Judge Joseph Barreiro leans into the microphone mounted on his podium and says, “Dante Halleyville is charged with three counts of first-degree murder.” Murmurs of disbelief instantly sweep through all the rows of the courtroom.
“The defendant pleads not guilty to all three counts, Your Honor,” says Dante’s lawyer. “And in the setting of bail, we ask that the court bear in mind that this is a young man who turned himself in of his own volition, has never previously been charged with a single significant offense, and has strong ties to the community. For these reasons, Dante Halleyville represents a negligible risk of flight, and we strongly urge that any bail that is set be within the reach of his family’s modest income.”
Dante’s lawyer sits down, and his more-energized adversary jumps up. He is around my age, and with his short haircut and inexpensive suit, he reminds me of half the kids I went to law school with.
“The state’s position is the opposite, Your Honor. Three young men were bound and executed in cold blood. Because of the nature of the crimes and the severe penalties facing the defendant, as well as the fact that before turning himself in he remained at large for several days, we believe he represents a substantial flight risk.”
The black-robed judge weighs the relative merits of both arguments for a full thirty seconds. “This court sets bail for the defendant at six million dollars. Two million dollars for each victim.”
Plea to bail, the whole process takes about as long as it does to place and pick up your order at the drive-through window of a McDonald’s. The echo of Judge Barreiro’s gavel has barely receded when the two sheriffs reappear and lead Dante out the side door.
“He’s innocent,” Marie whispers at my side. “Dante never hurt anyone in his entire life.”
Chapter 35. Tom
IT’S MONDAY MORNING, and the only person feeling semi-okay with the world is AP photographer and friend Lenny Levitt. Since the weekend, Len’s moonlight shot of Dante and his grandmother has appeared on the covers of the Post, the Daily News, and Newsday. My minor role in his affair barely rates a mention-in Newsday-and I think I have a pretty good chance of crawling back into my old and comfortable, if uninspiring, life.
Even though the only thing I’ve got to do is that real estate closing for my buddy Pete Lampke, I’m parked outside my office at 8:15 a.m. Like every weekday morning for three years, I leave Wingo on the front seat and step into the Montauk Bakery for my Danish and coffee.
Why I’ve been so loyal to the bakery is a mystery. It’s certainly not the flakiness of the pastry or the richness of the coffee. Must be the comforts of consistency and the dependable early morning cheer of owner Lucy Kalin.
Today, the only thing Lucy’s got to say is “two twenty-five.” I guess she had a bad night too.
“I think I know the price by now, Lucy girl. And top of the morning to you too.”
Breakfast in hand, I grab my pooch and head for the office.
Grossman Realty has the ground floor of the building next to mine, and the eponymous owner is also arriving bright and early. Normally Jake Grossman is a sinkhole of bonhomie, upbeat, full of chatter even by the outsized standards of his profession.
This morning, though, the way he reacts to my greeting, you’d swear he’s deaf and blind.
Whatever. I’m still relieved to be back in my office where I can quietly read the papers again before checking in with Clarence.
When I call him, the poor guy’s so twisted up about what’s happening to Dante he can barely talk and admits he had to go to the emergency room in Southampton for sedatives to get through the night. I hope I’m imagining it, but he sounds a little chilly too. What’s up with everybody this morning?
I know Marie has to be feeling even worse because she doesn’t even pick up her phone.
When Lampke’s contracts haven’t arrived by noon, I get Phyllis at the broker’s on the line.
“I owe you a call,” she says. “Peter decided to go with a lawyer with a little more real estate experience.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The bad news makes me hungry, but rather than getting shunned across the street at John’s, Wingo and I drive to a little grocery run by a Honduran man and his three daughters at the edge of Amagansett.
As always, the place is packed with the Hispanic carpenters, gardeners, and day workers who keep the Hamptons buff. Despite the stack of newspapers with Dante’s picture plastered all over them, no one here could care less about the latest Hampton drama. In this disconnected Spanish-speaking pocket of town, I’m invisible, and it feels pretty good.
I eat the pork-and-assorted-veggies sandwich at my desk, where despite my best efforts, I think about Dante scared in his cell and about his tired old public-defender lawyer. The only good thing I come up with is that big as Dante is, no one will mess with him.
As of yesterday, Michael Walker still hadn’t turned himself in, and I call Lenny at the AP offices to find out what, if anything, he’s heard. We’re talking the talk when something is thrown through the window in the office. What the hell? Shattered glass covers my desk. Then I see a burning bag on the floor.
“Call you back, Lenny! Somebody just broke my damn window.”
I douse the flames with the extinguisher hanging in the hall, but the room is already full of acrid yellow smoke and a horrendous stench, which Wingo and I soon discover is the smell of a plastic bag of burning shit.
I think I get the point-somebody is mad at me. And guess what? I’m a wee bit angry at them too.
Chapter 36. Detective Connie P. Raiborne
I GIVE DETECTIVE Yates the address for today’s first reported homicide-838 MacDonough-and he swerves out of the traffic and barrels down the middle of Fulton, his screaming siren and flashing lights barely denting the usual cacophony of a lovely Bed-Stuy afternoon.
Our banged-up Crown Vic barely gets a glance from the sleepy-eyed schoolkids hanging out in front of PriceWise. In this neighborhood police sirens are part of the soundtrack, like the strings and horns in a Nelson Riddle chart.
“Joe, take it easy. I got it on good authority our man will sit tight till we get there.”
Joe Yates has three of the more annoying qualities you’ll ever find in a colleague or friend-tireless good humor, a full head of hair, and a beautiful girlfriend. Maybe the three are related, but that doesn’t make them any less annoying.
Yates doesn’t reply to my request, but apparently he listens. The car slows to double the speed limit, and there’s less screeching around the corners. When we finally pull up in front of a redbrick six-floor walk-up and park behind the two double-parked squad cars, half my iced coffee is still in my cup.
“Smooth enough for you, gramps?”
When we reach the fourth floor, everyone is already here-Heekin from Forensics, Nicolo and Hart from Homicide, and the street cop who broke down the door after a neighbor alerted the super to the funky smell inside.
But except for the guys in white gloves dusting the doorknobs, faucets, light switches, and window, everyone’s been waiting for me to get here and see the scene as it was found.
No one’s touched the teenage brother half lying, half sitting on the bed. Judging by the smell and the pallor and the chunk a rat gnawed off his big toe, I’d say the kid’s been dead about a week.