As the powers that be groped for the truth about Clifford Glover, an explosive situation was building. Shortly after noon, a group of reporters appeared at the Glover-Armstead home. Lost in the swirl of events, Eloise Glover stood dazed by the front door and sobbed, “Clifford went to school every day except when he stayed home to help me. He took good care of his two little sisters. His brother, Henry, was his best friend. Everybody loved him. When I took him to church as a baby, everyone wanted to hold him.”
Within the hour, her remarks had been broadcast throughout the city, and a group of angry South Jamaica residents led by State Assemblyman Guy Brewer began to gather outside the 103rd Precinct station house. The task of calming them fell to two men—Deputy Commissioner for Community Affairs Roosevelt Dunning and his chief assistant, William Johnson.
Born in Virginia, the son of an oyster shucker, Dunning had been raised by a foster family in New York. While on the force, he worked his way through college and law school, attending classes at night. In March 1973, at age forty-nine, he was named Deputy Commissioner for Community Affairs by outgoing Police Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy. Ironically, as a child, Dunning had attended P.S. 40 in South Jamaica—Clifford Glover’s alma mater. Dunning was black.
William Johnson was born and brought up in Harlem. The son of a carpenter, he joined the force in 1955 and, like Dunning, worked his way through school at night. In 1961, he graduated first in his class from New York Law School and transferred to the Police Department’s Legal Office. For six years, Johnson served as a police lawyer. Then, on July 1, 1967, his father was murdered by a junkie on Lenox Avenue in Harlem. Hours after the funeral, Johnson walked into the office of Chief Inspector Sanford Garelik and asked for reassignment to the Manhattan North Homicide Unit. Mulling over the request, Garelik consented on one condition: “You have to promise me that, if you find the man who did it, you won’t kill him.”
Eighty-eight days later William Johnson arrested the man who had murdered his father. Pursuant to a plea-bargaining arrangement, the killer received a ten-year sentence with opportunity for early parole.*
Shaken by the experience, Johnson resigned from the force and opened a legal-services office in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn. In May 1969, he was named Director of Public Safety (police and fire) by Gary, Indiana, Mayor Richard Hatcher. Three years later, he returned to New York to become Assistant Deputy Commissioner for Community Affairs. Like Dunning, William Johnson was black.
Called to the 103rd Precinct in midday, Dunning and Johnson first met with the police officials on hand, then mounted the station house steps to speak with Assemblyman Brewer and the crowd.
“There will be no cover-up,” Dunning pledged. “We promise you that. The decision-making process is under way, and we will be a part of that process. This matter will be handled fairly in accordance with the law.”
“The white man’s law?” someone shouted.
“The law,” Dunning countered.
Slowly the crowd thinned. When the immediate crisis had passed, Johnson turned to his boss. “No matter what happens,” he said, “I’m afraid we haven’t heard the last of this one.”
Meanwhile, inside the station house, the next stage of the investigation was about to begin. Moments after the questioning of Walter Scott ended, Harold Cannon had telephoned the Queens County District Attorney’s Office and asked that someone be sent over to take formal statements from the shooting participants.
Shortly before 3:00 P.M., Assistant District Attorney Martin Bracken answered the call.
A native of Queens, Bracken joined the DA’s office after graduating from Fordham Law School in 1970. One of his grandfathers had been a Deputy Chief Inspector for the New York City Police Department. His uncle had been a police chaplain for twenty-five years. Bracken himself was named after a cop. From what little he knew about the Glover shooting, it was an assignment he did not relish.
At 3:25 P.M., Thomas Shea and James Cahill were summoned back to the conference room on the second floor. Of the persons present at Shea’s first interrogation, only Hugo Masini remained. The previous stenographer had been replaced by a new one. Cottell, Alveranga, Flanagan, Braunstein, Wilson, Tyson, and Robert Johnson were gone. In their place, Captain Daniel O’Brien of the 16th Detective Division had been added.
Bracken introduced himself, advised Shea of his constitutional rights, and began to question him.
“Patrolman Shea, what unit are you assigned to?”
“103rd Precinct Neighborhood Police Team, Anticrime.”
“And you have been on the police force for how long?”
“Twelve years.”
Sensing that Shea was more nervous than before, Cahill leaned over to assure him that the presence of an assistant district attorney was not uncommon. “If nothing else, it will take the heat off the cops when they drop the matter,” he whispered.
“Your age?” Bracken continued.
“Thirty-six.”
“Can you tell me what happened at approximately 5:00 A.M. this morning in the vicinity of New York Boulevard and 112th Road.”
“Yes,” Shea answered. “We were proceeding north along New York Boulevard when my partner drew my attention to two male Negroes who were walking south. They fit the description of a past armed robbery of a taxicab. My partner made a U-turn. I stepped from the vehicle with my shield and my ID card in my left hand and said, ‘Stop. Police.’”
For fifteen minutes, Shea recounted his story. Shortly after 3:40 P.M., he was excused, and Bracken summoned Walter Scott to the room. Cahill remained. Bracken advised Scott of his constitutional rights and led him through the early stages of his narration. Then the focus turned to the moment of confrontation.
“As Patrolman Shea identified himself, the suspects ran. I took my car and drove it to 112th Road between New York Boulevard and Dillon Street. About halfway down the block, I jumped from my car and went into the woods. At a point in the woods, I came upon Patrolman Shea, who was in pursuit of the two suspects. I was about five feet behind him, and I could observe the suspect in the white hat making a motion to his right side.”
“Did the suspect have his back to you at this time?” Bracken interrupted.
“Yes,” Scott answered. “Patrolman Shea then fired his service revolver, and the defendant began to stumble. As he stumbled, I saw the defendant hand the other suspect in the brown leather jacket a revolver.”
“You saw the individual put his hand to his side?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever turn around?”
“He was making a turning motion.”
“In which direction?”
“Towards Patrolman Shea.”
“And he handed the other individual a revolver?”
“He handed the other suspect in the brown three-quarter-length jacket a revolver.”
Masini looked thoughtfully at the witness.
Bracken continued his questioning. “What happened then?”
“At this time, I started pursuing the other defendant. I chased him around a tree and, when he was approximately twenty-five feet from me near a slight incline by an abandoned garage, he turned and fired a shot at me. I started to slow down and fired a shot in return.”
“What did you do then?”
“The defendant had started to pull away from me, so I turned and went back to my car and drove it around to Dillon Street. I
looked for the other perpetrator, but I couldn’t find him.”
“All right,” Bracken said. “Thank you.”
The interrogation over, Scott and Cahill left the room.
“One more to go,” Masini said. “Let’s get Armstead.”
Captain O’Brien rose to summon the witness. Almost as an afterthought, Masini realized that everyone in the room was white. “Why don’t you ask Harold Cannon to sit in on this?” he suggested.
Cannon and Armstead entered the room together. Not having been privy to the earlier questioning, Cannon was still under the impression that Armstead was the primary subject of investigation. The next thirty minutes were to disabuse him of that notion.
“Mr. Armstead,” Bracken began, “where do you live?”
“109-50 New York Boulevard.”
“Are you employed?”
“Yes sir.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a burner with a torch.”
Bracken moved quickly through the preliminary stages of interrogation to the moment of confrontation.
“He got out of the car,” Armstead said. “He said, ‘You black son of a bitch,’ and then he fired a gun.”
“He fired the gun while you were on the street?” Bracken asked.
“Yes.”
“How far away was he from you?”
Armstead looked around the room. “From here to that door.”
“How much distance would you estimate that to be?”
“I don’t know. I figure from here to that door.”
“About fifteen feet?” Bracken pressed.
“I don’t know.”
Masini made a mental note of Armstead’s refusal to guess at a number. “Were you facing him when he fired the gun?” Bracken continued.
“I turned around. He said, ‘You black son of a bitch.’ And then I seen he had a small gun in his hand, and that’s when I seen he fired.”
“How long did you see him?”
“Just a second. He said, ‘You black son of a bitch,’ and I seen he had a gun.”
“When he pointed the gun, what did you do?”
“I took off.”
“Did your son run with you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him fire the gun again?”
“No. I heard it.”
“How far into the woods did you get when you heard another shot?”
“Maybe about ten feet. And I kept running. Then I fell down and, when I got up, I heard another shot.”
“When you fell down, was your son behind you?”
“He was right in back of me.”
“Did you see what happened to your son?”
“No. I got to Dillon Street. And when I turned around, my son wasn’t there. And when I was on Dillon Street, I saw a patrol car and I told them, ‘My son is over there in the bushes. Somebody is shot.’”
“Did you mention anything about the shooting at that time?”
“Yes. I told them somebody is shot over there, and I told them my son is over there.”
Pausing periodically to collect his thoughts, Bracken led
Armstead through the remainder of the morning’s events.
“Do you own a gun?” he asked as the interrogation neared an end.
“No sir.”
“Did you have a gun with you at that time?”
“No sir.”
“Did your son have a gun with him?”
“Ten years old,” Armstead spat out. “No!”
“You don’t have a gun for protection or anything at home?”
“No.”
At 4:00 P.M., the interrogation ended. Armstead walked from the room with Cannon at his side and, at the detective’s behest, seated himself on a bench in the corridor. Of all the cops he had dealt with in the past ten hours, Cannon was the one Armstead trusted most. The detective seemed more like him than the others.
“Look,” Cannon said softly. “This is a stinking situation, and I want to clean it up. I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Do you own a gun?”
Armstead fidgeted with his hands. “Yes,” he finally answered.
“Where is it?”
“Take me to my job, and I’ll show you.”
The second floor of the station house had come to resemble a political clubhouse on election night with new pieces of information pouring in.
At 3:30 P.M., Captain Raymond Kenny of Emergency Services reported on a search of the lot and surrounding area by twenty men marching elbow to elbow with rakes and shovels. No gun had been found. The police laboratory advised Cottell that a neutron-activation test performed on Armstead earlier in the day showed no trace of weapon fire on the suspect’s hands. Four policemen returned from a search of the Glover-Armstead home. All they had found was a blackjack in the top drawer of the bedroom dresser. There was no sign of a revolver. Armstead’s police record was reviewed. In addition to the two convictions admitted under questioning, he had pleaded guilty to a charge of selling skimmed milk as whole in 1965.
Late in the afternoon, Shea’s personnel folder arrived from police headquarters in Manhattan. It showed 226 arrests in twelve years, twice the city-wide average. There was only one complaint against him on file with the Civilian Complaint Review Board—an unsubstantiated allegation of assault seven years earlier. But his record did reveal three previous shootings, one of which (Felix Tarrats), like the present incident, centered on a “missing” gun. Also on file was a summary of the alleged pistol-whipping of a fourteen-year-old boy.
Taking notes as they went, Cottell and Masini studied the folder. Toward the end of their review, they came upon several performance evaluation reports on Shea filed by previous commanding officers. In each instance, his bosses had rated him among the “middle fifty percent” of their men.
“Work quality good,” one officer had written. “A good team worker, always willing to share load. Judgment usually sound but has tendency to act without realizing consequences.”
“Patrolman Shea has an enormous amount of energy and drive,” a second officer had written. “But he has a tendency to act without considering all the facts. If energy and drive are channeled in the proper direction, Officer Shea has the potential to become an outstanding patrolman.”
“The energy and drive weren’t properly channeled,” Cottell observed ruefully.
“What were you doing out on the streets at five in the morning?
Armstead and Cannon were in the front seat of the detective’s car on their way to the Pilot Automotive Wrecking Company. He needed this case “like a hole in the head,” Cannon told himself. In slightly more than a month, he would be eligible to retire on pension. The last thing he wanted was a long, dirty investigation.
“I was going to work,” Armstead answered.
“Do you always go to work at five in the morning?”
“No sir, but sometimes I do. We only work half a day Saturday, and I had to go in early to get the crane started. Then, when the others get in, it be ready.”
“This gun we’re going for,” Cannon asked, “did you have it with you this morning?”
“No sir. No way I could have had it and it be at the yard now.”
Shortly after 4:00 P.M., they arrived at the Pilot Automotive Wrecking Company. A rusting chain-link fence cordoned off the plot. Behind it, piles of worn tires and burned-out cars surrounded a small, dilapidated shop. Taking a key from his back pocket, Armstead opened the fence gate and led Cannon inside. A second key unlocked the shop.
The building’s interior resembled a small garage, with stacks of tools and car replacement parts strewn across the floor. Having threaded his way through the equipment, Armstead stopped beneath a shelf and pointed up.
“There,” he said.
Reaching up, Cannon pushed aside a pair of brake shoes and found a small metal box. Inside was a leather holster and a .38-caliber revolver. Checking the bullet chamber, the detective saw five live cartridges.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“I found it under the front seat of a car.”
“Do you have a permit?”
“No.”
“It’s against the law to have this. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes sir. I was going to bring it in. But somehow I never done it.”
“Does your boss know you have this?”
“Yes. He lets me keep it. It’s never been no trouble.”
“It’s trouble now,” Cannon said.
At the station house, a half dozen reporters had gathered. Cahill telephoned his wife to tell her that he wouldn’t be home for several more hours, then went out to the street and put another quarter in the parking meter by his car. Shea sat in a room off the reception area with Walter Scott at his side.
“Don’t worry,” Cahill said upon his return. “One of the rules of police investigations is that they drag on forever. It’ll be all right.”
Charlie Peterson joined the group. “I don’t like it,” he said. “There are too many bosses here. I’m worried about Ortolano.”
Cahill nodded.
Eight months earlier, a New York City policeman named Francis Ortolano had been on patrol-car duty when he spotted a stolen car occupied by three youths. After he instructed the occupants to halt, there was a high-speed chase during which the fugitives ran a police roadblock, nearly killing a cop. Several blocks later, they screeched to a halt and fled. Ortolano (who had never shot at a suspect in six previous years on the force) fired three times, killing one of the fugitives with a bullet in the back. The victim was twelve years old, unarmed, and black. A predominantly white upper-middle-class grand jury had refused to indict the officer.
Thereafter, the scuttlebutt among cops was that the police brass felt it would have been better for “community relations” if Ortolano had been indicted.
“I don’t know what’s happening in all these conferences that are going on here,” Peterson said. “But I don’t want Tom’s future in the hands of this community.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Shea asked. “A reprimand?”
“A reprimand, or you could be transferred,” Cahill told him. “At worst, suspended.”
“It’s not fair,” Shea grumbled. “I was only doing my job.”
Cahill nodded as he had done before, but his mind was somewhere else. He was beginning to measure some of the cops who had made their way to the aging red-brick station house: Inspector Robert Johnson, son of a valet, black; Detective Harold Cannon, son of a laborer, black; Assistant Deputy Commissioner William Johnson, son of a carpenter, black; Captain Glanvin Alveranga, son of a cabdriver, black; Deputy Commissioner Roosevelt Dunning, son of an oyster shucker, black.
“We might have a problem,” Cahill said.
Upstairs, in a small conference room on the second floor of the South Jamaica station house, Thomas Shea’s fate was being weighed by five men.
As had been the case for most of the day, Chief of Detectives Louis Cottell was the guiding force behind their deliberations. With him were Hugo Masini, Roosevelt Dunning, William Johnson, and a fifth man—Special Legal Counsel to the Police Commissioner, Bertram Perkel. The remaining police who had journeyed to South Jamaica would have no further say in the decision-making process.
Perkel was the most recent addition to the group. Throughout the day, Masini and Cottell had been in constant telephone communication with Police Commissioner Donald Cawley. As their doubts concerning Shea’s story grew, Cawley had telephoned Perkel and asked him to join the deliberations.
Short, slightly built with fine brown hair that stretched below the nape of his neck dangerously past the point of being “mod,” Perkel had engaged in a profitable labor law practice for a number of years before taking the job as Special Counsel to the Commissioner “because police work seemed like fun.” He had a lean face, prominent nose, and slightly hungry look. While many cops considered him to be far “too liberal,” he did have a reputation as “a straight shooter.”
“If Perkel is going to fuck you,” said one cop, “he’ll tell you first. He’s honest that way.”
Speaking from notes taken during the day, Cottell reviewed what was known about the case. Shea and Scott, he felt, had been acting as good cops when they stopped to question Armstead and Glover. While not a complete match, the suspects’ clothing had been similar to that worn by the taxi robbers. Also, it was unlikely that Shea had fired immediately after stepping from the car as claimed by Armstead. In all probability, he had shot after the suspects ran.
“But that,” Cottell said “is where Shea’s credibility ends. Walter Scott could not have driven around the corner and run into the lot in time to witness the shooting, as both cops now claim. The transfer of a gun from Glover to Armstead is implausible. Shea’s entire story rests on the premise that a ten-year-old boy willingly engaged in a gun battle with two men who identified themselves as police. It just couldn’t have happened that way,” Cottell continued. “And according to Shea’s personnel file, this isn’t the first time a gun has disappeared.”
One by one, the arguments on Shea’s behalf were rebutted. The gun found by Harold Cannon at the Pilot Automotive Wrecking Company could not be the missing weapon. Armstead didn’t have time to run to the shop and back before flagging down Al Farrell. Armstead and Glover were not the taxi robbers. Frank Damiani’s testimony had established that. Moreover, Armstead’s record, while that of a petty criminal, revealed no tendency toward violence.
“A gun is a defensive weapon,” Cottell concluded. “And any cop who fires it for a purpose other than self-defense is acting as prosecutor, judge, and jury. Thomas Shea did not fire his weapon in self-defense. I think it’s clear from the record before us that a crime has been committed.”
No one responded.
Cottell looked around the room, then focused on Perkel. “Some action has to be taken,” the Chief of Detectives said. “But I want your assurance that the Commissioner will stand behind us.”
“He will,” Perkel responded. “What do you recommend?”
“We have to arrest him.”
“I’m not so sure,” Roosevelt Dunning interrupted. “There’s a good community-relations argument to be made for an immediate arrest, but I’d rather wait until the case is presented to the grand jury. A summary arrest will make it hard to get cops to testify, and it will be even worse for Department morale.”
“I agree,” William Johnson seconded. “With the evidence as we know it, Shea can be arrested later as easily as now.”
“That begs the issue,” Cottell answered. “When a cop breaks the law, he should be arrested like anyone else. I don’t believe in two classes of citizens when it comes to law enforcement.”
Masini sided with Cottell. The vote stood at two even. Two white cops in favor of a summary arrest, two black cops against it. All eyes were on Perkel.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” the Special Counsel said, rising from his chair. “I want to call the Commissioner.”
As the five cops caucused, Martin Bracken was in a quandary. At age twenty-seven, the young Assistant District Attorney simply didn’t know what to do with the powder keg he had been handed, and there was nowhere to turn for guidance. Albert Gaudelli (Chief of the DA’s Homicide Bureau) was on vacation. Thomas Demakos (Gaudelli’s boss) was not at home. Thomas Mackell, the former District Attorney, had resigned on April 23, 1973. And the acting head of the Queens County District Attorney’s Office (Frederick Ludwig) was nowhere to be found.
Bracken wasn’t even sure whether or not he had the power to arrest Shea if the cops wanted him to do so. Finally, after an hour of frantic inquiries, he traced Ludwig to a bar in Parkchester in the Bronx and conferred with him briefly on the telephone. Then, Bracken returned to the second floor of the station house, where Harold Cannon and Glanvin Alveranga sat in a small office near the main conference room, awaiting further instructions.
Shortly before 7:00 P.M., Cottell walked through the office door and approached Alveranga.
“I’ve got a job for you,” the Chief of Detectives said.
At 7:00 P.M., Thomas Shea, James Cahill, and Charlie Peterson were led to an office on the ground floor of the station house. The door was made of splintered wood painted green with an opaque glass insert. A small black plaque with the words “Commanding Officer, 103rd Precinct” in white letters was nailed to the frame.
The three men stepped inside, where Glanvin Alveranga sat waiting. Shea took a seat by the door, and Alveranga looked up from his desk.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Clifford Glover.”
Shea’s cheeks reddened.
“Give me your guns,” Alveranga said.
Shea didn’t move.
“Give me your guns,” the Captain repeated.
Shea reached for his service revolver, and Alveranga drew back.
“Don’t worry,” Shea said. “It’s not loaded.”
Alveranga took the gun and placed it on the desk in front of him.
“Now your off-duty revolver and police ID card.”
Shea complied.
“And your badge.”
Very slowly, Shea reached for the shield he had worn for twelve years—a small piece of nickel and copper alloy two and a half inches high and two inches wide. The crest of the City of New York was emblazoned on the center with a policeman and seven-teenth-century Indian on either side. Above the figures were the words “City of New York, Police.” Beneath them was the number 22737.
“Let’s have it,” Alveranga ordered.
Shea dropped the shield on the desk.
“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “I was out there doing my job, and now I’m being arrested.”
Alveranga shrugged.
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying to you, goddammit? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Still there was no response.
“You son of a bitch,” Charlie Peterson muttered, glaring at the Captain. “You’re enjoying this. Don’t you realize what you’re doing to this man?”
“It’s not the end of the world,” Alveranga answered.
“Not the end of the world?” Peterson exploded. “Not the end of the world? Look! I don’t care what your rank is. You—”
Cahill interrupted. “I’d like to talk with my client alone. Could we go outside for a minute?”
“I don’t know,” Alveranga answered. “He’s a prisoner.”
“He’s also a cop. He’s not running anywhere.”
“All right. But make it quick.”
The two men retreated to an adjoining office.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Shea repeated. “He pulled a gun, and I was scared. I didn’t want to be killed.”
“I know,” Cahill told him.
“I didn’t do anything wrong. What about my family? What about my job?” His words were starting to mix with sobs. “Oh, Jesus! What am I going to do?”
“Look,” Cahill said softly. “This is only the beginning of a long fight. Everything will work out all right in the end.”
“That’s what you told me all afternoon. They’re going to lock me up in jail.”
“Not if we can help it. There’s no nice way to go through this, but we can try toget you out on bail tonight. Compose yourself so they won’t know they’ve gotten to you. Then—”
Alveranga stuck his head into the room. “Let’s go,” he said.
Two detectives stepped forward and began to lead Shea away.
“Aren’t you going to put cuffs on him?” Averanga asked.
“No way,” one of the men answered. Almost apologetically, they escorted their prisoner out a side door to the street where a patrol car waited.
It was 7:30 P.M.
“Where we going?” Add Armstead asked the two cops who stood over him in the roll-call room.
“We have to arrest you,” one of them said. “You were in possession of a dangerous weapon. That gun you had hidden at work is against the law.”
Silently, the prisoner followed his captors to their car. At a court annex in central Queens, he was given a summons and desk-appearance ticket informing him that he had been charged with violation of Section 265.05-2 of the New York State Penal Code.
“This means you have to appear in Part One-A of the Criminal Court on May seventeenth,” the desk officer explained. “If you don’t show, a warrant will be issued for your arrest.”
Armstead nodded.
The two cops hustled him back to their car. “Can I go home now?”
“Where do you live?”
“109-50 New York Boulevard.”
“That’s too far out of our way,” the driver told him. “We’ll drop you off at Jamaica Avenue and Queens Boulevard.”
An hour later—frightened, weary, and cold—Add Armstead walked through the front door of his home. His children were asleep. In the living room, Eloise Glover sat with several friends.
“I been to hell,” Armstead said, walking toward Mrs. Glover. “But I didn’t do nothing wrong. I swear it. I loved that boy like he was my own. I wouldn’t have done nothing to hurt him.”
“Add,” someone said gently, pointing to a man standing in the corner. “This is Henry Blackman, Clifford’s father.”
Armstead straightened up and walked toward the stranger. “All these years,” he snarled, “more than ten years, you been walking around and never done nothing for that boy. There was a time he needed you, needed you bad. You didn’t come see him once. Get out of my home, mister. There ain’t nothing you can do for him now.”
Central Booking was a blur, too many people doing too many things. Someone grabbed hold of Thomas Shea’s hands and he was fingerprinted. Mug photos (full face and profile) were taken. James Cahill arrived and apologized for being late. He had been held up at the station house, trying to convince Walter Scott to go home rather than wait until his partner was released. Charlie Peterson telephoned to say that Bonnie Shea had been notified of the arrest by Art Monahan—a fellow cop, neighbor, and family friend.
Harold Cannon arrived and was handed a piece of paper headed “Criminal Court of the City of New York—Felony Complaint.” After inserting the form in a battered typewriter, he began to type: “Detective Harold Cannon, Shield #1174, being duly sworn, says that on April 28, 1973, at about 5:00 A.M. at 112th Road and New York Boulevard, Queens, the defendant Thomas Shea did commit the offense of murder . . . .”
Shortly before 11:00 P.M., Shea was taken from Central Booking to the Queens County Criminal Court, where Cahill, Charlie Peterson, and Robert McKiernan (President of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association) joined him.
“I came as soon as Charlie called,” McKiernan said. “It’s a terrible thing to take a life, but sometimes it can’t be avoided. The PBA will stand behind you all the way.”
A court attendant interrupted to inform Cahill that Judge Allen Moss was ready to hear the charges and set bail. Cannon’s complaint was read, and Cahill rose before the court. Briefly, he cited Shea’s family ties, financial resources, and long-standing employment as a cop. “Your Honor,” he concluded, “there is no chance that the defendant will flee the jurisdiction of this court. I ask that he be released without bail on his own recognizance.”
“I can’t do that,” Moss answered. “Bail is set at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
McKiernan stepped forward and offered a check drawn on the PBA account. “Your check is unacceptable,” Moss told him. “The PBA might decide not to authorize this man’s defense.”
“But Your Honor,” Cahill protested. “It’s impossible to find a bail bondsman at this hour.”
“Then your client will have to be remanded.”
Shea began to shake.
“Your Honor,” McKiernan interrupted. “I don’t want this man in jail. I’ll give you the deed to my home as collateral.”
“I’m sorry,” Moss said. “I need cash or a bond. That’s the law.”
Two correction officers seized the prisoner by the arms. Charlie Peterson reached out as if to intervene, then dropped his hands to his side. “This is the saddest moment of my life,” he said.
“Around midnight,” Thomas Shea remembers, “they took me to jail. All my life, all I’d ever wanted was to be a cop. All I had ever tried to do was my job. Never in my wildest dreams had I envisioned myself as a defendant in the criminal justice system. When they led me away, I kept asking myself over and over, ‘Why?’
“We got to the Queens House of Detention, and they made me strip naked for a physical. I didn’t want the doctor to touch me. His coat was filthy, and it looked like he hadn’t washed his hands. I guess that’s the kind of doctor who works midnights in a jail. He checked me for lice and stuck a finger up my rectum. Then they took blood. I was afraid the needle wasn’t sterile. After that, they brought me to a cell that was empty except for a toilet and a wooden bunk. There was no mattress or sheets, just one blanket. The blanket was gray. The toilet was caked with excrement and completely exposed to the other prisoners. There was no way I was going to use it. All of a sudden, I started imagining robbers and muggers and people I’d put in jail. I’d heard stories about cops who were sent to prison and what happened to them. I wondered if I was going to make it through the night.”
As Shea stared through the iron bars, a fellow prisoner limped toward him and held out a second blanket. Shaking his head, the cop stepped away from the bars and began to pace, back and forth, back and forth. There was no room to move. His stomach ached.
His mind was clogged. Inside his chest, something was building that would not subside. Choking off his emotions, Shea fought it as best he could, then slumped on the bunk in his cell and began to cry.
* Johnson’s experience was typical of New York “justice.” Only 10 to 15 percent of all persons arrested on felony charges in New York City are convicted or plead guilty to a major charge. The remainder have their cases dismissed, are acquitted at trial or, as is most often true, plead guilty to a misdemeanor. Almost 80 percent of all defendants accused of murder in New York City are allowed to plead guilty to a lesser charge and are sentenced to ten years in prison or less.