PART 35 (40 page)

“You mean, Snider was involved in Uncle Jim's deportation?”

“Not direct, no. But he was on narcotics, and they was investiga-tin' that funny business. Now, we don't do none of that stuff, never did. We get along without it, you know? But these cops are out to make a big score, they wanted to knock that funny business on its ass, once and for all for the twentieth time. So they start their investigation. And, like everything else, it comes around here to sit on our doorstep. They figured Don Vincenz'd be involved in the funny business too. They even was after me, had a guy folly'n me and Don Vincenz' around. And the phone was bugged, and they'd call and bother the wife, and my mother, God be good to her. That's part of the game. We had heat before that, and we got it again.” He shrugged. “Even for somethin' we have nothin' to do with.”

“What happened with Uncle Jim and this Snider?” Sandro asked impatiently.

“Nothing. He was just involved in the investigation, you know? They got some lousy tips from a stool pigeon, the whore bastard. Anyway, they come up with a whole barrel fulla bullshit information about us being in narcotics and everything, and with that, the cops get their indictments. And they go around arresting everybody. Me, I just on the way into the city, when they arrested Don Vincenz'. So I beat it. They didn't grab me. And they go to trial, and they convict everybody. And meanwhile, I'm in Philadelphia, laying low. I'm using another name. Nobody knows where I am.”

“How long were you there?” asked Sandro.

“Oh, about eight months, about that. They convicted Don Vincenz' and a whole bunch of punks that he didn't even know. But what was he going to do—dog it, cry to the cops that he was framed? Anyway, he was convicted, and then the government started to deport him. While he's in jail, still the narcotics go on. We didn't have nothin' to do with it in the first place. And then he's deported, and the narcotics still go on. And then the brass in headquarters start to figure that either there was a fix, that some of the guys on that narcotics squad were on the take, or they had dumbbells. Either way they had trouble.”

“You mean, the real reason all these cops were dropped from the narcotics squad was because they had done such a lousy job investigating Uncle Jim's case?”

“Sure.
After
the trial. Hey, they were interested in deporting Don Vincenz', and they didn't care too much how. But the cops are smart, too. They don't want a bunch of goofballs screwing everything up for them. So they dumped these guys later. Not Snider at first. He's still working for them after the first shake-up.”

“Can I bring the rest of the food,” asked Joey, standing discreetly away from the table.

“Yeah, come on, and bring some wine for the counselor, and some Vichy water for me.”

“No wine, Sal?” asked Sandro.

“No, that goddamn doctor, I told you he don't leave me have anything I want, only the things I don't want.”

“Do you know about how this Snider got dumped, Sal?”

“Like I said, later, after they figure that it was a lousy job, the cops dump a whole bunch of guys. But not Snider. Then, when the heat blows over, I come back. And one day, this guy Snider recognizes me, and he arrests me on this funny business bullshit. And he drags me down to the precinct. And they bust my hump for a while. They keep me there a few hours, and then let me go. Well, when they find out in narcotics that this guy arrested me on the same meatball charge that started all the trouble and didn't amount to anything, a coupla days after that, this guy Snider is walking the beat again.”

“So it turns out,” asked Sandro,” that Snider isn't too much in the smarts department?”

“He's got the shorts in the smarts department, Sandro.” Sal looked up. A well built, hard-faced young man had walked into the restaurant. “Speaking about the shorts, here's the guy that owes Funsi the money.”

Tony walked back to Sal. “You want him now?”

“No, leave him sit over there and stew for a while,” Sal replied. He ordered some dessert for Sandro and himself. They ate it in leisurely fashion, continuing to talk about the neighborhood. Sal lit up a fat cigar. Sandro thought that Sal and Sam Bemer could stink out any place smaller than Madison Square Garden if they were ever together in the same room.

“You want me to go so you can talk to this fellow Balsa?” Sandro asked.

“The hell with him. Let him sit there until we're ready. He ain't goin' nowhere.”

Sal smoked his cigar, still chatting with Sandro about nothing in particular. Sandro could see Balsa, sitting at a table in the front, nervously watching them. Finally, Sal motioned to him. Balsa approached and stood at the far end of the table. Funsi hovered nearby.

“You know you people are always welcome here. Louis Bags's my friend for years. But this is where I stay. I like it here. You come here, you gotta respect that. You understand?”

Balsa nodded.

“I don't want Funsi upset. It spoils the sauce for the spaghetti.” No one laughed. Sal wasn't making jokes. “Now Funsi tells me you're trying to stiff him.”

“No, that's not it. I'm just a little broke right now. I ain't been in action for a while. I'm a little short. I'm going to pay him, sure.” Balsa tried a smile.

“Sure you are, sure you are. That's what's I thought all the time. I tell you what I'm going to do. I'll pay Funsi for you. How much is it, Funsi?”

Sandro felt a little sorry for Balsa standing on the griddle.

“Two hundred, Sal.”

“Okay, Freddy, I'll tell you what I'll do, then,” said Sal, as he took a roll of bills from his pocket. He counted off two hundred dollars, handing it to Funsi. “I'll pay the restaurant. Now you owe me the money. When do I get my money?”

“Gee, Sal, I'm a little short. I mean, I'll try to get it for you …”

“I'll tell you what. You get the money for me by tomorrow afternoon, okay?” Sal leveled an emotionless look at Balsa.

The sweat stood in droplets on Balsa's upper lip. “Sure, Sal,” he said, almost inaudibly, “sure. I'll get it for you. You don't have to worry about that. I'll get it for you.”

“I ain't worryin'. If I was worried, I wouldn't have staked you. You just get it for me by tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure, Sal, sure.”

“You won't forget, will you?” Sal asked.

“No, you'll have it. I'll get it somewhere.”

“Good. I don't want to send nobody looking for you. Go ahead, now. And next time you come around here, don't be a deadbeat. You got it?” Sal pointed with his cigar.

“Sure, Sal, sure.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

Balsa practically ran out of the restaurant. Sal ordered another drink for Sandro, another Vichy water for himself.

“He's a good kid, that Freddy. Young yet, you know, but he'll be all right. Otherwise, I wouldn't even bother wasting time with him, you know?”

Sandro thought he did.

“I'm going to ask Banjoes about that Irish detective when I see him, Sandro.”

Sandro nodded and stood. “Okay. I'd like to know more about these policemen, Sal. Both of them.”

CHAPTER X

Friday, April 5 th, 1968

Siakos cross-examined Mullaly all of the next morning. Mullaly said that he had been in charge of the case at the local precinct level, with Detective Tracy of the Manhattan South Homicide Squad. He himself had filed only two DD5's in the investigation. One involved an attempt to trace the telephone call that had summoned the two patrolmen, and the other reported an interview on July 10th with two residents of Stanton Street. He had not testified in the grand jury hearing.

“Notice how this guy has no DD5's or grand jury testimony,” Sam whispered to Sandro. “This way he can't be trapped by any prior versions of the story. He can testify to anything they need.”

Sandro nodded.

Mullaly was perfectly calm through Siakos's interrogation. Sam busily made notations in his book. Sandro listened, moving his chair to have an unobstructed view as the detective testified. The two defendants sat quietly, watching. The guards behind them were motionless.

Mullaly testified that approximately seventy-five members of the police department had been assigned to the case, besides hundreds of others who came to help after they got off duty in other precincts. The police commissioner himself was in the station house, along with the chief of detectives and many inspectors and captains from all over the city.

No prisoner before Hernandez, Mullaly said, had ever been questioned in the third-floor locker room. It was necessary on this occasion because of the overflow of police personnel, reporters, and television newsmen. There had not, he said, been room to interrogate Hernandez in the lieutenant's office or the clerical area within the squad office.

While Hernandez was being questioned about the car, he was also searched. He had no wallet, but approximately twelve pawn tickets were found in his pockets, as well as about two dollars in change.

Mullaly stated calmly but emphatically that no one had struck or abused Hernandez in his presence, nor did anyone call him a spic or any other names. Siakos checked his notes again and began a new tack.

“This goddamn Mullaly is as cool and calm as any witness I've ever seen,” said Sam.

“Siakos isn't touching him,” Sandro agreed.

Mullaly testified that Hernandez was taken to Brooklyn about 9
P.M.
, when they first went to get Alvarado, and returned to the station house about 11:30. He was then left alone in the clerical office. At 1:30
A.M
, Alvarado was brought in. On two occasions thereafter, Hernandez was taken from the lieutenant's office to the third-floor locker room, where Alvarado was then being interviewed. The next morning they were both taken to headquarters to be photographed.

During all the time Hernandez was being interviewed and making his statement, Mullaly said, he was calm and cooperative. Siakos had no further questions. The court recessed for lunch.

In the afternoon, Siakos called Hernandez as his own first witness on the voir dire.

The interpreter stood next to Hernandez. He hunched forward, his elbows on the arms of the witness chair, his hands clasped, staring blankly at Siakos.

Siakos questioned Hernandez about his past police record, to beat Ellis to the punch. There was larceny and narcotics in his past, but no crimes of violence. Hernandez testified that he was in his apartment on the afternoon of July 3rd, eating a sandwich, when the police came to his door. As soon as he opened the door, Mullaly grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against a wall. He was taken down to his car and made to open the trunk. Then he was taken to the police station, where he was questioned. They took him to Crispin Lopez's house and then returned. When he arrived back in the office, Hernandez testified, a big policeman punched him. Hernandez demonstrated the punch for the jury, a hammer blow down on the top of the head.

Sandro glanced at the jurors. Some of them looked shocked.

After that, Hernandez testified, Lopez was brought in, and then he was taken to the locker room. His hands were handcuffed behind his back. He was surrounded by detectives, he said, and was set upon with fists and questions. Five or six detectives stood around him, asking about the roof on Stanton Street, about the murder, punctuating their questions with punches in the stomach and chest. He said he was knocked into the lockers several times and even fell to the floor.

“May the defendant step down and demonstrate, Your Honor?” Siakos asked.

The judge nodded.

Hernandez stepped down and stood next to the witness stand. Suddenly he threw himself to the floor. The crunch of flesh and bone on the wooden floor caused a wince through the jury. They looked at the judge, who did not move, then back to Hernandez.

Hernandez returned to the witness chair, answering Siakos's questions in passionate, rapid-fire Spanish. The stenographer, one of the old-timers who preferred pen to machine, was rapidly noting the interpreter's words. He was one of three who alternated in recording and typing the minutes to make them available for the next morning. Each recorded for twenty minutes, typed for another twenty, and then took a twenty-minute break.

Hernandez testified that the beating increased and that his pain mounted. He couldn't stand it any more. Finally he told the police: “Yes, I'm the one who killed him.” But, he said, the police refused his confession.

“No! Not you! Someone else! The one who killed him was a big, tough colored fellow,” they insisted. They were sure it was a very tough colored fellow because he had disarmed the officer and knocked him to the ground.

Hernandez indicated that a Lieutenant Garcia, a detective who could speak Spanish, was translating the questions and answers in the locker room.

Hernandez showed how, while his hands were handcuffed behind him, two detectives had stood on either side, holding his arms while the others punched him. At one point, he said, when he fell to the floor, they kicked him twice.

With the court's permission, Siakos had Hernandez stand, remove his shirt, and uncover his thin, pale chest. There were two scar discolorations on the left side below the breastbone. The judge allowed Hernandez to step down and show the jury. He walked slowly before the jury box holding up his undershirt. The jury raned forward.

As Hernandez was displaying his chest, Sandro noticed Ellis taking some photographs from an envelope in one of his files. He could see that some were black and white, some in color. Ellis studied them a moment, then slipped them back into the envelope.

“And then what happened, if anything?” Siakos asked Hernandez.

“The detectives pulled me up to my feet and asked me again about, the roof. I told them I did it. It wasn't true, but I couldn't stand being hit more.”