1:42 P.M.
Flo Ott entered Kings County Criminal Court in downtown Brooklyn for a rearraignment hearing scheduled for a two o’clock start.
For an hour, she had to leave the threat to Cecil King’s life entirely in Frank Murphy’s hands, while waiting for the preliminary forensics report on Owen Smith’s corpse, and now keeping a promise to a friend caught in impossible trouble.
A young woman named Annunziata “Annie” Agron had been arrested on a charge of armed robbery at an ATM machine on the corner of Seventh Avenue and President Street in Park Slope, Brooklyn. The arresting officers were William Patrick Magee and Antonio Francesco Dente, both patrolmen, both in their late twenties, both Staten Island residents.
Flo was attending the rearraignment, not in any official capacity—no one had been killed during the alleged armed robbery—but simply to observe as a friend and a potential character witness on behalf of one of the two tenants in her home’s upstairs rental apartment: the accused felon of murderous intent, Annie Agron, a welfare department social worker.
At the initial arraignment, a few hours after Annie Agron’s arrest, the court had assigned her a lawyer from the Legal Aid Society’s pool, to ensure appearances were kept up, all formalities fulfilled.
The assigned lawyer had no time for preparation and not much attention span left by his seventh arraignment of the afternoon session.
He was a harried young man, another victim of case overload, bouncing breathlessly from arraignments to trials to prison cell visitations. No surprise then, when the patrolmen’s version of Annie Agron’s alleged armed robbery proved compelling. But at least the Legal Aid lawyer secured bail for his client, a not impossible task, since the accused had no prior criminal record, was a city employee, and a college grad.
Flo Ott’s other tenant, Annie’s roommate and partner, Betty Fitzgerald, was an experienced attorney, albeit a family-law expert, who’d never appeared at an arraignment or any other kind of criminal law procedure. Family law—separations, divorces, child custody suits—was her specialty.
Betty Fitzgerald had no idea at the time that Annie had been arrested, and when she found out that Annie’s case at arraignment was referred on for trial consideration, she was desperate to find competent counsel. Flo Ott, their friend and landlady, recommended Robert J. Keating, Esq., Golden Bobby, the criminal defense bar’s ultimate aureate mouthpiece. Golden Bobby owed Flo a favor. Earlier that year, she’d certified a fat-fee client of his for a cooperative witness protection program.
And Bobby was meticulous in repaying his business debts, particularly when the creditor was a prominent member of the law enforcement establishment. He stepped straight up to the plate for Annie Agron.
“Well now, Lieutenant!” Golden Bobby greeted Flo in the hall outside the hearing room for the rearraignment. “How’s by you? What’s happening?”
“Hi, Bobby.” Flo was no longer quite as amazed as she had been the winter before, when first meeting Robert J. Keating, Attorney-at-Law. She’d grown accustomed to his outsized presence, a sort of African Buddha, a bejeweled, mirthful, extramundane mass of a man: cappuccino-colored, six feet tall and, at about three hundred pounds, almost the same footage in circumference as in height. His shaved head, impeccable tailoring, and manicured nails projected a persuasive air of proximate perfection with the demeanor to match, as close to a resplendent demidivinity as one might ever expect to encounter in the criminal courts of New York City. On meeting Bobby for the first time, it was hard to know whether to genuflect, shake his hand, or kiss his ring—a platinum job set with a ruby at least the size of a plum.
Flo offered him her hand, and with two hands he raised it to his lips. His gold cuff links dazzled. “I’m so honored, Lieutenant”—his voice was basso profundo, his tone Sunday-church-choir jubilant, sincerity vitalizing every word—“that any friend of yours should become an esteemed client of mine.”
He smiled a broad smile, so warm it made Flo laugh as always, a smile that exposed his mouth full of lustrously gold teeth, as welcoming as a splash of Caribbean sunshine after a New York sleet storm. Golden Bobby earned his winning appellation.
He led the way for his new client, Annie Agron, and her partner, Betty Fitzgerald, all walking with dignity down the long hall to the hearing room.
Annie Agron had short, dark hair, a soft mouth, and sad brown eyes. She was wearing a gray flannel skirt, a navy blazer, a white blouse, and high-heeled black calfskin shoes. Except for the shoes, and the sad knowing eyes, she might have passed for an Upper East Side prep-school senior.
Betty Fitzgerald, on the other hand, looked like any other hard-nosed divorce lawyer, an avenging angel in a black pinstripe suit. “Annie never should’ve been arrested,” Fitzgerald said to Golden Bobby. “Forget referred to trial.”
“I’ve no objections to that,” he said. “Speaking purely technically, of course. Annie’s so obviously innocent. It hurts me to know our criminal justice system—and even our New York’s finest—could have made such a colossal blunder. I’m truly shocked.”
“Yeah, right,” Flo said. “Shocked. Now tell it to the judge, Bobby.”
2:05 P.M.
The hearing room, devoid of decoration save for two American flags, a New York State flag, and a New York City flag, had space for about fifty spectators.
The chamber was more than half empty. Present were defendants, a few family members, defendants’ lawyers, and assistant district attorneys, these last mainly young men and women not long out of law school. All waited their turn before the judge.
The Honorable Lydia Compton was an African American woman in her mid-forties, a judge with an air of patience not unlike that of a presidential foreign affairs adviser, a thoughtful presence surrounded and harassed by ambitious generals and ignorant ideologues, each insistent on his own self-seeking position.
Judge Compton’s patience would be put to the test this afternoon.
Recollections of a crime, in Flo’s experience, seemed to acquire a dark indestructibility as infinite and as inescapable as memories are particular to the persons recollecting.
In this case, once Annie Agron’s rearraignment hearing began in Judge Compton’s court, the accused, and the two arresting officers, patrolmen Magee and Dente, had experiences to relate that were banking up all around them, a huge wave that seemed poised to break over their heads, certainly if Robert J. Keating, Esq., had anything to say about it.
Annie Agron, aggrieved, frightened, anxious, didn’t even glance at the patrolmen who arrested her for armed robbery.
Officers Magee and Dente were both in uniform, caps off, and both appeared quite put-upon by this experience. Not only were they appearing in court, again, on their own time, no additional pay for the extra hour or so, but they were less than encouraged to find their perp now represented by the African Buddha Golden Bobby, every prosecutor’s nemesis.
The courtroom surroundings, otherwise so ordinary for Flo Ott, on this occasion felt bizarre. Not the bewildering news and the absurd allegations, not the no-holds-barred procedural tactics Golden Bobby promised, but this. Detective Lieutenant Flo Ott, officer of the law, willing to act as a character witness for a criminal defendant. She might not have to say a word today, probably wouldn’t even be asked, not at a rearraignment. But Flo’s silent presence alone, seated with the defendant’s team, spoke volumes. The judge and every assistant district attorney in the courtroom recognized and respected the homicide detective lieutenant.
Patrolmen Magee and Dente certainly knew exactly who she was, and they were less than pleased to see Flo pulling up a chair at the defendant’s side, next to Keating, the criminal defense bar’s bright, shining dazzler and a royal pain in the ass.
Almost a half hour after the scheduled time on the docket, the clerk called Annie Agron’s case. Golden Bobby set aside his documents with a phlegmatic sigh and rose to face Judge Lydia Compton.
The judge said, “Are there any objections to starting now?”
Golden Bobby shook his head. “Absolutely not. Not as far as we’re concerned.”
The young assistant district attorney, an Indian American woman named Uusha Chandra Roy, walked to the middle of the floor in front of the judge’s bench. She was younger than any other lawyer in the room, a thin woman with a firm, confidently set expression that was belied by a mere shadow of hesitation in her dark eyes.
The judge addressed her: “Would the prosecution please restate the facts of this case?”
“The People maintain that Annunziata ‘Annie’ Agron, on a Saturday morning, committed an armed robbery outside the ATM cash point on the corner of Seventh Avenue and President Street in Park Slope, Kings County. The victim was a seventy-eight-year-old woman in a motorized wheelchair who’d just withdrawn three hundred dollars. Patrolmen William Magee and Antonio Dente attempted to arrest Ms. Agron at the scene of the robbery and met with resistance. And so she is also guilty of assaulting a policeman in the course of his duty and resisting a lawful arrest.”
“And counsel for the defense says?”
“Not guilty. Not guilty in a million light-years. This is a Keystone—if you’ll pardon the expression—Kops blunder of incredible proportions. Truly mythic, Your Honor.” Golden Bobby turned to the patrolmen and said, “You have my sympathies, Officers, you really do, arresting someone as innocent as…well, let’s just say, as innocent as a vanilla ice cream cone.” Everyone appeared to ponder the exact implication of this unusual image. “The charges should be dismissed, Your Honor.”
Judge Lydia Compton was a portrait of patience and forbearance. “Okay, this time let’s just try to flesh out the outline of the arrest, of the allegations and charges. Let’s clarify all the details of exactly what happened.”
Assistant District Attorney Uusha Chandra Roy proceeded to pursue her presentation to its conclusion, unruffled, in spite of repeated headshaking, audible sighs, and occasional suppressed laughs from her opposing counsel, defense attorney Golden Bobby.
Briefly, the prosecution’s case was a factual narrative without embroidery. Shortly after eleven a.m. Annunziata “Annie” Agron approached an ATM to withdraw cash, she claimed, to finish her Saturday morning shopping on Seventh Avenue. As she was going up to the cash point machine, the bank customer preceding her, Sadie Sienkiewicz, a seventy-eight-year-old arthritis sufferer in a motorized wheelchair, was attempting to pass by Ms. Agron on her way back onto the sidewalk, when she was held up by Ms. Agron, who was wielding a carving knife. Sadie Sienkiewicz, fearing for her life, gave Ms. Agron all the cash she’d just withdrawn for her Saturday morning shopping, three hundred dollars. Before Ms. Agron had a chance to flee the scene of her crime, an observant bystander waved to a police cruiser that was double-parked just across the street on the other side of Seventh Avenue, where Officer Dente had entered a Chinese take-out place, Madame Chang’s, to pick up lunch for himself and his squad car partner, patrolman William Magee. Officer Dente was carrying two spring rolls, a pint of General Hsu lamb, a pint of sweet-and-sour chicken and shrimp, and a pint of steamed rice, as he was leaving Madame Chang’s, and he observed his partner, patrolman Magee, approaching the altercation taking place outside the ATM point directly across Seventh Avenue. The patrolmen disarmed Ms. Agron and retrieved the cash, most of which was scattered over the sidewalk. As they were arresting Ms. Agron, she put up a violent resistance, inflicting damage on both patrolmen.
Golden Bobby shook his head. “I have a few questions, Your Honor, for patrolmen Magee and Dente. I may proceed, with the assistant DA’s consent, I trust?”
ADA Uusha Chandra Roy nodded.
And the judge said, “Counselor, please proceed.”
Golden Bobby took a deep breath and said, “At what point did you surmise that this event was, shall we say, a stickup?”
Patrolman Magee said, “As soon as I saw the money flying around, sir, I got out of the car and went across to the corner. That’s when I saw this knife she had.”
“Who had?”
“Annunziata Agron. Your client.”
“Can you describe the knife?”
“One of those big kitchen knives, sir. A really big one, the kind you carve up turkeys and roast beef with.”
“New or old?”
Patrolman Magee paused. Then: “New.”
“How could you tell?”
“It was wrapped up.”
“Wrapped up in what?”
“A package.”
“Describe the package.”
Patrolman Magee looked down at the floor. “Like the kind you get in a store.”
Golden Bobby smiled. “You mean, unopened and all enclosed in plastic bubble wrap?”
As a wave of laughter swept over the courtroom, patrolman Magee, his eyes still fixed on the floor, fell silent and nodded.
“And what,” Golden Bobby said softly, “did Sadie Sienkiewicz say about all this?”
“She said this other lady, Annunziata Agron, pulled the knife on her.”
“All wrapped up?”
Falling silent again, patrolman Magee nodded.
“And when,” Golden Bobby said, “did she pull the knife—before or after she spoke to Sadie Sienkiewicz?”
Patrolman Magee sighed. Then: “After Sadie Sienkiewicz ran into Annunziata Agron with her wheelchair. It was her new chair, sir, and she had trouble driving it. Agron shouted and dropped her ice cream cone on Sadie Sienkiewicz’s head. Sadie Sienkiewicz was terrified and gave her a push, to protect herself, and she saw this huge knife come out of a shopping bag. Agron dropped her stuff, and Agron was picking the knife up from the ground there, and saying something, and Sadie Sienkiewicz was really terrified by this point, so she figured she’d better give her attacker the money before she got stabbed. She threw the bills at her attacker and the money was blowing all around when I got there.”
“And what did you do?”
“The old lady was screaming, ‘She took my money, she took my money!’ So I got her money back for her, sir.”
The judge shook her head but said nothing as she motioned to defense counsel to continue his questioning of the police officers.
“And Officer Dente,” Golden Bobby said, “is that when you arrived?”
“Yes,” said Officer Dente.
“And what did you do?”
“I saw this knife in the attacker’s hand. I saw that poor old lady in a wheelchair and this white stuff all over her, like she got sprayed with something in the attack. So right away, I was on her attacker like a ton of bricks.”
“A ton of bricks,” said Golden Bobby. “An accurate, if unfortunate, image, Officer Dente, since you’re even taller, if not quite as round as I am. Ms. Agron is, what, maybe five foot three, five four. And what did she do, when she got hit by a ton of bricks?”
“She threw up her hands. She called me a bully. And when she threw up her hands, the knife and stuff went flying, and she hit the bag with our lunch, and she got the food all over us, me and my partner. Rice, chicken, everything. We had to get our uniforms dry-cleaned.”
Golden Bobby smiled sympathetically. “Not cheap, dry cleaning, not these days. And what did you pay Madame Chang for that lunch? Exactly how large a bill did you hand over to her?”
Officer Dente paused, and his eyes scanned the ceiling as though the answer might lie up there somewhere. “I don’t recall,” he finally said. “Not exactly.”
“Madame Chang isn’t here,” Golden Bobby said. “But if we ever do get to trial—which I trust we won’t—Madame Chang will be called. I’ve spoken with her. She observed, albeit from a distance, much of what happened. Now, do you remember what size bill you gave her? The exact amount, Officer Dente? We’re down on our knees, begging you, please, Officer Dente, because she remembers.”
Officer Dente scanned the ceiling again. Then: “A dollar. I think…I gave her a dollar.”
“For all that food?”
“I think maybe she still owed us some change from the last time. So I guess that’s all she asked for.”
“I see. And what happened to Ms. Agron? Say, after the ton of bricks and so forth.”
“We escorted her to the squad car.”
“Patrolman Magee, were you at the wheel again?”
“Always, sir, that’s my spot.”
Golden Bobby nodded as if in approval. “And Officer Dente?”
“He was in back, sir, with the prisoner.”
“Any problems back there?”
“She was crying a lot, sir, the prisoner was. Making a real racket.”
“What did you do?”
“My job, sir. I kept on driving.”
“And Officer Dente?”
“He was trying to get the handcuffs on her.”
“Did you say anything?”
The police officer didn’t answer.
“C’mon,” Golden Bobby said. “Silence is no answer here. And it wasn’t back then. You’re doing yourself no favors now.”
“Yeah, well, I said, ‘Tony, lay off her. Tony, she don’t need no cuffs.’ ”
“Why not?”
Patrolman Magee looked surprised by this question. “You can see she’s just half his size, sir. And she wasn’t putting up no fight. Just bawling her eyes out.”
“That’s it? And you didn’t say anything else? C’mon, no margin here in silence now, not for you.”
Magee stayed mute for a moment. Then: “I said, ‘Tony, lay off.’ ”
“Lay off?”
Mute, again.
Exasperated, Golden Bobby said, “Lookit, we can’t let silence pass for an answer here. It’s unacceptable. Otherwise this goes to trial, where you’re under oath and this is getting lots more attention. Not many get a chance like you’re getting here and for good reason. We can make it all go away now, but only if you speak up.”
“I said…‘Tony, stop hitting her, okay?’ ”
Golden Bobby turned to face the prosecutor. “Would the assistant district attorney care to question the arresting officers now? Or can the charges be withdrawn at once?”
Although voicing his request gently, almost humbly, Golden Bobby radiated immense self-confidence and an intense interest in ADA Uusha Chandra Roy’s reply.
Judge Lydia Compton shook her head. “That’s it, I can’t see a case here. Not against the accused anyway.”
ADA Uusha Chandra Roy stood erect and replied firmly, “The charges are withdrawn, and the People request leave to preserve a right of reconsideration should further facts materialize.”
Judge Lydia Compton glanced at Robert J. Keating, Esq. Golden Bobby shrugged. Why not…be gracious about it, let a young assistant district attorney save face, no margin in rubbing her nose in a mess the cops made. It wasn’t her fault, and there was precious little likelihood they’d be seeing this case again anyway. The assistant district attorney’s request was pro forma, as was the judge’s response.
“Request granted.”
What total bullshit, Flo Ott thought, what an unnecessary, pathetic performance by two worthless cops, who were a disgrace to the uniform, a blight on the force. But it happened too often, and Flo knew it well: the baboon Magee and bullyboy Dente weren’t unique, and Flo Ott was nobody’s fool. Still, she felt grateful for the small consolation that these two clowns were unlikely ever to make it beyond patrolman grade, and certainly never up into an elite unit like homicide, not without a political sponsor at least as dumb as they were. Flo hoped she’d never have to see them again, but, as it would develop within days and, to her great shock, her hope proved futile.
2:57 P.M.
Outside in the corridor, Golden Bobby placed his ring-heavy hand on Flo’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said. “In front of you, they couldn’t snow-job. They won’t drag this clinker out again.” Golden Bobby looked thoughtfully at his client, Annie Agron, who was struggling to keep back the tears while holding tightly on to Betty Fitzgerald’s hand. “Someday,” Golden Bobby said, “maybe not soon, but someday we’ll all look back on this absurdity and enjoy a good laugh.”
Rising on tiptoes, Annie Agron kissed Golden Bobby’s cheek. “I can’t even describe,” she said, “what it’s like to have an angel sweep down and hold your hand and tell you, ‘I’m not letting go until you’re safe.’ That’s you, you’re an angel. Thank you.”
As far as Flo Ott could see, the ridiculous case was now closed, just another bad memory.
3:04 P.M.
Flo left her relieved tenants and Golden Bobby in the courthouse hall and walked back to her office, her thoughts fixated again on an absurdity that possessed no possibility of laughter at any time.
When it came to assassinations, Flo Ott was unable to detect even a scintilla of humor. To the censoring mechanism in her investigator’s brain, not a trace, not a hint, not a moment’s comic relief could be wrung from the horrors of fanaticism. In her mind—the mind that now had to meld with the minds of snakes—Flo returned to considering what an assassin had to do to murder a senator-elect.
And to escape, and to remain forever free.
What was the precise step-by-step approach to killing a man, whose only protection for the next eight weeks would never be more than a few city cops.
Flo Ott’s conclusion was, again, that for these professional fanatics, assassination and escape weren’t impossible, and not as hard as her job to prevent the nightmare from ever happening.