Blind Man's Alley (19 page)

21

D
UNCAN WAS
back at the DA’s office on Hogan Place, this time waiting for a meeting with the ADAs handling Rafael Nazario’s case. He was no stranger to negotiating with opposing lawyers, but this felt different: Duncan was used to fighting about money, not over a person’s freedom. These ADAs, Danielle Castelluccio and Andrew Bream, pled out criminal cases as their bread and butter; they would be fully aware that this was their world and not his.

Duncan’s only previous encounter with the prosecutors had been with ADA Bream at the arraignment. He’d never met the lead prosecutor, but he’d done his due diligence on her. A couple of years older than Duncan, Castelluccio, a Columbia Law grad, had gone straight to the DA after graduation, and had been prosecuting homicides for a few years, already having handled a couple of the office’s highest-profile cases.

Bream came and got Duncan from the front waiting area, leading him to a conference room where Castelluccio was already at the head of the table. She rose to shake Duncan’s hand. Castelluccio was tall, with a rangy, athletic look. She had long dark hair, matched by a black suit with the jacket buttoned over a white shirt. She didn’t smile as they said hello.

“How’s life at Blake and Wolcott?” she asked.

“Can’t complain,” Duncan said, sitting down on one side of the table as Bream sat on the other.

“A couple of people I know from law school went there,” Castelluccio said. “Including a good friend. Karen Cleary. Did you know her?”

Duncan hoped his face hadn’t betrayed his response. “Yeah, I knew Karen. How’s she doing?”

Castelluccio shrugged. “The corporate law thing was never for me, but Karen was one of those people, that’s really what she wanted. What happened with the firm wasn’t easy for her. Though I think she feels good about standing up for herself with the lawsuit.”

“I probably shouldn’t really talk about it,” Duncan said, pretty much positive that Castelluccio had brought up Cleary just to fuck with him. “The case is still pending and all.”

“I guess you want to talk about Rafael Nazario, then,” Castelluccio said.

Her tactic had worked; Duncan felt off balance. She was going to be a worthy opponent. “Indeed. I’m going to challenge the gunshot residue.”

“Based on what?”

Duncan wasn’t about to give Castelluccio a full preview of what he had to attack the GSR, but he’d come to the meeting expecting to give her a thumbnail. “The police stuck Rafael in the back of a cop car without bagging his hands, then checked for gunshot residue a couple of hours later, found just a handful of particles,” he said. “He could’ve picked it up from the backseat just as easily as he could’ve from firing a gun.”

Castelluccio frowned, glancing quickly over at Bream. “We get this sort of GSR evidence admitted all the time,” she said. “This doesn’t sound like an issue to me.”

“My expert feels differently. I’m going to need to get the lab notes underlying the GSR report,” Duncan said, taking a letter out of his Kenneth Cole attaché case. “I’ve put it in writing, just to, you know, put it in writing.”

“I don’t think we have the notes,” Castelluccio said, looking a question at Bream, who nodded. “We just get the report, same as you.”

Duncan was in the habit of getting as much of the other side’s experts’ underlying material as he could; it was always a mistake to take an expert report at face value. “My guy wants the notes,” Duncan said. “They’re
Brady
material. I’m happy to take this to the Court if it’s going to be a problem getting them turned over.”

“We don’t need to fight about the lab notes,” Castelluccio said irritably. “We’ll collect them and turn them over.”

“Great,” Duncan said. “So listen, you don’t know me personally, and I’m sure you deal with some defense lawyers who’ll file frivolous motions they know they’re not going to win. But I’m not filing this just to file it. Before I do, maybe get a different kind of light shining on this case, I thought I’d see what you were inclined to put on the table.”

“Your client wasn’t arrested because of the GSR. We have motive, an eyewitness. Far as I’m concerned, though, even if your motion was a winner, all it does is knock your guy’s conviction chances down to ninety-seven percent from ninety-nine.”

“Which is why I’m not asking you to drop the charges,” Duncan said with a smile. “I’m asking what your offer is.”

Castelluccio made a show of thinking, though Duncan suspected that it was only a show, and that whatever she was about to say was what she’d planned on before he’d walked into the room. “I’ll take life without parole off the table, give him twenty-five years.”

While Duncan knew little about the practice of criminal law, he knew a thing or two about negotiating with opposing counsel. “This was always really murder two—that’s what you were going to offer if I’d just said Rafael was a nice kid.”

“No,” Castelluccio said. “Good kid doesn’t take life without off the table. Your client killed Fowler because of his role in the previous case, which makes this textbook murder one. I’m a straight shooter too—ask around, if you haven’t. Way I figure it, Blake and Wolcott can make my life miserable with two years of pretrial motions if you want to. You won’t win them but you’ll keep me away from all my other cases, so I’m willing to go twenty-five as a reward for your coming to me early. You make me go through a hearing, the deal is off the table.”

“I think we understand each other,” Duncan said. “Sounds like we both have a little work to do; then we can see where we are.”

Castelluccio leaned back in her chair. “So,” she said, something between a smile and a sneer on her face, “how are you enjoying slumming so far?”

“Excuse me?” Duncan said, a verbal placeholder as he adjusted to what she’d said.

“Isn’t this what this is for you?”

“Rafael’s my client,” Duncan finally said. He was angrier than he could ever remember being with an opposing lawyer, because as far as he was concerned Castelluccio was challenging his fundamental professional legitimacy. He spoke slowly, his voice low, but was unable to keep the tremor out of it. “It was supposed to be an eviction case; now it’s something else. But he’s still my client. This isn’t what I do, as such, but I’m a lawyer and he’s my client and this is the job. You can think of me as a dilettante as much as you like, but I know how to do my job.”

“I’m sure you do know how to do your job, Mr. Riley. I’m just not sure that what you’re doing here now
is
your job.”

“The law’s the law,” Duncan said, glaring at the ADA.

Castelluccio offered a thin smile. “Is that what they teach at Harvard?” she said.

22

T
HE MAIN
office for the city’s Housing Authority was on lower Broadway, steps from City Hall. Candace waited in the ninth-floor lobby for fifteen minutes before Forrest Garber came out to get her, apologizing for keeping her waiting.

“So how’s Ben doing?” Forrest asked as he gestured her to a seat across from his desk.

“I don’t actually much know,” Candace replied.

Forrest looked at her, puzzled. Candace wondered why the hell Ben hadn’t told him. “We’re separated,” she added, not seeing that she had a choice.

Forrest looked even more uncomfortable than Candace felt. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault,” Candace said, looking around Forrest’s office, which was utilitarian in that grim way that only government bureaucracies ever managed.

“So anyway,” Forrest said awkwardly, “Ben told me you were interested in the switch to mixed-income over at Riis.”

Candace nodded, noticing as she did so that Forrest appeared to be checking her out. She pulled out her digital recorder, showed it to Forrest, who gestured his approval. Candace pressed the record button, then placed the recorder on the edge of his desk. “Right. What’s your title here?”

“I’m the deputy manager for policy planning and management analysis. So yes, that does translate into having an active role in the changes to our public housing.”

“I understand the general idea of mixed-income housing, and I understand its appeal to your office. But I guess I’m a little surprised that the Authority chose to partner with a private for-profit developer in putting the plan into place.”

“That’s easy to explain. In a word, money. The Authority is facing a huge budget shortfall, largely because so much of the federal funding for public housing has dried up. Most of our buildings were put up after World War Two, and they were never intended to last forever, or even for as long as they already have. You combine those two things and it becomes impossible for us to do this without the private sector.”

Candace was skeptical. “So we end up with for-profit public housing in this country, just like we have for-profit jails and private military contractors?”

Forrest smiled, not taking the bait. “I assure you there’re easier ways for a New York City developer to make a buck than this. Only a third of the housing will be market-rate, after all.”

“But I assume it’s a lot less risky for the developer than conventional commercial development.”

“Sure,” Forrest said. “But developers are happy making gambles, or they wouldn’t be in real estate.”

Candace nodded, conceding the point. “So I was mainly curious why your office was funding the Alphabet City Community Coalition, given that the point of their organization seems to be to protest the changes at Riis.”

Forrest nodded crisply. “Ben mentioned that, so I looked it up. The money is going through us, but it’s actually been designated by a city councilwoman. The way it works is, the council’s allocations for this sort of nonprofit funding are then administered by the relevant city agency, depending what kind of project it is. The agency has oversight over the nonprofit, making sure the money is used the way it’s supposed to be. But who actually gets the funding isn’t our call.”

“Who on the council allocated the money to the ACCC?”

“Karla Serran. She chairs the committee on public housing, so she’s active on these issues.”

Candace understood, but it still didn’t quite add up to her. “Here’s what I don’t get,” she said. “You basically have the city agency that’s in charge of remaking Jacob Riis also funding a community group whose sole purpose seems to be to protest those changes.”

“I see the irony, or whatever you want to call it. But like I said, we didn’t actually have any role in deciding that the ACCC got the money, and the money doesn’t come out of our operating budget. It’s essentially just funneled through us. This is how all of the council’s nonprofit funding allocations work.”

“Got it,” Candace said. “I don’t suppose you have any role in overseeing the ACCC?”

“None whatsoever. My only day-to-day involvement in what’s going on at Riis took place in the early planning stages. But as far as I know, everything with the ACCC has checked out fine.”

“Okay. The funding was really the part I was curious about.”

“I understand it probably looks a little strange from the outside, but it really is quite common. Anything else I can do for you, Candace?”

“I don’t think so,” Candace said, smiling as she picked up her recorder and turned it off.

Forrest pulled open a desk drawer and took out a business card. “Here’s my info if you want to follow up about anything. And again, sorry to hear about you and Ben. Must be tough, being separated.”

Candace didn’t react, though she was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining that Forrest was trying to see if she’d show any interest. “It depends what you’re comparing it to, I suppose,” she said. “Being married, for example.”

Forrest laughed, Candace noting his wedding ring as he did so. “Like I said, if there’s anything else I can do …”

Candace took his card, offering a little salute with it. “I’ll be sure to tell Ben just how helpful you were,” she replied.

BACK AT
her office, Candace turned to looking into councilwoman Karla Serran, curious whether her support of the ACCC was part of a larger opposition to the changes to Riis. The first-term councilwoman had actually grown up in Jacob Riis, something her political biography stressed. She’d gone to Stuyvesant, and from there to Cornell and Fordham Law. She’d spent most of her career working for the city, first as a lawyer, then in policy jobs, before getting elected to the council.

Candace couldn’t find anything linking the councilwoman and the ACCC. On the contrary, Serran was a public supporter of the Riis redevelopment, speaking out on its behalf, talking about the poor condition of the existing project and the dangers of living there when she’d been growing up. So by supporting the ACCC she appeared to be playing both sides of the street.

Candace went back to what she had on the ACCC, looking for something that would connect the agency and the councilwoman. After a few minutes she spotted it: one of the members of the ACCC’s board of directors was named Antonio Serran. Candace pegged the odds of the overlapping last names’ being a coincidence at pretty much zero.

Assuming Antonio was a family member, it was worth noting but hardly shocking that Karla Serran was funding his organization. Even if it was only for the appearance of the thing, a politician’s funneling money to a community group where a spouse or relative was on the board didn’t seem like a great idea. But of course such things happened all the time in politics. It probably wasn’t enough in itself for a story, but it made Candace want to know more about the ACCC. Something wasn’t quite right here; she could feel it.