Those deliberations funneled down to one certainty: O’Neil had lied to try to railroad Comfort into an admission. Although it was probable that Roland or Towson were undercover agents, or informants, and that Paolino, Stern, and Fradkin might’ve been arrested. If so, Comfort would bet the farm that Paolino hadn’t folded under pressure. As for Stern, he was clueless about the Pierre. And though he surmised Comfort and Nalo were handling stolen jewelry, he couldn’t shed light on their affairs. And Fradkin, he didn’t know anything about the robbery or who was behind it. In conclusion, Comfort concluded that O’Neil did not have a prosecutable case.
O’Neil smirked as if he had conquered Comfort. “Now, are you ready to make any statements, Mr. Comfort?”
Comfort breathed in, his jitters unwinding. “I do wanna make a statement. I want to exercise my right to call a lawyer.”
Bannon laughed in mock flabbergast. Exercise my right to call a lawyer! “Sounds like you know big words, Mr. Comfort. You must’ve went to college.”
“I did go to college,” Comfort said. “But I doubt you ever got out of kindergarten. ’Cause if you did, you wouldn’t have said, ‘went to college’. The correct grammar is gone to college. You sound like you’re well-read but on the toilet.”
O’Neil and his jesters leered in amusement, though Bannon the Cannon fell into embarrassed silence, twitching the knot of his cheap, blue tie.
“I think we should smack the shit out of this perp and show him what time it is,” said one of the Robocops, smacking his left palm with the right fist.
“Yeah, maybe that’s what Professor Comfort needs, some cuts and bruises,” O’Neil answered in accord.
Bannon, reeling in the humiliation, leaped at the opportunity to even the score with the much shorter, lighter Comfort. The detective charged forward and seized him by the shirt collar, tugging crazily and ripping off two of his shirt buttons. “Go ahead, rip off my clothes,” Comfort said, his face reddening. “Get your fun in now because my lawyer’s going to file charges against you assholes.”
A sudden anger rearranged Bannon’s look, and his coworkers cringed, knowing that Comfort, “a tough customer,” could place their jobs at risk. They parted the two men, and the fracas quieted, everybody breathing heavily. Bannon, as if he’d been in a street fight, brushed the sleeves of his gray jacket.
Resigned that Comfort would not incriminate himself, O’Neil said snappishly, “Bannon, cuff this wiseass and read him his rights.”
Comfort, his pulse simmering, hair tousled, smiled teasingly, and he placed his hands side by side. O’Neil and his compatriots, clinging to Bobby Comfort’s arms, paraded him through the lobby of the Royal Manhattan, people staring curiously. The bruiser detectives squeezed Comfort into the back of O’Neil’s black unmarked vehicle and raced off to the 19th Precinct. At the station house, Bannon and a uniformed cop stripped the prisoner of his personal belongings, wallet, money, belt, etc. They confined him in a brightly lit, airless interview pen, locked the door, and left him there. In the center of that room stood a gray metal table and four matching chairs, outdated furnishings that the NYPD must’ve inherited from Tammany Hall when it ceased to exist in 1967. This interrogation pen had no windows, though it did have an odor of decades of cigarette smoke, and depressing, gray cinderblock walls.
A half hour or so later, Comfort estimated, though he didn’t know exactly—in the booking process they had taken his watch—the interview pen door lock clanked and Bannon and O’Neil walked in. A hot coffee cup in hand, a cigarette on the side of his mouth, Bannon stood feet apart in a commanding stance. “Mr. Comfort, you’re gonna have to fess up to your crimes. I mean, be smart. Make it easy on yourself.”
“I am smart. As for you, it’s not just education you don’t have,” Comfort commented, “You have no manners either. You come in here with a cigarette in your mouth, and I would’ve thought you were about to offer me one. Fat chance! What was I thinking?” He grunted through his nose and taunted Bannon, “My father taught me an old Italian expression. It goes like this: if you have a dumb son, the only thing you can do is to let him be a cop.” Comfort had touched a nerve; his insult had stung the two policemen’s self-image.
O’Neil, arms across his chest, glared disdainfully at the prisoner. “Listen to me, Mr. Comfort, ’cause I’m gonna tell you an old Irish saying: if you have a wiseass for a son, slap the son of a bitch’s balls until he screams like a queer who’s gotten his dick stuck in a beehive.”
Comfort could’ve ping-ponged with his witty quips, easily outfoxing the interrogators. But not knowing what had really happened to Paolino and Stern, he was in no mood for verbal exchanges. Of greater concern, where is Nalo? Was he in custody as well? And even more worrisome, could the FBI or the NYPD have, somehow, tracked down Al Green and confiscated the satchel he was safeguarding? These possibilities were perturbing, and Comfort knew he had to make contact with the outside world.
CHAPTER 42
Eleven hours had passed since the interrogation began, and O’Neil and Bannon, both continually filling the constricting interview pen with cigarette smoke, finally understood two facts: 1) Bobby Comfort was exceptionally smart: 2) Catholic priests would stop molesting children before he’d answer any questions without the presence of his attorney. The eight-by-ten-foot room was clouded with an oxygen-siphoning haze, and Comfort faked a coughing spell. “Look, I’m not saying another word. Now either book me or cut me loose.” Another coughing fit, and he said gaspingly, “I . . . I have emphysema, and if . . . I pass out, my lawyer is gonna hold you two accountable.” The emphysema ploy was Comfort’s invention to reverse the tide and back Lieutenant O’Neil on the defense. “I’ll sue the city and you personally.”
At that, Bannon winced. O’Neil, less demonstrative at the legal threat, though visibly disturbed at the thought of a lawsuit, nodded for three to four drawn-out seconds in acceptance of reverting to the prescribed NYPD interviewing guidelines. The second attempt to badger Comfort into submission had been fruitless, and the lieutenant ordered Comfort relocated to a holding cell. O’Neil hadn’t yet officially charged him and thought it best to first consult with the Manhattan district attorney.
“Why do you have to check with the DA before you book me? And when am I getting to make my entitled phone call?” Comfort said in indication that he knew the ins and outs of the law.
Instead of answering, O’Neil said, “I have to put the handcuffs on before we move you to the holding pen.” And he secured the shackles. “You can make your phone call in about an hour.”
Comfort settled into his cell, a six-by-eight-foot pen, and mired in a spool of anxiety waited to be granted his right to phone his wife, though he wasn’t looking forward to that confrontation. He sat on the wooden bunk that was bolted to the one-quarter-inch steel lining of the wall and lowered his head into his hands. Six or seven minutes of sulking in misery, and he stiffened into an erect posture. He thought in wonderment, looking out through the bars of the cell door. It had dawned on Comfort that if Paolino or Stern or anyone else had “ratted him out,” O’Neil would’ve decidedly charged him for, at very least, possession of stolen property without consulting with the district attorney. But whenever an investigator believes a suspect is culpable and detains him in the absence of probable cause, it is the prosecutor who determines whether to consider indicting or releasing the prisoner—the reason why O’Neil hadn’t booked Comfort. This was solace to Comfort, and for now all he could do was to recoil into the haven of steadfast denial and retain an attorney. The rest, he trusted, ought to straighten itself out in due course.
Total quietness had fallen in the holding pen, and the ever-present buzzing of the fluorescent light fixture had lulled Comfort into complacency. The door lock jangled, and three new officers grouped into the cell, hovering over the seated inmate. He looked at the cops, and one said impolitely, “All right, whatever your name is. You’re gettin’ your phone call. Let’s go.”
The three policemen
stepped back as if Comfort were a biting cannibal and led him to a narrow hallway and into the prisoners’ processing room. “Use that line on that desk over there,” said the rough-edged cop, indicating a wooden desk on which was an old-fashioned rotary phone.
As his custodians surrounded him, Comfort frowned at the three, contempt in his look. “I need some privacy. You mind?”
One of the cops said, “This time, and only this time, we’ll let you have it your way. We’ll be right outside in the hallway. You got ten minutes.”
“I’ll take whatever time I need,” was Comfort’s incisive comeback. “And close the door. You don’t need to be listening.”
As the door shut, Comfort was at peace, alone without the hounds barking at him. He dragged a splintery chair under him and closer to the table, on which scores of interviewees before him had carved graffiti: Mike Hunt loves Jeanie Cumminghole . . . Tim fucked Lynn. Cops are pigs . . . Mayor Lindsey is a faggot . . . A queen deserves a king-size dick. Comfort couldn’t help but laugh. He looked at the black rotary phone for a long while and slumped over the tabletop in a whir of thoughts. What would he tell Millie? As Comfort compiled the words in his head, he stuck his index finger in one of the dial’s numbered holes and began dialing.
“Hello,” Millie’s voice, frail and low, came into her husband’s ear. At that time, telephones did not have caller ID, though she had “a hunch” it was Bobby. But a murmur in her mind was ringing bad tidings about to thunder into the receiver.
“Millie, it’s me,” he said in a chirpy voice.
“What’s wrong, Bobby?”
Comfort asked, “Who says anything is wrong?”
“I know something is wrong. I just know it.”
“I got arrested, Millie.” Now it was Millie’s sobs and not her velvety voice ramming into his ears. Comfort gulped hard. “But honey, they got nothing on me. They’re just fishing trying to break me down. And like I said, they got nothing, baby. Honest.”
Millie’s bawling spurted a hail of tears, and he could feel her anguish. It pained him. “Everything’s gonna be all right. Meantime, get ahold of my sister and tell her to come see me as soon as they let her. Right now, I’m at the 19th Precinct in Manhattan, but I don’t know where they’re gonna take me.”
“Oh, Bobby . . . This is what I was afraid of. Now what?” She couldn’t stifle her weeping, saliva bubbling on her lips.
“Baby, they haven’t booked me yet, and guess what? They may not because they really don’t have a damn thing to charge me with. But if these miserable cops do book me, make sure my sister comes to see me as soon as possible.” He paused, hoping she’d compose herself. “No need to tell Nicole anything. This . . . this whole thing will go away. Look, they may let me go tonight . . . if they don’t book me. And even if they do, it won’t stick. I’m telling you . . .”
“Oh, Bobby, shut up. You always make everything sound hunky-dory.” Millie wiped her eyes on her sweater sleeve. “What am I gonna tell Nicole? She’s been waiting for you. Oh, this is terrible.” More sniveling. “I feel like turning my back on you, and . . . and maybe . . . Nicole and I should move on with our lives.”
A throb jolted Comfort’s chest as if that last sentence had stabbed him through the heart. “Don’t talk stupid, honey. And do me a favor, stop crying.”
“I’m tired of living in fear day to day, Bobby. I’m tired of constantly agonizing that you might not come home or that you’ll get killed in a robbery. I’m tired!” And Millie slammed down the receiver.
Comfort’s eyes pooled; he held the phone receiver at eye level as if he were waiting for it to speak and console him.
The door opened with force, and Lieutenant O’Neil tramped in as though he had this investigation organized and contained, a suited black man by his side. The lieutenant bent into Comfort, the phone still in his hand. O’Neil nodded toward the African American, whose gray wool suit was of slightly better quality than the standard NYPD detectives’ off-the-rack outfits. “Mr. Comfort, this is Assistant District Attorney Doug Pope, and he’s gonna call the next shot.” He regarded ADA Pope, short and mid-height, in his thirties. “Mr. Pope, please have a seat.” O’Neil then jerked his chin in Comfort’s direction. “This is one of the suspects. His name is Robert Comfort, a known jewel thief.”
“Known to whom?” Comfort griped.
ADA Pope inserted a hand into his jacket’s pocket, took out a calling card, and gave it to him. “Mr. Comfort, keep that in case you or your attorney need to talk to me.”
Comfort looked at the card with indifference. “I don’t have anything to tell you, Mr. Pope, so why would I want to talk to you? What I can tell you is that I’ve been kept here for many, many hours, accused of this and that less any foundation. I’ve been roughed up by a couple of dumb cops, and I haven’t been charged of any crimes. So why are you still keeping me in this smelly chicken coop?”
Pope tilted his head and smiled, revealing fairly white teeth. “That’s why I’m here, you see. I’ve reviewed Lieutenant O’Neil’s paperwork and concluded that we have sufficient grounds to indict you for possession of stolen property, and most likely for robbery.”
“What robbery?” Comfort asked, a rushing wave of warm blood heating his scalp.
Pope tied shut the manila envelope he had in front of him and looked straight at the presumed thief. “The Pierre Hotel.”
CHAPTER 43
The day it had been reported, the assault on the Pierre tempted the interest of the FBI and the NYPD, and buttoning it to closure became the joint effort of these two agencies. Federal agents and New York City detectives incessantly questioned Paolino, Stern, and Fradkin. These last two were older and feeble; it was clear neither had the fiber of an intrepid gunman, and O’Neil eliminated the horror-stricken Stern and Fradkin as accessories. Paolino was a different animal. He had ignored the interrogations, and as a veteran racketeer took shelter in his right to legal counsel. And unable to extract any information, ADA Pope arraigned the relatively unknown Paolino for possession of stolen property. As for Comfort, a much bigger fish, and the presupposed Pierre organizer, Pope was contemplating charges of robbery in the first degree—a Class A violent felony carrying a mandatory twenty-year sentence. But could the ebony-skinned African American prosecutor muster material evidence or testimonies of credible sources to cement such a grave charge?
In the interim, daylight was giving way to the January late-afternoon nightfall, and Pope remanded Comfort to the Manhattan House of Detention, known as the Tombs, a fitting description. White and Centre Streets in downtown New York bounded this dour, dungeon-like jailhouse. It was connected through darkish, dank tunnels to the 100 Centre Street court complex, a multiplex of thirty-three-story buildings flanked by the frenzied Chinatown district and the Federal Plaza government facilities. Four blocks to the north were the colorful, never-dormant SoHo and Little Italy sections of lower Manhattan. Amid these tourist-luring landmarks and magnificent edifices, the Manhattan House of Detention was not reflective of the graveness of its subterranean level. On the contrary, the exterior facade merged seamlessly with the majestic architecture of the vicinity. But confinement in that jailhouse sent an inmate into a resignation of doom.
Bobby Comfort was weathering his detention at the noisy, smelly, and perilous Tombs, an interim jail for criminals of all degrees, varying from the harmless pot dealer to the homicidal psychopath, who were either awaiting trial or sentencing. But the worse part of Comfort’s predicament were those answers he so badly craved to know. He was in the dark, segregated from the rest of the world, and he’d give his right arm to learn what Paolino might’ve told the detectives, if anything at all. Could it be true that his old, trusted friend did give him up? And what about Nalo? Did he run for the hills, or was he even aware of these latest developments? Or did O’Neil and the FBI collar him as well? And last but not least, what became of Al Green and the satchel of jewels? Did he abscond, or was he also apprehended? And wouldn’t it be a damn s
hame if O’Neil’s hounds had found those gems wherever Green had stashed them?
A bombardment of thoughts were cascading in Comfort’s mind; a deluge of questions and a drought of answers.
What was he to do? Nothing for now. He had to engage a lawyer who would do some digging and legwork that might shed light on where matters stood. Hopefully, some answers might come tomorrow. At the moment, it was six o’clock in the evening, and an ear-piercing announcement booming through the prison PA system disrupted Comfort’s concentration. “On the chow, on the chow. Move it, on the chow.” This was penitentiary slang for supper time at the mess hall, and the inmates, those who had an appetite for meals that would disgust even sewer rats, were allowed six minutes to walk there. Comfort chose to skip chow, food that looked and smelled as if it were cooked in a dog food factory. Instead, he lay on the hard bed in the cell and covered his eyes with the right forearm, resigned to wait for any news that might surface tomorrow.
That same night, FBI Agent Matt Hammer, square-jawed and tirelessly energetic, was leaning on a gray filing cabinet perusing through a file related to the 1970 Sophia Loren robbery, a storming that took place in her suite at the Hampshire House hotel in Manhattan. It was late in the day, and only a handful of employees were at the FBI Third Avenue office. The ever-clacking typewriters, the humming Telex machines, and the commotion of the staff’s pattering feet had waned, peacefulness descending. At this hour, it was conducive for Hammer to pore over that file without disturbances or distractions. He, a tall, svelte masculine type, brown hair and a matching brown mustache, was at his work station, feet up on the desktop, sipping hot green tea. This peaceful hour, though, was shaken when Hammer overheard two agents who were conferring about the Pierre status mention a “Sammy the Arab” as a person of interest. An informant had leaked to Hammer’s colleagues that this Sammy, a person unknown to law enforcement, had been, along with “a guy from Rochester,” one of the gunmen in the Loren robbery. A guy from Rochester? Trusting the informant, those agents had inferred that Bobby Comfort, whom they knew was now in custody, had to be this person from Rochester, and he and Sammy the Arab must’ve had a hand in the Pierre.
The Pierre Hotel Affair Page 17