Bronx Justice (6 page)

He gave Darren an hour to get home before phoning him from the office. Not knowing that Jaywalker had observed the test, Darren explained what had happened in some detail. He concluded by saying that Mr. Sandusky wanted him to come back on Friday because he hadn't had time to finish the questioning.

“I know,” Jaywalker lied. “I spoke with him a little while ago.”

“D-d-did he give you any idea of how I was doing?” Darren asked.

“No,” Jaywalker lied again. “He said he hadn't had a chance to study the charts yet. Why, you worried?”

“No, Jay, I'm not worried. You know that.”

Jaywalker bit his tongue, sorry he'd said it. The truth was, as worried as he himself was, Darren seemed supremely confident. Either he was completely innocent, one hell of an actor—or a total psychopath.

 

Friday came, and with it the retest.

Jaywalker couldn't go. He had a trial, a non-jury case involving a taxi driver charged with leaving the scene of an accident. The guy had pulled away from the curb without realizing—or so he said—that there was an elderly woman holding on to the handle of the cab's rear door. She'd lost her balance, fallen and broken a hip. Jaywalker argued to the judge that there was no evidence that the
driver had been aware of what had happened. The judge looked skeptical, but was forced to agree on the law. Not guilty. Jaywalker gathered up his papers, snapped his briefcase closed and strode out of the courtroom. The victory was a small one, but satisfying. If only they could all be so easy, he thought.

He reached Sandusky at 5:30 p.m. Dick Arledge had run the retest on Darren. Like Sandusky, he'd come up with an indefinite. But they wanted one final try, and had asked Darren to come back on Monday, at which time they would run him through it once more, together. Jaywalker said okay.

He hung up the phone, and settled back into his chair and his depression. The flush from the earlier acquittal was long gone. The weekend, with time to spend with his wife and daughter, took on a bittersweet quality.

Two strikes.

One to go.

 

Strike three came on Monday.

Dick Arledge called at noon to report that he and Sandusky had tested Darren once more, with the same result: indefinite. “It's unusual,” he added, “but it happens.”

“Did you tell Darren?” Jaywalker asked.

“No,” said Arledge. “I figured I'd let you do that.”

Like a doctor afraid to tell his patient he's got cancer and is going to die. Let the nurse do it, or maybe the receptionist.

“Strictly off the record,” said Jaywalker. “If you had to make a guess, would you say he's lying or telling the truth?”

“On the basis of the tests?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn't even take a guess,” Arledge confessed. “For some reason, we simply couldn't get a pattern on him. The truth controls look the same as the lie controls. We start getting what looks like a meaningful set of responses, and then,
wham!
No response where there's got to be one. Or a response to his own name. No, on the basis of the tests, I can't tell you it so much as leans an inch one-way or the other.”

“And on the basis of anything else?”

“On the basis of anything else…” Arledge repeated Jaywalker's words and paused for a moment. “I like the kid. Gene and I both like him. He sure as hell doesn't
seem
like a rapist.”

Jaywalker said he agreed. He accepted Dick Arledge's apology, thanked him for his efforts, and hung up the phone. The strikeout was complete.

So they liked Darren. Great. Jaywalker liked Darren, too. Maybe that was half the problem right there. Nobody could imagine this good-looking, quiet, sensitive, stuttering kid as a vicious rapist with a knife in his hand. But what did rapists look like, anyway? Would you recognize one if you passed him on the street? Sat next to him on the Number 6 train? Did he have a perpetual leer in his eye? Did he drool? Walk around with a giant hard-on?

Or did he look like Darren Kingston? Average height, normal weight, medium complexion. Soft-spoken, well-liked, absolutely ordinary on the outside. Yet deep inside was a whole different person that emerged like some werewolf in the full moon. Only in Darren's case, the full moon was times of stress and sexual frustration. His wife
pregnant, his child crying, he himself home alone in the midday un-air-conditioned heat of August in the Bronx.

And what kind of person would get no meaningful responses to a lie detector test? A psychopath, that was who, someone for whom the line between fantasy and reality was blurred to the point of being unrecognizable. Someone who didn't know what was true and what was false. Someone who could look you straight in the eye and tell you that in his entire life he'd never hurt a soul, other than perhaps his wife's feelings, because in his mind he honestly believed that to be so.

Or better yet, suppose Darren was some kind of dual personality, a real-life Jekyll and Hyde. There was the normal, likeable Darren—good husband, loving father and son, responsible provider. And there was Darren the rapist. Perhaps the two were strangers to one another. Darren the good guy didn't even know that Darren the rapist existed. So he could sit there with all sorts of wires attached to him and tell you that he never raped Joanne Kenarden or anyone else, and believe he was speaking the absolute truth. And so believing, he would have no reason to hesitate or flinch or contradict himself. His blood pressure would have no reason to rise, his pulse no reason to quicken, his breathing no reason to labor, his palms no reason to sweat….

Jaywalker took his half-eaten tuna-fish sandwich and threw it into the wastepaper basket. He picked up the phone and dialed Darren's number, and told him to come down to the office. Not asked him. Told him.

 

Jaywalker was on the phone when Darren arrived. He motioned for him to take a seat. He continued the phone conversation, which wasn't an important one, for another
five minutes, making a point of forcing Darren to wait. Only when Jaywalker sensed the young man's uneasiness did he finally hang up.

“Sorry,” he said offhandedly.

“That's okay,” said Darren. “Wh-wh-what's up?”

“Bad news, that's what.”

“B-b-bad news? Wh-what kind of bad news, Jay?” He literally squirmed in his chair.

Jaywalker reached for a file on his desk. It happened to be the one from the taxi driver case, but Darren couldn't see that. Jaywalker opened the file and pretended to study the first page or two.

“A messenger brought these over from Dick Arledge's office,” he said. “I'm afraid you didn't do so well after all.” He raised his eyes to study Darren's. “These guys are friends of mine,” he said. “They did everything they possibly could to make it come out like you were telling the truth. But even with three separate tests, they couldn't do it. Every time they ran you through it, you lied on questions two, five, seven and eight. The ones about the rapes.” Jaywalker held up the sheets. “It's all here,” he said, shaking his head.

The reaction swept through Darren like a wave. There was no hesitation, no time to plan it. His confused frown disappeared, giving way first to a look of open astonishment and finally to one of frank disbelief.

“Jay,” he said, “that can't be. I—I—I didn't rape those women. There's a mistake. The test has got to be wrong.” Tears welled up in his eyes and overflowed, running freely down both cheeks. He made no attempt to either wipe them away or avert his eyes.

“There's no mistake,” Jaywalker forced himself to say.
“I think we'd better start at the beginning, Darren. Don't you?”

“Jay,” he pleaded, “I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I—”

Jaywalker was the first to break eye contact. His gaze dropped to Darren's hands. Where he might have expected to see fists clenched to maintain control of a performance, he saw instead palms open and extended.

“—didn't do it,” Darren finished softly, almost to himself.

“I know,” said Jaywalker. “I know.”

It had taken a truly cruel stunt on his part. He'd taken a young man—a young man whom he liked immensely, and whose family was not only putting their trust in him, but also backing up that trust with hard-earned money—and compelled him to make an hour's trip each way, then lied to his face and explicitly accused him of being guilty and, worse yet, of refusing to acknowledge his guilt. But as bad as Jaywalker felt about the ordeal he'd put Darren through, he could live with it, because now he knew.

He knew.

A
t the same time as he'd said “I know” to Darren, Jaywalker had taken the file he'd been looking at and slid it across the desk. Darren had picked it up, opened it and begun to read. It took him several moments of total confusion before he began to get it. Then he'd looked up tentatively, the way a boy who thinks just maybe he's got the answer might look up at his teacher. But only when he'd seen Jaywalker's smile had he taken permission to smile in return.

“I'm a shit,” Jaywalker confessed, rising and coming around the desk. “And you owe me a punch in the mouth. The tests didn't show anything one way or the other. I did that because I needed to be sure.” He withdrew a paper towel from his back pocket, his version of a handkerchief, and offered it to Darren.

Darren dried his tears unselfconsciously. “That's okay,” he said. “I just didn't see how I could've flunked it.”

“You couldn't have. I'm just sorry I lied to you.”

“That's all right, Jay. I won't even p-p-punch you in the mouth.”

“You'd better not,” said Jaywalker. “It looks like we may be needing it.”

 

With the private polygraph lost as a weapon in the defense's arsenal, and the realization that the district attorney's test was likely to prove every bit as worthless, Jaywalker turned his efforts to other aspects of the case. He phoned his investigator, John McCarthy, who reported that he'd located all the victims and was ready to move in and interview them in rapid succession. Jaywalker gave him the go-ahead.

Earlier, Jaywalker had instructed Darren and the other members of the Kingston family to write down everything they could recall about Darren's whereabouts during August, early September, and the week following Darren being bailed out. Now he collected the notes and studied them, searching desperately for some clue, some tiny lead, to jump from the pages in front of him.

Nothing did.

He began spending time in the Castle Hill area. He would change into old clothes before leaving his office at the end of the workday, and instead of heading home to New Jersey, he would aim his Volkswagen for the Bronx. Once up in the projects, he would walk through the lobbies or sit on a park bench or lean idly against a trash can, trying his best to blend in to the landscape. It wasn't easy, because whites in the area were greatly outnumbered by blacks and Hispanics. Still, Jaywalker's face was by no means the only white one in sight. And, he reminded himself, Joanne Kenarden and Eleanor Cerami were white, and so were Tania Maldonado and Elvira Caldwell and Maria Sanchez. At least they
looked
white. So Jaywalker pretended he was one of them. He hung around, waiting for Darren's double to show up. In his mind's eye, he saw
himself spotting him, following him, jumping him, subduing him and dragging him off to the nearest precinct.

No double showed up.

He would get home past dark, in time to eat cold leftovers over the kitchen sink. If he was lucky, he'd get to kiss his daughter good-night before she was asleep. His wife put up with his behavior, but only because by that time she knew him well enough to know he couldn't help himself.

 

In mid-November, the mail brought an envelope from the judge in Part 12, containing his decision on Jaywalker's pretrial motions. As expected, he'd granted the defense a hearing on the propriety of the identification procedures the police had used. He'd left the question of a severance—whether there would be one trial or four—up to the discretion of the trial judge.

They went back to court at the end of the month. Again the appearance was a brief one. Pope told Justice Davidoff that there was a polygraph examination scheduled at his office the first week of December, and the case was adjourned.

Out in the corridor, Jaywalker huddled with the Kingston family. Despite the fact that he'd assured them that there would be a postponement, they'd all showed up. Now, while they were talking, Jacob Pope walked over and motioned Jaywalker aside. Pope wore his trademark dark suit, white shirt and red tie. As always, he was all business. He never once smiled, cracked a joke or allowed himself to chuckle at one of Jaywalker's feeble attempts at humor.

“So,” he said, “we're on for the sixth, right?”

“Right,” said Jaywalker. “I just hope we get an answer, one way or another.”

“We should,” said Pope. “Lou Paulson is good. Any reason you anticipate a problem?”

“No,” Jaywalker lied, something that was becoming a bit of a habit lately. “Only that he's a pretty nervous kid. I don't know if you're aware of it or not, but he's got a noticeable stutter, and—”

“I'm aware of it.”

He said it softly, calmly, but with deadly force. Jaywalker felt the wind knocked out of him. Pope turned and walked away, leaving Jaywalker standing there, dazed. How many of the victims had described the stutter? All of them? What was the difference, really? One would be more than enough to destroy Darren. A physical description was one thing. Height, weight, hair color and complexion were seldom enough to convince a jury. And John McCarthy had already reported finding some discrepancies there.

But a
stutter!

Jaywalker headed back over to the Kingstons. They looked at him expectantly, too polite to ask what Pope and he had talked about, but obviously wanting to know. Cards on the table, Jaywalker decided. It was how he'd always operated, and how he always would. You told your people everything, even the worst news.
Especially
the worst news. That was the only way they would ever trust you when the time came to tell them something good. If ever it did. So he told them about the stutter.

“The detective, R-R-R-Rendell,” said Darren. “He knows I stutter, from arresting me. He c-c-could have told Pope.”

“Maybe,” Jaywalker agreed. “McCarthy's out interviewing the victims. We'll find out soon enough.”

Still, Jaywalker didn't like the sound of it. And unlike Darren, he wasn't prepared to assume that a detective would coach a witness on something like this, not with so much at stake. Sure, cops lied. Jaywalker had learned that early in his DEA days. So did detectives, federal agents, state troopers, and just about everyone else who wore a badge and carried a gun. But they lied selectively. They lied about their own conduct, where they'd cut corners to make a collar stick or a search hold up, or where a case came down to a defendant's word against one of their own. In those instances, an
us-against-them
mentality immediately kicked in, and truth became an early casualty. But in cases involving civilian complainants, where the role of law enforcement was more peripheral, lying on the part of the police was the exception, not the rule. Besides, Detective Rendell had impressed Jaywalker as being fair. “She IDs him or she doesn't,” he'd said the morning they were waiting in court for Joanna Kenarden to show up and have a look at Darren. “If he's not the guy, I don't want him.”

No, if the victims were saying the rapist had stuttered, Jaywalker was willing to believe them. Which could mean only one thing, he knew.

Again, the pendulum had swung. Jaywalker had done it again. He'd allowed himself to be taken in, to be completely won over by Darren's
I didn't do it,
by his tears and open palms. Would he never learn? Just when he thought himself too hardened and cynical to be conned, along comes this twenty-two-year-old kid who can't even pass a polygraph, and he turns Jaywalker into the easiest mark in town.

He felt like a total jerk.

 

John McCarthy called three days later. He'd succeeded in interviewing two of the victims, Eleanor Cerami and Elvira Caldwell. He'd been refused by one, Joanne Kenarden. Tania Maldonado was out of town, but would be back in a day or two. As for the fourteen-year-old, Maria Sanchez, her parents wouldn't let her talk to anybody.

“Both of these girls, Cerami and Caldwell, identify Darren from the photo I showed them,” said McCarthy. “Although they both say he looks like he's lost weight since they saw him.”

“Independently?”

“Independently. I interviewed them separately. Of course, I told each of them that the other one had already talked to me. Old police habits die hard, if you know what I mean.”

“What else did they say?” Jaywalker asked.

“Well,” said McCarthy, “the M.O. is identical. He follows them onto an elevator, presses a floor and, on the way up, pulls a knife, takes them off the elevator and up to a landing. There he first makes them blow him, and then he rapes them. He succeeded with Cerami. With Caldwell, there was a noise, and he split.”

“Were there conversations?”

“Yeah, both times. He seems to be quite a talker.”

Jaywalker took a deep breath and asked The Question. “Either one pick up a stutter?”

“No,” McCarthy replied. “That is, I didn't come right out and use the word. But I asked them if they remembered anything unusual about his voice, and both said negative. And get this,” he added. “Caldwell's got a kid with a speech impediment, so you'd expect her to be tuned in to that kinda thing.”

“Beautiful,” said Jaywalker, able to breathe again.

“So I'll go after Maldonado as soon as she gets back.”

“Good,” said Jaywalker. “No dice with Kenarden, huh?”

“No, she's a pisser, that one. Wants Darren in jail, you in jail, me in jail. Says she's got plenty to say, but she's saving it for the trial.”

“Okay, she's entitled. Stay away from her. We'll get her at the hearing. Talk to Maldonado, John, and get back to me.”

“You got it.”

Two down, two to go, and so far no stutter. But as soon as Jaywalker found himself daring to hope all over again, Jacob Pope's comment came back to him.
“I'm aware of it.”
And an icy chill went up his back, just as it had when first he'd heard the words.

 

During the last week of November, Jaywalker received an envelope from the Bronx County District Attorney's Office, with Pope's name typed beneath the return address. Inside was a form entitled R
EQUEST FOR
A
LIBI
B
ILL OF
P
ARTICULARS
. Under New York law, a prosecutor had the right to demand the name, address and place of employment of any witness whom the defense intends to call at trial to testify that, at the time of the crime, the defendant was elsewhere, with them. As much as he disliked the law, Jaywalker had no choice but to comply. The penalty for failing to do so was that the trial judge could bar such a witness from testifying.

So he typed out a single-page bill of particulars. On it he listed Darren's wife, Charlene, and his mother, Inez. He also listed Darlene Thombs, the next-door neighbor who'd been babysitting for Darren's son on September 5th, the
date of the Caldwell rape. Then he phoned the Kingstons to warn them that an investigator from the D.A.'s office might try to contact them or Miss Thombs, and told them they had a right to decline to talk about the case, if they wished.

 

John McCarthy called the following day. He'd interviewed Tania Maldonado. Her story was pretty much the same as that of the other victims he'd spoken with. The most interesting fact was that she'd put up a struggle, causing the man to cut his own finger with his knife. When it had begun to bleed rather heavily, he'd panicked and fled.

Good for her, thought Jaywalker, making a mental note to ask Darren and his family about any cut fingers he might have sustained.

According to McCarthy, Maldonado had identified Darren from his photo and remained convinced that he was her attacker. Asked about his voice, she remembered it as normal and unremarkable. She never mentioned a stutter.

Three victims, and still no report of a stutter. That left only Joanne Kenarden. She was certainly the bitterest, the most vengeful. Not that Jaywalker could blame her. Had the rapist stuttered only for her? Or had Detective Rendell trusted only her with the knowledge that Darren stuttered? He could easily have done it that first day, in court, shortly after he had learned it from arresting and processing Darren. There was simply no way of knowing yet. With Miss Kenarden refusing to talk with McCarthy, Jaywalker would have to wait for the pretrial identification hearing to find out.

 

The first week of December brought a thin, freezing rain to the city. It also brought the district attorney's polygraph test.

Jaywalker met Darren at Jacob Pope's office, on the sixth floor of the Bronx County Courthouse. While Darren waited outside in the reception area, Pope and Jaywalker signed the stipulation governing the test. Officially, both the prosecution and the defense were agreeing in writing that the results of the exam, if conclusive, could be used as evidence at trial by either side. In reality, Pope was giving his word that, were Darren to pass, his office would move to D.O.R. the case and eventually dismiss it. And Jaywalker was giving his that if Darren flunked, he would do everything he could to get Darren to plead guilty. From the defense's side of the table, it was a good bargain.