PART 35 (6 page)

“You weren't home at the time of the shooting, were you?” Sandro knew he hadn't been.

“No, I was at work. I didn't know anything until I got home that night, and then I seen all the police in the street.”

“Did you speak to the police or any other people in the neighborhood since this happened, besides in the police station?”

“I spoke to a lot of police and a lot of people.” He was very proud.

“What did you hear?”

“Well, I didn't take it down or nothin', you know?”

“Just tell me whatever you remember hearing.”

“These guys was robbing my apartment, and this Italian girl saw them on the fire escape and told the police. And then the cop went up to the roof, and the dark guy had a fight with the cop. Then this dark guy—that's your guy, right?”

“Yes,” Sandro replied with restraint.

“Well, he shot the cop in the back, and ran down one of the other buildings.”

Sandro's face remained calm; the rest of him was jolted. “Were there witnesses who actually saw this happen?”

“Gee, I don't know. Like.I said, I wasn't paying too much attention, if you know what I mean. To tell the truth, I was a little scared, you know.”

“Mr. Soto,” Sandro said, “you might be able to help save a man's life. It's quite possible that Alvarado didn't do this thing. If the police come around to see you again, if you see the other people in the neighborhood, perhaps you could lend us a hand, talking to them, asking questions.”

Sandro handed Soto his business card. “We need to know who these witnesses are, where they live. Like that Italian girl you mentioned.”

“Okay. I'll keep my eyes open.”

“What's your phone number?”

“We don't have a phone, but you can call at work. I work at the Perfect Printing Shop. The phone number is Murray Hill 4…” He took out his wallet and studied a piece of paper. “7302.”

Sandro wrote it down. “Fine. I'll be in touch with you shortly. Maybe you'll have dug up something more by then. It's very important. Okay?”

“Yes, okay.” Soto smiled. Sandro extended his hand. Soto, nonplussed by such formality, gave Sandro a hand that felt like a dead fish. Sandro and Mike went downstairs, and Soto returned to his apartment.

Sandro turned to Mike. “We've got to check on the superintendent's wife. Find out what hospital the super was in that day. You take care of that, okay, Mike?”

“Sure. Maybe she didn't even visit him.”

“Right. Check the visitors' lists. And we'll have to come back and see the other witnesses. This Asunta. Alvarado told me he thought she identified him as the man leaving the building.”

“Okay. We can canvass the area and check it out.”

Sandro turned to Mike, shrugging. “Of course, if we plead guilty, we won't have to do any of this.”

CHAPTER V

Sandro swiveled in his chair, peering over the top of the newspaper as Elizabeth entered his office with the morning mail.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Nine thirty.”

“Remind me at nine forty-five that I have to get over to the arraignment in the Alvarado case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sandro's attention poured back into the newspaper accounts of the murder.

The Daily News
, dated July 4th, 1967, blazed the headline
QUESTION ADDICT IN COP-KILLING.
On the front page were pictures of Lauria and of the police hunting out the killer. The story said that a “good suspect” was nabbed about 5
P.M.
as he tried to enter a green and white automobile double-parked near the murder site. He was believed to be the driver of the getaway car. The
News
story indicated that a police all-points alarm went out about 11
P.M.
for another man wanted for the homicide. The suspected triggerman was described as a dark-skinned Negro, twenty-eight to thirty years old, about five feet ten, with a moustache, a long thin face, a wide forehead. The suspect was described as wearing a gray short-sleeved sports shirt and black trousers.

Well, thought Sandro, Alvarado was right about the story in the papers and the Negro suspect being described as five ten. Alvarado is only about five feet six.

Sandro picked up
The New York Times
for July 4th. The story was on page 36 and bore the headline
SUSPECT IS HELD IN POLICE SLAYING.
In its story,
The Times
added one important piece of information: “As Patrolman Lauria lay dying on the roof, he gasped out a description of his assailant as a thin, dark Negro, about thirty years old, five feet nine or five feet ten inches tall, wearing a gray outfit.”

Both newspapers reported that Lauria had been shot several times in the back with his own gun. If anything could have made a cop-killing worse, thought Sandro, that was it.

In
The News
for July 5th, 1967, the lead story's headline was
CAPTURE
! On page 3, Alvarado was pictured with Ramon Hernandez, the first arrested suspect, whom the newspaper had originally referred to as the driver of the double-parked car. The suspects were shown closely guarded by policemen.

The News
stated firmly, “Both men confessed to the police and the district attorney.”

This case is impossible, Sandro thought to himself. This is open-and-shut murder in the first degree. He hoped that Sam was right about the leniency of Judge Phillips.

The New York Post
dated July 5th, 1967, was the clincher. Its lead story said: “Lauria's partner, Patrolman Roger Snider, was on the stairs, headed toward the roof. He heard a fusillade of shots as he neared the second floor. Lauria lay dying in a pool of his own blood when Snider reached the roof. The killers were gone. Hernandez confessed to the police that Alvarado had jumped the cop from behind, took the cop's gun, and began to shoot, once, twice, three times, more.”

Hernandez's words placed Alvarado at the scene and even put the gun in Alvarado's hands. The intercom interrupted Sandro's thoughts.

“Yes?” asked Sandro.

“Mr. Bemer on the wire for you.”

“Hi, Sam, how are you?”

“Fine, Sandro. You're going to handle that arraignment today, aren't you?”

“Yes, I'm leaving in a couple of minutes. I was just rereading the newspaper accounts.”

“Yes, and …?”

“We've got quite a mess here.”

“Now tell me something I don't know. We've got a rotten bastard on our hands who shot a cop. I really think we should get out of this fast. I'm sure the D.A. won't take a plea to a lesser charge at any time. He wants to fry Alvarado. If we wait five or six months just to plead to the full indictment, we won't have Judge Phillips, and this guy won't get any breaks.”

“Have you been talking to the D.A.?” Sandro asked.

“Yeah, yesterday. I was speaking to Ellis. He's going to handle the case. He said there was no lesser plea available. He gave one good reason, and I'd do the same in his spot. They have an outright confession. We'll have to cop to the full indictment to plead to this one.”

“You know, I was just reading about those confessions,” said Sandro. “Alvarado tells us he's innocent and that he wasn't involved, and here he confesses to the police and the D.A. Unless this is just a newspaper story to sell copies.”

“Well, the cops and the D.A. aren't interested in newspaper circulation, and they both say they got one. Of course, Alvarado was telling us they beat him. He wants us to knock the confession out by denying that it was a voluntary confession. I've heard that a thousand times before. It doesn't mean beans.”

“I haven't read anything about witnesses to the crime,” Sandro added. “Just Hernandez, who was kind enough to implicate Alvarado, and then put the gun in his hands.”

“They could have a lot of witnesses they're not revealing now. But I didn't give you the biggest piece of news.” Sam paused. “If we don't cop out on this, Hernandez is probably going to be a state's witness against us. Ellis told me he'll probably move for a severance in the indictment, try us separately, and use Hernandez as the chief witness against us. Then they'll give Hernandez a plea to a lesser charge.”

“Only thing to make it worse now would be fingerprints. Are there any?” asked Sandro.

“Hey, Sandro, this guy doesn't have to shoot the cop again right in the courtroom to convince a jury. If they get Hernandez to cop out and testify, we can warm up the hot seat. The confession, at least we have a talking point, it was beaten out of him. But Hernandez! And fingerprints too …”

Sandro's intercom buzzer sounded again. “Hold it, Sam.” Elizabeth reminded Sandro that it was time to leave for court.

“Sam, I've got to get going over to court now. What shall I do?”

“I say, see if he'll plead out.”

“You
really
think so?” asked Sandro again.

“You got a better idea?”

“Well, maybe …”

“Maybe what? The evidence'll go away?”

“No.”

“No is right. If we can get him a life term, he's lucky. See if you can get him to plead today, Sandro.”

Sandro's office was near City Hall. He started across Chambers Street toward the Municipal Building, which houses part of the vast government of the City of New York. The Municipal Building is twenty-eight stories high and straddles Chambers Street, so that automobiles pass through a giant arch cut out of the building's base.

On the left as one approaches the Municipal Building is the venerable Hall of Records, where the last wills of the world's elite are processed and records of deeds and real estate dating from the beginnings of the city are maintained. The Hall of Records is a magnificent edifice, containing a scaled-down version of the staircase of the Paris Opéra, mosaics, and carved marble fireplaces.

Across the street from the Hall of Records is the Tweed courthouse, a remarkable example of brickwork, domes, and balconies, for which the Tweed cronies went to prison, because it had not cost as much to build as they said it had.

Just behind the Municipal Building, the Brooklyn Bridge stretches its sinews toward Brooklyn Heights and Atlantic Avenue.

Sandro turned through Foley Square, upon which the Federal Court House and the State Supreme Court front, and walked down through Centre Street to the Criminal Courts Building.

This is a community unto itself, the legal community, and for a lawyer, a walk along the street disposes of many social and professional calls.

Sandro entered the Criminal Courts Building and took the automatic elevator to the eleventh floor. He walked to Part Thirty, where Alvarado would be arraigned. Judge Phillips was already on the bench. A defendant was at the dock being arraigned. Sandro walked to the first row of benches. David S. Ellis, the assistant D.A. in charge of prosecuting Alvarado, was sitting within the bar, a folder on his lap.

Sandro walked along the rail that separates the spectators from the dock and the court. Turning to the right, he went through a door in the paneled wall and entered the “bullpen.” The bullpen is the detention area to which a prisoner is brought from the Tombs on the day his case is to be called before the judge. At the end of the morning and afternoon sessions, prisoners are marched back to the twelfth floor of the Criminal Courts Building, a floor inaccessible to the public—the courthouse has a thirteenth floor, but no twelfth floor—and back to the Tombs.

Unlike the court, the bullpen is neither solemn, nor wood-paneled, nor polished; it stinks. The bullpen reeks of unwashed bodies, of urine, musty clothes, fear, defiance, and resignation.

In an open area between the two bullpen cells sat a guard at a wooden desk. Inside the cells, some men stood or squatted against the walls because the single bench was filled. The prisoners looked out at Sandro as he entered the bullpen.

“Morning, Counselor,” said the guard. “Who you got this morning?”

“Alvarado, Luis Alvarado.”

The guard's finger skimmed down a handwritten list in a book on the desk. “He's still upstairs, Counselor. Go ahead up.”

Sandro ascended a steel staircase next to one of the cells until he came to another barred gate, which was locked. This was now the twelfth floor, with its honeycomb of passages, cells, and gates, designed to maintain a constant, secure stream of prisoners from the Tombs to the courthouse.

“Gate,” Sandro called out.

Sandro heard a rustle of metal keys. A guard emerged from a small room. “Hello, Counselor. Who you looking for?”

“Alvarado.”

“All the way around.”

Sandro walked through a corridor flanked on the left by cells, on the right by windows overlooking a park where Chinese kids were playing softball. The prisoners watched Sandro as he walked past the cells.

“Hey, man,” a prisoner called to him. “Open the window a little, hanh?” Sandro swung one of the windows across from the cell open a bit farther.

“That's a tough suit you got, Counselor,” the prisoner remarked, smiling.

“Thanks.” Sandro continued until he saw Alvarado in a large cell. One of the other prisoners was standing, using the open urinal. He, too, was watching Sandro. Alvarado saw Sandro and walked to the bars.

“Good morning, Counselor,” he said. He smiled.

“Morning,” Sandro whispered, to keep the guards or the other prisoners from overhearing. “I've been reading about this case in the newspapers.”

“I read the newspaper, too,” Alvarado whispered.

“Well, then you know what I'm worried about. They say many times that you confessed. Did you confess to this crime?”

“Maybe they say Chaco confess. I confess to nobody. They full of chit. I don't confess. I wasn't there.”

“What about Hernandez? According to the papers he said you were there.”

“Ah,” he waved his hand in dismissal. “The cops hit that son of a bitch, and he'd tolds them his whole life. He said to me, over here, ‘I no tell them, Luis, I no tell,' but I know he did that. Those cops were at my house so soon as they pick up that punk. He says, “You know, Luis, they beat me for hours. I had to tell them some-sing. I couldn't think of another colored guy. Forgive me.' He's fulla chit. They hit him once to start him talking, then twenty times more to make him shut up.”