Born to Lose (35 page)

“Well, I don't know, he likes them both, of course.”

After a few more probes in this direction, Jo's answers remained carefully neutral, so Porter decided to be forthright.

“We have information that Betty and Stanley are perhaps more to each other than sister and brother, that they've had an ongoing incestuous relationship. Can you say anything to this?”

Jo sat still for awhile but eventually responded as if she'd been thinking back and a new piece of a puzzle had just fallen into place. She said in a whisper, “I've often thought of that.” She lowered her eyes, fell silent, and fiddled with a cuff button on her blouse.

“I know the question might be hard for you, but what would make you suspect such a thing?”

“Because they are
sooooo
close,” Jo said lovingly, like it was a longed-for closeness too few people have. “Betty's a bit older than him, quite attractive. She dyes her hair to keep it blonde. Stanley went to see her a lot. I have this impression the two have a closeness beyond what oughta be, but I would force my mind to throw this away.” Jo folded her arms and looked away, the topic done with.

After a minute, Jo propped her chin up with her hand, a faraway look in her eyes. Porter saw her to be an attractive blonde, just like Hoss's wife Diane, rape victim Kathy Defino, kidnap victim Linda Peugeot—and his sister, Betty. He watched Jo's face until a wistful smile crossed her lips.

“What are you thinking?”

“You asked before what we did, where we went? Well, we liked going to Isaly's, sometimes for milk, bread, chipped-chopped ham, but we'd never pass up getting their ice cream skyscrapers, pistaschio for me, butter pecan for Stanley. When we'd walk out arm in arm, I'd whisper in his ear, ‘Do you know what Isaly's means?' He'd play dumb, say, ‘No, what?' and I'd say ‘It means I shall always love you, Stanley.' Then he'd give me an ice creamy kiss.” Porter saw a tear crawl down Jo's cheek.

“Jo, do you have any letters from Stanley or photos I can see?” She shook her head, then offered the dubious statement, “The day I heard he shot that cop, I burned all his letters and pictures. That's what I did to get him out of my life.”

As before when talking with Jodine—Mistress to America's Most Wanted—Porter didn't know what to make of her.

Nor could he understand Hoss. His family loved him, cared for him. His family wasn't rich, but how many were in Pittsburgh's river communities in the fifties? He was not abused, had no horrid upbringing. What could have propelled him to such malignant heights?

Billy Coe dismissed such puzzlement. Coe was with the U.S. Attorney's Office in Pittsburgh, but for several years as a youngster he had lived right beside the Hoss family. “If anything,” he recalled, “our house was a little worse off than theirs. I played with the Hoss kids, mostly Stanley and Harry. Mr. and Mrs. Hoss were nice people, particularly the mother, who made us cookies and jelly sandwiches. But while we paid attention in school, Stanley didn't. We earned our bikes, Stanley stole his. We worked, he loafed. We went our ways, chose our direction, and Stanley, with chilling indifference, did too. Butcher, Baker, Candlestick Maker … Criminal. That's what Stanley is.”

“‘Not guilty!' That's what the sunuvabitch said, ‘not guilty'.” Chief Blackie DeLellis gave the news to Joe Zanella's father, Joe Sr. “After all Hoss's big talk about pleading guilty to everything, ya know, accepting his just desserts, now here he goes trying to squirm outta things, coward that he is.”

“When did you hear this?” Joe asked.

“Hour ago. Got a call from a deputy friend of mine in the courthouse. He keeps me up on things.”

“Did you really expect differently?”

“I guess not. It's just now that you, Julie, and the girls will have to go through a trial, bring it all back. How ya doin', anyway?”

“We're getting by. Friends, neighbors have all been good. Still, losing Sonny … It's near six months now and Julia is only a little better. She sleeps too much. It's going to take some time.”

Inside Futule's Tavern, the two friends caught up with each other and the news, Blackie drinking a bottle of Iron City, Joe Sr. sipping blackberry wine.

Just after the new year, Hoss was denied a change of venue by Judge Samuel Strauss, who declared that since publicity over the case was nationwide, carried in all news media everywhere, he saw no reason for a change.

“I can tell you I was happy about that,” said Joe, “and it bothered me a lawyer would even ask to move the trial away from here, like ordinary citizens would be so swayed by the papers they couldn't possibly be fair, can't think for themselves, use sound judgment. If that's so, what about the lawyers? They read the same stories. Wouldn't they then be so blinded to the actual evidence that they couldn't be true and fair, couldn't act properly, have to excuse themselves from the proceedings?”

Blackie laughed, “Yeah, tell you what, instead of shippin' a trial out, let's bring a few ignorant lawyers in, would cost less.”

Joe unwrapped a cigar and lit up. “Blackie, I'm glad you called, because I want to bring something up to you.” Blackie motioned the barkeep, held up two fingers, said, “Carmen, same thing again,” then looked at Joe. “Sure, what's up?”

“Did you know Bob Duggan called me last week?”

“Really? What'd he want?”

“To offer Hoss a deal, that's what. Wanted to know what I thought. It was nice of him to call, but I think it was a courtesy. He wanted to make this deal.”

“A deal about what?”

“Here's how he explained it … said they were losing hope of ever finding the Peugeots, that Hoss faced the death penalty for Sonny, so he wanted to tell Hoss they'd take death off the table if he'd pinpoint the bodies.”

“Jeez, Joe, whaddya say?”

Said I'd call him back, that I had to think. And I did, thought of nothing else for two days. I didn't even bring this up to Julia—it would be too much for her—but I talked to my oldest, Barbara. I bleed for the Thompsons. At least I know my boy's resting at St. Jo's where his mother and I will join him one day, and I know the Thompsons and the husband don't have even that small comfort. But what I know of Hoss, he will tell if it suits him, or maybe never. He's had chance after chance to get the Peugeots back, but nothing's come of it. If Hoss gets death for killing my boy, he'll still have plenty of time to barter for his worthless life. In the meantime, the Peugeots could be found, but it does not seem right the more someone murders, the better deal he gets. We decided Hoss should be shown no leniency, and this is what I told Duggan. Now, from what you say, apparently Duggan offered Hoss the deal regardless of what I said, but Hoss turned it down anyway. Maybe he really doesn't know where he buried them, or has no fear of Hell's fires, but any which way, we go to trial.

But there was more to this story that wouldn't become known for many months. Hoss had indeed been offered the deal and ultimately agreed to cooperate fully in exchange for his life. When his attorney went to prosecutor Ted Fagan with Hoss's decision, Fagan replied, “Well, I have a message you may take back to your client—tell him to go fuck himself. It's too late.”

What changed in the District Attorney's Office is anyone's guess, but perhaps the argument advanced by Joe Zanella Sr. made the best sense for the prosecution's final position.

In Stanley Hoss's mind, his image was growing. People pointed him out as he walked around in prison. Western Pen, he learned, was deluged with requests for information about him and how he spends his days. Radio and TV stations wanted interviews, but this was forbidden by prison brass. And
it was cream over peaches when Stanley found out he'd made the cover of a national crime magazine,
Inside Detective
. The magazine opened a twelve-page story on Hoss in its January 1970 issue with the breath-holding words: “He left a trail of kidnap, robbery, and murder, and the final toll may never come out—unless Stanley talks.”

It seemed to Stanley that the less he said, the greater his mystique. Then there were the letters from scores of women proclaiming a fascination with him. Could he write back? Was he lonely? Was a visit possible? A contact visit? After prison inspection, these amorous missives were handed over to Hoss—the ultimate bad boy—but any enclosures (i.e., the naughty photos and lace panties) were not.

So what if his bitch of a wife formally filed for divorce the day after Christmas? Good riddance. So he told his jailbird cronies.

. . .

It was late in the morning of March 2, the day after his twenty-seventh birthday, that Hoss, in blue suit and maroon tie, stood in a crowded assignment room to utter “Not Guilty” in formal response to the Zanella indictment. Moments after the plea, Hoss was escorted to adjoining Courtroom No. 2 for voir dire, the selection of jurors.

The no-nonsense Judge Samuel H. Strauss, fondly or otherwise called “The Hangin' Judge,” would preside over the trial. He figured voir dire could be a long haul and ordered
two
one-hundred-member jury panels to be at the ready.

If Hoss was a household word, the names of the attorneys forming up for battle were not. Although public interest was unparalleled within living memory, the case in large part was still at the dictates of bureaucracy. No established top guns were sought for either side. Those appointed to fight for Hoss's conviction or exoneration were selected by the mundane review of office rosters. Who's around? Whose turn is it?

Without funds, Hoss accepted representation from Edgar Snyder and Fred Baxter of the Public Defenders Office. For its part, the District Attorney's Office advanced Edward “Ted” Fagan and Don Minahan to prosecute Hoss. These four lawyers made for an interesting, but not always harmonious, group. Fagan, fifty-one, and Minahan, forty, were more experienced than their adversaries. Snyder, twenty-nine, had only one year in with the Public Defenders Office, and it had been his first job after Pitt law school. Baxter, twenty-five, had been practicing for an even shorter period.

There was no question whose corner the public was in. Fagan and Minahan
were heartened by letters from well-wishers; on the sidewalks, it was attaboys all round and a hearty clap on the back. Snyder and Baxter got letters, too—hoping they'd get hit by trucks.

The four attorneys and Hoss were at it hot and heavy for three days selecting a jury. Each side was permitted twenty peremptory challenges, those for which no reason had to be given or, as Baxter joked, “'cause I don't like his necktie.” Each side could also make further challenges, unlimited in number but requiring a legal justification. Also bogging things down was the Witherspoon Question, born of the 1968 Supreme Court decision pertaining to jury selection in capital cases. Each prospective juror was asked, “Would you return a verdict of first degree murder if the punishment was set at death?” If someone answered no, he was excused.

Halfway through voir dire, prosecutor Ted Fagan was generally satisfied, until, as he recalled,

we got to one man, obviously Jewish. He witherspooned all right but I asked for a recess and spoke to one of my assistants, an Abramson, and asked, “Is there anything in Jewish belief or dogma which would prevent that Jewish man from agreeing with the death penalty?” Abramson said it was possible. So now I was stuck, didn't know what to do. Everything else about him seemed prosecution friendly. In the end I didn't challenge him, left him on. Edgar Snyder, of course, was delighted, thinking the guy might be one he could count on.

But you know, I don't much care who's on the jury. I ask a few questions, then ask myself if this is the kind of guy I'd say to, “Hey, do you want to have a drink, fella?” I'd just look for an ordinary, reasonable person.

When Edgar Snyder questioned prospective jurors, he'd ask, “Do the names Linda and Lori Peugeot mean anything to you?” Most recognized the names. “Despite what you might have heard or read about the Peugeot family,” Snyder followed up, “could you decide the case before us solely on what you hear in the courtroom?” Trying to read these tea leaves was knuckles to teeth.

After 132 tries, twelve jurors and two alternates were picked. Vee Toner, a well-to-do woman and former Olympian, was chosen as foreperson. The remaining jurors, six women and five men, were housewives, machinists, and office clerks. Juror number 8, Bill Massof, remembered, “We were sequestered but got to eat fancy suppers at the Carlton House. We slept on
the third floor of the courthouse in one big room, a partition set up for the women. Vee Toner would get everyone up for morning exercise. I wanted to kill her.”

For the plea and jury selection, Hoss had been transferred from Western Penitentiary to the Allegheny County Jail, where he'd remain for the duration of the trial. Each morning, he'd be walked from the second floor of the jail across the Bridge of Sighs, which connected the jail with the courthouse. It's aptly called for the many thousands who have grudgingly trod this bridge to learn of a cheerless future. As far as is known, only one other bridge bore that name, a great wooden ramp in the old Union Stock Yards of Chicago, across which hogs were driven to their own cheerless future.

In preparation for the trial, months of work was invested in the Zanella case—evidence compiled, legalities studied, arguments prepared and refined, witnesses made ready—and yet there always seemed to be more to do. Any further preparation, however, would have to be completed without Marty Corcoran, who'd been thick in the case in Pittsburgh and Waterloo. Virtually on the eve of trial, the hail-fellow-well-met Allegheny County detective approached his front door after another long day, dropped his briefcase, and crumpled to his lawn, dead of a massive heart attack. His partner and friend, Joe Start, said of Marty, “He wasn't but highly regarded … he was the best.”