Sleepers (43 page)

“Were the two shooters in the pub when the police got there?” O’Connor asked one of the waitresses.

“No,” she said. “I guess they already left.”

“Why do you guess that?”

“Killers don’t wait for cops,” she said. “In the neighborhood,
nobody
waits for cops.”

“You’re from the neighborhood,” O’Connor said. “And you waited.”

“I was getting
paid
to wait,” she said.

Jerry the bartender testified he served the defendants two drinks and two beers on the afternoon of Nokes’s death. They sat quietly and were gone in less than an hour. They paid the tab and tip with a twenty left on the bar. He was in the back picking up his dinner when the shooting occurred and therefore did not see anyone pump shots into Sean Nokes. Jerry also phoned the police as soon as the gunfire died down.

Through it all, Michael kept his cross-examinations simple, never venturing beyond where the witnesses wanted to go, never calling into dispute any parts of their accounts. He was always polite, cordial, and relaxed, easily buying into the professed innocence of those called to the stand.

O’Connor’s intent was to continue to mine the doubts planted in the jury’s mind, doubts that had first taken root with the testimony of the prosecutor’s key eyewitness, Helen Salinas.

To that end, Dr. George Paltrone, a Bronx general practitioner who also ran a detox clinic, was called to the stand as an expert witness. In Dr. Paltrone’s opinion, if Mrs. Salinas drank as much alcohol as she claimed in the amount of time that she stated, her testimony had to be deemed less than credible.

“Are you saying Mrs. Salinas was drunk?” O’Connor asked Dr. Paltrone.

“Not quite drunk,” Dr. Paltrone said. “But she had more than enough drink in her to impair judgment.”

“Wouldn’t witnessing a shooting sober her up?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr. Paltrone said. “The fear she felt may have made a rational judgment even more difficult.”

“In other words, doctor, drink and fear don’t always lead to truth?”

“That’s right,” Dr. Paltrone said. “More often than not they don’t.”

I sat through the three days of O’Connor’s defense in my usual third-row seat, barely listening, unable to focus on the action before me. My mind was on Father Bobby and what he had decided to do. I knew without him that our best chance was a hung jury, which meant nothing more than another trial and an almost certain conviction.

I had not seen Father Bobby since the night I asked him to take the stand. I thought it too risky to approach O’Connor and find out what he knew, and Michael was beyond my reach. Everyone in the neighborhood seemed aware that we had a witness stashed.

But no one, not even King Benny, had the word on who the witness was and when he would show.

“If he’s not here tomorrow, then forget it,” I said to Carol as the third day ground to an end. “It’s over.”

“We could try to find somebody else,” Carol said. “We still have some time.”

“Who?” I said. “The Pope’s in Rome and I don’t know any rabbis.”

“We can go and talk to him again,” Carol said. “Or maybe have somebody else talk to him.”

“He’s not afraid of King Benny,” I said, walking with Carol down the courthouse corridors. “And Fat Mancho won’t even go
near
a priest.”

“Then we can force him to do it,” Carol said with a shrug and a half-smile. “Put a gun on him.”

“You want your witness to have one hand raised in court,” I said. “Not two.”

We stopped by the elevator bank and waited, Carol pushed closer to me by the surrounding cluster of court officers, reporters, lawyers, defendants, and their families. The down arrow rang and lit, and the double doors to the elevator creaked open. We squeezed in with the
pack, pushed to the back of the car. We both managed to turn and face forward, my eyes looking at the scarred neck of a husky Hispanic wearing an imitation leather jacket with a fake fur hood. He was breathing through his open mouth and his dank breath further fouled the musty air.

As we rode down the nine floors, the elevator stopping at each one, I looked over to my far left and saw Danny O’Connor standing there. He had his back against the elevator buttons, a Tudor hat on top of his head and his eyes on me. He was chewing a thick piece of gum and had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

If he knew anything, his face wasn’t showing it.

The doors finally opened onto the main floor and the passengers stormed out of the car. I grabbed Carol by the arm and made my way closer to O’Connor, who was content to let the rush of people pass him by before he stepped off. The three of us came out of the elevator at the same time, my elbow brushing against O’Connor’s side.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Not a problem,” he said, looking at me and Carol. “Riding these elevators is like riding the IRT. Only not as safe.”

“Lucky it’s cold,” I said. “I’d hate to see what it’s like in there during a heat wave.”

“It was nice bumping into you,” O’Connor said with a smile, moving toward the revolving exit doors.

“Why the rush?” I asked, watching him leave.

“Gotta go,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m late.”

“Late for what?”

“Mass,” O’Connor said.

18

“C
ALL YOUR NEXT
witness,” Judge Weisman said to Danny O’Connor.

“Your honor, the defense calls to the stand Father Robert Carillo.”

Father Bobby walked through the courtroom with the confidence of a fighter heading into a main event. His thick hair was brushed back, his eyes were clear, and his careworn face shone under the glare of the overhead lights.

“Raise your right hand,” the bailiff said. “And place your left hand on the Bible.”

“Do you swear that what you say shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do,” Father Bobby said.

“Take the stand,” the bailiff said.

“Father Carillo, to which parish do you belong?” Danny O’Connor asked.

“The Sacred Heart of Jesus on West Fiftieth Street.”

“And how long have you been there?”

“It will be twenty years this spring.”

“And what is your position there?”

“I’m a priest,” Father Carillo said, smiling.

O’Connor, the spectators, and the jury all joined in the laugh; even Judge Weisman cracked a smile, but John and Tommy sat in stone silence, hands cupped to their faces, while Michael chewed on the end of a blue Bic pen.

“I’m sorry, Father,” O’Connor said. “I meant, what do you
do
there?”

“I’m the school principal,” Father Bobby said. “I teach seventh grade and coach most of the sports teams. I’m also acting monsignor, serve mass daily, listen to confessions, and try to repair whatever needs fixing.”

“They keep you busy,” O’Connor said.

“It’s a poor parish,” Father Bobby said. “Low on funds and short on staff.”

“Do you know most of the people in your parish?”

“No,” Father Bobby said. “I know
all
the people in my parish.”

“Do you know the two defendants, John Reilly and Thomas Marcano?”

“Yes, I do,” Father Bobby said.

“How long have you known them?”

“Since they were boys,” Father Bobby said. “They were students of mine.”

“How would you describe your relationship with them today?”

“We try to stay in touch,” Father Bobby said. “I try to do that with all my boys.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Through sports, mostly,” Father Bobby said. “We either organize a game or go to one. It’s a common ground. Makes it easier to get together.”

“Father, do you recall where you were on the night of November sixth of this past year?”

“Yes, I do,” Father Bobby said.

“And where was that?”

“I was at a basketball game,” Father Bobby said. “At the Garden. The Knicks against the Hawks.”

“What time does a Knicks game begin?”

“They usually start at about seven-thirty,” Father Bobby said.

“And at what time do they end?”

“Between nine-thirty and ten,” Father Bobby said. “Providing there’s no overtime.”

“Was there any that night?”

“No, there wasn’t,” Father Bobby said.

“And who won the game, Father?”

“Sad to say, it was the Hawks,” Father Bobby said. “They were a little too much for our guys that night.”

“Were you at the game alone?”

“No,” Father Bobby said. “I went there with two friends.”

“And who were those two friends, Father?”

“John Reilly and Thomas Marcano,” Father Bobby said.

“The two defendants?”

“Yes,” Father Bobby said, gesturing toward John and Tommy. “The two defendants.”

The spectators sitting behind the wooden barrier gave a collective cry. Carol put her head down, her hands covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Michael took a deep breath and looked toward the ceiling.

John and Tommy turned around, scanning the spectators, their bodies relaxing. As they turned to face the bench, they looked over at me. I smiled as they looked down at the cover of the book in my hands.

John had tears in his eyes.

I was holding a copy of
The Count of Monte Cristo.

“What time did you meet with Mr. Reilly and Mr. Marcano?” O’Connor asked soon after Judge Weisman hammered a call to order.

“They picked me up outside the school playground,” Father Bobby said. “It must have been six-thirty or thereabouts.”

“How did you get to the Garden, Father?”

“We walked,” Father Bobby said. “It’s less than twenty blocks.”

“And Mr. Reilly and Mr. Marcano walked with you the whole time?”

“Yes,” Father Bobby said. “We walked together.”

“And at eight twenty-five
P.M
., the time police say the victim, Sean Nokes, was murdered, were you still with Mr. Reilly and Mr. Marcano at the basketball game?”

“Yes, I was,” Father Bobby said. “If they were out of my sight at all during the game, it was either to go to the bathroom or to get something to drink.”

“What did you three do after the game?”

“We walked back to the parish,” Father Bobby said.

“Was it a cold night?”

“Windy, as I recall,” Father Bobby said.

“Did you stop anywhere?”

“At a newsstand on Eighth Avenue,” Father Bobby said. “I bought an early edition of the
Daily News.”

“And at what time did you, Mr. Reilly, and Mr. Marcano part company?”

“About ten-thirty, maybe a few minutes later,” Father Bobby said. “They left me in front of the rectory, near where they picked me up.”

“Did the two defendants tell you where they were going after they left you?”

“No,” Father Bobby said. “But I would imagine after a night spent with a priest, they went looking for the first open bar they could find.”

O’Connor waited for the snickers to subside.

“So then, Father, if the two defendants were with you on the night of the murder, they couldn’t have shot and killed Sean Nokes, as the prosecution claims. Isn’t that correct?”

“Unless they shot him from the blue seats at the Garden,” Father Bobby said.

“No, Father,” O’Connor said with a smile. “He wasn’t shot from there.”

“Then he wasn’t shot by those boys,” Father Bobby said.

“I have no further questions,” O’Connor said. “Thank you, Father.”

“It was my pleasure,” Father Bobby said.

“Your witness, Mr. Sullivan,” Judge Weisman said.

“Thank you, your honor,” Michael said, standing up and walking over to Father Bobby.

“Did you buy the tickets for the game, Father?” Michael asked. “Or were they given to you?”

“No, I bought them,” Father Bobby said.

“On the day of the game?”

“No,” Father Bobby said. “I went to the box office about a week before.”

“How did you pay for the tickets?”

“With cash,” Father Bobby said. “I pay for everything with cash.”

“Did you get a receipt?”

“No,” Father Bobby said. “I didn’t.”

“Did anyone know you were going to the game,” Michael asked, “other than the two defendants?”

“I don’t think so,” Father Bobby said.

“When did you ask the defendants to go to the game with you?”

“The Sunday before,” Father Bobby said.

“Was anyone else present?”

“No,” Father Bobby said.

“So, no one saw you buy the tickets,” Michael said. “There’s no record of any purchase. And no one else knew you were going with the defendants. Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Father Bobby said.

“So how do we know you were there?” Michael asked. “How do we
really
know you and the two defendants were at the game on the night of the murder?”

“I’m telling you both as a witness
and
as a priest,” Father Bobby said. “We
were
at that game.”

“And a priest wouldn’t lie,” Michael said. “Isn’t that right?”

“A priest with ticket stubs wouldn’t
need
to lie,” Father Bobby said, putting a hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out three torn tickets. “And I always keep the stubs.”

“Why’s that, Father?” Michael asked, standing next to him. “Why do you keep them?”

“Because you never know,” Father Bobby said, looking straight at Michael, “when someone will want more than your word.”

“Has anyone questioned your word before today?”

“No,” Father Bobby said. “No one
ever
has. But there’s a first time for most things in this world.”

“Yes, Father,” Michael Sullivan said. “I guess there is.”

Michael turned from Father Bobby and looked up at Judge Weisman.

“I have no further questions at this time,” Michael said. “Witness is free to go.”

The spectators applauded as Father Robert Carillo, a Catholic priest from Hell’s Kitchen, stepped down from the stand.

19

I
PUT ONE
foot on a rusty mooring, my hands in my pockets as I looked out at the Hudson River. The skies were overcast and the winter air felt heavy with impending snow. Carol had her back to me, staring past the iron legs of the West Side Highway toward the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. It was early evening, six hours removed from Father Bobby’s testimony.