In many respects, a criminal trial is like a game of chess. Each side is perpetually maneuvering for position. An attorney who stays on the defensive for too long will find that he has lost the capacity to attack. The boldest offensive thrust can be undermined by a slight strategic error. Each move must be plotted with consummate care. Thomas Demakos had built his case well. First, four police witnesses provided a visual image of the lot. Then the prosecution had played its strongest piece, Add Armstead, placing him squarely in the center of the board. The community witnesses were a failure. But Eloise Glover had earned valuable sympathy points. And more than three dozen police witnesses had strengthened Armstead’s testimony.
By contrast, Jack Evseroff had been forced into battle with an arsenal that was limited at best. His most valuable corroborative witness, Walter Scott, had been wiped from the board. The gun allegedly passed from Clifford Glover to Add Armstead had never been found. If the defense were to succeed, its strongest piece would have to be played immediately.
As soon as court resumed on the afternoon of Monday, June 3, Evseroff rose and announced, “If Your Honor please, the defense calls Thomas Shea.”
The atmosphere was electric. One of the oddities in criminal litigation is that the defendant tends to be forgotten. Witnesses testify, lawyers pontificate, the Judge rules. And all the while, the defendant sits and watches.
For three weeks, Thomas Shea had been obscured by a haze of legal proceedings. Few people had seen him standing in the courthouse corridor, gazing out the window during recess at pickets demanding his incarceration. Reporters had not been by his side when spectators pushed forward in the elevator, threatening, “We’re going to get you when your bodyguards are gone.” No courtroom observer had fully gauged Shea’s fear or the embarrassment inflicted by the snide observation of a Daily News reporter that the defendant had worn the same suit to court every day for three weeks. “I don’t have ten suits,” Shea complained to Evseroff that night. “I have one. That’s no crime.”
Court Clerk James Higgins administered the oath to the witness. Evseroff began his questions on safe ground.
“Mr. Shea, how old are you?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Are you married or single?”
“I’m married.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Yes, two girls, fourteen and twelve.”
“And what is your occupation?”
“I’m a police officer,” Shea answered proudly.
“Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”
“No sir.”
“Have you served in the armed forces?”
“Yes, in the United States Air Force.”
“How long did you serve?”
“Four years.”
Having introduced his client as a family man and Air Force veteran, Evseroff next moved to establish Shea’s credentials as a cop.
“Officer Shea, how long have you been a member of the Police Department of the City of New York?”
“Thirteen years.”
“In how many arrests have you participated?”
“Anywhere from seven hundred to one thousand.”
“How many arrests have you yourself made?”
“Conservatively speaking, approximately two hundred fifty to three hundred.”
“On the morning of April 28, 1973, to what unit were you assigned?”
“The 103rd Precinct Neighborhood Police Team, Anticrime.”
“Were you assigned with another officer?”
“Yes sir, Patrolman Walter Scott.”
“And were you in uniform or plain clothes?”
“Civilian clothes, sir.”
“Were you in a regular Police Department car or a private car?”
“A private car.”
Evseroff paused momentarily. The stage was set for Thomas Shea to tell the jury his version of events surrounding the death of Clifford Glover.
“Patrolman Shea,” the attorney urged, “if you would, I would like you, slowly, clearly, to relate to this court and this jury the incidents immediately preceding 5:00 A.M. on April 28, 1973. Tell us in your own words what happened.”
As had been the case with those critical moments earlier in the trial—most notably the testimony of Add Armstead and Walter Scott—the courtroom spectators were absolutely silent. Speaking in a strong, clear voice, Shea began.
“Well, at approximately 5:00 A.M., I was proceeding to the station house to continue an investigation on a car that had parts taken from the front but hadn’t been reported stolen yet. I was the passenger. Patrolman Scott was driving. In the vicinity of 112th Road and Mathias Avenue, my partner pointed to two black males proceeding south-bound and said, ‘Those are the two from the taxicab stickup.”
“Did you look in the direction in which he was pointing?” Evseroff interrupted.
“Yes sir.”
“And what did you see?”
“I saw two black males, one wearing a brown three-quarter-length leather jacket, the other wearing a yellow jacket and a white floppy-type hat.”
“As you looked at these individuals, did you ascertain their ages?”
“No sir.”
“Did you know that one of them was ten years old?”
“Definitely not.”
Demakos and Gaudelli sat side by side, taking notes as the witness spoke.
Evseroff forged ahead.
“What is the next thing that happened?”
“I reached into my pocket and took out my shield and ID card. We pulled abreast of the individuals, and I started to exit from the car with my shield and card in my left hand. I said, ‘Stop. Police,’ and the individual on the right said, ‘Fuck you, you’re not taking me.’”
“Do you know the identity of that individual?”
“Yes sir, Clifford Glover.”
“What is the next thing that happened?”
“The two individuals started to run, and I chased them into a lot.”
“Had you taken your gun out?”
“Yes,” Shea answered. “After the individual said, ‘Fuck you, you’re not taking me,’ I drew my revolver.”
The most important moment of the trial was at hand. Thomas Shea’s fate would rest on whether or not the jurors believed his answers to the next half dozen questions.
“When they went into the lot,” Evseroff pressed, “did they take any particular direction?”
“They ran in more or less a zigzag fashion.”
“As you were pursuing them, what happened?”
Shea took a deep breath.
“The individual in the white hat and the yellow jacket slowed down and made a motion to the front of his body. As his arm returned, I saw what I believed to be a revolver. I brought my revolver up and, as it cleared my body, fired.”
“How many shots?”
“Three.”
“What was the next thing you observed?”
“The individual staggered forward and passed the revolver to the other individual.”
“With which hand?”
“He handed it out with both hands,” Shea said, thrusting his arms forward as Walter Scott had done before the jury six days earlier.
Evseroff’s remaining questions dealt largely with backup police units arriving on the scene and the presence of certain unnamed community members at the 103rd Precinct station house just prior to Shea’s arrest. Then the attorney closed with a flourish.
“Patrolman Shea, in the course of this occurrence, did you ever intend to do anything other than your job?”
“No sir.”
“Did you believe that Clifford Glover had a gun?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you believe that he was going to use that gun against you?”
“Yes sir.”
“I have no further questions.”
The direct examination of Thomas Shea had taken slightly less than fifteen minutes.
“He looks like an angel,” Cahill whispered as Evseroff took a seat beside him.
“Yeah,” the attorney answered, casting a glance at Demakos, who was already on his feet to begin cross-examination. “But let’s see how he does under fire.”
The anticipated barrage never materialized.
Demakos had used his best ammunition in interrogating Walter Scott. Relying on the transcript of that confrontation, Evseroff had prepared his client well.
One by one, the prosecutor fired his major salvos: Clifford Glover had been shot square in the back; the transfer of the alleged black gun appeared more implausible with every recitation; Add Armstead had flagged down the first police car he saw after the shooting. In each instance, Shea held firm to his earlier testimony. The only new ground Demakos broke concerned Shea’s 1972 shooting of Felix Tarrats.
“What were the circumstances under which you used your gun then?” the prosecutor pressed.
“I was on patrol,” Shea answered. “My brother officer and I observed two individuals come out of a building, look both ways, and start to run. Then another individual came running out of the same building, blood coming from his hand, yelling, ‘Holdup, holdup’ I proceeded to chase one of the individuals, and he let one round go in my direction.”
“You saw a gun?” Demakos interrupted.
“That’s correct.”
“You saw the flash?”
“Yes sir. So I put my revolver over my head and fired one round in the air, yelling ‘Stop. Police.’ Tarrats continued to run and, at a point on 84th Street when he started to turn behind a car, I fired one shot and struck him in the neck.”
“You shot him in the neck?”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you find a gun on that individual?” Demakos demanded, his voice rising for one of the few times during the course of trial.
“No sir.”
“Did you charge that individual with attempted murder?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened?”
“The case was dismissed,” Shea admitted.
“No gun was found on that individual either, was it?”
“Objection,” Evseroff interrupted. “The question has already been asked and answered.
“Objection sustained,” Dubin informed the attorneys.
“You were beautiful,” Evseroff told Shea when the day was done. “You came across as decent, forthright, and honest.”
“Was I that good?” Shea asked.
“Yes. And I’ll tell you something else,” the attorney chortled. “You came across as one hundred percent cop.”
Evseroff’s assessment was correct. Shea had been an effective witness. But unless the jury’s view of Walter Scott were altered, the defense would still be in trouble.
On the morning of Tuesday, June 4, two witnesses designed to rehabilitate Scott’s credibility were called to the stand.
The first was a PBA attorney named Anthony Buffalano. One year earlier, Buffalano had accompanied Scott to the District Attorney’s office just prior to the cop’s grand jury testimony. The afternoon had been ugly. Bitter words had been exchanged as Albert Gaudelli ridiculed Scott’s claim of having seen Clifford Glover pass a black gun to Add Armstead. Now, over Demakos’s stiff objection, Dubin allowed Buffalano to testify with regard to the confrontation.
“Mr. Buffalano,” Evseroff began, “what is your occupation?”
“I am an attorney for the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association.”
“Do you know a man by the name of Patrolman Walter Scott?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Did there come a time on May 18, 1973, when you went somewhere in connection with Walter Scott?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To the office of Mr. Gaudelli.”
“Did you see Mr. Gaudelli?”
“I did.”
“Were you there with Patrolman Scott?”
“Yes.”
In a highly unusual maneuver, Evseroff was about to attack the integrity of a fellow attorney in open court.
“Would you relate to the court and jury what was said?”
“Yes sir,” Buffalano answered. “Mr. Gaudelli at that time was Chief of the Homicide Bureau. He stated that he would like to hear from Police Officer Scott a certain story. If Police Officer Scott did not tell him that story, Officer Scott would be fired.”
“Did Mr. Gaudelli say what story he wanted?”
“A story that would be beneficial to the District Attorney’s office.”
“What if anything was said to Scott with respect to prosecution?”
“Mr. Gaudelli said that Police Officer Scott would be prosecuted if he did not tell that certain story to the District Attorney’s office.”
“Did Scott tell him that certain story?”
“No sir, he did not.”
“I have no further questions,” Evseroff said.
Walter Scott—victim of official persecution because he had held his ground. On cross-examination Demakos attacked immediately.
“Mr. Buffalano,” he snapped, “you are implying that Mr. Gaudelli asked Scott to commit perjury; isn’t that a fact?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you complain to anybody about Mr. Gaudelli’s attitude?”
“Yes, I did.”
“To whom?”
“To Mr. McKiernan, the President of the PBA.”
“How about the District Attorney himself [Michael Armstrong]?”
“I did not.”
“Did you complain to the Bar Association?”
“I believe our office decided against going to the Bar Association.”
“Why?”Demakos roared. “Isn’t it because Scott was, in fact, lying?”
Buffalano didn’t answer.
“I have no further questions,” the prosecutor said.
“Next witness,” Dubin ordered.
On signal from Evseroff, Sergeant Thomas Donohue took the stand. Thirteen days earlier Donohue had testified as a witness for the prosecution, recounting his post-shooting conversation with Thomas Shea. Now, in an effort to erase the stigma of the infamous tape, Evseroff planned to pursue a different line of questioning.
“Sergeant Donohue,” the defense attorney began, “you responded to this particular lot on New York Boulevard and 112th Road on April 28, 1973, did you not?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did there come a time when you were in that lot and saw Clifford Glover?”
“Yes sir,” Donohue answered. “He was lying on the ground.”
“And when you saw Clifford Glover on the ground, did you have a conversation with him?”
“Yes.”
“What was said?”
Donohue looked around the courtroom, then back at Evseroff.
“Glover said to me, ‘I’m dying,’ and I said, ‘That’s right, you little fuck; you’re dying.’”
“Did that take place about five minutes after five?”
“Yes sir.”
“Thank you so much.”
It was a “good try” that didn’t work. Demakos was on his feet immediately to cross-examine the witness.
“Sergeant Donohue,” the prosecutor demanded, “did you have a walkie-talkie with you that day?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And when you were standing over the boy, what was it you said?”
“‘That’s right, you little fuck, you’re dying.’”
“Not ‘Die, you little fuck’?”
“No sir.”
“Are you sure of that?” Demakos pressed.
“Yes sir.”
“The epithet came over the transmitter immediately after a green Javelin was mentioned,” the prosecutor reminded the witness. “Do you recall anybody saying, ‘Come over to Dillon Street, you’ll see a green Javelin or something’?”
“I remember the green Javelin being mentioned,” Donohue answered. “
When did you first hear that?”
“Somewhere along New York Boulevard en route to the scene.”
“So, when the green Javelin was mentioned, you were still in the car; is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
Demakos had made his point. Contrary to the red herring that Evseroff had sought to insert into the proceedings, it was not Donohue who had uttered the words “Die, you little fuck.” It had been Walter Scott. Thomas Donohue, whom Captain Glanvin Alveranga had once called “one of my brightest, most competent men,” had sullied his own reputation for naught. In a matter of months, he would be transferred from Queens to a precinct in Brooklyn.
The remainder of the day passed quickly.
Detectives Angelo Sollecitto, Michael Studdert, and Henry Sephton (who had interviewed community witnesses in the after-math of the shooting) testified to contradictions in the testimony of Marie Young, Helen Kelly, and Doris Lyons.
Lieutenant Joseph Kossmann and Executive Officer Louis Troiano of the 103rd Precinct confirmed that Armstead was considered a prisoner rather than an innocent victim when first brought to the 103rd Precinct station house. Detective William Burke recounted arresting Armstead for illegal possession of a dangerous weapon. Then Sergeant Charles De Rienzo (the Supervisor of Queens Central Booking) told the jury that, because of intervention by high-ranking police officials, Armstead was given a desk-appearance ticket rather than being fingerprinted and arraigned.
Evseroff’s purpose in calling the latter four witnesses was to demonstrate that, were it not for community pressure and intervention by the police brass, Armstead, not Shea, would have been indicted.
Shortly before 5:00 P.M., court was adjourned. It had been an ugly day filled with venom. As a rule, lawyers seek to keep personal animosity to a minimum. They may rant and rave for jury consumption. But when the battle is done, they remain friends.
Something different though, had happened in the case of Thomas Shea. The attorneys were developing a genuine dislike for each other, and their mutual antagonism was spilling over into the trial proceedings.
For Albert Gaudelli, the escalation of hostilities was a particularly bitter pill to swallow. From the inception of the Shea case on, he had received hate mail accusing him of “coddling niggers.”
“Dear Sir,” one letter read. “It makes my blood boil when I see how niggers are getting away with murder. That policeman was doing his duty. What was that nigger child doing out at five o’clock in the morning? Of course, you are afraid for your life if you don’t convict the policeman.”
That particular letter, like most of its counterparts, had been unsigned.
Gaudelli was able to dismiss it as the work of a crank. But other attacks were more difficult to endure. One week into the trial, PBA President Robert McKiernan had told a reporter, “The District Attorney’s office has bowed to anarchy and fear. Thomas Demakos and Albert Gaudelli have become symbols of shame.”
The irony of the situation was clear. Several years earlier, Gaudelli had prosecuted two black men for the murder of a policeman shot and killed during a South Jamaica liquor store holdup. Both men were sentenced to die in the electric chair, although their sentences were later reduced to twenty-five years to life by an appellate tribunal. Thereafter Gaudelli had been presented with a plaque that still hung on his office wall. Painstakingly penned in black, red, and gold letters, it read:
PBA Certificate of Honor to
ALBERT A. GAUDELLI
Assistant District Attorney
Homicide Bureau, Queens County
In appreciation of his conscientious,
courageous, prosecution of the murderers
of Patrolman Kenneth Nugent.
Robert M. Mckiernan
PRESIDENT
On Wednesday, June 5, the final phase of the defense case began. Just prior to the trial, Evseroff had instructed Shea to compile a list of co-workers and friends who would be willing to testify as “character witnesses.”
“I want all types of people,” Evseroff instructed. “Cops, lawyers, priests, Italians, Jews, and as many blacks and Puerto Ricans as you can find who are willing to speak out on your behalf.”
On Wednesday morning, the parade of character witnesses began. Detective Edward Harrop was the first.
“How old are you, sir,” Evseroff asked.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Are you married or single?”
“Married.”
“How long have you been a member of the Police Department of the City of New York?”
“Since May 1, 1961.”
“Do you know the defendant in this case, Patrolman Thomas Shea?”
“I do,” Harrop answered, “from working and socializing with him.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Since September 1961.”
“Do you know other people who know him?”
“I do.”
“Have you ever had occasion to discuss Patrolman Shea’s reputation for truth, honesty, and peaceableness with these other people who know him?”
“Yes sir,” Harrop answered.
“And what is that reputation?”
“Good.”
Harrop’s direct examination took less than two minutes. On cross-examination, Demakos reminded the witness (and jury) that Shea had shot a man named Felix Tarrats in the neck in a similar incident and had allegedly pistol-whipped a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Had you heard that?” the prosecutor snapped.
“Only what I read in the paper,” Harrop answered.
“Would your opinion be changed as to this defendant’s reputation for peaceableness if you had known that?”
“No sir.”
Harrop was followed to the stand by a Catholic priest named Ernest Reardon, Jack Lynch (a thirty-five-year-old insurance salesman and former neighbor of Shea’s) and Lynch’s wife, Kathy. In each instance, as he would do over the next two days, Evseroff elicited cursory biographical information about the witness and then posed six questions: Do you know Thomas Shea? How long have you known him? How did you come to know him? Do you know other people who know him? Have you ever had occasion to discuss his reputation for truth, honesty, and peaceableness with these other people? What is that reputation? Invariably, the final question was answered, “Good,” “Of the highest order,” “Very good.”
Then Demakos would cross-examine each witness, asking two questions with regard to Shea’s “reputation”: “Did you know that, in April 1972, this defendant shot a suspect he was pursuing in the neck, claiming this suspect had fired a shot at him, and that no gun was found at that time either? Did you know that this defendant is alleged to have pistol-whipped a fourteen-year-old boy?”
The day’s fifth character witness was Lieutenant James Gaines—a twenty-six-year veteran of the force, who had known Shea since 1966. Gaines was black.
He was followed to the stand by Ron DeVito (a PBA delegate from the 103rd Precinct), William Meyer (a production control manager for the Potter Instrument Company), George Mims (a black police detective assigned to the 103rd Precinct), Vincent and Christine Nyholm (former neighbors), and Lieutenant Charles Mancuso, who had been Shea’s boss in the Brooklyn North Task Force.
“If he wasn’t peaceable,” Mancuso declared, “he couldn’t have been in my outfit. We had to operate in areas where there were riot-type situations. If Tom was the type that lost his head, I would never have had him in the outfit.”
After a lunch recess, ten more witnesses, including a black patrolman named Carl Hackett, testified to Shea’s “good character.”
On Thursday morning the parade picked up again.
“He’s a very truthful and honest person, a capable officer,” declared Patrolman William Cutter of the 103rd Precinct. Cutter’s words were echoed by Detective Victor Ortiz, who had befriended Shea thirteen years earlier at the Police Academy and later become a key figure in the Department’s efforts to recruit more Puerto Ricans for the force. Another officer of Puerto Rican descent (Detective Jose Ramirez) testified that he and his family had stayed overnight at Shea’s home and that the defendant was definitely not a racist. “His reputation is above reproach,” declared Detective Stephen Moriarty, a twenty-year police veteran.
At the close of Moriarty’s testimony, Evseroff motioned for Demakos to approach the Judge’s bench and, out of earshot of the jury, complained, “If Your Honor please, there is a man with a big Afro hairdo sitting in the back of this courtroom who is laughing as I question each witness.”
“I didn’t notice him,” Dubin said.
Evseroff stood rigid with his back to the spectators.
“Directly in line from where I’m standing,” he said. “On this side of the courtroom. At this point, I’m not asking Your Honor to exclude anybody from the court. I’m just asking you to observe what I say.”
“All right,” Dubin answered. “If necessary, I’ll admonish him.
Let’s get on with the proceedings.”
More character witnesses followed. By and large, their testimony was predictable. But on several occasions, it was apparent that the defense had come dangerously close to overreaching in finding people willing to testify on Shea’s behalf.
“You are assigned to the 103rd Precinct, are you not?” Evseroff asked Patrolman Abraham Jenkins.
“Yes.”
“Do you know Patrolman Thomas Shea?”
“I can’t say that I know him,” Jenkins answered. “I’ve seen him.”
“Do you know him to speak to?”
“Maybe speaking, passing by, but I don’t know him.”
“Have you ever had occasion to discuss with other police officers who know him, his reputation for truth, honesty, and peaceableness?”
“No,” Jenkins answered.
“Have you ever heard anything bad about him?” Evseroff asked in desparation.
“No.”
By 4:00 P.M., a total of forty-seven character witnesses had been called over the two-day period. Eight of them black and three Puerto Rican. The final defense witness was Patrolman Terry Salley—a black cop who had been Shea’s partner on April 4, 1968, the night Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. Shea and Salley had been on crowd control duty when a police rookie facing his first riot situation panicked and fired several shots in their direction. Shea had knocked Salley to the ground, possibly saving his life.
“Have you had occasion to discuss with other policemen who know Patrolman Shea, his reputation for truth, honesty, and peaceableness?” Evseoff asked.
“Yes,” Salley answered.
“And what is that reputation?”
“Good.”
Salley was excused, and Evseroff looked up toward the bench.
“If Your Honor please, the defendant, Patrolman Thomas Shea, rests.”