Thomas Adcock - Brooklyn Noir 3 - Nothing but the Truth

After a particularly grueling series of questions from Barry, I saw that Henry needed a real break; he was turning bright red with the embarrassment of his position. So I objected by employing Barry’s tactic: I asked for a sidebar.

As Barry and the judge moved toward the corridor, I collected some papers I thought I might need for the argument and saw Henry look at the jury, shrug his shoulders, and wiggle his ears. Some jurors laughed. No one seemed to notice and I kept it to myself. Here was Henry trying to reach out to the jury and portray himself as a human being. I probably should have informed the judge so that she could admonish him about inappropriate communication and instruct jurors that they were to disregard it as a prejudicial attempt. But I said nothing, deciding that if that’s what it might take for Henry to reestablish his humanity, so be it.

At lunch that day, after a recess in the cross-examination, I bought sandwiches for Henry and me and we went to the Promenade overlooking New York Harbor. We couldn’t talk about his testimony because that’s against the rules, and at this point in our careers we didn’t want to break them.

Henry was a wreck. He’d forgotten how difficult cross could be. I told him that he was doing fine and that he was doing the right thing. He was close to tears and I had to use all my professional skills to keep from joining him. I thought about the quiet, dark boxes of the confessional, where I secretly told my sins to a priest, who would absolve me by prescribing a simple penance of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. How perfect those confessions are — expiation without too much pain. God love the Catholic Church. But a public confession on the witness stand is something quite different, namely a public humiliation.

Barry ended his cross when it was clear to all that neither Henry nor my case had any credibility whatever. All that was left were closing arguments.

Barry led by declaring what any defense attorney would under the circumstances: Henry was a liar, a thief, and a cheat all of his life, and his “performance” in this trial was payment for his do-not-go-to-jail ticket. He called my evidence worthless, and maintained that his client was a good and honest young cop who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

All that was left was for me to make a compelling closing argument and pull the conviction rabbit out of the hat. I spun the usual prosecution bullshit: If the People wanted to make up a story to frame the defendant, we would have done a much better job of it, and Henry had nothing to gain from accusing the defendant.

“What did he do?” I asked. “Take his own money into the drug spot and then pretend to count it out for the defendant’s share?” I worried that some jurors might be thinking exactly that.

The judge gave instructions to the jury and sent them out to deliberate, just before dinnertime. Which I considered a nice break for me: With an extra hour or so to eat before deliberating, the jurors just might be kept overnight.

The judge told Barry and me to be available in case of an early verdict. As the age of cell phones had not yet dawned, we gave beeper numbers to the clerk. I decided to have a bite at a local Irish pub rather than go back to the office. Some colleagues from the Special Prosecutor’s Office joined me. Foregoing food, we had a beer or two.

As time went by, I grew convinced that I had the jurors struggling with the evidence. I thought I must have done something right and ordered another beer, convinced that the jury would retire for the night without rendering a decision.

At about 10 o’clock, my beeper went off and I called the court — expecting to be sent home for the night. But no, there was a verdict.

There goes my hung jury , I thought. I returned to the courthouse hoping for a miracle. I ran into Barry in the corridor and he said that I tried a good case, given what I had to work with.

I replied, “You kicked my ass, Barry.”

The jury returned to its place in the courtroom, with nobody giving a sign I could detect of what their decision was. The judge asked the foreperson if a verdict had been reached and she said, “We have, your honor,” and passed the verdict sheet to a clerk who gave it to the judge. I noticed no extra court officers in the room — a telltale sign of a guilty verdict.

The judge read the verdict sheet and returned it to the clerk, who returned it to the foreperson. My heart raced as it always did right before a verdict, and I listened as the judge asked the foreperson, “On the first count of the indictment, how do you find?”

“Not guilty, your honor.”

Which was the same response to the remaining counts. And so, the last trial in the 77th Precinct investigation ended.

The judge thanked the jurors for their service and I asked if I could speak with them — customary practice for attorneys who want to know how jurors analyzed the trial. I moved to the jury box, from which most good citizens had fled but a few remained. I approached an attractive young woman whom I thought had listened with close attention during my closing arguments.

Before I could ask a question, she said to me, with some hesitation, “We tried, Mr. Hawkins, but there really wasn’t evidence.” I thanked her for at least considering the facts.

Another juror said, “We just could not believe Winter. He is so bad.” A few others offered their thoughts and I thanked them all before leaving.

Barry and his client were talking in the corridor as I headed for the elevators, which even during the day took forever to arrive. Normally, I would walk down the stairs to avoid running into the defendant, but tonight I waited, thinking the stairways might be locked due to lateness of the hour.

When the elevator finally came, I entered, alone. As the doors closed, there stood Barry and his client, taking a pause from their conversation. The defendant grinned. I pointed my finger at him and said, “Get ya next time.”

Nice work, Dennis. Very professional, especially since the system worked exactly the way it’s supposed to: I brought a case I could not prove beyond reasonable doubt and the jury found the defendant not guilty.

There I was, playing the Dirty Harry version of a prosecutor and making threats to a kid who smiled his awkward smile because he was relieved and didn’t know how to relate to the guy who just tried to send him off to jail.

It may not have been the last time I acted like an asshole, but it’s the time I remember best.

The next day, Barry called to ask what the district attorney’s office planned to do about the other indictments. I told him that we would have to review the situation. (We ultimately dismissed those indictments and referred the cases to the Police Department for administrative hearings. I was told that Gil resigned before those trials.)

“And Dennis,” Barry said, “you really shouldn’t have said that to my client.”

“I know, Barry, I know. Would you please tell him I’m sorry?”

Ah yes, confession is good for the soul. As is an appropriate apology. But some confessions do not absolve the guilt.

Gallagher’s partner wrote page after page of confession in the hours before he killed himself. Henry Winter confessed his sins three times over while sitting in the witness box. Some years later, he hanged himself at his home in Valley Stream, Long Island.

Today, I still carry their confessions with me, along with my own smaller sins, but sins nonetheless.

And I remember what Joe Hynes said to the New York Times some years ago on the subject of investigating cops: “[It] is the saddest job I’ve ever had. It destroys lives. If you enjoy it, you’re sick. If it gets to you to the point where you have trouble sleeping at night, you ought to be out of it.”