Authors: John Nicholas Iannuzzi
“And are you telling her what a wonderful job you're doing for her husband?”
“Right. I might as well make some points too.”
“Tell her that I'm still investigating, and I'm trying to track down something that has to do with the police in the case.”
Mike translated.
“And tell her that I want to talk to her about Detective Mullaly.”
Her eyes reacted to the sound of his name in English. She looked at Sandro, then back to Mike as he translated.
“Tell her that I'm interested only in the truth, so I can save my man, and her husband too, and I'm not interested in what she does with her time, or where she goes.”
She was watching Sandro's face. Now she watched Mike as he spoke.
She shrugged.
“Ask her if Mullaly has been coming around here to see her.”
Her face grew into a bitter, resigned frown as Mike asked the question. She answered him.
“She says he was coming around investigating, and she spoke to him.”
“Tell her I'm not interested in that, and she knows it.” Sandro looked at Mrs. Hernandez as Mike spoke. Her eyes slid over to Sandro. He nodded knowingly.
“She says that he came over, and they went out to have dinner one night.”
“Would you tell her I'm a lawyer, not a priest, nor the D.A., nor her husband. I'm not interested in her private life, except as it affects the defense of this case.”
Mike spoke Spanish to her. She replied.
“She says she saw him hit Alvarado in the station house, this Mullaly, and he seemed to be running things.”
“Go ahead, get the rest of it.”
“I am, I am. She doesn't like the idea of telling me. She doesn't mind you so much. You're like the official, an American. But she's embarrassed in front of me.”
“Well, when I learn Spanish, she can tell it to me directly. Right now, ask her to explain it to you for me.”
Mike spoke to her again. She responded, slowly. Her voice was getting softer and slower.
“And he took her home from the station house,” Mike translated. “She figured that he was the law, that he could help her husband if he wanted to. Dumb bitch! The next time he came around, a few days later, she asked him in for coffee.”
“When did they go for dinner?”
Mike asked. “She says about two weeks later. He was being nice to her, seemed to be trying to help. She didn't know what the hell was going on or where to turn,” Mike said with irritation. “Every time she'd go to the jail or the station house, they'd give her the runaround. So she tried to make friends with the police through Mullaly. She sure picked a beaut.”
“Whose version of this am I getting, hers or yours?”
“Both.” Mike was about to say more when Mrs. Hernandez started speaking again without any questions to prompt her this time. Her voice rose suddenly. She let the coffee cup she had been drying with a towel drop shatteringly to the floor. She started walking around the room, talking loudly.
“What the hell is going on now?” Sandro asked.
“She said they went to dinner a couple of times. They couldn't communicate too well, each spoke only a little of the other's language.”
“Come on, get down to the gory details.”
“Wait a minute, will you. She's telling this story like it's the Chinese water torture. Son-of-a-bitch Mullaly's telling her all sorts of bullshit about helping her husband, and she's eating it up.” Mike was openly angry now.
“Listen, Mike, if you don't want to go through with this, we don't need it. I don't think Mrs. Hernandez's peccadilloes affect the case that much.”
“No, let's find out what kind of real scum this Mullaly is.”
Mike spoke to her again. She responded as she bent over the broken coffee cup picking at the fragments.
“She says they started seeing each other here. The fucking sport Mullaly used to bring Chinese food here, and she'd let her kid stay over at her girl friend's house while she's trying to do her husband some good over here. Can you imagine these goddamn greenhorns? They discussed it, her girl friend and her, and they figured it was a good move.” Mike shook his head.
Mrs. Hernandez continued speaking.
“He used to come over here two or three nights a week,” Mike translated, “telling her he was trying to
help
her husband. Helping himself is what he meant.”
“Hey, Mike. Will you stop the bullshit. Just tell me what she's saying and stop adding confusion to the story.”
“Sorry. It just burns me up, this flatfoot bastard, taking what he can get from her, to help her husband, and meanwhile he's giving us every screwing in the book to sink not only Hernandez but Alvarado too.”
“Go ahead with her story.”
“That's about all there was to it. When the time for trial came around, she was asking him, you know, how come they were going to trial. She figured he had it all fixed up. I can't help it, Sandro, that son of a bitch really burns me up, handing her that line and slipping it to her at the same time.”
“She knew what she was doing. I mean, she thought she was bribing him for his help. She was wrong. Don't get carried away.”
“These people just off the plane, they don't know what the hell is going on here. Mullaly should have left her alone.”
“And if you were in his position?”
“Yeah, but I'm her own kind.” Mike smiled ruefully.
“What happened then, after the trial started?”
“They had a big fight, because he was stalling her, coming over, saying the judge insisted on the trial, even though he was trying to put in a good word, and all that kind of bullshit. And then she figured it out. The reason she didn't tell you is she figured you might make trouble for Mullaly and that'd only make it worse for Hernandez. She's still afraid.”
Mrs. Hernandez was watching the conversation between Mike and Sandro. Sandro looked over at her. She shrugged with resignation and tiredness. Tears seemed to be welling up at her eyes.
“Has she been seeing him since the trial began?” Sandro asked.
Mike relayed the question.
“She says she didn't see him again until she saw him in court and pointed him out.”
Sandro looked at her again. The tears were unmistakable now. Sandro nodded, trying to convey understanding. He reached out and touched her hand. She sobbed and put her head down on the kitchen table.
“I'm going,” Sandro said, standing.
“You're not leaving me here,” said Mike. He rose.
Hearing the scrape of their chairs, she looked up. She started to speak again to Mike, wiping at her eyes.
“She says she was only trying to help.”
“Tell her everything is fine.”
Mike spoke to her again. She replied.
“She's saying something about some guy who owns a factory in a building right behind this house,” said Mike. “He came over one day and told her that he and one of his men saw the whole thing from a fire escape, but they didn't want to go to the police. They didn't know who to speak to.”
“He said he saw what whole thing?” Sandro asked.
Mike inquired. “He told her he saw the cop going up to the roof and all that.”
“Did he say that he saw the shooting?”
“She says he didn't say.”
“Does she have this guy's name and address?”
Mrs. Hernandez went to a pad on the windowsill. Something was scribbled on the top sheet. Mike read it. “Abdul Safi, One sixty-two Rivington Street.”
Sandro looked at his watch. It was 8:30. “Let's try it.”
“There's probably nobody left in the factory now,” Mike suggested.
“Then we'll have to see this guy first thing tomorrow after court.”
“I'm ready,” said Mike.
“Tell her everything is going great. Tell her we're doing fine. Tell her anything you want.”
Mike spoke to her. She looked at Sandro and tried to smile. It turned sour, as the tears started down her cheeks again. Sandro walked out into the hall. Mike followed, and shut the door behind them. They could hear her sobbing as they went down the stairs.
“That shoots a hole in the great Mullaly-Snider conspiracy,” Sandro said as they descended.
“What do you mean? How does that change anything?”
“You figured Mullaly was protecting a copâSnider. Well, it turns out he was protecting a cop, but the cop he was protecting was himself. It explains what he was doing here all the time, why he seemed to be working overtime on this case.”
“What about all the other things that are suspicious, that haven't been cleared up?” asked Mike. “How about Salernoâfeeding us that story through Soto that Salerno was involved? How about putting a stop on the pawnshop stuff?”
“Well, the pawnshop stuff stayed where it was. He didn't take it out and destroy it. He could have. But he left it there, and it ultimately ended up in court, didn't it?”
“Yes,” Mike agreed reluctantly.
“So, what else did he do?”
“What about the Salerno bit? Doesn't it seem to you he was trying too hard to get Hernandez convicted?”
“That's like saying there's something wrong if we work hard doing our job. Even if he was screwing Hernandez's wife, he was still doing his job, and he wasn't anxious to help us acquit Alvarado and Hernandez. He wasn't about to let two cop-killers go just for a piece of tail, but he wasn't letting a good piece get away either. Neither of those things has anything to do with covering up his own involvement in the murder. Or Snider's involvement for that matter.”
“That whole story of Snider's stinks. And you know it. Tell me it doesn't.”
“I still can't explain the time discrepancy, but your ideas about Mullaly don't seem to hold so much water anymore.”
“Hold on a minute! There's still Snider, and Mullaly knows it. And is covering for him. That's what he's been doing. He's been protecting his piece of ass and Snider at the same time. That makes senseâdoesn't it?”
“I can't say it's not possible.”
“You bet your ass.”
CHAPTER XXXI
Tuesday, April 23rd, 1968
“Call your first witness, Mr. Bemer. Bring in the jury,” said the judge. The jury was brought in and polled by the clerk.
“I'd like to recall Detective Mullaly for a moment, if Your Honor please,” said Sam.
“If he's still here. Mr. Ellis, is Detective Mullaly still here?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Ellis replied.
“Very well. Ask Detective Mullaly to step in here from the witness room.”
A court officer opened the side door and called. Mullaly walked into the courtroom, looking at Ellis. He sat on the witness chair.
“All right, Detective, you are still under oath,” said the judge. “Proceed.”
“Detective Mullaly, you were with the defendant Alvarado when he was in the station house, isn't that so?” asked Sam.
“Everyone knows he was, Mr. Bemer. Get to the point,” said the judge.
“Did the defendant speak to anyone other than police personnel and the district attorney while he was in the station house?”
“No, sir. No one.”
“After he left the station house to go to headquarters, did he speak to anyone other than officials?”
“No, sir.”
“When was the first time that he spoke to anyone other than officials, if you can remember?”
“I imagine when he left headquarters on his way to court for arraignment. Reporters were able to get near when they were being loaded into the van.”
“Those were the first civilians he spoke to after being arrested?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No further questions.”
Siakos stood. “And, Detective, the same is true for the defendant Hernandez?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No further questions.”
Ellis, looking mystified, said, “No questions.”
“Now bring in your news photos and newsreels,” Sam whispered, as he again sat at the counsel table.
“Your next witness, please.”
“Richard Sanford,” said Sandro. He looked to the back of the courtroom. Sanford was in the public corridor, peering in through the glass panels in the courtroom door. Sandro motioned for him to enter. He swung the door open and took the witness chair to be sworn.
Sanford testified that he was employed by television station WABC-TV as a film editor in the news department. He indicated that he had been doing such work for the last fifteen years. He testified that on July 4th, 1967, certain film was brought to the studio from police headquarters by motorcycle. The film contained footage taken at the Seventh Precinct in the early morning and at police headquarters later that same morning. This film related to the investigation of the death of Patrolman Fortune Lauria. Ron Roman was the interviewer and had been in charge of the assignment.
Sanford testified that, at Sandro's direction, he had taken two frames from the motion-picture film and had eight-by-ten blow-up stills made from them. Other than that, he said the films were intact, just as they had been taken from the film containers and developed.
“I am going to show these to you and ask you if you recognize them,” Sandro said, showing the two eight-by-ten still pictures.
“Yes, I blew these up from the motion-picture film.”
“And in developing these, did you in any fashion change, alter, or modify the negative or the positive print?”
“No, sir. That's just the way it came from the negative.”
“I offer these into evidence.”
“Show them to the district attorney,” the judge instructed.
Ellis looked at the still pictures of Alvarado taken in the station house early on July 4th, 1967. He saw the neatly trimmed sideburns and the neat are up and over the ears. He saw the neat, trim, pencil-line moustache. “I have no objection,” he said calmly.
“Received in evidence.”