PART 35 (56 page)

“Why get your hands dirty?”

Sandro and Mike took the next down elevator to the lobby. Soto and his wife were already gone.

In the afternoon, Ellis called a detective from the ballistics squad. He testified that the bullets found on the roof and in the slain officer's body were fired from Lauria's own pistol. The pistol was a Smith and Wesson .38, which could be fired single action, or double action, shot after shot.

Siakos had no questions. Sam stood and asked the detective how long it would take to fire all the shells in the gun double action. The detective answered it would take very few seconds. Sam had no further questions. The detective was excused.

At this point, Ellis turned to the judge. “The people rest, Your Honor.”

Sandro looked at Sam. “What about the statements the defendants gave to the D.A. at the station house? They're supposedly confessions, too? Isn't he going to use them?” asked Sandro.

“I can't figure this. Unless they're not confessions!” said Sam. “But just let him not use them. We'll shove them right down his throat in summation. Their absence will destroy his case. Not much of a case either, if our witnesses stand up.”

The judge excused the jury early, explaining that the lawyers and he had some legal matters to discuss. When the jury had retired, Siakos and Sam each made the customary motions to dismiss the indictment for failure to establish a prima facie case. After legal discussions and argument, the judge denied the motions and told Siakos to have his witnesses on the stand in the morning.

“You have your witnesses ready, Nick?” Sandro asked as they were gathering their papers.

“Oh, sure, sure. I'll have somebody go and get them tonight.”

“You've spoken with them, haven't you?”

“Not personally. One of my men has, though. They'll be fine. I only have to talk to them for a few minutes before they go on the stand.”

Sandro and Sam left the courtroom, hoping Siakos was right.

CHAPTER XXIV

Mike's car was speeding across the Williamsburg Bridge again.

“What time did Moreno call?” Sandro asked.

“About four fifteen. He found Julio, the guy from the school, who was in the shop that day. But Julio's moving tonight, and if we don't see him now, we could lose him again for good.”

“This case isn't going to be over until the last minute, is it?”

Mike pulled the car up to the barber shop. Moreno was inside giving a haircut.

“What day was it that Alvarado came into your barber shop?” Sandro flung at him quickly. Mike translated.

Moreno studied Sandro momentarily, smiling slightly, “It was on July third.”

“How do you know?”

“The next day was a holiday, and I didn't work. I saw that guy's picture in the paper when I wasn't working.”

“Is there any question in your mind it was July third?”

“No question in my mind.”

“What time was it when he came into the store?”

“About two twenty-five, two thirty.”

“Perhaps it was later, two forty-five?”

“It was two twenty-five, two thirty.”

Sandro smiled and shook hands with Moreno. His customer was looking dumbfounded at everyone. Moreno spoke to him in Spanish, and he returned to the girlie magazine while Moreno turned back to Mike.

“He said if we wait for him to finish this customer, he'll come with us to the place where Julio is staying tonight, and we can speak to him.”

“Okay, tell him we'll wait in the car.”

While Sandro waited in the car, Mike went into a Cuchifritos, which is the up-and-coming Puerto Rican Howard Johnson's. He came out with something golden fried, which he told Sandro was pork.

The three of them drove through short, dark Brooklyn streets until Moreno told Mike to stop the car. They got out and entered a building. It was dimly lighted inside. A bicycle stood under the stairs next to a baby carriage. Moreno walked to the rear apartment on the first floor and knocked. A man, obviously a friend of Moreno's, answered. They spoke and then turned to look at Sandro. The man waved, asking them to come in.

The kitchen table was in disarray, covered with empty plates from the evening meal. In a corner was a sink. Another man stood at the sink, peering into a mirror at his soap-lathered face. He had a razor in his hand. He appeared to be in his thirties and was very light-skinned.

“That's Julio,” Mike said.

The man at the sink looked in the mirror, meeting Sandro's eyes there. He nodded.

“Does he speak English?”

“Sure, I speak.”

“Do you remember being in Francisco's barber shop on July third?” Sandro asked.

“I'm there all the time. I don't know the days.”

“Well, this was a day before a holiday. Maybe you got off from work early that day?”

“No, I don't remember.” He was slicing the foam off his face now.

“Do you remember seeing this fellow in the shop at any time?” Sandro asked, handing the newspaper clippings to Mike. Mike held them in front of Julio. Julio turned from the mirror, wiped his hands on the towel hung across his shoulders, and studied the pictures.

“No, I don't remember.” He resumed shaving.

“Did someone give you a dollar to let him take your place in the barber shop? It would be a day before a holiday. Do you remember that?”

“You know, I can't remember that. I'm in there all the time. But no guy give me a dollar. If a guy wants my place, and I not in a hurry, I let him take it. Go ahead. No, I never get a dollar. And I don't remember that guy anyway.”

“Are you saying, Julio, that you were there but you didn't see this fellow, or just that you don't remember whether you were there or not?”

“I don't remember if I was there or not. Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn't.”

“In other words, maybe it happened. You just don't remember?”

“That's right.”

Sandro looked at Mike. “At least we won't get hurt with this. You think of anything else?”

“Why don't we let Moreno talk to him, try to remind him?” Mike suggested.

“Okay with me.”

Mike spoke to Moreno, and Moreno spoke to Julio. They had an involved conversation in Spanish, Moreno explaining, Julio shaking his head. Moreno finally turned and spoke to Mike.

“He just doesn't remember,” Mike translated.

“Okay. Thank him for us, and let's go and see if we can find Pablo Torres before it gets too late.” They turned and left the building and got back in the car.

“Do you think we should have taken a statement from him?” asked Mike.

“Probably we should get a negative statement, but I'm too tired. He doesn't know anything anyway.”

Mike drove Moreno home, and then they continued to where Pablo Torres lived.

“This is the restaurant. We want his house,” said Sandro as Mike parked at the curb.

“This is the address he gave,” said Mike. “Maybe he lives above the store. There's an entrance over here.”

They got out of the car and entered the building. Mike searched the mailboxes and bells. “Here it is. It's marked Basement.”

“So give a little ring and we'll see,” Sandro mugged. Mike rang the bell. They waited to hear a door open.

“
Quién es?
” asked a voice from the rear of the 0building.

“Rivera,” Mike announced as they walked to the back. There was a stairway leading down, and at the bottom stood Pablo Torres in a white T-shirt, blue polka-dot shorts, and black ankle socks. He smiled and nodded, waving them to come down.

“My mama wanted me to be a professional man,” Sandro said. “Do you think she knew about nights like this?”

Mike laughed as they walked down. They entered the cellar of the building, which served as the storage area for the restaurant. There were cases of beer and soda, large burlap bags containing beans, cardboard cases of canned tomatoes. Torres walked toward the back. In one corner, a wire was strung across the ceiling, and on it was a curtain that separated his quarters from the bottles and cans and beans. Behind the curtain was a bed, unmade. Torres had obviously just risen from it to open the door. His clothes were on hangers, suspended from the walls around the bed. There was a cigarette in an ashtray on the bed, curling smoke ceilingward. An open can of beer was next to the bed.

Torres respectfully motioned Sandro to sit on the bed. He moved two cases of tomato cans close for Mike and himself. Sandro noticed that he was a little red-eyed. If you could get used to the restricted view, Sandro reflected, it was easier than having to stagger home from a bar. Besides, he had an unlimited supply of free beer.

“Tell him it's coming time—”

“
Tell him it's coming time?
” Mike repeated, laughing. “You hardly speak English better than he does. Or are you being condescending, you bastard?”

Sandro laughed. “Tell him that we'll be needing him in court soon, and we wanted to get him prepared. Give him the whole thing—tell him to answer only what he's asked and give positive answers.”

Mike explained it to Torres, who sipped his beer, listening. He nodded and looked to Sandro.

“Do you remember the man you now know as Alvarado?” Sandro asked.

“Yes,” Mike translated.

“Do you remember what day it was that he was in the restaurant?”

“Yes, it was the day before the holiday. He came in to eat.”

“Tell him only to answer the question and not give information I didn't ask for,” said Sandro.

Mike explained it again.

“Do you remember what day he came in?”

“Yes, it was the day before the holiday.”

“Which holiday?”

“I don't know which holiday,” Mike translated. “I know I didn't work that day.”

“Tell him the holiday was July fourth. That Alvarado was therefore in on July third.”

Mike explained it to Torres. Then Mike turned to Sandro. “I don't think we should try to be too tricky. He's a simple little guy.”

“That's okay. The witnesses shouldn't sound exactly alike. But we have to make sure he knows what the hell he's talking about. Tell him I'm going to ask him questions as if I were the D.A.”

Mike told Torres, who nodded, then rose. He offered Mike and Sandro a beer. They refused. He started to open a new can. Sandro took the beer can out of his hand.

“Tell him to drink the place dry when we're gone. But right now he should pay attention.”

Mike did.

“Do you remember what day Alvarado came into the restaurant?”

“Yes. It was the day before the holiday.”

“What holiday?” Sandro asked, a bit exasperated.

“I don't know,” Torres shrugged. “But I saw the man's picture in the Spanish paper the next day, and it said he killed the policeman.”

“Fine, fine,” said Sandro. “We'll tie him down that way. Tell him that that's the way he should answer the questions. He remembers the day because it was a day before the holiday, and he saw Alvarado's picture the next day.”

Mike explained. Torres nodded, smiling.

“What time did Alvarado come into the restaurant?”

“He says he doesn't know exactly what time it was.”

“He told us the first time we spoke that it was after the lunch rush, one forty-five to two. See if that helps him.”

Mike spoke to him. He nodded.

“What time did Alvarado come into the restaurant?”

“After lunch was over. It must have been near two o'clock.”

Sandro was learning not to argue with Torres. If
he
couldn't make any headway with him, neither would Ellis.

“How long did Alvarado stay in the restaurant?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“What time did he leave, then?”

Torres thought a moment and answered in Spanish.

“He says it was about five after two, something like that.”

“Is he sure about the time?”

“He says it must have been five after two, maybe ten after.”

“Could it have been three o'clock?”

“No, because Alvarado was there before Pablo ate his lunch that day.”

“What day was it that Alvarado came into the restaurant?”

“He said it was the day before the holiday.”

“Does he know the day of the month?”

“He says he doesn't. But the next day, he saw Alvarado's picture in the papers about killing the policeman.”

“Ask him if he's sure that it was the next day that he saw Alvarado's picture.”

“He says sure, because he was off that day, and he was right in this bed reading the paper. He sat up and said to himself, ‘I gave that guy beefsteak yesterday.'”

“And what time was it that Alvarado came in?”

“He said it was after the lunch rush was over.”

“What time? Approximately.”

“It was a little before two o'clock.”

“Could it have been one o'clock?”

“No, that's lunch rush. This was after.”

“Could it have been three o'clock?”

“No. He says it was before he ate, so it had to be just after the lunch rush. About two, a little before perhaps.”

“How long was Alvarado in the restaurant?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“And what time does he say Alvarado came in?”

“About a little before two.”

Sandro rose to his feet suddenly. He thrust his head close to Torres's. “Are you sure it was two o'clock?”

Torres shrank back, frightened. He spoke to Mike in Spanish.

“He wants to know if you're crazy?”

“Tell him I want an answer.”

Mike translated. Sandro's face was angry.

“He says he's sure.”

“Is there any question in his mind that it was two o'clock?”

“He says it was after the lunch rush, about a few minutes before two o'clock.”