A Matter of Conviction

Twelve

It was common knowledge among New York City’s lawyers that Judge Abraham Samalson permitted no nonsense in his courtroom. In General Sessions, Part III, on the Monday that marked the beginning of the Morrez trial, an air of solemnity pervaded the sunswept, wood-paneled room despite the throngs of prospective jurors, spectators, and reporters who packed the court. Seated at the rear of the room, Karin and Jennifer Bell listened to the Honorable Abraham Samalson, impressive in his robes of justice, as he reminded the spectators that this court was concerned with serious business and that any attempts to turn it into a circus would result in his barring all spectators from the trial. With the patience of a kindergarten instructor he explained what his function as a judge would be, and then he asked that the first of the prospective jurors be called.

From all outward appearances, the selection of jurors proceeded in an orderly and totally unsurprising manner. Hank, for the prosecution, asked the questions he was expected to ask. The lawyers for the three defendants — there were twelve appointed by the court — similarly asked the questions expected of them. The process was long and, for the most part, unexciting. Mike Barton, listening to the proceedings with the rest of the reporters, stifled many a yawn as the jurors were either empaneled or excused.

“Mr. Nelson, if the prosecuting attorney proved to you, beyond any reasonable doubt, that these three young boys were guilty of premeditated murder, would you have any qualms about voting for a verdict of guilty?”

“Why should I have any qualms?”

“Because there is a mandatory death penalty attached to the crime of first-degree murder.”

“No, I would not have any qualms.”

“You would send them to the electric chair?”

“Yes. If they were guilty, I would.”

“If, on the other hand, the facts as presented seemed to warrant a plea for leniency, could you find it in keeping with your morals and your ethics to ask the court for leniency in sentencing these boys?”

“I could.”

“Yes, and if we can show that a lesser crime than first-degree murder was committed, would you accept the facts as shown and consider bringing in a verdict on, for example, second-degree murder or manslaughter?”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“He means,” Samalson interrupted, “that whereas the district attorney will try to prove that these boys committed murder in the first degree, the facts as presented before this court may indicate that a lesser crime, such as second degree murder or manslaughter, was actually committed. In which case, would you allow the grand-jury indictment or the high office of the district attorney to prejudice you against bringing in a verdict for a lesser crime?”

“No, I would not.”

“Does that answer your question, Mr. Randolph?”

“It does. Thank you, Your Honor. And if it were shown before this court that these boys did not commit any crime, would you vote for an acquittal, would you set them free?”

“I would.”

“Thank you,” Randolph said. “Excuse this juror.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Riley, where do you live?”

“On a Hundred Thirty-eighth Street and Bruckner Boulevard.”

“Are there many Puerto Ricans in that neighborhood?”

“Yes, there are quite a few.”

“Do you like the neighborhood?”

“It’s all right.”

“There are things about it you don’t like?”

“Yes, there are some things.”

“Like what, for example?”

“Well, the neighborhood’s getting run down.”

“What do you mean by ‘run down’?”

“Well, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Would you please explain it, Mrs. Riley?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Bell,” Samalson said, “but what are you getting at?”

“I don’t think I have to mince words here, Your Honor. The dead boy in this case was a Puerto Rican. I am trying to find out whether or not Mrs. Riley may feel the neighborhood is getting run down because Puerto Ricans are moving into it.”

“Then don’t mince words, and ask the question directly.”

“Is that what you feel, Mrs. Riley?”

“Well, I certainly don’t think the Puerto Ricans are helping real estate val—”

“Challenge,” Hank said.

“Would you have any objections to sitting on a jury where the case being tried is a murder case?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been on three juries in the past two years. I don’t like jury duty, and I wish they’d stop calling me.”

“If there are no objections,” Samalson said sourly, “I think we can excuse this good citizen.”

“Do you have any children, Mrs. Frankworth?”

“Yes. I have three children.”

“Boys or girls?”

“Mixed.”

“How old are they?”

“Thirteen, ten and eight.”

“Could you send three boys to the electric chair?”

“Yes, I think so. If they were guilty.”

“Do you think they are guilty?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Have you read anything about this case in the newspapers?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve formed no opinion yet as to whether the boys are guilty or innocent.”

“No. I don’t believe what I read in the newspapers.”

“Will you believe what you hear in this court?”

“Yes.”

“Will you believe everything you hear?”

“What do you mean?”

“You may hear conflicting stories from the prosecution and the defense. Your delivering a verdict assumes you must believe one or the other.”

“I’d have to hear the facts first. Then I’d decide what was right and what was wrong.”

“Is murder wrong, Mrs. Frankworth?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Not always.”

“I don’t think it’s wrong if the murder was committed in self-defense.”

“Have you ever known any Puerto Ricans?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you mind living next door to one?”

“I’ve never lived next door to one, so I wouldn’t know. I guess if they were good neighbors, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Were you born in this city, Mrs. Frankworth?”

“No.”

“Where were you born?”

“In England. I came to America when I was twelve years old.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Frankworth. If the court please, I have no objection to empaneling this juror.”

“What sort of work do you do, Mr. Abbeney?”

“I own a chain of restaurants.”

“Where?”

“Here in the city.”

“Do you employ Puerto Ricans?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“They’re good workers.”

“How many Puerto Ricans are in your employ?”

“Oh, I’d say about fifty or so.”

“Ever deal with them personally?”

“Sure. I like Puerto Ricans.”

“Do you employ any Negroes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just never have, that’s all.”

“You don’t have any principles against hiring Negroes, do you?”

“I should say not. I’ve just never had the opportunity to employ them, that’s all.”

“Mr. Bell,” Samalson said, “as far as I know, there are no Negroes involved in this case. This may become a rather lengthy trial, and I can see no reason for prolonging it by questioning prospective jurors on matters which can have no possible bearing on the case.”

“I was simply trying to find out, Your Honor, how far Mr. Abbeney’s tolerance extended.”

“Nonetheless, his attitude toward Negroes could not have any relevant bearing on the case before this court.”

“Then I have no further questions, Your Honor. I’d like this man excused.”

It took a week for both sides to agree on the jurors they wanted. At the end of that time the attorneys made their opening statements. Hank told the jury he would prove beyond reasonable doubt that the three boys were guilty of first-degree murder. The defense attorneys, quite naturally, told the jury that they would prove the boys were innocent.

“You will hear a lot of inflammatory oratory during this trial,” one of the defense attorneys said, “a lot of impassioned speeches about racial tolerance, about physical handicaps, about this poor innocent blind boy who was allegedly ruthlessly murdered by these three youngsters. But we ask you, in the name of justice, in the name of fairness, in the name of God, to listen with your minds and not with your emotions. We will present the facts clearly and logically, and those facts, when added up unemotionally, will tell you what verdict to bring back from that solemn room where you will decide whether or not three young boys will be deprived of their lives. And that verdict will be Not Guilty.”

And then the trial began in earnest.

The witnesses were paraded: the policemen who had made the arrest, the assistant D.A. who had initially handled the call from the detective squad room, Lieutenant Gunnison, Detective Larsen — all testifying to the blood-smeared condition of the three boys on the night of July 10. On the second day of the trial, Hank called Anthony Aposto to the stand. A hush fell over the courtroom as the boy was sworn in. He wore a neat blue suit, a white shirt, a dark tie. He took the chair and Hank approached him, studied him for a moment and then said, “Would you tell the court your name, please?”

“Anthony Aposto.”

“Are you also known as Batman?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you get that name?”

“I picked it.”

“Why?”

“Batman?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have any idea why you picked this particular name?”

“He’s in the comics. Batman, I mean.”

“Yes, I know. Do you like reading comics?”

“I like the pictures, yeah.”

“Do you have trouble with the words?”

“A little, yeah.”

“But you like reading comics anyway, is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you like the comics about Batman?”

“He’s brave. Also, he wears a nice suit, all black. And he’s got this friend Robin that he lives with. They’re like brothers almost.”

“Do you have any brothers?”

“No.”

“Would you like to have brothers?”

“I don’t know. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Would you rather be Batman or Robin?”

“Objection!”

“Mr. Randolph?”

“The boy’s reading tastes seem irrelevant to me.”

“They are a part of the boy’s character, and since we’re trying to determine whether or not this boy committed murder, the question is relevant. Objection overruled. The witness will please answer the question.”

“What was the question again?” Aposto asked.

“Read him the question, please,” Samalson said.

“‘Would you rather be Batman or Robin?’” the court stenographer said.

“I’d rather be Batman.”

“Why?” Hank asked.

“Because he’s bigger, and he’s braver. And he wears this nice black suit. To tell the truth, Robin looks a little like a girl.”

“Do you like school, Anthony?”

“No, not so much.”

“What are you studying?”

“How to be an airplane mechanic.”

“Are you doing well in school?”

“Well, not so hot.”

“Would you like to be an airplane mechanic?”

“It’s a pretty good job. It pays good.”

“Yes, but would you like it?”

“I guess so.”

“Yes or no?”

“Well... no. Not really.”

“What would you rather be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, think about it for a moment. If you had your choice, if you could be anything in the whole wide world, what would you choose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

“I guess I’d like to be a prize fighter.”

“Why?”

“I like to fight. I’m a pretty good fighter. Everybody knows that.”

“Would you like to fight because of the money involved?”

“No, not so much the money. I just like to fight, that’s all. I’m a good fighter. You can ask anybody.”

“If this court frees you, Anthony, what will you do with your life?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled. Proceed.”

“My life?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, I don’t know.”

“Suppose you were released this afternoon, what would you do?”

“Gee, I don’t know.”

“Would you go to a movie? Or a ball game? What would you do?”

“I guess I’d go back to the block. I guess that’s what I’d do. Yeah, I’d do that first.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? You mean what would I do tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Do I have to know what I’d do tomorrow?”

“Witness will please answer the question,” Samalson said.

“Tomorrow? Gee...” Aposto’s brow furrowed in thought. “Tomorrow?” He wiped perspiration from his brow. For an awkward three minutes, he sat in the chair, thinking. Finally he said, “I don’t know what I’d do tomorrow.”

Hank turned from the boy. “Your witness,” he said to the defense.

One of Aposto’s attorneys rose. “We have no questions, your honor.”

“Very well, the witness may step down. Call the next witness, please.”

“Call Charles Addison.”

“Charles Addison will please take the witness stand.”

Addison, a tall thin man in a gray suit, walked to the front of the court and was sworn in. Hank walked to his table, picked up a folder and handed it to the court clerk. “I would like this marked as evidence, please,” he said.

“What is it?” Samalson asked.

“A report from the Psychiatric Division of Bellevue Hospital on Anthony Aposto, one of the defendants.”

“Let me see it,” Samalson said. He glanced through the folder and then handed it back to the clerk. “Mark it Exhibit One for the People.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Hank said. He turned to Addison. “Your name, please, sir?”

“Charles Ad—” Addison cleared his throat. “Charles Addison.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Addison?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“Does that mean you’re a doctor?”

“No. I have a master’s degree in psychology.”

“I see. Where do you work, Mr. Addison?”

“At Bellevue Hospital.”

“What do you do there?”

“I’m a staff psychologist on Ward PQ-5.”

“What is Ward PQ-5?”

“The Adolescent Service.”

“Have you been attached to the Psychiatric Service of Bellevue for a long time?”

“Twelve years.”

“And have you administered many psychological tests during that time?”

“Yes. Very many.”

“Exactly how many, would you say?”

“I couldn’t say exactly. I administer tests every day of the week.”

“Would you say the number of tests you’ve administered was in the hundreds?”

“More than that.”

“In the thousands, would you say?”

“Yes, I would say so.”

“Is it true that you administered several psychological tests to Anthony Aposto when he was remanded to Bellevue for examination?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“When was this, Mr. Addison?”

“I tested him on July twenty-eighth.”

“And prepared a report which was signed by your superior, Dr. Deregeaux, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Would you look at this, please?” He handed Exhibit One to Addison. “Is that the report you prepared?”

Addison leafed through it. “Yes, that’s the report.”

“Now, there are a lot of psychological terms in this report, Mr. Addison, and I’m not sure what they all mean. I wonder if you could explain some of them to me.”

“I’ll try.”

“You say here that Aposto made responses indicative of poor sense of reality and poor judgment. What does that mean in terms of a boy who might have stabbed another boy?”

“Well, it could mean that the stabbing, for this boy, had no real basis in reality. For example, someone may have said to him, ‘Stabbing this boy will be fun.’ In which case, Aposto might have seized upon the idea that it would be fun. Or perhaps he misinterpreted something someone said, allowing it to anger him out of all proportion to the real meaning of the remark. In short, his motive could have had nothing whatever to do with the reality of the situation. That’s what is meant by a poor sense of reality. His reasons for the stabbing could have been completely unrealistic ones controlled by some inner conflict.”

“I see. In your opinion, Mr. Addison, is Anthony Aposto capable of committing an act which requires premeditation?”

“No. If I may qualify that. We must assume that a person capable of planning something is a person with a sound grasp of reality. I am speaking now of a real plan, you understand.”

“A long-range plan? A plan for a career? A savings plan? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Or a shorter-range plan? A plan for tomorrow?”

“Well, that’s not exactly what I had in mind. That might be extending the word ‘plan’ somewhat.”

“Did you hear the testimony of Aposto a few moments ago?”

“I did.”

“When I asked him what he would do tomorrow, he couldn’t seem to decide.”

“Well, that may have been due to the excitement of being questioned by a district attorney.”

“Are you excited now?”

“Not terribly.”

“Then what makes you think Anthony Aposto was excited?”

“Anthony Aposto is a disturbed personality with an intelligence quotient of sixty-seven. My I.Q. is one hundred fifty-two, and to the best of my knowledge I am not disturbed.”

“In spite of his excitement,” Hank said, “shouldn’t he have been able to decide what he wanted to do tomorrow?”

“I think Anthony Aposto is perfectly capable of making a plan for tomorrow. Because of his low I.Q., he may execute the plan badly, but he could certainly make a short-range plan such as that.”

“I see,” Hank said. He seemed suddenly troubled. “Would he be capable of planning the murder of Rafael Morrez?”

“Objection,” the defense screamed.

“Your Honor, a boy was killed,” Hank said, “and I am trying to find out whether or not one of the defendants was, in the opinion of a practicing psychologist, capable of planning that boy’s death. Since premeditation is an integral part of the crime of first-degree murder, and since we are prosecuting for first-degree—”

“Objection overruled,” Samalson said. “Proceed.”

“Would you answer the question, please. Mr. Addison?”

“I do not believe he would be capable of formulating an advance plan of murder,” Addison said.

“But he would be capable, would he not, of stabbing another boy on the impulse of—”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Rephrase it, Mr. Bell.”

“Could he kill on impulse?”

“Yes.”

“At the height of passion?”

“Yes.”

“Would he know that he was killing?”

The courtroom was suddenly very silent.

“Yes,” Addison said. “He would know that he was killing.”

Sitting at the back of the room, Karin saw Hank’s back stiffen and knew instantly that this was not the answer he had expected.

“Now, just a minute, Mr. Addison,” Hank said quickly. “In your report, you said this boy was functioning at close to his endowment level. What does that mean?”

“The endowment level is a theoretical concept. It simply means the intelligence he was born with. A boy functioning at close to his endowment level has come as far intellectually as he is ever going to.”

“The intelligence he was born with? Do you mean that Aposto is functioning with the intelligence of a newborn baby?”

“No, I...”

“Can a newborn baby tell the difference between right and wrong, Mr. Addison?”

“I didn’t mean to imply that Aposto has the intelligence of a newborn baby. Surely you know that. When we’re dealing with intelligence we’re usually dealing with averages. We try to establish a norm, an intelligence level for an age level. In psychological terms, intelligence is intelligence only when we—”

“How long have you worked for Bellevue?” Hank asked quickly.

“Twelve years.”

“And all you can say is that intelligence is intelligence is intelligence? Doesn’t that sound a bit like Gertrude Stein?”

At the back of the room, Karin immediately recognized Hank’s change of tactics. He had initially built up Addison as an expert, and he was now trying to make him appear the fool. She put her hand to her mouth, wondering what he was trying to accomplish by this sudden switch.

“This is a little difficult to explain to a layman,” Addison said aloofly. “When we say that someone has the intelligence of a ten-year-old, we don’t actually mean that. There are a great many qualitative differences.”

“And when you say someone who is a mental deficient, who has an I.Q. of sixty-seven, who has poor sense of reality, judgment and emotional control, who is functioning at close to his endowment level — when you say this person would know that he was committing an act of murder, what do you mean then, Mr. Addison? Is it the same intelligence-is-intelligence double talk? Do you know what you mean, Mr. Addison?”

“I know exactly what I mean. Emotionally, Aposto may not have known what he was doing. But he knew what he was doing intellectually. He knew that if he stabbed a boy, he was committing a crime.”

“Are you aware of the legalistic concept of insanity?”

“I am. Aposto is not insane. Either legalistically or medically. He is a mental deficient, but he was capable of understanding the consequences of a stabbing.”

“And how do you know that?” Hank said angrily. “How can you possibly know what was in this boy’s mind when, and if, he stabbed another boy?”

“I can’t know. But neither can I testify that he did not know what he was doing. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?”

“I want you to say whatever you want to say,” Hank answered. He turned away from Addison. “Your witness,” he said to the defense table.

Aposto’s attorney rose. “No questions, Your Honor,” he said.

Samalson looked first at the defense table, and then at Hank. “The court will recess for ten minutes,” he said briskly. “Would Mr. Bell please join me in my chambers?”

“The court will recess for ten minutes,” the court clerk announced. “All rise.”

The spectators, the witnesses, the reporters, the defendants, the lawyers all rose as Samalson walked out of the room, his robes trailing behind him.

“Why does he want to see Daddy?” Jennie asked.

“I don’t know,” Karin said.

“Is he allowed to do that? Without having the defense attorneys present?”

“It may be considered prejudicial, but it’s Abe’s courtroom, and he can do whatever he wants in it.”

“I wonder why he wants to see Daddy,” Jennie said.

“Sit down, Hank,” Samalson said.

“Thank you.”

“No more judge and district attorney. For now, just friends. That okay with you?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“All right, answer one question for me, will you?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you trying to lose your job?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Now, Hank, you know damn well what I mean. You just questioned that witness with the objective of getting him to say Aposto was not responsible for his actions. Obviously, that was what the psychiatric report indicated to you. When Addison refused to go along with you, you tried to discredit his testimony.”

“I suppose I...”

“I’m going to tell you something, Hank. The defense attorneys are not boobs. They were appointed by the court, and they probably accepted the case because they knew there’d be a lot of newspaper publicity, but they are not boobs. They are sharp criminal lawyers. And they damn well know that the state will accept the testimony of either two psychiatrists or one psychiatrist and one psychologist as evidence that a defendant had no knowledge of the consequences of a crime while committing it. And you can damn well bet they’ve got those two psychiatrists in their pocket, ready to testify that Aposto wouldn’t even know the consequences of a game of checkers! Which is why they waived cross-examination of your witness. They’ve got their own men waiting. So your move was a dumb one because you were trying to do their job for them when they’re prepared to do it better themselves. But what I want to know is this. Why are you trying to do their job? Suppose you tell me.”

“Abe...”

“If you have doubts about the guilt of these boys, you should have gone to the district attorney with them. Damnit, you can get fired for this. Do you want to get fired?”

“No. I don’t want to get fired.”

“Then why didn’t you take this to your superiors? Or why didn’t you come to me? The old adage about criminal law being the bargain basement of the profession has a lot of truth in it. I’m sure the defense would be willing to talk a deal. What are you trying to do, Hank? Throw your own case?”

“Abe, you don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I’m doing something I’ve got to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Let’s say I do have doubts.”

“Do you?”

“This is all supposition.”

“It’s all supposition because you don’t trust me.”

“I trust you, Abe. But you’re the judge in this case.”

“I’m not the judge right now. I’m your friend. I wouldn’t give a damn what happened to you if I weren’t your friend.”

“When we get back into that courtroom, you become the judge again.”

“Damnit, Hank, trust me. What are you trying to accomplish?”

Hank took a deep breath. “I’m trying to get acquittals for Aposto and Di Pace. I’m trying to get leniency for Reardon.”

“What in the holy hell for?”

“Because... because I think that would be justice.”

“Then why didn’t you go to the D.A.? Why didn’t you come to me before the trial?”

“Because, Abe, for the first time in my life I want newspaper headlines.”

Samalson rose from his desk. “You’re committing suicide. You’re killing yourself.”

“No.”

“Yes, damnit, yes. You’ll get fired as sure as I’m standing here. You’ll make the D.A.’s office look foolish and ridiculous. They won’t stand for it, Hank.”

“I don’t care. If it accomplishes—”

“It’ll accomplish nothing. You’ll lose your job, that’s all. And nobody else will want to hire you. You won’t even be able to get arrested in this city.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybes about it. That’s what’s going to happen. I won’t let you do it. We’re going out there right now to talk to the defense attorneys. When you tell them—”

“Abe, no, please. Let me do this my way.”

“Let you kill yourself? Is that what you’re asking me? Don’t you know your office wants to use these three kids as examples? Don’t you know the city is—”

“I am going to use them as examples. Examples of human beings. Abe, they’re not mystifying aliens from another planet. They’re scared, lonely kids.”

“Tell that to the mother of Rafael Morrez. Psychology isn’t going to help the victim in this case, Hank.”

“Yes, Abe, it is, because every damn kid involved in this murder is a victim.”

“The law is clear on—”

“This has nothing to do with the law. The hell with the law! Abe, I’m a lawyer, and the law has been my life. You know that. But how can I convict these kids until I know who really killed Rafael Morrez? And when I know that, the law becomes meaningless.”

“Don’t you know who killed that boy?”

“Yes, Abe, I do. We all killed him.”

“Hank, Hank...”

“We all killed him, Abe, because we’re not doing anything. We sit around and we talk about it, and we appoint commissions, and we listen to viewpoints, and all the while we know what’s wrong, we’ve already got the facts, but we won’t act on them. Instead, we allow Rafael Morrez to lose his life.”

“So what do you want to do? Start a campaign right this minute? In my courtroom? Hank, you’d never—”

“Can you think of a better time, Abe?”

Samalson shook his head. “This is the wrong way, Hank.”

“It’s the right way, the only way. Somebody’s got to get up and yell! Somebody’s got to be heard!”

“Why the hell does it have to be you?”

“I don’t know why. Don’t you think it scares me? I’d rather face a cannon than go out into that courtroom and reverse my own case. But, Abe, if somebody doesn’t do it now, if somebody doesn’t take a stand to stop this damn thing, we might just as well throw down the barricades. And then law and justice won’t mean a thing, because the world will be run by savages. I don’t want to raise my kid or my kid’s kid in a barbarian camp. I don’t want them torn apart, Abe. These kids are too important! They’re too goddamned important to waste!”

The room went silent.

After a long while, Abe Samalson said, “I wish I were younger.”

“Abe...?”

“I’ll hear the trial fairly. Don’t expect favors of me.”

“You know me better than that, Abe.”

“You’ll be slitting your own throat.”

“Maybe.”

“All right, all right,” Samalson said, sighing. “Let’s get out there before they accuse us of collusion.” At the door he hesitated. He put his hand on Hank’s shoulder. “Good luck,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”

The first witness Hank called after the recess was Angela Rugiello.

The girl took the stand hesitantly, scanning the courtroom with frightened brown eyes. She wore a green dress and high-heeled pumps. She pulled her skirt demurely over her knees as soon as she sat.

“Your name, please?” Hank asked.

“Angela Rugiello.”

“Where do you live, Miss Rugiello?”

“In Harlem.”

“Would you look over there to where the defendants are sitting, please? Do you know those three boys?”

“Yes,” she answered. Her voice was very low.

“Are you frightened, Miss Rugiello?”

“A little.”

“Of me?”

“No.”

“Of His Honor?”

“No.”

“Surely not of the defense attorneys,” Hank said, smiling. “They seem harmless enough.”

“No, I’m not afraid of them.”

“I read in the newspapers that you had received a note warning you against testifying. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you’re afraid?”

“Yes.”

“But you have just sworn to tell this court the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Will you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Despite the note?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Did you see those three boys on the night of July tenth?”

“Yes. I saw them.”

“Take a good look. Are you sure it was those three boys?”

“Yes.”

“What were they doing?”

“They were running.”

“From where?”

“From across Third Avenue. They were coming from the west side.”

“Were they carrying anything?”

“Yes.”

“What were they carrying?”

“Knives.”

“How do you know?”

“They gave the knives to me.”

Hank walked to his table, picked up three knives and then said, “If the court please, I would like these knives marked as evidence.”

“Mark the knives as evidence,” Samalson said. “Exhibits Two, Three and Four.”

“Would you mind looking at these knives, Miss Rugiello?”

“Yes?”

“Are these the knives those three boys gave you on the night of July tenth?”

Angela Rugiello studied the knives. “Yes. Those are the ones.”

“Do you remember which boy gave you which knife?”

“No. It all happened so fast. I just took the knives from them and then brought them home.”

“Was there blood on these knives?”

“Yes.”

“On all these knives?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do with the knives when you took them home?”

“I put them in a paper bag at the back of my drawer.”

“Did you do that as soon as you got home?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wash the knives first?”

“No.”

“You did not wash these knives?”

“I did not wash them.”

“Not even one of them?”

“None of them. I just put them in a paper bag and put them at the back of my drawer.”

“Let me understand this clearly, Miss Rugiello. You did not wash any of those knives, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“You did not wash one of those knives?”

“No... I told you.”

“Then the way you turned those knives over to the police later, they were in the same condition that you’d received them, is that right?”

“That’s right. I didn’t do anything to them.”

“But you do not know which of these knives came from which boy, is that also true?”

“That’s true.”

“I have no further questions.”

“You may proceed with the cross-examination,” Samalson said.

Randolph, one of the defense attorneys, approached the witness chair. “Miss Rugiello,” he said, “are you certain that the three boys who gave those knives to you were Arthur Reardon, Anthony Aposto and Daniel Di Pace?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know them, don’t I?”

“Yes, but wasn’t it dark that night?”

“It wasn’t so dark that I couldn’t see them.”

“But it was dark, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t nighttime yet. It wasn’t that kind of darkness.”

“But it was dark.”

“Only because it was raining.”

“And in this darkness, couldn’t you have mistaken the three boys who allegedly gave you those knives?”

“No. I didn’t make any mistake. It was the three of them. I talked to them, so how could I have made a mistake?”

“I see. Who gave you the first knife?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it Reardon?”

“I don’t remember. It all happened so fast.”

“Was it Di Pace?”

“I told you, I don’t remember.”

“But you do remember that it was these three boys who gave you the knives? You’re sure of that. But you’re not exactly sure who gave you the knives, are you?”

“Objection! Defense counsel is attempting to distort the witness’s testimony. She has already stated that the knives were given to her by Reardon, Di Pace and Aposto. She simply does not remember the order of presentation.”

“Sustained. Strike the question.”

“I have no further questions,” Randolph said.

“Call Daniel Di Pace.”

Danny rose from where he was sitting. He glanced at the defense attorneys, received their nod and then walked hesitantly toward the witness stand. He wore a dark-brown suit. His red hair caught the rays of the sun which streamed through the long windows lining the courtroom. The clerk swore him in and he took the chair, wiping the palms of his hands on his trousers. Hank approached him. Silently, they surveyed each other.

“You are Danny Di Pace?”

“Yes.”

“You know, don’t you, Danny, that you’ve been accused of murder in the first degree, and that if this jury finds you guilty, you can go to the electric chair? You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes. I know.”

Hank picked up the knives and held them up to Danny.

“Recognize these knives?”

“No.”

“You’re under oath, Danny!” Hank snapped. “Don’t add perjury to the charge against you.”

“Is that any worse than first-degree murder?”

“Look at these knives. Do you recognize them?”

“No. I don’t recognize them.”

“Tell me the truth, Danny.”

“Objection!”

“These are the knives that were used in the murder of Rafael Morrez. Now, you recognize them, so don’t lie to me. I don’t want to hear lies.”

“Objection! Witness is being intimidated.”

“Overruled.”

“Do you recognize these knives, or don’t you?”

Danny hesitated. “Okay,” he said at last. “I think maybe I recognize them.”

“Never mind thinking maybe. Yes or no? Do you or don’t you?”

“All right, yes. I do.”

“Which one is yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“Which of these knives is yours, Danny?”

“I can’t remember. How do you expect me to remember?”

Hank extended one of the knives. “Is it this one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look at it!”

“I am looking.”

“Is it your knife?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whose knife is it? It has a black handle and a silver stud. Did your knife have a black handle?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then this isn’t your knife. Is that right?”

“I guess so.”

“If your knife didn’t have a black handle, this can’t be your knife, isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Yes or no? Is this your knife, or isn’t it?”

“All right, no. It isn’t.”

Hank sighed. “Thank you. Now what about this other knife — with the mother-of-pearl handle? Is it yours?”

“No.”

“These first two knives are not yours, is that correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then this last knife is yours, isn’t that also correct?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, look at the knife. Take a long look at it, and then tell me whether it’s the knife you used on July tenth.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“Just tell me if it’s your knife, Danny.”

“I don’t know.”

“When I came to visit you on Welfare Island, you told me you’d stabbed Morrez four times. Now is—”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“Did you or did you not tell me you had stabbed Morrez four times?”

“I... I don’t remember what I told you. That was a long time ago.”

“Yes or no?”

“I... I... suppose I told you that.”

“That you stabbed Morrez?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled.”

“In self-defense,” Danny said.

“But you stabbed him, did you not?”

“Objection! Your Honor...”

“Overruled.”

“Yes,” Danny said. “In self-defense.”

“With this knife?”

“Objection!”

“Your Honor, I cannot examine this witness properly if my every word is challenged,” Hank said angrily. “I can see no objection to my line of questioning. If counsel for the defense would simply shut up and allow me to—”

“You’re leading the witness,” Randolph shouted.

“Damnit, you allowed him to take the stand, didn’t you?”

“Order! Order!” Samalson said firmly. “I want no such further outbursts! The line of questioning seems acceptable to this court. I must warn defense counsel against harassment of the district attorney. Witness will please answer the last question.”

“What... what was it?” Danny asked. He was beginning to perspire. He wiped sweat from his brow and his upper lip.

“Read back the question, please.”

“‘With this knife?’”

“Well, Danny?”

“What if it is my knife?”

“Answer the question!”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Thank you. Now tell me what happened on the night of July tenth.”

“I already told you.”

“Tell the court.”

“We were out for a walk,” Danny said, almost by rote. “Morrez jumped us. He had a knife in his hand. So we protected ourselves.”

“Whose idea was it to go for a walk?”

“We just got the idea. All of us together.”

“Who was it who first said, ‘Let’s go for a walk’?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Was it you?”

“No.”

“Aposto?”

“No.”

“Then it must have been Reardon.”

“I suppose so. Maybe it was Tower who got the idea to go for a walk.”

“Did he say he wanted to go for a walk?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Or did he say he wanted to go into enemy turf to stir up a little trouble?”

“Objection!”

“It was his idea to go into Spanish Harlem and start a little trouble, wasn’t it?”

“Objection!”

“Your Honor, you just warned...”

“And I must warn you, Mr. Bell, against leading your witness. Objection sustained. Strike both those questions.”

“Did Tower Reardon,” Hank said, “when he first brought up the subject of a walk, suggest that you walk into Spanish Harlem?”

“I don’t remember. I think he just said, ‘Let’s take a walk,’ or something like that.”

“Didn’t he say where?”

“Maybe.”

“Did he say, ‘Let’s walk over to Park Avenue’?”

“Maybe.”

“Did he say, ‘Let’s walk into Spanish Harlem?’”

“Maybe.”

“All right, when you got into Spanish Harlem, what did you do?”

“We started up the street...” Danny turned to Samalson. “Do I have to answer that?”

“The question is acceptable. You will answer it, please.”

“We just walked up the street.”

“Who was the first of you to spot Morrez?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Tower?”

“Yes, I... I guess so. I don’t know. What difference does it make? We all stabbed him!”

A murmur went up in the courtroom. Hank leaned closer to Danny, and the murmur suddenly died.

“Why did you stab him, Danny?”

“He jumped us. He had a knife.”

“He had a harmonica, Danny!”

“What?”

“Isn’t that true? Didn’t he have a harmonica? It wasn’t a knife at all, was it?”

“I... I don’t know. It looked like a knife.”

“Then you knew it was a harmonica?”

“No, no, I’m just saying it looked like...”

“What did?”

“The harmonica, I told you! You just said it was a harmonica, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but when did you realize it was a harmonica?”

“Just this minute. I didn’t know until you—”

“You knew it was a harmonica when you stabbed him, didn’t you?”

“No. No, I thought it was a knife.”

“Who stabbed him first?”

“T-T-Tower.”

There was not a sound in the courtroom now. For Danny and Hank, the courtroom did not exist. They faced each other with the sweat streaking their faces, each straining forward as if to establish a contact which was somehow denied them.

“And who next?”

“Batman.”

“And then you?”

“Yes, yes. I don’t want to answer no more questions. I don’t want to—”

“How many times did you stab him?”

“Four, four.”

“Why?”

“I told you. He...”

“Why, Danny?”

“I don’t know!”

“You knew it was a harmonica, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“No!”

“You knew! You knew! Tell me the truth, Danny!”

Randolph leaped from his chair. “Just a minute here! Just a—”

“Tell me the truth! You knew it was a harmonica. You saw it!”

“Yes, yes, I knew,” Danny shouted. “All right? I knew.”

“Then why did you stab him?”

“I... I...”

“Why? Why, Danny? Why?”

“The... the... the others. Because the others... the others...”

“The others stabbed him?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“And so you stabbed him, too?”

“Yes. I stabbed him four times! What do you want from me? I stabbed him, I stabbed him, I stabbed him!”

“You didn’t stab him!” Hank shouted. “You’re lying!”

“What?” Danny said. “What?”

And then, before anyone fully realized what was happening, before the shock of Hank’s hurled words had worn off, he whirled to his table, snatched a blue folder from its top and thrust it at the court clerk. “I want this marked as evidence,” he said rapidly. “It’s a report from the New York City Police Laboratory on the weapons used in the Morrez slaying. The report states that the blades of only two of the knives were stained with blood. The blade of the third knife was clean. Only the handle of that knife had any blood on it.” He whirled back to Danny. “That was the knife you identified as yours, Danny! You turned the knife around, didn’t you? You only pretended to stab Morrez. You only struck his body with the handle of your knife!”

“No, no, I stabbed him!”

“Don’t lie, Danny! What the hell are you afraid of?”

“Order! Order!”

“I stabbed him, I stabbed him!”

“You’re lying!”

“I... I... I...”

And suddenly Danny Di Pace went limp. He slumped back into the chair, utterly resigned now, shaking his head over and over again, beginning to cry gently and quietly like a whimpering animal.

“Did you stab him?” Hank asked. His voice was almost a whisper.

“I never stabbed anybody in my life,” Danny mumbled through his tears. “Never, never, never. I never hurt nobody. Never, oh, Jesus, never, never.”

“All right, Danny,” Hank said gently.

“But I... I didn’t want them to think I was afraid. How could I let them know I was afraid? How could I do that?”

The reporters, led by Mike Barton, had already started their rush for the back doors. Mary Di Pace, sitting with her husband in the first row of benches, got to her feet and made an involuntary move toward her son.

“Order!” Samalson said quickly. “We will recess until two o’clock this afternoon. Will the district attorney and the defense counselors join me in my chambers immediately?” He rose.

“All rise!” the clerk shouted, and as Samalson swept out of the room, the court suddenly disintegrated into a rushing swirl of moving figures and raised voices.

On the witness chair, Danny Di Pace sobbed silently. Hank pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and said, “Here, son. Dry your eyes. It’s all over.”

“I shouldn’t be crying,” Danny said, trying to hold back the racking sobs. “Crying is for cowards.”

“Crying is for men, too,” Hank said, and he was grateful when Danny took the handkerchief.

He was stopped by Mary and her husband, stopped by the defense attorneys, stopped by the reporters who had made their rush calls and then hurried back into the courtroom. And finally he reached the side of his wife and daughter, and he held them to him, and Karin kissed him swiftly and cleanly and then looked up into his face, her eyes sparkling.

“You were wonderful!” she said.

“Daddy, Daddy!” Jennie said, and she squeezed his hand.

“I’ve got to go back to see Abe,” he told them. “Will you wait for me? We’ll have lunch together.”

“Hank, will there be trouble?”

“Maybe. I may lose my job, Karin.”

“There are other jobs,” she said.

“Yes. There are other jobs.” He paused. “I was scared stiff, Karin. Did it show? Could you tell my knees were trembling?”

“No, darling. You looked very brave — and very magnificent.”

“I was scared,” he said again. He paused. “But I’m not scared any more.” He laughed suddenly. “Damnit, all I am is hungry.”

“Hurry,” she said. “You mustn’t keep Abe waiting.”

“No.” He hesitated, clinging to her hand. “Karin?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

“I’m not worried,” she said.

“Good. Listen, wait for me, will you? I’ll be right back.” He paused again. “I love you both. Very much.”

And then he turned and walked toward the paneled door to the left of the judge’s bench. The sunlight covered his back for a moment, touched the erectly held head. He hesitated at the door. And then he pushed the door open purposefully and strode out of the courtroom.