Both sides put forth compelling arguments!? This doesn’t sound good, Greenspan and La Rossa felt. What is this judge talking about? Pope’s opposing arguments were senseless.
His Honor proceeded, “Whenever the arguments from all sides are on an even par, I’m inclined to leave matters as they are. And although I haven’t yet decided on the Petitioners’ motions, I’m leaning toward denying them. Anyhow, tomorrow morning, I want you attorneys to begin selecting a jury.”
The defense lawyers gasped and winced, as did the defendants, and Pope, laughing on the inside, couldn’t hide a beaming smile.
Greenspan sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, according to law you can’t begin jury selection until you rule on the pretrial hearing.”
“Well, I am in the interest of expediting things,” the judge said.
This judge is out of his mind, Nalo so badly wanted to say as loud as he could.
NICK SACCO
In spite of Pope’s muddy response to the Motion to Suppress, nobody could understand why Judge Tyler was on the fence. I felt bad for those guys, but at the same time we were shitting a brick, thinking they might turn on me and everybody else. I was paying attention to what was going on from far away. And although I had come back from Florida, I stayed clear of the 19th Hole, and every other joint I used to hang out in—just in case Comfort or Nalo pointed the cops in my direction. I didn’t have to worry about Dom Paolino or Bert Stern because they didn’t even know me or the other guys.
CHAPTER 60
Unbeknownst to the defense lawyers, Judge Tyler initiated a covert phone call to Assistant DA Pope to discuss the pending Motion to Suppress, an irregularity that is unethical and even illegal. An honorable judge does not communicate with either side unless all parties partake in the conference or phone conversation.
Pope was sipping tea, and picked up the handset on the third ring. “Hello, ADA Pope.”
“Doug, Judge Tyler here.”
On hearing Tyler’s voice the assistant DA tensed. Why is he calling me? “Good morning, Your Honor. Is anyone else on the phone with us?”
“No. Just you and me.”
Just you and me!? “Oh!”
“Doug, my calendar is overloaded, and I’m tryin’ to clear some cases out of the way. As I see it, your case against Comfort and Nalo is weak . . . very weak.”
“I beg to differ, but I disagree. I have . . .”
“Look son, you can disagree all you want, but I still say you got very little to present to a jury. In fact, I’m in favor to granting counsels’ Motion to Suppress. If I do, which I most likely will, your case goes out the window, and those two scoundrels will walk. You understand, Doug? I strongly recommend for you to work out a plea bargain with defense counselors.”
Pope couldn’t believe this judge was violating ethics. In essence, he was saying, either offer a plea that would be accepted, or he’d grant the Motions to Suppress. But why? Was his court docket really overbooked? Or maybe he didn’t want to spend his entire summer in a hot courtroom. Or did he have ulterior motives? But what?
The next covert step Judge Tyler made was a telephone conference with Greenspan and La Rossa. “Gentlemen, this won’t take long.”
“Is Mr. Pope on the line with us?” La Rossa asked.
“No, he’s not.”
Greenspan and La Rossa were astonished. They were silent for two to three seconds, and La Rossa spoke first. “What is the nature of your contacting us, Judge?”
“Counselors, my calendar is overloaded, and I’m trying to lighten it. Reconsidering your Motion to Suppress, I will most probably deny it. So I suggest . . .”
“Deny it!” barked Greenspan. “The prosecution has absolutely nothing on our clients other than a scarcity of facts and an abundance of speculation. And two questionable eyewitnesses who equivocated on cross-examination. What you’re telling us is ludicrous.”
“Now, now let’s not get hot under the collar,” His Honor said.
“Let’s not get hot under the collar?!” La Rossa cut in. “Mr. Pope’s Opposition Answer is fraught with nonsensical issues and gibberish he used just to fill the pages. Aside from the witnesses’ conflicting statements, the lineup was flawed, and you know it. It was rigged to make it easier for Weathersby and Rabon to discount the decoys.”
“My strong suggestion to you both is to work out a plea agreement with Mr. Pope. He has a much more substantial case than you think. And if I deny your motions, you have no defense. Plus, I don’t have to remind you that your clients are no angels, and have a reputation for these types of armed robberies.” Judge Tyler concluded. “Take my advice, Counselors. Good luck.”
Good luck?!
“Something doesn’t ring right,” La Rossa later said to Greenspan. “I’ve known judges who communicated with one side while excluding the adversary. But only on rare, rare occasions. And even then, it was under extraordinary circumstances. Judge Tyler must have something up his sleeve.”
Neither side knew that His Honor had been in touch with the other, and that he dispensed to them conflicting opinions. Why would Tyler insinuate to the prosecution and the defense, in separate conversations, that their respective opponent had the upper hand, and recommend to plea bargain because of the high probability of losing at trial?
What could Judge Tyler be brewing?
NICK SACCO
I told Christie Furnari that two hostages from the Pierre had picked out Comfort and Nalo in a lineup. Furnari knew damn well this might’ve led to bigger problems for him and the rest of us. Comfort and Nalo were stand-up guys, but stand-up guys or no stand-up guys, when facing thirty years in the joint, who knew how they might’ve reacted. They could’ve given up all of us to save themselves. Something had to be done about this, and fast.
CHAPTER 61
The third week of July 1972, Bobby Comfort’s sister, Rose, visited him at the Tombs. The visiting room was crowded and noisy to a level that one had to shout to the person three feet away. A locker room-like odor sullied the air, and its source was those inmates who bird-bathed to avoid the shower stalls, where danger lurked.
Rose, a petite brunette who wore short, layered hair and had pencil-thin lips, was uneasy in these environs. Tattooed, scar-faced undesirables whose visitors’ comportment often suggested they, too, belonged in the Tombs, were a disconcerting scene.
“So how are you, Bobby?” Rose asked apprehensively, scanning the room uncertainly. She and her brother were close in age, and tendered a special feeling of affection to one another ever since they had been in a playpen together.
He blew out a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and heaved a sigh. “You know, Rose, I gotta make the best of a situation.” He nodded at the sea of green jumpsuits. “This is not a nice place. You can never let your guard down.”
Rose grimaced, tears welling. “How can I help, Bobby?” If she could only kiss him.
“I can get out o’ here if I post bail. Ninety grand. I have it, but if I use my money, they’re gonna look up my asshole with an X-ray machine.”
Rose didn’t need to be asked twice, and said, “I can use my house as collateral. My husband won’t mind. He knows you’re good for it.” She glanced to the left and to the right, aghast by what she was seeing. “They all look like bad people. I . . . I just want you out of here.”
“In here, everybody’s innocent, and everybody has a story. Me, I did what I did, and I’ll survive. Anyway, thanks, Sis. I’ll have my lawyer call you. His name is Leon Greenspan.”
The bondsman was Al Newman, a thin, Jewish accountant with an aquiline nose that at first sight you’d mistake for a bird’s beak. Within minutes of meeting someone, he’d drop hints of his Semitic heritage, and in every sentence he slipped in a Yiddish term. Newman catered exclusively to underworld figures. He was Christie Furnari’s contact, who had recommended, rather dictated, for him to be flexible in negotiating with Rose, and not ask for a high home-equity-to-bond ratio.
Newman waved away any doubts. “Oh, sure, sure
, Christie. If it’s important to you for Bobby Comfort to make bail, I’ll take care of things with his sister.”
Indeed, Comfort’s freedom and well-being was of paramount importance to Furnari. He wouldn’t chance that Comfort, distressed over the awful conditions at the Tombs, and his uncertain fate, might join the rat pack of stoolies and inform on the FBI’s much wanted prize, the Lucchese consigliere. “Thanks in advance, Al,” Furnari said.
The bald, medium height bondsman patted Furnari’s biceps as men do when a hug is too intimate. “Don’t mention it, Christie. For you, anything.”
Furnari sent a courier to Leon Greenspan to arrange for a place and time to meet. When they saw one another in person, the consigliere gave Greenspan the business card of “the right man,” whom Greenspan was to introduce to Comfort’s sister. Furnari said, “Leon, this guy, Al Newman, will have Bobby Comfort out before the sun goes down.”
The house was deeded jointly to Rose and her husband, and by subway they went to Newman’s office on White Street across from the Tombs. The bondsman’s office was the size of a walk-in closet, and his desk didn’t measure much larger than a milk crate. Rose gave the deed to Newman, and he prepared a packet of documents, which she and her husband signed. The next morning, July 22, 1972, a sunny day, Bobby Comfort was free to leave the sweltering, damp jailhouse, and walked outdoors into the fresh air, taking in the stroller-crowded Foley Square.
Comfort didn’t waste a minute to go and see Millie, who was still staying at Rose’s house. It had been a passionate reunion, one that reinforced Millie’s faith in her beloved husband. And Nicole, on seeing Daddy reentering her life, was emblazoned with that sense of security when a child knows the mother and father are a happy union.
Comfort had pressing loose ends to rein in. But Christie Furnari asked to see him to talk about “his future.” The Lucchese consigliere told Comfort that what he was about to say was strictly only for his ears. And Comfort avowed solemnly that he would keep it a secret. Their conversation, a touchy but acute topic, lasted twenty minutes.
“Christie I appreciate what you’re doing, and you can count on me to take it to my grave. As far as the amount it’s gonna take for you to do this, you have my word that you’ll get it back as soon as everything is straightened out.”
“I know I will. By all accounts, you’re a stand-up guy.”
They shook hands, and Furnari hugged Comfort. “Remember, Bobby,” Furnari whispered into his ear, “No one is to know about this. Not even that worm Sammy. Understand?”
NICK SACCO
At this point, I didn’t know exactly what Furnari was up to, and neither did the other guys, Frankos, Germaine, and Visconti. Al Green and Ali-Ben hadn’t been seen since they took off with Comfort and Nalo’s jewels, so they were out of the loop and didn’t care. I had an idea what Furnari was trying to do, but I wasn’t sure. I knew at some point he’d fill me in.
CHAPTER 62
Comfort’s other priority was for him and Nalo to coordinate the retrieval of the multi-million-dollar satchel from Green and Ali-Ben. “What are you talking about, Sammy?” Comfort asked in an agitated voice, a flood of warm blood rushing up to his temples.
“Yeah, for real,” Nalo answered, nodding as one does to impress that he has no time to banter. “I haven’t heard from either Green or Ali-Ben.”
Comfort stomped his feet, and with fisted hands stiffened his arms at the waist. “Fuck! I knew it, and this is all because of the goddamn necklace you snatched. You and your fuckin’ greed, Sammy. There’s no doubt they think I also knew about it, and they figured, fuck them, if they can steal from us, we’ll teach those two con artists a lesson.”
Nalo was speechless, but not repentant, and Comfort asked, “What else went wrong?”
“That stash I had in my Bronx apartment . . . well it’s gone. One of the cops must’ve taken it when they searched the joint.”
“Good thing,” Comfort said somewhat blissfully. “Good thing, otherwise we’d be in a worse pickle.”
“Green and Ali-Ben will turn up. I don’t think it’s all lost.” Nalo said. “You’ll see.”
Comfort chucked his cigarette butt to the side with a snap of the wrist in a show of repugnance. He spat on the ground. “Don’t bet on it. You got a better chance at winning the lottery.”
“I gotta get my hands on some cash. This bookie that’s chasing me is gonna squeeze me.”
Comfort lit another cigarette. “What’re you want me to do? You steal from me, and then you come for help. I already got myself locked up for coming to your rescue.” Comfort sucked on his teeth. “This time, you’re on your own, Sammy. As soon as the hearing is over, or if we’re gonna have a trial, when that’s done, I’m going back to Rochester with Millie. The farther away from you, the better it’ll be.”
The staggering jolt of millions of dollars in jewels missing hadn’t yet sunk in, and Greenspan called Comfort to his office. He listened to his lawyer retelling Judge Tyler’s urgings to negotiate a plea agreement. “Here’s the beauty, Bobby. The judge is leaning on the district attorney to cut a deal.”
A well thought-out plea bargain might be the tool to remedy a bag of problems, chiefly the Pierre monkey, and a long string of past sins: the Sophia Loren lark, and other robberies Comfort and Nalo had organized. One such heist had occurred in February of 1970 at a Sutton Place penthouse, and another at the Regency Hotel nine weeks prior. These were unsolved crimes, and because they’d been executed in a similar modus operandi, the common denominators were Bobby Comfort and Sammy Nalo. The authorities would put two and two together, and soon scrape at their heels. Knowing this, Judge Tyler’s insistence for Pope to plea bargain couldn’t have been timelier.
“We have one glitch,” Greenspan said grimly. “Pope won’t agree to no less than fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years! No way . . . no way.” Comfort pushed himself away from Greenspan’s desk. He bent over, elbows on his knees, and supported his forehead with both hands. He sulked for ten to fifteen seconds and raised his head. “Look, Leon, Pope doesn’t have much to win at trial. I’m going to stand my ground. I want no more than a four-year sentence and the judge’s recommendation for early parole. And I want acquittal for all known and unknown crimes so I can clear my slate clean.”
Greenspan threw his hands up to mean, You’re asking too much. “Bobby, that’s a big, big gap between what Pope wants and what you want. But we’ll try it.”
On July 21, 1972, the pretrial hearing resumed. “Good morning, gentlemen,” Judge Tyler said. “As I’ve already recommended, I’m asking you to have a conference and sketch out a plea deal that will be acceptable to all parties, and ultimately me.” His gaze swept the courtroom, and he glanced at the clock on the wall to his right. “It’s now 9:45. We’ll reconvene here at 12:30 to report to me on your progress. I’ll adjourn until then.”
In one of the conference rooms at the courthouse, Assistant DA Pope, his sidekick ADA McMillan, La Rossa, Nalo, Greenspan, and Comfort grouped around an oblong table. For this occasion, the flamboyant La Rossa was modeling a navy blue, double-breasted suit, and Comfort and Nalo were bedecked in custom-fit suits, a gray-blue Versace for Comfort, and a black Bill Blass for Nalo. This was the first time Pope had seen Comfort not in a green jailhouse jumpsuit.
“What are you proposing Mr. Pope?” Greenspan began, unfolding his palms.
“I gave this a great deal of thought. And in light of the facts, I’m willing to settle for a fifteen-year sentence, and a one-million-dollar fine for each defendant.”
“In light of what facts?” Nalo said bitingly. La Rossa clasped his client’s wrist to reel him in.
But Comfort added logs to the fire. “Yeah, what facts? You don’t have any facts. I won’t take a day more than four years, and I’m not paying any fines.”
Pope shut a manila folder he had in front of him and stood, buttoning the middle button of his gray tweed jacket. “We’re too far apart. I may reconsider the fine, but
I won’t agree to anything less than fifteen years.”
And the conference ended.
Pope and McMillan strutted through the door, and those who were left in the room traded glances of disillusionment.
CHAPTER 63
They reassembled in Judge Tyler’s courtroom. His eyes roved from the prosecution’s table to the defense’s, striving to read if Pope and the defendants’ lawyers had forged a settlement. “Do we have a tentative agreement?”
The four attorneys, Pope, McMillan, Greenspan, and La Rossa rose, and Pope said, “No, Your Honor.”
Tyler peered from above his glasses, a pair of thick spectacles that magnified the judge’s brown eyes to the size of acorns. “In my chambers, please.” He stepped down off the bench, and tramped into his chambers, everybody trailing him in a single file as though they were hiking boy scouts following the scoutmaster.
This so-called chamber, which was nothing more than an office, had a sweet aroma of pipe tobacco. And sure enough, the judge pulled out his pipe from a desk drawer, and lighted it, puffing on it three or four times, smoke spiraling up to the ceiling. He took the pipe out of his mouth and gestured with it. “Hope this doesn’t bother anybody.” Whether anyone minded, the judge wasn’t about to snuff out his pipe. The feuding parties shuffled chairs in front of His Honor’s desk, one so huge that a single-prop plane could’ve landed on it. Judge Tyler again leered over the top of his bifocals.
“Tell me, why haven’t you haven’t come to an understanding?”
“Your Honor, I will only consent to a minimum of fifteen years,” Pope stated. “They want four years, and that’s not going to happen. Even if I were to agree to that, District Attorney Hogan would not approve it.”
“And from our perspective,” Greenspan said resoundingly, “we can’t move forward to working out the details unless my client and Mr. La Rossa’s are sentenced not a minute over four years. And that is not negotiable.”
The Pierre Hotel Affair Page 26