Robert Tanenbaum: Outrage

Although reeling like a boxer who had barely stayed on his feet until the bell ended a brutal round, Kadyrov thought he might have survived Lydia’s testimony and that of the other witnesses. However, the knockout punches were delivered when Karp introduced into evidence the recordings Vinnie Cassino had made.

First, Karp played the recording from the previous spring, in which the jury heard the conversation just as Lydia Cassino had described it. “Whether I did or didn’t, I think both of you should watch your fucking mouths. And remember, snitches end up in ditches.”

More damning still was Vinnie Cassino speaking from beyond death’s door against the man who killed him. Kadyrov cringed as he heard himself snarl, “I can do anything I want. And when your old lady gets back, I’m going to rape the shit out of her, if I can stomach touching that ugly bitch. Then I’m going to cut her up real slow… Here’s the deal, old man. Tell me where the blue shirt is and I’ll make it quick for your bitch.”

“Don’t know… any damn blue shirt,” Cassino gasped on the recording. There was a grunt of pain, then Kadyrov’s voice: “Sure you do, the shirt I took from the apartment where I killed them two bitches in Manhattan, same way I’m gonna do to that sooka wife of yours.”

Kadyrov knew he was already down for the count when Karp threw one more punch by calling a language expert to the stand. Having already established that Kadyrov was originally from Chechnya, the relentless district attorney asked the witness if sooka meant anything in Chechen.

“Yes, it means ‘whore,’” the expert replied.

The fight was over before my damn attorneys said a word, Kadyrov thought while the jurors settled themselves and turned expectantly toward Judge Dermondy as the court clerk took the jury’s verdict paperwork to the dais. Kadyrov leaned over in front of his attorney, Mavis Huntley, who froze in fear, and motioned to Langton that he wanted to say something to her privately.

“I hate both of you,” Kadyrov hissed without changing his woeful facial expression. “I would kill you if I could.”

Huntley whimpered slightly. But Langton blinked twice, then shrugged and leaned back in her chair with her half smile still glued to her face. “Don’t think there’s going to be much chance of that, my friend,” she said under her breath. “Though I’m still going to try to save your miserable life.”

Not if the penalty phase goes as well as your defense strategy, Kadyrov thought as he leaned back and turned to look at the judge.

Even if Karp’s barrage had not been enough to have the fight stopped on a technical knockout, his defense attorneys’ counterpunches had been weak at best. Of course it was beyond Kadyrov’s ego to acknowledge that they had precious little to work with.

Langton’s strategy had been based on two possibilities: The first was that Felix Acevedo was the real, and confessed, killer. The second was that if Acevedo wasn’t the real killer, the district attorney was running around “willy-nilly” accusing innocent men and “changing his mind on a whim.”

Langton had started by calling Felix Acevedo to the stand and then going over his confession to Graziani, followed by the statement he’d given the prosecutor Danielle Cohn, who Kadyrov knew was the pretty brunette sitting behind the prosecution table. She looks like my sister, he thought absently as he glanced over at her.

Of course, his attorney’s direct examination of Acevedo concentrated on those aspects that made Felix look guilty: the confessions to the murders in Manhattan and the Bronx; the admission that he’d assaulted the woman in Mullayly Park, from whom he’d allegedly received the bruise shown in his booking photograph; and, of course, the ring he claimed to have taken from Olivia Yancy.

Langton had also noted the “nearly identical” answers Acevedo had given in his confession and the statement given to Cohn. “And that’s because, Mr. Acevedo,” the attorney said, raising her voice as she spoke to the obviously frightened young man on the witness stand, “it’s the truth, isn’t it? You could repeat it word-for-word because you didn’t have to make anything up. Isn’t that true, Mr. Acevedo?”

“Yes,” Acevedo had replied as the defense attorney smiled at the jury triumphantly.

The victory was short-lived. It took much less time for Karp to take the confessions apart than it had to read them into the record. He started by getting Acevedo to recite from parts of the confession where he told Graziani he bought the ring from a young man named Al at Mullayly Park.

“Why did you eventually tell Detective Graziani that you took it from Olivia Yancy?” Karp asked.

“Because Detective Graziani told me I did,” Acevedo said, hanging his head, “and I wanted to go home.”

“Did you take the ring from Olivia Yancy?”

Acevedo shook his head. “I bought it from Al.”

Karp had grimaced and raised his voice as he’d stalked up to the witness stand, holding up the plastic bag containing a small diamond engagement ring. “Come on, Felix! You took the ring from Olivia Yancy!” the prosecutor thundered. “You admitted it to Detective Graziani! You did take the ring from Olivia, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I took it,” Acevedo cried out. It might have seemed like theatrics, but even Kadyrov noted the genuine terror in the young man’s voice and eyes.

Karp had then softened his voice and smiled. “It’s okay, Felix,” he said. “Sorry I yelled. Just tell the truth. Did you take this, or any other ring, from Olivia Yancy?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Olivia Yancy?”

“No.”

“Did you kill Beth Jenkins?”

“No.”

“Did you, in fact, kill anyone? Or assault anyone?”

“No.”

“Then why did you tell Detective Graziani and Miss Cohn, sitting behind the prosecution table there, that you did?”

“Because I wanted to go home,” Acevedo said, wagging his head sadly back and forth.

Karp dissected and dismissed the rest of Acevedo’s false confession in much the same fashion. At the prosecutor’s direction, Acevedo would read his first honest responses to the detective’s questions. Then Karp would ask, “Why did you change your answer if it wasn’t true?”

Then Acevedo would answer in one of two ways: “Because Detective Graziani wanted me to” or “I wanted to go home.” Karp would follow this by again angrily accusing Acevedo of not telling the truth, at which point the young man would again admit to crimes he didn’t commit.

At one point in his cross-examination of Acevedo, Karp suddenly asked if anyone in the gallery had a book they’d brought for reading when court wasn’t in session. After overruling the defense objection, Judge Dermondy allowed him to accept a book from a member of the audience.

As Karp walked over to stand in front of Acevedo, he smiled, shook his head, and laughed inwardly when he looked at the title, Rush to Judgment by Mark Lane. So much for spontaneous courtroom drama, he thought. He then read a page aloud from the book.

Karp looked up and held the front of the book out so the witness could see it. “Mr. Acevedo, have you ever seen this book before?”

Acevedo hesitated as if he wasn’t sure of the answer he was expected to give. But then he replied, “No.”

“Have you ever read it?”

Acevedo shook his head. “No. I don’t like to read. The words get jumbled up.”

“Your Honor, for demonstration purposes I ask that this book be deemed People’s twenty-eight for identification,” Karp said. He then walked over to the jury box and handed the still-open book to the jury foreman before turning back to the witness stand. “Mr. Acevedo, would you please repeat what you just heard me read from this book? And, Mr. Foreman, would you please follow along on page one fifty-three?”