Guilty as Sin (7 page)

JAYWALKER: As a cook at a restaurant?

PASCARELLA: Yes.

JAYWALKER: That he occasionally took his daughters to the park or to a museum?

PASCARELLA: Yes.

JAYWALKER: That he attended Friday religious services?

PASCARELLA: Yes.

JAYWALKER: Tell me, Lieutenant. You ascribed Mr. Barnett's refraining from conducting his drug business in open view to his being “wary.” Did it ever occur to you that it could be more simply and accurately attributed to the fact that he wasn't conducting any drug business at all?

PASCARELLA: I'm convinced he was dealing.

JAYWALKER: That's nice, I'm sure, but it's not what I asked you. My question was, did it ever—even once—occur to you that maybe Mr. Barnett
wasn't
dealing? That the reason you weren't seeing anything was because there was nothing to see?

PASCARELLA: No.

JAYWALKER: How about Mr. Barnett's simple lifestyle? You say that was an elaborate cover. Did it ever occur to you that it wasn't a cover at all? That in fact it was nothing more than the manifestation of a very simple life lived on a very modest income?

PASCARELLA: No.

JAYWALKER: What's a “CI,” Lieutenant?

PASCARELLA: A confidential informer.

JAYWALKER: Did you ever attempt to enlist the services of a CI in this case? You know, have an informer approach Mr. Barnett and either try to buy drugs from him or try to introduce an undercover officer to him for the purpose of buying drugs?

PASCARELLA: With a CI? No.

JAYWALKER: Yet isn't that how it's usually done?

PASCARELLA: Sometimes. I don't know about “usually.”

JAYWALKER:
[Holding up a sheet of paper]
How about, let me see, how about in 97.3 percent of all direct sale cases made in New York County over the past forty-eight months?

PASCARELLA: If you say so.

JAYWALKER: I just did. What I'm asking is, do you agree with what I just said, or do you disagree?
[Waves sheet of paper]

PASCARELLA: I agree, I guess.

JAYWALKER: But that's not how it was done in this particular case.

PASCARELLA: No.

JAYWALKER: This was one of those…let's see, 2.7 percent of cases where you decided to skip the use of a confidential informer altogether. Right?

PASCARELLA: I guess so.

JAYWALKER: And why was that?

PASCARELLA: Because the subject was too
hinky,
too careful. I was afraid that if we used a CI, it might scare him off.

JAYWALKER: I see. And yet this is the same subject who the anonymous caller told you he could tell was dealing heroin, the same subject who could be found right out in the open on the front stoop of what turned out to be his own apartment building, sitting there with two girls who turned out to be his own daughters. Is that—

The rest of the little speech was drowned out by Miki Shaughnessey's objection and Judge Levine's sustaining it. But that was okay. By that time Jaywalker had spent twenty minutes with Dino Pascarella, flirting with fire without getting burned too badly. Not that he'd ever quite demonstrated that anything the witness had said was untrue. But if Jaywalker was lucky, maybe he'd piqued the interest of someone in the jury box. Someone who was open to the possibility that a cop—even a cop with the word
Lieutenant
plunked in front of his name—was capable of stretching things to the breaking point and beyond.

As soon as Pascarella left the courtroom, Judge Levine declared a recess and excused the jury for lunch. Including opening statements, they'd been working for close to two hours already. But before the judge could leave the bench, Miki Shaughnessey was on her feet asking for an opportunity to examine the statistic sheet.

“The what?”

“The piece of paper Mr. Jaywalker read from,” said Shaughnessey. “You know, when he recited the statistics
about the use of confidential informants. I think I have a right to see it, and even have a copy of it.”

“Mr. Jaywalker?” said the judge, looking his way.

Without objection he handed Shaughnessey the sheet he'd held aloft and then waved in the witness's direction moments earlier. She took it from him and stared at it, turning it over several times before looking up and complaining that there must be some mistake, that what she'd been given was nothing but a blank piece of paper.

“Why am I not surprised?” sighed Judge Levine. “As the trial progresses, Miss Shaughnessey, I think you'll find yourself getting used to Mr. Jaywalker and his, shall we say, unorthodox way of doing things.”

Shaughnessey's reaction was to shoot Jaywalker a dirty look before turning and storming out of the courtroom.

That afternoon, after finally calming down, she accused him of taking advantage of her. But as he pointed out, that had hardly been the case. If anyone had been taken advantage of, it had been the witness. And with respect to him, all Jaywalker had done was to trick him into admitting the truth, that the vast majority of direct sale cases did in fact depend upon the use of an informer for an initial introduction. The phantom-statistic tactic had been no different, say, from encouraging a witness to believe you had a video recording of his actions, so that he'd be less tempted to lie about them. Clever? Sure. Devious? A bit. But unethical or improper? Hardly. Like any other witness, Lieutenant Pascarella had been called to the stand with the expectation that he would tell the truth. Jaywalker had simply made sure he did so.

Still, even allowing for the points he'd scored on cross-examination, Jaywalker would have been lying if he told himself that Pascarella hadn't hurt the defense. In not objecting to the testimony about the anonymous call, he'd
allowed the jury to hear that at least one person besides the police had reason to conclude that Alonzo Barnett was selling heroin. And Jaywalker's decision to call his client as a witness had opened the door for Shaughnessey to remind the jury of the details of Barnett's criminal record, including his multiple past convictions for the exact same crime on which he was now standing trial.

The fact that precious few jurors tend to be heroin dealers themselves means that the drug sale defendant starts with one strike against him before he even comes up to bat. Throw in an anonymous observation that he's been dealing, and you may as well call that strike two. Add the fact that he's been caught doing the same thing over and over again for just about his entire adult life and, well, you get the picture. So what if Dino Pascarella hadn't been the best witness of all time? How good did he really have to be? Especially with the undercover agent coming up next, with all of his “extensive skills and experience.”

The man from Philadelphia

“T
he People call Trevor St. James,” Miki Shaughnessey announced when the trial reconvened that afternoon.

All eyes turned as a court officer led a large black man into the courtroom through a side door. He was wearing a dark suit over a brown turtleneck sweater, and—best of all—he sported a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

Somewhere, no doubt, there's a courtroom lit brightly enough, whether by Mother Nature or General Electric, that eye protection is advisable. Most likely that courtroom is in Southern California, Florida or someplace even closer to the Equator. As for the fifteenth floor of 100 Centre Street, anyone wearing sunglasses there is either legally blind or hiding behind them.

Keep them on,
Jaywalker telepathically begged the witness. He'd actually heard lawyers object that they couldn't see a witness's eyes through a pair of dark lenses and succeeded in getting a judge to order them removed. It was something he himself would never do, especially with
mirrored
sunglasses. Never mind that they added a little something to the undercover mystique that enveloped the witness as he made his way to the stand. Sooner or later the jurors would get over that and begin to think of the
shades as a prop, and the wearer as having something to hide besides his eyes.

And then, as though on cue, as soon as Trevor St. James had finished swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, he removed the sunglasses, folded them and slipped them into the outer pocket of his suit jacket as he took his seat. So before he'd even begun his testimony, the guy had treated the jurors to a glimpse of his street image and then unmasked himself as one of them. Nice touch, thought Jaywalker, wondering if St. James had scripted it, or Shaughnessey.

SHAUGHNESSEY: By whom are you employed, Mr. St. James?

It would be the only time in the entire trial that she addressed or referred to him as “Mr.”

ST. JAMES: I'm employed by the Drug Enforcement Administration, which is a division of the United States Department of Justice.

SHAUGHNESSEY: In what capacity?

ST. JAMES: As a drug enforcement agent.

SHAUGHNESSEY: How long have you been so employed?

ST. JAMES: Nine and a half years.

SHAUGHNESSEY: And as a DEA agent, is part of your work performed in an undercover capacity?

ST. JAMES: Yes. It's actually a fairly large part of my work.

Shaughnessey had the witness describe what undercover work entailed. His explanation couldn't have been news to anyone in the courtroom by this time, seeing as both lawyers had discussed the subject at some length during jury selection, and Shaughnessey had gone into it again in her opening statement. Still, it made for pretty good listening. Jaywalker had discovered long ago that jurors tend to be fascinated by everything about the world of bad guys. And here they were, about to be treated to an inside tour of that world from a bad guy who was really one of the good guys. What could possibly be better for the prosecution—and worse for the defense?

SHAUGHNESSEY: Did there come a time in September of 1984 that you were asked to participate in a narcotics investigation in Harlem?

ST. JAMES: Yes, there did.

SHAUGHNESSEY: Can you tell us how that came about?

ST. JAMES: Yes. I was assigned to the Philadelphia office at the time. But I'd grown up in Harlem and was familiar with the area. So somebody must have decided that I was well suited to impersonate an out-of-town dealer looking to buy large quantities of heroin to resell out of state.

SHAUGHNESSEY: And what did you do upon your arrival?

ST. JAMES: I met with the team leader, Lieutenant Pascarella, and the various members of the backup team.
I learned that an individual initially known only as John Doe “Gramps” had been positively identified as Alonzo Barnett, and that he was the subject of intensive ongoing surveillance. I was told—

THE COURT: Mr. Jaywalker?

It was Judge Levine's way of checking to make sure he was awake. But she needn't have bothered. Jaywalker does a lot of things during the course of a trial, but falling asleep has never been among them. His decision not to object to what was obviously going to be hearsay testimony was therefore a calculated one. He wanted to hear what Trevor St. James had been told, and he wanted the jurors to hear it, too. So when he stood to say “No objection,” he threw in an exaggerated shrug, his way of saying,
Hey, we've got nothing to hide here.

What Agent St. James had been told, it turned out, was pretty much what Jaywalker had expected, that up until that point in the investigation, the surveillance of Alonzo Barnett had failed to bear fruit. St. James's job would be to figure out a way to approach Barnett, gain his confidence and attempt to buy drugs from him.

SHAUGHNESSEY: And how did you go about trying to do those things?

ST. JAMES: Well, surveillance had established that Mr. Barnett had several associates, individuals he hung out with. One of those associates in particular interested the team. They'd tentatively identified him as John Doe “Stump,” because he was short and heavyset. And they'd observed him in Mr. Barnett's company on a number of occasions. So what I did was try to strike
up a conversation with Stump one day, approaching him a few blocks away after he'd been seen meeting with Mr. Barnett.

SHAUGHNESSEY: Did you ever learn Stump's true name?

ST. JAMES: Yeah, I think I heard it. I believe the backup team found it out at some point, but I honestly don't remember it.

Agent St. James described how he'd called to a couple of people within earshot of Stump and asked them if they knew how to get to Big Wilt's Small's Paradise. Small's was a Harlem institution that had opened way back in the 1920s. At some point the basketball legend Wilt Chamberlain had bought into it, hence the name. Everyone in Harlem had heard of it, but none of the people St. James asked knew exactly where it was. Except Stump.

“It's up on 135th Street,” he told the stranger. “Over on 7th Avenue.”

“Which way is that?” St. James had asked him.

“Where you from, man?”

“Philly,” St. James had replied.

“Ain't got no cheese steaks at Small's, you know.”

“Ain't lookin' for no cheese steaks,” St. James had laughed, before rubbing both nostrils and sniffing in loudly.

The gesture hadn't been lost on Stump. “What is it you might be lookin' for?” he'd asked. “Little bit a blow?”

“Nah,” St. James had said. “Blow I can find any ole place. I be lookin' for some
shit,
brotha. Some
weight.
”

Here Miki Shaughnessey stopped her witness and had
him explain a few of his terms.
Blow
was cocaine,
shit
was heroin, and
weight
was a lot of it.

“How long you in town?” Stump had asked St. James.

“A few days. A week if I gotta be.”

“Do yourself a favor,” Stump had told him, “and stay away from Small's. Place be crawling with the
po
-leece.”

“Good to know,” St. James had said.

“Tell you what,” Stump had offered. “You be back here this same time tomorrow. I see if I can't hook you up with my man. He jus' might be able to help you out with what you lookin' for.”

St. James had said, “Bet,” meaning he'd be there.

But before Stump had walked off, he'd issued a warning of sorts to St. James. “'Tween now an' then,” he'd said, “I be checkin' you out, makin' sure you ain't the Man.”

The Man,
Shaughnessey had St. James explain, was another term for the
po
-leece, and was definitely not to be confused with
my man.

Several jurors laughed loudly at the distinction, until Jaywalker stared them down.
This isn't funny,
he wanted them to know.
There's a man's freedom on the line here.

As for Stump's threat to check out the stranger, it was just that, a threat. Jaywalker knew that from his own undercover days. The same dealer who'd accuse him of being the Man one minute would sell to him the next one. The truth was, nobody ever really bothered to check out anybody. In the world of buying and selling drugs, caution got trumped by greed. Every time out.

SHAUGHNESSEY: What happened after that?

ST. JAMES: I met Stump the next day, like he'd suggested. But he said there was a problem. His man was spooked, he told me, and didn't want to meet me.

SHAUGHNESSEY: What did you take him to mean when he said “spooked”?

ST. JAMES:
Spooked
means nervous like, afraid.

Interesting, thought Jaywalker. If he had the timing down right, this conversation would have taken place at the point where Alonzo Barnett had been telling Clarence Hightower that he couldn't help him. Not because he was nervous, though, but because he'd given up selling drugs and had no interest in getting back in business. So either Hightower had been deliberately stringing his customer along with a story while he tried to break down Barnett's resistance, or Agent St. James was now putting his own spin on what Stump had told him. One of them was fudging. But which one? And why?

SHAUGHNESSEY: What happened after that?

ST. JAMES: Me and Stump set up another meet for a couple days later. And at that meet, he told me it was a go, that his man AB—that's what he called him—had agreed to meet me. So the two of us, me and Stump, we went back to the stoop that evening. He introduced me to AB, and then he left the set.

SHAUGHNESSEY: He left the set?

ST. JAMES: Stump. He split. Walked away.

SHAUGHNESSEY: I see. And the man Stump introduced to you as AB. Do you see him in the courtroom today?

ST. JAMES: Yes, he's sitting right over there.
[Points]

THE COURT: Indicating the defendant, Alonzo Barnett. Correct, Mr. Jaywalker?

JAYWALKER: Absolutely.

It was always a good idea to concede what you couldn't contest. It bought you credibility in the eyes of the jury. That way, when you fought over something, the jurors were more likely to take your side.

SHAUGHNESSEY: Did you and the defendant then have a conversation?

ST. JAMES: Yes. I told him I was up from Philly and looking to score some high-quality heroin. I said I was prepared to buy as much as a kilo, but that I wanted to start small, with a sample, to check out the purity.

SHAUGHNESSEY: When you said a kilo, what did you mean?

ST. JAMES: A kilo is a kilogram, a little over two point two pounds, or about thirty-five ounces. It's a lot of weight, and it can go for as much as forty thousand dollars if it's uncut.

SHAUGHNESSEY: What happened next?

ST. JAMES: The defendant told me to come back the next evening. In the meantime, he said, he was going to talk to his connection.

SHAUGHNESSEY: What's a connection?

ST. JAMES: A source of supply. The guy he was getting it from.

SHAUGHNESSEY: And the following evening, did you do as he instructed you to?

ST. JAMES: Yes, I did.

SHAUGHNESSEY: How did you get there?

ST. JAMES: I drove an unmarked government vehicle, a late-model Cadillac.

Jaywalker looked up from his note-scribbling, suppressing a grin. Just as they had back in his day, DEA agents still seized cars that had been used to facilitate drug deals. Then, after conducting civil forfeiture proceedings, they put the cars into service to use during undercover and surveillance operations. Which was how Jaywalker had once ended up in an almost-brand-new five-speed Corvette, trying to see how fast it would go early one morning on the Harlem River Drive. He'd opened it up pretty good before being flagged over by a motorcycle patrolman, one of those guys in the storm trooper outfits, with the squashed down cap and knee-high boots. “I'll give you a choice,” the cop had said. “Two tickets for exceeding sixty, or one for going a hundred and twenty.” Sorry, Jaywalker had told him, but he was
on the job.
An insider's way of saying he was the Man.

SHAUGHNESSEY: What happened when you arrived there?

ST. JAMES: The defendant got in and told me to drive to a particular corner, 127th Street and Broadway.

SHAUGHNESSEY: What happened there?

ST. JAMES: He told me to wait while he got out. He walked around the corner and out of my sight. He was gone about twenty minutes. When he came back, he told me that his man refused to meet with me, that he'd deal only with him. So I took a chance. I fronted the defendant a hundred dollars and told him to bring me back a sample.

SHAUGHNESSEY: Fronted?

ST. JAMES: Gave him the money up front, in advance.

SHAUGHNESSEY: Was there anything special about the money?

ST. JAMES: Yes, it was what we call Official Advance Funds. Meaning the bills had been photocopied to show the serial numbers. That way, if the backup team recovers any money at the time of an arrest, they can compare the bills to the photocopy for evidentiary purposes.

SHAUGHNESSEY: Did there come a time when the defendant returned to your car?

ST. JAMES: Yes. After about another twenty minutes, he came back, got in and told me to drive. When we'd gone a few blocks he handed me an amber-colored glass vial containing a white powder. I thanked him
and said I'd be checking it out, and would want more if it was good. We agreed to meet again in two days. I drove him back to his building and dropped him off.

From there Agent St. James had proceeded to a pre-arranged location, where he met with the backup team. There he field-tested the contents of the vial, watching the re-agent turn a telltale red, indicating a positive reaction for the presence of an opiate. He then turned the evidence over to one of the backup team members for vouchering and a more sophisticated chemical analysis.

The second of the three buys, according to Agent St. James, followed much the same pattern. The United States chemist had reported that the sample tested out as eighty-one percent heroin, pretty close to pure, and strong enough to drop a user in his tracks were he to cook it and shoot it up uncut. St. James met with Barnett as scheduled and ordered an ounce, which Barnett told him would cost fifteen hundred dollars. A day later they drove back to the same corner, where St. James handed Barnett the money and watched him walk out of view. Twenty minutes later Barnett returned with a small paper bag. Inside the bag was a glassine envelope containing a white powder that turned out to be just over an ounce of eighty percent pure heroin.