PART 35 (50 page)

Sandro stood in place, not moving toward the jury box or the witness stand.

“Doctor, did Bellevue do anything relating to the defendant's head? X-ray his head or run neurological tests?”

“Not from what it says in the reports.”

“And from what you see on those diagnosis sheets, you cannot rule out a head injury causing these reactions in the defendant, can you?”

“No.”

“One further question, Doctor. This person that you sent to Bellevue Hospital on July ninth, 1967—taking into consideration your knowledge of the ability of addicts to simulate—you had determined medically, clinically, objectively, that he was unconscious. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor. That's all.”

“No further questions,” said Ellis.

“We'll adjourn until tomorrow morning, members of the jury. Do not discuss this case with anyone or with each other.” The judge rose and left the bench. Sandro gathered his papers.

“Well, another round, another good round,” said Sam.

CHAPTER XIX

Mike stopped the car at the curb in front Of the American Broadcasting Company's studios on 66th Street. Sandro had called ahead and spoken to the city editor in the news department, asking if he might be allowed to come and view any news films covering the shooting of Lauria. He told Sandro to speak to Richard Sanford, head of their film-editing department. If any of the footage was still in the library, Sandro could view it.

Sandro and Mike identified themselves to the uniformed guard at the door, and took the elevator. From there, they were directed to the film section, where the daily film and videotape were processed, edited, and then spliced for the news broadcasts.

“I'm not sure that we still have any of that film,” said Sanford. He was a man of medium height, with thinning dark hair. He wore a striped shirt with no tie, and his sleeves were rolled up. “But we'll look in the cans for that day and see what there is.”

Surrounding them, in all the rooms through which they walked, men were walking quickly, talking quickly, typing, timing their copy; teletype machines were clacking, phones ringing, voices calling questions across the rooms. All the while the electric clock on the wall was counting down to broadcast time.

Sanford led them into an editing booth. A young Negro was sorting out cans of film, looking for those marked July 3rd, 1967.

“That's all there seems to be, Sandy,” the young man said, turning. “I don't find anything else.”

“Okay, Frank. If anyone wants me, I'll be in here.”

Sanford took the film from the first can and rolled it onto a larger reel. He fed the film through an editing machine that had a small viewing screen attached. “This segment must have been taken at the U.N. that day. You don't want that.” He was hand-cranking the film through the machine.

Sandro and Mike stood just behind him, viewing the images on the small screen over his shoulder.

Here's some of it,” Sanford said, still cranking. “The stuff you want might be anywhere in these three cans,” he explained. “At the end of the day, when we finish taking what we need for the shows, we splice the rest of that day's exposed footage together and put it in storage. It isn't necessarily in sequence.”

“Can we look at all of it, just to make sure?” Sandro asked.

“Hell, yes. It'll only take a couple of minutes longer. If we've got it, you've got it.” He smiled and turned back to the viewing screen. He was the truly professional, technical man, whose behind-the-scenes work was precise, unglamorous, and essential. He was also very pleasant.

On the small screen were crowds of people huddled in the rain, standing on stoops, or on the sidewalk, outside 153 Stanton Street. There were ambulances and police cars, and policemen were moving into all the buildings. The camera panned toward and then focused in on a stretcher being carried out the doorway and down the stoop. It was placed in an ambulance, which then drove away. The camera panned the rooftops, then the crowd. There was a shot of Hernandez's double-parked car, guarded by a policeman.

“If you want me to turn the sound on for this stuff, I can,” said Sanford.

“Not yet. When we get to a part where somebody is saying something, turn it on,” Sandro replied.

The scene shifted suddenly to an interview with a city official who was explaining a parade planned for the next day, July 4th.

“This hasn't anything to do with your case. That's the end of this reel,” said Sanford. “I'll put the next one on.”

The next images on the screen were dark. It was the interior of the police station, as Hernandez and Alvarado stood in front of the main desk of the Seventh Precinct on the morning of July 4th, 1967. They were surrounded by detectives, who in turn were surrounded by newsmen. Flashbulbs kept popping all around the room, illuminating it with momentary intensity.

“Is there any sound on this segment?” Sandro asked.

Sanford nipped a switch.

“No. This must have been so noisy that they didn't even get a sound track on it.” He kept cranking.

“This is a good shot to see what condition they were in just before they left the precinct,” Mike suggested.

The images on the screen were now in close-up. Hernandez and Alvarado looked around them, confused and disturbed.

“Hold it right there. Can I look at that close-up of Alvarado again?” Sandro asked.

“Sure. I'll wind it back a little for you.” He started the close-up segment through the machine again. The camera moved in on Alvarado and Hernandez, who were facing the desk sergeant. The camera moved in closer, then skirted to Alvarado's side. It stopped in front of the two men, close-up, watching them.

“This is great,” said Sandro. “Could you rewind the film back a bit, to where the camera just comes alongside of Alvarado. See the side of Alvarado's head,” Sandro said to Mike Rivera. “Okay, stop it right there.”

Alvarado was suspended in profile as he looked at the desk sergeant.

“That's a great shot,” said Mike. The arch formed by Alvarado's hair around the ear, the line at the bottom of his sideburn, and the hairline at the back of his neck were perfect, as if they had just been trimmed by a barber.

“Now wind it forward a little, please,” said Sandro. On the screen Alvarado's face now appeared in three-quarter view. Alvarado turned toward the camera, peering quizzically, directly into the lens.

“And look at that moustache,” said Mike. “Perfect trim.”

“Could you cut a couple of the frames from this film and blow them up to eight-by-ten still photos?” Sandro asked. “I'd take the film and do it myself if you'd let me, except it would destroy some of the punch of the evidence if I have it in my possession.”

“Sure, I guess we can. I doubt that we'll be using this stuff again. Besides, one frame isn't going to make any difference. Of course, the still picture we get from this negative won't be as sharp as an ordinary still picture.”

“That's okay,” said Sandro. “If it's not as sharp as it should be, and it still shows a perfect hair and moustache trim, I can ask the jury to imagine what a really sharp-focus shot might have shown. Perhaps you can come to court and testify and explain all this stuff. And explain about the fuzziness.”

Sanford shrugged. “Sure. But maybe you'd be better off with one of the newspaper photo files. They must have still shots.”

“But here we can select the exact frame and angle that we need. Those newspaper shots are whatever they've got, and they may not have exactly what we need.”

“Sure. The company'll let me come to court. As long as it's in the morning. I've got to be here in the afternoon. Let's pick out frames when a flashbulb was going off, if we can. Those are the ones where there'll be plenty of light.”

Sanford found a full-face shot of Alvarado at the moment when a flashbulb went off. He couldn't find a side view so well lit.

“Pick out the best one you can find for the side view,” said Sandro. “I hate to be putting you to all this trouble.”

“It's no trouble. It's ABC's policy. Do you think you'll want any of the moving film?” Sanford asked. “If you do, I have a small projector and screen I can bring with me to court.”

“That'd be fabulous. You sure I'm not imposing?”

“The city editor said if we have it, you got it. You got it!”

“Can we roll the rest of the film?”

Sanford continued the film. The crowd now moved out of the station house. Another camera outside picked up figures coming through the doors. First came the defendants, then the detectives, then more policemen. A captain made a statement for the camera. He said that it was police effort and teamwork that had captured the killers so quickly. The camera picked up more figures coming out.

“Hey,” said Mike, “there's Mrs. Hernandez.”

Mrs. Hernandez, assisted by a man they didn't recognize, emerged and walked quickly down the steps.

“We'll need that, too,” said Sandro. “That'll prove she was there all night.”

“Okay. That's the end of this reel. One more reel.”

Sanford set up the last reel and started cranking. On the viewer, Hernandez and Alvarado were leaving the basement of police headquarters and were being led to a waiting police van. The camera moved closer. A microphone was thrust into Alvarado's face.

“Can you get any sound on this?”

“Let's see.” Sanford snapped on a toggle switch.

“Did you kill the policeman?” a voice synchronized with the lips of the interviewer on screen asked.

“That's Ron Roman interviewing your man,” said Sanford.

“No, no,” said Alvarado on screen. “I didn't.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No, no.”

“Okay, come on. Get up there,” said an offscreen voice, as Alvarado stepped up into the van.

Hernandez moved into the picture next. He didn't understand the questions. He just looked blankly at the camera. When both defendants were in the van, the doors shut, and they were driven off.

“That's it,” said Sanford, as the last of the film went through the viewer.

I'll need this entire last segment,” said Sandro. “And the segment when Mrs. Hernandez, the woman at the end of the second reel, came out of the police station.”

“Okay. I'll put two stills together and two segments of the film. And I'll bring a projector and a screen. And then you'll want Ron Roman to come to court too, won't you?” Sanford asked.

“You been to law school?” Mike Rivera interjected.

“No, but we've been through this kind of thing before. When do you need all this?”

“Let's see,” said Sandro. “It should be about ten days. I'll have to call you when I know for sure.”

“Okay. Just give us twenty-four hours' notice, and we'll be there.”

“If there are any changes, I'll call you,” Sandro said. “If there are any difficulties, I'd appreciate your calling me.”

Sanford nodded agreement as he put the film back in the can.

CHAPTER XX

Monday, April 15th, 1968

Dr. John Rider raised his hand and was sworn by the clerk. Sandro walked to the jury box. He went over the doctor's credentials as an expert in narcotic toxicity by having him tell the court and jury of his training and experience with addicts, stressing his position as medical director of the detoxification clinic at Metropolitan Hospital.

“Doctor, I am going to ask a hypothetical question. I am going to recite certain facts for you. I want you to listen to these facts and, after hearing them, I want you to assume that they are true, so that we may have your opinion within a reasonable degree of medical certainty.”

Sandro then described Alvarado's lack of past history of seizures or fits. He also mentioned Alvarado's history of narcotics, the amount and type he had been taking before his arrest.

Sandro asked the doctor to assume as true Alvarado's story about the third-floor locker room, the punches in the chest, and the constant hitting of his head against the lockers, his falling unconscious. He included the objective, medical facts as diagnosed by Dr. Maish on July 9th, 1967—clonic seizure, Cheyne-Stokes breathing, unconsciousness.

“Now, Doctor, I want to ask you if you would have an opinion, with a reasonable degree of medical certitude, as to whether or not the heroin addiction as described could be the competent producing cause of the clonic seizure and the other symptoms that were found by Dr. Maish on July ninth?”

“In my opinion, the seizure and the unconsciousness could
not
have been caused by heroin addiction.”

“Doctor, do you have an opinion within a reasonable degree of medical certainty whether any narcotics could have been the competent producing cause of the clonic seizure on July ninth, 1967?”

“Six days after going to prison?”

“Yes.”

“In my opinion, no.”

“Can you explain your opinion to the court and jury?”

Heroin, Dr. Rider said, would not cause a seizure under any circumstances, no matter what the amount taken. Nor would any other narcotic cause a seizure after four days. Six days was too long for the seizure to have anything to do with narcotics.

“I have no further questions.” Sandro returned to the counsel table. Sam leaned toward him.

“That's great. Now what is Ellis going to blame Alvarado's condition on?”

“I don't know. But if he goes after this too much, he's going to dig a deep hole, for himself.”

Ellis began to cross-examine.

“Dr. Rider, is it your medical opinion that narcotics—I will specify, heroin addiction—could not have been the competent producing cause of these medical symptoms that were described to you in the hypothetical question?”

“Yes, sir, that's my opinion.”