The Adored (34 page)

First time offender—talk with community adults, what kind of kid was Strong. Here Boriello got good feedback, the guidance counselor at Westhill High School remembered Strong, even after seven years.

“He was a good kid; his mother always showed interest. His grades were good, not great, but he had a future. Killing someone, being involved in drugs—absolutely not!” Jim Frisoli told Boreillo over the phone.

“Jim, let me ask you, did the Strong’s defense counsel ask you to testify in his behalf?” Boriello pursued.

“No, never got a call. And I’d have spoken up for him,” Frisoli went on. “I’ve been in this job twenty years, taught ten years before that, and you get to know kids. It doesn’t matter what part of town they’re from. You know these kids. I can guarantee you that Curtis Strong would never hurt anyone. He was not into drugs or alcohol—he was very clear eyed. Bright kid, you know what I mean, Vito?”

“I do, Jim,” the detective said to the guidance counselor he had known for half his life, both having grown up on Stamford’s West Side with neither ever moving anywhere else. “Thanks for your help. I may need to call on you again?’

“Sure, Vito, anytime,” Frisoli said.

What Frisoli was telling Boriello was exactly what he was hearing from Ford and from a completely different environment. Frisoli also gave Boriello the name of one of Strong’s teachers, and he contacted her. Another confirmation. Good person, you knew he didn’t have it in him to do evil. Good student. Peacemaker. Well, how in the bloody hell, Boreillo thought could this happen. Couldn’t anyone believe that a good kid would rush to help someone in trouble? Something very wrong here. Either Strong was very good at pulling the wool over adults’ eyes or a grave injustice had been committed. He was leaning towards the later.

And Augusto Santos, the man Curtis Strong had been convicted of killing, Boriello found out through a search of police data bases was an illegal immigrant with three prior arrests. One arrest was for domestic abuse; the other two were arrests for dealing drugs. In the first case he served one year in jail and was deported to Guatemala. Two years after deportation he was arrested again in Stamford for dealing drugs but cooperated with police and helped bring down part of a larger drug gang operating to supply the downtown business crowd. Charges were quietly dropped, his name never surfaced, and he was released. That was six months before his murder. A note in the file also indicated that he had crack cocaine in his possession at the time of his death. The theory of the killing was that it was a dispute over drugs. In Boriello’s mind, more evidence of innocence since Strong had a good reputation as a drug- and alcohol-free kid.

Boriello still had the judge and defense lawyer to talk with, but first he wanted to hear from a juror just what they saw. That is if he could find one willing to talk about the trial. He picked the names of two of jurors. One, Ann Lofrano, lived on the West Side. These connections to the old Italian neighborhood Boriello grew up in helped him throughout his career. He didn’t know the family but knew the Lofrano name.

The small cape on Burwood Ave was like one hundred others in the six-block by four-block area. At the head of the neighborhood was St. Clement of Rome Catholic Church, where all guidance originated growing up.

Ann Lofrano, a small, wide woman of about sixty, in a floral print house dress, slapped her leg and howled. “He was the funniest priest we ever had.”

“And he gave penances of whole rosaries,” Vito said, laughing also.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said with a twinkle in her eye and laughed again.

“So, Ann,” Boriello began, “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, let me go over why I’m here.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, you mentioned it was a jury I served on?”

“Yes, and call me Vito. It was the Curtis Strong trial.”

“Yes, I remember. It’s the only jury I ever served on,” and Lofrano tensed and her face suddenly got older, more wrinkles showed up. “I’ll never do it again.”

“Why, what happened?” Boriello asked, now very interested.

“Why? The kid was innocent!” she blurted out.

Boriello was startled by statement. “What? How do you know he was innocent? How did the jury convict him?”

“Everyone knew he was innocent. Maybe more now, as time passes, but it was so clear he didn’t kill that man. But at the time I think the police confused us. No offense intended, Vito.”

“None taken, Ann. Tell me, how did the police confuse you?”

“The prosecutor badgered everyone. The judge made us continue to deliberate, when we were hung up ten to two for acquittal,” she said, looking at the worn carpet beneath their feet.

“Whoa, just a minute, Ann. Slow down just a bit,” Boriello encouraged her.

And over the next half hour, Ann Lofrano reconstructed how she, and the jury in its own innocence, let itself be led by the police, the prosecutor and the judge to a decision, now seen by her as one of horror—convicting an innocent man.

“There was reasonable doubt on everything they showed us. That boy was a good kid. No record, doing well in school, but no one stuck up for him. But the one who really did him in was that police sergeant, Walsh. The prosecutor led Walsh and us along with him through every detail of that night in a way that made it look like he did it, if you believed them. Walsh told us they had his fingerprints on the knife, they had a sneaker print in the blood beside the dead man, and that same sneaker was found in Curtis Strong’s closet. So that was all the evidence we had; it was so one sided. As I said no one stuck up for the kid. His lawyer was a lump. He only brought one person as a character witness for him, a teacher. He never challenged the police version at all, except in his summary to us that gave Strong’s version of Strong trying to help Santos.”

“But if you were voting ten to two to acquit, how is it that he was convicted? “ Boriello asked, clearly not understanding.

“When we were deliberating, we asked for the transcript of Sergeant Walsh’s testimony. The foreman of the jury, who was one of the two originally voting to convict, used that testimony like a hammer on us. I still remember the way he pounded the table, and he was a big man, worked in construction, I think.”

Boriello did not like what he was hearing. Dominant men acting as foremen had swayed more than one jury in Boriello’s career. It went against all logic that honest citizens, confronted with reasonable doubt of a person’s guilt, would nonetheless vote to convict that person if there were strong enough or coercive enough energy in the jury room.

Lofrano continued, Boriello could see, needing to get this burden out. “He would slam his fist down on the table. He says to us, “Look, they have Strong’s fingerprints on the knife. His sneaker left a bloody footprint at the murder scene. This same sneaker was found in his home with Augusto Santos’ blood on it.” Then he would slam his fist down again. “What are we waiting for, he did it, damn it.” Then he said, “Let’s vote again.” The next vote was seven to five to acquit. But that was all he needed, to see that we could be moved. I felt like I was in a lynch mob.”

She stopped, got up, and went to the kitchen, which adjoined the living room they had been sitting in. Boriello saw her grab a dish towel and wipe her eyes. With her back to him, she said, “I need a glass of water, would you like one, Vito?”

“Yes, Ann, please.”

As she sat back down, Boriello could see the redness in her eyes, and as she looked up, he looked at his glass.

“Anyway, pardon me,” she said, “This was going on for days. Every day another one of us would weaken. I know we’re not supposed to, but a couple of us, three, talked one night and said we were not going to change our vote from not guilty to guilty. About the fourth day, the judge came in the jury room and said something like, “This is a very important case. An innocent man has been killed, and the police have worked very hard to bring him justice. I am not going to allow a hung jury. Please work harder to come to a unanimous decision.”

“That’s not possible,” said Boriello, his Italian temper rising.

“It’s true,” Mrs. Lofrano continued. “Our original position, the ten of us voting not guilty, was that we understood what the police were saying, but there was just as much likelihood that what the defense attorney said was true—that the boy heard a cry for help, went to his aid, and in the process got fingerprints on the knife and blood on his sneaker. But that damn foreman just kept pounding the table, going over what Sergeant Walsh said when the prosecutor asked him, “Now, Sergeant, in your experience, have you ever seen an innocent man run off when he was trying to help a victim?”

“No, not once,” Walsh said. And the foreman slammed the table in the jury room again, saying, “No, not once.” Walsh continued, I remember him saying, “If you went into that alley to help a dying man, you don’t run off like you’re guilty. Mr. Strong committed that murder; those are his fingerprints on the knife and Mr. Santos blood on his shoes.” And that awful defense attorney never objected, never challenged any of the police witnesses. It was like he had no idea what he was doing. I feel really bad for that kid. Is he still in prison?”

“Yes, more six and a half years now,” Boriello said looking at a woman who aged since he had come into her home.

“I went to his sentencing,” Lofrano said, “almost no one there. Only his mother and another black lady she sat with at the trial. Defense attorney never came back, was out of town on some ‘deal.’ They had to have a public defender sit with Mr. Strong.”

Boriello shook his head.

“And, don’t let me forget this, they sent a seventeen-year-old boy to that awful prison. I went to the library. I read about that place, Auburn. A murderous hell hole. God forgive me for what I’ve been a part of,” and tears rolled down her face, yet she did not cry.

“Ann, I believe like you that Mr. Strong is innocent. We are going to appeal his conviction and try to get it thrown out. Will you be willing to submit a statement if we are able to get a hearing for Curtis?”

“I’ll come there myself. Maybe I can undo some of the awfulness of what we did. And you need to talk to other jurors too. I’m not the only one who felt this way. Please talk with Mary Clark; she lives over in Springdale and with Francine Brown. I’m not sure where she lives anymore, but she used to live in Glenbrook.”

Boriello had been taking notes as Lofrano spoke and finished them with a note of the two ladies and the Stamford neighborhoods they were from.

At the door as she was seeing him out, Boriello gave Lofrano a hug. He could see she needed one.

Chapter 46

“CJ, I’ve met with a detective in Stamford who agreed to help. We’ve come up with a number of things we need to track down the answers to. But one of those things is you,” James Ford was saying to Curtis Strong in Ford’s office, where it was customary for him to counsel one on one with convicts.

“How’s that, Mr. Ford,” Strong said.

“Detective Boriello, the man I’m working with, and I agree; you need to tell us how you now know who is responsible for the crime you have been convicted of.”

“I appreciate what you are doing for me, but if you look at the other end, where this began, you’ll find out,” Strong replied.

“CJ,” Ford said, tensing up, “This isn’t some riddle. If you ever hope to come out of here, you’ve got to help us. It’s been more than six years. Evidence is thin, memories fade.”

“Mr. Ford, are you talking with my lawyer, the prosecutor, and the jurors? And the cops? Talk to that cop who testified against us, the one who killed my father. Talk to Walsh, he knows what’s going on.”

“Why Walsh?”

“Don’t you think it’s odd, he killed my father and he’s the one the prosecutor calls to present evidence against me? It’s more than just too coincident,” Strong said, his voice firm but rising a bit.

“Yes it is and Detective Boriello is looking in to that.”

“Then, what? You don’t need any more from me.”

“I’m afraid we do. Do you think Walsh is going to open up to Detective Boriello and tell him he was wrong, they got the wrong guy? It doesn’t work like that. We expect Walsh will stick to his story. If you can’t give us something powerful, no judge will rehear your case even if we find tangential stuff.”

“What stuff?” Strong asked wondering what they had found so far.

“Tangential. You know. Related stuff that ties the pieces together. Without a strong center of proof, anything else we find is out on the wing. I agree that when we look at the evidence and we choose to believe you, it makes sense. We need something stronger. A jury already made a determination that could have gone either way.”

“No, it couldn’t. Not the way the prosecutor pushed. Not the way my attorney blew it for me by challenging nothing. Not the way they pushed the jurors. I know what was going on in that jury room. I knew it took way too long for the verdict.”

“And that was then, this is now. Don’t you see that?”

“I do; I get it.”

“Then help me; help yourself.”

“Let me think what I can share. Can you let me think about this and can we talk tomorrow?”

“Don’t think CJ, just spit it out. I’ll come back tomorrow. But I don’t want any more mystery. If you are innocent and I believe you, you have to help me get you out. You! Not the people in Stamford. You apparently have the key pieces that are missing here, and we need them. So, put your thoughts together and tell me tomorrow. Yes?” Ford concluded with a question intended to be responded to.