The Good Lawyer: A Novel (21 page)

“Carlos? I’m Nick Mannino.” I put my hand out to shake his as he wiggled out of an open blue ski jacket. When he got his right arm free, he looked up at me, smiled and grabbed my hand. I shook the tiny fingers. Mrs. Hirsch was right. He was a beautiful boy. Only once before, on the now-dead blonde who confronted me outside AP-3, did I see such shining blue eyes. This kid had the looks of a child actor and, as I would soon discover, a sweet personality too.

Small for his age, he sat on his jacket, arms at his sides, and though I don’t know why, he reminded me of a Christmas angel.

I asked Raines to get a tape recorder as I led Carlos by the hand out of the investigator’s unit, a little-boy look of disappointment on his face. He seemed to have enjoyed listening and watching the other investigators at their desks, their NYPD-issued pistols visible in shoulder holsters. I was worried that he might feel uncomfortable or even frightened being alone with Raines. But he showed no sign of it.

He slid onto a chair in a nearby conference room, and Raines hit the REC button on the tape recorder.

I sat down and told Carlos exactly who I was, and thanked him for coming to my office. I motioned Raines with my finger to stop the tape. I wanted to hear Carlos’ story
before
I made a permanent record of it. Though his presence alone was pure gold, should this meeting backfire, I didn’t want to bolster the prosecution’s case with a taped conversation substantiating the charges.

The advocate in me reflexively took over, and for better or worse I started with a leading question, while Raines had his poker face on.

“Peter says that you told him that the charges against him aren’t true.”
Charges
sounded awfully official, like something a little boy would have nothing to do with.

“That’s right. It ain’t true. I’m no faggot.”

Raines and I glanced at each other. I gestured with my eyes for him to turn on the tape recorder. Carlos was looking up and in whispers started counting the suspended ceiling tiles.

I started by giving the date, time, and place, and persons in attendance. I had Carlos repeat his full name and smiled when he rattled off: “Carlos Luis Rodriguez Sanchez.” Then I asked him his address. He answered precisely, emphasizing his apartment number.

“Carlos, is it true that Peter Guevara abused you?”

“No.”

“Do you know what I mean when I ask if he abused you?”

“Yeah.”

“What is that?”

“You know, like a faggot does.”

“What is it that, as you say, ‘a faggot does?’”

“You know. He touches you between your legs and on your butt.”

“Did Peter ever touch you between your legs?”

“No.”

“Did Peter ever touch you anywhere on your body with his penis?”

“No way. If he did I would have punched him in the nose and run away.”

“Thank you, Carlos.” I leaned back in my chair. For all intents and purposes the prosecution’s case had begun to crumble.

“Did Peter ask you to tell me this?”

“No.”

“Did Peter tell you to lie?”

“No. I’m not lying.”

“Did Peter ever threaten to hurt you?”

“No. Never.”

“Did anyone force you to come here and talk to me?”

“No. This man picked me up,” he pointed to Raines, “and brought me here.”

“Was that OK with you?”

“Yeah. It was OK with me.”

“Why did you lie to the police?” Inasmuch as I wanted to quit while I was ahead, this was a question the assistant D.A. would be sure to ask. I might as well hear the answer first.

“It was Jose’s mother who made me. And my stepfather. He hits me when my mom isn’t around. When the police came to our apartment, Jose’s mother was with them.”

“Sandra Chavez?”

“Yeah. She started talking to my stepfather. My mother was in the living room, but didn’t say nothing. Then he called me and Rafael in, and started screaming that we should tell what Jose said to the police about Peter. Jose’s mom then starts screaming and picks up a statue off the table and slams it down. My stepfather was standing there too, being very mean in his face. So I lied to the cops, so he wouldn’t hit me.”

“Will you tell all this to the assistant District Attorney? His name is Mr. Ryan.”

“Yes, but I’m afraid I’ll get into trouble for lying.” His naiveté was a welcome relief to the sadness in his eyes and his childish frustration.

“You won’t get into trouble for telling the truth. You may have to tell it to the judge too.” The case was in front of three-gun Graham. He might want to talk to Carlos, and Rafael too if he joined his brother in recanting. Realizing the frightening figure a judge might present to a young boy, I added: “Don’t worry. The judge is a nice guy. He’ll be happy to hear you are now telling the truth.”

“I only hope my stepfather doesn’t find out.”

“It will be our little secret, Carlos.” I cringed. That’s what child abusers say. “I’ll tell Assistant District Attorney Ryan not to involve your stepfather in any of this.”

“OK,” he said.

“Do you think you can speak to Rafael, so he can come and talk to me also?”

“Sure. I’ll also tell Rafael to do what I did first.”

“What you did first? What is that?”

“I told Father Kerres in bible class that I lied first.”

“When was this?”

“Just last week.”

“And what did he say to you when you told him?”

“Nothing. He didn’t say nothing. He just told me to sit down.”

“When exactly did you tell him this?”

“Last Saturday.”‘

“The one that just passed?”

“No, the one before.”

Guevara’s reference to Kerres at the arraignment interview rang in my ears: “We’re still friends to this day.”

I asked Raines to drive Carlos to school and deliver him personally to Mrs. Hirsch. I also told Raines to tell her about his stepfather’s beatings and that she shouldn’t tell anyone about the boy’s visit to my office.

Carlos agreed to contact me in a day or two, when and if Rafael was willing to talk. I gave Carlos two dollars in change just before he left. Knowing it would mostly go to candy and soda, I stuck a dime in his back pocket and made him promise that he would use it to call me, whatever the reason.

Later that day I telephoned Paul Ventura and asked him if there was any progress on obtaining Oscar Jefferson’s hair and blood samples. This time I added skin exemplars to the list. Whatever helped get to the truth, I wanted done.

I was angry but not surprised when Ventura told me that he was under orders to cease all further investigation into the Spiderman cases. With Jefferson’s death the District Attorney felt the resources of his office could be better served elsewhere. Ventura sounded sickened over his boss’s position, and I remembered that at the arraignment Ventura’s mind may have been in the prosecution of Jefferson, but his heart wasn’t. I asked him outright why he was so uneasy then.

He took a long slow breath and told me that just prior to coming to court that morning he’d received a call from victim number one, a high school teacher. She was dealing with the rape better than the other three survivors. Her name was Hazel Waters. She had given the most detailed description of her assailant. The first in a serial case can often be the best, not hampered or influenced by those that had come before.

Ms. Waters saw CBS’s coverage of Jefferson’s walk into central booking, a detective on each side of him, his hands cuffed behind his back. The camera was positioned so it caught Jefferson full faced, then in profile. Her assailant, she said, was heavier, bigger, not as thin as Jefferson, not as young in the face, and with a wrinkly forehead. Jefferson hadn’t a line or wrinkle anywhere.

I thanked Ventura. Twice.

Responses to my subpoena requests were dribbling in and, sure enough, the documents I received from P.S. 92 and Children’s Village, where Jose Chavez and Carlos Rodriguez sought counseling, were several inches thick. And it was all as Shula Hirsch had said. Both boys had emotional difficulties that caused them at times to be disciplinary problems. The recommendation for Carlos was continued counseling and Special Ed classes. Jose’s was much worse. Psychiatrists at Children’s Village recommended full-time placement. This meant twenty-four hour attention that included intensive counseling combined with prescription medication to curb his erratic and sometimes violent behavior. The Board of Education also had psychological records on both boys, which I had yet to receive.

The only records I asked for and received on Rafael, Carlos’ younger brother by one year, were from P.S. 92: report cards that showed he was attending regular classes and doing quite well.

I waited anxiously to hear from Carlos regarding Rafael. I feared word of Carlos’ visit had gotten back to his stepfather, and the boy had suffered some real harm as a result. By Friday morning I was tempted to contact Mrs. Hirsch to see if all was well with the two brothers, when I received a surprise call from Father Kerres. Rafael and Carlos were with him in the rectory of Saint Nicholas of Tolentine Church.

Chapter 42

R
aines’ thumb had yet to hit the rectory bell when the door opened. Father Kerres was standing there. I greeted Kerres with a “Hello Father”, and without word or gesture he led us through a joulessey screened-porch into the rectory proper.

We found Carlos, Rafael, and Guevara seated in what looked to be a back room reserved for prayer. A kneeling post faced a wall where a large crucifix hung over a small unlit candelabra.

Kerres took a seat beside the crucifix. The boys were facing him, sitting upright in red velvet chairs. Guevara sat by the doorway on the opposite side of the room. I sat next to Rafael on a folding-chair that didn’t seem to belong. Raines remained standing. My attention quickly turned to Rafael.

I would have asked Guevara to leave, but the priest’s presence was a major neutralizing factor. At least it would be considered as such by the D.A.’s office and a jury, if the case ever got that far. In truth, the priest wasn’t a neutralizing factor at all. He appeared more the reluctant witness and seemed quite detached from the events about to unfold.

Guevara leaned forward, sending a look of hope in Rafael’s direction. Raines clicked on his tape recorder and I began as I had with Carlos, stating the date, time, place, and listing those in attendance.

Rafael was smaller than his brother, a miniature Carlos. Although just one year younger, he was a head shorter than Carlos, but just as cute. Carlos sat next to him, fidgeting, unable to get comfortable. I led Rafael through the recantation. He seemed to be expecting me to.

I talked about Carlos’ visit to my office, their stepfather’s threats, Sandra Chavez’s screams, the smashing down of the statue. Rafael confirmed everything, but without elaboration. A few times he nodded and I had to ask him to verbalize his responses for the tape recorder. But by this point, I had gotten what I needed—what Guevara wanted—two out of three children had recanted. And Rafael’s was the most important. Without the emotional and disciplinary problems of the other boys, Rafael would have been the D.A.’s best witness at trial.

“Did you ever speak to Jose Chavez about this case?”

“No,” he answered, appearing confused by the question. He then continued on his own, as if I had asked another, different question. “I didn’t want to go to the hospital after the police came to our apartment either. Neither did Jose. So when we got there, Jose’s mother slapped him, and then she slapped me.”

“Was there anyone around when she did this?”

“No. We were behind one of those curtains they pull around the bed.”

“Did you tell anyone? Did you tell your mother?”

“I’m not allowed to tell my mother when my stepfather hits me. So I didn’t tell her about Jose’s mother either.”

I looked at Raines. Our eyes met. Guevara gave me a look as if to say:
Can you believe I got arrested for this?

Father Kerres was looking out the window, a peculiar sight considering the red velvet shade was drawn down well over the sill. I thought about paying a visit to the boy’s stepfather when the case was over—and bringing Sallie along.

On tape, the charges were shrinking away, along with the credibility of Sandra Chavez—melting into nothingness like the wicked witch at the end of
The Wizard of Oz.

I then asked the
why
question. In court, in front of a jury, I would never, no matter how great cross-examination was going, ask the
why
question. But there was no jury here. I looked up at the crucifix on the wall—at least none that I could see.

“Why are you now telling the truth, Rafael?”

The little boy looked at Guevara, then at Father Kerres, who was now staring up at the ceiling. “I didn’t want Peter to lose his job for this. That wouldn’t be right…for something he didn’t do.”

“You’re absolutely sure that Peter Guevara never showed you his penis and never touched you with it at all?” I was making my last and final record.