The Pierre Hotel Affair

by Daniel Simone

  Comfort walked over to “Big Willy,” the toughest prisoner, who’s the dictator of the cell block and has everyone’s respect. Big Willy, one of the blacks who was hypnotized by the football preview, hadn’t noticed Comfort. “Hey man, my name’s Bobby.” He didn’t have to say his last name; it was stenciled on the green jumpsuit. “What’s yours?” Comfort put his arm out for a handshake.

  Big Willy, a mountain of muscles, his skin as dark as chocolate, didn’t answer but looked at Comfort through an intimidating gaze that meant, Whatever you got on your mind better be to my advantage. Or else, don’t waste my time when I’m watching football.

  Comfort turned his palm upward to stress his invitation for a handshake. “So what’s your name?”

  Big Willy hesitated a second too long, but accepted Comfort’s hand, gripping it ever so tightly, a message that told of his strength and status as the ruler of “the joint.” “I’m Racine. Whatchu woun from me?”

  Comfort pulled out six cigarettes from his pack of Pall Malls. He spread the cancer sticks loosely in his palm. “Racine, how about a few cigs? Here, take ’em.”

  Racine, whose huge head was bald and had the violet hue of an eggplant, curled one corner of his mouth as if he doubted Comfort’s peace pipe was genuine, and that he might’ve had ulterior motives. “What’s all this fuss for?”

  “Just a token of our new friendship,” Comfort answered with pseudo-sincerity. “Just a token, my man.”

  Racine didn’t take the cigarettes. “Sounds to me like yoh lookin’ fer protection. Ain’t that right? ‘Cause if thas whatchu woun, you come to the right dude.”

  Comfort nodded at the television, which was mounted on the ceiling. “What I’m looking for right now is for you to let me change the station. Just for five minutes.”

  Racine broke out into a deep, throaty laugh. “Awl right, awl right. But that’ll be eight cigs, man. Eight!”

  Comfort slid out two more Pall Malls. “You got it.” He placed the cigarettes onto Racine’s pink palm and walked toward the TV. He climbed on a chair, and as he touched the tuner knob another black inmate jumped up as though a powerful force had jettisoned him. He thrust his arm in the air and hollered, “Hey white boy, whatchu tank yo doin’?”

  Without turning behind to see who had protested, Racine raised a hand high above his head, a signal that he had approved for Comfort to switch stations.

  He tuned the TV to Channel 7. A commercial ended, and the light-skinned news anchor Anna Bond, an African American, recited the evening’s headlines in a fluid broadcast voice. The second caption was: “Another man is held for the Pierre heist.” And Ms. Bond narrated the story. “In the early hours of dawn, in a concerted effort the FBI and the NYPD arrested a second suspect believed to have been one of the masterminds of the Pierre Hotel robbery, and that of the Italian actress Sophia Loren, which was carried out in November of 1970. The suspect who’s been apprehended is forty-two-year-old Sorecho ‘Sammy the Arab, Nalo, an alleged accomplice of Robert Comfort, who was arrested yesterday.”

  The appealing newscaster, who trended a soft, brownish hair bob—one as fluffy as that of a white woman—didn’t crack a smile, her demeanor serious and decorous. Comfort re-climbed on the chair and reverted the TV to the football game. Racine nodded at Comfort. “Whatchu say yoh name be?” He gestured at the television. “Are you the cat she was talkin’ about?”

  “Yeah.” Comfort gave Racine a thumb-up and withdrew to his cell. He sat on the bunk and thought about this latest event. They got Sammy, but so what? Mountains would crumble before Nalo would admit to anything or squealed on anyone. But what if the cops had found . . . nah, Sammy wouldn’t have hidden in his apartment that necklace he might’ve snuck into his pocket at the Pierre. Or did he? If so that damn diamond necklace could be the nail that would seal their coffins.

  The Sheriff’s Department was to transfer Nalo here to the Tombs, awaiting arraignment along with Comfort. This was soothing to Comfort. He’d finally speak with his partner, who’d recap all that had spun awry since Paolino had left his suite at the Royal Manhattan thirty hours ago. In a way, Comfort was pleased that he and Nalo would soon reunite; they’d talk about what had happened and jointly strategize how to deal with the pending charges.

  Although it was a sunny afternoon, inside the hallways of Nalo’s apartment building it was dark and nippy. O’Neil and Fitzgibbons, armed with the warrant, knocked on Nalo’s apartment door, awakening Bermudez. Groggy and not fully conscious, he looked around wild-eyed as if he didn’t know where he was, but he quickly punched through the fog. He patted his pockets to feel the stones and smiled, remembering the unthinkable windfall he had landed in overnight. He tightened and straightened the knot of his tie, and walked to the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Lieutenant O’Neil.”

  O’Neil, Fitzgibbons, and the two FBI tech specialists entered the dusty but toasty-warm apartment. “Anything happening, Lieutenant?” Bermudez asked.

  “Nothing other than ADA Pope got the search warrant.” O’Neil snapped his fingers. “One, two, three. Just like that. What about here, anything going on since last night?”

  “Uh, nah. Nothing,” Bermudez answered noncommittally.

  O’Neil joggled his chin at the agents. “These are lab techs, Agent Samuelson, and Agent Sinclair.”

  The techs tipped their heads at Bermudez and said nothing, intimating they were there to do a job and nothing else. One of the agents was carrying a tool box. He rested it on a steamer trunk that had been improvised as a table and opened it. They took out a handful of paraphernalia, lab instruments, and began sifting through Nalo’s pad. O’Neil didn’t interfere, knowing they’d snarl at him, a look that meant, Stay out of our business. The professional decorum of the FBI personnel and the blue collar comportment of the NYPD detectives inevitably clashed.

  O’Neil paid no mind to the snubbing and said to Bermudez, “Before we got here, you didn’t happen to find anything in this rathole, did you?”

  A burst of repentance emblazoned Bermudez’s face, his ears heating to a red hot. What’s O’Neil really saying? Does he suspect me of foul play? Can he tell that I stuffed a pound of jewels in my pockets? Did Nalo admit he had gems hidden in this joint? A spell of regret paralyzed Bermudez’s mind, and he hoped he didn’t look as flustered as he felt. He glanced at Fitzgibbons and contemplated his reaction to O’Neil’s inquiry. None. Perhaps, Bermudez hoped, he was overreacting to a harmless question. “Uh . . . no, Lieutenant. Last night, uh, Agent Hammer told me not to do anything ’til you got a warrant. So I just dozed off once in a while.” The detective was stammering, and was afraid it’d light the notion he might’ve been lying. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he stood in a stew of fear and guilt.

  “Well, let’s turn this place upside down and maybe we’ll find that one thing that can connect Nalo to the Pierre job,” O’Neil said. He then added dourly, “Otherwise, even if we throw the book at these perps nothing’s gonna stick.”

  “Maybe we should plant something the old fashioned way,” Fitzgibbons said jokingly. Or perhaps he wasn’t joking.

  The FBI agents had heard that and shot scorching rays at Fitz and his equals, who smiled foolishly at one another. And to save themselves, O’Neil and Bermudez invoked a pretentious gaze that inferred, Fitz was only kiddin’ because we, the boys in blue, wouldn’t think of such a thing. We’re New York’s Finest.

  Hours and hours of scouring Nalo’s abode resulted in a waste of the taxpayers’ money. The FBI lab techs had analyzed the half-dozen or so loose stones that Bermudez so magnanimously had left behind in the drawer of the termite-perforated side stand. But despite the bureau’s state-of-the-art testing apparatus, the feds couldn’t ascertain from whom or where those gems had been plucked, drastically diluting the strength of the accusations against Comfort and Nalo.

  Had these investigative efforts boiled down to a big fat zero whereby O’Neil and his archenemies, Hammer and Masters, might have to re
lease Comfort and Nalo?

  CHAPTER 50

  The FBI threw in the towel. Hammer and Masters bowed out; they hadn’t unearthed anything incriminating with which to support the felony charges Pope was dreaming of lodging against Comfort and Nalo. At this juncture, it was the decision of the District Attorney’s Office, chiefly ADA Pope, to assess whether his impeachments against Comfort and Nalo had merit. If his prosecution were to fail, it’d stir a public outcry, a discontentment the voters would not forget on the next election for the upcoming term of the district attorney. Pope’s boss, DA Frank Hogan, would be livid. Why did you take this case to trial without a stitch of evidence? How do I explain this waste of money and time to the press? In short, it’d trigger a tidal wave of bad publicity.

  “Let’s arraign Comfort and Nalo for possession of stolen property,” Pope put forth to DA Hogan, the intensity of a high-pressure salesman in his momentum. “We’ll recommend to the presiding judge to set a high cash bail, and I’ll postpone the progression of the trial on the calendar as long as possible. By then, after a few months in the Tombs, these guys will have lost forty pounds each, and they’ll beg for a plea deal.”

  Hogan scratched the back of his neck. “This will be as high profile as a case can be. If your strategy doesn’t come to pass, and the defendants walk, we’ll be smeared in the press from here to Timbuktu.”

  This discussion was unspooling in Hogan’s office, him sitting erect behind his wooden desk, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up at the elbows, as Pope stood stooped over, palms firm on the desktop. “Mr. Hogan, out of the twenty-three hostages, one or two should be able to pick the perps in a lineup. Wouldn’t you think? I mean, Comfort and Nalo were inside the Pierre for nearly three hours.”

  “So what?”

  “Somebody had to have gotten a good look at those two,” Pope said, maintaining eye contact to read his superior’s thoughts. ADA Doug Pope’s career was not on the rise. He, aggressive and enterprising, slaved fifty to sixty hours a week—and sometimes more—and his yearly salary was an embarrassing $11,000. In his childhood, he had defied the odds of many black adolescents, surmounting the negative impact of “the hood,” where little Doug’s single mother had raised her boy as she groveled in the woes of economic hardship, though they lived in respectable poverty. She saw him through school, rather than permitting her child to derail into the ghetto road to perdition. And at thirty-four years of age, five years into his tenure as an assistant district attorney, the greater part of Pope’s prosecutions had been minor narcotic offenses and prostitution. That long-awaited nationally notable trial, the cause célèbre that would propel Counselor Pope to stardom had eluded him. And at last, his boss had given him the ticket to take charge of the Pierre robbery, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on the wish list of every prosecutor. Pope had to make the most of it. Less than a week since that heist, it had risen to fame not only in the media but in legal circles as well, where criminal lawyers were watching it from the sidelines. And if he succeeded at convicting those two big, deep-water fishes, Comfort and Nalo, Pope would be a coveted prize. He could taste the lucrative offers from prestigious law firms that would surely be on the horizon. And last but not least, it’d be a pleasure to no longer mingle with the petty drug pushers and the five-dollar hookers.

  Yes, Pope was desperate to persuade DA Hogan to green-light the prosecution of Comfort and Nalo. “We have nothing to lose, Mr. Hogan.”

  “What you mean to say is that you don’t have anything to lose. Nobody knows who you are.” The elderly, gray-haired district attorney pecked at his chest. “I’m the one who has a lot to lose. Whatever goes wrong, and it’s my neck in the noose.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Hogan. But if we cut loose Comfort and Nalo, everybody will want to know why we arrested them in the first place. And you’d have a mob banging down the door here to ask why we wasted money and time if we didn’t have an ironclad case. Worse yet, we’d never find out who else was involved in the Pierre.” Pope realized he was hyper, so he paused. He pointed in the general direction of the Tombs and said in a slower, accentuated speech, “As long as we have those two guys in custody, there’s a chance they’ll name the others.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Doug,” disagreed Hogan, who had been the Manhattan district attorney for eighteen years, and had heard it all and seen it all.

  Pope sensed he was losing his bid to “win the old man over.” He breathed in a gulp of air and felt he was coming across as a Bible peddler. He lowered his voice and put on a relaxed smile. “Look, Mr. Hogan, I can arraign Comfort and Nalo quietly. No press releases, no fanfare. And when they’re escorted into the courtroom, I’ll see to it that they aren’t paraded in handcuffs in front of a bunch of merciless photographers. I’ll have the defendants taken upstairs from the Tombs in the judges’ elevator and through the private corridors of the complex. Virtually no one will know about the arraignment.”

  “All right, Doug, I’ll give in on this one.” Hogan upped on his feet and stood in an authoritative stance. “But if this case fizzles out, you can kiss goodbye that promotion to senior ADA.”

  Kiss goodbye the promotion to senior ADA! Pope felt a stab in his belly. That escalation in status would mean a $3,000 increase in his yearly stipend, and he badly needed it. He had two small children, and his wife had one in the oven. More of an immediacy, the rent on his apartment was due for an increase, and the transmission of the family car had to be replaced. What else could topple over on top of Doug Pope?

  Indeed, life was tough for him and his growing family, and the Pierre’s high stakes he was combating might defeat him if only he could sway one of the hostages to point out Comfort and Nalo.

  The District Attorney’s Office sent notification to police headquarters at 1 Police Plaza that Comfort and Nalo would be arraigned at the earliest availability of a court date. The memo cautioned that public statements should be deferred until a grand jury upheld the arraignment and voted to indict the defendants. The underlying message was to respectfully warn the police commissioner not to mislead the press corps and the community into believing the Pierre heist was solved. DA Hogan’s objective was to minimize communication with the media so that if the indictments were to be dismissed, the egg on his face might not be as glaring. His reservations stemmed from what is known in legal terms as a Motion to Dismiss. At a preliminary hearing, if the evidence presented by the prosecution is insufficient to support the indictment against the defendant, his lawyer may file a Motion to Dismiss, appealing to a higher court to set aside the pending charges. And this petition, Hogan knew, might likely be granted, unless two or more of the hostages could affirm Comfort and Nalo as the stickup men. After all, so far Pope had no proof to validate those allegations.

  But the police commissioner, who jubilant over the upcoming arraignment, didn’t pay heed to Hogan’s memorandum. On the contrary, he couldn’t wait to gather a press conference and tout “the positive progress” of the Pierre case—all eyes and ears across the nation were waiting with bated breath to hear the newest saga of the most notorious hotel in the world. Hastily, the commissioner authorized his deputy, Dan Hodge, to gather a legion of journalists and ballyhoo this wonderful news to the world.

  The press briefing was about to begin at police headquarters. On the ground floor was a round, expansive reception hall with a brown polished concrete pavement. Three-foot-high built-in brick planters lining a glass wall served as the bedding for a hodgepodge of indoor shrubbery highlighted by spotlights. On another wall were enlarged, black-and-white photos of ex-commissioners, and pictures, though smaller in size, of fallen NYPD officers.

  In his black uniform bearing the gold stripes of his title, Deputy Commissioner Hodge stood at the pulpit. Flanking him were Lieutenant O’Neil, preened and perfumed, and a spokesman for the district attorney, ADA Keith McMillan, both in firm postures, chins slightly upward, staring pompously at the assemblage of hyperactive reporters. Projecting arrogance, as government official
s often do at press conferences—a glower on their faces that establishes authority, and that anything they state should be regarded as gospel—O’Neil and McMillan were cocked and primed to tackle the soon-to-come landslide of questions.

  Hodge cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Deputy Commissioner Dan Hodge. To my right is the district attorney’s spokesman, Keith McMillan.” He gently placed his hand on O’Neil’s elbow. “To my left is Lieutenant Perry O’Neil.” Hodge scanned the press corps and pointed at a female reporter who was carrying a recording device and flailing her hand in the air. “You may go first, Miss.”

  The emaciated, brown-haired woman, her face badly pockmarked—the residual scarring from a past acne condition—asked, “Rumors have been circulating that the Pierre masterminds have been indicted. Does that mean you’ve closed the investigation?”

  “They haven’t yet been indicted. But they will,” Deputy Commissioner Hodge answered as he looked at O’Neil, waiting to be rescued if he had responded inaccurately. But so far, he was correct. “Uh, no, we haven’t closed the investigation. We believe more accomplices will be apprehended, and we also believe, now that the organizers of the robbery are in custody, the others will be easier to locate.” Hodge, a silver-haired, robust middle-aged man who spoke in a low tone, exuded optimism to the fullest, a buoyant viewpoint that made Lieutenant O’Neil and Spokesman McMillan cringe. More damaging, his statements were in disregard of DA Hogan’s policy to minimize publicizing the case.

  But Hodge, ignoring his breach of confidentiality, willingly and happily engaged the media. He indicated another journalist, who asked, “What was the specific evidence that led to the arrest of Mr. Comfort and Mr. Nalo? And have they made any admissions?”

  Hodge turned his back to the spectators and flicked a what’s the answer to this? glance at O’Neil, who, knowing the deputy commissioner was totally stumped, quickly stepped up to the microphone. The mic was set for the shorter Hodge, and the lieutenant had to lean into it.