Murder is the most feared of all criminal acts. Once perpetrated, there can be no compensation, no revocation, no undoing of the crime. Murder trials are viewed by the public with particular fascination. And the Shea case, as described by one courtroom buff, was “a hell of a thriller.” Yet in contrast with the drama that would soon unfold, the first day of testimony, Friday, May 17, began slowly.
Bowing to the sensitivities of his assistant, Thomas Demakos permitted Albert Gaudelli to make the prosecution’s opening statement. Rising to his feet, the junior attorney addressed the jury.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have now reached the second stage of the proceedings. An opening is to tell you what the People intend to prove in this case. The defendant, Thomas Shea, stands before you charged with the crime of murder.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Gaudelli outlined the events of April 28, 1973. Reaching the crucial moments before the shooting, he declared, “When Add Armstead heard the car come alongside, he turned. He saw a man get out of the car. And he heard the man say, ‘You black son of a bitch.’ At this point, Add Armstead heard a shot. And when he heard the shot, he turned to his right and started to run into the lot. His boy was running behind him. He heard more shots, ran through the lot, and exited on Mathias Avenue. Then he ran through a yard and came out onto Dillon Street, where he flagged down a police car and shouted, ‘They’re shooting at my son.’ When the police returned to the lot with Armstead, they saw the body of Clifford Glover lying on the ground, mortally wounded. The boy died at 7:00 A.M. that morning from the bullet wound inflicted on him by Thomas Shea.”
Overall, Evseroff was relieved by Gaudelli’s opening statement. Nothing could change the fact that a ten-year-old boy had been killed. But the prosecution was assuming a far heavier burden of proof than expected. It was one thing to show that Thomas Shea had improperly fired at a fleeing suspect whom he mistakenly believed to be a taxi robber, and quite another to prove that Shea had exited from his car shouting racial epithets with his gun blazing. If Add Armstead was claiming the latter (and it appeared he was), Evseroff planned on having a field day with cross-examination.
As for his own opening statement, it would be short and to the point. “Madam and Gentlemen of the jury. On behalf of Patrolman Thomas Shea, I choose to tell you what the good, credible, believable evidence in this case will be.”
Speaking softly at first, Evseroff recounted the nature of Shea’s Anticrime assignment, followed by the report of the taxi robbery and Shea’s sighting of Armstead and Glover: “Shea jumped out on the curb. He had his ID card and shield in his left hand, and he said, ‘Stop. Police.’ And one of the two looked at him and said, ‘Fuck you! You’re not going to take me.’
“With that,” Evseroff continued, moving closer to the jury, “they began to run into this big lot, and Shea went after them. They zigzagged back and forth through the lot, back and forth with this policeman chasing them. And there came a time when Clifford Glover reached in the direction of his pocket, took out a black gun, and began to turn. And this policeman fired at him. Glover stumbled and handed the gun to Armstead—not his father, his stepfather—and Armstead continued to run.”
The groundwork laid, Evseroff raised his voice to a level just below shouting: “Mr. Armstead was to be arrested for attempted murder together with Glover, who was still alive. And then things began to happen at the station house. Groups came in from the community and began to protest. They spoke to many members of the Police Department, and there came a time when these leaders of the community spoke to an Inspector in charge of community affairs, and the whole picture changed. At that time, it was decided that Patrolman Shea was it, and he was arrested for murder. That’s what this case is all about.”
At the conclusion of Evseroff ‘s opening statement, a brief recess was called. Then the first prosecution witness, dressed in civilian clothes with a police badge pinned to his shirt pocket, took the stand.
“Raise your right hand,” the court clerk intoned. The witness complied.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“State your name and shield number.”
“Charles Fox; Shield Number 14107.”
The formalities completed, Demakos took over the questioning.
“Officer Fox, how long have you been a member of the New York City Police Department?”
“A little over ten years.”
“On April 28, 1973, were you assigned to the photo section?”
“I was.”
“And what were your duties?”
“I did crime-scene sketches.”
“And how long had you been doing that?”
“About seven years.”
Standing before the witness, Demakos elicited his credentials—formal training at the Delehanty Institute in drafting, hundreds of maps and sketches drawn for police investigations.
“Did there come a time,” the prosecutor asked, “when you were given an assignment to make a sketch in the vicinity of New York Boulevard and 112th Road?”
“Yes.”
“Do you recall when?”
“The week of May 12, 1973.”
“How many times did you go there?”
“Seven.”
“Will you tell the jury what you did when you went?”
“I was with a partner. We had a wheel that calibrates feet and inches, and we made sketches of features—houses, sewers, lamp-posts—in that location.”
“Did there come a time when you put those measurements on a particular drawing?’
“Yes.”
With the jury looking on, Demakos unfolded a large map drawn on a sheet of heavy off-white paper three by four feet in size. Drafted on a scale of one inch for every twenty feet, it depicted the lot, surrounding streets, sewers, buildings, trees, fences, and other features.
“Officer Fox,” Demakos asked, “will you tell us what this is.”
“A crime-scene layout.”
“This is the sketch you made as a result of the work you did in May 1973.”
“Correct.”
At the prosecutor’s request, the map was marked as Exhibit 1 and received into evidence. Evseroff cross-examined the witness briefly with regard to the fact that the exhibit portrayed some but not all of the underbrush in the lot, after which Fox was excused.
Two more prosecution witnesses quickly followed. Detective Robert Willis of the Queens Forensic Unit testified that, on April 28, 1973, from 8:40 A.M. till noon, he had photographed the shooting site. Five of his photos were admitted into evidence despite Evseroff’s objection that Willis’s use of a wide-angle camera lens had produced distortion.
Then Patrolman Heinz Graumann of the Police Department Aviation Unit recounted taking a series of aerial photos the same day. Six of Graumann’s pictures were shown to the jury.
Throughout the proceedings, Evseroff doodled on a lined yellow legal pad with a black felt-tipped pen. Shea looked straight ahead.
After lunch Demakos put six more photographs into evidence through the testimony of Detective Arthur Savarese, a police field technician who had visited the lot nine days after the shooting. Then court was adjourned, and the jury excused for the weekend.
During the day the temperature outside had risen to an unseasonably warm ninety-two degrees, five degrees higher than the previous New York City record for May 17.
“Don’t discuss this case with each other or at home with anyone,” Dubin cautioned as the jurors were excused. “Don’t listen to any radio or television reports. Don’t read any newspaper accounts. Don’t go to the scene. Just forget about the case and go swimming over the weekend. It’s very hot out.”
“Have a good weekend,” Evseroff told Shea as they left the courthouse. “Try to relax and don’t worry. All the prosecution did today was show the jury a map and seventeen photographs. Maybe it will give them a visual image of the lot; maybe not. Either way, it proves nothing.”
On the courthouse steps a reporter joined them. “Have you visited the shooting site?” he asked Evseroff.
“What are you, crazy?” the attorney answered. “A man could get killed in that neighborhood.”
On Saturday, May 18, while the defense team rested, Demakos planned for the week ahead. Assistant District Attorneys try scores of cases each year, often with little or no preparation. Legal memoranda are seldom written. One case blurs with another. It is not uncommon for a prosecutor to glance self-consciously at his notes during cross-examination to check the name of the witness in front of him.
But the Shea case was different from most trials. It was a cause celebre, and Demakos was not about to “wing it.” Even though the case had been handed to him on last-minute notice, he was determined that it would be meticulously prepared.
The previous weekend, Demakos had spoken personally with virtually every police witness he planned to call at trial. Sitting in his office on the fourth floor of the Queens County Criminal Court Building, he met first with Harold Cannon, then with the other cops in groups of three or four each.
“Look,” he told them, “I don’t like this case any more than you do. But police camaraderie and brotherhood go too far when they become disrespect for the law. You don’t have to put yourself out for this trial. All I’m asking is that you tell the truth. Just tell the judge and jury what you heard and saw.”
By and large, the cops were favorably impressed. Most of them had testified at the earlier grand jury proceeding and had been annoyed by what they perceived as Gaudelli’s over-aggressiveness. The junior prosecutor had seemed to want more from them than they were willing or abie to provide. By contrast, the low-key manner in which Demakos addressed them was more to their liking. And they pledged honest if not enthusiastic cooperation.
Now, one week later, the prosecutor was readying to meet with his key witness—Add Armstead.
On the morning of Saturday, May 18, settled in his office, Demakos leafed through a transcript of the trial’s first week. Three stenographers working in shifts were responsible for recording every word formally uttered in court. The attorneys had ordered “daily copy,” which meant that, the morning after each day’s proceedings, a typed transcript was available to them.
Finding nothing in the material that had previously escaped his notice, Demakos turned to a stack of papers on his desk. At Mark Frances’s request, Eloise Glover had forwarded a wealth of personal information to police investigators. Then Gaudelli had subpoenaed all Family Court records pertaining to the Armstead-Glover union. The story that emerged was not pretty, but Demakos knew it might come out at trial and he had to be prepared for any eventuality.
On April 4, 1967, a welfare worker named Sigrid Nambar had filed a neglect petition against Eloise Glover with the Queens County Family Court. In relevant part, the petition read: “The respondent mismanages the funds she receives from the Department of Welfare, and the children are not properly clothed or fed . . . The respondent uses excessive force in the discipline of the children in that she strikes them with a belt strap.”
Eight weeks after the petition was filed, Judge Peter Donoghue ruled that Clifford, Henry, and Darlene Glover were “neglected children” within the meaning of the law and ordered Mrs. Glover placed under one year’s supervision by the Queens County Department of Probation.
Flipping through the pages, Demakos read on.
On May 4, 1967, and then again on December 23, 1970, Eloise Glover had filed paternity suits against Armstead. The first suit was brought in connection with the 1967 birth of her daughter, Darlene. Armstead admitted fatherhood and had been ordered to pay eight dollars a week support money out of his fifty-six-dollar weekly salary.
The second suit, filed while Mrs. Glover was pregnant with Patricia Ann, resulted in an additional ten-dollar weekly judgment.
Clifford’s elementary-school report cards were next. They painted the picture of a child average in ability but having difficulty in learning to cope with emotional problems.
“Clifford is trying hard and is beginning to improve in reading and math,” his second-grade teacher wrote. “But he needs to improve his self-control when excited or upset.” One grading period later, the same teacher warned, “Clifford has been tearing up his work when angered. He must learn to control his anger rather than destroy when he’s unhappy.” The final trimester showed considerable gain. “Clifford,” the teacher observed, “is learning how to control his anger. He is proud of his school work. This is helping him to progress slowly.”
Turning the pages, Demakos saw an $871 bill from the McClester Funeral Home, that had been paid by a group of New York City civic leaders known as the One Hundred Black Men. A $184 bill from Mary Immaculate Hospital for blood, emergency-room treatment, and laboratory services had been ignored despite several demands for payment.
Shortly before 11:00 A.M., Harold Cannon arrived at Demakos’s office with Add Armstead. The prosecutor would have preferred to call his chief witness the previous afternoon, which would have enabled the jurors to ponder his testimony over the weekend. Unfortunately there simply hadn’t been time to prepare him. The next best thing would be to lead off with Armstead on Monday, when the jury would be attentive and fresh.
Sitting at a small conference table in the Assistant District Attorney’s office, Demakos and Armstead reviewed the Fox map and photographs of the lot that had been admitted into evidence. Then Armstead recounted his version of the shooting. In every respect, it was consistent with his earlier statements to Martin Bracken and Robert Johnson at the 103rd Precinct station house as well as his grand jury testimony.
“Are you certain that Shea fired a shot before you turned and ran?” Demakos asked.
“Yes sir.”
“That will be awfully hard for the jury to swallow,” the prosecutor pressed. “Isn’t it possible that you telescoped the shooting in your mind and that you ran before Shea shot because you were frightened?”
“No sir. He shot first. That’s the way it happened.”
By day’s end, Demakos was satisfied with Armstead’s candor but worried about his effectiveness as a witness. Despite being a decent hardworking man, Armstead was uneducated, bordering on ignorant. If he preached or rambled in front of the jury, it would be a disaster.
“I want you to listen to me very carefully,” the prosecutor instructed, “because what I’m about to tell you is important. When we go into court on Monday, you’ll be asked a lot of questions—some by me, a few by the Judge, and a lot by a man named Jack Evseroff, who will be after your hide. You’re going to be nervous. Most witnesses are. But there are a few simple rules I want you to follow.
“Listen very carefully to every question. If you don’t understand a question, ask that it be repeated or explained. Don’t volunteer information. Answer only the question asked and, if you don’t know the answer, say so. Sometimes ‘I don’t remember’ is the only honest answer. Don’t argue with anyone. Just be honest and polite. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
The two men shook hands. “I’ll see you in court on Monday,” Demakos told him.
Monday morning, May 20, was reserved by Justice Dubin for personal matters. The trial resumed at 2:00 P.M. Entering the courtroom, Evseroff and Shea saw a dozen reporters. Every seat was taken. Cops in plain clothes, elderly courtroom buffs, South Jamaica community leaders. An unusual number of black courthouse employees—clerks, floor scrubbers, and washroom attendants—sat unobtrusively in the back row. Despite being locked in a heated campaign for reelection as PBA President, Robert McKiernan was also in attendance, as he would be throughout the trial.
“This is where I belong,” McKiernan told a reporter. “Every cop in this city is behind Thomas Shea.”
Shortly before 2:00 P.M., court clerk James Higgins ushered the jurors to their chairs and readied himself to call the roll. One by one, as their names were called, the jurors answered, “Here.” Then Higgins exited out the door behind the Judge’s bench, reappeared moments later, and proclaimed, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Anybody having business before this part of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, County of Queens, step forward and you shall be heard, the Honorable Bernard Dubin presiding.”
On that note, Dubin entered the room. Once he was seated, everyone who had risen for his entrance did likewise.
“The People call Add Armstead as their next witness,” Demakos said.
“This is it,” Evseroff whispered to his client. “If he stumbles, they have nothing at all.”
As the hushed spectators looked on, Armstead walked slowly to the witness stand. He was wearing dark slacks and a light shirt open at the collar. In his left hand, he carried a peaked cap.
“Remember,” Evseroff told Shea, “no matter what he says, just look straight ahead.”
Armstead raised his right hand, and Higgins administered the oath.
Jesus, Shea thought. I’m on trial for murder.
Demakos ran into trouble at the very start of his questioning.
“Mr. Armstead,” he began, “you said you live at 109-50 New York Boulevard. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And did you live there on April 28, 1973?”
“Yes.”
“And how long before April 28, 1973, did you live at that address?”
“April 11th.”
“Of what year?”
“1973.”
Demakos shook his head.
“No. Before April 28, 1973, how long did you live there?”
“I wasn’t living there . . .” Armstead began slowly. “Oh! I’m sorry. I see. I moved there right after April 1971. I don’t know what month exactly.”
Evseroff relaxed. The witness didn’t even know one year from the next. No jury would ever convict a cop on his testimony.
Demakos pressed on.
“So you were living there from 1971 until April 28, 1973?”
“Yes.”
“And you are still living there; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Now on April 28, 1973, with whom did you live?”
“Eloise Glover.”
“Were you married to Eloise Glover at that time?”
“No.”
“Were you living common law?”
“Common law.”
“Who else did you live with?”
“Clifford Glover, Henry Glover, Darlene Glover, and Patricia Glover.”
“And how old was Clifford Glover on April 28, 1973?”
“Ten years old.”
Shea shifted uneasily. Evseroff glanced toward the jurors to gauge their reaction to the mention of Glover’s age, but their faces were inscrutable.
Demakos went on. “How old was Henry?”
“He was eight years old.”
“And the other two children, how old were they?”
“Darlene was seven; Patricia, three.”
“Who was the father of the last two children?”
“Add Armstead,” the witness answered proudly.
Slowly, with short simple questions, Demakos elicited bits and pieces of Armstead’s past.
“Had you been married before you went to live with Eloise Glover?”
“Yes.”
“And was your wife living at the time you went to live with Eloise Glover?”
“No.”
Rising to his feet, Evseroff objected to the question as “irrelevant.” In truth, his main concern was that Demakos would elicit sympathy from the jury and thus erase the stigma which might otherwise attach to Add Armstead and Eloise Glover living together without being married. The objection was overruled by
Justice Dubin, and Demakos continued.
“Do you have any children by your former wife?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Nine.”
“What are the ages of these nine children?”
“I don’t know, but from sixteen to thirty.”
Proceeding in low-key fashion, Demakos next sought to defuse the issue of Armstead’s arrest record by raising it before Evseroff could.
“Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“1965.”
“What crime were you convicted of?”
“Statutory rape.”
“Did you get any time for that?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Six months.”
“Have you been convicted of any other crime?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Having an unregistered vehicle with no insurance.”
“When was that?”
“1965.”
“Do you recall what punishment you received for the unregis-tered, uninsured vehicle?”
“One hundred twenty-five dollars or twenty-three days.”
“Did you do the time or pay the money?”
“The twenty-three days.”
The “problem areas” done with, Demakos moved to establish Armstead as a hardworking, gainfully employed man.
“Are you employed now?”
“Yes.”
“And where do you work?”
“115-05 New York Boulevard.”
“What kind of place is it?”
“It’s a wrecking yard.”
“And what do you do there?”
“I’m a burner.”
“And as a burner, what do you mean; what do you do?”
“I cut motors out of cars.”
“How long have you been working at this particular place?”
“Since 1963.”
“What days of the week do you work?”
“Five and a half days; half a day on Saturdays.”
“How far is this place of business where you worked from the place where you live?”
“Six blocks.”
The stage was set for April 28, 1973. Raising his voice almost imperceptibly, Demakos forged ahead.
“Was April 28, 1973, a Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you start to go to work that day?”
“Yes.”
“What time was it that you left your house to go to work?”
“Ten minutes to five.”
“And did anybody leave your house with you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Clifford Glover.”
After pausing to let the name sink in, Demakos continued.
“Had Clifford Glover been going to work with you before on Saturdays?”
“Yes.”
“On how many Saturdays prior to April 28, 1973, had he gone to work with you?”
“In the summertime, in the spring, he go every Saturday.”
Hoping to break Armstead’s concentration, Evseroff objected to the entire line of questioning as “leading and suggestive.” Again, he was overruled by the judge. “On April 28, 1973,” Demakos continued, “you said that you and Clifford Glover left your house about ten minutes to five; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you proceeded to go to work; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“By what means of transportation?”
“We walked.”
“Along New York Boulevard?”
“Yes.”
So far, so good, Demakos thought. The crucial moment was now at hand. “Did there come a time when you reached a lot between 112th Road and Mathias Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Now, Mr. Armstead, in your own words, tell this jury what happened on April 28, 1973, at the point when you reached the lot that was on New York Boulevard between Mathias Avenue and 112th Road?”
All eyes were on the witness.
“I was walking,” Armstead began. “I was walking, and I heard a car pull up to the curb. So I turned to my left, and I seen a man getting out of the car. He had his hand like this.”
“Like what?” Dubin interrupted.
Armstead lifted his right hand in a clenched fist. “Go on,” Demakos instructed.
“He said, ‘You black son of a bitch.’ I whirled to my right, I heard a gunshot, and I ran into the lot. About ten foot into the lot, I heard another shot.”
Evseroff began jotting notes on his yellow legal pad.
Demakos paused to let the jury reflect on the testimony, then resumed. “At the point you ran into the lot, where was Clifford?”
“In back of me.”
“What was he doing?”
“Running.”
“What happened after that?”
“I ran for the fence crossing the lot and fell. Clifford fell on my leg. Then I dragged up and ran outside across a street and into some bushes. A patrol car was coming, and I stopped it. They drove up and the officer on the passenger side got out and searched me.”
“And then they picked you up; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where did they take you?”
“Back to the lot.”
“What did you see at that time?”
“I seen my son lying on the ground.”
Evseroff objected to the characterization of Clifford Glover as Armstead’s “son,” prompting Justice Dubin to address the witness.
“By your son, who do you mean?”
“My stepson,” Armstead answered.
“Who do you mean?” Dubin pressed. “What’s his name?”
“Clifford,” Armstead spat out. “Clifford Glover, laying on the ground.”
For the next twenty minutes, Demakos led the witness through the remainder of the fatal day.
“Mr. Armstead,” he asked in closing, “When you left your home on April 28, 1973, at about ten minutes to five, did you have a gun?”
“No.”
“Did you have a gun when you reached the lot on New York Boulevard?”
“No.”
“Did your son hand you a gun after he fell?”
“No.”
“Did you say anything to the man who got out of the car on New York Boulevard?”
“No.”
“Did your son say anything to him?”
“No.”
“Did your son say to him, ‘Fuck you, you’re not going to take me’?”
“No.”
“Your Honor,” Demakos announced, “I have no further questions.”
Then, as required by law, the prosecutor handed Evseroff a copy of Armstead’s grand jury testimony and a transcript of the witness’s question-and-answer sessions with Martin Bracken and Inspector Robert Johnson. Because grand jury sessions are conducted in absolute secrecy, the defense team had not previously seen the grand jury notes. However, copies of the Bracken and Johnson interrogations had been “leaked” to Evseroff.
“We’ll take a brief recess while defense counsel reads the material,” Dubin said. “Be ready to resume in fifteen minutes.”
A trial lawyer’s job is to win. There are certain rules he is expected to follow, but it is not required that he be “fair.” Rather, his obligation to his client requires that, wherever legally permissible, he slant issues, appeal to prejudices, and suppress damaging facts to further his client’s cause. Whether working for the Legal Aid Society or in private practice, he is a “hired gun” paid to distort a case while protesting that his every act is motivated by the interests of justice.
Jack Evseroff was familiar with the rules of the game. He knew that, after a shaky start, Add Armstead’s testimony had been extremely damaging. Now it was up to Evseroff to discredit the witness in any way possible.
Normally, one of the best strategies available to a defense attorney in a murder case is to prosecute the deceased. “Dead men tell no tales,” goes the adage. In addition, dead men are unable to speak on their own behalf at trial. If a lawyer is successful in labeling the deceased a junkie, a rapist, or a Mafia hit man, the jury will come to believe that perhaps the killing wasn’t such a tragedy after all. Sympathy for the defendant inevitably follows. But the death of Clifford Glover offered no such opportunity. Outside of the Shea-Scott testimony concerning the alleged “black gun,” there was little to be said against the ten-year-old victim.
Accordingly, Evseroff chose the next best strategy—villifying the victim’s father, who also happened to be the chief prosecution witness against his client.
Cross-examination is considered by many trial attorneys to be their most challenging task. It requires mastery of the facts, yet must be spontaneously based on the just-completed testimony of an adverse witness. While Add Armstead was on the stand, Evseroff had noted the significant points of his testimony on a lined legal pad. Then, working feverishly, the attorney had underlined the points he wanted to attack, either because they were particularly damaging or because they could be easily destroyed. Now he was ready to launch an assault, starting with the notion that Armstead and Clifford Glover had no business being out on the streets at five o’clock in the morning; that contrary to the assertion of the witness, they were not going to work.
“Tell me this, Mr. Armstead,” Evseroff began. “You go to work five and a half days a week; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you work a half day on Saturday; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Now isn’t it a fact that it was customary for you to open up this place at about seven-thirty on Saturday mornings?”
“Sometimes.”
“Is it a fact that it was your usual practice to open up this place on Saturdays between seven and seven-thirty in the morning.”
“Sometimes.”
“Did anybody tell you to be at the place at five o’clock in the morning on April 28, 1973?”
“I told the boss I do that.”
“You told him you would be there at five?”
“I told him I come in early on Saturday morning.”
“But,” Evseroff pressed, “it was your practice on other Saturdays to open the place between seven and seven-thirty; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
The colloquy was hardly earthshaking, but Evseroff hoped it had planted a seed of doubt in the jury’s collective mind. Next, he dredged up Armstead’s criminal past, focusing on the charge of statutory rape, which the witness testified had earned him six months in prison.
“Now, you testified on direct examination, I believe, that you had been convicted of statutory rape?”
“Yes.”
“And I think you testified in answer to a question Mr. Demakos asked you, that you received six months in jail; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you serve six months in jail or was it four?”
“Four months.”
“So that when you answered on direct examination that you received six months, that was incorrect?”
“They gave me six months,” Armstead answered. “I got two months off for good time.”
“He didn’t give you four months, did he?”
“No, he said six months.”
Evseroff’s questions were not designed to ascertain the length of Armstead’s sentence (which he already knew), but rather to remind the jury that the chief prosecution witness had been convicted of statutory rape. Firing inquiries in rapid sequence, he pursued the matter for several minutes, frequently omitting the word “statutory” from his questions.
“Did I understand you to testify that, with respect to the rape case, you were given six months but in fact you only did four months; is that correct?”
“Right.”
“And you were in fact only given four months?”
“No, he told me six months.”
“Tell me this. Did you get six months or did you get four months for the rape? Which is it?”
“I put in four months.”
“Did the judge give you six months or did he give you four months?”
“When I was in the room with the judge, he said six months.”
Having milked the issue for all it was worth, Evseroff next moved toward the shooting, but only after another gratuitous swipe at the witness.
“Now there came a time as you were walking along New York Boulevard with Clifford Glover. Incidentally, you are not his father, are you?”
“No.”
“You live with his mother, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And had you ever adopted him?”
“No.”
“Did you ever marry his mother?”
“No.”
Letting the exchange sink in, Evseroff moved back to the shooting. “As you were walking down the street, what happened?”
“I heard a car pull up behind me,” Armstead answered. “So I turned around and looked back.”
“And what did you see?”
Armstead clenched his fist as he had done when questioned by Demakos. “I seen a man getting out of the car with his hand like this.”
“And, when he got out of the car, what did he do?”
“He say, ‘You black son of a bitch.’”
“And what did you do?”
“I whirled to my right.”
“And when you whirled to your right, what did you do then?”
“I started to run. “
“Did you see a gun in his hand at any time?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him fire a gun?”
“I didn’t see it, but I heard it.”
Demakos winced. Armstead now appeared to be saying that he had started to run before the shot. But more important, he was testifying under oath that he never saw the gun.
No sooner were the words out of the witness’s mouth than Evseroff reached for his transcript of the April 28, 1973, Bracken-Armstead question-and-answer session. Holding the pages aloft, he boomed, “Mr. Armstead, do you remember being questioned by Assistant District Attorney Bracken at the station house on April 28, 1973?”
“I don’t remember.”
Turning to page two of the transcript, Evseroff paused dramatically for effect, then began to read:
QUESTION: Were you facing him when he fired the gun?
ANSWER: I turned around. He said, “You black son of a bitch,” and then I seen he had a small gun in his hand. That’s when I seen that he fired.
“Did you see this man with a gun in his hand?” Evseroff demanded.
“No.”
“When he got out of the car and he had his hand clenched, did he have anything in his hand?”
“I don’t know.”
Several spectators exchanged glances. The point of the questioning was clear. Evseroff was pushing the idea that Shea had gotten out of the car with his shield and ID card, not a revolver, clenched in his hand. And Armstead was waffling, contradicting his earlier statement that he had seen a gun.
“Did he show you a shield?”
“No.”
“An ID card?”
“No.”
“Did you see a gun in his hand?” Evseroff boomed a third time, his voice reverberating off the courtroom walls.
“No.”
Pressing the attack, Evseroff turned to the witness’s “abandonment” of his “son.”
“When you turned around and you started to run, what did Clifford do?”
“He be in back of me.”
“Did you say anything to Clifford?”
“No.”
“Did you jump in between Clifford and this man?”
“No.”
“Did you make any effort to protect him?”
“No.”
“After you ran into the lot, did you turn around and see what happened to him?”
“No.”
“Did you make any effort after you heard the second shot to turn around and see what happened to Clifford?”
“No.”
“As you were running through the lot, there came a time when you fell; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Clifford when you fell?”
“He be in back of me. He fell on my leg.”
“And, when he stumbled, you got up and ran away?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t go over and help him, did you?” Evseroff thundered.
“No.”
“You didn’t stay there and protect him?”
“No.”
“You got up and ran; is that correct? “
“Yes.”
“You never looked back?”
“No.”
“Did you make any effort in any way, manner, shape, or kind to help him?”
“No.”
“Did you ever stop on the street or in the lot to see what happened to him?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was shot?” Evseroff roared.
“No.”
Again, the lawyer reached for his copy of Armstead’s question-and-answer session with Martin Bracken. After reading a portion of the interrogation that recounted Armstead’s flagging down Patrolmen Al Farrell and Tom Scott, Evseroff boomed:
QUESTION: Did you mention anything about the shooting at that time?
ANSWER: Yes, I told them somebody is shot over there.
“And,” Evseroff continued, “do you remember this question being asked of you in a statement made to Inspector Robert Johnson on April 28, 1973:
QUESTION: Where were you?
ANSWER: I was on Dillon. They came up, and I told them my son is shot. They said get in the car.”
“I don’t remember,” Armstead answered quietly.
Again, the inconsistency was clear. On April 28, 1973, Armstead had advised both Bracken and Johnson that he told the two cops Clifford had been shot. Now, possibly because he was ashamed to admit abandoning his son, Armstead was denying that he had known of the injury at the time he flagged the policemen down.
One of Evseroff ‘s best weapons as a lawyer was his voice. Speaking skills can be developed. But unless a person is born with the basic equipment, his oratorical prowess will never be truly great. Evseroff had the equipment. When he wanted it so, his voice rang loud and clear. Now he lowered it dramatically.
“You loved that boy didn’t you, Mr. Armstead?”
“Yes.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
The questioning of Add Armstead had lasted for three hours. At 5:00 P.M., court was adjourned.
Evseroff was jubilant.
“I don’t see how anyone can prosecute, let alone convict, a policeman based on testimony like that,” he told Cahill as they left the court. “It’s unbelievable. Add Armstead is nothing but an ignorant, uneducated, petty criminal. If it weren’t for the media, there would never have been an indictment.”
Cahill nodded. “It looks like we’ve got a winner.”
Inside the courtroom though, a different scene was unfolding.
“At first, I didn’t want to try this case,” Demakos told Gaudelli as the two men gathered their papers. “Now I believe in it as much as any case I’ve ever tried. That son of a bitch killed an innocent ten-year-old boy.”