Authors: Nelson DeMille
The waitress came by with two more dark and stormies, and also a platter of crudités, and a platter of shrimp, which I guess Susan had ordered.
So we sat there, drank, talked, and watched the sun go down.
At sunset, colors were sounded and the cannon on the lawn boomed, and everyone stood silently and faced the flag as it was lowered.
The color guard folded the flag and carried it away, and Susan said to me, “Remember this day.”
“Until I die.”
“Me, too.”
S
usan and I woke up in the same bed, and it took us a few minutes to adjust to this sleeping arrangement after ten years. Thankfully, I didn’t call her by another woman’s name, and she got my name right on the first try, but it
was
a little disorienting at 6:00 A.M.
Within half an hour, however, we’d slipped back into our old morning routines and dressed and went downstairs.
After a hearty lumberjack breakfast of yogurt, granola, and fish oil capsules, I announced to her, “We are going to the police station, and you are going to file a complaint.”
She didn’t respond, so I stood and said, “Let’s do that now.”
She remained seated and replied, “He hasn’t actually threatened me.”
“He has.”
She glanced at me, then stood and got her handbag. I put on my blue blazer, and we left the house and got into her Lexus.
I headed south toward the Second Precinct of the Nassau County Police Department, which was about a half-hour drive from Stanhope Hall, and half a world away.
It had been the detectives from this precinct who’d initially responded to the FBI’s report, ten years ago, of a shooting at Alhambra, and I assumed there might still be people there who remembered the incident. How could they forget it? So we’d get the attention we needed, though perhaps not the attention we wanted, considering that the FBI hijacked the case from the state, and the U.S. Justice Department gave Susan a pass on the murder.
Well, maybe the county police were over it by now, and this complaint would give them an opportunity to ask questions of Mr. Anthony Bellarosa, heir to his father’s evil empire.
Anyway, it was another beautiful, sunny day, and if it wasn’t for this cloud hanging over us, our future would be as bright as the sky.
I glanced at Susan and saw she seemed withdrawn. I said to her, “This won’t be pleasant, but as your attorney and future husband, I feel this is a necessary precaution.”
She didn’t reply. Maybe she thought that I was pushing the past in her face, but I wasn’t. I was, however, addressing the consequence of what she’d done ten years ago, and she, too, needed to address that.
I gave her a short briefing on what to expect, and what to say, but she didn’t seem to be listening. I myself had little experience with making a complaint to the police, and I really wasn’t certain exactly what would happen, but as an attorney, I could figure it out when I got there.
Susan slid a CD into the player, and we drove on, listening to Wagner blasting out of a dozen speakers.
We approached the village of Woodbury, and I spotted the sign for the Second Precinct station house. I turned right off Jericho Turnpike, then left into a side parking lot marked for visitors, popped Richard Wagner out of the CD player, and said to Susan, “This may take an hour or more. Then we’re done.”
She asked me, “Will the police go to see him?”
I replied, “Yes, they will.”
She didn’t seem happy about that, so I said, “It’s just standard procedure. To get his side of it.” But in truth, the detectives who followed up on this complaint were, as I said, going to take the opportunity to give Anthony Bellarosa a hard time and, more importantly, to deliver an unambiguous warning to him and tell him he was under the eye. And if luck was really with us, he’d say something incriminating, and they’d have cause to arrest him. But even if they didn’t arrest him, Anthony would be one pissed-off
paesano
, which was probably Susan’s concern. Well, he was already pissed off, and now he needed to be put on notice.
We got out of the car and walked around to the front. The precinct house was a one-story brick colonial-style structure with white trim and shutters, and it reminded me of the Friendly’s ice cream restaurant that we had just passed. We walked through the front door into a vestibule that led into a public reception area.
There was a long counter on the far side of the room, manned by two uniformed officers. As we approached, the younger of the two officers, whose name tag read Anderson, eyeballed Susan, then turned his attention to me and asked, “How can I help you?”
I said, “We’re here to file a complaint.”
“Okay. What kind of complaint?”
I replied, “A physical threat directed at this woman.”
He looked at Susan again and asked her, “Who made this threat?”
She replied, “A neighbor.”
I expanded on that and said, “The neighbor is a man named Anthony Bellarosa, who may be involved in organized crime.”
“Yeah? How do you know that?”
Apparently Officer Anderson wasn’t familiar with that name, and I knew that Anthony Bellarosa kept a very low profile, so I replied, “He is the son of Frank Bellarosa.”
The young officer still didn’t seem to know the name and said, “Okay. And who are you?”
“I am this lady’s attorney.”
That seemed to get his attention, and he sized up the situation, noting, I’m sure, our clothing and prep school accents, and he probably concluded that this could be something interesting. Interesting was not his department, so he turned around and asked the higher-ranking officer at the desk behind him, “Hey, Lieutenant—you ever hear of a wiseguy named Anthony Bellarosa?”
The lieutenant looked up from his computer, looked at Susan and me, and replied to Anderson, “Yeah. Why?”
Officer Anderson informed him, “This woman is a neighbor of his, and she says he made threats against her.”
The lieutenant stood and came over to the counter and asked me, “Is this your wife, sir?”
“Soon to be. My name is John Sutter, and this is Susan Sutter, and I am her attorney.” And so he didn’t think I was marrying my sister, I explained, “We have been previously married to each other.”
“Okay.” He said to Officer Anderson, “Show them into the interview room and take a case report.”
Officer Anderson found some forms behind the counter, then came around and escorted us into a small room off to the right. He said, “Have a seat, and let’s talk about what happened.”
He began by filling out a police form, apparently used to initiate reporting of any type of occurrence that could possibly come to the attention of a law enforcement agency. Officer Anderson asked for our names, address, and related information to identify Susan as the complainant in this report, and then requested a brief description of what had occurred, including the identity of the parties involved in the incident. I did most, if not all, of the talking on behalf of my client.
After completing this report, Officer Anderson began to take a full statement from us on another police form as to the extent of our complaint against Anthony Bellarosa and the specific details involved. Again, I was Susan’s mouthpiece, and I outlined the conversations that I had with Anthony Bellarosa, and in particular the statements he made as they related to Susan’s well-being. When Officer Anderson finished writing, he handed me the form, PDCN Form 32A, which I read, and then gave to Susan along with my pen and said, “Sign here.”
She signed it without looking at it, which is what she always does. She hadn’t even read the prenuptial agreement that her father’s attorneys had drawn up. And why should she bother after the opening line, which said, “The husband gets to keep nothing beyond the pen he used to sign this document”?
Officer Anderson took the forms and stood, telling us to wait in the room while he inquired if a detective was available to follow up on any related investigation and take a more extensive statement if required. When he left the room, I advised Susan, “If someone else interviews you, please try to show some interest in this.”
She shrugged.
A few minutes later, a man in civilian clothes carrying the report entered the room and introduced himself as Detective A. J. Nastasi, and we all shook hands.
Detective Nastasi was an intelligent-looking man and he was in his forties, so he was old enough to remember the original incident that had brought us here. He was dressed in a very dapper pinstripe suit that would blend in nicely at my old law firm. He seemed to be a man of few words—the thoughtful, silent detective type—and I’m sure he’d heard it all by now.
Detective Nastasi glanced at the report and said to Susan, “So, Anthony Bellarosa has threatened you.”
She replied, “No.”
“Okay . . . but you think he may pose a threat to you.”
She replied, “I’m not sure.”
Detective Nastasi wasn’t sure either, so I said, “Detective, I’m the one who has heard what I believe are threats made by Anthony Bellarosa and directed toward Mrs. Sutter, and I’m prepared to provide you with a statement to that effect.”
“Good.” He said, “Please follow me.”
Susan and I followed Detective Nastasi back through the open area, then down a flight of stairs into the detective squad room, which was buzzing with activity—civilians being questioned or making statements to detectives, and phones ringing.
We passed through the busy squad room, and Detective Nastasi opened a door marked detective lieutenant patrick conway—commanding officer.
Detective Nastasi ushered us into the quiet office, which was unoccupied. He said, “We can use this room.” He added, “More private.”
Apparently, we’d gotten someone’s attention, or Anthony Bellarosa had.
Detective Nastasi sat behind his commanding officer’s desk, and we sat in the two facing chairs. He played with the computer awhile, reading the screen, then said, “Just so you know, Anthony Bellarosa has never been charged with a crime, and there have been no complaints of any type lodged against him.” He looked at us and said, “But to be real, he’s not the kind of man anyone would complain about.” He looked at Susan and added, “So, if you begin this, then you should understand that we will pay him a visit, and discuss with him what you’ve alleged. Okay?”
I replied, “That’s why we’re here.”
He kept looking at Susan and asked, “Okay?”
She didn’t reply, and Nastasi leaned back in his chair and asked, “You want to withdraw this sworn complaint?”
I replied, “Speaking as her attorney, she does not.”
He continued to look at Susan, sizing up the situation, but, getting no response, he went back to his computer and began typing on the keyboard.
I was becoming a little annoyed with her. I mean, all I was trying to do was to save her life, and the least she could do was to cooperate.
As Detective Nastasi kept typing, I wondered if the police had taken her here ten years ago after they’d led her off from Alhambra in handcuffs. But most likely they’d have taken her directly to the Homicide Squad at police headquarters in Mineola, which is the county seat. Though when you’ve seen the inside of one police station, you’ve seen them all, so I wanted to be sensitive to what she was feeling now, and sensitive to the bad memories that she was reliving. But I needed to be tough with her so that this potential threat did not become a reality. Unfortunately, reality was, and had always been, a problem with Susan. So, to wake her up, I said to her, “All right. Let’s go.” I stood and said to Detective Nastasi, “We need to think about this. In the meantime, we want to withdraw the complaint.” I turned to Susan and said again, “Let’s go.”
She started to rise, glanced at me, then sat back in her chair and said, “Let’s finish this.”
That seemed to make Detective Nastasi happy, and I thought he understood and appreciated my bluff. He said to Susan, “I think you’re making the right decision, Mrs. Sutter.” He assured her, “Let us worry about this, so you don’t have to.”
She informed him, “I am not worried.”
“Okay.” He looked at me and said, “But
you’re
worried.”
“I am.”
“Right. Tell me why you’re worried.”
I replied, “Detective, as I said, I’m the one who actually heard what I believe are credible threats made by Anthony Bellarosa and directed toward Mrs. Sutter.” I continued, “Mrs. Sutter is my former wife, and to give you some background about why I think these threats are credible—”
“Right. I know all that.” He informed us, “I was there that night.”
I looked at him, and he did seem familiar, but there had been a lot of county detectives, FBI agents, and forensic people at Alhambra that night. However, in the interest of bonding with Detective Nastasi, I said, “Yes, I remember you.”
He informed me, “And I remember you.” He looked at Susan and said, “You, too.” He asked her, “Didn’t you leave this state?”
She replied, “I did.”
“And you are back now”—he tapped the complaint form—“at this address?”
“I am.”
He said, “And Bellarosa’s at his father’s old address.”
I replied, “In a manner of speaking.” I explained about the sub-division without sounding judgmental about multimillion-dollar McMansions.
Detective Nastasi consulted his computer monitor as I spoke. Then he said to me, “That case was never resolved in state court.”
I assumed he was speaking of the homicide charge against Susan Sutter, so I replied, “It was resolved in Federal court.” I added, “The . . . the murder victim was a government witness.”
Detective Nastasi nodded, then looked at Susan, and said to me, “Off the record, I wasn’t too happy about that. But, okay, it’s done, and we need to talk about what’s happening now because of what happened then.”
I glanced at Susan, who had withdrawn into a place I call Susan-Land, and she didn’t seem annoyed or upset about Detective Nastasi’s off-the-record statement, nor did she seem contrite about the murder, or sheepish about beating the rap.
To get this back on track, I said again to Detective Nastasi, “I’m prepared to give you a statement now.”