Big Boy in the Bronx. I was certain, though, that Calabrese had never been busted for defiling him.
“Anyway, couldn’t have been the crime of the century ’cause here I am.” Mike paused wistfully, then looked his target directly in the eye. “What I’m trying to say is, I can understand how you might have done something last night that was out of character. What I can’t understand, and what’s pissing me off, is you sitting here lying to my face about it.”
I had noticed that Mike wasn’t mentioning the Crenshaw murder. He was probably trying to assure Corbett that we hadn’t made the connection yet between Crenshaw’s Hillside death and the relatively benign chaos on the streets below. If Mike could lock Corbett in as armed, out of control, and just blocks from Percy’s house, he’d have more leverage as the questioning continued.
Corbett was still thinking. Chuck and I exchanged glances. We both recognized the signs: One more go from Calabrese should do it.
Mike saw this too and went for the close. “I’m more likely to cut you loose tonight with a citation if you just come clean with me. Otherwise, I can book you as a custody until a judge arraigns you tomorrow on felony criminal mischief.”
To some, that part of Mike’s act might sound like a threat to punish a suspect with arrest for refusing to confess. Courts, however, view this common police tactic as a lawful offer of lenience —a ticket instead of an arrest—in exchange for cooperation. Mike was being aggressive, but so far so good on the books.
His generous “offer” was enough to get Corbett talking. “So you’re saying you’ll let me out of here tonight with a ticket if I tell you what happened.”
“I see what you’re saying. You want to lock me in on that. You’re smart. You’re thinking,” Mike said, tapping his finger against his temple. “Yeah, sure, you’ve got my word.”
I looked at Chuck, worried, but he lifted his chin toward the window to tell me to keep watching. He trusted Mike to know the rules.
“I promise,” Mike said, holding up one hand, “if you come clean with me, I’ll write you a cite for the crim mischief. I won’t book you on that charge.”
“For real?”
“That’s my absolute word.”
I looked away for a moment, coming close to feeling a little sorry for Corbett. He had no clue as to what was about to happen. Then I remembered where my sympathies lay just a few hours earlier in Percy’s office, and I steeled myself. Mike’s job was to get the evidence, and my only job was to make sure he didn’t violate the law getting it. If the law let us sucker Corbett, and Corbett was willing to be suckered, so be it. Corbett’s defense attorney could feel sorry for him later.
Then, as I sensed he would, Corbett laid out for Mike the events that led to the rampage down 23rd. Not coincidentally, his version was much like the one Mike had set up for him in advance. Minding his own business. Clashes between cops and protesters. Caught up in the crowd. Not something he’d usually do. Yada yada yada.
He did add one fact—the influence of methamphetamines. The drug of choice for poor white trash like Corbett, crystal meth guarantees at least six hours—if not days—of complete euphoric mind melt. Users lose all control over their judgment, emotions, messianic power complexes, and voracious sexual appetites. Last month, I convicted a defendant who had axed his best friend to death after a meth binge for reasons he would never understand. Once Corbett threw a little meth into the picture, the progression from rowdiness to broken windows to random assaults—and possibly to Percy’s murder—seemed almost predictable.
Now that Corbett had admitted the vandalism, Mike just needed him to explain the rest in his own words. “Here’s the problem, Todd. Where’d the bat come from?”
A glimmer of worry crossed Corbett’s face but quickly disappeared. “That wasn’t mine. My friend had it in
“Anyway, couldn’t have been the crime of the century ’cause here I am.” Mike paused wistfully, then looked his target directly in the eye. “What I’m trying to say is, I can understand how you might have done something last night that was out of character. What I can’t understand, and what’s pissing me off, is you sitting here lying to my face about it.”
I had noticed that Mike wasn’t mentioning the Crenshaw murder. He was probably trying to assure Corbett that we hadn’t made the connection yet between Crenshaw’s Hillside death and the relatively benign chaos on the streets below. If Mike could lock Corbett in as armed, out of control, and just blocks from Percy’s house, he’d have more leverage as the questioning continued.
Corbett was still thinking. Chuck and I exchanged glances. We both recognized the signs: One more go from Calabrese should do it.
Mike saw this too and went for the close. “I’m more likely to cut you loose tonight with a citation if you just come clean with me. Otherwise, I can book you as a custody until a judge arraigns you tomorrow on felony criminal mischief.”
To some, that part of Mike’s act might sound like a threat to punish a suspect with arrest for refusing to confess. Courts, however, view this common police tactic as a lawful offer of lenience —a ticket instead of an arrest—in exchange for cooperation. Mike was being aggressive, but so far so good on the books.
His generous “offer” was enough to get Corbett talking. “So you’re saying you’ll let me out of here tonight with a ticket if I tell you what happened.”
“I see what you’re saying. You want to lock me in on that. You’re smart. You’re thinking,” Mike said, tapping his finger against his temple. “Yeah, sure, you’ve got my word.”
I looked at Chuck, worried, but he lifted his chin toward the window to tell me to keep watching. He trusted Mike to know the rules.
“I promise,” Mike said, holding up one hand, “if you come clean with me, I’ll write you a cite for the crim mischief. I won’t book you on that charge.”
“For real?”
“That’s my absolute word.”
I looked away for a moment, coming close to feeling a little sorry for Corbett. He had no clue as to what was about to happen. Then I remembered where my sympathies lay just a few hours earlier in Percy’s office, and I steeled myself. Mike’s job was to get the evidence, and my only job was to make sure he didn’t violate the law getting it. If the law let us sucker Corbett, and Corbett was willing to be suckered, so be it. Corbett’s defense attorney could feel sorry for him later.
Then, as I sensed he would, Corbett laid out for Mike the events that led to the rampage down 23rd. Not coincidentally, his version was much like the one Mike had set up for him in advance. Minding his own business. Clashes between cops and protesters. Caught up in the crowd. Not something he’d usually do. Yada yada yada.
He did add one fact—the influence of methamphetamines. The drug of choice for poor white trash like Corbett, crystal meth guarantees at least six hours—if not days—of complete euphoric mind melt. Users lose all control over their judgment, emotions, messianic power complexes, and voracious sexual appetites. Last month, I convicted a defendant who had axed his best friend to death after a meth binge for reasons he would never understand. Once Corbett threw a little meth into the picture, the progression from rowdiness to broken windows to random assaults—and possibly to Percy’s murder—seemed almost predictable.
Now that Corbett had admitted the vandalism, Mike just needed him to explain the rest in his own words. “Here’s the problem, Todd. Where’d the bat come from?”
A glimmer of worry crossed Corbett’s face but quickly disappeared. “That wasn’t mine. My friend had it in
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