Tragic

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Okay, but before I start asking questions, I want to repeat again, if you’d like a lawyer present, but can’t afford one, you can have one free of charge and confer with him before you and I start talking. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “So are you willing to answer my questions at this time without a lawyer present?”

  DiMarzo shrugged. “For now.”

  “Okay, you’ve consented to answer my questions,” Guma said. “So let’s get started. As I said, I want to talk to you about the murder of Vince Carlotta—”

  “Who?”

  Guma stopped talking for a moment and leaned forward to look the young man in the eyes. “Let’s not waste our time here playing games. We’re investigating the murder of Vince Carlotta, and I’m giving you a chance to talk about it. Maybe you’d like to get it off your chest.”

  DiMarzo stared at Guma for a few long moments and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but then his eyes darkened and he shook his head. “I ain’t no rat,” he said.

  Guma sat back in his chair and tossed his pencil onto the yellow legal pad in front of him. “So that’s it? Play the tough guy, live by the code of the streets,” he scoffed. “You’re not going to answer my questions, are you? But what about one of your boys? What about Gnat? We know he was just the driver. Maybe he’ll talk?”

  “Gnat wouldn’t rat on me.” DiMarzo scowled.

  “No? How about Bebnev then? Wasn’t he getting ready to shoot you and leave you in a landfill? You think he’s not going to be an informant?”

  DiMarzo remained quiet, looking down at his lap. He sniffed a little, but that was the only sound in the room for a full minute, until he shook his head and muttered, “I can’t.”

  Guma snorted. “You can’t? Or you won’t?” He sat forward, forcing DiMarzo to look up into his eyes. “Who you protecting, Frankie? Who you taking the fall for? Right now, they’re in their nice warm beds with full stomachs, and tomorrow morning they’ll get up and look out on the new snow and think, ‘What a beautiful day to be alive!’ But what will you be thinking, Frankie? That you’re lucky to be alive with a guilty conscience the size of a Doberman eating at your mind? They couldn’t care less about you, unless it’s to figure out how to kill you now that Bebnev messed up this afternoon.”

  The room was quiet again as everyone waited for Frank DiMarzo to choose. But when he did, it wasn’t what they hoped to hear. “I didn’t do nothin’, and I want to leave, and I want a lawyer.”

  With a sigh, Guma sat back in his chair. Game over, Karp thought in the next room. Nothing from here on out is worth a damn. Well, except for a couple of parting shots to make him think on it.

  “Okay, so we do this the hard way,” Guma said. “You’re going to cling to that tired old crap about ‘the code of the streets.’ You ain’t no rat. But it doesn’t matter; you’re going down, Frankie. All three of you.”

  “I’ve got nothing more to say to you,” DiMarzo replied.

  Guma smiled as he stood up. “That’s okay, Frankie, because I don’t have anything more to say to you, either. Well, except that you look like hell. Like maybe you aren’t sleeping so well. It’s not going to get any better, you know, not until you own up and try to make it as right as you can. We’ll get you that lawyer now.”

  After DiMarzo was led out, Guma looked at the mirror as he spoke. “I think I was close but no cigar.”

  Karp pressed the intercom button. “Had him looking at that curve you threw, but he didn’t swing,” he said.

  “Bebnev next?” Fulton asked.

  “Yeah, but I’m not holding my breath,” Karp said.

  When Alexei Bebnev walked into the room, he looked around the room with scorn. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Ray Guma; I’m an assistant district attorney with the County of New York,” Guma replied, indicating with his hand that Bebnev should sit down across from him. “We’re here tonight with Alexei Bebnev. Mr. Bebnev, I’d like to ask you some questions about the December fifth shooting death of Vincent Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen and—”

  “I have nothing to say to you, zhopa,” Bebnev snarled as he remained standing. “I know my rights. I want lawyer.”

  Guma stood and glared at the Russian. “Very well, Mr. Bebnev,” he said. “Then I’ll just inform you that you are under arrest for the December fifth murder of Vince Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. And now I’ll advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can be used against you. You also have the right to an attorney; if you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided free of charge. Do you understand?”

  “Vali otsjuda!” Bebnev cursed and spat on the floor.

  Guma shook his head. “That’s the second time you’ve spoken some Russian. What’s it mean? Or would you like me to get a translator?”

  “It means ‘fuck off.’ I want lawyer now!”

  “I take it, then, that you understand your Miranda rights and have invoked your right to remain silent and have a lawyer present,” Guma said as a police officer, summoned by Karp, entered the room. “You’ll now be taken to the Tombs to be booked, and at your arraignment in court a lawyer will be appointed to represent you. Sleep well, Mr. Bebnev.”

  After Bebnev was escorted out, the men met in the hallway. “Guess I walked him,” Guma said with a smile.

  “I don’t think he ever came up to the plate,” Karp laughed. “It wasn’t going to go any other way though, but still I got a good look at what we’re going to be dealing with.”

  “Miller?” Fulton asked.

  Standing, Karp replied, “Yeah, but not here. I got a call from Marlene; she’s on her way back with the girlfriend, Nicoli Lopez. I want to talk to her in the conference room, and if things go the way I hope, we’ll put them together up there before I try to talk to him.”

  “I hate to miss the rest of the festivities,” Fulton said. “But if it’s okay with you, I have something I want to do before the snow gets any deeper. If I’m right, I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”

  Karp clapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, international man of mystery, I’ll look forward to exchanging debriefings in the morning.”

  Ten minutes later, Karp was sitting at the conference room table with Guma when Marlene walked in with a young woman. They stood as his wife made the introductions. Marlene then left to go home.

  Karp turned to Lopez, who looked like she was about to cry. “Please have a seat,” he said. “Can I get you a water, or a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Lopez replied. Her voice trembled as she asked, “Are you going to arrest me?”

  Karp shook his head. “No, I have no knowledge of any wrongdoing on your part. However, I do want to ask you some questions about your boyfriend, Gnat Miller, who I believe is involved in a murder, so if you feel like you need to have a lawyer present, I will get you one free of charge. And you can speak to the lawyer before talking to ADA Guma and me.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Lopez replied. “I just wanted to know if I was going to have to go to jail. I have a baby at the East Village Women’s Shelter and I would want my mom to go get him. But your wife said I can trust you.”

  “Well, thank you,” Karp said. “And to be clear, I’m not recording this conversation or, at least at this point, taking a statement from you to be used in court. I just wanted to talk to you about your boyfriend.”

  Lopez’s large brown eyes filled with tears. “Is he going to be arrested?”

  Karp nodded. “I’m afraid so. But maybe you can help me and help your boyfriend at the same time.”

  “Ask me anything then,” Lopez said.

  When she was finished talking, Karp left her with Guma to see if Miller had arrived.

  When Gnat Miller entered the room with Karp and Detective Pete McNeely a minute later, Nicoli Lopez flew into her boyfriend’s arms. “Guma and I are going to wait
outside,” Karp told the couple, “and give you two a chance to talk for about ten minutes. Detective McNeely will remain with you.”

  Signaling for Guma to leave with him, Karp led the way back into his office.

  “So what do you think?” Guma asked.

  “I think we got a shot,” Karp said. “We need this guy to roll over, or we may never make a case.”

  The two men sat quietly for the next ten minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Karp looked at his watch. “Time’s up,” he said. “Let’s go see what we got.”

  Karp and Guma were met outside the conference room by the stenographer. He knocked on the door and the three entered. The young couple was standing over by the window looking out with their arms around each other’s waists; Nicoli leaned her head against her boyfriend’s shoulder. They turned to face Karp and the others.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Miller. Nicoli, you can sit next to him if you like,” Karp said, waiting for Mason to set up her stenographer’s machine. “All right then. My name is Roger Karp; I’m the district attorney for the County of New York. We’re here tonight with William Miller. Mr. Miller, I’d like to ask you some questions about the December fifth shooting death of Vincent Carlotta outside of Marlon’s Restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. . . .”

  Karp introduced the others and went through the litany of advising Miller of his Miranda rights. “Do you understand your rights?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you willing to speak to me now without a lawyer present?”

  Pale and shaking, Miller looked over at his girlfriend, who placed her hand on his arm and nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  “As I said, Mr. Miller, we’re here to talk to you about the murder of Vince Carlotta and what part you, Frank DiMarzo, and Alexei Bebnev played in that,” Karp said.

  Miller ran his fingers through his unruly red hair and rubbed at his eyes as he rocked in his seat. “Please, no,” he whimpered.

  “Look, Bill, I can understand getting caught up in something you didn’t intend to do,” Karp said. “But it’s taking its toll. You look terrible. You’re not sleeping. You’re taking it out on people you love.” He looked meaningfully at Nicoli. “And it’s tearing you apart, destroying you from the inside out, and there’s only one way to stop the process . . . and that’s to tell the truth.”

  The rocking stopped. “I can’t,” Miller said. “Frankie’s my best friend.”

  Karp straightened up again. “Look, it’s up to you. Right now, you’ve got to do what’s right for Bill Miller.”

  He let that sink in for a moment before continuing, his voice softer. “And there’s one more thing. I know you’re a new dad, and this is hard, thinking about what it’s going to mean to Nicoli and your baby. But Vince Carlotta was a new dad, too. Think about what this has done to his wife and his baby, who will grow up without knowing his father. You have to ask yourself, ‘Is that something I can live with? Or will I see Vince’s kid every time I look into my boy’s eyes, asking why I helped kill his dad? Why I wasn’t enough of a man to admit it when I got caught?’ Is that something you can live with, Bill?”

  Miller’s hands flew to his face and he sobbed. Nicoli patted his arm. “It’s okay, Gnat,” she said. “It’s going to be okay. He’s right, this is destroying you.”

  Wagging his head back and forth, Miller cried a few minutes more. “Jesus, I’m so fucking tired. I haven’t slept a wink since . . .” The young man’s voice trailed off.

  “Since what, Gnat?” Karp asked.

  Miller started to speak, then hesitated. “Can I get some sort of deal if I talk?” he asked hopefully.

  Karp frowned. “I’m not making any deals here,” he said. “If you’re going to give me a statement and answer my questions, you have to do it of your own volition and without the promise of any sort of deal.”

  Miller licked his lips nervously and swallowed hard. Not without genuine sympathy for a ruined life, Karp laid his last card on the table. “And you know in your heart, Gnat, that this isn’t about making a deal. It’s about your soul.”

  For a moment, Miller sat absolutely still and silent. Then he stopped crying and for a moment Karp wondered if he’d lost him, but he didn’t need to worry.

  “Okay,” Miller said at last, drying his tears and laying his hand on top of Nicoli’s. “Where should I start?”

  “At the beginning, Gnat, and keep going until you get to the end.”

  “Well, it started when my friend Frankie DiMarzo . . .”

  16

  “WELL, IT STARTED WHEN MY friend Frankie DiMarzo called me. He said this guy Alexei Bebnev had a job that would pay a lot of money.”

  Six months after the witness first said those words to him on a snowy winter’s night, Karp stood in the well of a courtroom questioning Gnat Miller. He then turned away from Miller and looked over at the defense table. “Are the two men you just mentioned in the courtroom today?”

  “Yes,” said Miller, who sat forward on the edge of the witness chair. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and paisley tie, and spoke with his head down and his mouth to the side of the microphone.

  “Could you identify them for the jury, please?”

  Looking directly at the defendants, Miller said, “Alexei Bebnev is on the right side of the table; he has short blond hair.” He pointed at the young Russian, who just smirked and shook his head.

  Miller hesitated as he shifted his gaze to the second defendant, his best friend, who glanced up at him but quickly looked away. “Frankie DiMarzo is on the left, with dark hair.”

  Addressing the court, Karp said, “Your Honor, let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendants, Alexei Bebnev and Frank DiMarzo.”

  New York State Supreme Court Justice Robert See nodded and said. “The record will so note. Mr. Karp, please proceed.”

  “And how do you know the defendants?”

  “I’ve known Frankie ever since . . .” Miller hesitated; he’d been told to avoid talking about their previous incarceration or crimes. “Since we were kids.”

  “You’re friends?”

  “Yeah, or at least we were.”

  “How about Alexei Bebnev?”

  Miller frowned. “I met him through Frankie about seven months ago.”

  “What was the reason you met him?”

  “Frankie said that Bebnev had a job for me and him.”

  Karp looked back at the witness on the stand. “What was the job the defendant Bebnev had for you and Frankie?”

  “It was a job to kill a guy,” Miller said.

  Given the intense media coverage that the case had generated, it had taken two weeks to swear in twelve “tried-and-true” jurors. During the prosecution’s opening statement, Karp had laid out a very concise and brief statement. “This was not a robbery,” he’d said. “Not an argument in which tempers suddenly flared. Or for personal revenge. This was a cold-blooded murder planned and executed for money. The three defendants—Bebnev, DiMarzo, and Miller—were paid to murder a man they didn’t even know. While Miller, the wheelman, sat in his car across the street, Bebnev and DiMarzo hid in the darkness of a Hell’s Kitchen alley waiting for their target, Vince Carlotta. Wearing masks, they pretended to be simple robbers. As Vince Carlotta approached the alley, DiMarzo, the lookout, and Bebnev, the shooter, with his .38 caliber pistol, executed the deceased by firing two shots into his defenseless body, one shot to the chest and then one to the head. . . .”

  Anticipating in trial preparation that whatever else the defense might attempt, their primary objective had to be discrediting Gnat Miller and questioning his motives, Karp emphasized that the case revolved around the issue of conscience. “Both those who have it and those who don’t.”

  The most unusual aspect of his opening was explaining why he would not be calling the three men who were walking with Carlotta when the murder took place. When an attorney, particularly a prosecutor, calls a witness to the stand, he essentially vouches for the credibility of
that person. Absolutely convinced that Vitteli, in league with Barros and Corcione, had orchestrated the murder, he couldn’t put them on the stand knowing that they would lie about their involvement and the circumstances surrounding the murder. “Since this is not a trial about a robbery, we will not be calling the three individuals who were with the deceased at the time he was summarily executed in their presence. In fact, we have turned them over to the defense to call them in their case if they so wish. Simply, they’ll do as they see fit.”

  After Karp’s opening statement, the defense counsel exercised their right to delay making a statement until after the prosecution had presented its case in chief. Karp believed that this defense strategy was directly related to the personal motives of Conrad Clooney, the lead defense counsel.

  In New York, indigent defendants charged with murder were assigned private counsel, not Legal Aid public defenders. The lawyers were selected from an eligibility list filed with the presiding Supreme Court justice at the time of the arraignment of the accused on the underlying indictment. The lawyers who comprised this pool were primarily the private counsel who practiced in the criminal courts on a regular basis. Occasionally, exceptions were made when the prestigious so-called white-shoe Wall Street firms requested to be included; sometimes to provide pro bono, sometimes for other less noble reasons.

  While DiMarzo was appointed two of the regulars from the eligibility list, Bebnev was represented by the firm Peabody, Schmidt, Reich, and Fritz. Conrad Clooney was the firm’s senior partner in charge of litigation and opted to represent Bebnev. Shortly after the indictments of the three suspects, he announced he was taking on the case pro bono. He claimed that he was drawn to get involved when his “assessment” of the case was that “the State has overreached without sufficiently considering other viable suspects.”

  As Clooney’s firm was known for complex Securities and Exchange Commission litigation, questions were raised about why he wanted to get involved in a murder case. However, skeptics believed that Clooney’s ambition to be appointed to the federal bench steered him toward the high-profile case. Rumor among the Wall Street white shoes was that he believed he would receive major ink and face time in the print and electronic media that would demonstrate his alleged expertise and enhance his chances.