Shield of the Innocent
There is a popular idea, spread by the movies and the radio, that district attorneys and detectives spend the best years of their lives pinning murders on innocent suspects who happen to fall into their hands. Well, maybe.
But in my own practical experience, I have seen it work more often the other way. Police sometimes are wrong. All men can be wrong. But if we were to insist on perfection, we could have no police force and no workable system of justice.
Some years ago, the Homicide Bureau of the Office of the District Attorney of New York County “caught” a case. It was a hot Saturday morning in late June. The young assistant district attorney on duty received a call from Detective Joseph Hennessy of the Homicide Squad who put the matter to him. The conversation ran along in this order:
“What have you got, Joe?”
“A cutting in the Seventh. They’ve got a prisoner there.”
“What’s it about?”
“It seems that this guy cut a man’s throat early this morning. The man’s at the hospital and it looks as though he’s going. They don’t give him much time.”
“What’s there for me?”
“Well, this prisoner is making a statement—”
“Do you mean a confession?”
“No— He claims they’ve got him wrong. But there’s no doubt about it. They’ve got a pack of witnesses. They all saw him do the cutting.”
“What was it for?”
“Just one of those things.”
The prosecutor said, “I’ll call the stenographer. Can you pick me up?”
“In twenty minutes. I’ve got the squad car.”
A short time later the homicide detective and the young prosecutor were at a precinct station in the lower East Side where Detective Morris Schreiber of the Seventh Squad Detectives was “carrying the case.”
Despite the green shades pulled down against the blazing sun, the squad room on the second floor was hot. Detectives were working in shirtsleeves, and a sweating group of eyewitnesses sat about in sleepy boredom. Schreiber took the prosecutor and the homocide detective aside and pointed to the prisoner — a trembling white-faced boy of nineteen whose torn shirt was smeared with blood. His face was bruised and cut. Schreiber summed up:
“These witnesses saw the whole thing. They tell us this cutting took place at two A.M. outside of a saloon and this boy, Kennedy” — he pointed to the trembling youth — “did the job. Three of these witnesses” — he pointed to a woman and two men, all Negroes — “saw Kennedy walk down the street with two other men. The woman says she kept her eye on Kennedy. Now the old man who was stabbed was sleeping on the stoop of the house where he lives which is about fifty feet from the saloon. It was hot and that’s why he was sleeping outdoors. Kennedy and his friends went past the old man and walked west to the corner. Then Kennedy turned back. He walked up to the old man and cut his throat, just like that. The woman screamed and a whole mob started after Kennedy. They caught him and gave him one hell of a beating. An officer came along and saved his life.”
“What started it all?” the prosecutor asked.
Schreiber shrugged. “It was about nothing. The old man was asleep. No words passed between them. Kennedy just came up and cut his throat.” The prosecutor considered this information and asked, “Where’s the arresting officer?”
Schreiber stuck his head into the corridor and called, “Fitz!” A stocky officer in a trim blue uniform entered the room. The prosecutor asked:
“Do you have any information on this, officer?”
The other shook his head. “I was on patrol in the car. I saw a mob chasing somebody in a white shirt. When I caught up, they were fit to kill him. I had to take out my gun before they would let up.”
“He’s pretty bruised up,” the prosecutor observed.
“Don’t look at me,” the officer said. “That’s the way I found him.”
“It doesn’t look good when a man comes in with injuries,” the prosecutor said earnestly. “It takes the edge off a confession.”
“You won’t get a confession,” the officer predicted. “He’s been yelling not guilty since I dragged him in.”
“We’ll see.” The prosecutor dismissed the officer and turned back to Schreiber. “What does Kennedy say?”
“He doesn’t say anything,” Schreiber answered. “He claims he was walking along the opposite side of the street with two friends. He was on the south side walking west. He says they were standing at the corner when suddenly they saw a mob running at them and he beat it because he was afraid. He didn’t know what they were after. He just ran. So did his friends, Butch and Louie.”
“Butch and Louie? Who are they?”
Schreiber grimaced expressively. “He doesn’t know their last names or where they live. He doesn’t know how to reach them. He says they were just out walking and talking when this happened. Butch and Louie sound phony.”
The case so far was typical of many assaults on the streets of New York. A man without motive, goaded by an impulse known only to himself, savagely attacked a harmless bystander. When caught he offered a weak alibi. The problem seemed to require only the examination of the eye witnesses to verify identification.
Hennessy, who was a philosopher, wondered out loud, “Now why would Kennedy do a thing like that?”
“Drunk, doped, or just plain nuts.” Schreiber was not concerned with the impulse behind the crime — police are not required to show motive.
“It’s funny,” the prosecutor said doubtfully. “Let’s talk to the witnesses.”
Schreiber motioned to a woman who had been dozing behind a typewriter desk. She came forward and the detective said, “This is Mary Jones. Mary, this is the district attorney. He’s your friend. You can tell him the truth.”
“I’m telling the truth,” she said simply.
The prosecutor offered the witness a cigarette and motioned her to the inner office. When they were seated, he asked quietly:
“Did you see what happened this morning?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” she said emphatically. “He cut old Caspar’s throat. I saw it.”
The prosecutor lit her cigarette. “You want to help us catch the man who did this thing to old Caspar, don’t you?”
“Mister, you got him.” She puffed the cigarette.
“Is there any chance you might be mistaken?”
“Not a chance.”
The prosecutor thought Mary Jones sensible enough. She worked as a buttonhole maker in the garment district. She had a daughter at home and had been waiting near the tavern for her husband who was due from his job as an elevator operator. These were some of the things she told him before he asked her what had happened. She said:
“I was standing on the corner under the lamp post. I wasn’t talking to anyone. I was just waiting for my husband. We were going to have a beer together and go home. There were two men standing around. I know them as Fred and Terry. After a while three men, I mean Kennedy and his two friends, passed in front of me. They walked along the street on the same side as me away from the East River. Then they crossed to the downtown side of the street. I saw them pass old Caspar the first time. There were no words between them. Nothing happened to draw my attention. I had nothing to do so I watched them. When they got to the corner, they stood around talking. Then Kennedy came back alone. He walked up to old Caspar and made a pass at his throat. I didn’t know what he was doing. Then he walked away slowly. Old Caspar got up and put his hand to his neck. I was wondering what it was all about. Then Caspar looked at his hand and started to walk toward where I was standing. I saw blood coming down his shirt and I saw this cut along his neck. I pointed to Kennedy and I screamed, ‘He cut old Caspar’s throat. The one in the white shirt. Get him!’ Then Fred and Terry started after him. I kept screaming and pretty soon, maybe five seconds or so, a whole crowd came running. They caught this Kennedy. I pointed him out right away to the cops and then to the detectives.”