AFTER THE LUNCH RECESS, KARP led Officer Eddie Evans step-by-painful-step through the events leading to the murder of his partner, Tony Cippio. A narrative that had many members of the jury, as well as the gallery—at least those sitting on the prosecution side of the aisle—in tears.
“I was sitting on my lazy ass in the patrol car when my partner needed me,” Evans testified hoarsely. He choked up several more times as he described seeing the killer grab his fallen partner by the shoulder to turn him over. “He then stood up and shot Tony in the head.”
Karp hated to do it to the officer, who he knew blamed himself for Cippio’s murder, but he needed the details in order to do the “dovetailing” of the corroborating evidence he’d promised the jury in his opening statement. More would follow with other witnesses, the pieces interlocking, but it started with Evans.
Karp asked Evans if his partner had ever expressed any racist sentiments.
“Hell, no,” Evans replied vehemently. “Tony was color-blind. We were more than just partners, he was my brother and I was his. He would have given his life for me, or anybody, really . . .” He looked up, and with tears streaming down his face, he continued, “. . . and I would have given mine. I wish, God, how I wish, I could do it all over again and have taken those bullets for him.”
Wrapping up the direct examination, Karp questioned Evans about his meetings with Gilliam, Satars, and Delgado both at Cippio’s memorial service and the bar in Brooklyn. “And can you tell the jurors what led to your suspicions that these three rogue cops were behind the murder of Sefu?” he asked.
“It was obvious he was one of the guys they blamed for Tony’s murder and then the riots after that kid got shot by an officer . . . him and Mufti,” Evans said, nodding toward the gallery where the reverend sat. “It was too much of a coincidence that Sefu ends up ‘accidentally’ being left alone with a violent white supremacist and that guy happens to have a weapon. So that’s when I called your office.”
Nash, in her cross-examination, asked Evans only a few questions about the murder of Cippio. They were mostly to establish that he was not able to make a positive identification of the shooter, nor had he seen the gun clearly.
“I could tell it was a revolver,” Evans said, “but that was about it. It happened so fast, and I was running and calling for help.”
At that point, Nash suddenly asked, “Officer Evans, is racism pervasive within the New York City Police Department?”
Evans frowned. “Pervasive? No. Are there racists in the department? Yes, like any other segment of our society. But to be honest, I run into it more often from people on the streets than I do from my brother officers. We like to say that blue trumps black and white once you put on the uniform.”
“What about the white officers charged with the murder of Imani Sefu and the attempted murder of Reverend Mufti?
“Those officers do not represent the majority of officers at the NYPD,” Evans stated firmly.
“Nevertheless, a group of NYPD officers murdered one black activist, and conspired to murder another, because of their outspoken criticism of police brutality—”
“And they were caught and charged,” Evans interrupted. “I believe that one of the officers has pleaded guilty and the other two are still awaiting trial.”
Nash scoffed. “Do you have any doubt that those two are guilty?”
“I haven’t seen the evidence, but they deserve their day in court . . . just like your client.”
“Still, as you noted, one of them has pleaded guilty,” Nash went on. “He’s on the prosecution witness list to appear at this trial, probably part of whatever deal he worked out with the—”
“Objection,” Karp interjected, rising. “Defense counsel speculates and isn’t privy to whatever my office may or may not have done regarding the prospective witness. To be sure, once he appears on the witness stand, it will all become extremely clear.”
“Sustained,” Kershner replied. “Ms. Nash, please keep your questions on point.”
Nash rolled her eyes and turned back to Evans. “Okay, let’s stick with the fact that one white police officer has pleaded guilty to the murder of a black activist and the attempted murder of another black activist, as part of a conspiracy to silence anybody who speaks out against law enforcement. And if law enforcement is willing to murder black activists, why should these jurors believe they wouldn’t stoop to framing another?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Karp said, more forcefully this time. “Defense counsel is giving speeches, not asking questions. Even if there was one scintilla of evidence to support what she just said, and there’s not, the witness is in no position to answer a question like that.”
“I’ll overrule you, Mr. Karp. The witness may answer the question,” Kershner said.
Evans shrugged. “I guess they’ll just need to listen to the evidence and make their decisions from there.”
“Even if that means convicting an innocent man the system wants to silence, just like Imani Sefu and Hussein Mufti?”
Evans stared hard at the defense attorney and shook his head. “I guess I just have more faith in the intelligence of jurors than you do.”
Again, Nash looked stunned by a retort she hadn’t expected. But she recovered. “Or maybe you’re worried about what your white ‘brothers’ in uniform will say if you don’t toe the line. No further questions.”
Kershner raised her eyebrows at Nash’s remark but said nothing to her. Instead, she asked Karp if he had anything for redirect.
“Just a couple questions,” he said, then looked at Evans, who was obviously seething over the defense attorney’s remarks. “Officer Evans, are you angry about the murder of your partner, Tony Cippio?”
“Yes. Angry and sad, and I feel guilty as hell that I wasn’t there for him.”
“Do you want to see someone brought to justice for his brutal, cold-blooded execution?”
“More than anything.”
Karp pointed at Johnson. “Do you want to see that man pay for the murder of your partner?”
Evans scowled as he looked at the defendant. “If he’s guilty, yes.”
“And if he’s not?”
Evans frowned as he returned his gaze to Karp. “Then no. That would mean the real killer got away with it. I can’t think of anything worse than that.”
“Thank you,” Karp said. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Nash, anything further?”
Sitting in her seat, writing notes on a legal pad, Nash didn’t even look up as she shook her head.
“Ms. Nash, please answer so that the jurors, the court reporter, and I can hear you,” Kershner said crossly.
Karp, who had returned to his seat, scribbled a fast note for Katz to see: “Slowly the tide turns.”
Nash sighed loud enough to be heard throughout the courtroom. “No, Your Honor,” she replied just as irritably as the judge. “I have no more questions for this witness.”
“Very well.” Kershner peered through her glasses at the clock on the wall of the courtroom. “It’s two o’clock. It’s a little early, but do you want to take our afternoon break now, Mr. Karp, or call your next witness?”
Karp stood to answer. “If it pleases the court, now would be good. My next witness is a youngster, and I’d like to look in on him before I call him to the stand.”
“All right, court is in recess,” Kershner said. “We’ll reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
As the jury was being escorted out, Karp walked over to the door leading to the witness waiting room and left the courtroom. He took just a few steps down the narrow interior hall and opened the door. Basically, the room was barren with a table in the middle and several chairs placed about.
Nevie Butler was sitting with Tyrone, who looked frightened. The woman brightened when she saw him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Karp. Did you come for Tyrone?”
“The court is in recess for fifteen minutes,” Karp explained. “When we reconvene, we’ll ask for Tyrone to be brought into the courtroom by Detective Fulton. I just wanted to check in to see how he’s doing.”
Butler stood. “I need to visit the little girls’ room. So I’ll leave you two alone if that’s okay.” She took her grandson’s face between her two hands and looked lovingly into his eyes. “I am so proud of you. You’re going to be just fine.”
With that she turned and left. When the door clicked shut, Karp sat down across from Tyrone. “Are you okay?”
The young man shrugged. “Yeah, a little nervous I guess.” He tugged on his shirt collar and tie.
Karp smiled. “It’s natural to have some butterflies. Just answer the questions honestly and focus on what you know, what you observed, and you’ll do well. If you don’t know the answer to a question, or if you don’t remember, just say so. All you have to do is tell the truth, Tyrone.”
There was a knock on the door and Fulton poked his head in. “It’s time.”
Karp patted Tyrone on the shoulder as he stood. He then held out his hand, which Tyrone shook shyly. “Your grandmother is not the only person proud of you,” he said. “I am, and so is Detective Fulton, and I know if Officer Tony was here, he’d tell you the same.”
Although not all of the fear left Tyrone’s eyes, his face relaxed and he smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Karp. I’m doing this for him.”
Karp left and reentered the courtroom, taking his seat behind the prosecution table. After the jury returned, he stood and announced, “The People call Tyrone Greene.”
Fulton opened the door, and the young teen entered and stood for a moment blinking at all the faces turned toward him. He looked like a frightened rabbit about to turn and run, but then his eyes caught those of his grandmother sitting in the row behind the prosecution table. As she smiled and nodded, he stood up straighter and walked over to where the court clerk beckoned.
Tyrone was sworn in and took the seat at the witness stand. Karp’s telling the youngster that he was proud of him wasn’t just lip service. There’d already been one attempt to intimidate, even kill, Tyrone and his family when Big George Parker met his fate. And Mrs. Butler had reported a number of threats since the media released his name as a prosecution witness.
Marlene had assured him that her man with a dog was watching out for the family. And Clay Fulton said the precinct had stepped up patrols around their neighborhood. But he knew such precautions weren’t foolproof.
Nevie Butler had refused to move to a safe house or take her boys out of school. “This is our home,” she told Karp when he called to ask how they were doing. “And their schoolwork comes first. We are not going to be chased from here by cowards and bullies. Thank you, Mr. Karp, but we’re staying. Besides, we got some good neighbors watching out for us. We know how to take care of our own around here.”
Karp picked up a photograph from the prosecution table and walked to the witness stand. “Your Honor, the record will reflect that I am showing the witness this photograph marked People’s Exhibit 31 for identification,” he said, holding it up.
Karp handed the photograph to Tyrone Greene, who looked suddenly sad.
“Tyrone, do you recognize the person in this photograph?”
“Yes, sir, that’s Officer Tony.”
“Officer Tony. Do you know his last name?”
“Cippio. Officer Tony Cippio.”
“And how did you know Officer Tony Cippio?”
Tyrone smiled, though his lower lip trembled. “He used to play basketball with us at Marcus Garvey Park.”
“Who is us?”
“Just me and my friends from the neighborhood.”
“How often did he play basketball with you and your friends?”
Tyrone looked up at the ceiling as if counting, then shrugged. “Maybe six times. He just showed up one day and asked if he could play.”
“Was he a good basketball player?”
That made Tyrone smile and snort. “Not bad for an old white guy.”
“Old?” Karp queried. “How old would you say he was?”
“Well, not as old as you.”
The court burst out laughing. “Well, thank you for that reminder,” Karp said, laughing, too.
The interplay had done its work by loosening up Tyrone, who was smiling. But he stopped when Karp walked across the courtroom to stand in front of the defense table and pointed at Johnson, who first glared at Karp but then smiled at Greene. “And do you recognize this man?” he asked.
Tyrone nodded but didn’t speak. He blinked back tears as Karp gently reminded him that he needed to speak up so that the jurors could hear him. “Yes, he said his name was Nat X.”
“Let the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant,” Karp said. Then he walked back toward the witness stand. “He told you his name was Nat X?”
“Yes.”
“Was ‘X’ his last name?”
“I guess. That’s all he told me and my friends.”
“How do you know him?”
“He started coming around the basketball court. He wanted to talk to us about stuff.”
“Yes, we’ll get to that in a moment,” Karp said. “Approximately how long ago did you first meet the defendant?”
Tyrone looked at the ceiling to think about that, too. “Two or three weeks before Officer Tony was shot.”
Karp walked back to the witness stand and took the photograph from Tyrone. “Your Honor, I move to enter People’s Exhibit 31 into evidence,” he said as he walked along the jury rail showing the photograph to the jurors.
“Accepted.”
Returning the photograph to the prosecution table, Karp said, “You mentioned that the defendant wanted to talk to you about ‘stuff.’ What kind of stuff?”
Tyrone fidgeted in his seat. “Stuff like how white people hate black people. And that we had to stand up for ourselves and other black people. He said there should be a black America and a white America.”
“Did he say anything to you about police officers?”
Tyrone looked at the defendant and then back at the district attorney. “Yes, he said that we’re in a war and that police officers were the enemy.”
“Anything else?”
Tyrone frowned. “Yes, he said we had to protect ourselves from them and that they was enemy soldiers.”
“How often,” Karp asked, “did the defendant try to talk to you and your friends about the police being the enemy?”
“A few times,” Tyrone said. “He invited us to meetings, but we didn’t want to go.”
“Why not?”
“We didn’t . . . I didn’t like . . . what he was saying. I ain’t ever had any trouble with the police, and my grandma, she says they’re our friends.” Sadness washed over his face again. “Officer Tony was my friend.”
“How did the defendant refer to you and your friends on occasion?” Karp asked.
Suddenly Tyrone looked angry. “Sometimes he called us names, like ‘little niggers.’ That’s not a good word. We didn’t like that.”
“Do you know anybody who did go to these meetings?”
Tyrone nodded. “Yeah, my brother, Maurice, went. And he told me his friends DeShawn Lakes and Ricky Watts went, too.”
Karp nodded. “How old are you, Tyrone?”
“I just turned thirteen.”
“And how old is Maurice?”
“He’s going to be eighteen real soon.”
“How often did the defendant come to the park?”
“Sometimes every day. Then a couple of days would go by and we wouldn’t see him, then he’d show up again.”
“Did he come alone?”
Tyrone shook his head. “He was never alone. He was always with Big George and sometimes with another man I didn’t recognize.”
Karp walked over to the prosecution table and picked up another photograph, which he then showed to Tyrone. “Do you recognize the person in this photograph?”
“Did Big George have a last name?”
“Not that I knew.”
“Your Honor, let the record reflect that the witness has identified a photograph, People’s 32 in evidence, of George Parker as someone known to him as ‘Big George,’ and that he has seen Big George in the company of the defendant at Marcus Garvey Park on a number of occasions.”
Karp and Nash had butted heads at a pretrial hearing over whether he would be able to get evidence about Big George Parker into the trial. Kershner had ruled that he could ask his witnesses if they knew the man and where they knew him from.
However, as Nash had demanded, he was precluded from discussing Big George’s death at the abandoned house across from the home of Nevie Butler and her grandsons, his assault on Maurice Greene, and suspicions that he’d murdered Ny-Lee Tomes. The judge had agreed with the defense attorney that such revelations would be “too prejudicial” to the defense.
“Tyrone, did you see Big George at Marcus Garvey Park on the afternoon that Officer Tony was murdered?” Karp asked.
“Yes.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“He was with Nat X and the man I didn’t know.”
“Just so the record is clear, when you say Nat X, that’s the same person as the defendant, whom you previously identified seated right over here in this courtroom?” Karp pointed at Johnson.
“Yes, sir.”
“So when you saw the defendant with Big George, what were you doing?”
“We were playing basketball.”
“Where were Nat X, Big George, and the unidentified man?”
“They was sitting on a picnic table over near the 120th Street entrance.”
“What were they doing?”
“Smoking dope and—”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“Are you sure the three men you saw from the basketball court were those men?”
“Yes, they were there first and I walked right by them.”
“Did Officer Tony arrive before or after you?”
“After. We were already playing when he showed up.” Tyrone hesitated and shook his head sadly. “He brought us a brand-new basketball because ours wasn’t any good no more.”
“Did the defendant ever play basketball with you?”
Tyrone looked over at Johnson, this time with disdain. “No. He said basketball was just another way for white men to get rich off of black men.”
“Did Officer Tony have that same attitude?”
“No.” Tyrone smiled. “He said he was going to come watch me play in Madison Square Garden when I’m playing for the Knicks.”
“But first you’re going to play ball in college?”
“My grandma says she’ll tan my hide if I don’t graduate from college,” Tyrone said, smiling at Nevie Butler as the spectators and courtroom staff laughed. “So I guess I’ll have to go.”
“Might be good to have a fallback,” Karp said. His face grew serious. “I know this is going to be hard on you, but I need you to tell the jury what happened that early evening when Officer Tony Cippio started to leave the park after playing basketball with you.”
Tears welled in Tyrone’s eyes, but he sighed and did as asked, stopping to answer Karp’s queries during the narrative, such as when he got to the part where he’d warned the officer about the men on the picnic table.
“And you said you described Nat X to Officer Cippio and to me as tall and skinny with a scar over his right eye.” Karp showed a photograph to Tyrone and asked him to identify the person depicted.
“It’s him,” Tyrone said, pointing at Johnson. “You see the scar above his eye?”
“Have you seen this photograph before?” Karp asked.
“Yes, you showed it and some other photos of men to me. You asked me if I could identify the man who shot Officer Tony.”
“And did you do that?”
“Yes, I picked that photograph.”
“About when was that?” Karp asked. “Was there some sort of event that happened to fix the time in your mind?”
“Yes, it was after you got shot. I remember that.”
“So almost two months after Officer Cippio was shot?”
Tyrone shrugged. “I guess. I know summer was over and I was back in school.”
“And did I ask you to identify the man you saw shoot Officer Tony on another occasion?”
“Yes, sir. Me and my grandma and Maurice all came down to the jail. First me and then Maurice went into that little room and looked through the glass into another room at some men standing against a wall. They each were holding up a number. You said it was a one-way mirror and that we could see them but they couldn’t see us.”
“And did you identify the man you knew as Nat X from that lineup?” Karp asked.
“I knew him right away,” Tyrone said.
The teen grew more emotional as he described seeing the confrontation between Tony Cippio and the men who got up from the picnic table. “I knew there was going to be trouble,” he said, shaking his head back and forth. “I told him not to go near them. I told him they didn’t like police officers.”
“What happened, Tyrone?” Karp asked as he leaned on the jury rail.
Tyrone was silent for a full minute, wiping at the tears in his eyes. But when he looked up at Johnson, it was with hatred. “He shot him. He just shot him to death,” the teen said angrily.
“Who shot Officer Tony Cippio?” Karp asked for emphasis.
“HIM!” Tyrone yelled, rising partly from his seat as he pointed a damning finger at Johnson, who glared malevolently.
For the second time that day, Karp walked over and poured the witness a glass of water. Tyrone had reacted exactly as he’d hoped, but now he wanted to settle him down.
He turned to the judge. “Your Honor, for demonstration purposes, I would ask that Assistant District Attorney Kenny Katz be allowed to assume the role of the victim. And that the witness be allowed to leave the stand for this presentation.”
“Very well,” Kershner said.
“Mr. Katz, if you would,” Karp said, directing his co-counsel to the center of the court. He turned back to Tyrone and asked him to approach. They’d gone over it in his office so that Tyrone would know where to go.
“You’ve testified that Big George stepped in front of Officer Tony. So if I’m Big George and Mr. Katz is Officer Tony and he’s facing me, where was the defendant?”
Tyrone stepped up behind Katz. “Right here.”
“So demonstrate how the defendant shot the officer, please.”
Tyrone raised his arm and pointed his finger at Katz’s back. “BANG!” he yelled, loud enough to make some of the jurors jump.
Katz pitched forward and fell onto his face, then tried to rise.
“After Officer Tony fell to the ground, what happened?” Karp continued.
Tyrone stepped forward and grabbed Katz by the shoulder and turned him over. “Officer Tony sort of held his hand up and I think he was saying something, but I couldn’t hear.”
“What did the defendant do then?”
Tyrone again raised his hand and, standing over Katz’s prone figure, pointed his finger at his victim’s head and pulled the imaginary trigger. “BANG!” he yelled. “He shot Tony again in the head.”
Katz fell back and lay still. The impact of the demonstration was so vivid the courtroom was dead quiet.
“You may return to your seat,” Karp told Tyrone. “And you, too, Mr. Katz.”
The jury was rapt now and hanging on Karp’s every word, their eyes following him as he walked over to the prosecution table, where he picked up a paper bag. He returned to the witness stand. “Were you able to see the type of gun the defendant pointed at Officer Tony?”
“Yes, it was a revolver.”
“Any particular color?”
“Silver.”
“Was there anything else you noticed about the gun?”
“Yes, it had a shiny sort of white-silver handle on it.”
“How could you tell that?”
“Because when Officer Tony was facing Big George, Nat X pulled up the back of his sweatshirt and I could see it sticking up out of his pants. And then again when he pulled it out and when he ran past us.”
Karp reached into the bag and pulled out the stainless steel, .45 caliber revolver with the mother-of-pearl grip taken from defendant Anthony Johnson in San Francisco. “Did it look like this gun?”
“Yes, it looked like that gun.”
Karp replaced the gun in the bag and set it back on the prosecution table. “Is there any doubt in your mind that the men you walked past when you arrived at the park—whom you identified as Nat X, Big George, and an associate of theirs—were the same men who confronted Officer Tony?”
“They were the same guys.”
Returning one last time to the witness stand, Karp asked, “What did you do after you saw the defendant shoot Officer Tony twice, once when standing behind him and again in the head while Officer Tony lay defenseless on the ground?”
“I ran over to see if I could help. I held his head until the black policeman got there.”
“Was Officer Tony still alive?”
“He was making some sounds like he was trying to breathe,” Tyrone said, and stifled a sob. “Then he died.”
As Tyrone cried, Karp looked at the judge. “No further questions.”
Judge Kershner was silent for a moment and had to clear her throat before she asked Nash if she wanted to cross-examine the teen. The defense attorney seemed unsure at first but then gathered herself and walked swiftly to the witness stand.
“Good afternoon, Tyrone. May I call you Tyrone, since the DA did?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Nash smiled, though grimly. Karp knew she had to limit her questions; after all, her contention was that her client wasn’t even present at the murder. So all she could challenge was Tyrone’s identification as far as the scene and his conversations with Nat X, which is where she started.
“Did this Nat X ever try to get you to shoot a police officer?” she asked.
Tyrone shook his head. “No, he said we were at war with whites and the police were soldiers. And that we had to protect ourselves and our community. But he didn’t say, ‘Tyrone, go shoot a policeman.’ ”
“How far were you from the men sitting on the picnic table?” she asked.
“Pretty far.”
“How far is pretty far?”
“I don’t know,” Tyrone said, frowning.
“Well, the size of a football field, one hundred yards?” Nash asked.
Tyrone thought about it, then shook his head. “No, not that far. Maybe twenty yards?”
Nash smiled. “That’s a pretty good guess. What if I told you it was about twenty-five?”
“I guess,” Tyrone said with a shrug.
“The man that you claim was my client, Mr. Johnson, you said he was wearing a sweatshirt,” Nash said. “Was it a hoodie type of sweatshirt?”
“Yes. A black hoodie sweatshirt.”
“And was he wearing the hood up or down?”
“Up.”
“So this man you say you saw shoot the police officer from a distance of twenty-five yards, he was wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood up covering his face?”
“Not all of his face. And I saw him when I walked by before the shooting.”
“And did you then watch him the whole time you were playing basketball?”
Tyrone scrunched up his face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean did you ever take your eyes off of the man you first saw on the picnic table?”
“Um, I guess I didn’t watch him the whole time.”
“So someone else could have taken his place?”
“Objection,” Karp said, rising to his feet. “Sheer speculation, Your Honor, with no supporting evidence.”
“Overruled, Mr. Karp,” Kershner said. “I’ll allow it.”
“He was wearing the same black hoodie,” Tyrone said.
“How do you know? Have you ever seen anyone else wearing a black hoodie?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so. But he was with Big George.”
“Is it possible that Big George sometimes associated with other men who might wear black hoodie sweatshirts—?”
“Yes. But—”
“Please wait for me to ask you another question, Tyrone,” Nash said sternly. “Now, did this Nat X ever show you a silver gun with a shiny handle?”
“No.”
“So he never talked about killing cops and he never showed you this gun?”
“No.”
“I see. And the next day you went to the district attorney’s office and that’s where this whole story was put together, right?”
“No,” Tyrone said. “I knew what happened that night. You’re twisting things around.”
“Am I? Or is it the DA who twisted things around, put words in your mouth?”
“No, that’s not what happened!”
“And these photographs you supposedly picked out of lineups, they were shown to you by Mr. Karp as well, weren’t they?”
Again the youth looked at Karp, who couldn’t offer any help. “Yes, he showed them to me.”
“And lo and behold, you picked out the photographs of my client, a black activist who talked to you about the black liberation movement but never once talked about killing police officers or showed you that gun you just identified?”
“I saw what I saw,” Tyrone said defiantly.
“Yes, of course you did,” Nash said, “which was exactly what the district attorney wanted you to see! No further questions.”
“Mr. Karp, redirect?” Kershner asked.
“Absolutely,” Karp said, striding out into the courtroom and then up to the defense table, where he loomed over the attorney and her client. He pointed so that the end of his finger was close enough to Johnson that the defendant could have grabbed it if he dared.
“Tyrone, is this the man you saw shoot Officer Tony Cippio in the back and then in the head with a silver-colored revolver?”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure of it.”
“Thank you,” Karp said. “No further questions.”