Tragic

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “What will be the consequence of you telling the truth and confessing to murder, Mr. Miller?”

  “I’ll be going to prison for a very long time,” Miller replied.

  “Mr. Miller, do you have a family?”

  The young man’s head fell and he covered his face with his hands as he nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, but you’ll have to answer so that the court reporter can hear you,” Karp said not unkindly.

  A sob escaped from Miller, but then he wiped at his nose with his sleeve and looked up at Karp. “The only family I got is my girlfriend, Nicoli, and our baby, Billy Junior.”

  “So the price you’ll pay for your confession and testimony is that you’ll be going to prison for many years,” Karp said. “And the only way you’ll get to see your son grow up is if his mother agrees to bring him to see you in the prison visiting room.”

  “Yes,” Miller said, choking on the word. “That’s all I’ll have.”

  As the witness started to cry again, Karp gave him a few moments to gather himself. He walked over to the witness chair, picked up a pitcher of water, and poured it into a cup for Miller. He then looked out at the gallery and saw Nicoli with her face buried in her father’s chest. The man had his arm around his daughter’s shoulders, trying to hold her as her body shook in grief.

  Karp walked a few feet closer to the jury box and looked at the witness. “Mr. Miller, why did you confess to this crime and agree to testify at this trial?”

  Miller looked up with tears streaming down his face. “Because I did what I said I did. I helped kill a man for money.”

  “But why not take your chances at trial? Why aren’t you sitting at that table with the other two defendants?”

  Miller now looked over at Frank DiMarzo. “Because I couldn’t live with it anymore. Mr. Carlotta was a new dad, too, and because of me, his son will grow up without him.” He wiped at his eyes. “Just like my son will be growing up without me.”

  Speaking gently in a quiet courtroom, Karp asked his last question. “Mr. Miller, what motivated you to come forward and testify?”

  Miller sat silently just staring at Karp, and then said, “I’m afraid to think about what I’ve done, because I believe in heaven and hell.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller. Your Honor, I have no further questions.”

  Judge See glanced at Clooney. “Defense counsel care to recross?”

  Without looking up, Clooney waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve heard enough.”

  Nodding to the court clerk, the judge said, “Very well, Mr. Miller, you may step down from the witness stand, and Mr. Karp you may—”

  The judge was interrupted by a loud scream in the gallery. Everyone in the courtroom instantly turned in that direction. An old woman dressed in black, DiMarzo’s mother, stood pointing a bony finger at Miller, who stood transfixed in the witness box. “He lies!” the old woman shrieked. “My Frankie would never do such a thing!”

  The elderly man next to her, DiMarzo’s father, placed a hand on her arm, as a younger women embraced her. “Please, Momma, don’t make a scene,” she said, trying to comfort Mrs. DiMarzo. But the old woman just wailed.

  Judge See banged his gavel several times, but when Mrs. DiMarzo continued to cry out, he had court security remove her. The courtroom was shocked into silence, but then a single loud sob ripped the dead air.

  All eyes turned to Frank DiMarzo, who sat with his elbows on the defense table and his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Momma,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

  The courtroom drama caught everyone by surprise. Judge See was the first to recover. He peered over at the jurors, several of whom looked to be on the verge of crying as well, and smiled benevolently. “I think this is a good time to take a break. As you are aware, a trial can be a very emotional event. Much is at stake here for the defendants and for the People. I just ask you to remember that it is your sworn duty to rely solely on the evidence as you hear it from the witness stand, and from whatever exhibits are admitted into evidence. Please keep an open mind until you’ve heard all the evidence, as well as the summations from counsel, and then I will charge you with the law. We’ll resume in about fifteen minutes.”

  19

  JOEY BARROS CLOSED THE DOOR of Vitteli’s office at union headquarters across from the Hudson River docks and turned to face the other three men in the room. “Sorry I’m late, boss,” he said, addressing Vitteli. “I was just talking to a couple of my boys, and they said that there’s starting to be some grumbling with the membership about this stuff in court about somebody paying to have Vince killed. Some of Vince’s guys, including T. J. Martindale, are watching the trial and reporting back to the others.”

  “The Malcheks are getting nervous, too,” Syd Kowalski added. He was standing near the window looking out at the docks. “They got a lot of money invested in this project. They need docks where they can count on everybody looking the other way. That was the deal.”

  “Tell them to relax, we’ll handle it, as long as they do their part,” Vitteli growled.

  “You tell them to relax,” Kowalski countered. “The Russians aren’t good at relaxing when there’s money involved; in fact, they’re fuckin’ uptight. They ain’t going to like it if this trial screws things up.”

  Vitteli sat back and studied the other three—Kowalski, Barros, and Jackie Corcione—as he pulled out a cigar and lit it. “What about our other problem children?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Bebnev,” Barros answered. “He’s a few cards short of a full deck and that idiot Lvov should have never used him, but the Malcheks have reached out to him in the Tombs. They got him thinking that if he gets convicted, they’ll get him out and then he’ll be a big man with the organization. He’s probably dreaming up his prison tattoos right now; they’re the same thing as bragging rights with the Russian mob.”

  “Yeah, well, if he gets convicted and then realizes that he’s going to be in the can for a long fucking time, his attitude could change,” Vitteli pointed out.

  “Syd and I already had this discussion with the Malcheks,” Barros said. “They’re willing to play the game for now and then take care of the problem later. Soon as he gets in general population, he’s done.”

  “What about this DiMarzo punk?” Kowalski said. “My girl in the courtroom says he don’t look so good, like he’s falling apart or something. His mom made quite the scene today.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s got his family to worry about,” Barros said. “Apparently he got some mail from an unknown source awhile back with a photograph of his mom outside the house in Red Hook; I guess some real a-hole drew a black line across her. So he’s kept his mouth shut and doesn’t dare open it. The same thing happens to him when he gets in general population.”

  “But what if he talks first?” Vitteli asked. “Wouldn’t be the first time some punk gave up his own mother to save his ass.”

  Barros shrugged. “He can’t know much anyway,” he said. “Me and Jackie only met Bebnev, and even he didn’t know our last names or who we work for. He might have known that Lvov was involved, but that fat fuck ain’t talking no more. And this kid, Gnat Miller, he knows even less than DiMarzo. He’s never even heard of you or Karp would have used it by now.”

  “You should have killed them before they got caught,” Corcione, who’d been sitting in a chair in the corner, blurted out.

  Barros looked at him and laughed. “See who’s turned all bloodthirsty. The little faggot’s suddenly a stone-cold killer. Tell you what, Jackie, you wet your pants when the going gets rough, that’s why your old man sent you off to college. So leave the bloody stuff to real men.”

  Vitteli rapped his knuckles on the table. “Knock it off. The last thing we need is to be at each other’s throats. Joey’s got this under control, Jackie, just stay cool.”

  Barros said nothing and looked up at the ceiling. Corcione nodded and got out of his chair, holding out his hand to Barros. “I’m sorry, Joey,” he
apologized. “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping much.”

  Glancing at the proffered hand, Barros sneered. “No way you’re touching me,” he said. “I have no idea where that hand’s been. Just remember to keep your mouth shut around your little boyfriends.”

  Corcione dropped his hand and turned to Vitteli. “We know Karp thinks we’re guilty,” he said. “Otherwise he would have called us as witnesses. He’s not going to let it go.”

  “Fuck him,” Vitteli said. “He don’t have shit on us, as long as we stick together. I can trust you, right, Jackie?”

  Corcione looked at Charlie Vitteli and saw the danger behind the suspicious look. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said. “We’re all in this, sink or swim.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, sink or swim.” Vitteli nodded and took another drag on his cigar. “You know I’m not real happy about testifying, not with Karp waiting to ask questions.”

  “You know the deal, it’s no big deal,” Kowalski assured them. “You guys get on the stand, say you don’t recognize the defendants and that’s that. Clooney’s a high-priced shyster who wants to be a federal judge and it takes a lot of money to buy that seat on the bench. I’ve already had a chat with him on behalf of your new Russian partners and the union; of course, he’s going to treat you with kid gloves. He knows enough to make it look good, but he’s just looking for a little airtime and to make a few speeches. If by some miracle he gets an acquittal, we’ll get these guys as soon as they’re back on the streets. As far as Karp goes, he’s limited on what he can do on cross-examination.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “It’ll be all right, Charlie,” Corcione chimed in. “Syd’s right. Karp can’t do much.” He looked at his watch. “Well, I’ve got to be going.”

  “What’s the matter? All that tough talk got you all hot and bothered for your boyfriend?” Barros scoffed.

  “You know what, Joey, my boyfriend could kick your ass,” Corcione said.

  “Give the faggot my address, and we’ll see,” Barros countered.

  “You’re a jerk,” Corcione said. “I’m out of here.”

  After he was gone, Kowalski said, “I’ve got to go, too. You want to write me that check for my services?”

  “Sure,” Vitteli said, opening the drawer of his desk and removing a checkbook. “Five thousand, right?”

  “Correct. Hey, I didn’t know you were left-handed; so am I,” Kowalski said. “We southpaws got to stick together. Just make sure you tie up any loose ends, or your business partners may do it for you.”

  When both men were gone, Barros turned to Vitteli. “He’s right about loose ends, and you know who I’m talking about.”

  “You need to lay off Jackie,” Vitteli replied tersely. “He’s hanging in there; he’s in too deep to do anything else.”

  “I can’t stand queers,” Barros said. “They’re weak. He’s the only one who could really fuck us.”

  Vitteli thought about it and then shook his head. “Let’s see how things go with this trial and cleaning up the other issues, including Gnat Miller.” He was quiet for a moment and then cleared his throat as if he had something difficult to talk about. “Those three bitches were in the courtroom when I went in this afternoon,” he said.

  “What three bitches?”

  “The ones from the alley,” Vitteli said.

  Barros rolled his eyes. “You’re starting to worry me, boss,” he said. “I haven’t seen those old hags since that night we saw them by the fire barrel. But you see them everywhere—back at the alley after Vince got shot, now in the courtroom. I think your mind’s just playing tricks on you. Relax.”

  Vitteli slammed his fist down on his desk, partly rising from his seat as he glared at his henchman. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me to relax, Joey,” he said. “Those bitches are following me around, and I don’t like it.”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your blood pressure going,” Barros said. “I’ll keep my eye out for them tomorrow, and if they’re around, I’ll deal with ’em.”

  Vitteli nodded and sat back in his chair. “Yeah, thanks,” he said. “I admit I sometimes wonder if maybe I’d imagined them. But they were sitting in the back of the courtroom today. The black one looked at me and whispered, ‘It’s time’ again, whatever the fuck that means.”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” Barros assured him. “They can’t hurt us. Even if they were outside of Marlon’s, they’re just three weird old women nobody will listen to.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Joey,” Vitteli agreed, then shivered. “But Jesus H. Christ, they give me the creeps.”

  20

  KARP LOOKED UP AT THE large black man on the witness stand as he handed him two envelopes. “Detective Fulton, I am handing you People’s Exhibits Eighteen and Nineteen marked for identification. First of all, can you identify them?”

  Always thorough and smart on and off the stand, Clay Fulton made a show of examining the outside of each envelope. “Yes, they are envelopes in which I placed evidence gathered at two sites in New Rochelle: the first approximately one block north of the Carlotta residence in close proximity to the Hudson Day School; the second, approximately twenty feet from the front door of the residence at 141 Fieldstone Way.”

  “Please tell us how you know these are the same envelopes?” Karp asked.

  Fulton turned the envelopes around to show the jurors as he pointed to writing in the top left-hand corner of each. “I initialed and dated them,” he said.

  “Are there other initials and a date besides yours on the envelope?”

  “Yes, the initials J.S. and also the date.”

  “Do you know the identity of the man with the initials J.S.?”

  “His name is Jack Swanburg.”

  “Please tell us who Dr. Swanburg is and how he came into possession of these envelopes.”

  “Dr. Swanburg is a forensic pathologist, as well as an expert in a number of other forensic sciences. He runs a nonprofit agency that assists law enforcement with forensic expertise, including DNA testing. . . .”

  Standing beside the jury box and directly in front of the witness stand while Fulton was testifying, Karp was studying the jurors’ reaction to the testimony and noticed how even the most laid-back snapped to attention at the mention of DNA. Like it or not, television crime shows had made prosecutors’ jobs that much more difficult by conditioning the public to believe that most murders were solved with DNA tests, when the truth was that most were solved the old-fashioned way, with a mix of nongenetic physical and circumstantial evidence. But if you had some DNA in the evidentiary arsenal, it helped satisfy jurors’ expectations and kept them alert.

  “. . . sent the items to the Baker Street Irregulars offices in Denver, Colorado.”

  “Is that common practice to use an outside agency for these tests?” Karp asked.

  “Well, most of the forensic testing conducted for the New York Police Department and District Attorney’s Office is conducted by in-house laboratories,” Fulton said. “However, both will occasionally go outside for help.”

  “And what reasons would they have for doing so?”

  Fulton shrugged. “It could be owing to a possible conflict of interest, or for a more specialized type of forensic testing, or, say, time is of the essence and the in-house labs are swamped with work, which is typical. In this case, we wanted the greater variety of forensic expertise offered by the Baker Street Irregulars and needed it done quickly.”

  “But couldn’t the NYPD or my office have requested an expedited analysis?”

  “Yes, but given the extensive caseload at the city lab we felt why disrupt their ongoing obligations when we had access to an expert and reliable outside agency? So you suggested the evidence be sent to Swanburg’s lab in Colorado.”

  “Have we in fact used this group’s expertise before?”

  Fulton nodded his big head. “Yes, several times, as have district attorney’s offices and police departments all over the country. They
are very highly regarded.”

  “So that’s the reason why the jurors will also find Jack Swanburg’s initials on the envelope?”

  Clooney, feeling he had to say something, stood. “Objection, Your Honor,” he said in his sonorous voice. “If the initials belong to Swanburg, let him testify to it.”

  Shaking his head and smiling, Karp replied, “Your Honor, trials—like most everything in life—have an order to them. With all due respect, I’ve already listed Dr. Swanburg as a witness, and read the People’s witness list to the jurors prior to jury selection. And the People, of course, will call Dr. Swanburg to the stand in the orderly process. Moreover, I’ve given the defense a copy of Dr. Swanburg’s expert report.”

  “Mr. Clooney, you do recall the People’s intention to call Dr. Swanburg as a witness. I will allow this testimony, subject to connection. If the prosecution doesn’t call Dr. Swanburg I will strike this last statement. So your objection is overruled; please proceed, Mr. Karp.”

  “Detective, can you identify the contents of the envelopes, starting with People’s Exhibit Eighteen?”

  “Yes, People’s Exhibit Eighteen contains five partially smoked tobacco cigarettes.”

  “Any particular brand?”

  “Yes, they are all Belomorkanal.”

  “Could you tell us a little bit about them?”

  “They’re a cheap Russian brand,” Fulton replied, sticking with the theme of getting under Bebnev’s skin.

  “Are they widely available?”

  “Objection!” Clooney shouted. “The witness has not been qualified as any sort of expert witness on the distribution of this particular brand of cigarette.”

  “Mr. Karp?” Judge See asked.

  “Your Honor, if I may ask another question,” Karp replied, “I believe I may be able to shed some light on this.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Detective Fulton, during the course of your investigation did you at any time look into the availability of the Belomorkanal cigarette brand?”