imaginary zone around the Criminal Court within which lawyers, civil servants, court officers, and police regularly trafficked, the more I invited a confrontation with the worst of the local element—the poor, the desperate and even the drug-crazed.
I scaled the curb on the corner of 164th with my head bouncing pugnaciously toward 165th, defiance in every step—come and get me.
A small garbage-filled lot flanked my left side. Car parts, cans, bottles, and tattered newspapers lay in the dirt and weeds. The carcass of a dead cat covered with flies lay crumpled against a pile of egg white stones.
A row of abandoned buildings with boarded and cinder-blocked windows and doors followed. Concrete stoops, faded and cracked, stood as a relic to the families who long ago struggled and commiserated there, on its landing, on its steps, while their children played—shared lives lost to politicians, businessmen, landlords, gentrification, neighborhood fear, street fear, fear of the unknown.
In the middle of this block, on this same side of the street, there stood a two-story brownstone. It was the only visibly inhabited building on either side. Two wooden doors with beveled glass panes separated the South Bronx street from those who dwelled within. Standing behind one of the doors, in the pale light of the vestibule, was a shirtless Hispanic boy, nine or ten years old. Dark-skinned, with straight black hair, oval eyes and full lips, he watched as I walked, then stared as I stopped on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps that led to his front door. He pointed his finger at me contemptuously.
I looked down, then back up at the door. The boy was still standing there. Only this time he was black. I winced then looked at him again, and he was laughing, like he hated me, relishing my confusion. My heart was pounding, but I wouldn’t look away.
I watched as the boy disappeared into the murky vestibule, then I continued walking toward 165th Street—quickly.
I called Vinny Repolla from my windowless office. With a reporter’s resources at his disposal he was in a good position to learn the identity of the dead blonde. Once I knew who she was, I would know why she wanted to see me.
Vinny called midway through a meeting that Sheila Schoenfeld, Douglas Krackow, and all fifteen complex C attorneys attended for the sole purpose of setting next month’s arraignment schedule. I handed my choice of dates, good and bad, to Tom Miller, and took the call at my desk.
Vinny was intent on talking about the Spiderman. The accused janitor was headed for central booking. He would be arraigned in the morning. But not for double murder. And not for rape either. For burglary—for taking the dead baby’s locket.
The D.A.’s Office might as well have held a press conference to announce they had problems, big problems connecting the defendant to the murders of the mother and child, no less the sexual assaults on the other four victims.
“Wonderful,” I said incredulously. “I suppose you’ll want me to do both arraignments, one for the burglary, then the follow-up for the rapes and murders.” I was disgusted at getting sandbagged in a way even Vinny hadn’t intended.
“Just do what you can,” Vinny said with a sudden complacency. “I’ll be happy just to get one inside story on this. I don’t care when it comes.”
“You may just get your story,” I answered bitterly. “A team from my complex is on arraignments tomorrow. It shouldn’t be hard for me to do a switch.”
“I knew you’d come through.”
This was a handshake deal, one I could easily get out of, and he knew it. I wondered if he’d practiced that look of betrayal he leveled me with last time, just to sucker me in.
“But I need you to help me out on something else,” I said.
I described the blonde I’d run into at the courthouse, and how she’d shown up later at my office. When I told him she was found dead, and that the police were unable to identify her and
I scaled the curb on the corner of 164th with my head bouncing pugnaciously toward 165th, defiance in every step—come and get me.
A small garbage-filled lot flanked my left side. Car parts, cans, bottles, and tattered newspapers lay in the dirt and weeds. The carcass of a dead cat covered with flies lay crumpled against a pile of egg white stones.
A row of abandoned buildings with boarded and cinder-blocked windows and doors followed. Concrete stoops, faded and cracked, stood as a relic to the families who long ago struggled and commiserated there, on its landing, on its steps, while their children played—shared lives lost to politicians, businessmen, landlords, gentrification, neighborhood fear, street fear, fear of the unknown.
In the middle of this block, on this same side of the street, there stood a two-story brownstone. It was the only visibly inhabited building on either side. Two wooden doors with beveled glass panes separated the South Bronx street from those who dwelled within. Standing behind one of the doors, in the pale light of the vestibule, was a shirtless Hispanic boy, nine or ten years old. Dark-skinned, with straight black hair, oval eyes and full lips, he watched as I walked, then stared as I stopped on the sidewalk at the bottom of the steps that led to his front door. He pointed his finger at me contemptuously.
I looked down, then back up at the door. The boy was still standing there. Only this time he was black. I winced then looked at him again, and he was laughing, like he hated me, relishing my confusion. My heart was pounding, but I wouldn’t look away.
I watched as the boy disappeared into the murky vestibule, then I continued walking toward 165th Street—quickly.
I called Vinny Repolla from my windowless office. With a reporter’s resources at his disposal he was in a good position to learn the identity of the dead blonde. Once I knew who she was, I would know why she wanted to see me.
Vinny called midway through a meeting that Sheila Schoenfeld, Douglas Krackow, and all fifteen complex C attorneys attended for the sole purpose of setting next month’s arraignment schedule. I handed my choice of dates, good and bad, to Tom Miller, and took the call at my desk.
Vinny was intent on talking about the Spiderman. The accused janitor was headed for central booking. He would be arraigned in the morning. But not for double murder. And not for rape either. For burglary—for taking the dead baby’s locket.
The D.A.’s Office might as well have held a press conference to announce they had problems, big problems connecting the defendant to the murders of the mother and child, no less the sexual assaults on the other four victims.
“Wonderful,” I said incredulously. “I suppose you’ll want me to do both arraignments, one for the burglary, then the follow-up for the rapes and murders.” I was disgusted at getting sandbagged in a way even Vinny hadn’t intended.
“Just do what you can,” Vinny said with a sudden complacency. “I’ll be happy just to get one inside story on this. I don’t care when it comes.”
“You may just get your story,” I answered bitterly. “A team from my complex is on arraignments tomorrow. It shouldn’t be hard for me to do a switch.”
“I knew you’d come through.”
This was a handshake deal, one I could easily get out of, and he knew it. I wondered if he’d practiced that look of betrayal he leveled me with last time, just to sucker me in.
“But I need you to help me out on something else,” I said.
I described the blonde I’d run into at the courthouse, and how she’d shown up later at my office. When I told him she was found dead, and that the police were unable to identify her and
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