Читать книгу Bronx Justice - Joseph Teller, Joseph Teller - Страница 8

That the case had come Jaywalker’s way at 3:17 in the morning, while unusual, was not entirely unprecedented. That it had come by way of his home telephone was actually rather typical. Jaywalker had early on developed the habit of giving out his home number liberally. It was but one of many things that distinguished him from his colleagues, who never would have thought of doing such a thing, the functional equivalent of a physician’s house call. Moreover, as technology advanced, with the advent of beepers, pagers, car phones, cell phones and BlackBerries, Jaywalker stuck to the practice with characteristic stubbornness, continuing to invite clients and their families to call him at home whenever the need arose. As it had apparently arisen for Inez Kingston on that particular night in September of 1979.

Then, as now, Jaywalker had answered with a fearful “Hello?” notwithstanding the fact that he knew his daughter was safely in bed upstairs and wouldn’t even be of driving age for another twelve or thirteen years. Whatever the circumstance, there seems to be something about the midnight phone call that inspires instant dread.

“Mr. Jaywalker?” the woman had said.

“Yes.”

“This is Inez Kingston. You represented my son Darren last year. Maybe you remember.”

“Sure,” said Jaywalker. “I remember.” The name did sound familiar, though if pressed, he would have had trouble attaching a face to it, or recalling what the charges had been and how the case had turned out.

“I’m afraid it’s Darren again,” she said. “They’ve got him at the precinct. They say he raped some women. They won’t tell me any more.”

“What precinct?”

“The Forty-third.”

Jaywalker jotted down Inez’s number in the dark, something he’d learned to do. Otherwise, brilliant ideas that came to him in the middle of the night had a way of vanishing before morning. Written down on paper, they tended to lose some of their brilliance, but at least they survived.

He found the number for the 43rd Precinct. He knew from the precinct number that it had to be somewhere in the Bronx, but other than that, he didn’t have a clue. Ninety percent of his practice was in Manhattan, which he liked to think of in sports language as his home court. Of course, at this particular stage of his career, the math wasn’t all that hard to do: it didn’t exactly require a calculator to convert nine out of ten cases into a percentage.

He reached the precinct and had the desk officer transfer his call to the squad room. There a detective confirmed that they did indeed have a Darren Kingston locked up. He’d been booked for five separate rapes and would be making court in the morning.

Jaywalker thanked the detective and called Inez back. He told her what he’d been able to find out, and offered to meet her in court at nine o’clock. Before hanging up, he told her not to worry. Like most people, if you woke Jaywalker up in the middle of the night, he could be pretty stupid.

It took him an hour or so, and the continued warmth of his wife’s body pressed up against his own, but he eventually managed to fall back to sleep. He was sure Inez Kingston didn’t.

He had a car back in those days, Jaywalker did. Or sort of. It was an ancient Volkswagen Beetle, its exterior equal parts blue paint and orange rust. The running boards had fallen off, the heater was history, the wipers stuck when they weren’t busy scratching the windshield, and the horn worked if you were lucky enough to happen upon the “sweet spot” of the rim.

But it was transportation, something that came in handy when you’d been forced to flee the city’s rich rents and poor public schools, and move to the suburbs. If Bergenfield, New Jersey, qualified as a suburb. What it was, was a blue-collar, working-class community, where Jaywalker could mow his own lawn, rake his own leaves and shovel his own driveway without being mistaken for a hired man. Even if his wife hoped for better things, it suited him just fine.

Aiming the VW toward the Bronx that following morning, Jaywalker tried to remember what he could about Darren Kingston. He’d been one of Jaywalker’s first clients after he’d left Legal Aid. His mother, Inez, worked at what today is referred to as the Department of Social Services. Back then it was the Welfare Department. Progress, no doubt. One of Inez’s coworkers there was Jaywalker’s sister-in-law. It had been at her suggestion that Inez had called Jaywalker when Darren had gotten into trouble. Along with two other young black men, he’d been arrested for robbing an elderly white man. Although the case had sounded bad at first, it turned out to be pretty harmless. One of the other defendants had done some work for the man and had had a dispute over how much money was owed him. When he went to collect, he brought his friends along. One of his friends being a knife. Seeing as Darren himself hadn’t possessed it, had had very little involvement in the matter and had never been in any sort of trouble before, the charges against him had eventually been dropped.

This time, Jaywalker thought as he maneuvered around the potholes, trash and broken glass of the South Bronx, he was pretty sure things weren’t going to be quite so easy.

Arraignments took place in a dark gray building at 161st Street and Washington Avenue, half a block from the abandoned elevated tracks above Third Avenue. It was one of two buildings that together made up the Bronx Criminal Court. Rumor had it that both had been condemned as unsafe since the early 1950s, and in fact they would finally be abandoned a few years later, replaced by a large modern structure closer to the Grand Concourse.

At the time, however, the decaying building was, for most people, their first encounter with what passed for Bronx justice. The floors were stained and uneven. Where they were supposed to be tiled, whole sections of tiles had been removed. Where they were wood, they were splintered and suffering from years of dry rot. The walls were cracked and paint-chipped, and covered with graffiti that was anti-police, anti-white, anti-black, anti-Hispanic, anti-gay, anti-just about everything. The two elevators took turns being out of order. Rather than guessing, Jaywalker headed for the stairwell. Just before entering, he took a deep gulp of air, then breathed through his mouth as he climbed, in order to block out as much of the stench of old urine as he could.

Reaching the second floor, he recognized Inez Kingston and her husband, Marlin. She was a short, heavyset woman whose pleasant smile and soft West Indian accent masked an inner nervousness and chronic high blood pressure. He was an equally short, wiry man with a face that wore the two-day-old stubble of a nightshift worker for the Transit Department. As accustomed as Inez was to hiding her feelings, Marlin was not, and his face that Wednesday morning was tense and unsmiling.

Jaywalker headed over and greeted them. Inez introduced him to her younger brother, who’d come along for support. Jaywalker asked if anything was new since the night before.

“No,” said Inez, “but the detective’s here. Rendell. He won’t tell us anything, but he did say he’d talk to you. I told him we had a lawyer coming. Was that all right?”

“Yes,” said Jaywalker. “Where is he now?”

“In there.” She pointed to a door. A sign on it warned passersby to keep out.

COMPLAINT ROOM

POLICE OFFICERS ONLY

“Point him out to me when he comes out, okay?”

It didn’t take long. Robert Rendell, all six foot three of him, opened the door and strode out. He was young for a detective, and handsome, with a shock of graying black hair that fell across his forehead. Jaywalker immediately sized him up as a formidable witness. Then he moved to intercept him before he made it to the courtroom.

“Detective Rendell?”

“Yup.”

“My name is Jaywalker. I’m going to be representing Darren Kingston. The family said you might be able to give me a little information. They seem pretty confused.”

“What can I tell you, counselor? I’ve got five CWs—” complaining witnesses, Jaywalker translated mentally “—and everything they say points to your man.”

“Lineups?” Jaywalker probed.

“You’re going to have to talk to the D.A.”

“Jesus,” said Jaywalker, a seriously lapsed Jew. “I’ve known this kid for years.” It was an exaggeration, but a modest one. “Shocks the shit outta you. When did these rapes take place?”

“August, mostly. But I’ve been looking for him for a couple of weeks.”

“Statements?”

“No, nothing really,” said the detective. “Says he’s innocent. Tell you what, counselor. I got one of the girls coming down this morning. She IDs him, or she doesn’t.” He shrugged. “If he’s not the guy, I don’t want him.” With that, he excused himself and walked into the courtroom.

Jaywalker looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten. Court was supposed to begin at 9:30 a.m., but the judge hadn’t taken the bench yet. Nothing new there.

Jaywalker took a minute to consider what he had. Rendell hadn’t given him much, but at least he’d added a few more facts to piece into the picture. There were five victims. At least one of them—the one who was on her way to court—apparently hadn’t seen Darren since the incident. Assuming it was Darren. Most of the rapes had occurred in August, a month ago. That could be good. But Rendell’s comment that he’d been looking for Darren sounded bad. It meant that Darren had been positively identified as the result of some sort of investigation. It also suggested that Darren might have been hiding out, trying to avoid arrest. Consciousness of guilt? That there were no admissions was good. If he was guilty, at least Darren had been smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

Already Jaywalker could sense things shaping up as a classic identification case. Five women had been raped. Was Darren Kingston the man who had raped them?

He reported his findings to the family. Then he went into the clerk’s office, filled out a Notice of Appearance and traded it for a copy of the complaint. Computers not yet having arrived in the courthouse, the complaint consisted of a preprinted form with the blanks filled in by someone using an ancient typewriter and a generous supply of carbon paper.

Criminal Court of the City of New York

Part A, County of The Bronx

STATE OF NEW YORK

ss.: FELONY COMPLAINT

COUNTY OF The Bronx

Joanne Kenarden, being duly sworn, deposes and says that on August 16, 1979, in the County of The Bronx, City and State of New York, the defendant(s) Darren Kingston committed the offense(s) of rape in the first degree and sodomy in the first degree under the following circumstances:

Deponent states that at the above time and place defendant forcibly at knifepoint committed an act of sexual intercourse upon her without her consent, and also forced her to commit an act of oral sodomy. Knife not recovered.

Sworn to before me

…………………….

……………, 19….. Deponent

……………………

Judge

Jaywalker was reading it through for a second time when Inez Kingston walked up to him. “The detective just took Darren across the hall,” she said.

Jaywalker followed her out of the clerk’s office. She pointed to a door, one without a sign. Jaywalker knocked on it. When there was no answer, he pushed it open. After all, he reasoned, there was no sign saying not to. Inside were Detective Rendell, Darren Kingston and a third man, who looked up and said, “Yes?”

“I’m his lawyer,” said Jaywalker. “May I know what’s going on?”

“Oh, sure.” The third man was young, thin and, when he stood up, closer to Jaywalker’s height than Rendell’s. His face was dominated by a black mustache. “My name is Jacob Pope,” he said. “I’m an assistant district attorney in the Mob.”

“The Mob?” echoed Jaywalker. It struck him as a curious affiliation.

“The Major Offense Bureau. I was just about to ask Mr. Kingston some questions regarding pedigree, for bail purposes. I didn’t realize he had an attorney.”

Jaywalker looked back and forth from Pope to Rendell. One of them was playing dirty here—Pope, if Rendell had told him about Jaywalker, Rendell if he’d neglected to. A prosecutor was strictly forbidden from speaking with a defendant who had a lawyer unless the lawyer was present or gave his express permission. And pedigree was just a fancy way of describing a series of questions that began with name and address and ended with, “Where’d you hide the body?”

Darren was seated, his wrists handcuffed in his lap. Jaywalker had forgotten how good-looking he was. Model good-looking, almost. “How’re you doing, Darren?” he asked him.

“N-n-n-not so good.”

The stutter. Jaywalker had forgotten that, too. Darren had a severe stutter that grew worse when he became nervous. Jaywalker turned to Pope. “Can you give me a moment with my client?” he asked. “Then maybe we’ll talk to you.”

“Sure,” said Pope. “Go right ahead.” But neither he nor Rendell made any move to give them privacy.

“Can we take the cuffs off?” Jaywalker asked.

Pope nodded at the detective, who produced a key and removed the handcuffs. Darren rubbed each wrist in turn. Jaywalker waited until Pope and Rendell had walked to the far end of the room. Then he positioned himself between Darren and them, giving them his back. It wasn’t much, but it was as good as it was going to get.

As quietly as he could, he asked Darren what was going on.

“I don’t know. They say I r-r-r-raped a bunch of women. I didn’t do anything like that. I don’t know anything about it.”

“Darren, they’ve got five women who say you’re the guy. I’m here to help you, a hundred percent. I can help you if you’re innocent. But understand this—I can also help you if you’re guilty. There are hospitals, there are sexual offender programs.” There were; it wasn’t a complete lie. “The only way I can’t help you,” Jaywalker went on, “is if you don’t tell me. So you’ve got to try to trust me.” He wanted to add “and start telling me the truth.” But he didn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Darren’s eyes met Jaywalker’s. “I do trust you, Jay.” His use of the name brought a smile to Jaywalker’s face. A year ago, it had taken him a long time to get Darren to stop calling him Mr. Jaywalker. But Jaywalker had insisted. If he was going to address his clients by their first names—and he did, always—then they were going to do the same with him. Not that Jay was really his first name. But when your parents hang Harrison Jason Walker on you, you’re happy to settle for Jay. Or, as a few of his Hispanic clients pronounced it, Yay.

“Good,” said Jaywalker.

“But you gotta trust me, too, Jay. I d-d-didn’t do this.”

Jaywalker nodded. He knew it was useless to push at this point. He decided to let Darren answer Pope’s questions in his presence. It was his hope to learn a few things, while giving up nothing in return. At the same time, he was looking for any edge he could get. He knew that Pope’s recommendation on bail would carry a lot of weight with the judge.

After learning that Darren was twenty-two, married, living with his wife, the father of one child and expecting another, Pope moved on to Darren’s employment.

“You work for the post office, right?”

“Right.”

“The night shift?”

“Right.”

It was obvious that Pope, or perhaps Rendell, had done his homework.

“Were you working the last two weeks of August, or was that your vacation time?”

Jaywalker held up a hand. “I’m not sure that’s pedigree,” he said. He didn’t want Pope fishing around and testing an alibi defense before Jaywalker had had a chance to explore it himself.

“Okay,” said Pope, realizing he wasn’t going to get anything else. “Is there any statement you want to make, Mr. Kingston?”

“Yes, there is.” The voice was loud and clear. It was also Jaywalker’s. “He says he’s innocent, and you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Pope nodded dismissively. It was clear that he doubted the words as much as Jaywalker himself did.

Detective Rendell put the handcuffs back on Darren before he led him out of the room. Jaywalker followed them, reminding Darren to say nothing further. Then he walked over to the Kingstons and brought them up-to-date on what he knew, holding back nothing. He told them that one of the women was coming down to court, and that unless she said their son wasn’t the right man, he would be charged with threatening her with a knife, raping her, and forcing her to take his penis in her mouth.

Inez Kingston didn’t seem to react. It was as though she already understood and had accepted the gravity of the situation. Marlin said, “Oh, God,” and started to cry, then put his arms around his wife, right there in the corridor, with total strangers streaming by. They stood like that for several minutes, he crying quietly and she making no attempt to escape his embrace. Finally Marlin let go of his wife. He looked straight at Jaywalker, his eyes red but fixed.

“Jay, that’s my son, you see? You got to do what you can for him. He didn’t rape anybody. I don’t care what it costs, I’ll get the money somehow. But you got to help him.”

“I’ll help him,” said Jaywalker.

They spent the next hour and a half in the courtroom, waiting for the arrival of Joanne Kenarden, the victim who was named in the complaint. Jaywalker passed the time watching the parade of arraignments, people who’d been arrested the previous night. An assault, his own head bandaged. A gypsy cab stickup. Four for possession of heroin. A gun. A homicide, a man who’d beaten his two-year-old stepson to death. Almost all were black or Hispanic. In almost every case the judge set high bail and the defendant was walked back into the pen area, out of sight. Family members, who’d moved forward to the railing to hear better and perhaps be noticed, straggled out of the courtroom, sometimes sobbing, sometimes angry, always confused.

It was a quarter past twelve when Joanne Kenarden showed up. She poked her thin face into the courtroom and looked around uncertainly. Something in Jaywalker told him it was her even before Detective Rendell spotted her, stood up and walked over to her. Jaywalker watched them as they spoke briefly at the door. Then Rendell found her a place to sit, had her sign some papers, motioned her to wait and left the room.

Jaywalker moved his own seat in order to get a better look at her. She was pretty, if a bit hard-looking. The thinness of her face and body made guessing her age difficult. Thirty, maybe. She was dressed in inexpensive clothes, jeans and a black top, but carefully. And she was white.

When Rendell came back into the courtroom, Jacob Pope was with him. While Pope took a seat up front, Rendell disappeared into the pen area. When he emerged several minutes later, he was leading Darren by the arm. Today that act itself would be called a suggestive identification procedure; back then, it was simply how things were done. In any event, as soon as she saw Darren, Joanne Kenarden stiffened visibly in her seat and nodded almost reflexively. To Jaywalker’s eye, her response seemed involuntary and genuine. He wondered if Pope had caught it.

“Docket number X974513, Darren Kingston,” called the bridgeman, his title derived from his position between the judge and the rest of the courtroom. “Charged with rape, on the complaint of Joanne Kenarden. Detective Rendell.” Shielding rape victims’ identities didn’t happen back then, either.

Jaywalker rose, made his way forward and took his place at the center of a long wooden table in front of the judge’s bench. To his left stood Darren, hands cuffed in front of him, a uniformed court officer immediately behind him. To Jaywalker’s right stood Jacob Pope, Detective Rendell and Joanne Kenarden.

“Miss Kenarden,” said the bridgeman, “do you swear to the truth and contents of your affidavit?” In 1979, there was no such thing as a Ms. You were Miss, or you were Mrs.

“I do.”

“Counselor, do you waive the reading of the rights and charges?”

“Yes,” said Jaywalker, “we do.”

The judge, a fairly recent appointee named Howard Goldman, turned to Pope, waiting for his bail recommendation. Pope responded by describing the Kenarden rape and sodomy, emphasizing the knife. He pointed out that there were four additional rape victims, and added that it had taken the police several weeks to locate the defendant once he’d been identified. The clear implication was that Darren would be likely to flee if released. “Accordingly,” Pope concluded, “the People request that bail be set in the amount of fifty thousand dollars.”

It was Jaywalker’s turn. He pointed to Darren’s family in the courtroom, described Darren’s job and theirs, and mentioned the lack of any prior convictions. He stressed Darren’s wife, their child and her pregnancy. He said that he’d known the family for almost two years and felt privileged to have done so.

“I consider these very serious charges,” said Judge Goldman.

“So do I,” Jaywalker agreed. “I also consider it very possible that this is the wrong man.”

Goldman turned toward Joanne Kenarden. “Young lady,” he said, “I want you to answer me truthfully. Is there any doubt in your mind, any doubt whatsoever, that this is the man who attacked you? Take a good look at him before you answer me.”

Jaywalker took a step back so that she could get a better look at Darren. But even as he did so, he knew it was a futile gesture. They were enacting a charade, after all. Not twenty minutes earlier, having seen Darren led into the courtroom by Detective Rendell, she’d put her signature on an affidavit, swearing that this was the man who’d raped and orally sodomized her. What was she supposed to say now, that she’d changed her mind?

“No doubt whatsoever,” she said.

“Bail is fifty thousand dollars,” said the judge.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jaywalker could see Darren’s shoulders sag, notice him shake his head slowly from side to side. The case was adjourned one week, for a preliminary hearing. But Jaywalker knew there would be no hearing. Pope would present his case directly to a grand jury, who would listen to Joanne Kenarden, and perhaps the other victims as well, and vote an indictment. Jaywalker toyed briefly with the idea of having Darren testify at the grand jury, but quickly rejected it. All Darren could say was that he was innocent. Having him do so, and then exposing him to cross-examination at this early stage, would accomplish little and risk much.

“Anything else?” asked the judge.

“No,” said Jaywalker.

“Next case.”

Less than ten minutes after it had begun, the arraignment was over. Darren was led back into the pen from which he’d come.

Outside on the sidewalk, Jaywalker explained the bail to Darren’s parents. In order to get their son out of jail, they would either have to come up with fifty thousand dollars in cash or go to a bondsman, who would require maybe half that much, as well as the balance in property—bank-books, jewelry, deeds to buildings or similar collateral. Marlin Kingston shook his head in disbelief, or maybe despair. Jaywalker told him they had an option, to let a few days pass and then go over to the Supreme Court building on the Grand Concourse, where they could make an application to get the figure reduced.

He kissed Inez goodbye, something he didn’t ordinarily do. Perhaps it was her own warmth, radiating outward, that compelled him to do so. When he went to shake Marlin’s hand, he felt something pressed against his palm.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A hundred dollars,” said Marlin. “For today.”

“No,” said Jaywalker. “You save it. You’re going to need every penny to try to get Darren out.” But he realized he was only getting to know this little man, who could cry unashamedly one minute and fight like a warrior the next, when Marlin spoke again.

“This is yours, Jay,” he said. “Darren is my son. I’ll get him out somehow. Don’t you worry.”

Jaywalker pocketed the money. It was 1979, and he couldn’t afford to sneeze at a hundred dollars. Not with a wife, a child of his own, a mortgage and a stack of bills. But he did worry. If a hundred dollars was nothing to sneeze at, what did that say about fifty thousand?