by David Barry
She looked intently at him, her eyes bright and passionate. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll always stand by you. I’ll always come and visit you. ‘
He could see the tears welling up in her eyes. Then she moved impulsively and sat next to him on the bed, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. She started to shake and he felt the wetness of her tears through his shirt.
‘I love you, Dad,’ she sobbed.
He put his arm round her, and with his other hand smoothed her hair.
‘I love you too,’ he said. Then he realized she had called him “Dad”, and he smiled to himself. For the first time in years he was truly content.
He waits in the shadows not far from his old man’s store. Any minute now the cocksucker’ll come along, then. . . fuck him. . . lights out. Kiss the world goodbye, pal. He hates fucking stoolies, and anyone who puts the finger on Willie the Actor deserves what he has coming to him. Jesus H Christ! Guy’s a fucking hero. Should be fucking decorated.
Tension building now as he fingers the gun in his pocket. His breathing rapid and shallow. When he thinks about the fucking little creep who put William Sutton away, he feels a burning inside of him, a sensation not unlike the time he pissed razor blades after he’d been with that little whore from Newark. Fucking bitch! She’d be next on his list. First he has to deal with the fucking cock-sucking salesman. Maybe he’d take his old man out as well. Nah, on second thoughts, leave the fucker to mourn for his creep of a son. As he thinks of this scene, the fucker’s parents weeping at the cemetery, a dark rain-drizzled scene full of black umbrellas like the movies, he almost gets a hard on.
He checks his watch. Cocksucker should have been home hours ago. Probably in some dancehall boasting to his friends how he put the finger on Willie the Actor. Acting like a big-shot. Just some fucking little creep of a salesman. About to get his one-way ticket to blackoutville.
He hears a noise from the end of the alley, the clatter of a garbage can. He sees a streak of white fur and grins to himself. He likes cats. They take shit from nothing and nobody. They live for themselves. That’s how it should be.
Then he spots him, the fucking squealer is crossing 9th Avenue. Any minute now he’ll walk down 45th to his home. And he has to pass the alley. He can hear him approaching now. Whistling some nigger tune. Fucking asshole!
He steps out of the alley and sees the startled, frightened expression on the cocksucker’s face as he aims the gun at his head. He waits a moment. Wants the fucking cool cat to know he’s going to die.
‘This is for Willie the Actor,’ he tells him, then pulls the trigger. A loud bang, and it gets him in the eye. Guy goes down with a fucking great hole where his right eye was, just a fucking black tunnel now. He leans over and lets him have it in the other eye. Another fucking black hole.
He straightens up, pockets the gun, and vanishes down the alley.
Bill was woken in the middle of the night by the urgent pounding of footsteps. Rattle of chain and keys. Clank of cell door opening. He blinked the sleep from his eyes as the lights came on, and found himself staring into the face of Warden Klein. Normally it was a benign, avuncular face, that of a friendly football coach. But tonight it was filled with disgust, and he looked at Bill as if he was an insect he’d like to squash.
‘On your feet,’ he snapped. ‘And get dressed. Man from the DA’s office wants to question you. And he has detectives with him. ‘
Bill dressed hurriedly. He had absolutely no idea why he was being roused in the early hours. While he dressed, the warden read him his rights with grim reluctance.
‘In a case like this, Sutton, you have a right to speak with your attorney first. You also have the right to remain silent while being questioned under these circumstances. . . ‘
Bill thought about his lawyer, who had been unlucky enough to be present in court while he was being arraigned, when the judge had appointed him as his defense attorney. George Herz wouldn’t make a cent out of what could be a long, involved case, yet he was putting as much effort into defending Bill as if he’d been a rich client paying thousands of dollars. He was even giving him cigarette money out of his own pocket. There was no way Bill was going to inconvenience him.
‘I’ll talk to the detectives,’ Bill said. ‘No sense in dragging Mr. Herz out of his bed in the middle of the night. I’ll waive any legal rights I have. ‘
‘Okay,’ said the warden. ‘Let’s go. ‘
Bill knew that something big must have happened, because he was taken to the warden’s office, where he was greeted by the hostile stares of three men who looked as if they’d like to lynch him. The warden introduced them.
‘This is Thomas Cullen, Assistant District Attorney, and these are detectives Morrisey and Smith. ‘
‘Sit down, Sutton,’ said the assistant DA.
Bill sat in a chair which had been placed at a right angle from the warden’s desk, facing the assistant DA, who sat on a high backed chair, smoking a pipe with a sickeningly sweet aroma. The two detectives stood one either side of him, both with their hands deep in their pants pockets, juxtaposed like book ends. The warden crossed behind Bill and sat at his desk.
Bill realized there must have been an important new development with the case, but was confused. Why this meeting at 2. 00 a. m. ? He wanted to ask them what was going on, but something told him it was better to remain silent. He waited, knowing they were using the silence to unnerve him.
‘I’ve just come from the scene of a crime,’ began one of the detectives. ‘I’ve seen dozens of shootings in my time, but this was one of the worst. Young kid shot through each eye. Guy by the name of Arnold Schuster, the guy who identified you on the subway, and which subsequently led to your arrest. ‘
Bill froze. At first it took him a moment to comprehend what he was being told. But as the realization hit him, a sickness gripped him deep in his stomach, and he tasted bile at the back of his throat.
‘Which friend of yours did this?’ demanded Cullen.
‘This is - is - inconceivable. I - I have no friends who would do anything like this,’ Bill stammered.
Then the detectives laid into him verbally, taking it in turns to bombard him with a questions.
‘This looks like a revenge killing. Which one of your gang did this?’
‘I don’t have a gang. ‘
‘Don’t lie to us, Sutton. You didn’t pull the Sunnyside job on your own. Who were you working with?’
‘I didn’t do the Sunnyside job. I’m pleading not guilty to that one. ‘
‘But there’s only one person with a motive for wanting Schuster dead, and that’s you. ‘
‘I had nothing to do with it. I’ve never worked with violent men, hoodlums or trigger happy scum. I never had time for them. Check my record. You won’t find a single instance of a gun fired by me, or anyone I worked with. ‘
‘Maybe not in the past, but now you’re facing the prospect of rotting behind bars for the rest of your days, maybe you wanted to get even. ‘
‘I swear to you, I’m not a violent man. Check with the prison authorities, all the time I spent behind bars, I never once had a fight or hit a man. I haven’t had a fight since I was twelve years old. ‘
‘But you might respond differently if you could get someone else to do your dirty work for you. And shooting someone between the eyes is the traditional method the underworld uses to dispose of informers. Who was it, Sutton? Who did this hit for you?’
‘No-one. I don’t know anyone who could commit such a senseless crime. A youngster like that. I had nothing against him. I swear I didn’t. ‘
‘He was the guy who put you away, Sutton, and you’re trying to tell us you had nothing against him. ‘
‘That’s right. I had nothing against him, or the two cops who apprehended me. Like I’ve nothing against the DA’s
office for prosecuting me. I’ve never had anything against the judges who sentenced me, or the guards. . . ‘
Cullen, red faced with anger, interrupted Bill.
‘Save it, Sutton!’ he snapped. ‘After this, your love affair with the public’s over. The newspapers’ll crucify you for this. They’ll be howling for blood. And any jury during your trial’s always gonna be aware they’re dealing with scum. A hoodlum. ‘
Bill looked down at his lap. His hands, which were clasped together, were shaking uncontrollably. Eventually he managed to calm down, and looked up at Cullen.
‘How could killing this poor kid have helped me? Don’t you think I would have known it would go against me with any jury? This kid’s picture’s been in all the papers. He’s been using his sudden fame to plug his father’s merchandise. Probably some hoodlum got angry and behaved irrationally. . . a psychopath. All I know is, I didn’t have anything to do with it. And I don’t know of anyone I’ve ever associated with who would. ‘
An image of Dutch Schultz burst into his head and everyone saw the uncertainty in his eyes. One of the detectives pounced.
‘Why the hesitation, Sutton? Who were you thinking of then?’
‘Dutch Schultz. I once worked for him, collecting for his Harlem numbers racket. He was a vicious killer. But he’s dead now. And I don’t think even he would have done a thing like this. The senseless murder of a civilian. There’d be no gain. Only a psycho could have done something like this. ‘
The two detectives grabbed chairs to sit on, and Bill knew it was going to be a long interrogation. They grilled him for another two hours. Finally, a little after 4. 00 a. m. , his interrogators had had enough. They knew they wouldn’t get anything more out of him. And there was a reluctant feeling growing inside each of them that he might be telling the truth.
The guard returned him to his cell. As soon as the light went out, he lay awake on his bed, tormented by guilt and self loathing.
Just a good looking kid. A youngster. His whole life ahead of him. And what about the living? The agonized suffering of the parents, sobbing their hearts out. Their aspirations for their son wiped out because of. . . Willie the Actor. He was responsible. Everything he touched. Tragedy. Death. Despair. He was cursed. Responsible for the grief he brought everyone.
In the morning, he tried to write a letter of condolence to the boy’s parents. He felt morally responsible for the death of their son and he wrote five drafts, trying to explain about how he he’d had nothing to do with the crime, but felt responsible. But he knew the parents would be quite rightly repelled by any communication from him, and after completing the fifth and final draft, he read it through, then tore it up along with the rest.
Chapter Thirty One
June, 1950
It was stifling in the courtroom, and the trial was long, and often tedious. But it also had its lighter moments. One such moment was when one of the arresting detectives gave evidence.
‘When you asked the defendant why he didn’t bank the money, what was his reply?’
‘He said: “It’s never safe in a bank”. ‘
The laughter that rang through the court went on for too long, and Judge Farrell had to rap his gavel long and hard until it died down. Bill’s quote probably didn’t merit such a reaction, but it came after the DA’s office had called many expert witnesses to the stand, giving what seemed to be unnecessary evidence, everything from ballistics to the layout and architecture of the Sunnyside bank. But Bill’s remark made headlines the following day. As far as Willie the Actor was concerned, Bill was now treated by the press as good entertainment value, and his reported escapades were written as if he was admired for his audacity. After the murder of Arnold Schuster, before the trial began, the press condemned him as a vicious hoodlum. But only a week into the trial, John Mazziotta, a psychotic ex-convict, shot a strip-tease artiste from Newark, claiming she had poisoned him with her unclean body. Ballistics identified the gun as the same one used in the Schuster murder, and Bill was back in favor with the press, and hundreds of young kids who had elevated him to hero status.
His worst moment during the trial was when they called Mary Corbett to the stand. He leant over and whispered to Herz, ‘Don’t question her. Whatever she says will be the truth. She doesn’t know how to lie. ‘
‘But what if her testimony hangs you?’ said Herz.
Bill shrugged. ‘Then I’ll hang. But I don’t want her to suffer any more than she has already. ‘
While Mary Corbett gave her evidence, she caught Bill’s eye and he smiled reassuringly. She hesitated, unsure whether to return his smile. But the DA was already onto his next question
‘On the day of the Sunnyside robbery, what time did you leave for work?’
‘I started work at seven, so I usually set off at six forty-five. ‘
‘And was the defendant still at the house?’
‘Yes, he was. ‘
‘What was he doing?’
A slight hesitation before she answered. ‘As I left the house, he was putting on his overcoat. ‘
‘So he was preparing to go out?’
‘I think he was. Yes. ‘
‘Had you any idea where he was going?’
‘He often went out early. He was going to start his own business. He was looking to buy a small luncheonette or something. ‘
‘And you believed him?’
‘I had no reason not to. ‘
Bill wanted to shrink in his seat, to disappear. He felt unworthy of Mary’s friendship. She had trusted him and he had fed her nothing but lies. He caught Herz looking at him, and he knew the lawyer wanted to cross-question her. Bill shook his head.
Mary was on the stand for almost an hour. The worst questions she was asked referred to the night after the robbery, when she returned from Farm Colony and confronted Bill about the robbery. The DA was astonished that faced with such damning evidence as the newspaper photograph, she had still given the defendant the benefit of the doubt. A faint trace of derision crept into the DA’s tone, and Bill hated him for it.
But eventually Mary’s evidence came to an end, and the judge looked expectantly towards Bill’s lawyer.
‘No questions, your honor,’ said Herz.
Towards the end of the trial, one of the key witnesses was the bank manager. When asked if he could identify anyone in the court who had robbed his bank, he pointed towards Bill.
‘That man there,’ he said. ‘He was one of the robbers. ‘
When it was Herz’s turn to question the witness, he asked him, ‘Prior to the robbery at your bank, do you ever recall seeing William Sutton’s picture in the newspapers in connection with other robberies?’
The DA was on his feet. ‘Objection! I can’t see that this is relevant, your honor. Counsel for the defense is implying that the witness picked him out because he saw his picture in a newspaper. Whereas my client has already stated that he recognized the defendant as one of the men who robbed his bank. ‘
‘Your honor,’ said Herz, rising, ‘Since the Sunnyside robbery, my client’s picture has been in the newspapers on scores of occasions. I’m just trying to find out if the witness may have been influenced by the publicity. ‘
The judge said, ‘The witness has already made a positive identification, and I see nothing can be gained in trying to use tactics to discredit him. Sustained. ‘
Two other bank employees gave evidence and also identified Bill as one of the robbers. After they had left the court, Herz sighed deeply, and turned to stare at his client. Bill could see the doubt written all over his face.
‘I swear to you,’ Bill said through gritted teeth, ‘this is the one job I didn’t do. ‘
But he knew he was beaten. When the jury retired, and returned to the court after only five hours, he knew the verdict would be “guilty”. Whe
n he heard it pronounced, it came as no great shock. He felt nothing. He was numb. After the roller-coaster emotions of the past month, now all he wanted to do was sleep.
Back at the Long Island City Jail, the guard unlocked Bill’s cell and ushered him in.
The guard chuckled. ‘Bad news for you, Bill, but good news for the warden. He can’t wait to see you sentenced. Twice he’s postponed his vacation because of you. ‘
‘What did he do that for?’ said Bill.
‘Worried in case you might do a vanishing trick. ‘
Bill smiled faintly. ‘You kidding? Think I could pick a lock with a book? The warden thinks I’m Houdini. ‘
The guard laughed as he locked Bill into the cell. ‘Well at least he’ll be able to sleep easier now he knows you’ll soon be in a state penitentiary. ‘
Bill fell back onto his bed. He was exhausted, but there was no way he could sleep. He was too wound up. He stared up at the ceiling, but his eyes were fixed on the distance beyond as he thought about his future. Today was the start of the rest of his life, and the rest of his life was going to be like it was now. Unchanging. A never-ending walk towards the future, where the scenery never changes.
Chapter Thirty Two
July, 1950
It was almost time for sentencing, and Bill’s lawyer came to the jail to explain the complicated procedure.
‘It’s far from straightforward,’ he said, offering Bill one of his filter tips. ‘The judge has to take the other crimes you’ve committed into consideration when sentencing you. And your previous convictions have to be proven by the DA, so that the judge can be absolutely certain you are the same William Sutton who was convicted of robbing the Philadelphia bank and the Rosenthal Jewelry Store et cetera. ‘