CHAPTER 22
As the trial of Ricky Robles entered the fourth week of testimony, it was becoming increasingly clear to knowledgeable spectators how unique the proceedings were in the annals of the New York DAO. Here was a prosecution team having to admit that their vaunted Homicide Bureau had made a grievous mistake in indicting George Whitmore Jr., and then ask the jurors to look at the evidence and believe that the prosecutors now had the right man, Richard Robles. And here was the defense out to show that Robles was no better a suspect than Whitmore had been and, in a strange twist, that the New York DAO didn’t make mistakes.
Perhaps the most singular irony was the role reversal between the two sides when Mack Dollinger began calling to the stand the Brooklyn detectives and brass involved in the interrogation and arrest of George Whitmore Jr. Now it was the defense attorney’s mission to convince the jury of the professionalism, dedication and abilities of men he traditionally would have been at odds with in a trial. On the other hand, it was John Keenan’s quest, however reluctantly, to destroy the Brooklyn cops’ credibility, competency and, in a couple of instances, call into question their integrity.
The fact that the Brooklyn detectives, particularly Joseph DiPrima and Edward Bulger, had forced the “strange bedfellows” scenario angered and saddened Mel Glass. As Frank Hogan had noted back in January when discussing the ramifications of indicting Robles and dismissing the case against Whitmore, the effects of the mistake on the justice system might be felt for years. He had predicted that in future cases in which the prosecution relied in part or whole on a confession, it would be commonplace for defense attorneys to point to George Whitmore Jr. and argue to juries that if the police could manufacture a false confession in one case, they could manufacture them in all. And that even such a renowned DAO as New York’s sometimes indicted innocent people.
Also, by its nature, the trial threatened to create a rift between the DAO and the NYPD, which in normal circumstances were natural allies in the fight to protect citizens, get criminals off the streets and administer justice. But now, John Keenan had to demonstrate to the jury that Brooklyn detectives had not just been sloppy. Rather, they had lied and cheated to frame an innocent man—a position that would be repeated in the newspapers, as well as around the coffeepot in squad rooms. The detectives who’d worked with Mel Glass knew and respected the way he’d gone about his investigation—and that he was right about George Whitmore Jr. and Richard Robles. But the NYPD had thousands of officers, detectives and brass—many of whom didn’t know the truth or want to believe that their fellow officers would have framed an innocent person.
That night before, Glass and Keenan had talked about how to avoid painting all members of the NYPD with the same broad brush. Keenan would need to tread lightly while separating cops’ natural inclination to protect their own from what they knew, in this case, to be right. It would mean asking them to cross the thin blue line to tell the truth—and even under oath, some would, and some wouldn’t.
The effort began with Mack Dollinger’s first police witness, Deputy Chief Inspector Edward Carey, assigned to the Brooklyn North Homicide Squad at the time of Whitmore’s arrest, but now retired. Carey told the jury that he’d been present during some of the interrogation and that Whitmore appeared relaxed and was answering questions voluntarily.
On cross-examination Keenan showed Carey the photograph of Abbe Mills and Jennifer Holley, People’s Exhibit 72, and asked if Detective Bulger had told him he thought the blonde was Janice Wylie.
“We were trying to ID who the girl was,” Carey said; then he shrugged. “No one said it was the Wylie girl, because no one knew the Wylie girl.”
Keenan wasn’t buying it. “Did Bulger tell you that one of the women in the photograph strongly resembled the Wylie girl?”
“He said she was blonde. . . .”
Moving toward the witness, Keenan deliberately and forcefully asked again, “Did Bulger tell you that one of the women in the photograph strongly resembled the Wylie girl?”
Challenged, Carey thought about it for a moment and nervously licked his lips. Then he nodded. “That’s right. He did.”
As Deputy Chief Inspector Carey was excused, Mack Dollinger rose and announced, “The defense calls Joseph DiPrima.”
The barrel-chested detective walked into the courtroom a moment later and looked over the people waiting there as if scanning the crowd for a suspect. When his gaze reached Mel Glass, DiPrima’s eyes hardened briefly before he composed himself and strode purposefully to the witness stand to be sworn in.
Another quick glare from the detective as he took his seat reminded Glass of their “whose team are you on” confrontation at the Edmonds trial in April. But the detective’s square-jawed face was impassive beneath his salt-and-pepper crew cut as he faced the jury and waited for Dollinger to ask his first question.
Glass wondered if the detective felt compromised as a defense witness after twenty-eight years with the NYPD and currently a detective first grade.
“The highest level of detective—is that right?” Dollinger asked effusively.
“Yes,” DiPrima answered without emotion.
After establishing the detective’s credentials, Dollinger had him describe the events regarding George Whitmore Jr. from the point when Detective Edward Bulger had poked his head in the door and asked if he could question the suspect. DiPrima gave a general chronology of the interrogation process. He emphatically testified that Whitmore had not been intimidated into making his statements and that he’d not been fed details of the crime. And, yes, Whitmore had willingly signed the statement written out for him by Bulger.
“Did you or anyone else suggest to Mr. Whitmore that Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert were okay, still alive?” Dollinger asked.
“I never told George Whitmore the girls were still alive,” the detective replied tersely. “And I never heard anyone else say that, too.”
Walked right into it, Glass thought as Keenan rose to cross-examine the witness.
Striding right up to the jury box, John Keenan placed a transcript with several pages of notes on the ledge that protruded from the box. He turned and addressed the detective. “Didn’t you tell Assistant DA James Hosty, when he arrived at the Seventy-third Precinct, that as far as George Whitmore knew, the girls were still alive? Didn’t you tell that to Hosty?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” DiPrima admitted with a frown.
Keenan was a master chess player in the courtroom and believed it was essential to establish basic fundamental truths as a foundation before moving to checkmate.
“Detective Bulger told you that one of the girls in the photo looked like Janice Wylie. Is that correct?” he asked.
“Yeah,” DiPrima conceded, “and I believed him, because he’d been assigned to the Wylie-Hoffert case.”
Keenan swiftly changed tactics and moved quickly toward checkmate. “Did you tell Mel Glass in the summer of 1964 that you’d been in the building at 57 East Eighty-eighth Street prior to April 24, 1964, when George Whitmore was arrested? That you’d visited a doctor’s office there two or three times?”
DiPrima shot another hard glance at Glass before answering, “Yeah.”
“And did you tell Mr. Glass that your doctor told you about the Wylie-Hoffert murders that happened in that building?”
“Yeah, he said that two girls were killed in the building.”
“So you knew that the girls were killed in the building at 57 East Eighty-eighth Street before,” Keenan emphasized and repeated, “before George Whitmore was questioned on April 24, 1964?”
DiPrima scowled. “Yeah, I knew it.”
“Didn’t you testify in Supreme Court in Kings County, Brooklyn, on March sixth of this year, that you had no idea that Janice Wylie and Emily Hoffert were murdered in an apartment on East Eighty-eighth Street in Manhattan?”
DiPrima suddenly had the look of a man who realized he’d walked into quicksand with no apparent way out. “I don’t remember,” he muttered.
Expecting the evasive prevarication, Keenan produced from his papers on the jury box ledge a New York State trial transcript from the Brooklyn proceedings he’d just mentioned. He asked the court to take judicial notice of the official certified copy and enter it into evidence. Judge Davidson so ruled without objection.
With the court’s permission, Keenan then handed one set of the pages to DiPrima and kept another for himself. He had already provided the defense with its copy. “Detective, this is from your sworn testimony starting at page seven hundred twenty-eight of the trial transcript. I’ll read the questions and you read how you answered for the jury, please.”
DiPrima swallowed hard, but he didn’t reply.
Keenan began. “ ‘Question—Did George Whitmore mention to you the Eighty-eighth Street apartment and that he got the picture from there before you mentioned anything to him about an Eighty-eighth Street apartment?’ ”
The detective cleared his throat. “ ‘Answer—I had no idea about . . .’ ” DiPrima hesitated, understanding now just how fast he was sinking into the bottomless pit.
“Please continue,” Keenan insisted.
“‘Answer—I had no idea about an Eighty-eighth Street apartment.’ ”
“ ‘Question—You had no idea about an Eighty-eighth Street apartment?’ ”
“ ‘Answer—That’s right.’ ”
“ ‘Question—Didn’t you know that was where the girls were killed?’ ”
“ ‘Answer—I didn’t even know the address or place. I knew they were killed in Manhattan.’ ”
Keenan looked up from the transcript and fixed his eyes on DiPrima. “But you did know where the girls were killed when you were questioning George Whitmore, didn’t you?” he demanded.
DiPrima let out a heavy sigh. “I knew they were killed in Manhattan.” He blinked hard and then finished by saying, “And I knew they were killed on Eighty-eighth Street. Yes, sir.”
Keenan bore in on the witness as he moved slowly toward him. Now just a few feet separating him from the witness, he shot out, “And you knew that when you were questioning George Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“And yet, you testified under oath, ‘I didn’t even know the address or the place.’ You did testify that way?”
“Yes, sir.”
The jury was riveted by the confrontation; and after DiPrima’s admission, the jurors focused on Keenan. Exposed as a cop who had lied under oath, DiPrima’s face blushed red. He kept his eyes on the prosecutor, as if he couldn’t face the jurors any longer.
Keenan glared at the witness. Checkmate, Glass thought.
“Now, Detective DiPrima, was that the truth when you testified in Brooklyn?” Keenan asked.
“I can’t answer that question without elaborating on it,” DiPrima whined.
“You can’t answer whether that was the truth without elaborating?” Keenan scoffed. “Why on earth not?”
“Because my answer of ‘yes’ would be misconstrued,” DiPrima explained weakly.
Because your answer is that you committed perjury, Glass thought.