CHAPTER 3

The trial had blossomed into a media circus. The private tragedy that had befallen the Belmont family had turned into a public spectacle. Centre Street was lined with satellite trucks, and Collect Pond Park, the tranquil urban green space that sits directly opposite the courthouse, had given up its serenity for as many as fifty camera crews, all jostling for position to get the best shot of the key players as they entered the building for their day of reckoning.

The first row of the gallery on the prosecutor’s side was reserved for family and friends, and Kylie and I sat down next to Jonas’s son and daughter-in-law, Evan and Trish. Next to them were five cops, all retired—Jonas’s crew from back in the day.

Normally, fewer than half a dozen court officers are on hand. Today, I counted twenty-eight lining the walls, and there was another contingent in the hallway outside.

Every seat was filled. Noticeably absent was Warren Hellman’s brother Curtis. Three years ago, Curtis was also responsible for the death of a young actress. According to TMZ, he picked up the woman at a party in LA and invited her to drive with him to his house near Joshua Tree National Park.

Starstruck and high on coke, she said yes. Two hours later, Curtis pulled over onto the side of a dark desert highway, yanked her out of the car, and sped off. Her body was found the next morning. Cause of death: snakebite.

The rest of the details were sketchy because he paid her family three million dollars for their silence, but the smart money says that he wanted sex, she said no, so he dumped her on the side of the road because nobody says no to the king.

It was Sonia Blakely’s decision to keep Curtis out of the spotlight. During the trial, she had painted a grim picture of Jonas. He was a failed father whose daughter grew up to be a hopeless junkie—a gun-happy cop who would rather settle a dispute with a bullet than with a law book. The last thing Sonia needed in the courtroom was for Curtis to show up and remind the jury of the evil that coursed through the Hellman family bloodlines.

Instead, she made sure that the gallery was peppered with Hollywood’s biggest and brightest. The entourage changed daily, and it had to have an effect on the jury. If these superstars support Warren Hellman, how bad can he be?

The bailiff announced, “All rise,” and the assemblage stood as Judge Mark Hollander entered the room.

I liked Hollander. He was fair, impartial, and less of a hard-ass than most. He took the bench. “Please remember that this is a courtroom,” he said. “I respect that emotions are high, but I will tolerate no outbursts from the gallery.”

It was a standard speech at the close of any case as charged as this one. The crowd was divided. No matter what the outcome, a lot of people were going to be unhappy. Outbursts were inevitable, and I suspected Hollander would bang his gavel, but he would let the crowd have their moment.

The jury filed in, and finally, the moment of truth had arrived. “Will the forewoman please read the verdict?” Hollander said.

The woman, a fifty-year-old professor at Baruch College, stood up. “In the case of the People of the State of New York versus Warren Hellman,” she said, her voice shaky, her pitch high, “we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”

Bedlam. The zero-tolerance speech forgotten. The rapping of the judge’s gavel echoed through the chamber.

Selma Kaplan, the prosecutor, who had done an outstanding job, buried her face in one hand and shook her head. I closed my eyes and felt that gut punch of emotions cops go through when they know the charge was good, but a person of wealth and power has beaten the system.

But Evan Belmont couldn’t keep his outrage to himself. He jumped to his feet, waving his fist at the jury. “How could you!” he screamed. “My father dedicated thirty-five years to protecting this city. And this is the payback he gets?”

Hollander had had enough. “Officers,” he yelled above the din, “remove Detective Belmont from my courtroom!”

Two officers approached. Evan held his arms up in surrender, turned, took his wife’s hand, and walked down the aisle and out of the room. Kylie and I, along with the five retired cops, joined him in solidarity.

We followed him out of the courthouse into the bright summer sunshine. A podium and a phalanx of microphones had been set up, and a swarm of reporters who now knew the verdict began yelling questions, none of which were worth responding to.

Evan stepped up to the podium, and the noise died down.

“My father always left this courthouse knowing he did the best he could for the victims he was representing. But today that didn’t happen for him,” he said. “My father did not go to Warren Hellman’s house that night to kill him. He went there to expose him, to tell him that my sister Vivian’s tragic death was on his hands and that he would dedicate his life to finding every woman whose lives Hellman destroyed, and bankrupt him in civil court. Hellman’s response was to shoot my father in cold blood.”

“Why do you think the jury found him not guilty?” a reporter yelled out.

“Hellman is a Hollywood showman,” Evan said. “He lied, and despite the prosecution’s brilliant job of refuting those lies, the jury bought it. My family and I are heartbroken, and I’m sure that many New Yorkers who knew and respected the legend of Detective Jonas Belmont are equally devastated.”

A barrage of questions, but Evan waved them off. He’d said his piece. Just as he finished, there was another roar from the crowd.

Warren Hellman and Sonia Blakely, flanked by a cadre of Hollywood royalty, exited the courthouse and walked toward the media frenzy.

Hellman, smiling, ebullient, took center stage. Two fingers of each hand were raised high in a V, and he stood there beaming, obnoxiously victorious, without a trace of humility or concern for the lives he had crushed.

“He got away with murder and he’s proud of it,” Kylie said to me.

He stepped up to the microphones. “This has been quite an ordeal for my family and me,” he said. “But justice has prevailed. I’d like to thank my attorney, Sonia Blakely, and her outstanding team, and I’d especially like to express my gratitude to the twelve men and women—a jury of my peers—who believed in my innocence. Thank you for giving me my life back.”

Bullets can travel faster than the speed of sound, so I saw the geyser of blood erupt from his neck a split second before I heard the gunshot.

Kylie and I instinctively hit the ground, drawing our pistols, scanning the surroundings for the shooter, and scrambling for cover before the next bullet ripped through the air. But there was no second shot.

“Thank you for giving me my life back” would be Warren Hellman’s last words. His life was over even before his body crumpled to the ground. And while we didn’t know it at the time, the assassin, wherever he was hiding, was already breaking down his weapon and following through with his exit strategy.

The crowd, conditioned by mass shootings over the years, ran for their lives. People in the courthouse evacuated out the back. Judges were secured in windowless offices. Within ten minutes, NYPD had locked everything down, and the area was secured.

There were no eyewitnesses who could help us pinpoint where the bullet came from, but half a dozen earwitnesses all agreed that it came from somewhere north of the courthouse.

A team of cops fanned out to canvass the area. Kylie and I zeroed in on the nine-story office complex on Centre Street between White and Walker. At least two dozen people were standing outside.

As soon as they saw the shields on our lapels, several of them pointed at the roof.

“The gunshot came from up there,” one man said.

“What did you see?” I asked.

“Nothing. But I heard it loud and clear. I was in the waiting room at the dentist’s office on the ninth floor. It definitely came from the roof.”

“Did you go up there?”

“Hell, no. I raced down nine flights of stairs. I’m an accountant. Going up there is your job, man.”

I nodded. I was going up there. But I sure as hell wasn’t going alone.