by Tom Connolly
Don’t go to the fourth car, Stevens said to himself. It won’t work with the open space next to it.
She continued walking, glancing over her shoulder, as if thinking she were being followed. I’m in front of you bitch, Stevens laughed in his mind.
She was, yes, she was going to the second car—cover and close to the stairwell.
Stevens pulled back further into the recess. He couldn’t see her now, but could hear her reaching in for the keys; she was close. He looked, she had her hand bag up, and she was beside the car, only she was facing him. He crouched down and began to move.
The woman got the keys out of her handbag and turned to put the key in the door of the Chrysler 300. As her right hand went out to insert the key, Stevens struck. He hit her in the head with his left arm in a swiping motion to knock her down. She fell backwards but stayed on her feet. Stevens reached across her arm to get the bag. He had it and started to pull. She wouldn’t let go.
“Let go of it, bitch,” he yelled at her.
She screamed. She screamed loud; she was going to tell the whole world. He had to act fast—he took a quick glance as he tousled with her. No one else was nearby. He let go of the handbag, put his left arm against her neck and pushed her against the first car. It set off the car alarm. She screeched even louder now. His head was pounding. With his right hand he reached in his rear pocked and pulled out a knife. It came alive as he flicked it open. In one motion he plunged it into her stomach. She kept screaming. He brought the knife back up to his shoulder, removed his left arm from her neck, and stuck the point in her throat, pushing as it entered. He left it there.
Stevens grabbed the handbag from the falling woman, and ran. As he got to the stairwell he heard someone yelling over by the mall entrance. Two men, they were coming towards him, yelling at him. He was now in the stairwell, rifling the purse blindly as he leapt two, three stairs at a time in his downward flight. He found it, her wallet. He dropped the bag and secured the wallet inside his jacket.
He could hear the two men behind him, yelling something. What was it they were saying? He heard a static sound from a two-way radio.
“Stop, police,” they were shouting. Holy shit, cops. Where did they come from? He was now steps from the door that would take him to the street when he heard the first shot, or was it that he felt it first. He couldn’t be sure, now he was hit, bleeding somewhere around his left leg. He couldn’t stop. He got to the door and exited.
He saw the throngs of people just down the walk in front of him. Not more than thirty yards, then he would be able to mix and disappear.
As he looked ahead right in front of him, a Stamford Police car had screeched to a halt. Two policemen exited, one drawing his gun. A second car, unmarked, pulled up, another man jumped out with a gun drawn.
Stevens reeled. There was an area to the right; it was narrow, was fronted by some bushes and seemed to be an alley in back of the street front stores. He dashed for it, the pain in his leg unbearable. Once behind the bushes and hidden in the alley, he bent down and took a nine millimeter hand gun from an ankle holster. The first of the two cops trailing him stumbled out of the door, and he fired wildly at them hoping to hold them off as he made a getaway. The two pulled themselves back into the cover of the stairwell.
Stevens turned to run, then looked back again to see if he was being pursued. A second shot rang out; it hit Stevens in the left side, knocking him to the ground.
The man in plain clothes quickly was upon Stevens.
Now Stevens knew; this was how it was going to end. He could feel the pain, the blood gushing out of him, his life slipping away, quickly. The man was saying something to him. The man kicked the gun out of his hand. He could feel he was going to pass out. CJ, what about CJ. He was in there; he was going to be in there forever and he didn’t do it. His last thoughts? He felt himself coming back; it was clearing up. Now he could hear the man. “Don’t move, don’t make a move or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.” Too late, I’m done. But CJ.
“Listen, you gotta help me. CJ didn’t do it.”
“What’s that asshole; you didn’t just knife that woman upstairs,” the detective said as he reached inside Stevens’s jacket and retrieved her wallet.
“No, I did that. But seven years ago, another knifing.” Stevens struggled to talk. He struggled to break the confidence he had promised Strong, tell him, tell him, Parker Barnes did it. But I made a promise to CJ that I wouldn’t.
“Go ahead get it out,” the detective said sarcastically. “I love deathbed confessions.”
“Curtis Strong was convicted of killing Augusto Santos seven years ago,” Stevens gasped, not much time left, he could feel himself slipping. “I was dealing drugs from Santos and knifed him. Strong was just walking by and tried to help the guy when he heard him moaning. I swear on my mother’s soul. Strong is in Auburn; he was convicted. You gotta tell someone they got the wrong guy. I did that,” Stevens said. And he died.
The detective looked at Stevens then hollered over his shoulder to the others, “All clear, he’s down,” and as the uniformed police started forward, Detective Sergeant John Walsh leaned down and said to the dead man, “Probably the only decent thing you’ve ever done in your life you sorry son of a bitch. Too bad your little secret is going to die with you.”
Officer Larry Bell came up beside Walsh. “We’ve got an ambulance on the way for the woman upstairs. She’s in real bad shape, lost a lot of blood. Is he dead?” and seeing Walsh nod, added, “Good shooting. Bastard almost got us coming out the door. You know this guy, Sarge? I heard him talking to you. What did he say?” Bell asked.
“Seen him around a lot. Know he’s got a record, Strong or something like that.” Walsh said absentmindedly thinking about the mountain of paperwork coming when there was a fatal shooting by police. Walsh added, “Here’s the woman’s wallet. Let’s find out who she is and contact some family.”
Other officers arrived; sirens could be heard in the distance as more police along with an ambulance sped to this site.
Chapter 45
Vito Boriello thought about what he and Jim Ford had agreed on, essentially, to try to prove that an innocent man had been sitting in prison in upstate New York for ten years. Across the country there were more and more project innocence task forces emerging, particularly as forensic science, technology and law school researchers came into being.
In the case of Curtis Strong Jr. no new science or technology would come into play, and the only researchers seeking to help Mr. Strong were Ford and Boriello.
In devising a list of to-dos, Boriello and Ford took those that would be easiest for them to handle from their respective locations. Boriello had begun his list and was coming up empty. Thumb print: yes, evidence and fingerprints confirmed that the thumb print on the knife that killed Augusto Santos was Strong’s. Strong said he had not touched the knife in trying to help save Santos’ life upon finding him hurt. Boriello ruled it a push—trying to save the guy’s life he may have inadvertently touched it.
First time offender—talk with community adults, what kind of kid was Strong. Here Boriello got good feedback, the guidance counselor at Westhill High School remembered Strong, even after seven years.
“He was a good kid; his mother always showed interest. His grades were good, not great, but he had a future. Killing someone, being involved in drugs—absolutely not!” Jim Frisoli told Boreillo over the phone.
“Jim, let me ask you, did the Strong’s defense counsel ask you to testify in his behalf?” Boriello pursued.
“No, never got a call. And I’d have spoken up for him,” Frisoli went on. “I’ve been in this job twenty years, taught ten years before that, and you get to know kids. It doesn’t matter what part of town they’re from. You know these kids. I can guarantee you that Curtis Strong would never hurt anyone. He was not into drugs or alcohol—he was very clear eyed. Bright kid, you know what I mean, Vito?”
“I do, Jim,” the detective said to
the guidance counselor he had known for half his life, both having grown up on Stamford’s West Side with neither ever moving anywhere else. “Thanks for your help. I may need to call on you again?’
“Sure, Vito, anytime,” Frisoli said.
What Frisoli was telling Boriello was exactly what he was hearing from Ford and from a completely different environment. Frisoli also gave Boriello the name of one of Strong’s teachers, and he contacted her. Another confirmation. Good person, you knew he didn’t have it in him to do evil. Good student. Peacemaker. Well, how in the bloody hell, Boreillo thought could this happen. Couldn’t anyone believe that a good kid would rush to help someone in trouble? Something very wrong here. Either Strong was very good at pulling the wool over adults’ eyes or a grave injustice had been committed. He was leaning towards the later.
And Augusto Santos, the man Curtis Strong had been convicted of killing, Boriello found out through a search of police data bases was an illegal immigrant with three prior arrests. One arrest was for domestic abuse; the other two were arrests for dealing drugs. In the first case he served one year in jail and was deported to Guatemala. Two years after deportation he was arrested again in Stamford for dealing drugs but cooperated with police and helped bring down part of a larger drug gang operating to supply the downtown business crowd. Charges were quietly dropped, his name never surfaced, and he was released. That was six months before his murder. A note in the file also indicated that he had crack cocaine in his possession at the time of his death. The theory of the killing was that it was a dispute over drugs. In Boriello’s mind, more evidence of innocence since Strong had a good reputation as a drug- and alcohol-free kid.
Boriello still had the judge and defense lawyer to talk with, but first he wanted to hear from a juror just what they saw. That is if he could find one willing to talk about the trial. He picked the names of two of jurors. One, Ann Lofrano, lived on the West Side. These connections to the old Italian neighborhood Boriello grew up in helped him throughout his career. He didn’t know the family but knew the Lofrano name.
The small cape on Burwood Ave was like one hundred others in the six-block by four-block area. At the head of the neighborhood was St. Clement of Rome Catholic Church, where all guidance originated growing up.
Ann Lofrano, a small, wide woman of about sixty, in a floral print house dress, slapped her leg and howled. “He was the funniest priest we ever had.”
“And he gave penances of whole rosaries,” Vito said, laughing also.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and laughed again.
“So, Ann,” Boriello began, “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, let me go over why I’m here.”
“Yes, Lieutenant, you mentioned it was a jury I served on?”
“Yes, and call me Vito. It was the Curtis Strong trial.”
“Yes, I remember. It’s the only jury I ever served on,” and Lofrano tensed and her face suddenly got older, more wrinkles showed up. “I’ll never do it again.”
“Why, what happened?” Boriello asked, now very interested.
“Why? The kid was innocent!” she blurted out.
Boriello was startled by statement. “What? How do you know he was innocent? How did the jury convict him?”
“Everyone knew he was innocent. Maybe more now, as time passes, but it was so clear he didn’t kill that man. But at the time I think the police confused us. No offense intended, Vito.”
“None taken, Ann. Tell me, how did the police confuse you?”
“The prosecutor badgered everyone. The judge made us continue to deliberate, when we were hung up ten to two for acquittal,” she said, looking at the worn carpet beneath their feet.
“Whoa, just a minute, Ann. Slow down just a bit,” Boriello encouraged her.
And over the next half hour, Ann Lofrano reconstructed how she, and the jury in its own innocence, let itself be led by the police, the prosecutor and the judge to a decision, now seen by her as one of horror—convicting an innocent man.
“There was reasonable doubt on everything they showed us. That boy was a good kid. No record, doing well in school, but no one stuck up for him. But the one who really did him in was that police sergeant, Walsh. The prosecutor led Walsh and us along with him through every detail of that night in a way that made it look like he did it, if you believed them. Walsh told us they had his fingerprints on the knife, they had a sneaker print in the blood beside the dead man, and that same sneaker was found in Curtis Strong’s closet. So that was all the evidence we had; it was so one sided. As I said no one stuck up for the kid. His lawyer was a lump. He only brought one person as a character witness for him, a teacher. He never challenged the police version at all, except in his summary to us that gave Strong’s version of Strong trying to help Santos.”
“But if you were voting ten to two to acquit, how is it that he was convicted? “ Boriello asked, clearly not understanding.
“When we were deliberating, we asked for the transcript of Sergeant Walsh’s testimony. The foreman of the jury, who was one of the two originally voting to convict, used that testimony like a hammer on us. I still remember the way he pounded the table, and he was a big man, worked in construction, I think.”
Boriello did not like what he was hearing. Dominant men acting as foremen had swayed more than one jury in Boriello’s career. It went against all logic that honest citizens, confronted with reasonable doubt of a person’s guilt, would nonetheless vote to convict that person if there were strong enough or coercive enough energy in the jury room.
Lofrano continued, Boriello could see, needing to get this burden out. “He would slam his fist down on the table. He says to us, “Look, they have Strong’s fingerprints on the knife. His sneaker left a bloody footprint at the murder scene. This same sneaker was found in his home with Augusto Santos’ blood on it.” Then he would slam his fist down again. “What are we waiting for, he did it, damn it.” Then he said, “Let’s vote again.” The next vote was seven to five to acquit. But that was all he needed, to see that we could be moved. I felt like I was in a lynch mob.”
She stopped, got up, and went to the kitchen, which adjoined the living room they had been sitting in. Boriello saw her grab a dish towel and wipe her eyes. With her back to him, she said, “I need a glass of water, would you like one, Vito?”
“Yes, Ann, please.”
As she sat back down, Boriello could see the redness in her eyes, and as she looked up, he looked at his glass.
“Anyway, pardon me,” she said, “This was going on for days. Every day another one of us would weaken. I know we’re not supposed to, but a couple of us, three, talked one night and said we were not going to change our vote from not guilty to guilty. About the fourth day, the judge came in the jury room and said something like, “This is a very important case. An innocent man has been killed, and the police have worked very hard to bring him justice. I am not going to allow a hung jury. Please work harder to come to a unanimous decision.”
“That’s not possible,” said Boriello, his Italian temper rising.
“It’s true,” Mrs. Lofrano continued. “Our original position, the ten of us voting not guilty, was that we understood what the police were saying, but there was just as much likelihood that what the defense attorney said was true—that the boy heard a cry for help, went to his aid, and in the process got fingerprints on the knife and blood on his sneaker. But that damn foreman just kept pounding the table, going over what Sergeant Walsh said when the prosecutor asked him, “Now, Sergeant, in your experience, have you ever seen an innocent man run off when he was trying to help a victim?”
“No, not once,” Walsh said. And the foreman slammed the table in the jury room again, saying, “No, not once.” Walsh continued, I remember him saying, “If you went into that alley to help a dying man, you don’t run off like you’re guilty. Mr. Strong committed that murder; those are his fingerprints on the knife and Mr. Santos blood on his sho
es.” And that awful defense attorney never objected, never challenged any of the police witnesses. It was like he had no idea what he was doing. I feel really bad for that kid. Is he still in prison?”
“Yes, more six and a half years now,” Boriello said looking at a woman who aged since he had come into her home.
“I went to his sentencing,” Lofrano said, “almost no one there. Only his mother and another black lady she sat with at the trial. Defense attorney never came back, was out of town on some ‘deal.’ They had to have a public defender sit with Mr. Strong.”
Boriello shook his head.
“And, don’t let me forget this, they sent a seventeen-year-old boy to that awful prison. I went to the library. I read about that place, Auburn. A murderous hell hole. God forgive me for what I’ve been a part of,” and tears rolled down her face, yet she did not cry.
“Ann, I believe like you that Mr. Strong is innocent. We are going to appeal his conviction and try to get it thrown out. Will you be willing to submit a statement if we are able to get a hearing for Curtis?”
“I’ll come there myself. Maybe I can undo some of the awfulness of what we did. And you need to talk to other jurors too. I’m not the only one who felt this way. Please talk with Mary Clark; she lives over in Springdale and with Francine Brown. I’m not sure where she lives anymore, but she used to live in Glenbrook.”
Boriello had been taking notes as Lofrano spoke and finished them with a note of the two ladies and the Stamford neighborhoods they were from.
At the door as she was seeing him out, Boriello gave Lofrano a hug. He could see she needed one.
Chapter 46
“CJ, I’ve met with a detective in Stamford who agreed to help. We’ve come up with a number of things we need to track down the answers to. But one of those things is you,” James Ford was saying to Curtis Strong in Ford’s office, where it was customary for him to counsel one on one with convicts.