Authors: John Nicholas Iannuzzi
Ellis went on to establish that Belmonte, at the moment, did not have any cases or charges pending against him. Belmonte testified he had been picked up by the police and brought to the D.A.'s office a few days ago, but he did not know the D.A., nor had the D.A. offered him any benefit for testifying. Ellis had no further questions.
Siakos launched an offensive of questions against Belmonte.
“Mr. Belmonte, are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Legally married?”
“No.”
“Where does your wife live?”
“I don't know. In New York somewheres.”
“Does she live on welfare?”
“I don't know.”
“How is she supported?”
“She's living with some guy, okay?”
“How about your children, Mr. Belmonte?”
“He supports them, too.”
These were questions Sam or Sandro might never have asked; they were subjects too accusatory for proper cross-examination. But Siakos knew people like Belmonte and how they lived, and to them this was not accusation but. a way of life.
Siakos inquired about Belmonte's criminal record. It ran from petty larceny at seventeen, to indecent exposure, narcotics on seven different occasions, and assault. He had been a junky for approximately seven years. Siakos badgered him, intentionally angered him.
“Have you ever worked with the police, helped them with information?”
“I don't understand you.”
“Do you work with the police, help them in court?” Siakos insisted.
“You think I'm a stool pigeon?” Belmonte raged.
“I only want to know if you work with the police, so you can get consideration on your own record?”
“I ain't got no charges. I ain't no stoolie.”
“I see that even with a record like this, you've received three suspended sentences, one quite recently. Was that because you're more valuable to the police out in the street?”
“I made no deals with nobodyânobody.” Belmonte looked at Hernandez now.
Belmonte testified that he had worked honestly for four out of the twelve years since he had been in New York. He indicated that his narcotics habit, at its worst, cost him twenty dollars a day, or one hundred and forty dollars a week. He admitted that he had stolen to support the habit.
Siakos asked Belmonte if it weren't true that when he met Hernandez in prison, Hernandez had simply reminded him of their meeting on July 3rd.
“No.”
“And isn't it true you refused to tell what happened on July third because you didn't want the D.A. to put you in prison for ten years as a narcotics pusher?”
“No.”
Siakos asked him if he were aware that Hernandez had testified that he had bought heroin from Belmonte on July 3rd. Belmonte said it was a lie. He insisted he had told Hernandez that he would not perjure himself.
“And now you want this jury to believe that after you told Hernandez that you would not come to court to testify because you didn't want to commit perjury, Hernandez still came here, where he is on trial for his life, and told a false story despite the fact that you had warned him you wouldn't back him up?”
Ellis objected. The judge sustained the objection. It was improper surely, but it had its effect. Siakos had no further questions.
Belmonte walked off the stand. Hernandez glared at him. Belmonte did not look at Hernandez.
The next name Ellis called was Julio Maldonado. Sam looked at Sandro. Sandro shrugged. From the witness room came a Puerto Rican in his thirties. He looked around unfamiliarly. The court officer showed him to the witness chair.
“That's the barber's friend,” Sandro exclaimed.
“That's great,” replied Sam. “Let's hope he hasn't suddenly remembered too much.”
Julio testified that he worked for the Board of Education of the City of New York. He was a cook in the lunchroom at Public School 17, and during the summer he took care of the kids whose mothers went to work. It was the neighborhood day-care center, and the kids spent their time in the school playground. He testified that he had been so employed by the city for eleven years. His working hours were 7:30
A.M.
to 3:30
P.M.
He testified that he knew the barber Francisco Moreno, and dropped into his shop very often to talk and kid around. He said he usually got there about 4
P.M.
Julio testified that July 3rd, 1967, was a workday like any other, and he didn't leave his job until 3:30
P.M.
He said he did go to the barber shop, and he arrived there the usual time, about 4
P.M.
He got a haircut that day.
“He remembers too much, all right,” said Sam.
Sandro didn't turn or speak.
Julio testified, after Ellis had Alvarado stand up, that he didn't recognize Alvarado. He said Alvarado might have been in the barber shop, but he didn't remember him. He said no one gave him any money, nor did he let anyone take his turn to get a haircut.
Julio said that there was no doubt in his mind that he had left work at 3:30
P.M.
on July 3rd, 1967.
Ellis had no further questions.
Sandro rose and walked to the jury box. Julio testified that he signed a time card every day when he started and when he finished work. He said he signed out on July 3rd at 3:30
P.M.
He testified that he signed the card by hand, that there was no time clock to punch or superior to sign him in or out. He said that at the end of each week, the school superintendent had to sign the completed card so he could be paid.
“Mr. Maldonado, if you did leave your job early on a particular day, say around two
P.M.
, you could still write three thirty
P.M.
down on your time card, couldn't you?”
“But I don't do this.”
“You
could
do it though, couldn't you?”
“Maybe so, but I don't do this.”
“The superintendent isn't there to check you out each day, is he?”
“No.”
“You sign yourself out, right?”
“That's right.”
“And at the end of the week, when the superintendent signs your time card, he doesn't know for sure that you've really been there every hour, does he?”
“Sure he does.”
“You mean he has to take your word for it. He has to rely on the time you filled in on your card.”
“Right.”
“Suppose, Mr. Maldonado, you had left your job early on July third, 1967, say around two
P.M.
and you put three thirty down on your time card instead, what would happen to your job if you admitted here in court that you put the wrong time on your card?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Maldonado, if you put more time down on your card than you really worked, would you be fired?”
“I don't do this.”
“If you did, would you be fired?”
“I believe so.”
“I have no further questions.”
Ellis rose. “Mr. Maldonado, did you put the proper quitting time on your card on July third, 1967?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What time was that?”
“Three thirty in the afternoon.”
“No question in your mind?”
“No.”
“No further questions.”
Sandro rose. “Mr. Maldonado, you're employed by the City of New York, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The same employer as the police?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“If he knows, he may answer. Do you know, Mr. Maldonado?”
“I guess so,” said Maldonado.
“No further questions.”
Maldonado was excused. Ellis next called Edward Steinberger to the stand. Steinberger was in the controller's office of the Board of Education. He produced Maldonado's time card for July 3rd, 1967, and testified that it indicated Maldonado had left work at 3:30
P.M.
Ellis offered the card into evidence. It was received. Ellis had no further questions.
Sandro asked Steinberger if he knew whether Maldonado had actually worked until 3:30
P.M.
on July 3rd, 1967. Steinberger replied he knew only what was written on the card, that he worked in the office. He said Maldonado had been paid for a full day on July 3rd. Sandro had no further questions.
Ellis rested the people's rebuttal. The judge recessed the court until the morning.
“Not so strong today,” said Sam.
“There's tomorrow, Sam. Tomorrow is our day.”
“We'll need it.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
Sandro got onto the down elevator at the tenth floor. It was empty. After the court session, he had gone to the clerk's office to check a file, and he was now heading for the street and, ultimately, his office. The elevator stopped again on the sixth floor, one of the district attorney's floors. Mullaly stepped in.
“Good evening, Counselor.” Mullaly smiled his aloof, cool smile.
“Hello, Detective Mullaly,” Sandro replied.
Both men gazed forward, watching the numbers on the panel above the door light up as they descended.
“Guess we'll be winding up soon,” Mullaly said.
“Finally. Another ten days of this, and they'd have to bury me.”
“You really work, Counselor, I'll say that for you.”
“From you, that's a compliment.”
Mullaly's thin lips squeaked out a half-smile, half-snort.
The elevator door opened at the ground level. They made their way out to the street. The sun had already descended, and the Civil Court Building across the street was lighted up.
“Let me ask you this,” said Mullaly. “As a lawyer, a man dedicated to the law, doesn't it bother you, even a little, trying to get these guilty crumbs off?”
“If that's what I was doing, it might.”
“I mean, you're one of the people out in the street,” Mullaly continued. “Some night when one of these niggers or spics comes up behind you to mug you, you think it's going to make a hell of a lot of difference to them that you're a lawyer who's always breaking his hump to get punks off and back into the street?”
“He'd probably roll me harder, thinking I had a lot of money.”
“So, how come you do-gooders are always bleeding all over these punks? I don't understand it.”
“The opposite of do-gooder, Mullaly, is do-badder. Should I be a do-badder instead?”
“Come on, you know what I mean. These punks go around abusing everybody, demonstrations, disrupting schools, and the Supreme Court is tying our hands so we can't even arrest anybody. Black bastards are getting away with murder. It wouldn't be so bad, if they were only murdering each other. And then you guys with the bleeding hearts go out and save them because they had three hundred tough years.”
“Wait a minute, Mullaly, you've got me a little wrong. First of all, I'm not in this thing because one of these guys is black or white. I couldn't care less that Alvarado is Negro and has a rough three hundred years behind him, or that he's Puerto Rican, or any of that sort of thing. The only color they have, as far as I'm concerned, is prison pallor. I'm their lawyer, and while I am, I'll do my job. And that job, in case you don't know it, isn't getting them off.”
“You sure could have fooled me, pal. What are you trying to do then? These guys are guilty. I was there. I saw Alvarado on his knees, crying, âI did it, I did it.' You're trying to get a guilty guy off!”
They had now walked to the corner of Centre and Leonard Streets. The lights in the State Building were burning brightly, not for the workersâthey had already departedâbut for the cleaning crew.
“Apparently, what you don't understand is my function and probably your own function, Detective. You're a gatherer of evidence. You turn it over to the D.A. He's the prosecuting attorney, I'm the defense attorney.”
“Thanks for the tourâ”
“Let me finish,” said Sandro.
“Let me ask you this, Counselor,” Mullaly continued. “If you knew your guy was as guilty as sin, wouldn't you still try to get him off?”
“Yes.”
Mullaly shrugged. “My conscience'd haunt me if I did that. I couldn't sleep at night.”
“You keep using the phrase âget him off.' I'm not trying to get anyone off. You know there's a great difference between being not guilty and being innocent?”
“What's the difference?” Mullaly asked.
“Innocent is where a man absolutely didn't do an act. He's innocent. Not guilty means only that under the law, a defendant hasn't been proven guilty. Even if he
did
do the act, he must be set free.”
“That's what I mean, you want to get guilty crumbs off to roam the street.”
“Look, Detective Mullaly, I'm not God, and whether you know it or not, neither is the D.A., nor are the men in Albany who make the laws. Once drinking was illegal, and a lot of people probably died in jail because they were guilty of breaking that law. Now, drinking is legal, and what a goddamn waste all the death and suffering about Prohibition was.”
“Murder isn't ever going to be written off the books, believe me, pal.”
“I believe you. And morally speaking, taking life is repugnant, evil. But the ingredients of murder under the Penal Code, the five elements, or four elements, were thought up by men. Maybe God has seventeen elements to determine guilt of murder, maybe only one. But while I'm in a courtroom, I'm going to make the D.A. prove every single facet of the elements required by the law. Suppose the defendant is guilty only of manslaughter. You want him punished for murder anyway?”
“I guess not,” Mullaly allowed.
“Why not? Lives were taken in both instances. Who said they're different?”
“It's in the code.”
“Who put it in the code?”
“In Albany, those fakers in Albany.”
“And if they wrote into the law that several ingredients are necessary to make an act murder instead of manslaughter, what's wrong with my going in and fighting cheek to jowl to make them prove all of it?”