PART 35 (34 page)

“That lying bitch,” Sandro said. “Sam, come here and look at this.”

Sam walked to the spot where Sandro was standing. “You're right, absolutely right. You can't see a goddamn thing from here.”

“Take some right from here, Jerry. Get as close as you can to the wall opposite the toilet closet. I want to give her the benefit of every doubt.” Sandro and Sam returned to the front of the hallway as Jerry moved his equipment to the back.

“I'll stand by the foot of the steps,” Sam suggested.

“Right. Don't even stand on the second step,” Sandro added. “And put your hand on the banister post. Lean right against it so we can get you in the picture.”

Sam got in position, leaning against the banister, his hand on the post.

“Jerry, take this shot while Sam stands near the steps, so we can get exactly what she said she saw.”

“Okay, Sandro, just let me finish with this flashgun,” Jerry said absently as he bent over his bag and wound the film into his camera. He stood.

“And when you finish that, let's get a shot of the inside of that toilet closet. And then get a picture of the hall with the closet door open, so we have a picture of which way it opens.”

“Okay, Sandro. Is this where you want me to stand to take the shot of the stairs?”

Sandro looked back. “Get back a little, so you can get that closet door in the foreground as a point of reference. Wait until I move out of the way. I don't want to be in the picture.” Sandro stepped back. “Can you see me here, Jerry?”

“No. The angle in the wall here by the stairs blocks the whole front hall.”

“Okay, take your shots.”

“Hey, Sandro, don't you want Sam standing at the stairway when I take this picture?” Jerry called as he sighted his camera.

“Jerry, Sam
is
standing there. Right at the stairway. His hand is on the banister.” Sandro looked at Sam.

“Jesus Christ, you know I didn't even see him there,” Jerry exclaimed, walking forward to the stairs and looking left to see Sam. “I couldn't see a goddamn thing from back there.”

Sam snorted. “Well, I know some broad who said
she
could.”

“Not after we get finished with her tomorrow,” said Sandro. “Let's shoot the pictures, Jerry.”

Jerry returned to his post. The flashgun flared in the dim hallway again and again. Sandro, Sam, and Mike stood motionless as Jerry moved about them.

“Okay, I got them,” he announced.

“Great,” said Sandro. “I guess you'd better get back right away to develop these things and enlarge them. I want Sam to look around a bit as long as he's here.”

“Usual, it takes a veek,” Jerry mugged, “but for
you
—”

Sandro smiled.

“Do you want Mike to give you a lift to where you can catch a cab?”

“I think it'd be a good idea. I don't like walking around this neighborhood with all this equipment.”

“Mike, could you come back for us? Sam and I are just going to look around a bit,” said Sandro.

“And hurry up,” said Sam, the unwilling tourist.

Mike and Jerry walked out to the street. Sam and Sandro started for the stairs.

“Soto's apartment is on the top floor,” Sandro said as they ascended.

“How about these other apartments? Did anyone see anything that day?” Sam asked.

“We canvassed them. So did the police. No one saw anything. Hey!” Sandro exclaimed.

“What?”

“The police canvass on the day of the shooting must have included Mrs. Santos. We probably have a DD5 that includes her in it.”

“You're probably right,” Sam said. “We can use it on her in the morning. Now we're making some progress, I feel a litttle better about Mrs. Santos.”

They reached the top floor. “This was Soto's apartment,” said Sandro.

“It doesn't look any different from the others.” Sam studied the hall, fixing it in his mind.

“And up here is the roof,” Sandro said, walking up. Sam followed. Sandro opened the door, throwing sudden light into the darkness. Startled figures moved through it. There was a sound of running footsteps. Sandro stopped short, and Sam bumped into him from behind.

“
Camarones, camarones
,” someone yelled.

There was a thud as a young Puerto Rican fell, sprawled out, into the light. He rose quickly to his knees, his eyes fixed on Sandro and Sam. The sweat on his face shone in the light. One sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to the elbow. His eyes were wide and wild. His mouth twitched. He reached into his pocket as he got to his feet, his eyes still fixed on the men in the doorway. The light suddenly caught the silver flash of a knife blade.

“Jesus Christ!” Sam moved backward.

The young Puerto Rican, his knees bent, his body poised to spring, held the knife in front of him, underhand, moving it slightly from side to side.

“
No policía, chico
,” Sandro said quickly, summoning up fragments of street Spanish mixed with Italian.
Yo soy abogado—para un hombre puertorriqueño. No problema, chico. No problema. Va! Va!
”

The young Puerto Rican's eyes shifted from Sandro to Sam. He wheeled and disappeared into the black shadows. His footsteps echoed across the roof. In a moment there came the sound of another roof door several buildings away being opened. The light shone from within, momentarily, before the door banged shut. The night enveloped them again in silence. Sam sat on the top step and opened his tie and top shirt button.

“Sandro. Sandro.” The words sounded choked.

“Okay, Sam, it's over.”

“So's our goddamn visit. Bullshit …” Sam stood abruptly and started down the stairs. He stopped in midfiight and turned, spluttering.

Sandro was laughing now. Sam was looking up, pointing a finger at him, apparently unable to say anything. Sandro came down and put an arm around the older man's shoulders, turning him back around. They both descended.

“Screw you and this whole place,” Sam said finally.

Sandro laughed. But he didn't think it was funny.

CHAPTER V

Tuesday, April 2nd, 1968

The coal-black circles of Mrs. Santos's eyes stared down from the witness chair at Siakos. He was groping for her motive again, with questions about her husband. Sandro was restive. He had prepared a cross-examination the night before after the visit to Stanton Street; he had Jerry Ball's pictures. He wanted to get at her before Siakos put the jury to sleep.

Siakos turned his inquiry to the stairway on which she said she saw Hernandez. She testified that the stairway was ahead and on the left as she would look from the door of her apartment, that the toilet closet was also on the left, and that opposite its door, on the right, was a blank wall.

Siakos nodded and walked back to the counsel table. “Let me borrow those pictures you showed me this morning, Sandro,” he whispered.

Sandro looked at Sam. The jury was watching.

“Better give them to him,” Sam said, shielding his annoyance from the jury.

Siakos took the photos, and walked back to the witness. He handed her the picture Jerry had taken in front of the toilet closet. Mrs. Santos identified it as the hallway outside her old apartment.

“Would you say that this photograph fairly represents the way it looked on July third, 1967, with the exception of what appears to be a hand on this stanchion there?” Siakos pointed out the banister post and Sam's hand to her.

“Yes, it looks like it, yes.”

Sandro leaned over to look at Sam's notes. “The stupid son of a bitch.”

Sam kept writing, not looking up. “All right, forget it. Just listen and see if you can pick up the pieces.”

Siakos offered the picture into evidence. Ellis studied it and had no objection. Siakos also offered a picture of the interior of the toilet closet.

“Show it to the district attorney,” the judge advised.

Ellis studied the picture. “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?”

Judge Porta nodded. All the lawyers huddled at the sidebar away from the jury. The stenographer slipped in beside the judge.

“Your Honor, for the life of me, I can't see the materiality of a toilet bowl and a pull-chain,” said Ellis. “I object.”

“May I see the picture, please.” A court officer handed the photo to the judge. The judge studied it. From his position in the huddle, Sandro could see Alvarado sitting in the folds of the huge Madras jacket. Alvarado winked his right eye, the one on the side away from the jury. The guard behind Alvarado had his shoes off and was massaging the sole of his foot on the rung of Alvarado's chair.

“What is the purpose of this photograph?” the judge asked in a whisper. “What bearing does this toilet bowl have on the case?” The reporter's fingers recorded the proceedings. The corners of the judge's eyes crinkled.

“Your Honor,” Sandro began.

“Let Mr. Siakos speak first.”

Sandro turned to let Siakos move closer to the reporter. “Position of the witness,” Sandro whispered to him.

“I want to show the position of a person in this little room, and therefore what position that person would have to take in order to exit from it. The exit from this toilet is most germane and relevant,” Siakos explained.

“You're certainly out in left field with your pants down on this,” the judge commented, starting to laugh. The lawyers began to laugh. “Objection sustained,” the judge said, resuming his chair at the top of the bench.

Siakos returned to face Mrs. Santos. She testified that the door of the toilet closet opened from right to left as one exited from it.

“That would be toward the front door,” Sandro whispered to Sam. “The door would have blocked her view.”

In answer to another Siakos question, Mrs. Santos insisted she saw Hernandez on the second step as she came out of the toilet closet. Siakos turned toward the counsel table. “I have no further questions.”

Sam nudged Sandro with his knee. “She's all yours, kid,” he whispered.

Sandro rose. Mrs. Santos eyed the new enemy warily. She leaned forward, her hands folded in her lap.

Sandro began slowly. He started with her past, her schools, the names of the streets on which she lived in Puerto Rico, the place where she first lived when she came to New York, the date of her marriage. Her memory was average, and he made no great discoveries. Mrs. Santos had relaxed, however.

The judge called a short recess.

When the session resumed, Sandro questioned Mrs. Santos about the toilet closet and the way the door opened. Again she said it opened from the rear of the hallway toward the front. Sandro didn't want the jury to think he was trying to trap the witness, perhaps take advantage of the language difficulty. He showed her a picture of the door; the hinges were on the left as one faced it, making it quite clear that the door could only open from the front of the hallway toward the rear. Judge Porta leaned over to see the picture. He asked Mrs. Santos to look at it carefully. She did, and still insisted the door opened from the rear toward the front.

Sandro looked at the judge. The judge looked back blankly.

“May I show this picture to the jury, Your Honor?”

The judge nodded.

One by one the jurors looked at the picture. Some nodded. They seemed to get the idea.

It was a very little stick, thought Sandro, but the little sticks counted, too.

Sandro continued. Mrs. Santos testified that it had been a short time after noon when she was on the stoop and saw the two men in the car.

Sandro introduced a picture of the front of the building, showing the stoop. Mrs. Santos said she had been bent over from the waist, looking toward the
bodega
, where she thought her friend might be. At that time, she saw the car double-parked in front of the store.

“May I see counsel for a moment,” asked the judge. They approached the bench. “How much longer will you be, Sandro? I understand that Mrs. Santos has a sick child at home. Is that right, David?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said Ellis. “She'd like to get home as soon as we can finish. I think the baby has a fever.”

“We'll be as brief as we can, Your Honor,” said Sam.

“How long do you think, Sandro? If you can finish now, let's do it. Otherwise, if it's going to take too long, we'll take lunch recess now.”

“I still have to go through her testimony about seeing Hernandez in the hall and Alvarado on the fire escape. I'll be a bit longer.”

“Members of the jury, at this time we will recess until two twenty. Do not discuss this case amongst yourselves or with anyone else.” The jurors filed out. Sam and Sandro walked out to the public corridor.

“You keep her up there as long as you want,” said Sam. “Let her get nervous and upset about the sick kid. That's tough. She's lying, and we've got to break her one way or another. This is Alvarado's life.”

“Okay. I'll give her my Chinese water-torture examination.”

When lunch ended, Mrs. Santos resumed the witness chair, eyeing Sandro like some startled, frightened deer.

Sandro walked toward the jury box carrying a pad and a police DD5 filed by a Patrolman Edward Dunleavy. It reported the canvass of all the tenants of 153 Stanton Street on the day of the shooting. The notation next to Mrs. Santos's name was
results negative.

“Your Honor, I would like to offer this DD5 supplied to me by the police department into evidence as a record kept in the regular course of police business,” said Sandro.

“The man who made this out should be on the stand when you introduce this, Mr. Luca,” said the judge. “If Mr. Ellis, however, does not produce the officer who made it out, I'll reconsider my decision. Proceed.”

“When for the first time did you speak to the police on July third, 1967?” Sandro asked Mrs. Santos.

“I don't know the exact time,” the interpreter translated.