PART 35 (61 page)

They entered. One of the men at the front table saw Sandro and recognized him. He whispered something to the other men. Their interest was piqued, however, by the stranger who walked in behind Sandro. Sandro turned to Mike and said, “Come on,” so that they would know Mike was with him. They watched Mike carefully, their wariness only somewhat allayed by Sandro's presence.

Sandro walked toward Sal who was sitting in the back by himself, chomping his cigar, reading a racing form.

“Hiya, kid,” said Sal. He looked to Mike.

“Sal, this is Mike Rivera. He's my number-one man on this murder case.”

Sal put out his hand and shook Mike's, nodding. “Sit down, sit down. Have a drink. Joey,” Sal called. “Bring something to the counselor and his friend.” Sal had not taken notice of Mike's name.

“No, thanks,” said Mike.

“Come on, have a drink.”

“I'll have a Scotch on the rocks,” Sandro said.

“I'll take the same,” said Mike. He looked at Sal, then the waiter. His eyes scanned as much of the room as he could see without turning his head.

“The reason I had Tony call you, Sandro,” said Sal, “I talked to Banjoes. Remember I thought that detective you told me about arrested Banjoes a couple a years ago? Well, I talked to Banjoes, and it was true. What's his name?”

“Mullaly.”

Mike sat up straight.

“Right. That's the guy that arrested Banjoes about three years ago. It was a meatball case, all taken care of, one, two, three.”

Sandro nodded.

“But that's not the reason I want to talk to you.” Sal looked at Mike, then back to Sandro.

“Mike's all right, Sal,” Sandro assured him. “We were just out investigating. That's why I brought him along. I thought you might have some news for me.”

“Banjoes tells me that he's seen this guy, this detective Mullaly around that East Side neighborhood lately, which ain't no surprise since that's his precinct. But Banjoes tells me that one night, must be about three in the morning, right, and Banjoes's just cruising around—he had someone to meet—he sees this guy Mullaly comin' out of a gin mill with some Puerto Rican dish.”

“You mean a woman?” Mike asked.

Sal looked at Mike, hesitated, then turned to Sandro.

“Yeah, he said he saw Mullaly with some tall, real good-lookin' spic. No offense,” Sal said, looking to Mike. “A Puerto Rican.”

Sandro looked to Mike, their eyes exchanging a question.

“I wonder if that might be who I think it is,” said Sandro.

“If her initials are Mrs. Hernandez, it's the same one I'm thinking of,” said Mike.

“I don't know who it is,” said Sal. “I just thought you'd be interested.”

Two men entered the restaurant.

“I'll be right with you,” Sal called to them. “You want another drink, something?”

“No, we've got some more investigating to do tonight,” Sandro pretended, realizing Sal was busy. “We're going to run, Sal. Thanks for the drink. And thanks for the information.”

“Are you kiddin'? What are you thankin' me for? Come on, get outa here.” Smiling, Sal shook hands with Sandro. “You're with a good man there,” he said to Mike. “Pay attention, and he'll learn you to be a lawyer.” He winked at Sandro.

“Thanks, Sal,” Sandro said as they left.

“Good night, Counselor,” said the waiter, as Sandro handed him a folded dollar bill.

Mike was unlocking the car, watching Sandro move around to the passenger's side.

“Where the hell do you know those people from?” Mike asked. “Sal, Banjoes, Tony. Where the hell did you get in with that group?”

“What group are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“No, I don't. Sal was a boyhood friend of my family, and he knows a lot of people on the East Side. I asked him to see if he could get any information that might help us. He called and said he had some. That's about the long and the short of it.” Sandro gave it a sound of finality. “What do you think about your buddy Mullaly, running around town with a tall, good-looking, Puerto Rican woman?”

“Yeah. I can count all the tall, good-looking, Puerto Rican women I know on one finger.”

“Me too,” said Sandro. “That must be how that story started. Mullaly took her home from the station house that night, and he's probably been banging her. And by the time the story got back to Hernandez in the Tombs, it was a gang-bang.”

“Yeah, but what about Mrs. Hernandez? She denied it.”

“She denied the gang-bang,” Sandro replied. “We didn't ask about Detective Mullaly alone.”

“Why don't we ask her—like right now?” Mike suggested.

“No, I've got to get ready for our witnesses Monday morning. I want to read through the file tonight, at home, alone, with a cigar, a drink, quiet.”

“Hey, don't give me a big story, will you. You got some tall broad of your own stashed in your apartment. That's why you want to get home.”

“Well, somebody's got to cook for me. I don't have a lovely wife like you do.”

“Don't rub it in, you bastard.”

Sandro laughed as Mike headed the car north to drop him off.

CHAPTER XXIX

Monday, April 22nd, 1968

The next morning, after the jury had been polled and the judge took his place at the top of the bench, Sandro rose to begin Alvarado's defense.

“Your Honor, in accordance with my understanding of Your Honor's previous suggestion, last night I gave to the district attorney a list of police personnel who made DD5 reports in this case whom I wish to call as witnesses, witnesses that the district attorney has failed to produce.”

“Your Honor, I object vehemently to such a remark in front of the jury. Mr. Luca knows better than that. I have no obligation to produce any particular witnesses. If Mr. Luca wants to put these men on as witnesses, he's free to do so. I've even brought the men he's requested to court for him this morning. They're in the witness room.”

“Very well, proceed.”

“I call Detective Frank Ryan,” said Sandro. He turned to watch the door to the witness room. Detective Ryan emerged, looked around the courtroom as he walked to the witness chair. He was tall, with a crew cut.

In response to Sandro's question, Detective Ryan testified that he was a member of the police laboratory. He said that he had responded to a call to the scene of the shooting in the late afternoon of July 3rd, 1967, and had been part of the team that searched for fingerprints in the Soto apartment, on Lauria's revolver, on the stolen articles, and in the double-parked car.

In addition to uncovering and developing fingerprints, Ryan testified, he and the other lab men investigated and processed all physical evidence at the scene of the crime. The Bureau of Criminal Identification evaluated and attempted to compare the fingerprints with prints on file. Ryan testified that he had also investigated a shoeprint that had been found on the stairs leading to the roof. Sandro showed Ryan a copy of a laboratory report. Ryan identified it as his own. Sandro introduced it into evidence without objection.

“Now, Detective Ryan, as a result of your investigation, did you not state in your report that the entry to Apartment number five-B at One fifty-three Stanton Street had been effected by a force
other
than a jimmy?”

Ryan read his report. “That is exactly what it says, sir. That's right. May I explain that?”

Sandro wasn't about to loosen his grip.

“No. Mr. Ellis can help you explain anything on your report later. I just want to know whether you stated in this official lab report, filed July third, 1967, that the force which opened the door was
other than a jimmy
?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Probably a kick-in.” Ryan looked up and glanced at Ellis. Ellis, his face blank, was looking straight ahead.

“And when you say in this official report, force other than a jimmy, does that indicate that the force used to open the door
was not
a jimmy?”

“No, sir, it does not.”

“I see. But your report, filed July third, 1967, does say force
other
than a jimmy?”

“May I explain it?”

“I would like an answer to my question first,” said Sandro.

Ellis rose. “Your Honor, I submit the witness should be allowed to explain it.”

“No, it's a question which lends itself to a simple answer. I think that any clarification can be brought out and be the subject of your examination of the witness, if you wish.” The judge nodded to the witness to answer.

“As I see it here, sir, yes.”

“And this report was one of the laboratory's official written reports to be made part of the file in this case?”

“Yes, sir, that is correct.”

Sandro studied the report, nodding, allowing the gaping wound in Ellis's case to bleed by itself.

“And, sir,” Sandro continued. “Did you dust the revolver, with which the officer was shot, for fingerprints?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And were there any fingerprints found there?” Sandro knew he was on safe ground.

“No, sir, only some ridges but not enough to identify.”

“When you say ridges, you mean the papillary ridges that every person in the world has on his fingers and palms.”

“And feet. Yes, sir,” Ryan answered.

“And the ridges on the gun could have been left, as far as you know, by anyone in the world, even Mr. Ellis or the judge?”

“I object,” said Ellis quickly, annoyed.

“All right, Detective, leave Mr. Ellis out of this.”

The jury laughed.

“Yes, sir,” Ryan answered. “They could not be identified.”

Ryan's report also contained the fingerprint findings of the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. It identified from the Soto apartment the prints of Robert Soto, his wife, Alma, his mother-in-law, and an aunt.

“And were there
any
prints found
anywhere
in that apartment that belonged to the defendant Luis Alvarado or the defendant Ramon Hernandez?”

“No, sir. I have no report from the BCI stating such.” Ellis squirmed quietly as Sandro questioned Ryan further.

“Were
any
fingerprints found in Hernandez's automobile double-parked in the street that day?”

“Yes, sir, there were.”

“To whom did they belong?”

Ryan read the report to himself. He looked up. “To Ramon Hernandez. Three prints—one on the rear-view mirror, one on the steering wheel, one on the dashboard. All belonged to Hernandez.”

“Is there
anything, anywhere
in your report which indicated that there were
any
prints
whatever
found in that automobile which are identifiable with and connected to the defendant Luis Alvarado?”

“No, sir, there is not.”

“I have no further questions.” Sam winked as Sandro returned to the counsel table.

Siakos rose. “And, Officer, you didn't find any fingerprints, except in his own car, which belonged to Hernandez, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“No further questions, thank you.”

Ellis rose. He asked Ryan what he had wanted to explain concerning his findings about the break-in and his report. Ryan testified that when he had said that the door had been opened by something other than a jimmy in his report, he did not mean that no jimmy had been used. From marks on the door, he had concluded that the first intrusion had been made by a jimmy. But ultimately, the door had been kicked in.

Ellis had no further questions.

Sandro rose. “Detective Ryan, you didn't include any mention of any jimmy marks in your report, did you?”

“No.”

“And these jimmy marks you now recall clearly from memory?”

“Not clearly, but I do remember them.”

“And these jimmy marks, what were they? What did they look like?”

“Marks, scratches around the locks.”

“Could they have been made by a key as it's inserted in the door? In other words, usual wear and tear?”

“Perhaps. It's possible, but I don't think so.”

“Do you know when these marks were made on that door? Were they fresh marks at the time that you saw them?”

“I couldn't say exactly.”

“In other words, these jimmy marks that were there may have been there before July third, 1967?”

“Perhaps so, Counselor.”

“And when you made your report, indicating that the door was opened by means other than a jimmy, probably a kick-in, it was because you didn't feel that a jimmy was significant in this break-in?”

Ryan was reluctant now. “Basically.”

“And one of the reasons for that is that those marks that you say were there might have been there an hour, a day, or a week?”

“I can't say exactly how long they were there.”

“No further questions.”

“Score that round for us in a big way,” said Sam.

“Should we call another officer from the police lab?” asked Sandro. “I asked Ellis to bring him, but I think we have enough from the lab men already.”

“Don't bother to call him,” said Sam. “We'll save some time.”

Sandro rose and expressed his intention to save time and not to clutter the record with cumulative police-laboratory testimony. He told the judge he would not call the other detective from the police lab. Ellis was indignant. He insisted. Sandro acceded.

“Detective Joseph Sullivan,” Sandro said to the court officer, who went out to the witness room. “Ellis must be going nuts to insist on this,” he whispered to Sam.

“Listen, if he wants you to buttress your case and underscore his own weakness, let him,” said Sam.

Sullivan was a fingerprint-comparison man at the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Sandro showed him a copy of a laboratory report filed July 3rd, 1967. Sullivan identified it as his own, and it was received in evidence. Ellis sat very still.