“Now, there were other people who came here,” Sandro said, matter-of-factly, “who said that Alvarado couldn’t have been the man because he was in Brooklyn at the very time Lauria met his death in Manhattan. People like Annie Mae Cooper and Phil Gruberger and Pablo Torres and Francisco Moreno.
“Do you think it’s possible to get much closer physically to a person than a barber gets when giving a haircut or trimming a moustache. That’s closer than eighty feet away, or two stories away, isn’t it?
“And the barber Moreno says Alvarado was in his shop getting a haircut and moustache trim at the very time, the very time the officer was being killed in Manhattan. And the pictures, taken by ABC, show Alvarado as he appeared early on the morning of July fourth, moustache and haircut perfect. Perfect. And Annie Mae Cooper tells you Alvarado was in Brooklyn changing a hundred-dollar bill; and Phil Gruberger supports that story. But the police will have you believe Alvarado needed money for a fix. And there was Pablo Torres, who also tells you that Alvarado was in Brooklyn.
“Can you dismiss these people? Did Mr. Ellis discredit them in the least on cross-examination? Well, I know that Moreno was once fined two dollars for shooting dice. A wonder he wasn’t hanged for such a crime. But other than that, did Mr. Ellis show that these witnesses were unworthy of belief?
“Doesn’t that testimony create some doubt in your mind? Maybe Mrs. Santos and Mrs. Salerno are wrong. Maybe Moreno is correct. Maybe. That is reasonable, isn’t it? There are reasons to support such belief. Well, that’s all I’m asking you to think about. Reasonable doubt.”
Sandro stood still before the center of the jury box.
“Now the district attorney might tell you that Julio, the barber’s friend, is the key to Alvarado’s alibi, that Julio didn’t get to the barber shop until after four P.M. and not two P.M., and therefore Alvarado wasn’t there at two twenty-five. Well, you saw Julio here, and you heard him testify on the public record that if he had signed out early on July third and put down a false time he would be fired, fired by the City of New York, the same city for which the police work, the same city that pays the bills around this courtroom. Do you think he was going to admit here that he left the job early on July third?
“Nobody checked Julio out that day, no clock punched his time out. He just wrote something down in pencil and left. It was July third. The next day was a holiday. People were leaving early, preparing to go away for the weekend. I’m not saying Julio is a liar and a cheat. He’s just a normal person, doing something that is repeated in thousands of places of work on every holiday weekend. You get out a little early so you don’t get caught up in the crowd.
“With all the evidence in this trial—the medical evidence, the testimony of Mrs. Hernandez, the doctors, the witnesses who saw Alvarado in Brooklyn at the time the policeman was killed—all that evidence pointing to Alvarado’s innocence, is that going to be outweighed by Julio’s protesting that he didn’t sign his time card out early on July third?”
Sandro was starting to move up toward the foreman again. He was starting to speed the tempo again. The jurors were tuned perfectly.
“Are all the inconsistencies—the jimmy that never was, the yellow jacket and black pants, the gray suit, the face that Mrs. Salerno didn’t see, then did see, the face Mrs. Ramirez said was definitely not Alvarado’s, Mrs. Santos seeing face-to-face level, which turned out not to be anything like face-to-face level, Mrs. Santos seeing impossible things in that hallway, testifying to the double-parked car on the wrong side of the street—are all these inconsistencies, taken with the proof in Alvarado’s favor, going to be outweighed because Julio couldn’t possibly have signed out early on July third?
“How many of you have wanted to leave early on a holiday weekend? How many of you have actually left your job early on a holiday weekend? Is it so unusual for a fellow to think of, to do, when no one else is around? The job is finished for the day, and you have nothing to do except wait for the clock to move around so you can check out.
“Are Alvarado’s own activities on that night when he was captured to be outweighed by Julio’s denial? Did Alvarado ever, ever, except for what the police say occurred behind the closed doors of that third-floor locker room, did Alvarado ever once do anything that would be the act of a guilty man? Think about it!”
Sandro stood still, searching the eyes of the jurors.
“If Alvarado were guilty, why did he go back to that rooming house in Brooklyn? If Alvarado were guilty, once he did get there unnoticed, why didn’t he run away when the super told him the cops were waiting there? And if he were guilty, why didn’t he fight, try to get away, give a false name?
“And if he were guilty, when he was here in court, why did he reject that statement he supposedly made to the D.A.? The statement where the terror leaps from the pages? Wouldn’t a guilty man grab that to his bosom, wouldn’t he hold on to that repudiation for dear life?
“But, no! Alvarado says he didn’t make such a statement. He denies the denial. Would a guilty man do that? Is this the act of a guilty man? I ask you again, has Alvarado ever once in this case acted as a guilty man might, other than what the police say happened in that third-floor locker room? I ask only that you use your senses. That’s all your oath calls for.”
Sandro had moved back a couple of steps now.
“Now, the death of Fortune Lauria was a crime—indeed, a heinous crime. And no one is saying it didn’t happen. The question you have to answer is, are you convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that it was Alvarado who did it? Because the crime was committed doesn’t mean that Alvarado was there. Because some of the elements of the crime exist doesn’t mean that Alvarado was responsible for them.
“We are here for justice, for truth—not vengeance. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I shall revenge. He doesn’t need you to help Him.
“There’s something that bothers me,” Sandro’s eyes were searching out each of the jurors intently. “Perhaps it shouldn’t, but it does. It bothers me when people in the street, people on television, newspaper accounts, even law-enforcement officials—people who should know better—it bothers me when I hear them say that the rights of the ordinary citizens are being stepped upon, that the courts are letting criminals get away with murder.
“When the rights of a defendant, a man on trial, are being protected, the rights of citizens are being protected. For criminals are citizens before they are criminals. And if we decide, arbitrarily, that the only rights to be protected are the rights of those who are not arrested, and anyone who is arrested be damned, then what happens in a case where an innocent man is arrested? What happens the night, God forbid, when you are coming home from the movies, a newspaper under your arm, and you find yourself looking into the business end of a .38 caliber Police Special. You are innocent, but you are arrested nonetheless. Would you want to lose your rights at the moment you are arrested? Should you? And if you shouldn’t, why should anyone else?
“Didn’t all of you say that you understood a man to be innocent until proven guilty? Well, if that is so—and it is—then the Supreme Court of the United States is not coddling criminals when it provides protection for accused citizens who must stand trial. Until convicted, Luis Alvarado and all defendants on trial are citizens presumed innocent of crime. To protect them is to protect citizens. To protect Luis Alvarado is to protect yourself.”
Sandro still hadn’t moved a muscle in his body except for his hands, which occasionally gave full shape to his words.
“Oh, yes, you might think that you are different from Alvarado, that you could never be where he is today. Let me tell you just how close you, you, came to being the defendant in this case, gentlemen. How far, really are most of us removed from where Alvarado stands? Supposing it was a white man with red hair who had been seen on the fire escape, and the police badgered and burdened Hernandez until he gave them the name of a white man with red hair instead of the name Luis Alvarado. Then someone else would be on trial here, not bec
ause he was any more guilty or innocent than Luis Alvarado, but because he fit the new description as Luis Alvarado fitted the old. Didn’t Hernandez say Alvarado was the first Negro he could think of, and he gave this name because he thought they’d kill him in that station house if he didn’t give them any?
“And if a white man with black hair had been described to Hernandez, someone else would be here today.
“And suppose Hernandez worked with you, had delivered something to your home, saw you in a store somewhere, and as punches were being rained upon his head, as he was being beaten and badgered, prodded, shoved, a name was demanded of him, and suppose he said, as a vision came before his mind, the repairman who came around to my house the other day is the white man with red hair, the man in the store on Sixty-eighth Street and Second Avenue is the white man with black hair, the letter carrier from around the corner is the colored guy you’re looking for.
“And that person he named turned out to be you. Think about it for a moment. He mentioned you. Just think that somewhere in this city right now someone may be giving your name to the authorities. And just suppose when you go home, you are told there are policemen waiting for you, and you go to see them, because you have nothing to fear or hide, because you are innocent. Then see how different you are from Luis Alvarado.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what has happened here, as Mr. Bemer suggested in his opening statement, is that the police have put a patch-quilt story together. They had to fit the accused into the available facts, and they did it with no more skill than a high-school boy might have if he saw the roof and the dead patrolman, his gun missing. They patched this surmise together because someone saw a Negro on the fire escape, and someone else saw a Negro running down the stairs several buildings away.
“Why else would it be necessary, as the alleged confessions indicate, for a burglar to see the gates and the locks on the window from the inside and not know the windows were locked until he came down the fire escape?
“Why else would they need that fence in the rear yard?
“And don’t forget that story about the jimmy.
“In their haste to fasten the blame on someone, the police patch-worked these defendants into this courtroom today.
“Have you at any point stopped to consider what story the police would have told if Hernandez were Negro? The police did not need two men. They would have accepted Hernandez’s confession of the crime—if he had only been Negro. He would have fitted the available facts. And there would be only one defendant here today.
“Think about these things, ladies and gentlemen. Think about them, citizens.”
Sandro wheeled and pointed to the defendant.
“Look at yourself, citizens, sitting there, wondering how you, who might be sitting where Alvarado is sitting now, ever got here. And it’s as easy as that. As easy as that. Alvarado was arrested only because he fit a description. Maybe next time, it will be your description.
“And don’t tell me that you’ll be able to prove with whom you were. Don’t tell me, unless you constantly associate with police officials, legislators, bank presidents, financiers, priests, and the like. Don’t just be in a five-and-ten, a luncheonette, a barber shop getting a haircut. Do important things, always. Because juries disregard common citizens doing common things, things that each of us, you and I, do, day in and day out. Sure, change it to a beauty shop, change it to a grocery store. Do you think that if the people who know that you were in such a shop came in here to say you were there, it would make any difference to a jury?
“Well, we’ll see here. You’ll give that answer.
“Or will your answer be that once you’re arrested, once you’re sitting at that table as Luis Alvarado is at this moment, you have no rights, you have no dignity, you are a criminal, you should be flogged, you should be cut into bits, you should be drawn and quartered, torn apart by horses?”
Some of the jurors looked frightened. Sandro started again, more quietly.
“Or should you be judged by men who accept you as a stranger who should be pronounced a criminal only after the district attorney has presented enough evidence to convince those jurors beyond all reasonable doubt about all the elements of the crime charged?
“The law, ladies and gentlemen, is the foundation stone of all culture; it is the bedrock upon which we can move freely as human beings, rather than as animals in a jungle who can be struck down at random and by whim. And the law says that Luis Alvarado is presumed to be innocent. The facts in this case show him to be innocent. But it is you who must pronounce him innocent.
“When you go into the jury room, decide the fate of Luis Alvarado as if your verdict affected you personally. Believe me, it does.
“Thank you.”
Sandro walked back to the defense table. Sam reached up and shook his hand.
“That was fabulous, kid. Fabulous.”
Sandro smiled.
“Don’t smile,” Sam cautioned, ever the watchdog.
“We’ll take a few minutes recess before Mr. Siakos begins his summation,” said the judge. The jury filed out of the courtroom. The attorneys went out into the corridor.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Friday, April 26th, 1968, P.M.
Ellis and his detectives had retired to the witness room. The defense lawyers walked into the public corridor, where a crowd of spectators milled around them, buzzing with comments and questions. Sandro smiled, nodded, continuing to walk with Sam until they got clear of the crowd.
Sandro leaned against the wall. “My mind is starting to close down for the season.”
Mike walked over to join them. He was smiling. “You got them. You really got them with that.” He grabbed Sandro in an embrace, twirling him around.
Siakos came over. He clapped Sandro on the back. “You know, Sandro, I think we may really have something here. We may have a real bombshell on our hands here with these fellows. You showed that to the jury. These men may be innocent.”
“May be?” asked Mike.
“Sure,” said Siakos, heading toward the men’s room at the far end of the corridor.
Sandro’s eyes followed Siakos.
The break lasted about ten minutes. Finally, a court officer entered the corridor.
“Case on trial,” he called out. The crowd started back in. The lawyers followed.
Now Siakos began his summation, facing the jury. Sandro watched his back. Passages, sentences, words drifted occasionally into his consciousness. Fortunately, Sam was there as the ever-vigilant guardian of the legal concepts, the objections, and the arguments. Sandro’s mind floated off on thoughts of long aquamarine waves rolling “—over Hernandez’s taped chest.” Sandro gave a start and relaxed back into the white foam, and saw the sand and colorful cabanas beneath the sun “—of El Barrio on a rainy morning where the defendant Hernandez broke into—” And so it went, station house, pawnshops, and medical records fusing into small, single-sail boats far off on the horizon, long strips of beach, long, firm, beautiful legs, and brief bikinis.
When Siakos had summed up the entire Hernandez case to the jury, Judge Porta declared a lunch recess.
Sandro, though tired, remembered the defendants’ lunch. He bought four hot dogs at the orange-and-blue umbrellaed wagon just outside the courthouse. The defendants didn’t have much appetite, however, as they awaited Ellis’s summation.
Now the courtroom was filling up again, waiting for Ellis to begin. After the morning session, with its two summations, and the lunch recess, the atmosphere had become quiet, almost exhausted. Ellis sat at his counsel table looking at some papers. The defense counsel and the defendants sat waiting. The drone of the central air-conditioner could be heard vibrating in the silence. The jurors were brought out. The judge entered the courtroom. He too now seemed quiet, slow, as if ready to relax after the long, hard struggle.
“Mr. Ellis, you may begin,” the judge said.
Ellis rose and walked to the jury box. He put his notes down on the shelf and vie
wed the jury quietly for a moment. His stony face was emotionless.
“Your Honor, defense counsel, Mr. foreman, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I am frank to say, after listening to the summations for the defense this morning, that when I went to my office after lunch, I had to reread the indictment to make sure the defendants—not the policemen, not the witnesses—were on trial here. Mr. Luca seems to want us all to believe that everyone who came here, including plain ordinary citizens who have nothing to do with the police, who just happen to live on the block where Patrolman Fortune Lauria met his death, were involved in some monstrous conspiracy against the defendants. Mr. Luca would have you believe that everyone who came here lied, everyone except the defendants.
“Now, as I see it, there are only two aspects of importance in this case, the alibi defense and the confessions by the defendants. I’d like to address myself to the alibis and then to the confessions, for if you apply your common sense to the facts—not to the fireworks and smoke screens we have seen here—those alibis fall apart. And when the alibis, on which the defendants lean so heavily, fall apart, these defendants are left standing nakedly and confessedly guilty before you.
“I’d like to make just a quick aside. You know, I heard Mr. Luca tell you that he wasn’t going in for any emotional, fist-pounding oratory. And then he proceeded to make a totally emotional, fist-pounding oration. Do you know why? It was because he had to shout to drown out the facts that speak against the defendants.
“Let’s look at some of those facts.
“Of all the alibi witnesses who have come here, we need concern ourselves with only two. The others are smoke screens to distract you. But these two are the keystones, without whom the alibis are worthless. For Hernandez, the keystone is Angel Belmonte; for Alvarado, it’s Julio Maldonado.
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