Authors: Tom Connolly
The meeting set, Boriello left the calendar open that afternoon. In preparation he ordered up all the files on Curtis Strong.
Curtis Strong, eighteen-year-old black man from Stamford’s Waterside section, had stabbed a man to death in an apparent robbery on Stamford’s west side. The name rang a bell with Boriello even though the crime occurred more than six years ago. The case was plain vanilla—eye witness identified Strong, thumb print was on the knife, victim’s blood was on a sneaker found in his closet, a footprint from that pair of sneakers was found at the scene of the crime. Strong’s defense: he was passing by and heard someone moaning and went to his aid. Claimed he saw someone running away. Trial lasted a week, defense attorney from a high-priced firm. District Attorney tried a plea since Strong was a first-time offender, and his victim was a known drug dealer. Arresting officer John Walsh’s notes indicate they thought it was a drug buy gone wrong, and Strong got greedy for drugs and money. The plea offer was manslaughter in the second degree, fifteen years to life and allocution to the crime. Strong refused to allocute. Trial portion lasted three days, jury verdict took six days. Sentence: twenty-five years to life.
Boriello was making notes as he read:
-First-time offender
-High-priced attorney. Poor black kid. Why? Who paid?
-No allocution for ten years off. Dead to right on evidence
-Six days for verdict? On a three-day trial?
-The reviewing police lieutenant made a footnote: Strong’s father shot and killed by Stamford patrolman.
James Ford was a tall imposing figure, not at all who Boriello envisioned from his calm manner on the phone. They shook hands in the lobby of police headquarters as Boriello escorted Ford to his office.
“I’m thankful you are taking this time, Lieutenant,” Ford added once they reached Boriello’s office, which was one of five offices along a rear wall. The offices were all enclosed by glass with blinds that could be dropped for privacy.
“Sure, Mr. Ford,” Boriello said. “Did you come down this morning?”
“Yes, I drove, just got here. And please, call me Jim.”
“OK, Jim, and I’m Vito,” Boriello replied in kind. “Then you must be hungry. Let’s go get a bite and we can talk. I left plenty of time,” then second-guessing himself, “unless you’ve got a time issue and need to get back on the road.”
“Lunch sounds great, Vito. I’m betting the story interests you, so I
made reservations to stay over before driving back tomorrow,” Ford replied
Boriello did the eye roll, this time noticed by Ford, “I can’t wait.”
Over a couple of beers and pizza in a large booth at the Colony, a bar/restaurant, with bar being the operative word, they began their discussion. The Colony was close to the police headquarters building and was a favorite lunchtime and after-work hangout for police officers. During lunch Ford and Boriello discussed their careers and some of the major crimes they solved. They laughed over one case they both remembered—that of a bank robber in New York City who handed a note to the teller that was the back side of his business card.
“I’m taking a liking to you, Jim,” Boriello said. “I hope you do have something on Curtis Strong. I did a little research so I’m up to speed.”
“I knew you would do your homework,” Ford smiled.
“By the way, before we talk about Strong, let’s discuss this knowledge you have about me,” Boriello smiled. “What gives?”
“Oh that, I didn’t tell you, but your Chief, John Brennan, he was my mentor when I was a rookie out of the police academy in the city. We’ve stayed in touch since then.”
Boriello smiled, “That son of a bitch. Why didn’t he give me a heads-up?”
“He told me you’ve been looking forward to retirement, but that you were the best he had and may be able to find some time for me,” Ford answered.
“Well, only because it’s you, Jim, not because of him,” Boriello concluded laughing.
Boriello went inside of himself for a split second—the ability to read the tangents was something he prided himself on. Here was a gift right in front of him, and he missed it.
“That’s a gotcha for you, Jim; once you mentioned the city and you knew some personal things about me, I should have figured it was Brennan. Well, let’s head back to the office and get to talking about Strong, and I’ll see if I can get the antenna back up before I fold my tent.”
Once back in Boriello’s office, Ford plopped down. “Damn, that pizza was good, but two beers at lunch. Now I need a nap.”
Boriello laughed with Ford, and added, “But before the nap, let’s hear your story.”
“First off, Vito, The Writing Project is a course in writing, ethics and confession.”
Boriello couldn’t resist, “Bet you get a lot of honest answers there?”
“Sometimes. In fact, more often than you would think. This is one of them.” Ford continued, “The Project results in a final paper at the end of six weeks of classes. We have the inmates work on their writing skills, no matter the level of them, and you wouldn’t believe grown men in their thirties or so writing at a second grade level. We also have them focused on ethical issues: truth, honesty, and trust. The final couple of weeks we want them dealing with what got them incarcerated, so we talk about the importance of guilt and confession. Accepting what has been done; acknowledging responsibility for it is very important.
“A lot of DAs would be interested in that,” Boriello interjected.
“We don’t entirely expect that they will confess what they did; what we see mostly are short works of fiction where the antagonist takes the blame, you know, admits guilt for what he has done. The story becomes a metaphor for their lives, for self-confession,” Ford looked at Boriello, his eyes seeking.
“I get it. And this stuff works?” Boriello asked.
“We hope. We’re trying to see if there’s a correlation between hostility in the inmates who don’t participate in the program and those who do. Most of our boys aren’t going anywhere for a long time, if at all. We need them to play nice while there at Auburn.”
“So here’s Mr. Strong’s story. While you’re reading it, I’ll go say hi to Chief Brennan if you point me in the right direction,” Ford said rising, handing Boriello the stapled paper.
“OK, go across and out the door, take a right and he’s down the hallway on the left. You want me to call and see if he’s got some time.”
“No thanks, Vito, I told him I was meeting with you today and said I’d stop by to say hello. I’ll be right back.”
With that Ford left and Boriello began reading. The story had about eight typewritten pages. Strong used it as a summary of his life, who he was and how he came to be at Auburn. Family unit consisted of father, mother, and CJ Jr. Father was killed by Stamford patrolman John Walsh. Strong pointed out, the same John Walsh who supervised the arresting officers and presented evidence against him on the stand during his trial for the murder of Augusto Santos, a Guatemalan drug dealer. He stressed he did not do it, that he heard someone moaning in the alley and saw a person run off as he approached. He tried helping the man, who had a knife sticking out of the middle of his chest. He didn’t touch the knife because he did not know whether that would hurt the man worse than he was already hurt. He heard evidence that there was a thumbprint on the knife; whosever it was, it was not his. Maybe if there was a thumbprint it belonged to the real killer. Strong said he heard all of the evidence against him; if he was guilty and knowing that, why wouldn’t he take a plea and save himself ten years. Simply because he did not do it. Since he had been at Auburn, Strong stated he earned a college degree. He has never been punished at Auburn as he leads a disciplined life, doing his work at the prison, sports, and working out and educating himself for when he is ultimately vindicated. He knows this will happen he says; he just doesn’t know when. He stated he had never been in trouble before or since. As further proof, he said the jury was somehow pushed to this verdict when they did not seem inclined. He said the jury foreman, twice, had sent a note to the judge that they were deadlocked and could not reach a verdict, but both times the judge ordered them to work some more. He felt there was something else behind the scenes he could not see—he wrote that he thought it had to do with this Police Officer John Walsh. Boriello paused here thinking about Walsh for a minute—good cop, rose quickly, lots of arrests, made sergeant, on the strength of his investigations and convictions. And it was this last thing that obviously Jim Ford wanted Boriello’s help on: he had recently learned who the dark figure in the night was that killed the Guatemalan. He could not say, would not say, as he had his reasons, but the police should relook at all the evidence. He said they may or may not find the killer, but they would certainly find that he did not kill anyone.
Boriello said this outloud to himself, “What the hell kind of bullshit is this,” and at that moment Jim Ford reentered the office.
“Chief said to say hello,” said Ford.
“He could get off his fat ass and come and say it in person,” Boriello said ruffled, “Say, Jim, what gives here. I see nothing other than creative writing 101.”
“Except…” said Ford.
“What, except now he knows who did it and won’t say. Is this a riddle? I know and I’m not telling,” Boriello went on mockingly, “You cops figure it out, and if you do I get out.” Well, Curtis my boy, if we don’t figure it out you stay in the slammer for the next twenty years or so.”
“The “except” thing is what I want to talk with you about,” Ford said. “I got to know Curtis over the period of the program, took an interest in him, you might say. Not too many guys have I ever questioned why they are there. Him I do. I went through his background over the last five and a half years. He’s an honorable man, done lots of good things at Auburn. He’s helped a lot of inmates much older than him come to grips with some pretty awful things in their lives. He’s a peacemaker—any time there is trouble, he’s never in it but always will step forward to help calm things down. Saved a guard’s ass when one inmate put a knife to his throat, talked the guy down. Participates in everything offered to him that will help him grow. He’s also strong as an ox. He’s put on sixty pounds since he came to Auburn and not an ounce of it is fat. Even got a degree while there.”
“And?” Boriello, wasn’t convinced of anything.
“And I talked to him about his story several times. Not a fact, not a word, nothing has changed from what he wrote. In fact I now believe every single thing he has said. My request is twofold. Believe along with me—and investigate this story as if it is fact, find the discrepancies and where the fault lines are,” Ford said.
“That’s asking a lot, Jimbo,” Boriello said seriously, “My retirement will not be put off.”
“Fair enough. But, most of the facts he writes about should be fairly easy to prove or disprove. Although I would like to hear from one of the jurors just what went on in that jury room.”
“I’ll help you, but this is almost six years old. We need to talk with a few people who may or may not be around anymore. I do have a number of my own questions already,” Boriello said.
“Mind sharing them with me,” Ford asked.
“No. I’ll share,” and they talked about Strong’s first offender status, the high priced lawyer and a poor black kid and who pays, not allocuting for a ten-year reduction, “Hell,” he stopped, “with that evidence you and I would have taken the plea.” He continued with his own concerns about the length of time the verdict took, if the evidence was so clear. He confirmed to Ford that yes, it was Detective Walsh who had shot and killed Strong’s father. “I’ve also now got the files and facts on the father’s shooting. Sketchy, shouldn’t have happened.”
“Just that last item alone has got to make you a little skeptical,” Ford said with a deep tone in his voice as his head shook from side to side.
Boriello, head down, confessed trouble with that also, “I’m not saying it was wrong, just needs more looking into. We have a number of multi-generational criminals around town.”
“Well, then,” Ford began, “should I leave you for now to do some sleuthing and come back in the morning?”
“Nice try, Detective,” Boriello said as he picked up the phone and dialed as Ford looked on. “Honey, I’m bringing a guest home for dinner, work, and a sleepover. Can you arrange everything there?” he said with a wink to Ford, “Good, thanks. We’ll be home around six.”
“I don’t want to impose,” Ford begged.
“Man doesn’t want to impose, does he. And me with thirty days to retirement. Well Mr. Ford you just got yourself a partner, but only for a month. We’re on the clock now.”
Boriello’s home was less than half a mile from police headquarters. Ford had the feeling that Boriello’s whole life didn’t stray more than a half mile from headquarters. He had found himself a good cop to help investigate the truth in Curtis Strong’s story.
Rosa Boriello still had the accent her parents brought with them from Verona, Italy. And Ford found out she had the incredible Italian skill of preparing food as if from heaven. That night at Boriello’s home the two used the den that Boriello had turned into a home office, desks with two computers, chalkboard, printer/copier, and phones.
At the end of the night, both having reviewed the Stamford Police Department’s reports on Strong senior’s shooting and Strong junior’s arrest and prosecution, along with Strong junior’s file from Auburn, the two detectives came up with a checklist of to dos, split them up, and agreed to talk in one week: