Chapter 16
A week after his arraignment, Joel Rifkin was back in court for a bail hearing. Waiting in the basement courtroom were two women who wanted very much to see him: María Alonso and Margarita Gonzalez. A few of their children sat beside them.
María Alonso had phoned Margarita several days before. When she said who she was—Anna Lopez’s mother—Margarita Gonzalez began to weep.
“I know who you are,” she said.
For a long time neither woman could speak. They cried on the telephone, sharing their grief. Then María pulled herself together.
“We have to be there, in court,” she told Margarita. “We have to see that he doesn’t plead insane. We have to make sure everyone understands that he is evil. He’s not crazy. He’s evil.”
Sobbing, Margarita Gonzalez agreed. The two women exchanged information on how to get to Mineola. They decided to meet on the grounds in front of the courthouse, at 262 Old Country Road.
When they did, they embraced warmly. Joel Rifkin was their common enemy: the man who had killed their daughters and shattered their lives.
At the courthouse, journalists surrounded the two mothers.
“I want to see the face of the monster who took my daughter’s life,” said María. “I wish I had the opportunity to spit on his face.”
“Isn’t this going to be difficult for you?” she was asked.
María nodded. “This is very painful,” she admitted, “but I got through Annie’s funeral, I can get through this. We have to show that these girls have families, that they have families who love them and miss them. He is a monster. He is a sadist. If I had the chance, I would kill him myself.”
* * *
Shortly before 10:00 A.M., Joel Rifkin was led from the police van into the courthouse. He ducked his head and lifted the middle finger of each hand, giving the throng of photographers an obscene gesture.
The mothers were already in the courtroom. By then, word had spread: Joel Rifkin might not appear for the hearing. Legally, he was required to be in the courthouse, but he was permitted to waive his appearance in court. Rumor was that he had.
María Alonso and Margarita Gonzalez hoped that wasn’t true. They’d traveled a long way to see Joel Rifkin. They’d prayed for strength. And they were ready. Each was determined to look into the eyes of her child’s killer.
As the two mothers and a crowd of journalists discussed the rumors, court officials got impatient with the noise.
“Want to hold a conversation? Take it outside,” they said. “No talking.”
María spoke quietly to a reporter from The New York Times. “He’s not coming, I know it,” she said. “I had a feeling this would happen.”
The courtroom was called to order. A host of hearings preceded Joel Rifkin’s—mostly burglary and assault cases. Attorneys for the defendants filed various motions and the cases were quickly adjourned.
The only interesting moment came shortly before Joel Rifkin’s hearing. Judge Clare Weinberg sharply chastised a young woman who attended her hearing wearing silk shorts.
“When you come back here you dress appropriately,” the judge snapped. “This is not a stop on the way to the beach. If I had realized you were wearing shorts, I would not have allowed this adjournment. I would have made you go home and change.”
The red-faced young woman nodded. Her attorney gulped. “Judge, I’ll further advise her,” he said.
Then it was time.
“Number 41. Joel Rifkin,” the bailiff said.
The suspense was quickly over. Joel Rifkin did not appear. Robert Sale asked for a postponement, and it was granted. In less than five minutes the hearing was over.
Outside the courtroom, Sale told reporters that his client did not appear in court because prison officials had refused to give him clothes that Sale had provided. Rifkin was wearing an orange jumpsuit supplied by the prison.
“He didn’t have appropriate attire,” Sale said.
The attorney’s explanation didn’t sit well with the families of Rifkin’s victims. As she filed out of the courtroom, surrounded by press, Margarita Gonzalez became distraught. “He’s in the building,” she shrieked. “He’s hiding!” When asked by reporters what she wanted to say to Rifkin, she began weeping hysterically: “Kill him. That’s all I want. That you kill him!”
Outside, she and María Alonso waited more than five hours on the grass by the prison van. They were determined to see Joel Rifkin, even if it was for the few seconds it took him to walk from the courthouse to the van.
As they waited the two mothers linked arms and talked quietly in Spanish. They took off their shoes. At one point, María fixed Margie’s hair in a bun. María’s daughters, Claudia and Monica, picked up lunch at a nearby deli.
Their long wait proved pointless. After promising the mothers that they would bring Joel Rifkin out the usual way, court officers slipped him out through another exit. Reporters were annoyed—they’d been waiting for the dramatic confrontation. When asked why the change, court officers said they thought it would be too emotional for the mothers; they thought it was better this way.
María Alonso and Margarita Gonzalez did not agree. But they said they would be back. Eventually they would confront their daughters’ killer. They were determined.
* * *
A week later, Joel Rifkin was indicted for the murder of Tiffany Bresciani. A grand jury listened to evidence provided by detectives and the prosecutor. It didn’t take long for the jurors to bring back a true bill.
The next day, Nassau County District Attorney Denis Dillon held a press conference at the Mineola courthouse. In addition to Dillon, Captain Walter Heesch, the head of the Rifkin investigation, and Fred Klein, the assistant DA prosecuting the case, were on hand.
“We called you here to announce the filing of a three-count indictment charging Joel Rikfin with two counts of murder in the second degree and one count of reckless endangerment in the first degree,” Dillon said.
The DA went on to explain the specifics: The first murder count was for intentionally causing the death of Tiffany Bresciani; the second, for a depraved indifference to human life. The third count, reckless endangerment, alleged that Joel Rifkin created a risk to state troopers by leading them on a highspeed chase through the streets of Nassau County.
When he was finished, reporters began to call out questions. Dillon held up his hand.
“I’m not going to get into any other crimes that may have been committed other than the one that is subject to this indictment, and I’m not going to get into evidence. But ask your questions.”
Reporters laughed. That didn’t leave them much room.
Someone asked why there was just one indictment. What about all the other women Rifkin had confessed to killing?
“Nassau has jurisdiction over this case because the body was found here,” Dillon explained. “When state police have completed their investigation and information is taken to DAs in different jurisdictions, they can bring their charges whenever they are ready.”
Roger Stern from WNBC spoke next.
“Thinking back to other serial killers—they’re almost never prosecuted on all the murders they allegedly committed. From a prosecutor’s standpoint, is there a law of diminishing returns? You only go for your best cases?”
Dillon was vague. “It’s tough to compare one serial killer with another and the crimes they committed,” he said. “In some situations you have strong evidence that can be presented, and you have a very good chance of getting a conviction. Some of the other cases might be less. In terms of this series of possible prosecutions there will be discussions, I’m sure, between the state police and the various prosecutors and, if necessary, our office.”
“The defense attorney has suggested he may try an insanity plea,” a radio reporter called out.
“That’s the job of a defense attorney—to do everything he can to ensure his client gets justice, whatever he feels is justice in a particular circumstance,” Dillon answered smoothly. “It requires him to raise whatever defense he feels necessary.”
“What do you have to prove [in order] to prove you are insane?” Roger Stern asked.
“The defense requires that he did not understand the nature and consequences of his act, or that the conduct was wrong.”
Stern pushed harder. “The material found at his house documenting all of his alleged victims, a book on another serial killer—would that imply that this was a man grounded in reality who knew what he was doing?”
But Dillon couldn’t be budged. “I’m not going to get into a discussion on what was found at the house and certainly not any conclusion that can be drawn from it.”
Another reporter tried a similar approach. “What about the talk of a possible copycat—that he may have been motivated or influenced by those Green River killings in Seattle?”
Dillon sighed. He wasn’t going to give in.
“I don’t think it’s helpful, at least at this time, to speculate about those things,” he said. “We’re here to announce this particular indictment.”
“What motivated him?” the same reporter asked.
Dillon shook his head. “We’re here to announce this particular indictment,” he repeated.
“Have you brought in psychiatric experts to give you advice on—”
Dillon cut off the reporter. “We’re not going to talk about any step so far on the investigation,” he said. “We’re not going to speculate. We’re just here to talk about the indictment.”
“Can you characterize the case that you have against him, that you’re indicting him on?”
“No, it’s not proper for me to characterize.”
“Would you characterize it as strong?”
“I’m not going to characterize it, except to say that the grand jury found the evidence was sufficient to return an indictment.”
Reporters moved on to Walter Heesch. Perhaps, they thought, the police spokesman would be a bit more helpful.
He wasn’t. The captain carefully spoke without saying much of anything.
“What do these things indicate to you about this man’s motivations—a book on another serial killer, books on tying ropes, the collecting of these things?” he was asked.
“At this stage of the investigation, we can only speculate,” Heesch responded. “It wouldn’t do us any good to give a statement on this now.”
“We understand he had a book on ropes and knots. Did he tie up his victims?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Why do you believe that it’s going to be close to the seventeen, eighteen figure? Why do you believe that it’s not going to be thirty-four or fifty, but that he seems to have kept track?”
“Well, after the initial findings there was no other evidence to indicate more than seventeen or eighteen. We’re going based on the facts we have now.”
“Captain, there was a matter of him losing count, and not lying—”
“I don’t think he was lying,” Captain Heesch said. “I simply think he may have lost count. I don’t know if it was seventeen or eighteen. But we have what we have.”
The men thanked the press. The news conference was over.
* * *
Two days later, Joel Rifkin was arraigned on the two counts of second-degree murder and the reckless endangerment charge. This time, María Alonso and Margarita Gonzalez knew, he would appear in court. They would too.
Reporters gathered outside Judge Ira Wexner’s chambers on the first floor of the courthouse. It was stifling in the crowded hallway.
“Why can’t we sit inside, in the air-conditioning?” a reporter asked.
“Why?” quipped Court Officer Franzone. “Why does a whale have a small hole on top of his head? Because that’s just the way it is.”
Franzone clapped his hands to get the crowd’s attention.
“Seats will be given on a first-come, first-served basis,” he announced. “Please form a line.”
As reporters jockeyed for position, someone tried again.
“Can you ask the judge if we can wait inside?”
“That I can do,” the court officer said. He disappeared into Wexner’s chambers.
A few minutes later Franzone returned. He opened the courtroom door and stepped back.
“You can wait inside,” he said. “But you have to leave when the defendant is brought in. Don’t bother to fight for prime seats. It’s not going to matter.”
María Alonso paid no attention. “Where will he be?” she asked aloud, peering at the bench. “I want to make sure I see him.”
For the next half hour, María sat quietly, staring straight ahead. A few rows away, Margarita Gonzalez sat with her daughter, Margie, and read the Bible. All around them reporters chatted, sharing gossip.
“Did you hear Mary Jo Buttafuoco’s comment on Joel?” one said to a row of journalists. “She said, ‘All these detectives were chasing my husband for statutory rape when this guy’s killing girls and dumping them.’”
The small group nodded. All the Long Island reporters were following the Amy-Joey epic closely.
Bored, one reporter began a wish list.
“I hope Rifkin goes crazy right here,” she said. “I hope he turns around and scratches his own eyeballs. And I hope he turns to the judge and says, ‘You’re next.’”
The others laughed.
“Any good Rifkin jokes?” a print reporter asked.
“I heard one,” a colleague answered. “What’s Joel Rifkin’s line when he tries to pick up girls?”
Silence.
“I dig you.”
Groans were heard.
“How about this?” the reporter tried again. “Hear Joel Rifkin got an American Express card? It’s for dismembers only.”
* * *
A little after 10:00 A.M. the judge was ready. The courtroom was cleared as Joel Rifkin was brought in, his hands cuffed in front. The prison orange was gone; he wore a gray striped shirt and gray slacks. He sat silently with his attorney, looking down. As scores of journalists and onlookers attempted to reenter the room, court officers tried to keep order.
“Form a line,” Franzone called out. “We need a line.”
It was useless. The crush of media jammed through the door. By the time María Alonso and Margarita Gonzalez managed to push their way inside, all the seats close to the front were taken.
They took seats in the third-to-last row. Margarita immediately opened the Bible and began to read. Her daughter, Margie, sighed when asked by reporters how her mother was handling the stress.
“I don’t know why she wants to be here,” she said. “I keep telling her—”
“All rise,” the bailiff announced.
There were a few procedural motions, and a date was set for the next hearing: August 16. And then, the plea.
“To the charges, murder in the second degree; reckless endangerment. How do you plead?”
Joel Rifkin’s voice echoed in the silent courtroom. “I am not guilty,” he said.
For only a moment there was no sound. Then, in the third-to-last row, the weeping began.
“Killer, killer,” Margarita Gonzalez said, rocking in her seat, clenching the Bible to her chest. “You killed my daughter. Kill him, kill him.”
“Quiet,” court officers said. “Clear the courtroom.”
Margarita’s sobs grew louder. Led by a court officer, she slowly made her way down the aisle toward the door near the defendant’s table. María Alonso followed, crying softly.
The man who had killed their daughters remained seated, next to his attorney. As they filed past him, the mothers stopped. They could see only his profile, and even that was partly obstructed by Sale and court officers. But it was him: Joel Rifkin. They had at last glimpsed the face of the monster.
* * *
Outside the courtroom, the mothers continued to weep. María managed to slip away, but Margarita was not as fortunate. She and Margie tried to leave, but couldn’t. Dozens of reporters encircled them, hungry for quotes.
“Mrs. Gonzalez, it must have been very difficult for you,” they said, jamming microphones in front of her.
“Are you satisfied? At least you got the chance—”
“How do you feel?”
“What would you like to say to Joel Rifkin?”
Margarita Gonzalez pushed through the crush, nearly hysterical. At that point some reporters stepped back. “This is so unnecessary,” said one. “It’s cruel.”
Her arm around her mother, Margie Gonzalez lost her patience and screamed at reporters. “Take it easy,” she yelled. “Don’t act like animals!”
Turning to her mother, she ducked her head and said softly, “Okay, Mom? You want to talk or not?”
Margarita Gonzalez shook her head. “Let’s go home,” she whispered.
A court officer came to their rescue.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To the train,” Margie said.
His hand resting on Margarita Gonzalez’s shoulder, the officer led mother and daughter down the steps of the courthouse, across the grass, and a few blocks away, to the Long Island Rail Road station. A few reporters tagged along, but by then the crowd had broken.
On the train ride home, Margarita Gonzalez leaned her head against the window. She closed her eyes. She saw Jenny’s face. Then she saw the face of her daughter’s killer.
Anguish consumed Margarita Gonzalez.