translation supplied to me by Mr. Luca,” Ellis fumed.
“Mr. Luca is not a good translator,” said Siakos. “Let’s have it translated now. Let’s have the official interpreter here do it.”
Sandro rose, “I am not any kind of a translator.”
Siakos smiled and winked at Sandro.
“If he pulls this off, he’s made up for everything else during the trial,” Sam whispered.
Sandro nodded.
“I submit, Your Honor,” said Siakos, “the word or in English is written in Spanish o, meaning exactly the same; the word here in Spanish is y meaning and—between two thirty and three, not or.”
“I heard the point. We will recess for a few minutes to let the interpreter look at it,” said the judge.
Everyone filed out of the courtroom.
When the trial resumed, Sandro asked to have the interpreter translate the entire statement, so that there would be no further mistakes. She did, including the phrase “and between the hours of two thirty and three, about that time, Luis Alvarado was in my shop.”
“Your Honor,” Sandro requested, “may I at this time correct the English translation contained on that statement to read two thirty and three?”
“Deem it corrected. The interpreter has said so.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sandro sat and leaned over to look at Sam’s notes. Sam squeezed his arm.
“Don’t smile,” Sam cautioned.
Ellis tried to pick up the pieces. He questioned Moreno about how many other times he had spoken to Sandro. Moreno said he had seen Sandro many times, and each time he had said the same things to him. Ellis handed Moreno a two-by-two photograph taken of Alvarado the morning of July 4th at police headquarters. He asked if the photo fairly depicted the haircut he had given to Alvarado on July 3rd. Moreno studied the picture and said it looked like it.
Sam objected to the picture, since it was not in evidence, and since the conditions of its taking or developing were unknown. In addition, the photo was too small to show anything more than a general impression of a haircut.
Ellis offered the picture into evidence.
Even though the photograph was small, the line around Alvarado’s ear and neck was straight and clean. His moustache was perfectly trimmed. The judge allowed the picture into evidence.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sandro assured Sam. “I’ll have motion pictures and eight-by-ten glossies Tuesday.”
The clerk gave the jury a magnifying glass, and each of the jurors studied the picture.
The police spotter returned to the courtroom and whispered something to Ellis.
“Mr. Moreno,” Ellis asked, “in August of 1964, were you living at Eighteen-ten Broadway, in Brooklyn?”
“Yes.”
“Did you assault someone with a bottle in that month.”
“No.”
Ellis looked at Moreno, then turned toward his chair. He looked at Sandro. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Sandro asked no further questions of Moreno.
“Your next witness, please,” said the judge.
“In our orderly procedure, Your Honor, our next witnesses will be from the American Broadcasting Company, but they cannot be in court until tomorrow. Our only available witness is the defendant Alvarado. Since the hour is late, and his testimony shall be lengthy, may we adjourn until tomorrow?” asked Sam.
“Yes. We stand adjourned until tomorrow morning, members of the jury. Do not discuss this case amongst yourselves or with anyone else.”
The judge and jury left the courtroom.
“It’s always best to leave the jury with a strong point to think about overnight. And we were strong!” said Sam.
CHAPTER XXX
“What the hell did Roosevelt say when you finally found him?” Sandro asked.
“He said he was too busy, that he didn’t have time to go to court,” Mike answered.
“Well, we’ll get him tonight. Either he goes to court, or, goddamn it, I’ll get the judge to send a court officer after him. I’m tired of having to beg these witnesses to help us. Not only do we have to know the law, be able to plead the case, and sway the jury, but we’ve also got to wet-nurse a bunch of people who think they’re doing us a favor.”
“I’d love to see some of them if they were ever in trouble,” said Mike. “They’d sing a different tune if they needed someone to testify for them.”
Sandro grunted.
Mike parked the car on Stanton Street.
“While we’re here,” said Sandro, “we might as well talk to Hernandez’s wife, and see if we can get to the bottom of this story Sal Angeletti told us.”
“Why bother? At the bottom of it, is the beast with two backs,” Mike said as he wheeled the car into the tight space.
Mike knocked on the door to Roosevelt Jackson’s apartment. Music was coming from within. Mike knocked again. A small Negro boy opened the door.
“Is your daddy home?” asked Sandro.
Mike looked impatiently at Sandro. “Is Roosevelt in?” Mike asked. The boy disappeared inside. “He might disappear forever if you want him to find his daddy. Let’s just get to Roosevelt.”
The boy returned and waved them to enter. They found themselves in the kitchen. The sink was piled with dishes. The rest of the apartment was dark except for a small night-light in the bedroom. The boy pointed that way.
“Can you see anything in there?” asked Mike.
Sandro peered into the darkness. He could see a dark mass on what seemed to be the bed.
“There’s our Roosev
elt, if I’m not mistaken,” said Sandro. He entered the room cautiously. Mike was a step behind him. As they got closer, the air became thick with the smell of cheap wine. Jackson was in his shorts, sprawled face up on the bed.
“Roosevelt,” Sandro called.
There was a grunt.
“Roosevelt, it’s Mr. Luca, the lawyer.” Sandro crouched next to the bed, inhaling reluctantly.
A groan, and Jackson shifted position.
“What happened to you today, Roosevelt? You know we needed you in court. I even sent a car here to pick you up.”
“I jus’ di’n’t have no time today to go to no court. I was busy.”
“Roosevelt, you’ve got to go to court tomorrow,” Sandro said, wishing that he didn’t need him.
“Maybe I can make it, ‘n maybe I be too busy again.”
“No, tomorrow you’ve got to make it, Roosevelt. Where’s your hand,” Sandro groped in the dark. “Where’s your goddamn hand?” He found Roosevelt’s hand and put a subpoena and a dollar into it. “That in your hand is a subpoena. If you don’t come to court tomorrow, I’ll have the judge send a court officer after you.”
“You gon’ get me in trouble? You gon’ do that to your friend, Roosevelt?”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble, Roosevelt. That’s why I’m going to send the car for you again.” Sandro peered into the dark, still not able to make out if Jackson’s eyes were open or closed.
“You gon’ send car?”
“That’s right. At ten o’clock this time. And you’d better be there. And you’d better be sober, Roosevelt. I don’t want to tell the judge that his friend Roosevelt is not behaving himself.”
“You tell that judge Roosevelt is behavin’. You tell the judge I be there tomorrow.”
“I’m going to send the car for you, at ten,” Sandro said. “You be sure to be ready.”
“I’ll be there. Don’ you worry none. I’ll be all ready.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here. He doesn’t even know what the hell we’re talking about tonight. But tomorrow morning, you come here, and if he’s not ready, you get him dressed. He’ll wake up with that subpoena. It’s no joke. You tell him that.”
“I’ll get him there if I have to carry him,” Mike replied. “No, I take that back.”
“You may just have to.” They started out of the apartment.
They walked over to 163 Stanton Street and climbed the stairs. Mike knocked. Mrs. Hernandez came to the door and smiled. She began chatting with Mike in Spanish as they entered. She nodded and smiled at Sandro. She offered them a cup of coffee. Mike accepted. Sandro said he didn’t feel like coffee.
She and Mike continued to talk, and Sandro let Mike dispose of all the amenities.
“She’s asking me about how the case is going, what I think, and all that.”
“And are you telling her what a wonderful job you’re doing for her husband?”
“Right. I might as well make some points too.”
“Tell her that I’m still investigating, and I’m trying to track down something that has to do with the police in the case.”
Mike translated.
“And tell her that I want to talk to her about Detective Mullaly.”
Her eyes reacted to the sound of his name in English. She looked at Sandro, then back to Mike as he translated.
“Tell her that I’m interested only in the truth, so I can save my man, and her husband too, and I’m not interested in what she does with her time, or where she goes.”
She was watching Sandro’s face. Now she watched Mike as he spoke.
She shrugged.
“Ask her if Mullaly has been coming around here to see her.”
Her face grew into a bitter, resigned frown as Mike asked the question. She answered him.
“She says he was coming around investigating, and she spoke to him.”
“Tell her I’m not interested in that, and she knows it.” Sandro looked at Mrs. Hernandez as Mike spoke. Her eyes slid over to Sandro. He nodded knowingly.
“She says that he came over, and they went out to have dinner one night.”
“Would you tell her I’m a lawyer, not a priest, nor the D.A., nor her husband. I’m not interested in her private life, except as it affects the defense of this case.”
Mike spoke Spanish to her. She replied.
“She says she saw him hit Alvarado in the station house, this Mullaly, and he seemed to be running things.”
“Go ahead, get the rest of it.”
“I am, I am. She doesn’t like the idea of telling me. She doesn’t mind you so much. You’re like the official, an American. But she’s embarrassed in front of me.”
“Well, when I learn Spanish, she can tell it to me directly. Right now, ask her to explain it to you for me.”
Mike spoke to her again. She responded, slowly. Her voice was getting softer and slower.
“And he took her home from the station house,” Mike translated. “She figured that he was the law, that he could help her husband if he wanted to. Dumb bitch! The next time he came around, a few days later, she asked him in for coffee.”
“When did they go for dinner?”
Mike asked. “She says about two weeks later. He was being nice to her, seemed to be trying to help. She didn’t know what the hell was going on or where to turn,” Mike said with irritation. “Every time she’d go to the jail or the station house, they’d give her the runaround. So she tried to make friends with the police through Mullaly. She sure picked a beaut.”
“Whose version of this am I getting, hers or yours?”
“Both.” Mike was about to say more when Mrs. Hernandez started speaking again without any questions to prompt her this time. Her voice rose suddenly. She let the coffee cup she had been drying with a towel drop shatteringly to the floor. She started walking around the room, talking loudly.
“What the hell is going on now?” Sandro asked.
“She said they went to dinner a couple of times. They couldn’t communicate too well, each spoke only a little of the other’s language.”
“Come on, get down to the gory details.”
“Wait a minute, will you. She’s telling this story like it’s the Chinese water torture. Son-of-a-bitch Mullaly’s telling her all sorts of bullshit about helping her husband, and she’s eating it up.” Mike was openly angry now.
“Listen, Mike, if you don’t want to go through with this, we don’t need it. I don’t think Mrs. Hernandez’s peccadilloes affect the case that much.”
“No, let’s find out what kind of real scum this Mullaly is.”
Mike spoke to her again. She responded as she bent over the broken coffee cup picking at the fragments.
“She says they started seeing each other here. The fucking sport Mullaly used to bring Chinese food here, and she’d let her kid stay over at her girl friend’s house while she’s trying to do her husband some good over here. Can you imagine these goddamn greenhorns? They discussed it, her girl friend and her, and they figured it was a good move.” Mike shook his head.
Mrs. Hernandez continued speaking.
“He used to come over here two or three nights a week,” Mike translated, “telling her he was trying to help her husband. Helping himself is what he meant.”
“Hey, Mike. Will you stop the bullshit. Just tell me what she’s saying and stop adding confusion to the story.”
“Sorry. It just burns me up, this flatfoot bastard, taking what he can get from her, to help her husband, and meanwhile he’s giving us every screwing in the book to sink not only Hernandez but Alvarado too.”
“Go ahead with her story.”
“That’s about all there was to it. When the time for trial came around, she was asking him, you know, how come they were going to trial. She figured he had it all fixed up. I can’t help it, Sandro, that son of a bitch really burns me up, handing her that line and slipping it to her at the same time.”
“She knew what she was doing. I
mean, she thought she was bribing him for his help. She was wrong. Don’t get carried away.”
“These people just off the plane, they don’t know what the hell is going on here. Mullaly should have left her alone.”
“And if you were in his position?”
“Yeah, but I’m her own kind.” Mike smiled ruefully.
“What happened then, after the trial started?”
“They had a big fight, because he was stalling her, coming over, saying the judge insisted on the trial, even though he was trying to put in a good word, and all that kind of bullshit. And then she figured it out. The reason she didn’t tell you is she figured you might make trouble for Mullaly and that’d only make it worse for Hernandez. She’s still afraid.”
Mrs. Hernandez was watching the conversation between Mike and Sandro. Sandro looked over at her. She shrugged with resignation and tiredness. Tears seemed to be welling up at her eyes.
“Has she been seeing him since the trial began?” Sandro asked.
Mike relayed the question.
“She says she didn’t see him again until she saw him in court and pointed him out.”
Sandro looked at her again. The tears were unmistakable now. Sandro nodded, trying to convey understanding. He reached out and touched her hand. She sobbed and put her head down on the kitchen table.
“I’m going,” Sandro said, standing.
“You’re not leaving me here,” said Mike. He rose.
Hearing the scrape of their chairs, she looked up. She started to speak again to Mike, wiping at her eyes.
“She says she was only trying to help.”
“Tell her everything is fine.”
Mike spoke to her again. She replied.
“She’s saying something about some guy who owns a factory in a building right behind this house,” said Mike. “He came over one day and told her that he and one of his men saw the whole thing from a fire escape, but they didn’t want to go to the police. They didn’t know who to speak to.”
“He said he saw what whole thing?” Sandro asked.
Mike inquired. “He told her he saw the cop going up to the roof and all that.”
“Did he say that he saw the shooting?”
“She says he didn’t say.”
“Does she have this guy’s name and address?”
PART 35 Page 49